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War Zone — Newsman's sexual captivity in volatile Syrian war zone.

Added Date: Feb 29, 2020 | Category: Uniform Gay Sex | Viewed: (246) times

War Zone

Samir could hardly be called delicate in declaring who or what he was. I guess his blatant arrogance was what attracted me to him and had me submitting to him—that he seemed to have every reason to have supreme self-confidence. When he opened the door of the Dama Rose Hotel room in Damascus, Syria, on the first knock and our driver was standing there in the corridor, Samir Schwartz, a dual Lebanese and German national and one of Deutsche Welle's premier Mideast military reporters, was only in his briefs and I, Ryan Pelletier, his Canadian cameraman, was two steps away from him and retreating, stripped to the waist and tugging the zipper of my fly up.

Nabil, the driver, looked us both up and down with a sly little smile on his face. He, of course, wasn't the least bit fooled what was going on between us. It wasn't the first time in the three days we'd been in making arrangements to get to Homs, then held by the Syrian opposition and under siege, across contested territory, that he'd seen us in compromising positions.

It didn't seem to faze Samir a bit. To him a Syrian driver wasn't anyone to take into account in any way. He didn't give a shit whether Nabil knew—or strongly suspected—that he was spiking his cameraman. Which, of course, he was. He was the German international news agency, Deutsche Welle's, go-to reporter in going out on the edge of battle in the Mideast, so they gave him what he wanted to get that done. The tensions of the job were such that he needed release—sexual release—while he was on the edge. He needed a cameraman in any event, but I had been matched with him because I was known to be a gay bottom and he'd picked me out from cameramen DW had offered him. He was a star. He got what he wanted. On that basis I agreed to serve—and service—him. He was a star and he was a hunk.

"You didn't answer your phone, Mr. Schwartz," Nabil said, his gaze going between the half-dressed Samir and me. "I came to your room to let you know that I'm in the lobby and we have a narrow opening for driving to Homs."

"We'll be down in forty-five minutes, Nabil." Samir answered.

"That will be cutting it close, Sir," Nabil said. "The safe-passage agreements are limited." The driver gave me a despairing look and I gestured a "sorry, there's nothing I can do" back at him. Nabil and I had gotten along quite well. He wasn't the regular Deutsche Welle driver in Damascus, the regular one having gone missing and Samir had been short and rude to Nabil about getting lost in the Damascus streets a couple of times. But I had treated him with respect and even had talked to him in my broken Arabic, showing interest in him, recognizing him as part of the team. He seemed to appreciate that. And when he'd realized that I was there to accommodate Schwartz's sexual needs, he'd hinted that I shouldn't debase myself that way, but he hadn't gotten pushy about it. I'd even gotten the hint that he was interested in me himself, but I wasn't aroused by him and I had my hands full with Samir's demands.

"We'll be down in about forty-five minutes," Samir repeated.

"Yes, sir," the driver said, and Samir shut the door on him.

"Now, where were we?" the reporter said. "Ah, yes, a bit of relief. On your knees, please."

And, so I went on my knees in front of him by the door to the corridor, while he pulled his erection out of the fly of his briefs. When I'd worked him up with my mouth, he said, "Strip your pants off and bend over the bed."

He was the boss, and I was a submission. So, I stripped off my trousers and briefs and leaned over the foot of the single king-sized bed in the room. He knelt behind me, grasped my cock through my legs, and stroked it and alternated sucking it and eating my ass out.

I begged for him before he was finished preparing me, and, with a laugh, he stood, held my head down on the surface of the bed with one hand pressing down on the back of my neck, saddled up behind me, and used his other hand to guide himself into me. I yelped as he entered me, gasping and moaning. But I widened my stance to give him a more open channel and settled down to pushing back to meet his thrusts. He immediately went deep and set up a steady rhythm and I fell right into it. He was hunk—handsome and well built, with a German's sturdy build, inherited from his father, an exotic dark hair and eyes and an olive cast to his skin, inherited from his mother. Whoever he'd inherited the big cock from, it definitely complemented the package.

Despite the time pressure, he didn't hurry, but I came in not much more than ten minutes and he came on the small of my back, having pulled out of me and stripped off his condom before ejaculating, in not much longer. There was no passion involved. I didn't expect any. The goal was to release his tension, get him off, and that's as far as it went. It didn't matter whether I took pleasure or release from the act. I had to stroke myself off while he was doggy fucking me. To him, that was all that he needed, or required—to get his rocks off to keep the adrenaline going.

I probably was little more to him than Nabil, the driver, was, albeit I was younger and a whole lot better looking. We both served a function for Schwartz—no more, no less. I didn't expect more. He was a hunk and was an international star in journalism. It was a privilege to be working with him, and, as an acknowledged submissive, it was a privilege for me to service him on his terms. I didn't require any more from him than to service him this way and be able to work next to him as he spun his journalism magic. It would look good on my résumé and would help me get on higher-level coverage teams. And I didn't have to say I had to open my legs to him to work with him; the important people in the business would already know, and it would just add to my skills with them.

I knew that later, after a successful mission, he'd be even more hopped up. Then I'd get a good fucking and would be able to celebrate a well-completed mission in more than one dimension. He'd take no prisoners and I'd be one happy captive.

Forty minutes after Samir had closed the door on the driver, we were entering the lobby.

We were met in the lobby by Deutsche Welle's Damascus bureau chief, who was nearly wringing his hands.

"It might be too late to try the run now," he said. "It's already later than the timing on the passes." It was quite understandable why the passes were so hard to obtain—permission of transit to Homs to do news coverage there had had to be obtained from the two main sides of the civil war conflict in Syria, the capricious and brutal Syrian regime and its major enemy, FAR, the Free Army of Syria. And there were other marauding bands out there too that couldn't even be approached to obtain safe passage permission. Both sides wanted to have a statement about the status of Homs established in the international news—the Syrian government that they had taken control over the city again and the FAR that the Syrian government had committed genocide in the city to regain it—so there definitely was a narrow window for this reporting.

Samir Schwartz hadn't gained his international reputation for not taking chances, though.

"How easy will it be to get documentation again, and when are we likely to get it?" he asked.

The bureau chief just shrugged his shoulders. Samir turned to the driver, Nabil, who also just shrugged his shoulders. But he was bold enough to say, "We needed to leave when I came to tell you we needed to leave."

"Will you still drive us?" Samir asked.

Nabil shrugged his shoulders.

"For more money? Twice what you were going to be paid?" Samir asked. He turned to the Damascus bureau chief. "It will be an exclusive. No reporter has been in Homs since the government retook it. You'll pay the driver double, right?"

The bureau chief shrugged again, but it was one of acquiescence. He pulled out his wallet and started dispensing pound notes into the driver's outstretched hand.

Giving a smile, Nabil opened the doors of the old Mercedes sedan and smiled. Samir took the front passenger seat, which left me in the back. And then we were off, up the coast from Damascus toward the next city of any size in Syria, Homs.

* * * *

The road distance between Damascus and Homs was slightly less than 100 miles and would normally, before the civil war, have taken an hour and a half to drive. Now, though, they were a world apart and it was iffy to be able to drive between them at all. It took us more than a half hour just to get out of Damascus from the hotel. We were stopped twice at Syrian army checkpoints, and, although they honored the safe passage documents we had, at both checkpoints we were advised that we wouldn't be able to reach Homs, do our business, and get back to Damascus within the time constraints of the document and given current conditions on the road. It was clear they didn't really appreciate war correspondents nosing into their business and they'd really rather we left Syria altogether.

Samir was having none of it. He was imperial and rude, which, interestingly enough, seemed to work with the checkpoint soldiers. He completely ignored their advice on time constraints, as well. That undoubtedly was because he'd told me, in confidence, that we weren't planning on returning to Damascus from Homs today. Unbeknownst even to the Deutsche Welle bureau chief in Damascus, Schwartz had made other plans. Homs was only miles away from the northern Lebanese border, and Samir had many and significant contacts and supporters in Lebanon. He planned to stay in and report from Homs for several days and then make the short drive to the Lebanese border, where we would be admitted and helped onward.

He hadn't asked me if I was good with these plans. He obviously thought that my ambition to gain a reputation for taking wartime risks and his sexual hold over me were enough to marry me to his plans. I'm somewhat ashamed that he hadn't thought wrongly—particular when he came to his sexual hold over me—but he hadn't, in fact, thought wrongly. I hadn't told him "no" and I hadn't told the Damascus bureau chief what Samir had planned. I'm sure Samir didn't even think of telling the driver, Nabil, what he planned to do. Once in Homs, Samir probably thought Nabil could make his own way back to Damascus if he didn't want to stay. Samir had made arrangements for concealed transport between Homs and the Lebanese border.

As we moved into the countryside, the terrain became desolate and desert like. The sense of desolation and abandonment was emphasized by the infrequent mud-brick hovels, or small groups of same, we passed on the road. They uniformly were deserted and had been burned out. This was a civil war zone and had been so for some time, with more than just internecine fighting on the ground, with territory sacrificially gained and quickly lost again. Foreign powers—the Russians, the United States, and the French—had strafe bombed to support whatever faction was in favor with them for that week and on that particular battlefield.

Forty miles outside of Damascus—and more than an hour of driving over potholed asphalt that would have been more usable left as a dirt road—we approached the only established village between Damascus and Homs on National Route 5, An Nabk. We were stopped at a checkpoint at the entrance of the village and held up there for a half hour by Syrian army soldiers before being permitted to proceed. We then drove through a section of the village that was inhabited, but only sparsely, with dirty and forlorn children and old women coming out on the road and, with dull-eyed expression, begging for alms.

Samir, who had been interviewing Nabil on his perspective of the civil war ever since we'd left Damascus, with Nabil obviously not wanting to declare his views, swore at the driver to quickly drive through the beggars on the street. But Nabil had obviously known what we'd find here and had come prepared. He took a canvas bag from underneath his seat. The sound it made told me that it contained coins. He rolled down his window and tossed coins out as we slowly passed by. There were beggars on my side of the car too. Nabil tried to hand the canvas bag with half the coins to Samir to dispense, but Samir just swore at him. I leaned over the seat and volunteered to take the bag. Nabil smiled at me and handed me the bag. And that was how we progressed into the center of the village, keeping villagers away from the car by tossing coins far out on either side the vehicle.

There was another Syrian army checkpoint in the village square. After another delay and clearing that, we entered a no-man's zone, as the opposition forces, the Free Syrian Army, the FAR, held the outskirts of the other side of the town. From there to Homs, we would be in contested territory. Our luck held when we got to the FAR checkpoint. The rebels were more interested in getting our news coverage out than the Syrian government was, and they waved us through quickly, with smiles on their faces and declarations of "America."

I found the declarations disturbing, as we'd done everything we could not to identify ourselves with the United States, which supported the FAR in this battle with arms and air support. I was Canadian and Samir was traveling on a German passport, both countries that were neutral in this fight.

Five miles out of An Nabk, we were stopped by another, unexpected, checkpoint.

"There shouldn't be a checkpoint here," Samir said, his voice nervous.

"Checkpoints come and go," Nabil said.

"Are there other forces in the area than the Syrian army and the FAR?" Samir asked.

"Sometimes, yes," Nabil answered. "The FAR is breaking up. The offshoot forces are against the government too, but they aren't happy with the U.S. support given to the FAR."

"Shit," Samir said. "Do you think we can run the checkpoint?"

"If you want to die," Nabil said, and he brought the Mercedes to a stop. The vehicle was surrounded by men in camouflage. I couldn't see any indication of affiliation identification.

The solider who obviously was in charge barked for us to get out of the car. Nabil and I responded immediately. Nabil came around the trunk of the car, took my hand, and guided me away from where Samir had, slowly, reluctantly, and with curses and rattling our transit documentation in hand, opened his door and exited.

"Come," Nabil whispered, and he pulled me around to the other side of the car. The soldiers didn't stop us. Samir was putting up quite a spectacle and all eyes were on him. The soldiers all had rifles, pointed at the sky, except for the man who obviously was his commander. He held a pistol in his hand.

Samir was blustering still, when the commander lifted his pistol and shot Samir right between the eyes. He came down in a heap beside the car. My knees gave way and I started collapsing to the broken asphalt too. Nabil grabbed me and kept me from falling. That was when he whispered to me, "Cooperate fully. Give Afram whatever he wants and you will live longer. He has a fetish for small, slim Western men with reddish hair."

That was me.

Afram? Nabil obviously was referring to the commander who had shot Samir and was using his name. And Nabil knew of the man's sexual interests? This wasn't a random checkpoint stop. And I doubted that these soldiers were from either the Syrian army or the FAR or that Nabil didn't know exactly who these men were.

Commander Afram directed two men to drag Samir's body off onto the verge of the road, which they did, and he walked around the car to where Nabil and I were standing. He was holding his pistol at the ready in his hand. I felt my knees go weak again, but Nabil held me up.

"Is this the man you told me about?" he asked, addressing Nabil in Arabic. "He is good?"

"I think he is good, Commander," Nabil answered in Arabic. "The journalist used him frequently and looked quite satisfied when he had done so."

"He does look good," the Commander said. Then he turned to me and said, "American?"

"No, no," I stumbled in saying. "Canada. Canadian. Neutral."

He extended his arm, pushing the barrel of the pistol into my stomach, between the buttons. Quaking, I closed my eyes, waiting for the inevitable, but, with a jerk, he pulled the barrel upward, popping the buttons off my shirt and flaring it open. I felt his hand on my chest and opened my eyes. I looked into his eyes and saw lust—lust for man flesh. I then understood what Nabil had meant by pleasing the man in order to stay alive longer. The commander wanted to fuck me first.

There was more than that, though. He had made a deal with Nabil.

"You may have him as agreed," the commander said to Nabil in Arabic. "But make it quick. We have to get off the road."

I stood there, trembling and both dumbly and numbly, as Nabil opened the rear door on the driver's side, turned me and gently pushed me onto my back on the backseat, my buttocks on the edge of the seat at the door. He pulled my trousers and briefs off and then lifted and spread my legs, positioning my still-booted feet, my legs spread, on the ceiling of the car. He unzipped himself and pulled out his cock. He was in erection. He moved his torso into the car, over me, positioned his cock head at my entrance, and started working it inside me.

It was hard go taking him. Not because he was particularly big, but because he was fucking me dry, without preparation—and without a condom. It took a few minutes, with the commander demanding that he hurry up, for him to adjust to me and me to him. But then we were fucking. He was groaning and I was moaning, and we were setting up a rhythm, one guided by instinct on my part because I was still scared shitless. When I was sheathing him fully and had opened enough for the friction to arouse us both, he brought his face to mine and we kissed. His mouth then went to my ear. "Give him all that he wants; make him want more," he whispered. "Do what you must to remain alive. And don't let him know you know some Arabic."

After that, we both got into the fuck. The commander entered the driver's side, knelt in the seat, and leaned over the seat and watched. I did what I could to show that I was into the fuck and that I'd go willingly submissive in even these conditions. The commander got a hand between us, grasped my cock, and stroked me off while Nabil was fucking me. I turned dreamy eyes to him, conveying that he was handsome and desirable, which, in any other circumstance he would be, being tall, well built, olive-skinned, and dark eyed and curly haired. He had a silky two-day-old beard and a chiseled face.

I could tell that, as he was stroking my cock, he had his out and was stroking it with the other hand. The older soldiers were gathered around outside the Mercedes and watching the fuck.

I came in Afram's hand. He laughed and exited the car, Sure enough he'd had his cock out and he was in full erection. His cock wasn't particularly thick but it was long and cruelly curved up, a regular Saracen sword, crowned with a particularly big, purple bulb.

Outside of the vehicle, he roughly pulled Nabil, who hadn't come yet, off me, thrust him aside into the clutches of two soldiers, and replace him on top of me. I cried out as he thrust up inside me, reaching far deeper than Nabil had. He ran his hands up my arms and grasped my wrists, holding my arms above my head on the backseat of the car. He fucked me swiftly, vigorous, pounding me hard with full withdrawals and thrusts forward and up. Gasping and groaning, my eyes flashing, my body writhing, and my pelvis going with the fuck as I leveraged off my feet pressed into the ceiling of the car, I gave him a first-class ride. The words of admonishment Nabil gave me and the memory of Samir's dead body collapsing on the road were running through my mind again and again.

That said, Commander Afram gave me a first-class fuck, leaning over and grasping the hollow of my neck with his teeth, drawing blood, but neither of us caring, and filled me deep with his cum. He had a dipping motion in his thrusts that caused the bulb of his up-curved cock to slide along the walls of my channel, intimately kissing it. This, in turn, set me into shuddering and moaning and the muscles of my channel wall to ripple over his cock head and make him gasp and groan as well. There was no doubt that we were both having a good time. I didn't have to act to convey that despite the danger I was in—and perhaps partially because the danger. My nerves were flashing, each thrust of his sending a current of pleasurable electricity through me. If this was to be my last fuck, it would be a scintillating sendoff.

He'd let out a little victory cry when he began to fire off, hitting me with four or five virile blasts before he was emptied out, assuring me that he'd had a good time. As he withdrew, he let his teeth move down my exposed chest, nipping me on the nipples and elsewhere down to my navel, pulling little yelps and jerks out of me that he seemed to enjoy. I made sure to cry out "Oh, Fuck! Oh, Shit! Yes!" when he did this as I had done when his rolling ejaculation had started, to let him know that he was mastering me.

It wasn't really a ploy. He had mastered me.

I realized what Nabil had meant by the fetish when Afram's head went below my navel. He spent a couple of minutes in my reddish-gold pubic bush, kissing me there and licking down the hair before, with a snort he was satiated and all business again.

Roughly pulling me out of the backseat of the Mercedes when he was done and stopped pulsating his spurts of cum inside me, Afram pushed my briefs and trousers into my stomach and called for two soldiers to take me to his jeep. Again, he spoke in Arabic, and I made like I didn't understand what he was saying.

We were half way to a jeep parked off the road, me being manhandled along by a soldier on either side of me when I heard the shot. Instinctively, I stopped and turned my head, as the two soldiers did as well, and did so quickly enough to see Nabil's body sink to the pavement beside the car.

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?"


"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?"


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


"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 . . .


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?"


"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.

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