From Russia With Love
Chapter 1 – Here Cums the President

Alfred was fifteen or sixteen when he ran up to his school friends and announced, loudly, "Look what I can do!" He then proceeded to stuff a sausage roll down his throat whole, holding his head back in aid of his feat, to the smirks and laughter of the crowd he had gathered.

Five years later he was knelt on the rich carpet of the Oval Office deep-throating the President of the United States.

Well, okay, it wasn't really the President. Just Arthur, Arthur Kirkland in a sharp suit and his best drawling accent (unplaceable but definitely American), murmuring encouragements like "Yes!" and "That's it!" The Oval Office was a stage set. A film crew surrounds them, silent voyeurs in the shadowed periphery of the studio, and the rolling camera fixed to them with its unblinkingly red pinprick eye.

"I'm going to come!" Arthur cried hoarsely, breaking out of his carefully constructed accent, and the camera glided into position, closing in for the money shot as Arthur pulled out of Alfred's sweet, sweet mouth and ejaculated.

Alfred kept his mouth open and caught as much as he could on his tongue. But most of the cum streaked his face and his prop spectacles in thick, creamy ropes, and Arthur milked himself deliberately to miss. He hoped not too much of it got into his hair. The camera tracked in for the final close-up before the director called for a cut.

"Aaaaand that's a wrap! Good job, boys."

One of the crew rushed in with a wet towel to Alfred as the studio broke into a general frenzy of packing up, eager to go home.

"You got it in my hair!" Alfred complained, snatching the towel from the crew member and scrubbing furiously at his head, shoving the dirty spectacles into the crew member's hand. The crew member held it gingerly in front of himself and hurried off.

Arthur was being fussed over by another crew member with a Styrofoam cup of tea, and he swept Alfred with a haughty look.

"You missed a spot," he said, tapping his own chin. When Alfred tried to wipe it off on the wrong side, Arthur made an impatient noise, thumbed it off for him, and stuck the digit into his own mouth.

"Shakespeare thinks his own jizz tastes of fricking candy or something!" Alfred grumbled to himself as he shampooed his hair with savaged thoroughness. He rinsed off the suds, combed his fingers through every strand of his hair, and glowered at the wall separating his shower stall from Arthur's.

He was in a more forgiving mood once he finished. He could never stay mad at Arthur for long.

The actors dried and dressed themselves in silence. Usually Alfred would be trying to make friendly conversation and Arthur would ignore or rebuff his advances, but today they were too tired to speak. Alfred noticed that Arthur was putting some effort into his appearance this evening – a nice black-with-white-striped shirt, top buttons artfully undone, and even a spray of cologne.

"Got a date?" Alfred asked, winking. Arthur cast him a narrow sidelong glance.

"No, an audition," he said in clipped tones and shut his locker with a clang. "Good evening."

Man he's so uptight, Alfred thought as Arthur left the room. Nice cock though.

"So to put it simply, Alfred, we're assigning you with a new talent."

Alfred paused mid-chew and stared at his agent, Elizaveta Hedervary.

"What? What happened to Arthur?"

"Please don't talk with your mouth full," Elizaveta chided. Alfred swallowed his mouthful of burger and stuffed in some fries. "Also watch your weight."

"I work out, I'm not fat," Alfred said defensively.

He does indeed work out, Elizaveta thought dreamily. His chest was visibly toned under his simple cotton shirt and the muscles of his forearms bulged with weight lifts but not too much. He used to be in the football team in high school, he told anyone who would listen, and many people did, mesmerized by his easy charm and all-American good looks.

"Yes, well, in answer to your question, if you had been listening to me you would have heard me say that we are participating in a talent swap with another agency. They wanted Arthur, and the guy they're sending is supposed to be the best they have. So I want you to meet him sometime today, get to know each other."

Alfred felt his heart sink. Sure Arthur could be a real jerk at times, but he was the best partner he had ever had. He never made him uncomfortable or tried anything funny on- or off-camera. Also his skill at accents was pretty cool.

Damn, is he getting attached to that stuck-up big-eyebrowed grump?

"Right, yeah, okay," he mumbled.

"Good. You didn't have a choice in the matter anyway. I've asked him to meet you here in, oh, five minutes. Well, goodbye!"

"Wait, you're just going to leave me to meet some strange guy alone?"

But she was already walking out of McDonald's, and he was left gaping noiselessly after her.

He slumped back in his chair, pulling the script over to flip through whilst he waited for the mystery new talent. The scriptwriter had gone gleefully overboard again, writing detailed Hollywood scenes for a spy thriller involving dramatic car chases and exploding helicopters. His agent had already drawn a line across the exploding helicopter and pencilled a firm "NO" in the margins.

The title? The Spy Who Fucked My Brains Out.

"Classy," said a deep, slightly accented voice from behind him.

Alfred leapt from his seat. "This isn't mine!" he cried, laughing nervously and dropping the script with the title face down. He managed to upturn his soft drink as he did and the lid split open, flooding the table with cola and ice cubes.

"Oh fuck fuck fuck!" he cursed loud enough to draw disapproving glares from parents with fat children as he fished the sodden script desperately out of the black sticky pool.

"Don't worry, I'll share my copy with you."

"You'll what?"

"You're Alfred Jones, right? I'm Ivan, your new partner. Nice to meet you."

Ivan Braginski towered over him at 6'3. He was a great bear of a man with wide shoulders, a large hooked nose, and the most vivid violet eyes which he complimented with a light violet scarf. He was unbuttoning his grey double-breasted pea coat as he sat opposite Alfred at a clean table.

"So Ivan," Alfred began.

Ivan raised a black leather-gloved hand to stop him.

"My name is pronounced 'ee-vahn', not 'eye-van'."

"So Eye-Van," Alfred repeated stubbornly. Ivan raised an eyebrow but made no comment. "You're the spy who's going to fuck my brains out, then?"

Ivan cast a glance around to see if anyone had overheard. A shocked mother holding a toddler told him that she had.

"Da, comrade," he whispered with an exaggerated version of his accent.

The young mother looked absolutely scandalised. She scooted out of her seat and left clutching her child to her chest, nose upturned.

"You don't look scary enough for the role."

Ivan smiled. The young American was kind.

"We shall see," he said pleasantly.

He swiped ketchup from the corner of Alfred's mouth with his thumb and stuck the digit into his own mouth.