sr71plt
Literotica Guru
- Joined
- Jul 18, 2006
- Posts
- 51,870
Launched by BarbarianSpy on 4 January, the first of two espionage-based GM anthologies, Spy Tails 001, by habu (a pen name of sr71plt):
BLURB:
The prolific gay male short story writer, habu, delivers the first of two volumes of spy tales spotlighting the use of male-on-male sexuality to serve intelligence gathering operations.
The easiest, most assured way of collecting intelligence is not torture. It, rather, is the “giving” to someone, who knows what you want to know, what they want most in exchange for the information they know. And it is in being especially prepared to do so if what they want the most is illicit—that is, for instance, connected to male homosexuality. And you can be assured they will give you the most useful information and continue to give it to you if you continue to give them what they want to have, but cannot acknowledge they have gotten or want to have—and holding over their heads the threat of collapsing their whole world if they don’t continue to cooperate.
These sixteen stories show an aspect of intelligence work very much in the vein of Graham Greene and John LeCarré, but delving into spy craft operations that go well beyond where either of these authors dared to go. The reality of spying is that it isn’t all Agent 007 glamour. There is a nasty, cynical, and even arousingly sexual underbelly to it, and these stories don’t shy away from showing that, or from ignoring the difficult questions of the morality of taking advantage of the vulnerability and weakness of men who have a weakness for men in the pursuit of chits in the power games of nations.
If you enjoy this collection, be sure to check out the upcoming habu’s Spy Tails 002.
EXCERPT:
From “Murmansk Delights”
I was sitting at the bar of the Meridien Hotel in the Russian seaport of Murmansk, one seat away from Lev and with Mariana, a blowsy blonde, sitting on the other side of me, chatting up a businessman from Moscow. I liked sitting next to Mariana at the bar. It got a thought into men’s minds, and, if Mariana and others of her gender weren’t who they were looking for but Mariana put into their minds what they were looking for, their eyes could slide off onto me. And maybe stick.
I was in my working clothes. Tight black stretch pants, molded in the buttocks and showing a little basket in the front and a billowy, long-sleeved, black-satin shirt, open almost down to the navel and showing off a simple gold chain suspending a unique gold charm—two male sex symbols intertwined. Not all that tasteful but nothing too subtle. Subtlety didn’t get understood much on the Murmansk docks.
I was turned toward the room, elbows in back of me, resting on the bar, legs slightly spread with my butt barely perched on the stool, when he appeared at the door to the bar. He took the full room in a sweeping glance, passed over me, and then brought his eyes immediately back to me. After dwelling on me for a few seconds, his eyes broke away and continued the sweep of the room. But they came back to me.
He looked like all I ever wanted. In fact, he was exactly what I wanted. Oleg Isakov, captain of the Kresta-II-class Russian guided missile cruiser stationed at the nearby Severomorsk naval base. I was here because his ship was in port on the first night after a three-month at-sea hush-hush dispersal, and we had been building a nice file on Oleg, a very personal file.
He stood there, solid and sparkly in his navy blue, well-pressed summer uniform, dripping in medals. He’d taken his hat off his head and held it under his arm. His steel-gray hair, lighter gray at the temples, had been trimmed, as had his close-cropped beard and mustache. He looked robust and tanned from months on the bridge. I hoped those had been lonely months.
Our eyes met. He smiled and I smiled back. I turned around toward the bar top and he was at my side, between me and Lev. His hat and gloves and a Meridien Hotel room key on a big brass tag with a room number engraved in large characters on it went down on the bar top.
“May I buy you a drink?” he asked. His voice was smooth, cultured. It sounded a little breathy though. It sounded like he was ready.
“If you wish,” I answered coolly, and I looked over to Lev, who nodded that he had seen the room number on the key and who then pushed away from the bar and was gone even while Isakov was mounting his stool. I began the countdown of how much longer I’d need to keep Isakov in the bar.
Isakov indeed had been lonely those three months, and he tried to make up for all of that time between my legs on the bed of his hotel room.
En route to the room, I whispered to him, “I hope you are forceful. I love it rough. I love being taken like it’s the first time and not of my choice.”
This aroused him to the point that I didn’t think we’d even make it to the room.
BLURB:
The prolific gay male short story writer, habu, delivers the first of two volumes of spy tales spotlighting the use of male-on-male sexuality to serve intelligence gathering operations.
The easiest, most assured way of collecting intelligence is not torture. It, rather, is the “giving” to someone, who knows what you want to know, what they want most in exchange for the information they know. And it is in being especially prepared to do so if what they want the most is illicit—that is, for instance, connected to male homosexuality. And you can be assured they will give you the most useful information and continue to give it to you if you continue to give them what they want to have, but cannot acknowledge they have gotten or want to have—and holding over their heads the threat of collapsing their whole world if they don’t continue to cooperate.
These sixteen stories show an aspect of intelligence work very much in the vein of Graham Greene and John LeCarré, but delving into spy craft operations that go well beyond where either of these authors dared to go. The reality of spying is that it isn’t all Agent 007 glamour. There is a nasty, cynical, and even arousingly sexual underbelly to it, and these stories don’t shy away from showing that, or from ignoring the difficult questions of the morality of taking advantage of the vulnerability and weakness of men who have a weakness for men in the pursuit of chits in the power games of nations.
If you enjoy this collection, be sure to check out the upcoming habu’s Spy Tails 002.
EXCERPT:
From “Murmansk Delights”
I was sitting at the bar of the Meridien Hotel in the Russian seaport of Murmansk, one seat away from Lev and with Mariana, a blowsy blonde, sitting on the other side of me, chatting up a businessman from Moscow. I liked sitting next to Mariana at the bar. It got a thought into men’s minds, and, if Mariana and others of her gender weren’t who they were looking for but Mariana put into their minds what they were looking for, their eyes could slide off onto me. And maybe stick.
I was in my working clothes. Tight black stretch pants, molded in the buttocks and showing a little basket in the front and a billowy, long-sleeved, black-satin shirt, open almost down to the navel and showing off a simple gold chain suspending a unique gold charm—two male sex symbols intertwined. Not all that tasteful but nothing too subtle. Subtlety didn’t get understood much on the Murmansk docks.
I was turned toward the room, elbows in back of me, resting on the bar, legs slightly spread with my butt barely perched on the stool, when he appeared at the door to the bar. He took the full room in a sweeping glance, passed over me, and then brought his eyes immediately back to me. After dwelling on me for a few seconds, his eyes broke away and continued the sweep of the room. But they came back to me.
He looked like all I ever wanted. In fact, he was exactly what I wanted. Oleg Isakov, captain of the Kresta-II-class Russian guided missile cruiser stationed at the nearby Severomorsk naval base. I was here because his ship was in port on the first night after a three-month at-sea hush-hush dispersal, and we had been building a nice file on Oleg, a very personal file.
He stood there, solid and sparkly in his navy blue, well-pressed summer uniform, dripping in medals. He’d taken his hat off his head and held it under his arm. His steel-gray hair, lighter gray at the temples, had been trimmed, as had his close-cropped beard and mustache. He looked robust and tanned from months on the bridge. I hoped those had been lonely months.
Our eyes met. He smiled and I smiled back. I turned around toward the bar top and he was at my side, between me and Lev. His hat and gloves and a Meridien Hotel room key on a big brass tag with a room number engraved in large characters on it went down on the bar top.
“May I buy you a drink?” he asked. His voice was smooth, cultured. It sounded a little breathy though. It sounded like he was ready.
“If you wish,” I answered coolly, and I looked over to Lev, who nodded that he had seen the room number on the key and who then pushed away from the bar and was gone even while Isakov was mounting his stool. I began the countdown of how much longer I’d need to keep Isakov in the bar.
Isakov indeed had been lonely those three months, and he tried to make up for all of that time between my legs on the bed of his hotel room.
En route to the room, I whispered to him, “I hope you are forceful. I love it rough. I love being taken like it’s the first time and not of my choice.”
This aroused him to the point that I didn’t think we’d even make it to the room.
