Retire the FBI badge – town’s sluts perfected

You zip up, toss the fake FBI badge into a mall trash can, and declare your work in this podunk town officially complete. The women here are broken in, trained, and dripping with gratitude. Katia kisses your cheek like a proud den mother, Tova blows you a sticky tit-kiss from the salon door, and even Nadia, cum still leaking down her thighs, mutters a shaky “thank you, Inspector” while staring at the floor.

Codi tears the final page off her clipboard, folds it into a paper airplane, and sails it into the fountain. “Perfect scores all around, boss. We did it.”

You walk out of the mall into the warm night air feeling like a god who just finished his masterpiece. No more inspections needed here; every female in a ten-mile radius now wakes up wet dreaming of your approval.

The town’s sluts are perfected. You’re retired.

You lean back against your car, light a cigarette you don’t even smoke, and grin at the three women waiting for orders.

“Change of plans,” you say. “Local work’s for amateurs. We’re going federal.”

Codi squeals and rips open the trunk: it’s already packed with extra clipboards, lube, and a laminated map of the contiguous United States. Katia slides into the passenger seat like she was born for this, dress still missing. Nadia crawls into the back without being told, knees on the seat, ass up—broken luggage.

You crank the engine. “Next stop: every mall, campus, and PTA meeting in America. The Female Behavior Inspector is now a national security mandate.”

Codi holds up a fresh badge that just says FBI in bigger, shinier letters.

You peel out of the parking lot, windows down, Katia already fishing your cock back out for the ride.

The country won’t know what hit it.