It seems it's a tradition in my family to keep a diary. After reading theirs, since I'm finally going into the field, I decided I would try one of my own.
My father has an interesting job. I doubt any other kids grew up like I did. He complains a lot about having a family is a security violation and he gets sympathetic nods from his two wives (in my mind, I sometimes call the brunette one "mom" and the blonde one "aunt" when out and about, sometimes "moms" for both; less chance of accidentally revealing any hints of who they are), but I never see any effort to change things. It does make it complicated to travel, and I don't have any normal friends. I mostly make do with a small handful of adult friends, just like my moms and dad. In many cases, I'm not even sure what their real names are, who they actually work for. Or even what they do for a living!
Today, I'm being christened with my first mission. It's partly exciting, partly terrifying, but also a breath of fresh air, as my actions finally have consequences. When my father talks about the focus of being on a mission, he echoes the line from "Entrapment" (he watches _a lot_ of movies!), "If you can't feel alive now, you never will!" As I've grown to expect from my family, I'm not privy to the whole plan. "Can't divulge under torture what you don't know" is the "reassuring" reason I'm always given.
My task is to take after my mom and be a sex lure. Dad and mom were both adamant that the job stop at luring, meaning no sex, though aunt told me later, when we were alone, that I shouldn't be concerned about their worry. Dads are always like that, and mom resents the years she spent as a lure, where the luring often lead to the physical act.
The target (my dad _always_ uses that term; says something about making up names leads to "Freudian slips" that leak information; man is he paranoid!) evidently likes little girls. I'm dressed to impress well below my current age of 17. My mom taught me a lot about how to attract a man's attention, though I learned some from aunt. When I practiced, I made my dad uncomfortable, and once he actually blushed and left the room, carrying something in front of his waist as he went. Almost the first time I've ever seen him lose that much control. Generally, he only gets that way when he feels one of us is threatened, and he certainly doesn't blush then.
I've been extensively coached, with actions and words, to present to the target an appearance calculated to make me irresistible, but was told to always stay out of reach. Apparently, he has grasping hands and a firm grip, and it's difficult to get away from him without being physical. I know physical. All my parents are scary good in hand-to-hand combat, with aunt giving me extra training. Dad complains he's never been able to beat aunt. Knowing how good he is, aunt has to be great! Anyway, I don't want to reveal my training by taking the target down, so need to stay out of reach.
Watching the target as I interact with him, I start to see some of mom's complaints. It's clear to me he only sees me as a physical plaything and couldn't care less if I had any brains or personality. I wonder if that's why he's only interested in little girls. Perhaps he's intimidated by women. My goal is deceptively simple: I need to distract him to the point he'll follow me and stop paying attention to his environment. I need to get him to ditch his security and leave his secure area, something I'm told can only happen if I "inflame his passions." I follow the script I learned. I bend over at strategic times. Fumble with the buttons on my blouse as if I were "nervously impressed with his magnificence" (mom generally is very sarcastic about men; father is one of the few she doesn't dismiss out of hand), gradually leaving more and more unbuttoned. At first I was nervous going around without any underwear, but both moms agreed that doing so would help accomplish the task. My father looked on the edge of blushing again when we discussed it.
Mom taught me how to allow some of my physical responses without being consumed by them, so I have erect nipples and have the flush that shows I'm interested. He isn't that bad looking, not like some of the gross fat old men mom complains she had to lure, but doesn't have the muscular hard body my dad has, nor the dreamy eyes of my current boy band favorite. I'm watching for signs of his increasing pulse, sweat on his brow, trembles in his hand, fixation in his focus, those sorts of things. That information tells me how far along I am in inflaming his passions. Mom was very detailed in her instructions. It was interesting to see aunt sitting in on some of my "classes." It seems aunt, despite her beauty, felt she had something to learn about luring men. She commented she was going to try some of the lessons on dad. Mom responded that part of what she found interesting in dad was his ability to resist her charms, despite being interested, so wasn't convinced aunt will have much success.
I think I'm getting close to the peak. His gaze follows my hands around as I flutter them near my chest. He stares unblinking when I fumble with my skirt, flipping it up and giving him brief glimpses of what lies beneath. I followed my mothers' suggestion and shaved down there. They said it makes me look younger still, which is perfect for this target. They use waxing to remove their hair. I tried that on my legs once and thought they were insane. The pain is unbelievable on my legs, to do that between, are they crazy? They both insist the pain gets a lot less the more often you do it, but it seems mad to do so. Dad likes things that way, though; he muttered something about razor burn and road rash when we were discussing shaving vs waxing. Later, as the hair started to grow out, I started to see some of the value in waxing: I itched like crazy! Avoiding a couple of day's worth of constant itching seems like a reasonable payback for the pain of waxing, though I think letting things be is the best solution.
Convinced now that the fish is securely hooked, I suggest we need to go somewhere else before I'll be comfortable getting closer. As I leave, he follows as if tied by a rope. Passing amongst his security, he angrily mutters for them to stand down; this is going exactly according to plan. As I swish my skirt around, to keep him focused on me, I notice a few appreciative stares from the security. I haven't grown into my mom's body yet (my real, biological mom), dad expects I'll get more generous curves as I mature. Not too much up top yet either, though already more than aunt. I clearly remember my real mom looked like Halle Berry. I find I can think about her death without the anger and depression I had 9 years ago. I don't think my real mom ever knew dad was keeping track of us. It was strange going from a small one bedroom apartment of a struggling single mother to a huge million-dollar house. My bedroom now is larger than our entire apartment back then! Stranger still, was going from a single mother with no idea of who my dad was to that dad and _two_ mothers. It took me a while to adjust and I still miss her so much, but I'm happy and content with my new family.
The target firmly on his "leash," I lead him where he needs to go. When we arrive, I decide to indulge his passion and let him touch me. Besides, I've got worked up and want to know if his passion makes my experience better. My previous encounters were with passionless gigolos; part of my training. Though satisfying physically, I felt unfulfilled emotionally. His hands go straight up under my skirt; he's rougher than I expected. He does kiss me, but on my neck, totally ignoring my lips. His pawing wasn't as exciting as I was anticipating, and, right about the time I come to that realization, he slumps when dad hit him with a narco-dart. Aunt shows up seconds later, to begin trussing him up for transport. Dad glares at me when he shows up to help get the target in the van.
"What were you thinking Jelly?" he asks as we drive away.
"Dad, I just finished my first mission. Can you please call me Angelina now?" Jelly always makes me think of something sticky and covered with ants.
"Actually," aunt says, "since we haven't finished the mission yet, neither name should be used. And you shouldn't call him ‘dad' either! You're both being careless!" Her name is Tessa, though that really isn't her name. Mom is Isabel, though, strangely, that does seem to be her real name.
I think of my dad as Esssee. Moms call him Seacay. Since I know that's just a pair of initials, one day when I was feeling uncharitable, I changed what I call him. He did tell me his real name, though. It was a sweet-16 birthday present. I guess it showed how much he trusted me. Tessa early on told me her real name. It helped me overcome my frustration and anger after my mom died. Real names are important in this business. Once someone knows your real name, they can find out a lot about you. Particularly who your loved ones are. Except for my dad and moms, though, I don't have anyone. I guess that makes me more secure, at least in my dad's eyes.
Dad drops the target off to the client on our way to the airport. We switch vehicles a number of times and I help with the field craft by looking for tails. I change clothes as we drive. Dad growled at me that I was hurting his ability to focus. Anyway, I figured I'd had enough fun for the day. I replace the little girl makeup with some that makes me look older, put my long, dark hair in a single ponytail in the back instead of two sticking out of the side of my head, and put my underwear back on as I redress. I'm surprised I could see tension going out of my dad's shoulders as I finish. He very rarely shows any sort of emotion.
It's about 10 hours of traveling before we're finally home again, splitting up as we move through the airport and not sitting together on the plane. I drive myself part way home. I've been driving for years longer than my peers (well, kids my own age; I guess I don't really think of them as peers) and have had classes in offensive and defensive driving. The kind of classes where you deliberately get into wrecks, people shoot real bullets and you're constantly on the lookout for ambushes. The classes were fun. I just wish I had someone my age with whom to discuss them. I don't have anyone to brag to about my exploits, though when I think about it, bragging would create a security vulnerability. Maybe this is why moms and dad stay together, they finally have someone they can talk to.
Tessa picks me up on her way home, then we meet up with dad so only one car gets driven back to the house. I'm looking forward to getting home. It's been a long day, but opsec (operational security) has to come first, and we take a winding roundabout route home, just like usual. I'm hungry. The food on the plane, if you can dignify it with that name, wasn't worth eating. Isabel may not be a 5 star chef, but she is a really decent cook. I'm sure there's something ready for us, since she knows we're done with the mission.
We pull into the garage and wait for the armored door to close before we get out. Always minimize your attack surface, I'm told over and over. It's tiresome, sometimes, to always be worried about theses sorts of things, though Tessa and dad seem to do it by reflex.
"How did your first mission go, Angelina?" Isabel asks as we get in the house.
She walks over to give me a hug. She's the best at giving hugs, though Tessa and dad are close.
"I'm starting to understand some of your contempt. I let the target grope me a little at the end and it wasn't very enjoyable."
Isabel glares at me. Dad, I guess, has got it out of his system. He just shrugs.
"What do you expect?" Tessa said, "We spend all this time talking about sex. She's full of hormones! We should be happy she doesn't sneak out at night to find herself a boy!"
Isabel sighs, "I guess. I was hoping she could avoid my experiences."