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Fiction by ERWA Authors

Short Stories

Carnival Ride
by Daddy X

Eyes Only
by Elliot DeLocke

The Fog of San Francisco
by Big Ed Magusson

A Life in Two Worlds
by Henry Corrigan

Pillow Talk
by Delores Swallows

Power and Glory
by Rose B. Thorny

Now That You've Caught Me
by Robert Buckley

Summer Heat
by Spencer Dryden

Couch
by Elizabeth Salem

Quickies

The Hungry Girl Special
by Henry Corrigan

Long Weekend
by Ian D Smith

A Pussy's POV
by Daily Hollow

Want
by Elliot DeLocke

Flashers & Poetry

C'mon Over
by Daddy X

Names
by Elizabeth Salem

The Passion
by J Pape

Paying the Price
by Ian D Smith

Show Off
by J Pape

Silent Meal
by Damian Bloodstone

Slut
by Delores Swallows

Time
by Elizabeth Salem

University Funds
by Ian D Smith

Erotic Poetry
by Various Authors




Free Ebooks

Naughty Bits: Technology for Authors
(Non-fiction) by Lisabet Sarai

A Slip of the Lip Anthology
(Fiction)
Edited by Remittance Girl

Eyes Only

by Elliot DeLocke

 

erotic fictionINTERNAL FBI MEMORANDUM
CONFIDENTIAL-A1, FOR RECIPIENTS’ EYES ONLY
DATE: September 18, 1968
TO: Director J. E. Hoover
FROM: Special Agent in Charge N. R. Palmer
SUBJECT: Counterintelligence Program – Black Nationalist Hate Groups

Director Hoover,

As per your request, the update on the COINTELPRO investigation into local Black Panther Party activities is as follows:

  • The investigation has been conducted through liaising with contacts in the local Police Department, the cultivation of Party associates as confidential informants, and several bugging ops in Black Panther headquarters, as well as the homes of its leaders.
  • So far, all attempts at subversion or infiltration have been unsuccessful. Leaking information to the press about Party member’s criminal histories has only inspired sympathy, encouraging perceptions that these men are ‘oppressed.’ Attempts to recruit Party members and divide loyalties from within have been rebuffed. All intelligence to date indicates this branch of the Party is tightly-knit and very dedicated.
  • The key factor in this Black Panther chapter’s integrity is its leader, Ervan Washington, DOB 3/2/30. Washington was born and raised in the city. He has two arrests for theft as a juvenile, but no adult criminal record. At age 19, he served in the U.S. Army (24th Infantry Regiment), seeing action in Korea and being awarded the Purple Heart. After leaving the Armed Forces, Washington established a laundry business and became a financial success. He has investments in multiple Negro-operated businesses around town, and is married with two children.
  • Ervan is considered a pillar of the Negro community. He is seen positively by the liberal media, has the support of many key city officials, and he commands fierce loyalty from Party members. He is the locus of local Black Panther power. The best way to disrupt the subversive activities of this Black Panther Party chapter would be to discredit Ervan Washington. We will focus our investigation accordingly.

Regards,

SAC Nathan R. Palmer

*    *    *

Three o’clock in the afternoon at the Bureau field office. Nathan Palmer sat at his desk, filling out forms on his Underwood typewriter. The sound of each keystroke echoed around the room, a numbing backdrop to the paperwork he was completing.

klak-klak, klak-klak, klak-klak

He was so lost in concentration, the buzzing of his desk intercom startled him. He pressed the talk button. “Yes?”

The intercom squawked with the voice of his secretary. “A courier just delivered a package, Mr Palmer. It’s from the processing labs, and it's marked ‘Urgent’ and ‘Eyes Only’.”

Palmer said, “Please bring it in here.”

She entered his office, walked gingerly over, placed a small box on his desk.

“Thank you, Loretta.”

She nodded, departed without a sound.

Palmer stared at the box. He was fairly certain about what was inside, and the thought made his breath quicken and stomach twist.

He pulled a letter-opener from his desk drawer and sliced open the box. Peeking inside, he saw several rolls of film, labels indicating their chronological order. There was a letter inside the box from the Bureau processing labs, stating that all the footage pertained to case C/O/10016.

Palmer’s gut did somersaults.

He pressed the intercom button on his desk. “Loretta, please send Agents Hackett and Wendell into my office.”

“Yes, Mister Palmer.”

He tried to slow his breathing. Couldn't. He reached into the bottom drawer of his desk and took a quick nip from the flask of bourbon within. The liquor scorched his throat, brought some mild relief.

But still, he couldn't quite shake the nervous...

you got him, you got that dirty little man, you got the goods on him, you won

...feeling within.

A knock at the door.

“Enter!”

Agents Wendell and Hackett filed in. Both looked tired, rumpled, their eyes dark-ringed. They sat in front of his desk.

Palmer turned the package so that they could see inside. “Thought you men might like to know – the processing labs couriered this over just now. It’s from C/O/10016 – the Ervan Washington sting.”

Wendell whistled. “Processed already? I figured we had a few days to wait.”

Palmer shook his head. “We’ve got a mandate from Hoover himself to crack this one. That makes us priority one. You boys should be proud of yourselves – looks like last night’s operation is a success. According to your report, you caught Ervan in the act of...”

Palmer hesitated.

Wendell suggested, “Fornication?”

Blushing slightly, Palmer said, “Yes... that.” He mentally chided himself – decades on the job, and still skittish about rude words.

“Yes sir,” Wendell said, “We certainly did. The first act... and the second... and MOST of the third, but by then we were running out of film.”

Hackett shook his head. “Dunno where they get all that energy. Seems unfair, somehow.”

Wendell grinned. “It's just math, Hackett. Coons screw a lot; fruits screw a lot; get a fruity coon and you’re wondering when he finds time to sleep.”

Hackett said, “Isn't it obvious? When he’s with his wife!”

The two agents burst into giddy cackling.

Palmer frowned. He didn’t like conversations like these; they were coarse, unprofessional. Agents should be models of decorum at all times - that was how Mr Hoover wanted his men to be. But Wendell and Hackett had been up until two in the morning on the sting, and still made the office by seven-thirty AM and spent the day doing paperwork. Palmer let the unprofessional language slide, just this once.

Once the giggles subsided, Wendell added, “So, yes sir, we were successful. But that assumes the footage looks good okay. We should probably screen it before we send it back to D.C.”

Hackett sighed. “Well, I’m not thrilled to see that homo stuff again, but let’s get it over with. We'll just...”

“Negative on that, Mister Wendell,” Palmer said, “You boys did stellar work last night. You two, take an early mark – go home, catch up on some sleep. I’ll arrange to have the footage reviewed by someone else.”

Wendell and Hackett exchanged glances.

“Are you sure, sir?” Hackett said.

Something dark and anxious unfurled itself inside Palmer’s belly.

“Positive," he said steadily, "You fellows have earned it. Leave the rest to me. Dismissed – and go home.”

Palmer tried to smile in a way that was reassuring, maybe fatherly. The two agents seemed puzzled, but they nodded with weary gratitude.

“Yes, sir.”

They both filed out, Hackett casting one last suspicious glance back towards Palmer.

Then Palmer was alone. The air felt sharp, static-filled, like a breeze before a storm hits. He took another look at the rolls of film.

Contained within this box, he thought, is my latest victory. With the resources of COINTELPRO on my side, I’ve succeeded once again.

But another thought was intruding. One that made...

you got him, you got him, you got him

...Palmer’s stomach twist.

He killed the next two hours with shitwork: reports, letters, paperwork. Memos, APBs, warrants. He focused on the details, making sure every form was filled in properly, every paragraph checked for correct grammar, proper spelling, well-spaced margins. As he worked, the typewriter clattered its reverie.

klak-klak, klak-klak, klak-klak

It was dull, but Palmer had worked hard to get to the role of Special Agent in Charge and did his duties without complaint.

But even as he busied himself, his mind dwelt on the Ervan Washington sting. He was impatient to see the footage. Needed to know if it was enough, if they could close this investigation.

But he needed...

to watch

...to wait. Just until he was alone.

So he kept busy.

Finally, the clock showed five o’clock.

He reached into his drawer, took a long belt of bourbon. It burned down his gullet, relaxed his insides.

Then, taking the package, Palmer stepped out of his office. Loretta glanced up from her typewriter.

“Excuse me, Loretta - does the briefing room still have the projector set up? I have some footage I need to view.”

“Yes, Mister Palmer, as far as I know, it should all be setup and ready to go.”

“Excellent. It’s five o’clock, Loretta – please feel free to go home if you want. I’m sure everyone else has.”

“Thank you, sir.”

A good girl, Loretta. Did her job with quiet competence. She wouldn't question why he was staying back late - as SAC, he regularly worked long hours.

Palmer returned to his office. Waited until he heard the outer office door slamming shut. Then he took the package, walked out of his office and down the corridor.

The place was still. No one else was here, and cleaners wouldn’t arrive for another hour.

Just around the corner from Palmer’s office was the briefing room. Inside, the projector was in the middle of the room, and chairs were arranged in neat lines facing the wall. It was all good to go.

He shut the door. Locked it from the inside. Tugged on it, just to make sure it stayed put.

His hands trembled badly. He spooled the film, nearly mangling the reel when fitting the sprocket holes. He pulled down the projector screen, killed the lights. Gave the door one last check. Still locked. He realized he was holding his breath and let himself exhale.

He flicked the projector on. It droned out a low, clattering noise.

chik-chik-chik-chik-chik

Palmer took a seat near the front.

Watched.

Flickering, scratching. A grainy square was projected on the screen.

The interior of a cheap motel room. A bed with clean white sheets.

Two men sitting nude on the bed.

Palmer focused on the details. The subjects’ faces were pointing towards the camera, and the lighting inside their hotel room was good. At least one of them was clearly identifiable.

Person #1: Caucasian. Slim body, thinning blonde hair, boyishly-handsome face.

Palmer knew this man: Gerald Robertson. Aged 34; machine parts salesman; married, four children; six documented violations of federal income tax law and one arrest for soliciting sex from an undercover

male police detective. A man who would have been charged and convicted, but for certain agreements made between him and the local FBI field office.

Gerald Robertson. Confidential Informant 47750...

Bureau butt boy, more like, ha ha

that’s unprofessional, don’t be like that

...and sting operation asset.

Person #2 was slouching to the side and facing Gerald. Negro, tall and broad-chested, slightly sagging belly and short-trimmed hair. His face was partially turned away, but Palmer knew who it was.

Him.

Ervan Washington. Aged 38; businessman; head of local Black Panther Party chapter; revolutionary subversive.

They sat close together. Ervan talked; Gerald listened, nodding sympathetically. Gerald said something and they both shared a laugh.

No audio; that was recorded separately, and Palmer didn’t want to play it. He wanted his ears listening, just in case anyone came into the office. All Palmer could do was watch the footage and imagine their words.

The conversation between Gerald and Ervan seemed pleasant. Gerald had been working his charms on Ervan for a few weeks prior to the sting, and the men had gotten to know each other. Palmer imagined they were chatting idly about the last few days, sharing sympathetic stories.

While they talked, Gerald’s hand snaked along the bedsheets and brushed against Ervan’s fingers. Ervan responded by sliding his hand forward. Black and white fingers intertwined on the bed. The two men never stopped talking; their hands clasped independent of their conversation, as if acting on their own whims.

Palmer watched those fingers. Saw them trace little circles on each other’s skin.

He grimaced.

How sweet, he thought. How very...

revolting faggots

...sweet.

Don’t think like that, Palmer chastised himself. Focus. Stay professional.

Ervan and Gerald talked more. Ervan said something funny; Gerald laughed.

Ervan was a striking man, no doubt – the film had captured his charisma. Ervan looked charming whether posing for the papers at a Black Panther children’s breakfast event, or in surveillance shots taking his trash out to the curb on a Thursday evening. He always looked polished, successful, radiant.

Almost a shame he was about to lose it all, Palmer thought.

The conversation between Ervan and Gerald gradually died away. Both men were looking into each other’s eyes. Even from across the room, behind the one-way mirror, the camera had caught their mutual hunger.

Ervan moved first. He leaned forward and pressed his lips against Gerald’s. Their hands tightened the shared grip. Both of their cocks twitched.

Palmer grinned.

If Hoover wanted to subvert or discredit the local Black Panthers, then this image, right here, was just enough – Ervan Washington kissing a married white man.

It was all in the details: Ervan’s face was only partially visible, but still recognisable. Even if his identity was in doubt, the ringfinger on his right hand – severed from the first knuckle up, traded for a Purple Heart in Korea – gave him away. Sitting nude on a bed, next to another naked man, made Ervan’s intentions clear.

Success.

It had been a hard run. Months of surveillance, bug planting and transcribing recordings. Tense nights working with local PD. Pressure from Hoover. Then, even after they’d learned about Ervan’s...

faggotry

...sexual proclivites, organising the sting had been laborious. Ervan didn’t do back-alley suck-jobs; he cultivated his queer lovers carefully, made sure they were married and white and had as much to lose as he did. Palmer’s field agents had to dance to his tune, and insinuate their chosen bait – Gerald Robertson (CI-47750) – into Ervan’s life delicately: a city businessman’s meeting here, an after-hours nightspot there. Gerald knew he was the linchpin, of course, and used that to be as whiny and demanding as possible.

Eventually Gerald’s charms had worked, and he and Ervan arranged a liaison. Even then, last-minute equipment breakdowns and bungled communications almost scotched everything.

But it had paid off. Gerald played his part beautifully, and Agent Hackett and Wendell had gotten the footage. Ervan’s scalp was Bureau property.

Palmer let himself enjoy the victory.

But he kept watching. He had to.

Because although the image of Ervan and Gerald kissing was powerful, it might not be enough. Palmer knew that, for Hoover, enough wasn’t enough. Hoover didn’t want to discredit – he wanted to destroy. Hoover wanted blackmail material that was gold-plated; Hoover wanted visual atomic bombs.

That’s what COINTELPRO was about. Get more. Get enough.

So Palmer he kept watching as Ervan and Gerald kissed. Because Palmer knew he...

wanted

...needed to see more. Just to be certain.

On the screen, their tongues probed and explored. Ervan’s hand reached forward, touched Gerald’s knee tentatively. Gerald reached forward and ran his hand from Ervan’s elbow up to his shoulder, caressing every contour.

They were delicate, sincere, loving.

They were hard, their cocks poking into the air expectantly. Palmer found his gaze flicking between both genitalia. He shifted awkwardly.

It was confronting. He’d seen lots of footage like this – footage of compromising sexual liaisons was a staple weapon against subversives. Fuck films caught all kinds of strange things: Pro-segregation activists tenderly fucking Negro mistresses, Communists who liked lovers tied up and welted from canings, foreign dignitaries who shared needles with street prostitutes.

But watching queers always irked Palmer the most. They were too...

fucking filthy

...irreconcilable to his morals.

But he watched. Made himself focus on details.

He watched as Gerald’s hand trailed along Ervan’s black flesh, brushing his chest and belly and coming to rest on his cock.

Gerald’s hand stroked gently. Ervan tensed up, trembled, broke the kiss and opened his mouth. Palmer wished the audio was playing, so he could hear Ervan’s moan. But the only sound was the rattling projector.

chik-chik-chik-chik-chik

Ervan kissed Gerald again, before trailing his lips down Gerald’s cheek, neck and shoulder. His Purple Heart-earning hand went to Gerald’s thigh, gripped Gerald’s cock, started to stroke.

Yes.

Success.

More perfect details.

Ervan and Gerald (CI-47750), mutually stroking. Sharing pleasure. This might be what Hoover needed. This image could demolish the Black Panthers in this city for good – their bold leader, a honky-fucking homo. Every detail was perfect. You could see that Gerald's cock was cut and Ervan’s wasn’t.

It might be enough. But was it enough?

Palmer was flushed. His own pants felt tight and uncomfortable. He focused on the film and didn’t look down. Didn’t want to see his bulging crotch.

Keep watching, he thought.

Ervan and Gerald were losing themselves. Coy smiles twisted into awkward grimaces of pleasure. A clenched fist around each other’s cock, and their other hands still locked in a loving squeeze.

The shot was perfect – Agents Hackett and Wendell deserved commendations for getting the camera setup with such an excellent view. It was like the two...

faggots

...homosexuals were performing for the camera, instead of being spied on.

Ervan took the lead, kissed Gerald again. Put both his hands on Gerald’s shoulders and pressed him onto the bed. Their bodies tangled up, legs sliding around, hands gripping and clawing. They made twisted knots of flesh and muscle. Palmer imagined the sounds – sloppy kisses, slick bodies, the whispery tugging of bedsheets.

Palmer found it hard to sit still. He reached down and rearranged his trousers. His hand brushed up against his own erect cock. He shuddered.

A small, panicky voice in his head demanded that he stand up and walk away. He had enough. Walk away now, before he...

did something filthy

...saw anything else. But he couldn’t. He had to keep checking the footage,

It was his job. It was what Hoover needed.

Keep watching.

The two men writhed, both cocks rock-hard. They halted for a moment, and their lips moved, and they both laughed.

A shared moment of intimacy. Some sweet little nothing whispered between lovers.

Palmer felt a yearning. His own wife had divorced him over five years ago. Painful memories: the image of his ex-wife’s nude body, pale and flat, so deeply uninteresting; the daily struggle just to be around her; the way his work had been his only escape from their growing antipathy; the satisfaction she’d radiated on the day she left.

He’d been alone ever since. Nothing but the Bureau. And he’d loved it, enjoyed the cloak-and-dagger heroics of anti-subversive operations. That had replaced any need for a relationship. That had become his true love.

And in exchange for that love, all the Bureau required was that his darkest appetites - those most irreconcilable to his chosen path – be buried deep, deep beyond where they could not taint the purity of his mission. And they didn't - not so long as they were occasionally fed a few scraps from the table.

And so Palmer tried to work, to stay professional, to focus on the details.

But then Ervan sat up, and Gerald turned around and raised his buttocks into the air, and Palmer felt an ache throughout his body that was impossible to suppress. Those appetites were awakening.

The projector rattled on indifferently.

chik-chik-chik-chik-chik

Ervan reached for a small jar of Vaseline on the bedside table and dipped his fingers inside. He smeared the contents over his bulging cock, and then slid two fingers carefully inside Gerald’s anus.

Palmer found himself looking at that Vaseline jar. His agents had seen him buy that very jar at a drug store. They’d tailed Ervan for weeks. They’d seen everything. COINTELPRO found it all out, sooner or later.

People like Ervan never realized it. They thought they could build legitimate, real-world lives and then satiate their secret desires. Thought they could subvert the moral and civic boundaries that kept America strong, then spend their nights indulging filthy vices.

But they were not safe. COINTELPRO knew all.

knows all about your disgusting thoughts you dirty fucker

Ervan placed the tip of his cockhead against Gerald’s asshole.

Palmer reached down and undid his fly. His penis jutted out, tall and erect. It was a relief to have it freed.

On the screen, Ervan straddled Gerald from behind and made slow thrusts into his lover’s asshole. Each push caused Ervan’s thigh muscles and buttocks to ripple gorgeously beneath jet-black flesh.

Palmer watched intently, wishing he could concentrate. But his heart thumped quicker as he watched, and each heartbeat made his erect cock bounce. He looked down at himself, then glanced back at the...

filthy faggots

...men on the screen who fucked so beautifully.

Ervan’s thrusts were getting longer. He speared into Gerald’s ass, nice and deep. Gerald reciprocated, pushing back into Ervan’s cock.

Palmer ground his teeth. He wondered how it felt to have someone so far inside you. Marveled at how smooth it looked – two men giving it to each other with such loving gusto.

do it, do it, you know you want to you disgusting little

He reached down and clenched a fist around his cock. His belly was a cold pit as he gently began tugging his erect inches.

Ervan and Gerald were losing their rhythm. Ervan’s thrusts became sloppy as his hands ran all over Gerald’s back. Gerald arched backwards and let Ervan grip his shoulders. Ervan leaned in to kiss the back of Gerald’s neck.

It was beautiful. It was what Hoover wanted. Gold-plated blackmail; a visual atomic bomb. This footage contained enough shame to burn everything Ervan had built into ash.

shame, shame, shame on you

Palmer watched and fucked himself. Each pull on his dick was tight, careful, precise as a keystroke. It was the opposite of the smoothly flowing bodies he watched.

His emotions welled up inside, but Palmer tamped them down. He focused on details. The ripples in Ervan’s thigh muscles; the arch of Gerald’s back; Ervan’s war-mutilated finger; the container of Vaseline on the bedside table and the pleasure it allowed these men...

not men, not real men

...to experience. He watched the details and ignored his emotions and felt only the gradual build-up in his balls, the painful squeeze of months without any real release. The occasional masturbatory moment in the shower was meaningless, a valve being released; it wasn’t until Palmer could see this, see bodies flowing and fucking, that his...

irreconcilable

...hunger could be satiated.

He kept watching. Felt his balls ache and his shaft quiver.

Watched.

His ears listened out for any knocks at the door, anyone who might disturb his pleasure. The only sound was the projector.

chik-chik-chik-chik-chik

Ervan pushed Gerald down, and began to fuck in long fast strokes. Palmer craved audio. Wished he could hear the hard slaps and wet thrusts. Wished he could smell the sweat and feel the heat in that room. Wished he’d been behind the one-way mirror, watching them fuck. Wished he’d been on the other side, to see and smell and taste it all.

revolting faggot

Palmer’s cock throbbed. He watched. He focused on details.

filthy ass-fucker

Ervan arched his back and rammed forward. Gerald’s mouth opened in a snarl.

Ervan was coming.

disgusting

Palmer was coming.

filthy

filthy

“Christ almighty...” Palmer choked.

A pounding orgasm, like pipes breaking. Semen shot out in white ropes over Palmer’s hand. He angled his cock sideways, the come missing his trousers and spilling onto the floor. A shiny dollop of semen landed on his polished leather shoe.

filthy

He barely strangled back a moan of pleasure. He tasted blood; somewhere along the way he had started chewing his lip.

Relief.

Success.

Enough.

Palmer whimpered.

On screen, Ervan had leaned forward. Gerald twisted his head around. They exchanged a fragile kiss.

With his clean hand, Palmer reached up and switched the projector off.

chik-chik-chik-CLUNK...

The screen went dark. The room was deathly silent.

For a moment, sadness welled up inside Palmer. Tears prickled at his eyes even as his cock shrank in his hands. The relief of his orgasm brought forth another ache, something deeper.

Palmer looked down at himself and focused on details. The smell; web-like strands of warm semen between his fingers; white streaks on the floor (no carpet, thank Christ). He planned and prepared and thought everything through.

He turned on the light. Pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his hands clean, then mopped up the worst stains from the floor. Grabbed a cigarette from his pocket and lit it, puffing smoke around the room to cover the salty tang of semen.

After the clean-up, his hands were no longer shaking, and the urge to cry had passed.

For now.

He glanced at the rolls of film, still run through the projector.

He would hold on to the film, just for a few days. Just enough to view it thoroughly, from beginning to end. No one would notice - the walls of Bureau secrecy would shield him, and he would indulge the terrible urges within.

After that, the film would go into an Eyes Only package, back to COINTELPRO headquarters in D.C.  The Bureau would win. COINTELPRO knew all.

Palmer glanced back up to the blank screen. For a moment, burned onto his corneas, he saw an impression of black and white flesh flowing together. Filthy and beautiful all at once, and something Palmer would never have.

But the operation was a success. Hoover would be proud, Palmer would be praised, life would go on.

For Palmer, that thought was just enough.

_______
© 2014 Elliot DeLocke. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

Bio: Elliot DeLocke was born in small town Australia and raised in big city Asia. Office worker by day and writer by night, Elliot loves fantasy, horror, feminism and history, and is fascinated by how sexuality underpins them all. Read more of his stories at: elliotdelocke.blogspot.com

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