Date: Wed, 21 Mar 2007 07:10:03 -0700 (PDT)
From: Jack Santoro <jacksantoro1@yahoo.com>
Subject: Arrest Record, Pat 2, Adult Friends, 2/?

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