All Male Fiction: Surveillance

By: Tommyhawk1

 

 

 

The van was perched in an alley behind some buildings that had seen better days. I carried a Thermos of coffee and a big brown bag that held my lunch and a bag of potato chips. Nothing else. In my line of work, you have to watch yourself on these long watches. You can gain ten pounds a week without noticing.

The van door opened as I approached. Flannery. "Thank God you showed up, Pierce."

"Why wouldn't I?"

"Hey, you never know," he said. "I do these surveillances, I find myself thinking how I could be stuck here forever, you know?"

"You've been alone too long," I said semi-sympathetically.

"Well, it's your turn now," he said. "Oh, by the way, the television in the van is out."

"Shit."

"On purpose," he went on. "Big brass said that we had to keep our eyes on the suspect. Guess they're afraid you'll be too busy watching the late, late movie to notice when he gets dressed and leaves."

"Is he in bed?"

"Yeah, just got in," Flannery said. "So hurry up and confirm he's safe in bed so I can get the fuck out of here."

I got in the van and looked at the screen. A one-room apartment, currently the bed in center, the view magnified for a close-up. "Yeah, that's our baby," I said.

"Thanks." Flannery got out of there. "Have fun watching him snore. Remember, the television set is broken and so is any radio you brought along with you. They check up on you and find you not watching that screen like it's a suspense drama, your ass is grass and they've got the hedge-trimmers ready."

"Your ass," I said. "Go on, get out of here."

Hell, Flannery was right. We work an eight hour shift, and our job is to watch a suspect for any suspicious activity. The hell of it is, a twenty-four hour surveillance is dull as hell. If you had a buddy with you, you could talk, maybe. Without one, the television set was your best friend, even the small-screen model. One eye on an old movie, the other on a sleeping suspect. Except they didn't trust us poor low-level slobs to do both at once.

I saw motion and concentrated on the screen. The guy was getting a phone call. Cell phone set to vibrate, I hadn't heard a phone ring. I made a note. We'd have to find out the cell phone number and put a trace on it. All my suspect did was listen, then he said good-bye (I got that much voice on the tape, anyhow) and hung up. He'd sat up on the bed.

I knew who he was, from his file. Jackson Heath, a small-time hood running with the Kragen gang. His name had come up on a half-dozen cases, and we were hoping he was the key that would unlock the entire organization. The file had contained a picture of him. Young, dark-haired, that too-cute punk that seems to crop up time and again. I'd known that.

I hadn't known, though, what a totally gorgeous body this guy had on him. I worked the controls to get a better look, pulling back to see all of him. Wide shoulders with magnificent arcs of biceps, just a dusting of hair on his forearms, heavier coverage on his lower legs, and an enticing line from his navel down to the bush hidden in his briefs. The chest was smooth and washboard like, narrowing to a so-slender waist, the legs lithe and nicely muscled and beautiful.

 

I was getting all this from the equipment we had in the room, the cameras used a combination of infrared and enhanced technology to give me the best possible image. There was also a good bit of light coming from the windows. I got him in a sort of bluish glory.

And then he turned on the light. My computer went from infrared bluish color to full-flesh glory! Then he lay back on the bed. Peculiar. The FBI agent in me got alert for a while. He must be waiting for something. Somebody. I got ready to record whatever happened next. Whatever he did, it would be preserved for prosperity and any case that came from it.

Only he wasn't doing anything much. Lying on the bed with the covers beside him in the light, his beautiful body splayed out. One hand was up and brushing lightly over his chest, that idle movement of a man who had been awakened and couldn't sleep or didn't want to.

Brushing up and down those wonderful muscles, the tips caressing the hairs into dozens of scintillating fibers upon his skin. The sound system we had bugged his apartment with was delicate enough to pick up the soft "oooh!" sound he made as his fingers wandered southward down his body. Then again, the delicate sigh, "ooohhhh!"

And now that hand went down to his briefs, the old, worn, sagging things he wore were scant hindrance as he felt out his manhood and gripped his hardening prick.

"Shi-i-i-i-i-it!" I said as I peered at the screen. Hell, this was better programming than I'd get on the television even if it had been working (and we had satellite!) Didn't this guy know we were taping him? I thought he did. Word was he had been told by the leak in the department we hadn't plugged yet.

But if he did know... "Shi-i-i-i-it!" I said again.

He was fishing in his briefs now, both hands, working his dick now, his hands busy inside his briefs. He knew I was here. The fucker was putting on a show for me!

I hit three buttons on the console. First button turned off the recording it was making. The second rewound it. The third erased it. The FBI didn't need to see Jackson Heath putting on a show for a lonely FBI agent late at night! Hell no!

It didn't take long for me to get my own pants unzipped. If I was going to be entertained by this punk, I was going to enjoy it! My cock, seven inches of hard FBI dick, arced up and I wrapped my hand around its uncut shaft.

Jackson had his briefs tucked under his balls. I was looking at a beautiful cock, uncut like mine, but bigger than my own by about two inches, and thicker too. That cock was long and fat! Both hands were pumping now, slowly, so slowly. Putting on a show.

"Mmm, yeah!" I murmured. "Come on, you bastard, put on a show for me. You lousy two-bit punk, get that dick hard, pump it for me, hell, yeah!"

Jackson's head turned my way and he opened his mouth, his tongue came out and made a long, lascivious circle around his lips. Damn, he knew about the camera, no way could he aim that at me any better! I wondered if the fucker knew it was me, here in the van in the dark, my cock in my hand, beating it while watching him!

Shit, look at that bastard, his legs raised up, his two hands jacking his rod, God, I wanted to suck that huge cock of his, make him writhe like that for me. Yeah, come on you rat-punk bastard, pump that cock, milk that man-meat, squirt that load, you shit-head, you fucking lousy bastard!

"Ah-ah-ah-hah!" came the voice on the screen.

"Yeah, come on, squirt it, shoot it, shoot it hard, shoot it!" I murmured at him.

"Ah-ah-ah, gah-ha-hah-gah!"

"Shoot it, yeah, shoot it!"

And his head fell back to the bed, his legs slid down flat, and his cock, his beautiful cock, sprayed up into the air, hot sprays of white jizz, flying up, arcing over, landing on his chest and turning into pearl-colored puddles.

"Oh, God, AH, AH-AHH-GUHHH!" I shot my own wad onto my chest and stomach, staining my jacket and my shirttail, soaking myself with my cum-load in the van's cramped quarters.

My eyes, still blurred by the release of my seed, peered at the form on the screen. Jackson Heath was looking at me, his fingers now playing idly with his spunk on his beautiful form. His lips pursed, a kiss aimed at me. His fingers, stained with his sperm, rose up and turned off the light, and the camera adjusted back to the bluish colors of the computer-enhanced imagery of darkness. I then proceeded to clean up my own creamy mess as best I could with some tissues we had in the van.

The night was still long. On the screen, Jackson had covered his body and was snuggled in to the sleep of a totally relaxed man. Me, I kept watch on him as he slept, all the way up until the dawn came and my relief showed up at 8:00am the next morning. I would return that night at midnight to watch again.

My stomach was churning as I relieved Flannery the next night. I got in the van and settled in. Would Jackson put on another show for me? God, I hoped so! Such a beautiful man (despite his questionable ethics - but he was small potatoes, I knew, his value to the FBI wasn't in what he'd done, it was who he knew), no harm in my enjoying my job, was there?

I had settled in and had been watching him for about fifteen minutes. He seemed to be asleep. Well, you can't win them all... then his alarm clock went off. At 12:15am? Odd.

He sat up in the bed, turned on his light, and then reached for his nightstand, took out a folded sheet of paper. Held it up to the screen. Big letters.

"CALL ME" followed by his phone number! Shit!

I had a cell phone on me, of course. I wasn't supposed to use it for anything but FBI business... but wasn't this FBI business? One phone call to an unknown phone number wouldn't alert anybody to anything.

My hands shaking, I dialed the phone, heard it ring in my ear and on the surveillance screen at the same time.

Jackson picked up his cell and said to me, "Hello, Pierce."

"You know it's me?" I asked him.

"Hey, I have my sources," Jackson confirmed, grinning at me out of the screen. "What'd you think of my show last night?"

"Pretty nice," I admitted. "You planning on giving me an encore."

"The best kind," Jackson said. "Thought you might like to tell me what you'd like to see? You got some ideas, make this more fun for both of us?"

My heart thudded in my chest. "I got a few."

"Well, then, tell me what you'd like," Jackson said enticingly. "Where do I start?"

"Take the covers off," I croaked.

Jackson moved the covers from his body with a single motion. "You got it," he said to me.

"No, all the way off the bed."

Jackson complied, now the bed held only his single pillow and the sheet beneath him, his body a form on top of the white cotton. Except at one point.

"Lose the briefs," I ordered.

He peeled them from himself, both legs in the air, his ball sac and ass predominating in the forefront of the screen, which I had focused in tight. God, what an ass! Slender orbs of surprisingly fair skin. God, I wanted to dive in there with my face and send my tongue in to tickle his asshole!

"Now what, stud?" Jackson asked me as his legs descended back to earth.

"Turn over, onto your knees, thrust that ass up in the air for me!" I said. "Let me get a good look at your ass!"

"You got it," Jackson complied, putting his ass up and his head down. "I'm all yours, Mr. FBI. Tell me how you want me?"

"Reach back, touch your butthole for me," I said. God, my cock was so hard. "Pretend it's my tongue licking you. Come on, work it for me."

His fingers obeyed me, took the place of my tongue as they plied over his butthole, stroking.

"Stick it in," I commanded. "Fuck yourself with your finger, Jackson! Fuck yourself for me! Make yourself squirm with your finger up your ass!"

"Ooh, oh, oh, oh!" Jackson's finger went in slowly, but it slid in just the same. All the way up to the knuckle.

"Come on, push it in and out of your hole, damn it! Come on, you cocksucking bastard, work it for me, in and out, come on, fuck yourself hard!"

"Oh, God, oh, God!" Jackson moaned. "Oh, God, Pierce, I want you, man. I want you!"

"I want you, too, you bastard!" I growled at him.

"Could you... come over and fuck me for real?" Jackson begged me. "Please, come fuck me, man! I need it! God, I need your cock, Mr. FBI man! Come over and fuck my criminal ass for me!"

"I... I..."

"What are you waiting for? You want names? I'll give you all the names you want if you'll come fuck me, Mr. FBI."

I slammed out of the van and tore over to Jackson's apartment. Up the flights of stairs as quickly as I could. His door was unlocked. I opened it and nearly ran to his bed, tearing my clothes off as I went.

Naked as he was, I bounded onto his bed. He was still face down, waiting for me. I got behind him, and with no preliminaries, my cock in hand, I shoved it at his butt and it was warm and wet and waiting for me. Oh, God, it was tight, too! So fucking tight! The finger he'd had buried in his ass was nothing compared to my dick, and Jackson writhed underneath me.

I didn't wait after I'd rammed it in to the hilt, I began to fuck his ass, and Jackson only moaned and fucked himself back at me. I had the mattress bouncing. I was fucking him so hard, I had the bedsprings squeaking, I had the headboard banging the wall, and I had Jackson groaning, all to the same tempo, ah-ah-ah-ah-ah!

"Ah, you fucking small-time, gun-running, drug-pushing, pot-smoking, cock-loving bastard, I'm going to fuck you all night long you lousy piece of shit! AH-AH-AH-GAHHH-HUNNNKKKHHH!"

That fast, I came, and I creamed hard and fast and yelled my lust at Jackson under me. Hot, so fucking hot, that ass! A few strokes and I shoved it deep and held it there, let the rest of my load squirt deep inside him.

Jackson moaned, and I heard and smelled the hot splashes of his jism shooting out of his huge cock all over the sheets beneath him. This small-time punk was all mine, now. He belonged to the fucking FBI and that was me, he was mine, MINE!

"You're mine now, you fuck-ass, I own you now, and you're going to squeal in this bed every night from now on, you cunt!" I growled. "Got it?"

"Yes sir, Mr. FBI man!" Jackson moaned. "I got the scoop on you from Kragen and I knew I had to have you, had to get you, whatever it took!"

"You want me?" I snarled. "You show up at FBI headquarters tomorrow morning at nine sharp, you got me? Come to Room 112 and ask for me. We'll take it from there."

Jackson showed up as ordered, and with him in our pocket we rolled up Kragen's crew in no time. By the end of the month, we had his entire gang either under arrest or about to be with all the proof it took to keep them down for good.

Of course, the trials are going to take a while. We have to keep Jackson Heath, our prime witness, under wraps. Fortunately, I got the assignment to keep him under guard at all times. So far, he's been more than willing to stay as close to me as needed for constant surveillance. And I don't plan to let him go any time soon, either.

 

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