I Spy on Love

My name is Gunn... James Gunn. I am a spy. To be more accurate, my life's work is in intelligence, if you actually want to call what I do intelligent. I guess you could say I'm a spy, but it's not what you might think. My profession is actually pretty pedestrian. It's just a job, not unlike any other line of work.

Sure there are more cloak and dagger jobs than mine in the agency, but even those spies don't travel the world fighting other spies. No one has a license to kill, and no one goes by a ridiculous numeric code like 007. In fact, except for a precious few, most people working in intelligence never even leave the office.

In an office. That's where my life as a spy started. Working what the agency refers to as state side as an analyst. There was nothing special about me. I was one of probably ten thousand analysts all pouring over more information than any one nation could ever need.

I was hired into the unit right out of college, but it didn't take long for me to decide that analyzing so called intelligence wasn't exactly my dream job. In fact the job was just plain tedious. I think that's why that Snowden fellow did what he did.

Snowden wasn't some sort of underground patriot or champion of the people. He didn't steal those secrets to expose corruption. He was just as bored as the rest of us and needed an escape. As an analyst, I was every bit as bored as Mr. Snowden. I just didn't have the cajones to try what he did. I thought about it though. Hell, we all thought about it.

So when the agency asked for volunteers to train for field ops, I jumped at the chance. Almost everyone that volunteered had military experience. I'd never even seen the inside of a recruiting center. The rumor was that field ops training was run by the navy seals, and it was supposed to be the most grueling thing a civilian could ever do.

It turned out the rumors were true, and training for field ops was by far the hardest thing I've ever done. More than once I thought about washing out, but the specter of going back to being an analyst kept me going. Somehow I managed to finish. Even though I was dead last in my class, I made the team. I was actually going to be real life spy.

So that's it. That's what I've been doing for the last twenty-two years. Acting as a so called spy. Right after I graduated I was sent to a small island paradise in the Caribbean where the agency set me up with an apartment and a souped-up Vespa.

The apartment didn't have secret doors or a hidden wall of weapons, and it didn't have a round bed that swings out from a wall, but that souped-up scooter could do 120 clicks on the flat. So I guess I do have one cool spy toy. It's just too bad that god damn Vespa had to be pink.

So my job in this paradise... if anyone really wants to call it a job... is to blend in with the natives, read local news, gauge the rhetoric of politicians, and in general keep tabs on the mood and attitude of the local population.

I'm not stealing secrets by taking photos with a tiny camera, or shooting people with poison darts. I don't target hardline politicians for assassination, and I don't sabotage power stations. And I've damn sure never been inside a secret installation disguised as a volcano.

All I do is gather commonly available information from local sources. The information I collect is what the agency calls intelligence, and every bit of what I gather gets put into reports. Yeah, I spend almost all of my time writing reports. My job is to disguise them as news stories, letters back home, and free-lance stories. Then those reports are reviewed and cataloged by those poor bastards back stateside that are still working as analysts.

Every once in a while the agency throws me a bone and asks me to keep tabs on some known foreign operative. In the field we call these people marks. They usually arrive via cruise ship or on a private yacht looking as if they are on vacation. I follow them and report where they go and who they meet with. Being well trained in the art of clandestine observation, the marks have no idea they are even being followed.

When I'm done following my marks, I don't pull a garrote from my watch to strangle them, or gas them with a trick umbrella, and I don't place a call from my shoe. No, I get to fill out yet another report. These reports look every bit as exciting as my other reports, except these have pseudonyms, or what most people would call fake names in place of both the mark and who he met with.

This use of fake names in the reports is a precaution, in case the report is somehow intercepted. Over the years I have become very adept at inventing cliché names for the people I watch. The easy ones are names like Joe for an American, Omar for and Arab, or Nigel for a Brit. It's a bit tougher coming up with names like Makwangwala for that African prince I once followed. Makwangwala is an actual African name that means... Um, Prince.

Some days making up joke names for those I watch is the only joy I get from this job. In one report I named the mark Robert Mynob because he spent an entire week asking women to suck him off. Other days I get a kick out of simply watching all of the innocent people in the places my marks happen to be. The women I watch at these places usually make it into my reports as filler. The hot women make it into my fantasies.

Spying on other people's vacations may seem like a waste of time, but here on the island it does make some sense. This little country is a hotbed for fake identities and false citizenship. A few hundred thousand will buy you citizenship in this country. Along with that citizenship comes a newly minted passport. Bad guys use this place to get around international travel bans, and my reports let Interpol know exactly who to watch for.

Most of my follow and report assignments are complete boondoggles. It seems that even the worst of the world's bad guys need a vacation from plotting and mayhem. And bad guys vacation like no one else. I've spent many hours watching all manner of men chasing after loose women and fucking nasty whores, all while their lonely wives languish in bars or bake in the sand on the beach.

I'm good at what I do, but who wouldn't be? The job isn't that hard. But I'm still proud of the fact that in all my years working the island I never once lost track of an assignment. I did have one incident though. Well it wasn't really an incident. I'd say it was more like a close call, but I fucked around one day and almost lost my mark.

It went down like this... I was assigned to follow this bad guy from the Ukraine, and I knew that this guy really was one of the bad ones. For the first time ever, my orders came with the warning of "USE EXREME CAUTION" in bold letters across the top of the page. And at the bottom of the page was, "DO NOT ENGAGE".

Do not engage? What the hell? Whoever put that on the order clearly doesn't know me. From the photo included on the order there was no doubt this was a man I was supposed to follow. He was a guy, a dude, a male of the species. That means he has a dick, and that's a direction this spy just doesn't swing... I don't care whose god and country it's for.

Now had it been a nice young lady on that order, all bets would be off. In my book women are fair game, married or not, and my agency training taught me everything there is to know about seducing a mark. I have to admit, it's a hell of a lot easier to follow a mark when she is holed up in bed with you.

It wasn't always this way. I wasn't always free to seduce women in the name of god and my country. I once had an anchor. Every field op had one. We were all deployed in teams of two, and my teammate came in the form of an extremely beautiful raven haired woman named Mililani.

Mililani grew up on the island, but went to school in the states on gymnastics scholarship. Like me, she had also been recruited by the agency fresh out of college, but she never had to put in time as an analyst. She went straight from school into field ops training, and unlike me, she finished near the top of our class.

Requiring that spies always be deployed in pairs is actually pretty smart. This policy provides instant cover stories for the agents by way of appearing as a loving couple. It doesn't matter where you go on this earth, young love is about as non-threatening as it gets. On our little island Mililani and I easily blended in. Without Mililani I would have looked like that obnoxious tourist that just wouldn't leave. Nobody ever really trusts that guy.

So the up side of my deployment was being paired with such a beautiful woman. The down side was Mililani didn't seem to care much for me, and wasn't shy about telling me about it. To her, our relationship was pure business. For years we both had to gut it out and play the part of a loving young couple in public, while maintaining a proper business relationship behind the closed doors of our agency provided apartment.

Despite her arm's length approach to our relationship, I still wanted to fuck Mililani. But every one of my witty responses, all of my charm, and every attempt to become more amorous with her ended in rejection. Her sharp wit was her greatest asset as a spy, and she wasn't shy about using that wit on me when it came to a rebuffing of one of my feeble attempts to entice her into bed.

If I really cared. If I actually loved her. Her clever insults and rejection would have been quite a blow. But I didn't care, and I didn't love her. I just thought it would be fun to get in her pants. My attempts to get her interested in having sex with me became a game of sorts. A game she had no idea she was participating in. And truth be known, I probably played that game way more often than I should have.

It didn't take long before I took my little game out of the apartment and on the road. I started messing with her nearly every time we were out on a mission together. I'd make it a point to touch her as often as possible, acting as if we actually were the young lovers we were supposed to be. Most of the time she would do her job and act as if she was enjoying the extra attention.

Whenever she snuggled in, I made it my goal to touch as many intimate places as I could before she would tell me to knock it off. Then I'd smile as if I were a teasing lover and make her kiss me, to which she would generally reply by roughly grabbing my crotch and whispering into my ear...

"I'd lose that boner if I were you Hotrod... that is unless you want to fish your dick out of a dumpster."

She didn't always use the same threat, but she usually offered to dismember me somehow, and she almost always called me Hotrod.

Hotrod was the nickname I had back in spy school. I got that moniker during vehicle training after I wrecked a car and two motorcycles. They finally made me train on a scooter... Yeah, it was that same pink Vespa I was deployed with. Everyone teased me about my inability to drive like a spy.

It seems that made me a bit of a legend. Mililani knew all about the guy nicknamed Hotrod, and she wasn't even in my class. It didn't take her long to figure out it was me who had earned that nickname. It must have been that damn pink Vespa. That had to be what gave me away.

I wasn't the only one doing the teasing. This little game went both ways. Mililani regularly walked around the apartment in what I would call less than fully dressed. Showing off as much of her smooth tan skin as possible seemed like her preference. A bikini and wrap were her apartment garb of choice, and several times I swear what she claimed was swimwear was just a tank and panties.

She was never completely naked in front of me, but damn it came close sometimes. She always made sure I was looking too, then would tease me about what I couldn't have. I swear there were times when those swimsuit wraps she liked to wear around her waist weren't actually covering a swimsuit.

Mililani seemed to crave my attention, but she always shunned me when she got it. It seemed that every time I was busy she would do something to break my concentration, like making one of her sexy girl poses or wiggling her girl parts at me. Then she would slowly stroll to her bedroom as if I were supposed to follow. I knew better. I knew she would likely rip my dick off if I ever was bold enough to follow her there.

Sure we teased each other. Of course we did. We were both young. We both had that certain itch that needed to be scratched. The agency never trained us on this particular issue. We were left on our own to solve this little problem. We heard of other agents not being able to take it and splitting up, with one or the other transferring back stateside to work as an analyst again.

Neither of Mililani or I would give in that easily. We were both just as competitive and stubborn as they come. But we were driving each other nuts, and had to come up with a solution that allowed us to work together. What we came up with is something I thought was a rather unique.

Our solution was to continue with our façade of being young lovers whenever we were in public, teasing each other just as we always had. In reality that was our job. But when we were off the clock, both Mililani and I would both venture out to the far parts of the island and hunt for horny tourists. Then we would then use our spy training to seduce them. Of course with her exceptional beauty Mililani had much more success at this than I did. For her it was like hunting in a baited field. Compared to her, I actually had to work my craft pretty hard in order to score.

In this arrangement we had one hard fast rule. That rule was that neither one of us was allowed to do anything with one of our so called dates in the presence of the other. Not even a kiss. Of course this rule applied in the apartment, but even more so in public. Common courtesy aside, if any of our friends saw us with dates it would surely blow our cover. The last thing we wanted was to get kicked out of paradise over a stupid kiss.

Of course there were times when both of us scored some drunken horny tourist at the same time. There were also times when one of us would come home and the other was... um... engaged in amorous activities. That was always awkward and usually required some sort of explanation to our confused dates. We couldn't tell them the truth. We couldn't say we were spies. Some of our stories of what was going on were pretty farfetched.

Mililani and I needed some sort of signal, but it wasn't like we could be so bold as to put a sock on the doorknob. What married couple does that? What would that say to our neighbors? Besides, that sock on the door barely even worked in college.

After a couple of exceptionally embarrassing situations, we finally came up with a signal using a pole lamp in a window. One light on meant the coast was clear. Two lights on meant don't come home. Of course Mililani used that second light way more than I did. She used that second light so many times I swore she was just turning it on to get some peace and quiet, and not have to listen to my stupid jokes.

One lucky night I scored big. I somehow managed to convince twins to come home with me. That night I only lit one light on the pole lamp. I couldn't help myself. I wanted Mililani to walk in and see that even though I didn't score nearly as often as she did, my scores were huge. That's right... I wanted her to catch me right in middle of a hot and nasty threesome.

When Mililani walked in the door that night I proudly announced, "Hi, Honey. This is Linda and Laura. Care to join us?"

What I had failed to see was that Mililani had a man with her. Turns out that man was her boyfriend. I had no idea she had a steady thing going. I always assumed she was being a bit of a slut and sleeping with tourists like I was. Apparently all of those two lamp nights were spent with just one guy, her boyfriend.

Well the damage was done. I had called her honey and invited her to have sex with me. There was no way Mililani could convince her boyfriend she wasn't part of some sort of weird marriage where she enjoyed bringing home men to watch. She damn sure couldn't tell him the truth. There was no way she could tell him we weren't married. She couldn't tell him we were spies.

Her boyfriend just didn't understand. He shouted something about being taken advantage of and stomped off in a huff. I knew it was all my fault too. I didn't even think to offer him one of the twins.

The next morning I woke up to find Mililani sitting at the table filling out a misconduct report against me. I guess I had taken things too far. It looked like my field agent career was about to end. Being very detail oriented she wrote and wrote, but stopped just short of stuffing it in the fax machine and actually filing it. Then she waived those papers in my face, swearing she would get her payback.

It took a couple of weeks for Mililani to calm down about the threesome, but things finally got back to normal. I was sitting in the apartment working on a backlog of reports. I didn't have a guest, but I had both lights on so I wouldn't be disturbed. Mililani wasn't due back for hours anyway.

I was surprised when Mililani came through the door that night. Those two lights being lit didn't even slow her down. She just waltzed right in with some half-drunk tourist attached to her arm. I no more than looked up from my work and she introduced me to him.

"Garren, this is my tiny dick husband. He is what's called a cuckold. He likes to watch. Isn't that right honey. You like watching me fuck, don't you?" Then she gave me this demanding look and waived her hand behind the man's back as if she were signing that misconduct complaint.

What could I do? She had me cornered. I had to play along.

"Sure honey." I tried my best to sound excited, hoping this would be the thing that would let my faux pa with the twins blow over. "I'd love to watch you and Garret get it on."

"It's Garren stupid." She chided. "Now go into the bedroom and sit in your favorite little cucky chair like a good boy."

A cucky chair? What the fuck? Where was this coming from? Of course I refused, but it turns out that refusing played right into her hand.

"Come on little boy." She mocked. "You know what happens when you don't obey me. I know you don't like cleaning my dirty pussy." Then she pretended to sign those papers again, but this time she also pretended she was loading her imaginary papers into the fax machine and hitting send.

She had me. If I didn't do what she said she would file that misconduct grievance against me. At best, that complaint would land me in front of a court-martial. Worst case scenario, I would be busted back to being a god dammed analyst again. I really didn't want either of those.

So I went to her room and sat in the chair by the bed. I watched them kiss and paw at each other, and acted as if I were bored while they pulled each other's clothes off. In all the time I'd lived with Mililani I'd never seen her completely naked. The vision of her without a stitch on was even better than I could have ever imagined. All I can say is she was blessed, and I couldn't believe she was actually letting me see her like this.

When they were both naked and on the bed, Mililani stopped kissing him for a moment and looked at me. I thought for a moment that she would ask me to join them. It seemed to me that would have made great payback for letting her walk in on my threesome. You know, and eye for and eye and all that. But she had no intent of letting me join them.

After staring at me for a moment she just grinned an evil grin and said, "Come on Hotrod. What are you waiting for? Pull your little cuck boy shorts down. Let's see that pathetic boner of yours." Then she gave me that look all women have that tells a man he better do what she says.