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Rick Ford gave great head.

Stood to reason, Susan thought, when you considered the workout his tongue, lips and jaw got from all those cockamamie stories. He’d just found a way to put those overdeveloped muscles to good use for once. It was, as they said at the office, a deliverable.

Not that Rick saw his expertise in that light. “Learned from the best, didn’t I? Six months infiltrating the Royal Guild of Gigolos. Had to pass a twelve-hour exam on the art of cunnilingus before I was allowed to—“

Susan longed to scoff at this newest round of bull-hockey, but in her view the second best thing about Rick going down on her was the way it got him to shut up for twenty minutes. So she guided his head back between her legs and said, “Keep going, willya? I’m not really feeling it yet.”

Of course she was feeling it, feeling it all the way out to her finger tips, and trying hard not to let her eyes roll up in her head, but she knew Rick needed a challenge. And sure enough, at her words, he set to with renewed vigor and precision. Susan bit her lower lip and curled her fingers around the metal shelves of the supply room walls. Screaming might compromise their cover.

Still, no woman could be completely stoic in the face of that kind of assault on the pleasure receptors. “Oh yeah,,” she found herself murmuring, “oh, my…oh, H E double hockey sticks.”

“What? What is it?” Ford pulled away from her so fast he left stubble burns on the inside of her thighs. When he was upright, though, he saw what had interrupted Susan’s orgasm. “Fine,” he said, dragging his knuckles across his mouth in what he clearly hoped was a menacing gesture.

For indeed it was Bradley Fine, standing in the doorway of the supply room, dressed, as they were, to pass as a teacher in the prestigious girls’ school where they were undercover. He was even wearing a beret. Perhaps he was supposed to be the art teacher.

“Coop?” Fine said, sounding like a little boy who’d gotten lost at the mall.

“Fine,” said Susan, sliding off her perch on the supply cabinets and rearranged her Ms. Frizzle-style peasant skirt. “What the heck are you doing here?”

“Elaine sent me. She wanted to know what was taking you guys so long.” Fine’s voice was uncharacteristically small, and he seemed to have lost his usual swagger. He kept looking from Susan to Ford and back again, a bewildered and possibly slightly hurt expression on his perfect face.

“What’s she fucking on about?” Ford demanded. “Long time? We’re not taking a long time. Just getting background on this arms ring, is all. Deep fucking background, that’s right.”

So far, Ford’s idea of deep background had been teaching the girls in his English literature class to insert a lot of lies and profanity into their personal essays. But between that, and their not infrequent visits to the supply room, it was possible that their mission to identify the leader of the arms ring taking refuge in this unlikely environment might have been somewhat delayed. Luckily, Fine seemed to have lost interest in their progress for the moment.

“As far as I can see,” he said, his bemusement turning to belligerence, “the only thing you’ve been going deep into is Agent Cooper’s—Agent Cooper’s—“

“Okay. Yeah. Okay, that’s—that’s just uncalled for.” Susan got between them and put a hand on Fine’s turtleneck-sweatered chest before he could use language they would all regret. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist.” Then something occurred to her. “Wait. You mean you—you didn’t know? About me and Mr. Danger here?”

Fine shook his head. His face had gone an interesting shade of red.

“That time you caught us making out in the weight room, that didn’t give you a clue?” she asked.

“I thought he was showing you a new wrestling move.” Fine’s voice sounded kind of strangled.

“And that time on the plane, when you woke up and he had his hand down my pants?”

“I thought he was checking you for devices planted by enemy agents. You can never be too careful.”

They all stared at each other for a moment. Susan couldn’t decide if Fine’s obtuseness sprang from his inability to see her as a sexual being, or from his just being a really, really terrible spy. She wasn’t sure which option would be worse. Ford made the decision for her.

“Well fuck me sideways with a handsaw,” he said. “If you aren’t the worst agent that ever fucking lived. If you have not been able to see the way this woman has blossomed, thanks to our passion—the way stirring the juices of her sensuality has allowed her to come into her own as a goddess of—“

“Okay, okay,” Susan said again, this time putting her hand on Ford’s chest. “That’s just about enough of that—did you just say blossomed? Really? And don’t think I like you taking all the credit for my sensuality, Mr. Expert on the Lady Parts. What we all need to do here is to calm down and talk about this like adults—or at least you two can pretend to be adults, and I’ll—“

But her attempt at conciliation went for naught, as Fine launched himself past her onto Ford, spluttering about blossoming and juices and damn well not being the worst agent that ever lived. Susan barely got out of the way as the two of them crashed into the metal shelves. Manila folders, exam booklets, and Fine’s erstwhile beret, went flying as the two agents rolled over and over on the dirty linoleum floor, locked in some arcane Krav Maga grip.

Susan started to try to break up the fight. Then she paused. It just the tiniest bit hot, the way Fine’s hair was getting mussed, and Ford was baring his teeth in an animal snarl. Especially since maybe a part of what they were fighting about was her.

Unfortunately, her reverie was broken by the arrival of the ninjas. Of course, they weren’t really ninjas—they were the popular kids from her sixth-grade Social Studies class: Devyn, Serena, Esme, and Bea. Except they weren’t really Devyn, Serena, Esme, and Bea, but three highly trained gentlemen named Sonny, Otto, and Crash, and El Jefe himself, who had flawlessly disguised themselves as eleven-year-old girls . (Later, Fine tried to explain to Susan the drastic steps needed to enact such a transformation, but she refused to listen).

“Boys,” Susan said, “I could use a little help right now.” But all she got for her trouble was series of grunts and expletives and the sound of someone’s head being bounced off the floor.

“Mrs. Cooper,” said Devyn, AKA El Jefe Loco, “We’re here to contest the grade on our group project.”
“Please,” said Susan, “That B- was a mercy.”

“Take her down, muchachos,” said El Jefe, and stood back to watch the fight.

Susan adjusted her skirt. Her panties were somewhere on the supply room floor, and she hated fighting commando, but sometimes a girl just had to cowboy up. “I’d like to see you try,” she said. “I’m going to slap you bitches together like a set of tiny erasers.” Inwardly, she winced; Ford was rubbing off on her, and not in a good way.

The sixth-grade ninjas were small, but they were fast, with an impressive weight-to-strength ratio. That wouldn’t have posed much of problem if her fully-grown colleagues had been doing their job, but they were still fully engaged in their dick-wagging contest. Susan was on her own. Happily, she’d trained herself to use opponents’ speed and power against them. She dodged Serena’s tackle, grabbed her pony tail as she went past, and used her momentum to fling her backwards into the other girls.

Bea folded with a squeak as Serena barreled into her, but Esme sidestepped her BFF and leaped at Susan, landing on her shoulders in a munchkin version of a thigh-lock. Urk, Susan gasped, as Esme’s knees dug into her windpipe. She staggered, searching for some way to scrape the middle-schooler off her back. Room to maneuver was scarce: between Susan, the fighting agents, and the four pre-pubescent girls, the supply-room was getting crowded. Finally, Susan solved the problem by accident, falling backwards onto Esme, as well as the still entangled Bea and Serena. Once all three girls were under her, Susan pressed her advantage, using the girls’ own clothing to tie them up.

El Jefe AKA Devyn tried to make a break for it, but Fine and Ford had apparently had enough of pummeling each other, and barred her way.

The three agents contemplated each other—Susan atop a pile of three squirming girls, Fine and Ford holding the struggling El Jefe between them.

“I have never been so turned on in all my fucking life,” said Ford. His shirt was torn, and he had a shiner beginning on one eye.

“Aw shucks,” said Susan, blushing a little. “It was nothing.”

“When we get back to that squalid hole you call an apartment, I’m going to rip those Mary Poppins rags off you and do things to you that that will make that cheap wig fly right off your head.”

“Uh.” Susan patted her fake gray bun, which had stayed miraculously in place throughout. She glanced at Fine, worried this might spark another fight. “Maybe in a bit.”

But Fine seemed to have made his peace with the situation. “Why wait,” he drawled with all the debonair panache he could muster from the ruin of his art teacher disguise. “I can take these four for out for processing, if you two young lovers want to get right to it. I’m sorry I interrupted in the first place.”

Maybe it was how hard Fine seemed to be fighting to maintain his usual super suave spy persona that made Susan say what she did next. Maybe it was his uncharacteristic apology. Maybe it was the way his ears had turned a delicious shade of pink. “Or,” she said, not quite trusting her own brazenness. “You could come with us. Whaddaya think, Ford?”

“What do I think?” Ford answered, his beedy little eyes lighting up in a way Susan had come to know all too well. “What do I fucking think? I think why the fuck not.”

He leaned across Devyn AKA El Jefe and kissed Fine full on the lips.

It was, Susan had to admit, more than a little hot.