The letterhead read "Amalgamated Global Industries" with a Manhattan address, but Trent knew no such company existed. The letter was actually a notice he had been accepted as a new recruit with the Central Intelligence Agency's ultra-secret Directorate of Operations and that he soon would be training as a new Undercover Operations Officer at the CIA's mysterious "Farm" deep within Camp Peary in Southern Virginia.
As had happened each time he read the letter, his pulse quickened when he considered what this really meant: within a few months, he would be a bona-fide spy if all went well with his training. Given his fluency in Russian, he almost certainly would be sent undercover somewhere in Eastern Europe behind the Iron Curtain or possibly the Soviet Union itself.
He also realized an inherent danger in this, unknown to the CIA. With Ronald Reagan in the White House and rabidly homophobic reactionaries shaping government policies, Trent knew he had to keep secret the fact that he was gay. The Washington Post had reported only a few days earlier about how a senior CIA official was dismissed after reports surfaced he had a male lover. Trent counted himself lucky that, during the Agency application polygraph, no questions had been asked about his sexual preference.
"You're clear to enter now, sir, welcome to Camp Peary," the Marine said as Trent returned the letter to his blazer pocket. The corporal pressed a button inside his guardhouse, and the high gate topped with barbed wire began to slide open. The burly Marine returned to the car and leaned slightly inside the open driver's side window.
With their faces now only inches apart, Trent wondered if this would be the last time he might be physically close to a man like this for some time to come. The handsome young Marine had a cleft chin, strong jaw, and sky-blue eyes. "Take the road to the far left, go about four miles, and she'll end at a small parking lot. Your instructor Steve Jackson will meet you there." The corporal smiled slightly, stepped back, and saluted smartly.
Discretely admiring the Marine's fantastic bubble butt in his rearview as he drove through the gate, Trent felt a slight stiffening in his jeans and immediately tried to banish thoughts of sex from his brain. He concentrated on driving down the narrow road flanked by heavy woodland cover and wondered what he would face here at Camp Peary. Because the CIA was so secretive about their training process, he actually had very little idea.
He imagined the indoctrination involved both physical and mental training. As an accomplished jock and a gifted scholar, he didn't worry about what this might mean, but he knew he would be restricted to Camp Peary for the first month. He wondered if he might be quartered with other young recruits like himself and imagined that would allow for some fine eye candy as fellow Operations Officers sauntered around a barracks at night in their snug underwear.
The road turned suddenly to the left and ended abruptly in a small parking lot with only a few scattered cars. A lone man who must be Steve stood under an open-sided rustic structure with a shake roof, not unlike something seen in a state park.
As Trent's car drew closer, he was able to take in the man and felt his pulse quicken at what he saw: in his mid-thirties or so, Steve was well over six feet tall and very muscular with broad, strong shoulders. God damn, exactly the sort of man Trent favored most. He was dressed casually in scruffy cowboy boots, worn jeans, and a polo shirt that hugged his thickly muscled chest and arms. Holy fuck, this was going to be a test not to stare at this Adonis during training.
"You must be Trent," he said with a friendly smile as he strolled toward the car. "I'm Steve." He had a deep, soft drawl that revealed West Texas origins. Climbing out of his car, Trent offered his hand to shake. Steve grasped it firmly and smiled. He wore a baseball cap and sunglasses, but Trent could still tell he was strikingly handsome.
He forced himself to focus on the matters at hand and tried to forget that one of the hottest men he had ever seen was taking his suitcase out of his trunk. He was talking about how Trent had been accepted into a particularly elite training program, something called "Project Omega," and that meant most of his instruction here at Camp Peary would be one-on-one with Steve himself.
"I was expecting something more like military training," Trent managed to say. He didn't say that he was expecting to be instructed by a hardass drill sergeant type his father's age.
"That's the case for most of our recruits," Steve said. "But you particularly impressed the brass during your application and interview process, so that's why you've been put into our program."
Trent slammed the trunk shut and hoisted his suitcase on his shoulder. His skin tightened in gooseflesh when Steve unexpectedly rested a big gentle hand on his arm to steer him toward a narrow path leading into the woods, away from the parking lot. "You're back this way," Steve instructed.
Must not think about fucking him, Trent ordered his brain. Stop stop stop stop. Think about fat ugly nuns with mustaches. Food rotting in garbage cans. A dead squirrel in the road, guts all over the place and covered with flies...
They walked for quite a distance on the path as Steve chatted in a friendly manner like they were old friends. So much for thinking his instructors would be nasty old farts. He learned almost immediately and with no surprise that Steve was straight: one of the first things out of his mouth was a commentary about "pussy" and about how horny he had been during his own sequestered indoctrination at Camp Peary.
Trent realized he had to be very careful he didn't fall hard and fast for Steve. Only a few weeks out of college, his heart was just now healing from a painful crush on his last roommate, a hot and clueless straight jock named Jeremy. Trent had asked himself many times: Why do you always fall in love with the hot straight ones?
* * *
In the subsequent weeks, Trent was relieved his training was so rigorous and exhausting that he rarely had time to think about Steve sexually. The big man had been friendly and outgoing on his first day, but once formal instruction started, he was demanding and no longer avuncular. He treated Trent more like a tough but fair coach would a talented yet still developing player.
In a few short weeks, Trent learned an exhausting amount about spycraft -- everything from cryptography to complex deceptions to outright thievery. The physical training was far more rigorous than anything he had experienced in college athletics.
No matter how well he did, Steve always pushed him harder. His only reward might be a softly drawled "well, I guess that wasn't half bad this time." He rarely called him "Trent" any longer and usually just "Anderson." The few times Steve allowed anything informal was when he made a scatological or sexual remark, and the latter always involved wet pussies, huge tits, or reminiscing about whores in foreign ports who happily swallowed when they sucked him off.
Trent also was largely isolated from other trainees during the month-long process. Quartered alone in a small, secluded cottage, his meals were provided by a quiet female Marine private who came and left wordlessly. Trent was usually so exhausted after his training and instruction regimen that he fell into a deep sleep a few minutes after finishing his evening meal alone.
Nights were spent dreamlessly until a harsh bell in his cabin awakened him at 5:00 each morning. He had no energy nor inclination to jack himself to sleep, as he had often done in college, let alone even think about Steve. He no longer had to force himself to focus on his training, notwithstanding Steve usually wore black tanktops and worn fatigue pants that clung to his ripped torso while overseeing his training.
The final day of the first phase in his training arrived almost before Trent knew it. He didn't even care he would now be allowed to leave Camp Peary for a few hours of free time. He only wanted to catch up on his sleep. When the bell blasted him out of bed on that muggy August morning, the only thoughts running through his foggy head were the welcome relief he could enjoy the next day: sleep, sleep, and more sleep.
As he emerged from his cabin after a shower, he was surprised to find Steve sitting on the little porch. Usually he had to wait for his instructor to arrive each morning.
"We need to talk," Steve said. He had a cold, serious expression on his face. The first thought racing through Trent's head was that he was being cut from Project Omega, which he still knew nothing about. His second thought was that the CIA had somehow found out he was gay. They walked wordlessly to Steve's sleek red convertible parked near the cabin. "Get in," Steve ordered when they reached the car.
The instructor started the engine and drove silently down the narrow road to the gated entrance. A different Marine corporal waived them through and soon they were speeding down a deserted Virginia country road. Steve still said nothing. After a few miles, he slowed the sportscar and turned into a narrow, gravel lane that wound up a small rise and disappeared. Once they had gone about a mile, Steve pulled to the shoulder and turned off the engine. He said nothing for several minutes.
"They know," the older man finally said.
Trent could only imagine what "they" knew, but he used every skill Steve had taught him to keep his face expressionless and his demeanor calm. "Who are they and what do they know?" he responded with a convincingly amused tone.
"The brass knows you're gay," Steve said simply while staring out the windshield. His face was impossible to read although his fists were clenching the wheel, like he was angry he had wasted a month training a recruit who would soon be expelled.
Trent thought quickly about what to say. Was this a test? Was he meant to use his new-found skills at deception to deny the truth? Or was it all over and this was Steve telling him he was being booted out of the CIA?
"It's no use lying," Steve said as he pulled a piece of folded newspaper from his shirt pocket and handed it to Trent. The younger man recognized it immediately: a page from an alternative newspaper featuring classified advertisementss for sexual encounters. One ad in the middle of the page under the banner "Men4Men" was circled in red: "College jock, Renaissance athlete, buzzcut, muscular, straight acting, 5'8", hung, uncut, usually top but versatile. Loves getting sucked and plowing ass. Safe only, DADF." The ad ended with a postal box for responses.
"Look familiar?" Steve asked. Of course it did. Trent had placed that very advertisement some six months earlier. The responses had kept him satisfied for months. "We know you placed that ad," the older man said declaratively.
The gig was up. Trent couldn't deny it. "I suppose you want me to resign," he responded.
Steve looked at him without expression for a long moment and then shook his head ever-so-slightly. "Of course not," he said, his voice more avuncular now, the friendly Steve of the first day. "You're one of the best recruits we've ever had. Trent, the brass knew from day one you were gay. You were specifically recruited because of it. You remember meeting a big guy, silver hair, about forty-five, said he had played football for Notre Dame, went by the name of Jack?" Steve tapped the newspaper page on the seat between them for emphasis.
Of course he did. The ex-football player was the hottest respondent to his ad. He had said he was visiting town on business and as a result only hooked up with Trent once. It had certainly been an encounter to remember.
"Your 'date' was one of our senior Operations Officers. Part of his job is to keep an eye out for fresh young talent like you."
Trent couldn't believe what he was hearing. "I thought... I thought the CIA booted people for being gay," he managed to stammer.
A stern look suddenly crossed Steve's face. "An operative must never appear flustered by what someone said when considering the circumstances in total, no matter how absurd it might seem," he said. This was a mantra Steve had repeated endlessly during their training. In a heartbeat, Trent covered the dumbfounded look on his face with an expression of bored indifference. After a moment, Steve broke into a warm smile and gave him a thumbs up.
"You're right, many people have been expelled from the Agency because of sexual preference. But those are folks on the public side, the policy side. On the operative side, where everything is top secret outside of the Directorate of Operations, anything goes. In fact, that's exactly why you were recruited. The Agency needs smart, good-looking, straight-acting gay guys who can use their sexual prowess to lure information out of foreign targets. Some 15 percent of men in this world are gay, my friend. Some of that 15 percent are spies and terrorists. We need bait that will work to reach them. That's why the CIA wants you, buddy. Besides, if the rest of the world thinks we toss out gay dudes, their operatives are less likely to be suspicious of you."
Trent thought a moment about what Steve was saying: the CIA wanted to pimp him to gay foreign targets. They wanted him for his cock. The hookup with Jack the ex-football player had actually been a recruitment session. Holy fucking shit. His head was reeling. He was going to fuck secrets out of the enemy.
Steve seemed to sense Trent's realization and nodded with a smile. "So that leaves us with one big question: are you willing to work for the Agency knowing you'll be expected to get many of your targets into bed? If you don't sleep with them, they'll be more suspicious. Sex is the best way to win their trust and earn their confidence. We are, essentially, asking you to prostitute yourself for your country. Is that something you'd be willing to do?"
It only took Trent a second to decide. Of course he would do it. What a dream job that would be -- thrills, espionage, foreign travel, and fucking the daylights out of hot Eastern European and Soviet studs. Making certain to mask his excitement as he had been trained, Trent waited a moment and nodded thoughtfully.
"Good, I was hoping you'd say that," Steve responded. There was no welcoming pat on the shoulder, however, no friendly squeezed arm. Steve the pimp operative was obviously not in the gay camp. They probably had him training the gay agents and the hot gay guys like Jack were training the women.
"So that brings us to your second phase of training," his instructor said. "Actual field practice. You'll drive up to Washington this afternoon for a pre-arranged meeting with your target. Your mission is to allow him to seduce you or vice versa. However it's done, you want to get him back to his hotel room and into bed. Once you're there, you'll slip him a sedative using one of the various discrete methods I've taught you so that he falls asleep shortly after sex. While he's sleeping, you must search his room and effects until you find a piece of microfiche that will be hidden. You need to get that out of his room as soon as you can without him discovering you. The target obviously will be one of our guys, but other than that you're not to make any mention of this being a practice exercise. You're to act like this is the real thing. Is that understood?"
Trent nodded that it was. He knew from his training with Steve that these instructions would not be repeated. Operatives were expected to be prodigious memorizers, and he had learned well. He also would have to be extremely clever. If he was going to get naked and into bed with a guy, where would he hide the sedative he was carrying?
"Your target will be waiting for you in the main lounge of the Capitol Hilton at four o'clock today. He'll be wearing a Harvard tie and reading a copy of Paris Match. You're to ask him if he's heard the score for the Orioles game. His response will be, 'sorry, rugby is more my thing.' You have to use your wits and training to strike up a conversation and then procure what you need. I'm not going to ask you 'any questions' because I won't tell you any more. You'll be scored based on how you succeed or fail. I'll take you back to the base now."
As he started the car, he opened the ashtray and pulled out a small clear vial that he tossed to Trent. A single tiny pill could be seen through the clear plastic. "The sedative. Nothing the FDA will ever approve for the consumer market. It will make your target think he's had a fantastic sleep. Powerful but ultimately harmless. It gives you about a four-hour window. Find the microfiche, get out of the room, or you lose."
With that, Steve started the car, made a three-point turn in the narrow road, and headed back the way they came. He said almost nothing as they drove. For his part, Trent focused on the assignment that was suddenly tossed in his lap. While the reality of this seemed too impossible to imagine -- a secret division of gay spies -- he knew this was probably his one chance to demonstrate they had made a wise choice in recruiting him.
He only hoped that his "target" was someone as hot as Jack. He pushed thoughts out of his mind that the urgency of his mission would make sex difficult. Thankfully, the mere thought of Jack had awakened the little sleeper in his crotch. He had gone more than a month without sex or even jacking off, so he doubted he would fail that part of the mission. Using the positive reinforcement methods Steve had taught him, Trent began willing himself to succeed at his mission.
Before he realized it, they had arrived back at Camp Peary and Steve was driving him to his cabin. He stopped the convertible at the end of the path but didn't shut off the engine. "You know where to find your car," Steve said as he held out his hand. "Good luck." Trent shook it and climbed out the door. "Don't disappoint me. I got a lot riding on you, buddy."
He stood by the path as his instructor pulled away slowly with a wave and then was gone. What had he meant "a lot riding on you"? Had he bet with some of his fellow trainers about whether he could get his target into bed?
* * *
Trent walked into the Capitol Hilton at 3:45 and proceeded to the men's room. Steve hadn't said whether he'd be followed, but given his training, he expected he might be and should shake any tail. After he left the men's room, he found the fire stairs and walked to the fourth floor and slowly down the corridor like he was searching for a room number. He returned to the stairwell and repeated this process on the fifth through ninth floors to make certain he wasn't being tailed.
He was glad to realize he wasn't nervous. This all felt natural to him. Confident he had not been followed, he walked to the end of the ninth-floor corridor and took the elevator to the lobby.
He had spent several hours getting ready before the drive up to D.C. His goal was to seduce his target, so he made sure he looked the part. He decided on the casual jock look, with tight jeans and a tight shirt that emphasized his athletic physique and powerful arms. He could feel stirrings in his crotch at the prospect of sex on the evening's agenda.
The month at Camp Peary now seemed incredibly long. He realized he had not cum in weeks. Damn, he was ready for this. He was looking forward to it. He hoped like hell his target wasn't some old queen with badly dyed hair and a paunch.
He entered the lounge while feigning to look at his watch to check the time. He saw in his peripheral vision that a tall man alone at a nearby table was engrossed in a copy of Paris Match. The bottom of a Harvard tie could be seen below the magazine. He clearly wasn't Jack, but whoever this guy was, he was well built. Hopefully he had a nice face. Trent was so horny, however, he didn't care. It was a man who wanted cock -- that's all that mattered.
Trent walked up to the table and asked in a clear voice, "Dude, you heard the score for the Oriels game?"
"Sorry, rugby is more my thing," came the response. The voice was familiar. That drawl. The man moved the magazine to reveal his face.
Holy fucking shit. It was Steve.
But Trent didn't flinch. He didn't focus on the thought that should be in the forefront of his mind: that Steve was gay after all and the copious remarks about tits and pussy had just been a cover. After all, the man was a masterful agent training young recruits. He was a pro bullshitter. Nor did he dwell on what this meant, that within hours he might be fucking his dream stud. He had to focus on the mission at hand. His brain was already running on automatic, looking for a way into a conversation, thinking about his plan for the sedative.
"Really? Rugby? That's my game," Trent said with a winning smile. "I played varsity for Georgetown." This was all horse manure of course -- he had actually played football -- but he had learned how to lie from a master.
"No shit," Steve answered with a smile of his own and a hand to shake. "Name's Chip Watson. You want to join me for a drink?"
"Sure," Trent said as he slid into the seat beside his target. Damn this was going to be fun. He knew he was going to love this job.
Text copyright 2010 by William Levesque. All rights reserved.
