"I had to be sure of you, M. Swift," Baroness Gabrielle Sabatini smiled. She raised her wine to her puffy lips and said, "Men who fuck children are sometimes not what they appear." Her black lipstick had some kind of neon or sparkle in it, making her lips almost glow.

"You could have found out without filming me in my hotel room," Jack Durango protested. He was working undercover again, this time as Jack Swift, an American businessman with a predilection for underage girls. His "lover" was nine year old Sylvie Krohn, also a Special Agent, of German parentage. She was a plain looking girl but very smart and highly sexed. She genuinely loved to fuck. Durango had known his hotel room would be bugged, and the two agents had put on a very good show.

"M. Swift," the bafflingly beautiful Baroness began. "I have seen your penis. I rather like it. I would like to take you on as a lover."

She took his hand and smiled. "Or am I too old?" she said with sophisticated frown. Christ, Jack thought, he'd sell his soul to have this girl.

"And how old are you, Baroness? You raise the issue, I would not presume to ask otherwise." Jack twisted the swizzle stick in his Brandy Manhattan.

"Gabrielle, please, call me that. I am twelve."

He looked at her small, perfect breasts, utterly bare beneath her transparent chemise. When she'd picked him up she'd worn a mink stole, despite the weather. Only after being seated in the restaurant, the darkness barely pushed away from their table by the low candles, had he seen her breasts. He had hardly taken his eyes off them since.......

****

February 11, 1999. Washington DC. The Hoover Office Building.

Jack Durango took one last swig of his McNaughton's and dropped the empty bottle into his waste paper basket. His dick was pressing hard against the zipper of his pants, which happened whenever he drank. Alcohol always gave him a hardon. The more he drank the harder it got.

But Jack's cock wasn't his concern right then. It was the suspension he'd gotten that morning from the A/D of Internal Review. Six months off without pay, and a complaint in his file that could be removed after eighteen months only if there were no other complaints.

He had been under Internal Review since he got back from Europe in August. His partner had lost touch with him and not knowing what else to do went to the Embassy and had him tracked down. Which, of course, had completely blown their cover and ruined the operation.

He'd packed up all his personal files, photos and knickknacks, even his painted rock and his oversized brandy snifter full of matchbooks from locales he'd visited on assignment. There were messages on his phone from Deena Sully and Nina Raynes. He ignored them.

Rightfully, for what he had done, Jack Durango should have been out on his ear. He'd gone to the Netherlands to investigate a far flung KP Op. His partner was Special Agent Sylvie Krohn. She was nine years old and almost preposterously promiscuous. She spoke German and Dutch fluently, and some French. They posed as pedophiliac lovers, an American businessman on extended vacation and his underage prostitute.

Not even a fortnight into their assignment, Jack met and immediately fell under the sway of the pellucid enchantress Baroness Gabrielle Sabatini. This uncanny twelve year old was a veritable Circe. She was a dark Roumanian girl, achingly beautiful, of princely blood and fabulous wealth. She also bankrolled one of the largest "alternative sexuality" film studios in Europe. It sold, to be blunt, disgusting motion pictures of scandalously young children engaged in full-fledged sex. And Durango had blown the FBI's chances of infiltrating and suppressing it.

So, really, he should be out on his ear. But when Special Agent Krohn testified, in her halting childish way, as to the daunting personal power of Baroness Sabatini, the Bureau had shown rare compassion. As Krohn recited one example after another of the Baroness's power, the way her mere look could send a man into cardiac arrest, men giving her money, men defecating in their pants when it amused her to make them....well, it gave the Internal Committee pause. Not a man in the bureau could have resisted her. She numbered among her "lovers" a prime minister, a corpulent Flemish Cardinal and two professional wrestlers. Not to mention a bevy of paid servitors who were selected solely for superiority of member and stamina. Of those men, the Baroness gave no concern to looks or character.

In addition, his old friend Sir Pelligrine Falconer had spoken in his behalf. "I met the child myself," the old man had said. "Three years ago in London. A foxier piece of bottom wriggle I never laid eyes on. And she was only nine at the time. Ye gads, gentlemen, show a spot of mercy." And Sir Pelligrine had offered them bottles of the finest hock from his cellar.

There was a knock on his door; he assumed it was Raoul, the mover guy in the overalls tailor-made by Omar, Purveyor of Fine Tents to Berber Nomads.

But it was Baroness Gabriella Sabatini herself. Now thirteen years old. She wore sunglasses. It was the middle of winter. If she took those glasses off, Jack would be lost. Literally a look from her eyes could enslave a man. A mere glance.

The damnable Baroness, he reflected. Execrable monster. Witch, vixen, temptress. The face of an angel with a heart of darkness. Her passion was incomparable, her beauty stunning. Her girlish body broke Jack's heart even now, loathing her as he did. Small breasts smooth and firm like frozen sherbet, the waist slender, hips only beginning to develop, and an ass over which Jack had wept--literally wept--its baby-fat roundness and clever cleft had one night driven him to six ejaculations in a row, not one making it inside her, for she had insisted he wet her skin. "It amuses me," she had explained.

As sacred as her bottom was, even more entrancing was the Baroness's pubis. It was almost devoid of hair, what little she had was soft as a tarantula's belly, loosely curled wisps. The folds of her lips were pink on top and verged to an apostolic blue where they moulded into her slit. That precious aperture had left him speechless. Even when she was aroused and ready for penetration, the hole was no larger than the nail on his small finger. Despite which she accommodated Jack's member with ease, having made love to a myriad of men, some even more "gifted" than Jack was. She was truly a tarantula: her nether mouth in her center, hungry, clawing and greedy. Jack had fallen for her like a hat-stand in an earthquake.

His heart pounded from the combined effect of alcohol and lust. He recoiled that even now, in his state of ignominy, he wanted nothing other than to take her, rip her clothes off and POSSESS her. In his memory he saw her faultless legs, round kissable knees, her delicate feet and -- oh God, her ankles, her indecently perfect ankles. Never before had a girl's feet so flustered Durango, but with her he had found himself spurting between her toes.....(cont)