Come Inside the Fence

April 2002

Up rose the hand holding the swagger stick. It came down with a swish and a snap. The young Afghani, Muktar, an assistant camp cook, grunted and jerked as it caught him on the bare thigh. He was bent over Captain Ned Nessel's bed in the captain's sixteen-by-sixteen general purpose tent within the fences of the small Gamma Delta Marine base near Gardez in Afghanistan's Shah-i-kot Valley. The bed wasn't very substantial but he probably was the only one in the camp that couldn't better be termed a cot. The Taliban had just been run out of the region and the small contingent of Marines had been left at this somewhat makeshift camp to help keep them away.

Muktar was eighteen. He was very accommodating to the American Marines, and Captain Nessel and a few others in camp appreciated the accommodation. The trousers part of the young Afghani's Perahan Tuban was off his legs and in the dirt next to the bed. The back of the tunic part was pushed up over his buttocks. Nessel was mounted on his ass, high, pressing the young man's cheek to the bed with his left hand on the back of Muktar's neck. He was switching the young man's flanks as he doggy fucked him, but he wasn't putting much force behind the strikes. Muktar was scrabbling at the blanket on the bed with his left hand and had his right, under his belly, stroking himself off.

With a little cry, he came. Moments later so did the captain. Nessel released the young man and moved to the washbasin to wash his shaft off, as a whimpering Muktar gathered up his trousers and headed for the closed flap of the tent entrance. A sergeant who was "in the know" was standing outside the entrance, keeping everyone else away.

"No, dress first," Nessel hissed at the Afghani servant from across the tent, and, still trembling, Muktar stopped, pulled on his trousers, exited the tent, and hobbled as best he could toward the kitchen tent. The camp commander was only twenty-nine. He was a hard-bodied, vigorous and virile U.S. Marine. Luckily for Muktar, who was accustomed to taking men's cocks, Nessel was also a handsome devil.

Nessel dressed in his day uniform and came out of the tent. He nodded to the hunky and buff black sergeant, Sylus Simon, who nodded back. The captain looked out toward the chain-link fence next to the entry into the camp compound. Sergeant Simon drifted away, on longer needed to be on guard duty at the captain's tent flap. He was one of Nessel's compatriots in sexual preference. He had enjoyed Muktar himself before, and would be accorded opportunity to do so again.

Young Afghani men came out every day to line the fence of Gamma Delta Base near Gardez, Afghanistan, in the shadow of the Hindu Kush Mountains near the border with Pakistan. It wasn't supposed to be known that a U.S. Marine base was even here, although it was more a small temporary-building and tent camp. But of course the locals knew. So did the remnants of the Taliban terrorists that only recently had been moved out of the area in organized force. The Americans wanted the terrorists to know the Marines were there. The base was there to proclaim continued U.S. presence and prevention of the reawakening of Taliban in eastern Afghanistan.

The Afghani youths came to sell whatever goods or services to the Marines they could, and they continued coming because, in their loneliness and boredom, the Marines encouraged the visits. The young American soldiers bought a few trinkets and they dispensed cigarettes and coins and, occasionally, outdated ration packs—and, of course, smiles and a bit of chit chat. Sometimes a few men ventured outside the fence and played a form of American baseball, touch football, or soccer with the young Afghanis.

Although the young men were there constantly during daylight, not being permitted to be there when the sun was down, the Marines came out to the fence on very erratic schedules, ever aware of the possibility of terrorist attack. In fact, the major job of the twenty-nine-year-old base commander, Captain Nessel, was to be ever mindful of base protection and the possibility of terrorist attack. He took this job very seriously.

Still, this was both an isolated and danger posting, and he had his fetishes, as did a few of his men, which were accentuated under these conditions. His fetishes included a sexual attraction to eighteen-year-old youths, males becoming men in musculature but still with some of the smooth-skinned flexibility of youths and a willingness to take command. Such fetishes festered in the Afghan desert. And he was ever mindful of the possibility of serving that need, even out here in a remote region of the world.

Thus, he didn't discourage the presence of the Afghani youths at the fence line, and he often walked the line himself—searching and assessing opportunities.

One day while walking the line he stopped across the fence from a handsome, slim, dark-haired and -eyed Afghani youth who was displaying several Afghani oriental prayer rugs he wished to sell to the soldiers. Rugs from this region did, in fact, have high resell value in Europe and the United States, so they were a good buy. At the side of the young man was an ornately decorated wooden shoeshine box. Nessel stopped because the young man was quite handsome and had smiled at him in a certain way as he approached and had called out, "Lutfan gilemhoi zeʙoi maro ʙixared, ustod—Please buy my beautiful carpets, Master."

Captain Nessel understood enough Tajik, which was one of the major languages of the region, to know that the young man had rugs for sale. Many varieties of good-quality Afghani carpets, many types that would sell well in the States, were available here. He could see that the ones the young man had were Bukhara rugs of very good quality. Of even more interest to him, though, was the ornate wood shoe shine box inlaid with brass fittings.

Truth be told, however, of even more interest to Captain Nessel was the fine-looking Afghan youth.

It was unusual for one of the youths to be enterprising enough to offer a useful service rather than rugs and trinkets for sale. Polished boots wouldn't be a big deal out here in a remote area of Afghanistan, except that this was a Marine base. The soldiers did, in fact, spit polish their boots to a high gloss. They were judged on the shine of their combat boots.

The young man had seen that the captain seemed more interested in his shoeshine box than in the rugs. He looked down at Nessel's boots when the captain stopped in front of him and then, with a strategic pause further up, raised his face to look into Nessel's. The gesture wasn't lost on the captain. The youth's gaze had paused at the Marine officer's crotch. Nessel only stopped briefly in front of the Afghani youth that day, but he came out to the fence at nearly the same time the next day, and the young man, with his rugs and shoeshine box, was there. This time the Marine captain was carrying a swagger stick. Again he paused in front of the young man selling the rugs during his walk down the line.

The boy called out the boot shine offer, "Lutfan gilemhoi zeʙoi maro ʙixared, ustod" again as the captain approached and Nessel stopped in front of him again. A couple of Marines had come to the fence with him. They had open cigarette packages, and Nessel directed that individual cigarettes be given to the youths other than the one he was standing in front of through the opening between the metal links of the fence. He kept a full pack himself in his left hand. He held the swagger stick in his right and periodically flicked it against his right leg.

After a pause, he spoke to the young man. "Ba man qolin lozim nest. Ammo ojo şumo mexohed mūzahoi maro sajqal dihed? Nomi şumo cī? Tu cand sola?—I don't need a carpet. But do you want to polish my boots? What is your name? How old are you? Christ, I don't know if I said that right," he added.

"I speak English," the young man said, and it was, indeed, passable English. "I understood you, but we can speak in English. My name is Isaad. I am eighteen-years-old. Yes, I want to polish your . . . boots. I give very good service."

Nessel smiled at the young man's declaration that he was eighteen. He would have guessed as much. He was very pleased he was right. "Why is it you speak English?"

"My father once worked at the American embassy in Kabul," Isaad said. "My family loves America. We would do anything for America, Master." He looked up into Captain Nessel's face then, and the Marine officer saw what he wanted to see in the young man's features. Was that an accident that he had dropped a hand over his genital area?

"Perhaps tomorrow or the next day," Captain Nessel said. "Come again and maybe I and a couple of more of the soldiers here might be interested in your services."

"I give very, very good services, Master," Isaad said. "You will be very, very pleased to use me. I have a friend who can speak for me. His name is Muktar. He works in your kitchen."

"We'll see." Nessel said, giving a little smile at the mention of the local youth who he occasionally was banging—and who no doubt told this friend of his as much. He gave the young man a long look and turned to walk away, but then he turned back. "You have looked at my swagger stick a couple of times."

"Yes, Master. I have seen how you strike it against your leg. It attracts attention."

"Does that interest you, Isaad?"

"Yes, Master. Very much so. Muktar has told me about your stick."

Nessel smiled, even more assured now that they were talking on the same wavelength. "Here, Isaad, I meant to give you these." He pushed the cigarette pack he'd held in his left hand through the fence and Isaad took it with a smile. The other youths had been given only one or two individual cigarettes each and had been delighted to receive them. Isaad had received a whole pack in exchange for what? For a few smiles and an understanding of accommodation.

* * * *

"That young man there—the one with the carpets and the shoeshine box. Let him through the gate."

The gate was opened and Isaad, clutching a few rolled-up carpets and his ornately brass-embossed wooden shoeshine box entered the compound, He was directed over to where Captain Nessel was standing. A solider stood on either side of the captain: Sergeant Sylus Simon, mid-forties, ebony back, bodybuilder muscular to his right, and Corporal Drew Douglas, a ginger-haired twenty-five, slim, hard-bodied, and slightly sneering young man to the left. In front of each of the soldiers was a pair of dusty combat boots.

"You wish to polish these boots for us?" the captain asked. "You wish to serve our needs?"

"Yes, very much, please," Isaad said, going down on his knees in front of the boots.

"You will give good service to each of these soldiers and to me?" Captain Nessel asked. He had his swagger stick, which he was flicking against his leg.

"Yes. Very, very good service, Master."

"You should be paid before you do it," Nessel said, and at his signal, each of the three handed Isaad enough U.S. dollar bills to make him gasp and knock his head three times on the ground. By this time, he understood that they weren't talking about boot polishing services, but even with that he was completely overwhelmed with what they were willing to pay him.

"Corporal Douglas here will stand with you while you polish the boots and will help you bring them into my tent for inspection and approval when you are done. I'll take what carpets you brought and lay them out in my tent to consider them."

With that, Nessel and Sergeant Simon retired to the captain's sixteen-by-sixteen-foot general purpose tent, the sides of which had been reenforced with sandbagging.

When the boots were polished, the corporal took up his and the sergeant's and nodded to the captain's. Isaad took those up and the two entered the commodious tent. Three camp chairs were set in a semicircle, with the carpets Isaad had brought laid out in front of them. A plans table was off to the side, and a twin-sized bed was in the background. Nessel was sitting in the middle chair, with Simon sitting in the chair to his right. After depositing Simon's and his boots in front of their chairs, Douglas took his seat with the other soldiers.

Isaad set the captain's boots down in front of him and knelt on one of the carpets he'd brought. He knocked his head to the ground three times.

"Be honest with us now, Isaad," Captain Nessel said. "Did you come to the fence to sell carpets or to shine soldier's boots or with the hope that the soldiers would pay you to take their cocks?"

"Take their cocks?" Isaad said, not quick to latch into the captain's baldness.

"Lay down for the soldiers and let them fuck you. Like your friend Muktar," Nessel said.

"I would shine boots if that was all that was wanted," Isaad answered, his face looking down at the dirt of the tent floor.

"But?"

"But if the soldiers wanted some other service, I would be happy to provide. Muktar gives us reason to come to the fence."

Captain Nessel laughed. "We three would like to be happy," he said.

When Isaad looked up, it was to find the three Marines pulling their tight camouflage T-shirts over their heads, their ID tags jangling, and unbuttoning their flies and pulling half-hard cocks out. All three were buff as could be expected under these conditions. The captain had a nice cock, but it wasn't as long as Douglas's or either as long or as thick as Simon's jet-black monster.

"You will take each of us for the money we have given you to polish our boots?" the captain asked, "or do you go beyond the fence again, not to be brought back inside ever again?"

"I will serve you all, Master," Isaad answered.

"Take your Perahan Tuban off and turn for us, Isaad," the captain said.

Not being surprised at this turn of events, Isaad rose, pulled his white trousers off his legs and the tunic over his head and unknotted his loincloth, letting that drop and becoming naked. He had a beautiful small, smooth-skinned, desert-kissed, berry-brown body. He was young enough to be slim, willowy, and narrow hipped, but he was becoming a man enough to show some forming up of muscle and to attain an erection. He was on his way to an erection now. The three soldiers were ahead of him on the score.

But Isaad clearly knew the score.

The captain raised a hand and moved it in a circular motion, and, understanding what was wanted, Isaad turned slowly for the men, giving them a full view of the goods.

"You say that Muktar told you what could be expected in this tent," Nessel said.

"Yes, Master."

"And you agree to be here."

"Yes, Master."

"I don't think my boots are polished enough," the captain said. "We do spit polishing in the Marines."

Understanding that too, Isaad went down on his knees again in front of the captain's polished boots and worked them over with his tongue.

"Enough," Nessel eventually said. "Are you a virgin, Isaad? Don't lie and say you are if you are not. It will be fine if you are experienced."

"Alas, I am not a virgin, Master. A man must make a living."

"Well used? You lay down and open your legs for men in your village?"

"My uncle has a house of pleasure—for men." He didn't need to be more explicit than that.

"Do some of the men come into the village from the hills?" Nessel asked. "Are some of the men covering you terrorists? Are the Taliban still here?"

"One never knows for sure in Afghanistan these days," Isaad cryptically answered. Nessel thought it was an honest answer. One couldn't even be sure whether or not the men in Isaad's village were Taliban or other forms of terrorists.

"Show us what you have, Isaad. Go on your back. Dig your heels in. Lift your hips. Let us see your hole—show us how well used you are."

Isaad assumed the position demanded of him. Indeed, he was no virgin. He was well used, gaping open.

"I am sorry, Master," he murmured. He would not be tight. He assumed that was what the solders would want—a tight passage.

"Don't be," Nessel said, standing and coming forward to where Isaad lay on his back, legs spread and bent, pelvis elevated. "Stay in that position," the captain commanded. He was wearing combat boots—well polish ones. Hovering over the Afghani youth, he pressed the toe of his right boot under Isaad's balls and down to his hole, rhythmically pressing the boot toe at the hole. Isaad gasped, moaned, and grabbed the top of the captain's boot as Nessel toed his opening, not being able to penetrate but working the hole rhythmically regardless.

"I am yours, Master. Take me," Isaad murmured.

"I will do that, indeed," Nessel answered.

Nessel was stroking his own cock as he did so, as were the other two soldiers. Pulling his boot away from the Afghani youth's ass, he went back to his chair and sat. "Suck us all off now," he commanded and, shuffling on his knees from the captain's spread thighs, to the corporal's and then the black sergeant's, Isaad sucked the three soldiers to full erections.

While he was deep-throating the sergeant's cock, the captain asked, "Are you ready Sergeant Simon?"

"Ready, Captain," the black muscle man said.

"Rise, Isaad, and sit on the sergeant's shaft."

Having taken the measurement of all three of the hardening rods, Isaad whimpered, but he did as commanded. He stood as the black sergeant opened his arms, pulling the Afghani youth onto his lap, facing him, and forcing his passage down on the huge shaft. Despite not being tight, Isaad suffered the possession by the jet-black shaft, but he took what he was being commanded to take.

Isaad nearly sobbed, groaning and writhing a bit as the cock penetrate and then moved up, stretching and reaching deep. The other two soldiers, cocks in hand, leaned over and watched as Simon got fully saddled and then he and the Afghani youth started working in unison on the rise and fall of the channel on the shaft. Isaad indeed was experienced and knew what to do as an active submissive.

Simon grasped the young man's butt cheeks and separated, squeezed, and rolled them as he raised and lowered the passage on his shaft. Isaad grasped the man's bulging black biceps, buried his face in the hollow of Simon's throat and groaned deeply to the cadence of the rise and fall of the cock.

Nessel leaned over and whispered, "Have you ever taken it from a big, black man, Isaad?"

"No, Master, I have not."

"Well, enjoy it. You will certainly remember it."

The Aghani youth's pants and groans indicated that he was beyond just enjoying it.

When the rhythm of the fuck had been established, Captain Nessel said, "Now you too, Douglas," and the corporal rose from his chair, erection in hand, and went over to Simon. Seeing him coming, Simon squeezed Isaad's butt cheeks and raised and rolled them up. Douglas crouched down behind Isaad's back and facing Simon. He put his cock in position at the Afghani youth's hole above where Simon's monster cock already was buried up to the root.

Isaad cried out and writhed as Douglas worked his long cock in above Simon's. The two soldiers held the young man closely between them as he panted and moaned and their cocks worked his passage together.

It was fortuitous that Isaad had been well used already and wasn't a virgin. It wasn't clear that the soldiers would have fucked him this way anyway, though.

When the two had finished in him, Nessel directed them to carry him over to the bed and lay him there on his belly, which they did. Isaad was stretched out there, so exhausted that, when his right arm slipped off the side of the bed and dangled there, he didn't have the energy or strength to move it back onto the bed. Cheek to bed and eyes dully looking out toward the tent entrance, Isaad offered no resistance to whatever happened to him now.

And the Marines were not finished with him.