I cast a furtive glance up and down the dark alley, then knocked on the grey metal door.
A slot slid open in the door, and two brown eyes stared out. ‘Yeah?’
‘Washington had wooden teeth.’
‘How wooden?’
‘Wooden you like to know.’
The slot slid closed. The metal door clicked open. I slipped inside the squat brick building.
The corridor was dimly lit, the air warm, almost sticky.
‘Who sent you?’ brown-eyes asked, a big, burly guy in a tight white T-shirt and matching pants, white sneakers. Black hair bristled in a brushcut off his block head, and muscles bulged his arms and chest and neck. He looked like an attendant in a mental hospital. And, again, I doubted the sanity of the plan.
‘I, uh, heard things – on the street,’ I responded nervously. ‘Thought I’d check it out.’ A grin fluttered across my trembling lips.
Brown-eyes grunted and turned and led me down the corridor. His huge buttocks strained the stitching on the back of his pants, the thick mounds clenching and jostling and bunching, powerfully.
The parade stopped at the end of the corridor under a bright white hanging light. Brown-eyes gave me the once-over, twice, looking up and down my slender, suit-clad frame, examining my thin, bespectacled face; checking form and function. I thought I saw a twinkle of recognition in those hard brown marbles set in that stern stone face.
He pointed a blunt finger down the hallway to the right. ‘Third door on the left. You want basic or full service?’
I peered down the hallway, flicked my grey eyes back up at him. ‘Uh … Full service? Does that include –?’
‘Everything.’
He trundled off down the corridor, his giant white body dissolving into the dimness.
The place didn’t have a name, or a number. But word on queer street was that a man could get a good, deep-body massage that catered to his particular bent. Rub and tugs, and suck and pumps, were illegal, but in the nation’s capital, services could be found for every need, for a price.
I walked down the hallway to the third white-painted door on the left. I turned the brass knob and slipped inside.
A tall, lean, tanned blond was waiting for me, smiling and rubbing his hands together. ‘I’m Kurt,’ he said, his clear blue eyes taking in every inch of me.
He was dressed exactly like Brown-eyes. Except there was a bulge in his front, as well as the pair at the back. My dry mouth suddenly slavered saliva, my eyes going misty behind my horn-rims. ‘H-hi, Kurt. I’m, uh, Colin.’
His smile spread wider, the plush red curtain of his lips parting to reveal shiny white teeth. ‘Take off your clothes, Colin.’
I closed the door behind me. It sucked tight and locked. The room was small, narrow, stuffy, dominated by a brown padded massage table right in the middle. White towels were piled up on a three-legged stool in one corner, three large bottles of baby oil standing on the white tile floor next to the stool. Two banks of fluorescent beams flooded the white-walled room with light. There was a sprinkler head set up in the ceiling, directly above the massage table.
I took off my suit jacket, stripped off my tie, unbuttoned my shirt, my shaking hands making it fumblesome progress. Kurt stepped closer and took the garments away from me, hung them on a hook on the door. I unbelted and unzipped my suit pants, pushed them and my shorts down, stepped out of the pile of fallen silk. My cock hung down over my shaven balls, semi-erect and tingling. Kurt scooped up my lower garments and hooked them as well.
‘Lie down on the table,’ he instructed, his voice soft and rich, like honey. ‘I’ll take care of the rest.’
He didn’t specify how I should lie down – on my stomach or back. It was my option. I climbed up onto the table and sprawled out on my stomach, sticking my face into the padded opening at one end.
Kurt pulled off my shoes and socks. The table didn’t move. It was bolted to the floor, heavy-duty construction. My nude body shimmered in the warm air, under the bright lights, my surging cock pressing into the padded vinyl.
Kurt grabbed up a bottle of baby oil and squirted a stream onto my back, making me jump and grab the edges of the table.
His hands were firm and knowing. He massaged my neck, working the tension out, kneaded the knots out of my shoulders. My face reddened in the hole, my cock pulsating against the padding.
Kurt rubbed his way down my back, straightening my spine, stiffening my cock. He skipped over my trembling butt cheeks, applying oil to both my legs, working and loosening the hamstrings and calves, lacing and rubbing my ankles, knuckling the soles of my feet, pulling on my toes. He was skilled in the art of massage and not-so-subliminal seduction, built for both jobs.
Oil splashed down onto my ass, and I moaned.
‘Here we go,’ Kurt said. ‘Full service.’
He gripped a buttock apiece and plied with both hands. The force, the feel, the fondle of his hands on my ass drove my erection hard into the table. He rode his squeezing hands up from the start of the swells at the back of my legs, over the humped flesh, down to the small of my back; again and again. My knuckles burned white on the edges of the table, cock pumping.
Kurt dug his fingers into my butt cheeks, crossways, and spread them apart, open. My pucker flowered in the hothouse. Then something wet and warm hit it bang-on – Kurt’s tongue.
‘Jesus!’ I squealed through the face-hole.
Ripples of delight raced up and down my sensualised body, my buttocks quivering and buzzing in the blond’s clutching hands, my manhole burning on the end of his licker. He teased my ring with his swirling tongue, rimming. Then he formed the mouth-organ into a spear and fired it into my anus, deep. I jerked, the guy’s tongue plugged into my rectum.
He pulled his tongue out, ploughed it back in, fucking my joyous chute with at least three inches of sticker. I thrust my ass up to take all I could, my cock and body throbbing with heated emotion. Until Kurt pulled his tongue out of my anus for good, applied it in long, moist, dragging strokes to my sensitised crack.
I shuddered, the buff blond absolutely painting my shaven butt cleavage, lapping between my cheeks and over my manhole. I shivered with each budded lick, my entire body and being shaking out of control.
Kurt said, ‘Roll over.’
I jerked my head out of the face-hole with a wet pop and jumped up and spun around in mid-air, landed with a splat on my back, exposing my front. My nipples and cock burst outward with engorgement, brimming with awesome excitement under the bright lights.
Kurt smiled down at me. He licked his lush lips. Then he went back to work and play with his skilful, sensuous hands.
He gripped my ankles and slid his hands up my shinbones, planted them in the sinuous masses of my thighs, and plied. My cock sprang up like a missile from a ground launch as the blond played my taut string muscles with his fingers.
But his hands swooped up and glided over my red-alert erection, slid onto my stomach. Where they swirled, then spun up onto my pecs.
Kurt’s handsome face hung over my flushed face as he scooped up my pecs and squeezed them, massaged them, piled them together and kneaded the pair. My nipples flared up wildly, sticking out hard and pink like my cock. Kurt bent his head down and lashed one propped-up bud with his thick red tongue, then my other nipple. I gripped the table on either side like before, arching my chest and body upward, offering myself to the man’s talented tongue; glaring up at that sprinkler head mounted right over the table.
Kurt sealed his lips around one stiff, spit-shined nipple and sucked on it. My cock and brain vibrated. The beautiful blond sucked up my other nipple and tugged on it, his hands clasping my pecs. I closed my eyes, shimmering with that strange, ball-streaking, cock-humming buzz I get whenever my nipples are fingered and fellated.
Kurt released my pecs. The reddened flesh sagged back to normal position, smouldering with the memory of Kurt’s grip and tongue. He wound his long fingers around my cock, pulled it up, poured his plush lips down and over.
‘Sweet Jesus!’ I bleated, the Texas twang in my voice even more pronounced.
Kurt’s silky blond head sunk down onto my groin like the blazing sun, his cauldron of a mouth consuming my cock whole. I craned my neck and stared at the melting point of man on man. My cock pulsed molten in his mouth, hot air from his nostrils flooding my balls.
He kept me locked down, quivering, in his superheated velvet vice for a good/great half-minute or so, before he finally pulled his head up, slowly, his wet lips and tongue dragging along my throbbing shaft.
He slid his left hand up onto my chest, squeezing my pecs, pinching my nipples, his right hand cradling and massaging my balls as he bobbed up and down on my cock, sucking with a fearsome intensity. It felt like he’d pull my foreskin right off, blow my mind and my grip on reality.
But he only kept it up for a minute or so, leaving me gasping. He’d sensed the boil in my balls and the come-hardness of my cock, expert sexnician that he was. ‘You want me to fuck you, Colin?’ he asked, noosing my shaft at the hood with his fingers, to cap my impending explosion.
I gulped, ‘Yes, please!’
He dropped my dick. He peeled off his T-shirt and pants like they were tearaway, kicked off his sneakers. His entire body was tanned bronze, a lithe caramel-coated length of lovely man that boasted mounded pecs and pointing nipples, a washboard stomach, a trim waist, long, supple legs, blond-dusted balls, and a smooth, clean-cut cock that seemed to rise up and jut out for ever – straight at me.
I stocked up on the delicious eye-candy, then barrel-rolled back onto my belly, sprang up on my hands and knees like an eager little doggy. Kurt mounted the table in behind me. The padded platform took both our manly bodies with ease.
Kurt sluiced oil off my bowed back with two fingers and swept it in between my arched buttocks. He lubed my hole outside and in, his digits squishing inside and squirming deep. I gleefully sucked on his probing fingers with my panting ass muscles until he unplugged, greased his cock, pressed the head of that sculpted tool up against my manhole.
I exhaled and tried to relax. He punched his mushroomed cap through my ring and surged swollen shaft into my anus. I inhaled and went rigid. Inch after bloated, pulsating inch plunged into my chute, stuffing me full of wild sensation, ballooning my bum and body. His balls kissed my clenched buttocks and his hands gripped my frozen hips. And I almost swallowed my tongue. The guy’s bone was buried in my ass.
He pumped, once. Again, his corded thighs banging off my butt cheeks, rocking me forward on the table, his cock stroking full length and fiery in my ass. He thrust repeatedly, rhythmically, sawing back and forth in my electrified chute, fucking me. I tilted my head up and yowled.
Kurt slammed me faster and harder, sending his pipe shooting right into my very soul. I hung on to the table, hammered at the sex hole. The sharp smack of his thighs against my buttocks echoed in the crackling air, just above my high-pitched moaning, his throaty groaning. He pounded into me, reaming me into sexual oblivion.
My flapping cock shot up between my legs and spouted semen, pressurised and propelled by the pistoning stroke of meat in my ass. I shuddered and cried out. Kurt grunted and gushed, his thundering dong exploding inside my seared anus and blasting liquid lightning against my bowels.
When I finally staggered out of the steamy sex-cell into the dim hallway, Brown-eyes was waiting for me under the hanging light at the juncture of corridors. He held a small white packet in a beefy paw. ‘A DVD of your session with Kurt, Mr CIA Assistant Director,’ he smirked, handing me the packet. ‘We have copies, of course. If we need them.’ His smile turned grim. ‘You will be contacted how to proceed.’
My fallen face reflected astonishment. I stumbled out the back of the building and into the Washington night.
‘Good work, Thompson,’ CIA Assistant Director Mort Callahan congratulated me, when I made it back to the office. ‘Now we know for sure that massage parlour is a base for Russian spy activity – luring federal officials and politicians into compromising positions, and blackmailing them for state secrets.’ He smiled sympathetically at me. ‘You’ll get a promotion for this. For going, uh, below and beyond the call of duty for your country.’
I looked just like the guy – same build, same age, same facial features. A little hair-dye and make-up, a few acting and voice lesions, made the ruse complete. And the Russians had bought it hook, line, and sucker (and fucker). Only the real Mort Callahan had a large purple birthmark on his lower right abdomen, which I didn’t; a birthmark that could be revealed for the press to prove that he wasn’t the one given the full service treatment at the illicit massage parlour. If the Russians went ahead and released the evidence of their scheme.
‘We’ll shut their operation down and expel the lot of them.’
He stuck out his hand and I shook it, proud to go gay in defence of the American way. Excited to be on my way up from a clerk in the corporation. Enthralled by what Kurt had done to me, for me, how he had done it to and for me; knowing I just couldn’t walk away from a man like that, spy or no spy.
It was super-surreptitious even by counter-espionage standards. I sheltered Kurt from the fall-out, kept on meeting him in the back of a Russian deli. He fondled me, sucked me, fucked me. And I fed him crumbs of low-level intelligence from my new desk job as a thank you, a lewd, lust-struck traitor.
It was bogus information, of course, meant to confuse and subterfuge the stud and his handlers. That’s how I got Callahan to play along, so I could still play along with Kurt.
Honestly, though, I don’t think the blond bombshell even passed on the phoney intel to his bosses back in the Kremlin. We were in love, after all.
Not that I told my bosses any of that. Sometimes the truth has to be massaged a little, so that work can become play in the treacherous world of espionage.