Like Slipping Under Cover: Erotic Spy Fiction

by Bethany Zaiatz, ed.

  She ran her hand over his stomach in the same way she had his chest, as if preparing him for something.

  And then she leaned farther over and ran her tongue down the front of his half-hard cock to the base, with the same slow pace as she had used the knife earlier to cut cloth. He twitched his hips in reaction, unable to see what she was doing but feeling hotter and harder every second as he stiffened erect.

  She stopped and leaned upwards, and he felt her draw the cold back edge of the weapon across his stomach, then hold it flat with a light pressure against his belly.

  "Don't move," she added.

  He froze, desire and fear battling in his head.

  "If I wanted you active, I would have left you free to act. Just as if I wanted you to talk, I would have left you free to speak." Her voice wasn't harsh or angry, more the long-suffering patient firmness of someone who is, finally, fed up.

  "There is one thing you do have to do, though," she added more softly but no less firmly, and he felt her left hand cupping his balls in a weighing, assessing manner. He strained not to react too strongly in either need or fear, and the strain came out instead in a soft groan that was half-strangled by the gag.

  "Exactly," she murmured, and while her face was invisible her voice sounded like she was smiling. "I'm tired of having sex in silence, you see."

  She tilted forward again, sliding her left hand back up to circle his cock and pull upwards, teasing him. "I may have taken away the words so you can't put me off, or talk yourself out of it, or otherwise try to get control of the situation. But that doesn't mean I'm not listening to what you want. You do want this, right?"

  Her right hand was still pressed against his stomach along with the flat of the open knife, and he was aware that he must not move. His assent came out in a plaintive, smothered sob.

  "Perfect. Now whimper and beg and plead all you want, Van, and I'll make you come. But remember--if you stop making noise, I'm going to stop. And then where will you be?"

  Lying here hot, longing, and lonely, he thought. Like so often these days. Except not able to do anything about it myself. Yes, I want this. I need this.

  He told her so, a long anticipating sigh of surrender.

  Her lips covered him, sliding down him fiercely so the head hit the back of her throat. She had a small mouth, so the fit was tight and wet, and she sucked him with a willingness and expertise that told him how much she enjoyed doing it. Occasionally she would pull back and just trail the top or bottom of her tongue over and around the glans to make him shiver, or grasp the shaft in her left hand and stroke it using her saliva as lubricant. But he knew her right hand always remained where it was, clenched on the knife, and as yet uninvolved.

  At first his moans were soft and rhythmic, more like loud breathing from his diaphragm, but as his control started to dissolve and his tension built towards orgasm they got shallower and more erratic. He struggled to pull himself back from thrusting--from moving--and then one long scream forced itself out as he came in a hot, almost painful spurt.

  The gag turned the noise into a high-pitched squeal, like an animal caught in a trap.

  Drained, he stopped to catch his breath and let his mind clear, closing his eyes to savor the exhaustion spreading through his limbs. He felt her shift away from straddling him, and her weight left the bed.

  In a minute she was back kneeling at his side, but a touch of clothing had replaced the contact of bare flesh against his. A key clicked, first in the left leg cuff, then the circlet around the left wrist, and the restraints fell open.

  Before he could get up energy to react, there was a jingle of silver dropped into his left hand--a key on a ring. He opened his eyes and turned his head barely fast enough to see the flash of the short coral dress clinging to her back and ass as she strode out the bedroom door.

  The front door slammed a moment later, and weakly he started to reach across with the key toward the other handcuff to unlock it. Then he froze.

  The knife still lay across his stomach, locked open, blade and handle both glistening with sweat, saliva, semen, and juice.

  * * * *

  In the back of an anonymous white van overcrowded with surveillance equipment, one observer slipped off his headphones and struggled to keep his voice professional. "We'll have to keep an eye on these two, but...."

  The other observer steadfastly kept her gaze on her computer without once looking at him. "Yeah, I think HSHQ got bad intel on this one. This couple broke up months ago; this just sounds like she's acting out some kind of kinky revenge fantasy rather than anything serious."

  He nodded, desperately glad that the ledge of molded plastic holding his own computer also hid his painfully-compressed erection. "Listen, you want to drive to the next location? I'll stay back here and do my notes." Among other things.

  "Sure, glad to." In fact, she was more than glad to get out of the close quarters with him. Maybe she could stop at a gas station and lock herself in the bathroom for a couple of minutes. The way she felt, it wouldn't take very long.

  * * * *

  He got the note in the mail that same afternoon. Unsigned, no return address, just a sheet of unlined white paper with upright handwriting in dark red ink.

  The only words on it were, "I have another one."

  * * * *

  He waited five days before he responded. As the sun set on another stifling day, he drove into the small commercial park, past an open warehouse with several men loading rugs into a rental truck, past scuba gear storage, kitchen & bath fixtures, and a "For Rent" sign, and finally parked at the end of the row, next to a chain link fence dividing the facility from an open field.

  He slid along the narrow passage between the fence and the building to come out next to the other side of the warehouse building, with one very small and one very large rental unit fronting on a similar but empty parking lot. The smaller one, which bore a drab olive sign announcing "Camp Surplus," the name of her outdoors equipment business, had an alphabetic keyless entry lock. The brushed satin nickel of the nubs bearing the letters was cool under his fingertips as he punched in the code: IHAO, the first letters of the note she had sent him.

  The figures clicked and he was in. He caught a glimpse of inventory boxes for her stacked to various levels, some dusty and dented but others square and new, as he stepped quickly inside. The steel door shut hard behind him, like a jail without bars. Then there was total darkness, and silence.

  He began to wait, anticipating what he was going to say. And do. To her.

  And then he realized that it wasn't totally silent. He became conscious of the sound of breathing that wasn't his own just before there was a couple of shuffling steps, and a body pressed itself against his back, snaking an arm around to press a blade flat against his neck. Not yet threatening, but warning.

  "I told you I had another one," she murmured.

  He nodded, trying to relax in preparation for his next move. "But I came anyway."

  "But was that clever of you, or stupid?" She shifted weight a little, since her arm was awkwardly craned over his shoulder. The blade came away from his neck just enough for him to grab her wrist, twist around while spinning, and apply enough pressure to force her to drop the knife. It clattered on the concrete near his feet, and he swept his foot across to kick it away.

  "I try to learn from my past mistakes," he replied, and used the leverage on her arm to shift her bent-over body to face him. Her face was at the level of his groin, and he deliberately continued to raise and twist so that she ended up brushing her cheek against his distended fly.

  There was a catch in her voice as she asked, "Is that a gun in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?"

  Then she felt a second bulge and froze. He pulled the revolver out of his pants and stroked her face with the barrel, as gently as if he'd been wiping tears away. "Yes to both, actually."

  "Except that you don't actually see me." It was almost a laugh. "Once a metaphor for our relationship, now jus
t a simple physical fact."

  He pressed the gun against the side of her head, pushing her face into the front of his pants. "I don't need to see you to hear you--or feel you. And on that note, I have two simple physical facts for you right now."

  Her voice was getting less fearful as they kept talking. "Really? Which are?"

  "One, you're going to spread your legs for me."

  "I am? And two?"

  "Two, I have a gun."

  He wondered if he heard a smile in her voice as she answered, "Yes. You do have a gun." Cautiously, he backed her into a corner, waiting to feel a solid part of her body bump again cardboard before releasing her arm.

  "By the way, I have a fact for you, too," she stated flatly, her voice moving as she straightened up.

  "What's that?"

  "I'm also tired of having sex in darkness," she grumbled, and a light went on.

  It took a moment for his eyes to adjust from blindness, and he half-expected her to rush him and try to push him out of the way in an attempt to escape.

  Instead, he saw her leaning back against a shelf of boxes, thrusting her hips forward, watching him, daring him. Her eyes darted from his crotch to the gun, and then up to his face. She was holding a 3-cell Maglight in her left hand, and he realized that she could easily have hit him with the heavy aluminum casing to defend herself.

  Instead, she propped it on a lower box so the beam played over her lower body like a focused footlight. Leaning back further, the skirt she wore parted folds as her knees parted underneath, glimpses flashing between black fabric and white flesh, and she slipped off a pair of scarlet red panties and dropped them on the floor.

  He used the gun to shift the skirt higher so she was fully exposed and then slid it down between her thighs to open her wider as he stepped forward. He reached out his left hand and pushed a finger into her cunt, then two. She was getting wet like a river, and he stroked her clit with his thumb in a slow, teasing circle, then rubbed up and down even more slowly.

  She arched her back, pushing against him, bucking her hips as he ground his fingers in further, and moaned so softly it was more like a suggestion of a sigh.

  He immediately slid his left hand out of her and moved the gun forward so the round barrel slid in instead, right up to the trigger guard which he rotated up to face her clit.

  Her eyes opened wide to look down at the cold weight, and she held her breath and did not move as the LED light glinted off the pearl and steel of the grip.

  He jammed it in deeper. "Make all the noise you want, Ada. No one else can hear you."

  And he easily slid his right index finger into her ass while keeping the palm of his hand pressing against the butt of the gun. He began to rock her whole pelvis back and forth by thrusting in and out of both holes, sometimes in alternation and other times in unison. She moaned more and more vehemently as her automatic hip movements took over where his weapon-and-finger-fucking left off. Repeatedly and loudly she shrieked as she came, until he crammed the fingers of his left hand inside of her mouth and it became more of a long, sustained whimper of release.

  She could barely move after all that, barely perceive him pull out, back away, and leave.

  She didn't feel empty, though. He had left the gun, its metal now warm to the touch, inside her.

  All the chambers were loaded.

  * * * *

  In the backing unit sporting the "For Rent" sign, one observer was glad they had remained in darkness throughout the scene they had just overheard. She'd ended up rubbing herself through her own clothing and now her underwear was a sticky mess, but she'd been wearing thick, loose blue jeans for their current covers as maintenance workers and hoped they would cover it long enough for her to get home. "What do you think?" she asked her partner as she removed the headphones.

  His voice betrayed nothing, he hoped, struggling to be matter of fact and not show that he wanted desperately to stroke himself until he came. "So far, nothing but two people having sex. Pretty crazy sex, but sex."

  "People do that, you know." She paused, wondering if she dared give him a hint of what she was thinking--fantasizing. "Even in today's world."

  "I'm beginning to agree with your opinion that there's nothing going on here but fantasy. Even if they do both contribute heavily to liberal causes and he got arrested in a protest march back in March, I don't see anything going on that warrants us watching this couple so closely."

  You're not seeing much of anything right now, she thought with bitter amusement. "Well, I'll write up our latest report with that analysis, but you know HSHQ is so paranoid they'll probably have us keep watching them rather than miss anyone who might actually be a spy or terrorist."

  * * * *

  She got the note in the mail the next afternoon. Unsigned, no return address, just a sheet of unlined white paper with upright handwriting in dark red ink--and a faint scent of gun oil.

  The only words on it were, "I have another one, too."

  * * * *

  They met without a reservation in a cheap high-rise hotel on the west side of town, one of the old dockworkers' flophouses that had been tarted up with neo-Victorian furnishings just before the crash. Room 1212 was chock-full of frosted glass and flowered chintz and a jumble of dusty bronze aspidistra sprawling on all levels from floor to ceiling. There was a black telescreen, which didn't work, at the foot of the bed, and a single dome light, which did, poised over the headboard like a spotlight.

  He sat, completely naked, on the edge of the wrought-iron bed, waiting for her to come.

  A key ratcheted in the door, and she slipped in like a spy in an antique movie. Seeing that he was already on the bed, she paused in front of him, eying him coolly, and finally murmured, "No knives and no guns, I see. So where are we now? Who are we now?"

  His eyes challenged her in turn. "Take your armor off, and let's find out."

  She kicked off her sandals, stripped the thin red-and-white top over her head and dropped her shorts in a manner more efficient than seductive. He watched her, feeling his erection grow simply from the sight of her body and memories of the past, but he made no move until she faced him, hands on hips as she braced herself for whatever came next.

  He stood up opposite her, leaned forward, and kissed her as gently as he could manage. At first touch her lips were cool and smooth, tasting faintly of chrysanthemum tea, and for a moment he thought she might pull away, but then her hands came up to cup his face and she too leaned forward, only their mouths meeting at the top of an arch, a slight parting and touching and then twining of tongues as they kissed with longing, with lingering--with love.

  Her eyes were open as she leaned back, one hand hesitantly against his cheek but her whole body trembled like a butterfly about to take flight rather than risk the net, and the killing bottle. He covered her hand with his own, but did not hold or grab, simply nested it against his face.

  "How do you love, when all you've known is anger and fear?" she breathed.

  "I think you see the other person," he answered, "and you hear what they have to say, and you watch and listen."

  "You do?"

  "I do."

  She shivered. "And what do you do next?"

  "You deal as best you can with the anger and the fear."

  She nodded. "They're still there, you know." She took his hand away from his face and brought it down to rest on the plate of bone between her breasts, letting him feel the irregular and agonized thumping of her heart underneath her ribs.

  His thumb continued to press against her center as his fingers and palm slid sideways, moving into a stroke and then very slow squeeze of her breast. She took a sudden deep breath, pressing herself further into his hand, feeling the pain of the pressure mingle with the pleasure of receiving such direct, plain touch.

  "Yes, they're still there," he acknowledged, kneading and squeezing harder as she leaned into it rather than backing away. "But there's love there, too. However you get to it, it's there."

  He
took hold of her other hand and pressed it to his own chest so she could feel his own heart hammering in sympathy with hers. She splayed her hand across his muscles, and slowly dug her fingertips in as if it would somehow save herself from falling any further right then. He winced slightly, but did not try to stop her. Instead, he brought up his other hand to cup her other breast and then began to fondle and squeeze that in turn, kneading the mounds together and upwards, tweaking the nipples as he leaned forward to kiss her again.

  * * * *

  In the room next door was a duplicate of the other room in layout and content. Notified that another envelope bearing her handwriting arrived in his morning mail, the observers had followed his trail to the hotel. Check-in at the front desk and waiting for a single working elevator had delayed his arrival at the room just long enough for their technical crew to rig the telescreen and light fixture in Room 1212 for both audio and video recording. However, there wasn't enough time or equipment to set up fully individual surveillance stations for the observers.

  The telescreen in 1214 didn't work either, so the man and the woman were crowded together on one side of the bed, trying not to touch each other at shoulders and hips, watching a portable tapscreen and straining to hear the conversation on the tiny speakers.

  They saw the woman pull the man towards her with a fierceness that left red welts on his chest. They saw the man pull the woman down onto the bed, bodies becoming so entwined with kisses and touches it was hard to tell through the tiny display where his body stopped and hers started.