Like Slipping Under Cover
Erotic Spy Fiction
edited by Bethany Zaiatz
Circlet Press, Inc.
Cambridge, MA
Like Slipping Undercover
Copyright © 2014 by Circlet Press, Inc.
Cover Art Copyright © 2013 by Darrinhenry | Dreamstime
Published by Circlet Press, Inc.
39 Hurlbut Street
Cambridge, MA 02138
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Contents
Introduction by Bethany Zaiatz
Spook by A.C. Wise
Not Exactly Dead by Chris Amies
The Masterless Man by T.C. Mill
Sleeper Agent by A.J. Viggen
Jasmine Always Wins by Shawn Erin
Living On Schizo Time by Eric Del Carlo
Passing by Kaysee Renee Robichaud
Knife, Gun, High Explosive by Reina Delacroix
A Private Moment by Julian Oliver-Fenn
Giving Up The Spook by Max Erica Scott
Contributors
Introduction
From the persistently popular fictional secret agent and womanizer, James Bond, to the countless provocative depictions of real life accused spy and exotic dancer, Mata Hari, sex and espionage have always seemed like a natural fit in the public consciousness. It might be blatant romanticism of a thankless, dangerous, and uncomfortably necessary job, but it's easy for those of us who will never lead a double life to imagine all the myriad ways that seduction and sex can be used by master spies. Like Slipping Undercover features ten new, previously unpublished stories of erotic "spy-fi" and each story explores the various uses for sex in the field: as distraction or weapon, as recruitment or rapport between handler and asset, and in some of these futuristic tales, sex is even used as a means of transferring information and sharing secrets.
Our first story "Spook" by A.C. Wise tells the tale of a jaded shapeshifting spy whose assignments in exotic locations and various cover identities assumed from past lovers all blend together, even as she contemplates her own nature and identity based on what she is, has been, and might be at any given moment. The identity crises don't get any easier as we move on to "Not Exactly Dead" by Chris Amies. In this foreboding speculative fiction, Will Bruce is a spy infiltrating a homegrown group of radicals. Though initially harmless-seeming this group is determined to stop a corrupt politician who wants to take advantage of the new class of undead beings and create an army of cheap slave labor. And it's up to Will to figure out where he truly stands. Next, in "The Masterless Man" by T.C. Mill another character must reevaluate his own stand in life--this time as a potential asset. Allen Keir is an artist living in a futuristic dystopia whose traffic photography installation becomes of great interest to the Master class's intelligence-gathering efforts--but Allen has grown accustomed to his Masterless state for quite a while now and it'll take more than mere patronage to convince him to agree to any Master's terms. Then, the past and future collide in A.J. Viggen's "Sleeper Agent" when Mark, a preserved "old school" spy is revived in the year 2152, occupying a new body and cover identity as a woman. Now it's up to Mark-as-Angela to figure out how to navigate in this new world and new body while deep undercover. Shawn Erin then follows up with "Jasmine Always Wins," the bold and adventurous romp of Jack and Molly, two sexually enhanced spies whose mission to undermine an enemy minister's formal party doesn't go exactly as planned--and an orgy breaks out. In our next story, "Living On Schizo Time", Eric Del Carlo introduces the reader to chronoagents--time-traveling intelligence-gatherers and saboteurs--and Beth, a disheartened and experienced chronoagent who finds reprieve from the futility of her missions and isolation living out of time in the arms of Darcy, another chronoagent just at the start of his career. We then shift from time travelers to an epic space opera condensed into the confines of a short story with Kaysee Renee Robichaud's "Passing." When spy and revolutionary, Sukikun, meets up with Imperial Seat-holder and psychic, Makioki, to share intelligence against the corrupt government that has wronged them both, the pair finds that exchange of intel via sexual intercourse is imperiled by a fight for their lives. In "Knife, Gun, High Explosive" by Reina Delacroix, the subversive acts of undercover agents is a bit more subtle. Delacroix tells the story of two couples: one pair happens to be on a government watch list for their subversive political and sexual activities; the other couple is tasked with observing the first--but find they grow more and more interested in what they must observe with each encounter. And there is more voyeuristic pleasure to be had still! In "A Private Moment," Julian Oliver-Fenn shares the story an intelligence analyst and monitor who has been observing (and fantasizing about) the same woman for two years. This monitor finally gets to live out his dream of active undercover duty when he is tasked with seducing that same woman of interest to learn how she is disseminating treasonous thoughts to her lovers without ever seeming to break the law of speaking any treason. And finally, debut author, Max Erica Scott, shares a story of war, espionage, vengeance, and love in "Giving Up The Spook." In this emotive science-fiction tale, Seph Kitko is a young woman forcibly conscripted into the military of the hostile occupying forces responsible for her brother's senseless murder. But when a beautiful and enigmatic woman called Rhodo presents her with the opportunity and means to sabotage her enemy from within its own ranks, Seph struggles with the very real and personal consequences of her own acts of war.
Ultimately, whether the spies in this anthology are uncovering vast conspiracies by corrupt governments and organizations, exploiting and enemy's sole weakness, or growing disenchanted with their own cause or methods, each sensual and action-packed story features the struggle to maintain the tenuous balance between intimacy and intrigue--a balance that is necessary in a life of a spy. (Or any other couple who want to keep the mystery and excitement alive!)
Bethany Zaiatz
November 2013
Spook
A.C. Wise
I am in London, Cairo, Paris, Milan. Some city, any city, lies strung out below, jewel-glittering against the dark. The suite is every suite, in every hotel; the girl--gathered from the noise-and-light of the casino floor--any girl. But she has what I need.
I slip diamonds and sapphires around her neck--the promised payment. A family heirloom, she claimed, long lost, and she, a minor duchess from a mountain region with an unpronounceable name. I claim to be an international jewel-thief, the best there is. Only one of us has perfected the art of the lie.
My fingers are steady on the clasp. Hers seek the heavy, blue stone resting against the hollow of her throat. The way she touches it--tracing the facet lines, hungry, but still afraid--I know she's never worn anything quite so rich or beautiful before.
As she looks out over the city, the window ghosts her, leaving her half vanished amidst the reflection. Behind her, I'm even less seen. I watch her in the
glass, tracing lips across the curve of her shoulder, up to the press of her spine against her skin, just at the nape of neck. My lips part, tasting her--smoke from the casino layered over the acrid tang of expensive perfume, layered over fear.
She has what I need.
Her name is Tanya, Lily, Karen, Sophia; it blurs like the cities, unimportant.
I trace the line of jewels around her throat, stopping my tongue at the pulse-point below the curve of her jaw. I count each beat, knowing which signify desire, and which fear.
There. Under the thin layer of her smoke-and-perfume skin lies the imprint of other lips. For just a moment, my pulse speeds to match hers. I know the taste--pale-amber whiskey and slightly sweet, spicy-crackling cigarettes from India.
And for just a moment, I stand where Tanya, Lily, Karen, Sophia stands, and the ghost in the glass behind me, face unseen, laughs. My reflection hangs naked and vulnerable against the foreign night, over a city I can't name. Hot breath raises tiny hairs on my skin, lips brush close to my ear. The voice--does it belong to a woman with dark hair, hanging over a perfect shoulder? Or a man, stubble rough against my neck as he speaks?
I can't remember who I was then. I can't remember who he, or she, was either. But he or she taught me everything I know.
This is who we are. The words slide inside me as hands trace the curve of my spine, grasp my hips and pull me close. We are ghosts, spooks. We don't exist. Each body you touch, you will become. Every taste, every sensation, every smell will define you. You will drink memory, until you drown. This is how we survive.
Another beat--my pulse, hers, and I am myself again. I am nothing.
A fine shiver of hairs at the nape of Tanya, Karen, Lily, Sophia's neck teases my skin. A thin sheen of sweat rises to meet my tongue. It tastes of desire--the desire to fly, to fall, to press fingers to the window glass and have it disappear.
Silk pools at her feet; she steps free of the dress and stands naked, pressing fingertips to the window and leaving whorls of condensation behind. Touching her, I know what it is to want to fly. I follow the curve of her spine, tongue gathering sweat until I am on my knees.
I turn her gently, hands on the jut of her hip bones. She doesn't resist, even though she is in love with the view beyond the glass--the glittering night and the long tumble into the dark. She is in love with the thought of scattering herself across the pavement, shattered and nameless, but always remembered as the woman who fell.
The ghost of her fingerprints linger on the glass, tiny halos, catching and breaking the light. She rests one hand on my shoulder, the other returning to finger the jewel at her throat, the hard nub of it, warming beneath her caress. My hands circle from her hips to cup her from behind, pulling her close. Minute tremors run across the muscles just beneath her skin--the quick-rabbit pulse of fear and longing, soaking into my palms.
I slide my tongue between her legs, adding to the wetness there before delving deeper. A faint sound of breath caught, and her fingers tighten against my shoulder, nails leaving crescent moons on my skin. Her shivering turns deep and primal. I hold her, and keep her from falling for a moment longer.
In her sex, I taste her death. She will be dead before dawn. Not by my hand, but I won't stay the hand that kills her either. Hands. Two. Fingers tight around her throat, bruising, thumbs pressed to the hollow where the sapphire rests now, crushing her windpipe so she can't even scream.
She feels the shadow of her death coming, and she welcomes it. This is what I need.
I circle her clit, take it gently between my lips. From my shoulder, her hand moves up to tangle in my hair, pulling painfully tight. I tease, pressing my tongue against the hot, swell of her blood, the shivering need clustered in the sensitive nerves, barely caged by a thin layer of skin.
Slow now, I draw out the moment, holding her on the edge. She's done running. Her fingertips have passed through the glass, and she's hanging over the shining city. This is the last good thing she'll ever feel.
When the moment becomes unbearable, need stretched razor-thin to the point of breaking, emerging, as a low whimper from her throat, I let her come.
Because I need this, too. I need the taste of her fear and the trembling of her muscles beneath my hands. I need her fingers gripping my hair, and the guilty-greedy touch wrapped around the jewel at her throat. I need her to make my chameleon skin flicker and change.
I need her daddy's hard eyes, and her running, thin, scarred, knobby knees pumping, chasing the curve of the railroad tracks as sour sweat gathers in the hollows beneath her arms, just starting to grow downy hair. And I'm so sorry, momma, but I can't, hair tangled in my face, chapped lips, cracked and bleeding in the cold, wrapped around the thick cock of some faceless man who offers me a few bucks to get by. The distance run to here burns my muscles, and everything she left behind, the fear buried beneath the expensive perfume, and the hard resolve, fake name, and look at me now, daddy, look at what I've become, and everythingeverythingeverything.
I need it all, so that when I offer it up as my own, it won't be a lie.
I can't break under torture. I give every person I meet exactly what they need. And in return, they tell me everything I want to know.
This is what he taught me. What she taught me. With hot breath against my ear, our bodies ghosted in the glass, washed by the sun rising over the Danube, Mississippi, Nile. My hands passed through her skin, touched nothing. He didn't exist. She smiled, mocking.
Don't be afraid. I'll teach you how to disappear. I'll teach you everything you need to know.
His cock, hard and insistent against the yielding tightness of my ass. Her fingers and tongue exploring the slick wetness of my cunt.
When two spooks touch…
It is the taste of lightning searing the sky, electricity dripping fat, blue sparks, falling from wires crossing and re-crossing between vast metal towers. It is the smell of honey and ice and the cold shock of water. It is the sight of dark chocolate, cigar smoke, cab horns blaring through the dark. It is the feeling of cards sharp-dealt into a winning hand, and a violin moaning against the weight of the world. It is the sound of being tied to a chair, beaten within an inch of your life, spitting teeth and blood. It is your first, your last, your license to kill, your permission to become someone else. It is everything you ever wanted from this life, and more.
We don't exist. His hands pass through me for the first time, sinking through skin, touching bone. She smiles, cruel. Do you understand now? We are nothing. We are everything, and everyone.
Mist rises from the nameless river, blurring the world. Breath lodges in my throat. I am afraid, looking at my reflection alone in the glass. I want what I shouldn't want, just one thing to hold onto before I slip over the edge of the world.
Tell me your name, I say, your real name.
He looks at me with scorn. We don't have names.
Teeth, too white and too perfect catch the edges of my skin and bite down just hard enough to bruise. He gives me every piece of cruelty he's ever tasted, every kindness he's ever received. He gives me these with the teasing-light touch of his hands, surprisingly gentle, shockingly soft for all that they should be calloused from pistol grip and garrote wire. He runs the tip of one finger along my length, tracing each nerve, each ridge of skin. His thumb circles the head of my cock; the rest of his hand wraps around me, caressing me with long, slow strokes. His lips trace throat and collarbone, ending next to my ear. You can be anyone, anything.
His hand moves faster, squeezing, insistent. My pulse beats in time with the rhythm. Fingers arc down my spine, slip deeper, and tease my anus, tracing the tight ring of muscle.
Let go. Those teeth, too white and too perfect, close on the back of my neck, dominant, possessive.
My body arches in response, and I come, hot against his grasping hand. He rolls me over, legs braced between mine, spreading them. I take his hand, suck his fingers into my mouth one by one. Beneath the salty, pearlescent taste of my own sex, my tongue finds
a scar, faint, but imprinted deep in his flesh, circling his middle finger at the softest part of his hand, where a ring might sit if he wore one. Teeth, biting down hard enough to leave a mark. Tongue-traced the scar becomes mine. Frost-bitten fingers, a cold sunk deep in my bones. A woman with dark hair and darker eyes closes teeth against skin as if she would sever my finger from my hand. Pine-sharp scent, and blinding snow. She bucks, half rage, half hunger, struggling against me, her mouth slick with my blood.
His hand is mine. Her hand is mine. Her teeth are his, closed on my finger. Her mouth is on mine, and I am her.
Now you're learning. She whispers, mouth blood-hot against my skin.
She gives me hate with the hardness in her eyes. Her muscles taut for a fight, teach me the art of never backing down. She will never break; I will not bend, no matter what is done to me.
Her hand slides down my belly. Her finger is slick with my desire the moment she enters me. My hips rise to meet her, and she is me, and I am her. She moves inside me, soft first. One finger, then two, hardhardhard, erasing the line between pleasure and pain.
We don't exist. Finger and thumb take my nipple, pinching. She smiles. My body responds, bucking, grinding bone against bone.
Wait. The word passes my lips, panted and barely audible.
It's too late, she says.
She traces one hand across my belly, a line of fire drawing a response from the muscles underneath, tensing them with desire and fear. When she draws away, touching herself instead, I feel the absence as though she's ripped away a layer of my skin.
One hand between my legs, one hand between hers. Her wetness, my wetness. Her pulse, my pulse. Our breath. Our desire. I am inside me.
Her fingers sink through me, touching the deepest part of me, and touching nothing.
This is you, she tells me. And there is nothing here.
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