Anna, 29, a foreign spy and honey pot looking for secrets

I love my job. Perhaps it is more accurate to say--I love the culmination of my job, sucking all the information out of a man's head as I suck the semen from his...other head. All the build-up to that point--the elaborate surveillance and teasing and feigned interest--I do not love that part so much.

So it pleases me to hear of the Bureau of Sexual Services, a new government division that seeks to provide the citizens of this faithless decadent country with immediate sexual relief. If I can infiltrate this bureau, perhaps I can skip straight to the sex and avoid the tedious aspects of my profession. It would be more efficient. It would be more fulfilling. Most deliciously at all, the government itself now pays the cost for me to extract their secrets and send them to the motherland!

I will start by posing as a normal citizen interested in their offerings.

"Yes, hello," says a bored girl at a desk as I enter the cavernous lobby of BoSS's central headquarters. "Please give me your ID, and we can begin your sexual assessment." I look at her with some astonishment. She cannot be more than a few months out of high school.

"Aren't you a little young to be working...here?" I ask, priding myself on my flawless accent.

The girl rolls her eyes. "Yeah, duh! But my mom insisted I get a job, and this was the only place hiring. Normally, I just answer the phone and receive the remote forms, but apparently they're short-staffed on the assessment side of things. So here I am... Anyway, lady, you got your ID or not?"

I hand over my card, an undetectable forgery. The girl studies it with apparent disinterest. "Alright, Ms. Dudevir, I'm Jenna and I'll be your assessor for this session. If you could have a seat, we'll start with some demographic information."

I answer her questions with my customary efficiency. Most are mundane. Some are deeply intrusive, like asking me how much I squirt during a typical orgasm, or categorizing the reason for my loss of hymen. Others seem bizarrely irrelevant. I cannot see how it matters what I had for breakfast this morning. And as for my opinion on the utility of the ontological argument... Maybe it helps determine my sexual proclivities, if I squint hard enough?

"Okay, that's everything, Ms. Dudevir," Jenna finally says. "I will take your answers and process them. If you don't mind sitting around, I should be back with your results in twenty to thirty minutes. Definitely not more than an hour."

"I will wait," I say simply. Jenna disappears through a door in the back wall, and I lean back in my chair, foot tapping impatiently on the tiled marble floor.