War Zone

We moved out in three camouflaged jeeps, Commander Afram sitting in the backseat of one, the barrel of his pistol pressed into my ribs. We went in a westerly direction, up into the foothills of a low range of bare-dirt hills, toward the Lebanese border, on what was no more than a dirt track.

As Route 5 and the specter of an old Mercedes sedan, with its doors hanging open and sitting in the middle of the road, dipped below the horizon behind the line of jeeps, Afram loosened up. The pistol went in his shoulder holster on the opposite side of the jeep from where I was sitting, and his right hand went to the back of my neck and worked its way up into my shock of curly reddish-gold hair. He let his fingers play in the hair, as he turned his head and watched the play of the sunlight in the curls. It was driven home to me that this was probably my most powerful weapon to use in survival with him—his fascination with my reddish-blond hair.

I thought back on the extra moments he spent playing in my pubic hair in the backseat of the Mercedes and slowly, carefully, as Afram watched, I undid my belt, unbuttoned my trousers, unzipped my fly, flared the front panels of trousers open, and pulled the waistband of my briefs below my balls. The reddish-gold hair of my silky bush beckoned to him. He reached over with his left hand and buried his fingers into the curls of my pubes. He massaged my groin and balls and, hardening up for him again and groaning, I lay back in the seat, whispering, “Yes, yes, yes.”

Afram turned my face to him with the hand buried in the hair of my head and our lips met. I opened to his tongue as he slipped in beyond my lips, and I was giving him everything he could want in a deep kiss. The kiss was extended, with his right hand playing in my head hair and his left wrapping itself around the base of my engorged cock. I dug my heels into the floorboard of the jeep and began moving my pelvis, fucking up into his sheathing hand. I gave him a deep rumble of pleasure in the depths of my throat.

I wanted him to believe that I was a satyriasist, a male nymphomaniac, and that no matter what the conditions or danger to myself were that I would give all to a man like Afram when he touched me.

“Yes, yes, fuck me,” I murmured when the kiss was briefly suspended. “I want your cock.” I had no idea if he spoke or understood English, but I made certain that he understood what I wanted, what I was offering to him. I reached over to his basket and ran my finger down the length of his erection inside his camouflage fatigues.

We went back into the deep kiss and I continued slow pumping up into the sheath he had made with his thumb and index finger of his left hand, the other fingers still roaming in my reddish-gold bush. I unbuttoned the fly of his fatigues and he let me. I fished out his erection and he let me. I stroked his long, long upcurved cock and played with the piss slit of his oversized cock head, and he shuddered and groaned for me.

His lips and tongue went to my pecs, where there was a hint of covering with curly reddish-blond hair around the nipples and down my sternum and licked and kissed me there. With a low cry and a shudder, I came for him and cried out as, at the point of ejaculation, he took one of my nipples in his mouth, nipped it, rolled it between his teeth and sucked on it.

I threw my head back in the seat and cried out, “Yes, yes! Take me! Fuck the hell out of me!”

The two soldiers in the front seat turned their heads and smiled at the backseat.

Whether or not Afram understood me, he didn’t fuck me then. He continued to play in my reddish-gold hair. He didn’t stop me, though, when I slowly readjusted, turning toward him, leaning over him and taking his cock in my mouth. He lay back in the seat, groaning and whispering encouragement to me in Arabic as I gave him an expert, deep-throat blow job. While I was giving him head, his right hand slipped down below the waistband at my back and two fingers found and entered my channel. I sucked his cock to an ejaculation and he finger fucked my ass.

I could claim, I suppose, that it was all a valiant effort to stay alive, but it was some of the best sex of my life. By the time he had jerked and unloaded in my throat, we were on what was barely a footpath leading into a ravine in the low mountains. I sat up and looked around, while Afram returned to playing in my head hair with his right hand and in my bush with his left. After a few minutes, I began to be able to identify foliage-covered vehicle shelters and mud-brick huts pushed into the sides of the ravine on each facing slope, their roofs covered with camouflage netting.

We had arrived in the headquarters of Afram’s breakaway Syrian opposition military unit.

Commander Afram was staring at me with eyes that conveyed “I will never let you go.” It was just the look I was going for, while wondering just how long “never” could last in this isolated, civil war world.

* * * *

Saying “Come with me,” in Arabic, Commander Afram pulled me out of the jeep when it came to a halt and bundled me toward a mud-brick building pushed into the side of the ravine so that only its doorway and a single window showed on the face of the ravine wall. An area in front of it was under a canopy of camouflage netting and an armed man in fatigues stood by the open doorway, rifle at the rest. The rifle raised up to a ready position as we approached and the soldier saluted Afram. I still didn’t know if the commander spoke or understood English, and I certainly hoped he didn’t realize that I understood enough Arabic to follow the conversations so far. He cleared part of that up as we approached the sunken building.

“In there,” he said in clear English, as he pushed me into the doorway. He stopped to speak to the guard as he shoved me into the building and I nearly stumbled and fell to the beaten-earth floor. As I righted myself and my eyes adjusted from the glare of the outside to the dimness of the bare room, I realized that someone else was in the room, sitting on the ground against the wall to the left of where I stood. He was wearing only torn trousers, with one of the legs slit up to the waistband. That leg had a crude splint on it and was stretched out straight from his body. The other leg, the trousers also torn, was bent, with the man’s bare foot flat on the floor. His well-muscled torso was bare. He lifted his head, his hair in a military buzz cut, his features chiseled, and I saw that he had been beaten. His face was bruised, one eye was blackened and nearly swollen shut, his lip on one side was puffed up. There were further indications of wounds on his body.

He didn’t move and just gave me a dull, confused look. He couldn’t have moved very far. His wrists were bound and connected to chains anchored into the wall on either side of him. He could have moved a few feet—and I saw a chamber pot a few feet from him in one direction and a bowl and stone mug a few feet in another direction—but the chains wouldn’t have permitted him to come anywhere close to the door.

I didn’t have time to say anything to him or he to me before Afram was entering the room behind me, putting his hands on me, and saying, gruffly, “In the other room. Now.” It was only then that I saw that there was an open door on the far wall and gave access to another room beyond this one.

Afram pushed and pulled me into that room, which contained a single bed—more a cot than a bed—with a brass frame. There was one wooden, straight-backed office chair. A corner of the room had a curtain across it and, beyond that, I could see primitive bathroom facilities—a toilet, a rudimentary sink, and a shower head.

“Strip and get on the bed. I’m about to explode,” Afram growled.

I did so, dropping my clothes haphazardly on the chair, as Afram stripped as well. His body was magnificent—olive-skinned, slight hirsute with black curly hair, and sinewy. There didn’t seem to be an ounce of fat on him. Various signs of old wounds, though, revealed that he’d led a rough, actively military life. I already knew he was hung, and he was in full, upcurved erection again.

When I went down on my back on the bed, I realized that there were restraints attached to frame. My wrists were restrained to the top edges of the brass headboard and my feet, legs spread and bent, were bound flat on top of the far sides of the footboard.

Afram wasted no time in climbing on top of me. He ran his fingers into my reddish-blond curly head hair, going immediately with what I now knew was his fetish for Western men with that coloring, and his lips and teeth went to my pecs, licking and nipping at my sparse matting of hair swirling around my pecs and streaming now my sternum. His lips and teeth followed the thin line down my torso and buried themselves in my bush. He quickly had my cock in his mouth and was giving me head. With my feet bound flat on top of the footboard rung, I was able to use them for leverage to move my pelvis and slowly face fuck his mouth.

Keeping in mind that I needed to please him and to show that he was pleasing me—which he was—and I would give him whatever he wanted for as long as he kept me alive, I fell in with what he indicated he wanted from me and gave him vocal encouragement and praise. He obviously wanted me to come for him as he was sucking my cock, so I did. When I had, he rose up over my body, placing his forehead against mine, holding my eyes captive with him, and moved a hand down to put his cock in position at my hole.

He slowly entered, entered, entered me, the oversized bulb of his upcurved cock dragging along my channel walls, setting my passage muscles into a rippling effect that made both of us gasp and moan. He was watching my eyes to take in the effect of the penetration, so I gave him every bit of passion that a willing and wanting lover would give. I cried out “Yes, yes. Oh, shit! Oh, fuck! Deeper. Fuck me. Fuck me hard!”

And then he did so, pistoning deep and fast. He was virile and long lasting, and I went with him, using the leverage I could get with my feet bound on top of the footrail to move my pelvis in consort with his thrusts, counterpunching and taking him deep. I had learned control of the muscles of my passage walls so that I could caress and squeeze the cock when he slowed the thrusts, making him groan and sending him into a spasm of hard, deep thrusts. We both cried out when he came, and then my passage grasped the cock and milked it for two more jerked post-ejaculations.

He lay, panting and humming on top of me as we both concentrated on the withering of his cock inside me. When he thought it was over and was about to withdraw, though, I used my passage muscles to squeeze on the cock again, rhythmically. He groaned and engorged again and fucked me a second time, more languidly, splitting his attention between the thrusts of his cock and his attention to my reddish-blond hair.

When he was finished this time, I knew that I had him, if ever I was going to have him and forever as long as he would want to keep me alive and servicing him. He released my bonds, rolled off of me, and dressed. I sat up on the side of the cot, rubbing my chaffed wrists, and looking demurely down, playing the complete submissive—the well-satisfied submissive.

“You may move around these two rooms as you like, but don’t even try to leave this building,” he said in quite good English.

I looked up at him with what I hoped were pleading eyes and said, “Don’t leave me. Come back to the bed and fuck me. If I’m not bound I can make love to you.”

“Later,” he said gruffly, but I could tell he was pleased.

“When?” I asked, playing that willing and wanting sex slave.

“Tonight,” he answered, and then he was gone.

I sat there for the longest time, but my curiosity was building. Who was the other prisoner? His hair was black, so he wasn’t here for the same reason I was. So, who was he? What nationality? He didn’t look Arabic. Did I dare go into the other room? Afram had said I could move about in both rooms. I rose from the bed, retrieved my briefs and pulled them on, and went over to the door into the outer room. I stood in the doorway and scanned the outer room. I hadn’t been hallucinating. There indeed was a half-dressed man chained to the side wall. He was looking at me.

“Did you enjoy that? You sounded like you were enjoying it. Does the Syrian fuck well?”

“You speak English,” I said.

“Yes, I’m American. You?”

“Canadian,” I answered. “One does what one has to to stay alive. I’m sure you have done so as well.”

“I don’t have the advantage you seem to have,” the American answered. “I give cock; I don’t take it. And there don’t seem to be any soldiers here interested in taking it.”

“You give cock? You fuck men?”

“When I can, and when I find them arousing. You, standing there in the doorway, leaning against the frame like that, just in your briefs, for instance. That makes me hard. There hasn’t much that makes me hard since I’ve been here. But I’ll have to admit that the beating I took when they found me made me hard. I’ve been sitting here, worrying about why that is so.” He laughed then, and deep, throaty laugh.

“How long have you been here?” I asked. “What brought you here?”

“Two days. I was in a jet, providing air coverage. And then I wasn’t in it anymore. I was parachuting to the ground and my flaming jet was streaming off to crash somewhere else. Some fucker had brought me down with a Stinger or some other ground-to-air. Probably these guys here. I haven’t figured out who they are. I don’t think they are either Syrian government or FAR. The Syrians would have paraded me by now. FAR would have carted me off to a hospital. What the fuck are you doing here? It’s a long way from Canada.”

“I work for an international news agency—Deutsche Welle. I’m a cameraman. The reporter and I were going from Damascus to Homs on assignment. We thought we had free passage. Apparently, we didn’t. Whoever these men are, they stopped us on the road. Shot the reporter and driver. Brought me here.”

“Didn’t shoot you out of the goodness of their hearts?” the airman asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“They knew I took cock. Apparently, the driver sold us out and told them I took cock. The commander—his name is Afram—seems to have a fetish with Western men with red hair. He’s randy and doesn’t have much entrée to Western redheads, I guess. I have red hair.”

“And willingly take cock. I heard you in there. You were having a ball being balled.”

“As I said, one does what one has to do to stay alive.”

“But you enjoyed the fuck. You would have let him fuck you even if he didn’t force it?”

“Yes, I enjoyed the fucks. Yes, I would have let him fuck me if we’d hooked up in a bar. He’s a hunk, and he’s hung. I’ve never had anyone use the color of my hair as a fetish. And it was fucks—multiple—not just once. There were two of them in there. And he did me in the car on the road before bringing me here. And he stroked me off and I gave him a blow job on the way. And I’m still alive.”

“Listening to you in there made me hard. I had to take care of myself, which isn’t the same as doing it with another guy. I’m hard again talking to you. I want to do you too.” I saw that that was true. I saw that he’d pulled a very nice erection out of his pants and was stroking himself off as we talked. I was hardening up too and felt myself panting. “I could have a fetish for red hair too. There are few distractions or pleasures that either of us could get from the situation we’re in.”

“That’s true,” I answered. “That’s a very nice cock you have.”

“I’m curious. Are you hard too, Red?”

“Yes,” I answered truthfully.

“For me?”

“Yes.”

“Show me.”

I did, slipping off my briefs and posing for him in the doorway, my erection jutting out from my reddish-blond bush.

“Very nice. Very nice. So, do you like my cock?”

“Yes.”

“And if we met in a hookup bar, would you go with me and lay down for me?”

“Yes.”

“So, we’re both in a pickle here, with no one to tell us we can’t comfort each other. What do you say? I want you and you want me. Come over here and sit on it. Let’s let loose. Let’s fuck.”

I left the doorway and walked over to him. He remained sitting, his back against the wall and his legs stretched out in front of them, one stiff with a splint on it. He placed his feet on the ground and pushed his pelvis up, his shaft proudly pointing up. I straddled his hips and sat on his cock, facing him, the two of us embracing and kissing, as, after managing the long, taxing slide down his shaft, I rose and fell on his cock in a cowboy. He was young and fit, other than his superficial wounds, and virile. And he was thick and long and hard. We both finished satisfied. I showed him in facial expressions that I enjoyed having him inside me, but we both suppressed vocal responses as best we could so as not to alert the guard we knew was standing outside the entry door.

“I’m Ryan Pelletier,” I whispered in his ear, as we held position and concentrated on him going flaccid inside me.

“Captain Jack Trent, U.S. Air Force, at your service,” he whispered.

“And very good service it is,” I murmured.

“Likewise,” he responded.

“I’m usually not this easy.”

“I don’t give a fuck for what you usually are. You are the first ray of sunshine, red hair and all, I’ve had in two days.”

“What’s going to happen to us, Captain?”

There was a pause and then he said. “I won’t shit you. They’re going to kill us. They’ve held me too long to release me. Either they’ll declare themselves as more radical that either the Syrians or FAR and publicly behead me, or they’ll make me quietly disappear. You? You’re good, but the commander of this this unit can feed his fetish for only so long. If no one’s looking for you who can do so in this no-man’s-land, you’ll quietly disappear too when this Afram has had his itch scratched.”

“So, there’s no hope?”

“Oh, as long as I’m wearing these trousers still, there’s hope.”

I didn’t have a chance to ask what, if anything, Trent meant by then, because we heard a stirring outside the hut, and I quickly rose from him and scurried off into the interior room. Our next meal—possibly our last, I had to recognize—was being delivered.

* * * *

He was good, very good. And fast reloading. He’d come to me after dark, waking me as he climbed on top of me on the cot. I’d been sleeping on my belly and woke to an arm going around my waist, lifting me up on my knees. My arms went over my head, my hands grasping the brass rungs of the headboard, as his tongue went to my hole and his free hand grasped my dangling cock and milked it. I writhed under him, panting hard and moaning. “Yes, yes, fuck me,” I moaned. “Spike me and pound me,” I begged.

And then he was mounted on my ass, and I held steady, pushing my hips back to meet the penetration, taking him deep. And cupping my pecs in his hands and crouching over me, he pounded, pounded, pounded my ass, as I grasped the brass headboard, rocked back into his crotch and cried you, “Yes, yes. You’re a beast! Take it. Take it hard. Get it. GetitgetitGETIT!”

He got it and then rolled over onto his back beside me, closed his eyes, and began to snore quietly.

I could have killed Afram—somehow, maybe with my bare hands even though he was half again larger than me in all ways and surely much the stronger of the two—then. He was laid out on his back, naked, open, vulnerable. But even if I could do that, how would I escape the guard at the door and the rest in the camp? And where would I go? How would I get there? I had clothes, but they’d taken my shoes. How far would I get in the bare Syrian hills? What direction could I go to? The Lebanese border must be nearby, but would I be any safer there?

And Jack Trent. The Air Force captain. What of him even if I could escape?

Afram stirred, his hand going to my pubes, his fingers playing in my reddish-blond bush, the tips of his fingers touching the base of the cock and making me go hard again. I moaned softly and he was making a low moaning sound in his throat as well. I couldn’t help myself. I knelt over him and took his cock in my mouth. He groaned and wrapped his hand around my shaft, stroking me as I gave him deep head, bringing his cock back to attention.

I rode him in a cowboy as he lay on his back, turning around and around on him, causing that oversized bulb of the curved cock to drag along all surfaces of my rippling passage walls. When I could take no more, I spouted my seed on his belly and he jerked and gave a little cry and came again and again, deep inside me, as the muscles of my channel walls grasped and squeezed and milked him.

I was asleep, my chest lowered on his, he still inside me, flaccid, when we heard vehicles approach and a soldier entered the room and spoke in Arabic.

“Yousef is here, Afram. You’ll want to come out to talk to him. I don’t think you’ll want him to see this one.”

Afram roughly pushed me off him and against the wall and rolled off the cot. He spoke to the soldier, apparently his second in command considering how freely they talked to each other, as he pulled on his fatigues and the sound of the vehicles moving in the ravine got louder.

“Yes, we’ll meet him in the command tent.”

“What will you tell him about what to do with the American flyer?”

“I won’t tell him anything,” Afram said. “It will be his problem now. If we want to openly oppose the FAR and he feels we’re strong enough to stand on our own, we can do what ISIS does with them—offer the world a beheading spectacle and a challenge. But I suspect Yousef will just want him to disappear.”

“And this one?”

“What do you think?” Afram said. “It’s just a passing fancy. We’ll be back to fighting soon enough. I’m sure that’s what Yousef is bringing to us—the next phase of the fight.”

They exited the room and my blood went cold. Obviously, they didn’t know I could understand Arabic. My eyes darted around the room, looking for any possible weapon. The best I could see was that a spoon had been left with my eating bowl. It would have to do. I wouldn’t get out of this, but, if I could manage it, neither would Afram. When he came back . . . if he came back . . .

“Ryan.”

I heard Trent calling me in hushed tones from the other room, and I went to him, kneeling beside him. He had his cock out and was stroking it again.

“I heard you two in the other room. Was he good again? Fucked you good, did he?”

“Yes, he fucked me good,” I replied. “I rode his cock too. I did it all.”

“Like you rode me earlier today?”

“Yes.”

“Like you’ll ride me again now?” He gave me his best expression of a puppy dog look.

“Yes, like I’ll ride you now.” And then I did.

We had barely finished when the gunfire started. Trent instinctively pushed me off him toward the back of the room, away from the entrance, and covered my body with his. We both huddled there, trembling, as a firefight continued outside in the ravine.

It stopped and there were several moments of silence. I rolled away from the pilot and sat against the wall a few feet from him.

“What do you think?” I said.

“Don’t know. Could be good; could be very bad.”

Good won. A U.S. naval SEAL appeared in the doorway, holding a rifle. I only knew who it was because Trent called out, “Have the SEALs arrived?”

“That would be us,” came back a gruff voice. “You the missing pilot?”

“Yep,” Trent answered.

“What the hell?” I managed to say.

“I told you that there was hope as long as I kept my trousers,” Trent answered. “There’s a homing device in the waistband of my pants. They tracked me.”

“Who the fuck is the other guy?” the SEAL asked.

Trent turned to me and muttered, “You gonna be this easy when we get out of here?”

“For you? Of course,” I said.

Trent turned his face toward the SEAL, smiled, and said assertively, “He’s with us. He’s going with us.”

“Then you two get the lead out,” the SEAL commanded. “Copters will be here in a minute or two. We’ll have to jump up to them. They don’t want to land on Syrian soil, just so we can say they didn’t. We’ll take you out to the Med over Lebanon and the ship there will take you to Cyprus. This guy—you got clothes you can put on, guy?—an American?”

“He’s Canadian,” Trent said as the SEAL took care of his chains with two shots from the rifle and I scrambled to the other room to pull on my shirt and trousers.

“Close enough. Here, I’ll support you.” He started helping Trent up.

As we struggled out of the hut and up the side of the ravine to where we’d meet the copters, I saw bodies lying around here and there. I assumed they all were Syrians. If any of the Americans had been hit, the SEALs would take them with them. As we moved, other SEALs, rifles ready, eyes scanning in all directions, merged with us.

At the top of the ravine we had a few moments alone while the SEALs cleaned up evidence of their presence and the copters came in. I asked Trent, “What would you have said to the SEAL if I hadn’t agreed to continue being easy for you?”

“How can you say you were easy for me?” he asked with a grin. “You’re giving me no credit for my seduction skills.”

“Yeah, right,” I responded. “You waved your cock at me. That’s all you needed to do.”

“But it’s a very nice cock. And I made it hard just for you.”

“Yes, it’s a very nice cock, but you’re evading the question. What would you have said if I said I didn’t want you to fuck me ever again? And what would the SEAL have done if you told him I was Russian rather than Canadian?”

“We’ll never know, will we? You don’t really want to know, do you?”

“No, I suppose not,” I answered, with a sigh.

For a few seconds I wondered what had happened to Afram—but not for longer than that. I knew he wouldn’t have given more thought to me than that before he blew me away. Pity.

- FINI -