The plane was, Conner estimated, four hours out of Frankfurt when it started its descent. He couldn’t be precise on the time, because they had taken away his wristwatch. In fact, in a men’s room in the Frankfurt airport, they had taken all of his clothes away. He’d also been given an intrusive cavity search in a stall, while one of them, armed with a mop bucket and mop stood at the door behind a “closed for cleaning” sign. Then he’d been given a new set of clothes. Somehow they’d gotten the sizes right.

They hadn’t denied him a window seat, though, and he knew they were landing on a remote runway of the U.S. Air Force base at Incirlik, on the underbelly of Turkey. His handlers hadn’t anticipated this--at least not in the instructions they’d given him--and he only knew it was Incirlik because the others had prepared him so much better so much longer. It didn’t matter, though. Taking all of his clothes from him hadn’t made a difference; neither did the consensus of his handlers that the destination would be somewhere in eastern Europe. Of course they could just be zigzagging him around Europe and the Middle East to totally mix up his sense of direction.

They certainly would do whatever they could to hide the ultimate destination. The whereabouts of ultimate destination was a large part of what he sought in his assignment.

The apparent military officer who was the only other passenger on the plane was wearing a U.S. Air Force uniform with the insignia of a lieutenant. He’d made no effort to hide an identity with the U.S. military, so Conner assumed he wasn’t really U.S. military. Conner’s handlers--who also claimed they were U.S. military, had prepared him for that subterfuge. They’d told him those who were transporting him were CIA. But Conner didn’t care about those games. It didn’t mean shit to him who they represented, or who his handlers were doing this for. The cause was fine; the money was better; the adventure of it was arousing to him.

It beat the monotony of what he had been doing. And he’d been waiting for an opportunity like this for some time.

The escorting officer hadn’t bothered to cover up his nametag, which said “Preston.” So, Conner assumed he wasn’t really named Preston. That didn’t bother him either, because he wasn’t really named Conner.

He was, however, exactly what he had been contracted to be--a male escort . . . prostitute . . . rent-boy . . . male whore. Whatever they wanted to call him. And he understood that where he’d be going it would be to service dozens of men who hadn’t had any for some time--men in top physical condition whose demands would be rigorous.

But, at the same time, he was more than just a male prostitute and was on this journey to accomplish more than satiating a lineup of randy and fit men.

Before he deplaned, Lieutenant Preston placed a blindfold over Conner’s eyes and guided him down the stairs to a waiting jeep. Conner had seen the jeep parked where the plane had come to a stop, and he thought it just a tad late for Preston to be blindfolding him. But then Preston wouldn’t have known that Conner had been schooled on identifying possible landing ports from the air, aided in this case by the approach from the direction of the setting sun that had been taken when coming in over the Mediterranean Sea.

When the blindfold was taken off, Conner found himself in a small room that must be a medical room of some sort--a doctor’s examination room. The coloring was stark white and the furniture was limited to a metal desk with a straight metal chair facing it and another one beside it; a dominating green enamel medical examination table, complete with stirrups; a standing scales; and a clothes horse. A full set of clothes down to briefs, socks, and shoes was hanging on the clothes horse. There were two doors, but no windows. One door, closed--and Conner had heard the lock turn--evidently led to the corridor they had entered from. The other, Conner could see, led through an open door into a bathroom with a small shower, again looking very sterile and medical.

Preston was leaning back on the desk top and giving Conner a hard stare. The man could do scary quite well. He wasn’t what Conner thought of as an Air Force officer--someone on the thin side to fit more readily in the confined spaces of a jet cockpit--and with refined features. Conner had always thought of the smarter and more patrician military men as going to the Air Force, with the grunts going to the Army and the truly thuggish going to the Navy. Conner preferred being fucked by the latter--and by Marines whenever possible.

Preston looked like a Marine--thus, to Conner, a thuggish grunt with superior intelligence and great bulk. That’s mainly why Conner hadn’t thought Air Force. Preston was built large, not as in fat, but as in tall; rugged facial features; broad chested, tapering down to a relative thin waist; heavily muscled; buzz cut; and a demeanor of power, authority, and no nonsense. Definitely not Air Force in Conner’s mind. He assumed former Marine or Naval Seal turned CIA.

Conner knew it would be folly and useless to oppose the man; he had no intention of doing so. Nor had he been instructed to try to resist anyone at this phase of the trip. His job was to get to where these men, whoever they represented, wanted to take him. Just that, nothing more, that was the basic mission. Anything else he could find out was gravy.

“You know they will want to fully test you before they take you to the secret base, don’t you?” he had been told. “You will have to prove yourself at this point--a point much before we want you to reach. All you have to do is reach the secret base and try to accomplish certain identifications. You must make them want to complete the journey. They will test you for capability and endurance.”

“Yes, sir, I understand,” Conner had answered, wondering, of course, how taxing or distasteful this testing would be, but such an assignment not being out of line with what he’d had to do in the Las Vegas male brothel at a desert ranch he’d be recruited from.

Happily, from the moment he’d seen the pseudo Air Force lieutenant approaching him in the business lounge at the Frankfurt airport, Conner had been looking forward to the moment he knew they had reached here in this medical examination room somewhere in the Incirlik Airbase complex.

“Strip, please,” Preston said in a commanding voice. “Do it slowly, the way you would do it for a client--the way you’ll do it for any of the men who want you to do it. The clothes can just be tossed in the corner over there. You won’t be wearing them again.”

Conner did as he was told, slowly and teasingly removing the clothes, all the time giving Preston sultry looks. When Conner unbuttoned his shirt, Preston unbuttoned his as well and let the sides flare away from his body. He wasn’t wearing an undershirt. His chest was as massive as Conner had perceived it would be, with bulging pecs, rimmed on the underside with a matting of blond, curly hair, which then trailed down his sternum, washboard abs, and hard, flat belly.

There were some well-built cowboy types who came to the ranch outside Las Vegas, but not many who looked as good as this guy did. Conner liked having sex; he even liked it rough; he liked it better with a well-built dude. He’d loved being fucked by every Marine who had fucked him.

As Conner unbuckled his belt, Preston unzipped his trousers and fished out a half-hard cock that, in its length and girth, complimented the rest of his manly, Marine’s body.

“Stop,” he commanded before Conner unbuttoned and unzipped his trousers. “Come here, go on your knees, and give me a blow job first. Make me like it.”

Conner knelt in front of Preston, as the officer leaned his buttocks back into the edge of the desk and palmed the desk top with stiffened arms extending out from his body. Conner took the cock in his mouth and gave the man deep head. Preston grunted and groaned in a low, bass voice as Conner sucked him off expertly.

“The balls. Suck the balls,” Preston growled, and Conner complied. After he’d licked and sucked them briefly, Preston growled again. “I want to face fuck you.” He took control of Conner’s head with his hands, and Conner returned his attentions to the cock, more or less just holding his mouth in a big O and providing straight passage to the back of his throat, while Preston manipulated Conner’s head with his hands and pumped the young man’s face with his cock.

With an, “Oh Fuck, oh shit, I’m gonna come,” Preston jerked Conner’s head off his cock and creamed the young man’s face. The officer released Conner’s head, and the young man swallowed the cock again and cleaned it with his mouth. He looked up into Preston’s face and grinned to show that it hadn’t been a chore for him. Taking the size of the cock had been a bit of a chore, but not one that Conner couldn’t handle. Size did make a difference in Conner’s enjoyment.

Nothing that was happening now was taxing or distasteful to Conner, and he was trying his best to convey that to Preston.

“OK, back to the center of the room and take the rest of it off,” Preston said in a deep, trembling voice.

Conner didn’t have to be told that he’d done well. He knew he’d passed that part of the test.

After he’d put on a striptease for Preston, he was told to go into the bathroom and take a shower.

“Clean yourself out well. There’s a douche bottle in the shower to help with that.”

When he started to close the bathroom door, out of habit, Preston growled, pushed it open, and stood in the doorway, leaning on the frame. “I will watch you soaping up and showering. Make me want to fuck you.”

A half hour later, Conner was bound to the examination table, on his back, his legs raised and spread in the stirrups, and his wrists bound to the side of the table on each side, as Preston proceeded with another cavity search, this time with his greased fist up to the knuckles in Conner’s ass--and eventually beyond. Conner had already sucked him hard again, with his head flopped over the top of the examination table, giving Preston a straight shot for his cock in Conner’s mouth as Preston leaned over Conner’s chest, chewed on the young man’s nipples and ran his tongue down Conner’s belly before swallowing his cock in a sixty-nine position.

The cavity search ended with Preston mining Conner’s passage with his cock.

Eventually, showered again and dressed, Conner was led out of the room and into a small waiting room--again windowless and, he presumed, with the exit door locked. A young muscle man, with a blank look on his face, and reading a girlie magazine sat so close to that door that Conner knew he couldn’t have left by the route without permission if he wanted to. Conner wasn’t built for muscle work; he was built to please muscle work.

He wasn’t the only one in the room, however. There were two slim, but busty, young women--one blonde and one brunette, sitting very close together on a waiting room-style couch across the room from him. They were whispering to each other. Conner couldn’t decide what the language was, but it certainly seemed east European to him. Not as guttural as Russian, but close.

In their dress and their demeanor, it was clear to Conner what they were. He’d been told there would be female prostitutes too--obviously more than one, given the probable mix of interests of the soldiers Conner and the women would be servicing at whatever secret base they were being taken to. Conner was a little miffed. They looked more like whores than he thought he did. He’d come from a high-class brothel. They looked almost scaggy.

Preston walked over to the women and pointed to the brunette, reaching down and grabbing her forearm roughly and pulling her up from the couch when she didn’t respond immediately.

There was a knock on the door, and the doorkeeper let in a scruffy looking Turk, swarthy and hirsute and scowling slightly. Conner wondered how Preston and his people wouldn’t have realized that Conner would know a Turk when he saw one. But then, he’d been pulled out of a Las Vegas brothel at a desert ranch. They probably hadn’t done any sort of a background check on him at all to find out that he’d been around the world a couple of times before landing out in the desert.

If they’d done a half-way thorough background check, they wouldn’t have hired him at all.

“This is the pilot for the next leg,” Preston said to Conner. “There’s a deal going with him, and I want to make sure you have the stamina for what’s ahead anyway. You are to take any man I send to you before I clear you for the next leg of the trip.”

Preston then took the brunette into a different examination room than Connor had been in--and that Conner hadn’t noticed before--and slammed the door behind them. Ah, he swings both ways, Conner thought. He tucked that away in the back of his mind in case it would be useful later.

In the meantime, the Turk--the pilot for the next flight--herded Conner into the first examination room and fucked him doggy style on the examination table. While he was doing so, Conner tried to make enough conversation to unobtrusively fold in subtle questions about where they were going with telling the hirsute Turk that he was a magnificent swordsmen, but the pilot was tight lipped--at least until he decided he wanted to suck Conner’s cock to an ejaculation.

Standing at the door as he left was his copilot, the pilot said in broken English. Conner wasn’t told that he had privileges next, but he didn’t really have to be told.

The copilot was both more inventive in positions and a bit looser lipped with information, especially after Conner demonstrated, with loud cries in the man’s own language, that he was being taken expertly--better than the pilot, which the copilot seemed to appreciate hearing. The copilot used the examination table stirrups for Conner’s arms and knelt on the end of the examination table, with Conner’s ankles locked at the back of the copilot’s neck, while the copilot fucked him and beat Conner’s cock off with his fist. The copilot inadvertently dropped that they would be flying northeast and that the land would be desert. He also dropped the term, H zero zero three. H003. It seemed to be a place. And it gave Conner his first concrete piece of intelligence to pass back when he was able. His handlers had other ways to follow and locate him, but he now had a possible installation name.

A younger, willowy man, who wanted to be fucked rather than to fuck, was next. He later proved to be the steward on the very private flight of the C-130 Hercules cargo plane that flew Conner northeast from there. Conner, of course, had been schooled in identify the various transports and cargo planes flying.

Conner had no idea who the next to last guy was. He was a Turk and had a bigger cock than his body size promised, but Conner didn’t see him anywhere after that. He was older--but not less vigorous in his fucking--so Conner surmised he must have been management level in this operation. The last one to appear and fuck him was the young man who had been guarding the door. He was American, by accent, and kept saying how much tighter and more enjoyable Conner’s hole was than that of the blonde. Conner assumed he was talking about the blonde prostitute who had been sitting out in the reception room.

In all Conner had been fucked by six men. Not much different from a Friday or Saturday at the Las Vegas brothel. He decided he must have passed the endurance test, as it wasn’t long after he’d showered the cheap-smelling perfume of the blonde off his body that Preston had returned, told him to dress in the new set of clothes provided, and he was led, blindfolded, out to what turned out to be a C-130--with just bucket seats and various-sized boxes of supplies in the fuselage portion he was in and no windows.

He tried to figure out how many hours the flight was, but the coffee the steward gave him must have been drugged, because he dozed off and had to be awakened as they were landing. Before he went to sleep, though, he saw Preston roughly pull the blonde up from where she was sitting and take her farther to the back of the plane and beyond a wall with a door in it. She was making a lot of noise over the rumbling of the engines before Conner drifted off to sleep, so Conner thought Preston probably had some special needs when he went with a woman.

* * * *

No one bothered to blindfold Conner and the two women when they staggered off the C-130. The women were more disheveled and staggering than Conner was. He touted up his wobbliness to both the flight conditions and the drug he undoubtedly had been given. He suspected that the women’s condition was at least partially the result of having been roughly used during the flight while the plane was bumping along through turbulence. They both looked bruised. The two clung close together and cast suspicious and hard looks at the world around them. That they instinctively withdrew from Preston when he came close to them spoke to how roughly Preston had used them.

Conner smiled inwardly in thinking of how Preston had used him. At no time had he thought of shrinking away from the man and his monster cock.

The reality of the world around the three prostitutes explained why they weren’t blindfolded. There was nothing but scrub plain to what Conner judged from the angle of the sun to be the west, north, and south, and barren mountains to the east. His geographic training and the piecing together where they’d started and what the copilot had revealed about their flight direction, Conner reasoned they were in one of the “Stans”--Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan, or Turkmenistan. Probably not Tajikistan or Kyrgyzstan, or there would be mountains rising on all sides.

There wasn’t really nothing. They had landed on a short airstrip, which is probably why a C-130 was required, and in the near distance stood an anomaly for the otherwise deserted plain they were on--a compound that had all of the characteristics of a state-of-the-art maximum-security prison.

Which, if everything his handlers had worked to achieve, was exactly what he had expected to find at the end of his journey. Conner was sent to locate a suspected--by one foreign policy agency of the U.S. Government--an unacknowledged private prison--by another foreign policy agency of the U.S. Government. Putting two and two together, this was the installation that shouldn’t exist and it was designated H003. That designation made Conner wonder if there were other prisons in the series--an H001 and H002, at least.

It stood to be determined whether what Conner was learning would ever make it back into the hands of those he was serving. Despite the multiple changes of clothing and the full-body searches, his handlers should be beamed into much of what he now knew. At the thought of this, Conner worried the molar that wasn’t a real molar with his tongue. But there was the question of whether he’d make it out of here alive to serve his own interests. All he could do was to roll with the punches--and, in this context, the thrusts--and struggle for survival. In the meantime there was more he needed to learn.

They were met by a contingent of Marine-looking soldiers dressed in fatigues without insignia of any sort. All of the guards looked like they could break Conner in two, if they wanted to--and more than a few of them gave him surreptitious looks indicating they anticipated having a go at him. The three of them--Conner and the two women--were separated, the woman having to be pried from each other’s arms--and marched to the compound, where they were taken in two separate directions--the women down one corridor and Conner down another. Conner was never to see either of the women again. He had no doubt how they would be used, but he had no knowledge of how and where they ended up.

He was marched to a room much like the one where he received clients at the Las Vegas ranch, except that it was larger to accommodate all that was there. Also, although there was a long window on the outer wall, it ran above standing height and was studded with thick bars.

Other than that, there was a double bed, a desk, with two straight chairs, a small sofa and upholstered chair, a chest of drawers, and a few ominous touches. There was a smaller version of the medical examination table, complete with stirrups and restraints, that he had been strapped to in the room at the Incirlik airbase. In the corner of the room a sling was hanging from the ceiling on chains. In the center of the room, other chains with restraints dangling from them hung from the ceiling, and there were hooks in the side walls, some with chains and restraints hanging from them. The room was fully carpeted, except for a circular cut-out area underneath the hanging chains in the center of the room. This was concrete and sloped into a drain from all sides. One door led to an efficient and sparkling clean bathroom, with a shower; and another door was to a closet, where the back wall was covered with all the whips, restraints, gags, and sex toys that Conner assumed would be involved in what he was doing here.

Although there were torture rooms at the Las Vegas ranch to be used at premium prices and with particular, masochistic and willing, prostitutes, there was nothing this sophisticated or merged with the other outfittings for male-on-male sex. If this was designed to impress and scare Conner, it accomplished its goal.

He was to find there were no street clothes in the bureau doors or closets--just various bits of provocative temporary-use wear--and he was made to strip and his clothes taken away by the men who had escorted him to the room and who closed and locked the door to the outer corridor when they departed. Except when he was told to dress in something provided, Conner was naked for the next eight weeks.

His next and subsequent meals were slipped in to him through a slot in the door. There was a well-appointed countertop refrigerator, he found, in one corner of the room by the bureau, though. He had all of the drinks, including liquor, and snacks he--or his guests--could want. And the meals he was served were good, the food plentiful. They obviously wanted to keep him fit. The closet contained workout equipment, and he learned to used the various sex paraphernalia dangling from the ceiling to aid improvised workouts.

And there was the other vigorous working out he got over the next eight weeks.

His first visitor was, he decided, the installation commandant. He was middle-aged, maybe even late fifties, but he was as fit as any of the younger prison guards there. And he was just as much in the need of sexual release. He was a particularly cruel man. Conner thought “former Marine” again.

Just as Lieutenant Preston had, the commandant leaned back into the desk and asked a naked Conner to pose for him and then to kneel in front of him, with only the commandant’s dick exposed, and suck him off. That’s where the experience with him parted from what Preston had done, though.

The commandant was more sadism inclined. He hung Conner from the chains in the middle of the room and flogged and zapped him with an electric prod and squeezed his balls and edged him in rounds of frustration in jacking him off before stripping fully--he’d already taken his shirt off, revealing a barrel chest and an abundance of salt-and-pepper chest hair--and fucking Conner from the rear.

He left the young man hanging until two guards arrived a half hour later to release him and help him hobble to the shower.

After he’d done Conner and the young prostitute was still hanging, the commandant said, “You know what you’re here for, don’t you? What you were contracted to do.”

“Yes, sir,” Conner answered through swollen lips, as the older man had been free about punching Conner while he was using him.

“You’re known as a relief contractor. The men out here get cranky if they don’t get enough relief. And they like fresh tail. You do well by my men, and you’ll be going home in two months as contracted. Otherwise . . . well, let’s just say you don’t want to not do well by my men.”

Conner was left for two days to recover. After that he fell into a regular routine. He averaged thirty visits a week and discerned, he thought, sixteen different men who used him, including Preston and the commandant. Since they’d brought in two women, Conner judged that more men were using them than were using him. Monday through Thursday, he serviced six or seven men each day--and it wasn’t always Conner as a bottom; a good third of his visitors wanted him to fuck them. Some of them wanted to be abused as well. Fridays were for threesomes and gang bangs. Saturday morning Conner was given over to sadists, using the full range of toys in the room. Saturday afternoon was for one session of double penetration. And then he was given a day and a half to recover before Monday rolled around again.

It was a tough schedule, but it didn’t prevent Conner from learning what else he needed to learn while he was there.

By standing on the desk, Conner could bring the window on the outside wall to eye level. He found he was looking down from a third story into some sort of exercise yard. Over several days, he was able to put together a schedule for the use of that yard. He also could identify some of the prisoners they were housing, and, no doubt, interrogating here. All suspected international terrorists. Some thought by the public to be dead. None of them, Conner was sure, were men those running this prison would know he had learned to identify.

There were the Yemeni terrorist organization leaders, Ali Abdullah Mansour, Abd-Rabbu al-Hiajiri, and Samir Saleh, who had been claimed to have been evaporated by a drone missile at a meeting outside Sanaa six months earlier. There was the former physicist and Russian separatist, Stefan Belur, thought to have gone effectively to ground. The Turkish separatist leader, Arif Aghan. Even an American, Jason Kowl, who had dropped out of sight after a failed attempt to bomb an airliner. All of the men were released into the courtyard separately and alone. All hobbled about, indicating that their incarceration and interrogation weren’t a picnic. The Yemenis--including verification of rumors they were alive--had been Conner’s principle concern.

Conner had all he needed to gather. Now it was just a matter of surviving the eight weeks and trusting that he would be let free, as agreed--a difficult and iffy proposition. But there was more than the money he’d been paid involved.

* * * *

When the fallout came, it came quickly and later than Conner thought it might. Conner was sitting with Lieutenant Preston in the Istanbul airport, where they were to part at last at the conclusion of Conner’s contract, when Conner saw his handler standing off from the departure area and looking at him intently. As soon as it was obvious Conner saw him, almost doing a double take, the handler gestured toward a men’s room. Conner’s gaze turned to the men’s room to see that another man he recognized was standing by the door to the john, dressed as a cleaner. It seemed this was a ploy all U.S. intelligence agencies like to employ. He had a mop and bucket beside him, and Conner caught on that the man would close off the rest room as soon as Conner and his handler entered it.

“I’m going to the men’s room before we board,” Conner said, standing.

“Good idea. I was about to suggest that. I’ll go with you,” Preston answered, also standing.

“It’s OK, I can go alone,” Conner countered. But then it was obvious that Preston wouldn’t let him go alone. It was equally obvious then too that Preston and his people weren’t going to let Conner simply fly away from here. He was ticketed for Frankfurt, although after they’d cleared through airport security, Preston had taken Conner’s ticket back from him. He wasn’t going anywhere until and unless Preston let him. They were close to calling boarding. There was no reason for Preston to stick close to him now. Preston had said he was ticketed for a later flight going someplace else. He didn’t say where.

Preston reiterated that he was going to the men’s room too. And, despite Conner saying he wanted to go alone, Preston was closely following him.

As they entered the men’s room, Conner’s handler having preceded them, Conner sensed the agent posed as a cleaner blocking off the door in their wake.

Preston didn’t know what hit him. He was down on the ground, a bullet from a silencer having made a third eye for him, and the handler was dragging the body into a stall.

“You didn’t have to do that. They were letting me go,” Conner said, angrily when the handler came out of the stall.

“Of course I had to do that. They weren’t going to let you go. Preston was going to kill you before you got on that plane. Probably was going to bring you in here and off you while everyone else was boarding.”

Conner decided to let it go. “You managed to locate the site? They call it H003.”

“Yes. The transmitter in your tooth filling worked a charm. The installation is in Kazakhstan, near a village called Chelor. We’re already well on our way to tracing the secret agreements back to the Agency. Did you manage to find out anything else? Anything on the prisoners?”

Conner hesitated just a few seconds too long in answering and the indecision in his face showed. The handler’s face set hard and he lifted the gun he’d used to kill Preston and pointed it at Conner. “You know who some of the inmates are, don’t you? Tell me who you saw there.”

“Shouldn’t we leave first?” Conner asked. “Are you booked on the flight to Frankfurt too? I could talk to you on the flight.”

“You could talk to me now,” the handler said, his voice menacing. Then a surprised look shot across his face and he toppled to the floor, a knife sticking out of his back.

“Jamal,” Conner exclaimed, seeing the figure of the man materializing behind the falling handler.

“Shhh, there’s a back door to the restroom,” Jamal hissed. “Come away with me, we can be gone from here before the others come looking for their man. This man wasn’t going to let you leave here alive. They just didn’t want to kill you any closer to their operations. Did you find any of our comrades where you were taken?”

“Yes,” Conner answered the man from the Mideast terrorist unit Conner had been secretly working with as a sleeper in the States for years. “Some of the Yemeni leaders are still alive; the prison is near a village called Chelor in Kazakhstan. But I will tell you all when we’re away from here.”

He would tell them all, of course. Their cause was his as well. But he would dribble the information out slowly to maximize his chances of survival. If he’d learned anything from this operation, it was to trust no one fully.



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