August 1st, 2007
And this is the catch up slashababy fic I wrote. This was written in a couple of hours, and is based on a Real Life incident that happened to a member of our extended family. Details at the end of the fic.
Title: Who is Watching the Watchers?
Disclaimer: This is, just possibly, even less true than the previous fic. Except for the part where it's true.
And this one wasn't betaed by anyone because I wrote it late in the evening of the 23rd of December, with an impossible deadline. All idiocies are my own.
Written for enchanteresse
“Who is this bloke, any way?” Orlando asked as he slid into the folding chair in the back of the surveillance van.
The secret service officer who was settling in to the other chair shrugged and pointed at the clip board suspended over the monitoring equipment while he adjusted the head phones over his ears.
The warrant didn’t say much, just listed some aliases and a residential address, a few houses down from where their van was parked. It certainly didn’t answer the multitude of questions Orlando had, starting with ‘How are you sure it’s the right phone line?’ and working the way through to ‘When’s dinner?’
In the absence of anything else to do, Orlando studied the bloke he had been assigned to that night. He was Arthur Hildon, according to his name tag, but he was called Sean in the operations room. He was a gruff Northerner, sandy hair falling in his eyes and coffee stains on his shirt, obviously unimpressed with being stuck with the new boy for the night.
“Any movement?” Sean asked, and Orlando picked up the binoculars and focussed on the door of the house that they were watching.
“Nothing,” Orlando said. “Is there anyone actually home?”
Sean lifted one of the ear pieces up, so his hair stuck up in tufts around it and leant forward and fiddled with the surveillance equipment control board. “Yep,” Sean said. “Electricity is being used in one of the front rooms, kind of drain a plasma screen TV pulls. Central heating is on. Use the laser mic, see if you can pick up anything.”
Orlando stood up and slid between the two front seats of the van, laser mic in his hand. He cracked the passenger window down a fraction and nestled the point of the mic in the gap, then switched it on.
The speakers in the back of the van crackled faintly, hummed, and the droning voice of a news reader came through clearly. That still didn’t count as proof the suspect was home, so Orlando shifted the mic slightly, lining it up with another ground floor window.
There was a clatter of china on bench, and a tap ran, and someone whistled tunelessly.
“He’s home,” Sean said. “Wind the window up, and let’s hope that he doesn’t plan on a quiet night at home with the phone unplugged and the telly on.”
“What do we do now?” Orlando asked, slipping the laser mic into its case and sitting back beside Sean.
“Unpack that box,” Sean said, pointing behind him at the document carton he’d put in the van at the anonymous underground garage that was their base.
Orlando had expected documents, obviously, case files and bank records and surveillance sheets, and what he found was a thermos, a bundle of sandwiches wrapped in plastic, a big block of chocolate and a large empty milk bottle.
“I’ll have a crisp sandwich and a cup of coffee,” Sean said. “Help yourself to whatever you want.”
“Thanks,” Orlando said, lifting Sean’s snack out of the box. “What’s the empty bottle for?”
Sean looked at Orlando and shook his head slightly, disbelief on his face, and Orlando went bright red. “Oh,” Orlando said.
“Don’t eat high fibre food,” Sean said. “Not in this job.” He took the sandwich and coffee Orlando handed across to him, and chuckled. “Relax kiddo,” he said. “Could be much worse.”
Orlando wanted to ask, ‘How?’ but it seemed like a bad idea, so he settled for taking a banana sandwich for himself and studying the monitors.
“We’ve got something,” Sean said, and he fiddled with one of the dials and settled the ear phones more securely over his ears. Orlando watched Sean make a note on his clipboard, and then use the keyboard attached to the monitoring equipment to initiate a trace on the call, and he froze with one finger still over the enter key.
“What the fuck?” he whispered, and it was the first time Orlando had seen Sean looking discomposed. He always gave the impression of being slightly bored, presumably because he was bored, and now he had a smile curling his lips and his eyes were twinkling. “The randy bastard,” Sean said, and he flicked another switch and handed Orlando the other set of head phones.
“…really big cock,” a husky voice with an American accent said. “I love a really big cock.”
“Oh yeah,” a voice with a European accent said. “So big and hard. Suck my cock, you slut.”
“I’m gonna suck you so hard,” the American voice said. “Gonna make you come, babe, all over my face.”
“Fucking hell,” Sean said under his breath, and both he and Orlando started laughing.
There was groaning over the head sets, and the noise of someone wanking, and Orlando looked sideways at Sean, who was still chuckling to himself.
“Should we be listening to this?” Orlando asked uncertainly, once at least one of the participants had started coming.
Sean grinned at Orlando and pointed at the warrant on the clipboard. “That says we can. Also says we can use it for the office Christmas tape. Pity we haven’t got a camera inside the house.”
The phone call ended, and Orlando swallowed hard. At least at a theoretical level he appreciated the nation’s need to know was greater than a person’s right to privacy, but he’d never listened to people having phone sex before.
Sean was looking amused, leaning back in his chair, chewing on his sandwich, his eyes half-shut, and he looked gorgeous in the blue glow from the monitor, but that might just be the lingering effect of the phone call.
“What?” Sean muttered, leaning forward again as the screen showed an incoming call, and Orlando caught the click of the phone being picked up.
“What are you wearing?” a voice said. “How big are you?”
“Fuck,” Sean said, and he shook his head.
“I’m wearing white Calvin Kleins,” the American voice said. “Very tight. And I’m big, nine inches, and I’ve been waiting for you to call.”
“No way,” whispered Orlando.
“Are you hard,” the caller asked. “Are you cut? How tight is your arse?”
The description that followed, delivered in a husky drawl, was lovingly detailed, and the caller obviously was enjoying the description. Orlando found he was too, in some perverse way it was actually a real turn on to be listening to phone sex on company time, making his balls feel warmer and a little sore and he would have liked to have rearranged himself but he suspected even if Sean didn’t tease him about it right then, everyone else on the team would later.
The call was over in five minutes, and Orlando’s cheeks were hot now, but hopefully the blue light would mask that, and somehow it wasn’t a surprise when the monitor showed an incoming call within another ten minutes.
The man with the American accent took seven calls in the first hour, each one more minutely detailed, explicit, and just plain hot than the previous. Sean stopped making jokes or exclaiming and the pair of them sat in silence, head sets on, and Orlando didn’t quite have the courage to even sneak a look at Sean anymore.
The coffee was cooling in Sean’s mug, and both of the sandwiches were forgotten, and Orlando almost jumped out of his skin when Sean’s fingers settled on his arm.
“Hey,” Sean said gently. “You all right there?”
Orlando nodded mutely, absolutely certain that Sean did not want to hear about the raging erection he now had, and exactly how embarrassed Orlando was about this.
Sean’s fingers stayed on Orlando’s arm, pressing through his windcheater sleeve, steady pressure that did nothing to help the situation.
“What’s your name?” Sean asked. “You know, not Cleaver Hartley.” His voice was almost as husky as the man they’d been listening to, and Orlando found that he wasn’t listening to the head set anymore, not even when the American had started describing how his cock was throbbing.
Fuck the American, Orlando had a cock of his own to worry about.
“Orlando,” Orlando said. “I didn’t choose Cleaver.”
“Nobody gets to choose their cover name,” Sean said, and it sounded far more indecent than the description of oozing cock that was being crooned in Orlando’s ears through the head set.
Sean let go of Orlando’s arm, slid his head set off and leaned back in his chair, giving Orlando a really good look at the way his cock was pushing against his jeans. He licked his bottom lip, and the moaning from the tapped phone was nothing compared to the gasp Orlando gave.
Sometimes the good things in life needed to be worked for, like university degrees and careers; and sometimes they were just fucking handed to you with no effort at all. Orlando ditched his head set onto the console and slid off his chair to kneel beside Sean’s, and his hands were trembling when he unbuttoned the fly of Sean’s jeans.
Sean’s cock was trapped, caught in the folds of material, and Sean had to free it for Orlando, and he kept hold of it, big hand wrapped around his thick cock, and Orlando glanced up once more, just to make sure.
“Do it,” Sean whispered, and Orlando sucked the head of Sean’s cock slowly into his mouth, and he tasted of soap and pre-come.
The chair screeched a little, on the metal floor of the van, and Sean spread his legs wider and let Orlando’s hand replace his own. “Feels good,” Sean murmured, and Orlando tugged at the fly of his own jeans one-handed, freeing his own aching cock from its painful confinement.
Sean’s fingers threaded into Orlando’s curls, and after a couple of minutes of guiding Orlando’s mouth up and down his cock, he lifted Orlando’s head up and leant forward and pressed his mouth against Orlando’s.
They sprawled across the floor, chairs clattering over, Orlando’s leg stuck over the carton of food, and Sean lowered his weight on to Orlando and kissed him.
The kiss left Orlando breathless—more breathless—and he rubbed his body urgently against Sean’s, gasping at the delicious friction.
“Fuck me,” he gasped. “Please…”
Sean helped his drag his jeans down, pushing one of Orlando’s shoes off, and the metal floor of the van was cold against Orlando’s back, but he didn’t fucking care, didn’t care about anything except what Sean was doing to him with his fingers, how it felt to be touched so knowingly.
And Sean did know exactly what to do, he had Orlando squirming and moaning within seconds, drumming the foot that still had a sneaker on it against the van door, gritting his teeth to stop from shouting, it felt so intense.
Sean was feeling it too, his mouth slick against Orlando’s as he moaned, his back sweaty when Orlando clawed his jumper up, desperate for bare skin. Sean jammed another finger in, deep and hard, and groaned against Orlando’s ear. “Oh fuck, let me fuck you,” he whispered.
“Yes,” Orlando said, and Sean’s fingers hit exactly the right spot inside Orlando, making his nerves scream and his cock leap.
There was clothing in the way, and Sean was fucking huge, pressing against Orlando’s body heatedly, and Orlando did cry out, just a little, when Sean pushed the head of his cock into him.
“Fuck,” Sean whispered, and he eased the rest of his length in gradually, and Orlando grabbed at his own cock, jerking it roughly.
It felt unbelievably good, once Sean was inside, the sort of hurt that his brain interpreted as pain, but his cock absolutely fucking loved, and that was just one of the truths of life, and Orlando had learnt to trust his cock on this one, even if it wasn’t very good at any other kind of decision making.
Orlando bit Sean’s neck, and blood stung his mouth, and Sean was deep inside him, grinding into him urgently, and the head set that dangled by its lead was emitting tinny sounds, and Orlando ignored it. He didn’t need to listen to a pornographic phone call, he was having the real thing, right there and then, sweaty and rough and so fucking good.
Not coming wasn’t an option, not with Sean plunging into him, over and over, and there was come, wet and slippery, spread over Orlando’s belly, and in Sean’s hair where Orlando grabbed at him to kiss him, and on the van floor, and deep inside Orlando, sweetest of all.
Sean sagged down onto Orlando, squashing him more than a little, and Orlando just hung on to him and tried to get his breathing to slow down.
“Fuck,” Sean groaned, and his hands were gentle, stroking Orlando’s hair off his face, touching his lip. “Fucking brilliant.”
# # #
“OK,” Viggo said into the phone. “You’ll leave the package off at locker 467 at Waterloo Station, and courier the key to me, right?”
“Confirmed,” his contact in Mossad said. “And upon pick-up, you’ll transfer the money into the bank account, as arranged. A pleasure doing business with you.”
“Mutually satisfactory business,” Viggo said, and when the Mossad agent had hung up the phone, Viggo leant back in his easy chair and reached for his glass of wine.
A satisfactory evening all round; the documents were on their way to him, and he’d done 17 phone calls. The phone rang again, and he smiled smugly and picked up the phone.
“I’ve been waiting for you to call,” he said huskily.
The true bit:
Someone who is a kind of in-law was under secret service surveillence for her activities in the environmental lobby. This was back before terrorism was popular, and the secret service here was obsessed with stopping those damned hippies from chaining themselves to bulldozers/trees/nuclear power plants.
so she suspected her phone was tapped. As an experiment, she stopped paying her phone bill. The phone remained connected, which made sense. It's really hard to tap a phone line that is cut off.
And one of her house mates at the time was working from home on a phone sex line, meaning at the secret service were busily recording all the sex line phone calls. And presumably listening to them all, in case there was a coded message in there.
True Story. In-law hippy is still chaining herself to trees. Sex line worker is a succesful author now.