In Sharpe Focus
Copyright© 2023 by corsair
Chapter 28: Being Sly
Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 28: Being Sly - Who shot JR Ewing? I mean who shot JFK? One was a fictional Dallas, and the other has much fiction attached. Agent "Jackie" has been voluntold to investigate a coup in progress and begins with an investigation into a dead actress, a trip down a rabbit hole.
Caution: This Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa Coercion Mind Control Reluctant Slavery BiSexual TransGender Fiction Crime Fan Fiction Historical Military Mystery Restart War Science Fiction Alternate History Body Swap Paranormal Magic Incest Rough Sadistic Gang Bang Swinging Interracial Anal Sex Double Penetration Exhibitionism First Oral Sex Petting Voyeurism Water Sports Body Modification Small Breasts ENF Nudism Prostitution Transformation Violence
Changing identities is never simple. Now my name was Sly Foxx--and Billie was Big Mike. A day earlier we were both girls--officially the age of majority, able to vote and drive cars. Now, I was a skinny little colored man and Billy was a mountain of cross-dressing colored man.
“No wonder Big Mike hates white people,” Billie stated. “Big Mike was castrated. The Klan cut off his dick and balls. Not that I’m complaining. His boobs are big and I never want to be a boy again.”
“We’re here, Big Mike,” I said. “Remember, if either of us says ‘alamo,’ fight your way to the river and dive in.”
“I remember, Sly. We won’t have to escape. All we’re going to do is deliver the laundry, attend class, and leave.” People of color were invisible in America--unless we attracted attention to ourselves. Great--less than 24 hours and I’m calling myself a colored boy. Having no roots means no baggage holding me back. “I get to sit inside this truck and sweat to death while you do the heavy lifting.”
Billie/Big Mike was far more talkative than I and Big Mike did all the talking. I just handed over my pass when required, quietly submitted to a pat-down, and moved carts of linen and uniforms into buildings, then pulled carts of soiled linen out and pushed them inside the truck. While I was there, I used a disguised recording system to document the place. We had an escort of four Spanish-speaking men--they had heavily-accented English enough to communicate. Three of them rode in a jeep that led us around and one armed escort sat in my seat while I held onto the handles at the rear of the truck. An hour later, Billie and me sitting in a classroom with 29 other men and watching a film on organizing agent provocateur teams to turn a peaceful march into a full-blown riot.
“It goes without saying,” the narrator explained, “that your provocation teams need to melt back into the crowd and leave the area as soon as they trigger over reaction from police and National Guard riot control squads.”
No notes allowed--eyes only. Big Mike and I were told to wait a moment after the rest of the class departed.
“Sly, you have that thousand yard stare again,” ‘Big Mike’ warned. “You’re too relaxed. Someone will think that you’re napping. Look alive.”
Hyperalert people can be frantically glancing around, or like me, totally relaxed and taking in sight, sound, smell and our own gut feelings.
“I sense no danger--yet,” I muttered as the instructor returned.
“I have an assignment for you two,” the instructor said. “I need you to travel to Birmingham and leave a bomb in the basement boiler room. Here’s a diagram of how to get in and get out. Use dynamite and an improvised timer. The local KKK will claim credit. I want the bomb to go off Sunday morning at FIVE AM.”
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