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Covert Operative – D.I.A.

Kelvin Watson could not believe what he heard on the phone talking to his younger s****r. She informed him that their cousin, Ana, had been beaten by her on-again-off-again boyfriend. He was furious, but a couple of thousand miles away from St. Louis in D.C. He planned to go in to the office the next morning early. So, the five-foot-six, caramel-skinned man offered to pray for the beloved victim and get back to STL as soon as possible.

Kelvin awoke the next morning and showered. He dressed in a classic-fit, navy, suit with slip-on black Giorgio Brutini loafers, a white button-down shirt, and a solid gold paisley-print tie. He grabbed a granola bar along with a bottle of water for his breakfast. After he scarfed down his nourishment, the one-hundred-thirty-five pound man, retrieved his messenger bag and went out to his car. He drove the black 2013 Toyota Corolla to Langley. He made it through all the security gates by showing his badge and parked the vehicle.

Kelvin walked inside the C.I.A. headquarters and scanned his badge. He smiled at various analysts and other spooks milling about the hallways in the early morning. He took an elevator to the fifth floor and headed to the office of the top-secret Dorado team. He sat in the chair in front of his computer and logged in. He put in a request for a five days of personal time off a week from today.

The day went about pretty normally. He was briefed on several threats to national security. Kelvin also spent some time with the tech-ops group giving feedback on new field tools they planned to launch in the near future – he was smitten with them all.

At lunch, he opted to forego eating. Instead he decided to take on some hand-to-hand combat training. Kelvin’s instructor was a formidable opponent, but his small frame and quick blocks were still in tact. The trainer praised him as always. He was scheduled for a slow afternoon before meeting with the company psychologist.

The woman who was well-paid for her services and confidentiality to the U.S.A.’s spy agency, fully enjoyed speaking with Kelvin. She noted that he compartmentalized more severely and cleanly than anyone else she had observed in her eighteen years of service to the Agency. Kelvin knew none of this, but his boss, Rita Kennedy, knew it all. The session ended with the good doctor wishing him the best.

Kelvin drove home. He stopped off at a Whole Foods on the way home to fix a plate from the hot bar. He put two pieces of meatloaf, a couple of scoops of mashed potatoes, a spoonful of glazed carrots, and some raw broccoli in a take out plate. He paid for it and went to his apartment.

The rest of the week went smoothly.

Kelvin left work on the night preceding his next few days off. He had told the top brass at Langley he was going to take some time in Montreal to practice his French and do some sight-seeing.

Kelvin entered the foreign country with his real passport. He left the Pierre Trudeau International Airport in a taxi. He checked in at a Holiday Inn very close by. He changed into a new set of clothes – a grey sweat suit. He left his bag in the room. He walked out in that outfit also wearing a New York Yankees baseball cap and some dark aviator sunglasses. He walked across the street to the gas station and walked around to the back. He scanned for street cameras and noticed none. He stripped down and reversed the sweat suit so that now it was black. He ditched the baseball cap and replaced it with a white toboggan. He changed sunglasses and walked away. He hailed a taxi back to the airport.

Kelvin made it through the security checkpoint and U.S. Customs for the flight to Philadelphia at the Montreal Airport using an alias passport. The flight landed, then he caught a connector to STL. There, he was met by a retired mentor from the agency who had gotten him some firepower and a place to carry out his plan.

The older white man, that had been one of Kelvin’s initial trainers, drove him to the seedy motel. Kelvin changed cleaned up and changed into the blonde wig and neon orange minidress. Kelvin walked out on the balcony in the high heels looking like a slut. A large black man appeared and said, “Gugahoo.” Kelvin recognized the password and followed the man. They got in a nondescript tan Chevy Malibu. They drove to a gay club. Kelvin got out and strutted on the street.

After forty-seven minutes, he spotted his target – a metallic red 2009 Mercury Grand Marquis. Kelvin knew the Negro liked sissies in drag so this would be an easy pull.

Kelvin wiggled his ass. The car pulled over. They spoke briefly.

“Yo, wassup,” the tall, thug driver inquired.
“Nothing, daddy! I just need some dick,” the walking trick revealed.
“You got a place? I just want some head!”
“Yeah. I’m over at King’s Court Inn.”
“Oh shit! Dat straight bitch! Get in!”
“Okay! I’m NuNu. What about you,” the punk asked climbing inside.
“Trey!”

Trey drove to the motel. NuNu led him to the room. They relaxed. Trey drank some of the brown liquor NuNu had in the room. NuNu knelt down and pulled down the slim, brown-skinned man’s jeans. The sissy sucked on the thick eight inch dick. Trey was lying on the bed. NuNu’s knees were on the floor. Trey howled. NuNu extracted a syringe. Kelvin stroked the hard dick. Then he poked a big vein with the needle. Since it went right into the bl**dstream, the effect took place in under thirty seconds.

When Trey awoke, he was tied to upside down in a barn. His arms and legs were tied.

He squirmed and tried to yell.

“It’s no use,” Kelvin said. “You wanted to whoop up on Ana! Now I’m going to beat up on you.”

Kelvin took out a power drill and began revving it up. He f***ed it into the thug’s eye. bl**d spurted everywhere. Trey’s mouth was civered with strong duct tape.

“You’ll never hurt Ana again, bastard!” Kelvin drilled holes in Trey’s mouth, feet, legs, and scrotum until he was tired. Finally he sliced the woman beater’s neck with a knife and let him bleed out. Kelvin and his two black ops friends put the body in a lye-filled chest to decompose.

Kelvin was driven to Chicago. He boarded a plane using another fake I.D. back to Montreal. He re-entered the U.S. as himself and returned to work a couple of days later.

“General, we believe we have the perfect operative for our mission to exterminate Yazid Mahrez,” spoke the civilian employee.
“Who,” the three-star general inquired.
“He is Hampton. A top secret Dorado operative within the C.I.A.”
“I have heard of him. Keep going,” the director of the Defense Intelligence Agency said.
“Well, sir! He is thirteen for thirteen on targets assigned. We think he could successfully train as a dancer to tour North Africa and recruit top prospects for data intelligence.”
“I’ll need to meet with him at once,” the five-foot-eleven, two-hundred-twenty-one pound, dark-skinned Marine Corps lieutenant general ordered.

A bevy of staffers went about making it happen as the top brass man went off for a dinner party at his palatial Georgetown townhouse. He and his wife were hosting a minor Saudi prince at his home for dinner. Both of LtGen Herman Woolridge’s daughters and their husbands would be there also. Because of his rank, a gourmet chef would prepare dinner and a string quartet would be summoned. His elder daughter was married to a lieutenant colonel in the Air f***e. His younger was hitched to a Navy lieutenant commander. Both men were on their way to flag rank.

The dinner was a success.

The next day, Hampton appeared at the D.I.A. offices. He and LtGen Woolridge met alone with the military man’s top aide. The instructions were clear. Woolridge decided he would fly Hampton on his Boeing C-40 to Los Angeles. The airplane was a basically a Boeing 737 outfitted for military duty. But because this belonged to a general, it had beds, a state-of-the-art communications system, a conference room. and a sound-proof office.

The general felt that he needed a private briefing with the operative. They went into the office and locked the door.

“Suck on this dick,” the senior military commander ordered.

Hampton fell to his knees. He pulled down the fifty-seven year-old’s uniform pants, which had been pressed by an eager enlisted grunt. He studied the decent bulge in the red boxer briefs.

The general took off his underwear and grabbed a remote sitting on the desk. He pressed a button that emitted white noise so no one outside of the air office could hear a single peep of what was going on inside.

Woolridge groaned. He made his living – a considerable one at that – knowing the secrets of some of the world’s top brass. He knew that China’s senior colonel Feng Kai had an affinity for gambling and selling opiate products on the black market. He was aware that Brigadier General Rakan Awad of the Jordanian General Intelligence Directorate enjoyed gambling and hiring American blondes to be his ‘attendants’. Woolridge was also aware of the secrets of so many other military officials within the U.S. Armed f***es. He had always been sure to keep his trail clean though. This was the first time in his life he had acted out his desire to have sex with an effeminate man. He had gotten his physician to give him a couple of sample packs of Cialis. He had taken them before the flight commenced.Hampton sucked on the rod that was growing by the second. It grew to be nine stiff inches.

The dark-brown-skinned man’s head fell back as he enjoyed the blow job. He fell back onto the couch. Hampton never missed a beat. Not long after, they were ready to fuck.

Hampton stood.

Herman grabbed the sissy f***efully. He spanked the firm bubble booty. Then, he began eating it out.

Hampton screamed with pleasure.

Once it was good and wet, the general shoved his dick inside of the rectum. Hampton wailed.Herman did not care. He ripped his sissy’s hole open.

“Oh, daddy,” cried Hampton.
“Take it,” Herman said.
“Yes, sir!”
“Oh, bitch! You got some good pussy. I see why those warlords in Afghanistan fuck

young boys.”
“Really?”
“Yeah! You’re my bacha bazi bitch boi!”
“Oh, daddy! I love that! Fuck me!!!”

Lt. Gen. Woolridge slammed his meatiness in the pussyboi. He went hard for the entire plane ride.

Hampton was sniffing the poppers Herman had bought for him. Of course the 3-star general had not personally ordered the muscle relaxers. One of his enlisted men had gone about the task.

Herman fucked Hampton harder. The pilot announced they were landing soon.

The debrief was soon to be over Herman came hard in Hampton’s booty. Both men walked into the plane cabin like nothing had happened.

They landed at Houari Boumediene International Airport.

Hampton was given a smattering of local currency.

He was picked up outside the airport. He began training for his ballet debut. The woman in charge was Ebony Washington. She was a ballerina with an assertive side. She molded Hampton into the perfect dancer.

During the time in Algiers, Hampton met and befriended another dancer named Qismah Darzi.

Qismah was a very beautiful Middle Eastern woman.

Qismah was smitten with the man she knew as Zaman Khida. She was also one of Yazid Mahrez’s wives. After a couple of weeks, she invited Zaman to dine with her and her husband. Zaman accepted gladly.

The night of the dinner, he dressed in a slim-fit black suit, a pastel green button down shirt and a pink bow tie. He hailed a cab and rode over to the compound. He paid the driver and threw his messenger bag over his shoulder. He walked to the gate where two security guards patted him down and went through his bag to ensure there were no weapons of any sort. He passed the inspection and was told to wait while they called Qismah. A few minutes later, a silver Range Rover came down the driveway. It was Qismah. She drove them back to her abode.

Zaman handed Qismah the bottle of wine he brought as a hostess gift. The attractive lady thanked him profusely. Qismah had her maid pour two glasses. She excused herself for a moment to call Yazid. During her absence, Zaman pulled a Quaalude from his sock and crushed it up. He put the powder in Qismah’s wine. She returned and stated that her husband would be arriving soon. Zaman smiled as they made a toast. The maid brought in some hummus.

Yazid walked in the cottage accompanied by two large sub-Saharan African bodyguards. Zaman smiled at each of them. The wanted terrorist kissed his beautiful fourth wife then sat at the table. The maid came out to serve more drinks. Yazid had summed up the guest and decided the effeminate man would be no trouble. He sent his muscular henchmen away.

The three of them laughed as they dined on various delicacies. Qismah began to fade.

Suddenly, she passed out, Yazid grabbed her to see what was wrong. As he scooped up his beloved, Zaman extracted a razor blade from the sole of his shoe. He sliced Yazid’s neck. He held his hand over the man’s mouth to muffle his screams. bl**d was gushing out. Zaman walked calmly into the kitchen and tackled the maid. He subdued her with a choke hold until she passed out. He took her into the bedroom and tied her up. He washed off and walked outside. He told the bodyguards that Qismah wanted him to drive to the front to meet another guest. They nodded. He started up the Range Rover and sped away.

On his drive, he made a call.

“Hello,” the operator answered.
ś-2-3-0-0-9-4,” Hampton said.
“Hold on.”

The next voice Hampton heard was that of his boss, Rita. “Hampton,” she smiled.
“Yazid has been exterminated,” the world-class spy beamed.
“Great!”
“I need to be extracted now.”
“We can have a chopper to you in an hour. I’ll have the coordinates to the safe house sent to you now.”
“Thanks!”

Hampton headed to the safe house and waited. Just over an hour later he heard a Chinook outside. He climbed in and was greeted by four Marines. They flew him to the embassy in Madrid which took just over two-and-a-quarrter-hours to reach.

Hampton gleamed as he walked onto U.S. soil once again. Upon entering, he learned that Lt. Gen. Woolridge would be arriving the next day to debrief him.

Updated: October 21, 2016 — 1:25 pm

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