Like Slipping Under Cover: Erotic Spy Fiction

by Bethany Zaiatz, ed.

  Or was that his imagination getting away from him again? Maybe Devan had crafted this look, suspecting how it would affect him.

  "Hello," Devan said.

  Allen nodded stiffly, and stepped inside as he held the door for him.

  It was a small place, living area with cooking appliances against one wall, a pair of clouded glass doors leading to the bedroom. What it did have, though--and this was enough to suggest Devan was high in his Master's favor, to receive this apartment or enough credit to rent it--was a stunning view. The outer wall, running through the living room and bedroom though seeming to stop at the bath, was fully transparent. The neighboring building ended just below, offering a clear view of its rooftop park, an emerald in the silver-and-slate skyline.

  Allen found himself pressed to the window, his artist's eye drinking the sight in. A couple walked along the terraces below, and the woman suddenly stopped, posing for her companion to snap a photo of her. Her ruby skirt streamed in the breeze like a flag.

  "Have you ever taken pictures of a lover?" Devan asked beside him.

  "No." Allen refused to appear surprised or unsettled. Or to reveal that he found the soft voice murmuring at his ear as arousing as he did. "I haven't had a lot of steady lovers."

  Devan's arm slipped around his waist. "Me neither."

  Their heights were matched; Allen turned to look him in the eyes. Brown eyes, but with streaks of silver in the iris. Modified or just ornamented with contacts, Allen couldn't tell. They made Devan look slightly more, or less, than human. Perhaps that was the point.

  He leaned forwards and kissed the smooth brown skin beneath one eye. Long lashes grazed his top lip, and he tasted a faint, salty sweetness. He traced his mouth down Devan's face, over his cheek and around the sharp edge of his nose, to where full lips were already parting to receive him. Devan smelled natural now, more of musk than spice, and Allen liked the intimacy of the uncovered scent. He ran his hands down Devan's back, from wide shoulders down the curve of his spine to a firm ass.

  Devan moaned into his mouth, almost a growl. But before Allen could respond to that he had slipped away, out of his arms, only to go to the bedroom doors and push them open. Allen could see the bed clearly now: white sheets, mattress like a slab of marble--and, far more intriguing, a collection of long, silky cords wrapped around the bedposts.

  He turned with raised eyebrows to Devan, who leaned easily against the doorframe, arms crossed. His sleeves had ridden up, revealing slender wrists. Allen imagined the pulse jumping in them, mirroring his own. He joined Devan at the threshold.

  "So if we..." He cleared his throat. "What would your Master think if he found out about this?"

  "He wouldn't be happy." Devan strode to the bed and fell down across it, rolling over on the pliant mattress with a lighthearted sigh. He looked up at Allen, smiling. "He'd probably punish me terribly."

  Allen said, drily, "Good for you, then."

  Devan patted the bed beside him, and Allen joined him there. By the time he sat down Devan was already unbuttoning his shirt. It seemed strange to just sit there while the other man undressed himself, so Allen reached out, pushed Devan's hands away, and took over the job.

  Naked, Devan was clearly mature for a fancy boy, but he'd kept very fit. His breath shuddered as Allen pressed him back against the mattress, reaching for the cords. A take-charge attitude seemed to be in order here, so he tried not to reveal his own inexperience. The cord was silky, thin but strong, with just a little give to it. Allen found he liked the feel of it sliding through his hands, the look of it wrapped around Devan's wrists, pressing valleys in his smooth skin. Allen knotted Devan's hands together and tied them above his head, then slipped down his body, separating and spreading his legs. He roped the ankles to opposite bedposts, fingers slipping in distraction as he looked up over Devan's body, visibly quivering in anticipation.

  "So..." He realized he was still dressed, but didn't move to remedy the fact. Devan's nakedness made such an inviting contrast. Allen wanted to... His mouth went dry at the possibilities.

  "What am I allowed to do with you?" he asked the man bound below him, and the words themselves charged nerves, sent sympathetic muscles trembling.

  Devan looked up at him with a hazy smile. "Anything you want."

  Allen studied him. Devan was achingly erect now, and with his limbs tied and any initiative, by his own admission, given over wholly to his partner, it was up to Allen to do something about that. If he chose.

  He knelt between Devan's legs slowly, as if considering it. He licked one finger and ran the moistened tip along Devan's cock. Then his hands wrapped around the base--lightly, just enough to guide it to his mouth. He was about to take it in deep when he stopped--this did take some thought--and instead, he only wrapped his lips around the head. Below him Devan's hips jerked, trying to reach farther, but Allen kept himself barely within reach. His tongue traced a ring around Devan's cock, slipped back and forth over the glans, then withdrew. He opened his mouth so that it hovered over Devan's flesh, only his damp, hot breath touching him.

  Allen kept it up, teasing, licking, breathing, brushing kisses. Devan strained at the ropes, hips thrusting. The movement became distracting, so Allen tried to pin his pelvis down to the mattress, fingers biting into the spare flesh there, holding him entirely immobile.

  "Yes," Devan said, the first and last coherent thing he said for some time.

  Complete helplessness brought him very close to the edge, but still Allen continued the barely-there blowjob, pleasuring but not satisfying him. His own arousal was beginning to press at his fly, allowing him to sympathize with Devan's frustration. Not that he was about to take pity on him. He wanted to see what they could accomplish with just some restraints and his mouth and the tip of Devan's cock.

  He grazed his teeth over the head, and that was what did it. He sat back as Devan came, utterly wanton, binding cords pulled taut and white drops of come splattered over his abdomen.

  "You should get cleaned up," Allen observed just as it seemed Devan's composure was returning.

  "Are you going to help me?" he asked in a whisper. And there, the composure had fled again. He was undone, in Allen's power and loving it.

  "Of course I will." He freed Devan's legs and then unhooked the cord binding his hands from the headboard, though he didn't release them. He walked Devan back to the bathroom, half-supporting him, brought him into the shower, and looped the cord over the showerhead. It was low enough that Devan could get his feet back under him, although in fact he was probably relying on the added support.

  "All right?" Allen asked.

  Devan nodded, swallowing breathlessly.

  Allen stepped out of the shower and undressed, kicking the discarded clothing aside. He came back in and stood behind Devan, his hardening member grazing the back of the man's thigh. They both shuddered at the contact, but he stepped away. First, he turned on the warm water and began to wash Devan's body, soaping over its planes and rinsing away the mess almost tenderly. Then his cleaning became more thorough, touching every fold and crevice. He separated Devan's buttocks and slipped a soap-slick finger around his hole, then inside it.

  Devan moaned. He was hot and tight, and by the time Allen took his hand away he was clean, too, shaking in his bonds. Allen knelt and replaced his fingers with his tongue.

  He had to grab Devan's hips to hold him still again. Running his tongue around the rim, he tasted salt and soap and drops of soft shower water. He pressed inwards with rapid, shallow flicks, teasing again. He wondered if Devan's Master had ever tried this, and laughed inwardly at the thought. Probably not, and so he had no idea what he was missing out on, how he could make this man beg.

  Allen drew back. "You have to ask for it nicely, Devan."

  "Yes..." He pulled in a breath. Allen suddenly regretted placing any conditions; no matter how enjoyable the show of power had been, it was holding him back from what he really wanted.

  "Please," Devan said.
<
br />   Allen stood, wrapping one arm around Devan's waist while the other hand guided them together. He started with slow, deep thrusts, but his discipline didn't last long. Soon he was driving into him, the south of flesh on flesh and their combined moans and gasps rising above the cascading water. Devan threw his head back while Allen pressed his face to his neck, delivering something between a kiss and a bite. He came like a flash of lightening, hot and fast and blinding. For a moment he just drifted, Devan in his arms, a warm glow spreading through him as the shower cooled.

  Devan shifted, bringing Allen's attention back to their still-joined bodies. He slowly separated and rinsed them both off, then stopped the water and undid the knots in the cord, which thankfully hadn't swollen when wet. Though speaking of swollen... he rubbed at Devan's hands, restoring their circulation.

  "You okay?" he asked.

  Devan leaned against his shoulder, but nodded. "Perfectly. Thank you. That was..." He grinned and his lethargy vanished, replaced with something sharper. His voice was heavy with desire as he said, "We should do that again sometime."

  "Maybe," Allen said.

  Devan's body arched against his, pressing, and he amended that to, "Yes, we should."

  They toweled off their bodies and dressed in a silence that seemed tense, anticipatory. Devan was still smiling. A shiver ran down Allen's spine, and he wasn't sure if it came from an echo of lust or some unconscious warning. Messing around with someone else's fancy boy without permission could be dangerous; maybe that was it.

  "I should go," he said.

  "I'll walk you down," Devan offered.

  Allen couldn't really refuse, but before they went out the door he gripped the long, pale hair at the nape of Devan's neck and pulled him close, crushing their lips together in the farewell kiss they wouldn't be able to exchange in public. It wiped the smile from Devan's face, and his breathing was unsteady in the elevator on the way down.

  As Allen stepped out, he saw a familiar figure leaning against one of the pillars in the lobby--the woman who had been walking next door. Her lover/amateur photographer stood beside her, his gaze going from Allen to Devan Lamott.

  The man bowed, the formal gesture of respect to one's Master.

  The woman, on the other hand, was looking at Allen. Smiling, she stepped up to him and offered the camera with one of her photos on the display screen.

  Allen looked more closely at it, his stomach knotting. The woman posed, sitting on the ledge surrounding the rooftop garden, the apartment building rising behind her. His fingers pressed out the familiar signals to the image modifier, magnifying the window over her right shoulder. Those vast, transparent walls showed him kneeling over a bound, naked Devan Lamott, sucking his cock.

  "I'd frame it," the man said blithely.

  It was never safe to strike a bondsman; there was always the risk of his Master avenging him. But Allen considered it anyway.

  Devan--if that was his name--put a hand on Allen's shoulder. "You see," he said, "they're more powerful than most people realize--the cameras, I mean."

  "Photographers too," the woman said. She smiled at Devan. "What about it? You seem to enjoy wielding power in--"

  "Helen," Devan said sharply. She fell silent, giving him an apologetic nod--and then mirroring the gesture, to the same humble degree, with Allen.

  "I doubt I have a hope of Contracting you, even now," Devan said to him. "But this record's existence might... convince you of the potential for cooperation between us. There are many Masters in this city with a distaste for this sort of thing--several of your principle customers among them. And should you ever need the assistance of a Charity, you'll have to seek it at the Unitarian Mission or some such overcrowded organization."

  "You can't make me an outcast without publishing those pictures," Allen said. "And that means revealing your own secrets, too."

  Devan's eyes sparked. "Ah, but I'm a Master. I can afford a little controversy."

  "And now you think you can afford me?"

  "Only a little of your time, the non-exclusive use of your talents, some privileges regarding the supervision of your portfolio. I can even reimburse you, if you wish. Don't worry, Allen, I won't command your obedience."

  "No," Allen said, "that's not what you have a taste for."

  Devan began to laugh, but Allen cut him off, stepping close to murmur in his ear.

  "I'll make you pay for this," he promised.

  Devan shivered, and a soft flush deepened the color of his cheek. "I'm looking forward to it," he said.

  Allen sighed, looking down at the picture. At the image of Devan, bound and pleading, completely in his power. His stomach flipped again, but this time with a warmer form of tension. He smiled ruefully. "So am I."

  Sleeper Agent

  A. J. Viggen

  He's been trained to wake silently and lie still, wherever he wakes. Eyes closed, he listens first. The smell of disinfectant and the hum and beep of machines tell him he's in hospital. He inventories his body and finds it free from pain, with the slight tug of a needle in his left arm. There's no sound of human breath or movement, so he opens his eyes.

  The arms above the white sheet are slender and hairless, the hands narrow with nails cut into egg-shapes. As he wriggles his fingers he hopes it's just the fashion these days and he hasn't come back as a queer.

  He flexes his toes, and when his eyes flick to the moving lumps at the foot of the bed he catches sight of the lumps further up. He reaches down with his new hands and touches, unmistakably, breasts--he knows a thing or two about breasts--which unmistakably belong to him.

  The effect this has on his breathing and heart rate sets off a monitor, which brings a man with a grey suit and shrewd eyes. Recognising a handler when he sees one, he sits up.

  "Hello, Mark." The grey man gives a pleased, wolfish grin. "Welcome to the year 2152."

  * * * *

  He remembers the clean soap-and-shampoo smell of the woman they sent to interview him. Her short brown hair, her astonishing youthfulness and her ridiculous job title, military neuropsychologist. The electric hairnet thing across his scalp. Her fingertips brushing his nipple as she pressed the sticky pads onto his chest.

  'File' used to mean a thick loose-leaf dossier bound in beige cardboard, stamped on the cover, full of typed and photocopied docoments. Now his file is an icon on a computer screen.

  It's the most thorough debriefing of his life, because it is his life. The questions skip from his childhood to his recent retirement and back again. He loses his virginity, loses his parents, graduates from Oxford into the arms of the Secret Service. Over three days he lists the countries he's visited and the deeds he did there; the meals he ate, the men he killed, the women he bedded. He finds himself wanting to shock her, but the freckled cheeks never blush and the delightful mouth refuses to smile for him.

  Meanwhile the sensors and electrodes send their feedback to her tablet, the microphone converts his words to a scrolling monochrome transcript on the screen, and the tiny flash drive records it all against the day when technology will find a way to put these memories, this mind in another body, and his country needs him again. All TS, top secret, of course. Experimental. Expensive.

  "Why me?" he asks.

  "Because you're the last, Mark. The last one left who had the education, the training, the experience in the field, before all the walls came down."

  Old school, she means. An agent from the days when espionage was nation spying upon nation, not a bunch of grubby little terrorists blowing themselves up.

  "I'm a dinosaur, in other words."

  "More like a tiger. Dangerous, valuable, and nearly extinct."

  Very nearly extinct, the cancer already chewing away at his innards. Although he recalls how it felt to be ill and in pain, he knows nothing of his eventual end. His memories stop dead with the final tap of a finger on a touchscreen. There's a vivid recollection of wanting to screw the young scientist, and he wonders whether he did--one last, glorious fuck-
-or if she brushed him off with a kind word and a pitying look.

  The last. He'd been hoping she'd say the best.

  * * * *

  Tim, his grey wolf of a handler, briefs him while he looks around the room. Machines are smaller, more organic-looking. There's little traffic noise, suggesting that the hospital is in some remote, secret spot--or is it that cars are rarer now?

  "Your name is Angela Wing. You work as a research assistant at a laboratory in Scotland. One of its functions is to create bioweapons, plagues. A leaked docoment leads us to believe that the lab has developed a virus which will wipe out approximately three in every five people--and that the high-ups plan to release it. With the climate change and the increasing population, the scientists have come to believe it's the only way." Tim's delivery is flat and calm.

  "Why can't you just close the place down?"

  "Because the British Government no longer has any jurisdiction in Scotland. It's a foreign country now--and it's hostile. They're going to wait behind their wall while three-fifths of the English and Welsh die off."

  Tim's eyes keep wandering lazily to Mark's bare chest. Suddenly realising, he yanks the sheet up over his breasts and feels himself blush. He remembers a woman officer towards the end of his career who informed him that sexist attitudes like his were dying out in the Service. Ha! Silly cow.

  "When Wing was involved in a car smash and brain-damaged it was a godsend," Tim continues. "A contact in the police tipped us off and she was whisked into 'private care'. We've had the tech to bring you back for some time now; at last we had the motive and the opportunity."

  "Blow the whole lot up," Mark suggests, but half-heartedly. He wants this mission, this challenge.

  "With what? Nobody has an air force or an army any more. Time for some good old-fashioned cloak-and-dagger. We'll get you in but it's up to you to pass yourself off as Wing, find out where they're keeping this stuff and bring us a sample. Then we can create an antidote and get the population inoculated.