Arrest Record, Part 2 By Jacksantoro1@Yahoo.com
The following morning we awoke, happy and refreshed. All of us were hard, the result of our distended bladders. Ed spoke first:
"We're hot and hard, and we've got lots of time before we have to be at the office. Feel like another round?" He looked significantly at Harold as he said this.
"I'd love it," Harold replied.
"We could go head to head," I told him. "That's like docking but without my foreskin covering you. We just rub the heads together." I peeled my hood back to demonstrate. Harold turned to face me fully and held his prick so that the front of his glans touched mine. I began to move the blunt dome of my helmet in small circles around the front of his.
"Can you tell the difference between rubbing against his tip and when you rub against mine?" Ed asked me.
"There's a difference. The surface of his is a little leathery, not glassy smooth like yours," I told him. "It actually feels better because there's more friction."
"My tip isn't as sensitive," Harold said. "Think we'll be able to come together?"
"Coming together isn't all that important," I explained. "As long as we're both satisfied, that's all that counts." As I spoke I saw Ed snuggling up behind Harold, a bottle of Astroglide in one hand. He squirted a few drops on Harold's prick right behind the corona, and then wrapped his fingers around the shaft, working in the lubricant. He slid his other hand between Harold's thighs to cup his balls.
"I'll stroke you like this," Ed told Harold. "That way you'll get a lot of stimulation." His fingers moved up to engulf Harold's corona with a twisting action, making Harold suck in his breath.
"Wow, that's hot, really hot," Harold exclaimed. "With both you guys working on me I'll be dropping my load soon." I felt the excitement as well, for my sac was tightening along with Harold's. I knew that our full bladders added to the tension building in our bodies.
"Just let yourself go when you feel it happening," I coached him. "Try to stay relaxed, though. The longer the build-up the hotter the orgasm."
"I know," Harold said. "I found that out jacking off. When I was a kid I tried to come as fast as possible, but then I learned that delaying it made it more intense when I finally exploded."
"Can you feel my dick against your back?" Ed asked him. I knew that Ed had to be pressing his erection against Harold's lower back. I kept my glans pressed against the front of Harold's, moving it in small circles.
"I feel something hard," Harold said with a smile.
"You're pretty hard yourself," Ed commented as he continued to stroke Harold's engorged penis. Our hard helmets were rubbing together in a circular motion, dome to dome, and I knew we'd be into the final swelling soon. My foreskin was all the way back, filling the groove behind my corona and acting as a tourniquet to restrict the blood flow from the glans. Harold looked down between us and observed:
"Your head's really swollen and it's getting darker like mine does when I get close to coming."
"I can feel that your rim's swollen and gotten harder in the last few seconds," Ed informed him. He gave Harold's trapped corona a hard twist that made him gasp.
"I'm getting that tickle in the front of the head," I contributed. "How about you?"
"Mine's tickling too, but more in the rim," Harold muttered, getting caught up in the excitement. His dome felt harder as it pressed and rubbed against mine. I saw that it definitely had darkened to a deeper shade of purple. We were both seeping heavily and I told Harold this. "Our juices are making our tips very slippery," he said. "I can't feel the friction as much." "That's good," I answered. "It'll take you longer to come, and when you blast off you'll go right into orbit." "Are you close?" he asked. "I'm right about where you are," I replied. "My rim's getting tingly," Harold said. "Me too," I confirmed. I knew I wouldn't be able to hold out for more than a few seconds, although I was trying hard to remain relaxed. The tingle was in the front of my helmet and rapidly spreading back toward the rim, and I knew that once my corona began tingling I'd be losing it. Harold's breathing was heavy now, as was mine, and I could no longer keep my eyes open because I was withdrawing from the outside world into myself, focusing totally on the sensations in my prick. The tingle in my tip became hotter as it spread, and now my rim was also tingling. "AAAHHH!" Harold's cry of orgasm punctured the air as I felt his hot hard head throb against mine, releasing a flood of sperm that bathed my tender dome and triggered my own release. I felt the first hard contraction deep inside me and an instant later a flood of hot liquid burned its way up my urethra, making me cry out helplessly as the chlorine-like scent of our semen filled the air. Harold's tip throbbed against mine again just as I felt fingers closing around my naked helmet, gently moving in a twisting stroke. I realized that Ed was now keeping us both going, and making sure our pricks remained head to head. Harold's helmet spit another load against my front dome, provoking another throb deep inside me. Both of us were now grunting and moaning mindlessly, totally caught up in the throes of our orgasms, the joyful agony that blanked out all conscious thought. As my second jet rushed up my tube I felt Harold's glans throb again, releasing another torrent of hot juice to bathe my helmet. Mine followed an instant later, and our fluids mixed, with Ed's fingers spreading them over the contours of our swollen tips. The viscosity of our sperm masked the friction between Ed's fingers and the tender surface of my helmet, which was beginning to get super-sensitive. Our bodies were straining with the effort as the roots of our pricks sent forth load after load, each diminishing in volume, until we had drained ourselves. Harold and I clung to each other after Ed had removed his hand from our pricks. We were coming down off the high and sinking into the daze that followed. Our breathing slowly returned to normal, and after a minute I opened my eyes. I slipped my foreskin down over my now shrunken tip and looked at Harold. Harold eased himself free of my embrace and turned to face Ed, who was slowly stroking his own prick. I saw that when he eased the long foreskin back off the head, the surface was slick with natural lubricant. Ed oozed a lot, more than I, and a steady drip seeped from between the reddish lips of his slit. "I want to suck the dick that docked me yesterday," Harold announced. He scooted down on the bed and grasped Ed's prick, stabilizing it with his right hand as he held the hood all the way back, locked behind Ed's flaring rim. His lips closed over the tender glans, engulfing it lovingly, giving it the soft caresses that were sure to bring on orgasm given Ed's excited state. "Ed won't last long," I advised. "He's been hard longer than we have and he's built up quite a head of steam." I was being figurative, of course, as Ed really had built up a load of sperm. As I spoke I saw Harold's strong fingers tighten around Ed's shaft, drawing the skin back farther, pulling the ring of foreskin out of the groove behind the rim. Now the back-face of Ed's corona was exposed to Harold's lips, and he caressed it avidly. Ed had begun to moan softly as the sensations had built within him, and now he gasped at the sudden escalation in stimulation. Although his helmet was buried in Harold's mouth, I didn't have to see it to know that it had darkened with excitement. Harold removed his mouth while still maintaining his tight grip on Ed's shaft, and I saw that Ed's helmet had dipped down towards his balls because of the tension on the frenulum. Harold licked at the taut gee-string and then circled the corona with his tongue-tip. Hitting all the sensitive nerve endings on the rim and its back-face. Ed's moaning grew louder, and I knew he was right on the edge. Ed howled as his hips bucked, and I saw the first thick stream shoot from the distended lips of his slit as he thrust his prick deep into Harold's mouth. Harold's lips locked behind the rim and I saw his Adam's apple working to swallow the discharge. Ed's scrotum was tight against his body as he ejaculated his life-juice into his partner's throat. Harold twisted his head to give a rotating friction around Ed's corona, and then drew back as he ran his teeth down the broad upper surface of his helmet. Ed cried out helplessly at the assault on his senses, and then sobbed as his prick erupted in another hot discharge. Harold let Ed's shaft skin go forward slightly, relieving tension on the frenulum and allowing the helmet to bob up, and then he yanked back firmly, stretching the gee-string and making the head dip sharply once more. Another rope of white cream erupted from Ed's long slit, right into Harold's mouth, and he swallowed it avidly as he had before. Ed's grunts and moans filled the room as I watched, fascinated with the expert treatment Harold was giving Ed's straining prick. Ed's prick jerked a few more times, pumping out several more discharges that turned from jets to dribbles as he emptied himself. Harold was acutely aware that Ed's tip, like mine, became super-sensitive during orgasm, and he removed his mouth and pumped the shaft-skin lightly, applying and releasing tension on the gee-string. This was enough to keep Ed's climax going until it played itself out, and as the last drop oozed from Ed's long slit Harold lapped it up delicately. Then he turned to me. "Gotta milk you down," Jack," he said almost as an afterthought. He placed one fingers behind my balls, pressing into my urethra and firmly forcing the residue forward. Then he grasped my shaft and milked it thoroughly, bending his head to lap up the discharge that was oozing from my orifice. His tongue insinuated itself deep into my foreskin, searching for the creamy film that he craved. I got into a "69" position with him and took his shrunken helmet into my mouth, sucking at the residue that covered it and the tissue behind it, right down to the circumcision scar. His juices tasted deliciously salty, something all three of us appreciated. We got up and headed into the bathroom. I opened the closet and extracted fresh sheets. It was crowded in the bathroom so I changed the bed while Ed and Harold attended to their chores, after which I went in and got cleaned up for breakfast. We were all bacon-and-eggs aficionados, so the choice of menu wasn't a problem. While eating we had lots of time to talk. "We get along pretty well," Ed noted. "We like the same kinds of food and we enjoy the same different kinds of sex." Harold nodded, as his mouth was too full to allow him to speak. "We'll be experimenting with different things," I contributed, looking at Harold. "Some might be new to you, but I think you'll enjoy what we like to do. You really blew a load last night docking with Ed, and you drained yourself hard this morning when we went head-to-head." Harold had by this time swallowed his mouthful and said: "I know you guys have a lot more experience than I do, and I'll appreciate anything you can show me." Ed replied: "We'll be showing you a lot of things in the next few weeks, Harold. We'll break you in showing you how the Special Ops Group works, and when we get off duty we'll be with you for male-male fun. Right now, though, we'd better get to work." We had donned our uniforms after showering, and all we had to do was wash the dishes before getting in our cars for the commute. At the office I began the day's session: "Okay, you'd had some experience with ports of entry before you came here. Yesterday we went over how to spot some things when people try to come into this country. That was one line of defense, but it's not enough. We need several lines of defense because we're facing several threats. Today we'll get into some more sophisticated stuff. We run several intelligence operations to uncover terrorist cells that are already in this country, and we do it on several different levels." I paused. "One thing we do is to monitor Internet sites connected with terrorism" Ed took up the pace. "We keep an eye on those that might be connected with terrorism. Let's go down the hall." He led us to a large dark room with rows of desks and computer monitors on them. Each workstation had someone peering at the monitor and manipulating a keyboard and mouse. "These people do our basic legwork. Terrorists use cyberspace and so do we." Ed nodded at me. "The people you see here aren't agents," I explained. "They're not ICE Officers. They're civilian employees we hire to do the routine work. They keep surveillance on suspect sites and report activity." "Others do something a little more exotic," Ed said. "They set up fake sites to attract people who might be attracted to terrorism. They have fake bomb-making sites, fake sites that provide recipes for chemical warfare, sites that teach how to make biological weapons, and the like." Harold looked concerned at this revelation and spoke up: "Isn't that dangerous?" he asked. "Suppose some guy makes a bomb from the information you provide and he blows up the White House?" "We don't give out real information," I reassured him. "The recipes we provide for mixing home-made explosives are designed so that if anybody tries them, they'll either be duds or blow up in his face. Same for the instructions on assembling a nuclear weapon. We had a scientist from Los Alamos with us, and he helped us work out a design that looked real but left out a couple of critical steps so that even if someone managed to obtain fissile material, the bomb he'd build wouldn't work." Another aspect of our operations here is that the fake sites we set up contain "Trojan Horses," Ed said. "Do you know what they are?" Harold nodded in the negative. "They're sneaky programs hidden inside the bomb and chemical weapons recipes. When somebody downloads one of these, it secretly installs on his computer and sends us a daily report on his activity. We get the e-mail address of everybody he contacts, the text of every message, and the name of every site that he visits. That way we can build up a list of his associates." "On the more conventional side," I expanded, "we obtain the mailing lists of subscribers to various mercenary magazines. Often militia members subscribe to these. We place ads for far-out super-patriotic organizations in these magazines. This gives us more names. We work with a lot of lists. That allows us to build up profiles." "I thought you'd have terrorist profiles," Harold mused. "I know profiling isn't politically correct, but it's a tool you should use anyway." "Our political leaders always deny we're profiling, and that's their job; deny, deny, deny," I said. "However, what a lot of people don't understand about profiling is that it's not an exact science. There's no such thing as a terrorist profile. We can only go by probabilities." "Let's say a guy subscribes to one of the mercenary magazines," Said Ed. "His name goes on one list. We compare every list we have with every other. Let's say this guy also subscribes to a magazine dealing with precision shooting. Then he's on another list. Now he visits a web site that gives recipes for improvised explosives. Bingo! He's on a third list. Then the Trojan Horse we planted in his computer shows that he exchanges e-mails with another guy who we know is part of a militias group, or maybe a Middle East terrorist organization. See what I mean?" "Okay," Harold said. "I think I get the picture. The lists by themselves mean nothing because it's not illegal to read mercenary magazines or be a gun hobbyist. The more lists a guy's on, the higher his profile." "That's it exactly," I confirmed. "The more lists he's on, the closer we want to look at him." "What about Moslems in this country?" asked Harold. "There are millions of Moslems in this country," I replied. "It's not illegal to be Moslem, and most of them are honest and hard-working people. However, we watch out for those who have significant Middle East connections. These might include membership in a radical group, friends known to be part of a radical group, or suspicious money transfers in and out of the country." "Follow the money," Ed said. "Often that's our first clue. Someone might be making contributions to a terrorist organization. Another might be in this country supposedly as a student, but being supported by money coming from abroad. We want to know the source of the money. Our first field trip will be to spot-check one of these guys. We're due there in half an hour." He turned and led the way to the door. "This time you ride with us," I informed Harold as I fell into step with him. We got in our car, Harold in the back, and headed to the university. We parked across the street from a sidewalk café. "See that guy off to the right side?" Ed asked. "His name is Karim-something. A lot of these names don't count because they can spell them many different ways and often they're assumed anyway. What we do know about him is that he came into the country last year under a Middle East passport, supposedly as a student. He gets two thousand dollars a month supposedly from his family. That's a red flag because when we checked them out with the CIA, the feedback we got is that his family is dirt-poor. There's no way they could send him two grand a month." "What about the guy sitting with him at the table?" asked Harold. He was alert and had spotted something significant. "That's Abdul al-Mani," I answered. "At least we think that's his name, but it could be fake too. He and Karim often have lunch together, and that's what drew our attention to him. Last month we shadowed him and found out he lives with another guy named John Taylor. Apparently they're sharing living expenses. It seems Taylor is an American but a convert to Islam." "Now here's where it gets really interesting," Ed added. "Taylor works at the airport cleaning airliners. It's not a highly skilled job. It's not a career, but it gets him access to airliners." "Shouldn't you arrest him" asked Harold, obviously puzzled. "On what charge?" I riposted. "It's not illegal to have a job. It's not illegal to be Moslem. It's not illegal to live with a guy who often has lunch with a student from the Middle East." As I spoke the two men we'd been watching stood and shook hands, and then each left the café in a different direction. "Now we're going to shadow Abdul for a little while," Ed explained as he started the engine. "I know we're in uniform and this is a marked car, but there are so many official vehicles in Washington that we won't stand out." Abdul walked east and we crept along behind him, keeping almost a hundred yards between us.
"Notice how he stopped to look in a store window for a minute?" Ed said to Harold. "That's tradecraft. He's watching for surveillance. I bet he turns right at the corner. That's a one-way street. No vehicle can follow him up that street without being very conspicuous." "Damn, you were right!" Harold exclaimed a few seconds later. "He did turn right." "This is where we break off the surveillance," I said. "We don't want to confirm whatever suspicions he has." "Are we going to come back here tomorrow in plainclothes?" Harold asked. "We might and we might not," I said. "It depends on a couple of things. First, we've got their telephones tapped. They may or may not arrange to meet tomorrow. Another thing is that we've got a GPS on Taylor's car. We know everywhere he drives it. Right now he's at the airport working his regular shift." "What Abdul did just now bumps his profile up another notch," Ed chimed in. "Now we know he's had counter-surveillance training. Abdul came in on a student visa but never attended classes. We get regular reports from people at the university and this is important because we've got a whole bunch of people coming in on student visas and some of them aren't really students." "That fits the profile really well," I added. "By this time everybody knows that Middle Eastern terrorists are men between ages 17 and 40. They're in good physical condition and have had military training of some sort, usually in a terrorist training camp. When you add to that a student who doesn't study and who knows how to detect and evade surveillance, you've got a few red flags flying." "What we saw here today really clinched it," Ed informed Harold. "Until now this was just a routine surveillance because we had nothing really significant to go on. Now it's an active case." "What will you with him these guys if they turn out to be real terrorists?" Harold inquired of both of us. I chose to respond: "If they've done some damage by the time we arrest them, we have to have a trial, because the public expects that terrorists will be put on trial. If we catch them before they commit an overt act such as blowing up a building, we take them into custody and try to interrogate them to get leads to other terrorist cells." "Sometimes we turn them over to the 9-11 Task Force," Ed whispered. "I wouldn't want to be in their shoes then." "Once they get turned over to those guys, nobody hears from them again," I said.
Note: There is a Department of Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) but the Special Operations Section is a product of my imagination created for the purpose of the story. Probably there is a corresponding section in ICE, but with a different name. The "9/11 Task Force" is also a fictional creation, but there have been rumors of the special treatment accorded terrorists held in secret prisons for protracted and painful interrogation.
Continued in Part 3