War Zone

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?"

"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."