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Special Forces Captain learns love in prison; so does wife
They say it just take one fuck-up to ruin a perfect score, and I kept hearing that in the back of my mind as I ran over the sand dunes, damning myself for getting separated from my team! Bullets hitting around me, spitting up little yellow geysers of sand, and behind me the chunk-a sound of AK-47s let me know I was in deep shit. I ran toward a dune, struggled up the side, cursing the soft sand–like running in molasses–but gasping in relief as I dropped over the top, away from the attacking terrorists.
I was part of a secret special ops mission in northern Africa, hitting an Al Qaeda camp, but something had gone wrong. I hurried down the dune. Around a corner, though, I found myself staring straight into the barrels of six AK-47s and the men forming the other pincer of the trap. “Arrêt! Redditez-vous! Tombez-vous votre arme!!”
Speaking French? Algerians? Fuck, did we cross the border somewhere? I stopped, dropped my M-16, and raised my arms.
I knew what would come next, and it did. They, of course, beat the shit out of me, and took me back to their camp.
After a couple of days of more beatings, they sent me to a “detention camp” of the Djihad du Feu Saint, the Jihad of the Holy Fire. That put a heavy rock in the pit of my stomach: my buddies in the SF team would not know where to look for me, and I knew they would come looking.
How could they find me in that nowhere? After a three-hour ride in the back of a truck, I arrived at two small wooden buildings in the middle of a flat area in the sand dunes. Winds had blown the sand against the buildings as if slowly swallowing them up. In distant spots around the flat area, men crouched under piles of junk, pieces of cardboard, and a piece of corrugated tin. And all around us was the desert. Not a tree, not a bush, nothing but rolling sand.
They threw me down from the truck. “Vous voyez que nous n’a pas de barrière?”
Yeah, no fences. “Le désert est votre prison. Si vous partez ce lieu, vous mourez. Vous devriez nous remercier–nous vous gardons vivant.” Yeah, right. The desert is our prison. Anybody who wanders away will die. I didn’t like the part, though, about how we should be grateful that they are keeping us alive. After that “introduction to the camp,” the guards pushed me into the largest of the wooden buildings.
No furniture in the room. Smears of blood on the walls. Oh,shit. They beat me unconscious and threw me out of the building into the hot sand.
The next thing I knew, I woke up as somebody trickled a little water over my lips. I opened my eyes and struggled to sit up.
I was in the shade, in a rickety lean-to made of a section of corrugated tin about 10 feet square, one side held up about three feet off the ground by sticks steadied in piles of rocks. Sand dunes had flowed around it and into it.
I lay on a torn piece of canvas maybe six feet square. A man lay beside me, holding a canteen to my lips.
His face was brutal. Fierce. Dangerous. Thick black eyebrows over eyes so dark brown they looked black, and they burned into me like laser beams. Tousled black hair. A bushy black beard.
Brown skin, big nose. I figured him for an Arab, and at first I was alarmed, but hell, he was holding a canteen of water to my lips, so he couldn’t be an enemy. No doubt somebody who’d gotten in the terrorists’ way.
I realized with a start that my uniform was gone, even my boots. I was naked!
So was he. And god, was he naked!
A big man. Taller than I–could see that even as we lay beside each other. His legs extended farther than mine, and he leaned over me while I was stretched out on my back. Damn, he was big. Shoulders so wide, so massive, I could shelter from the sun in the shade of his body. Big arms. The guy reminded me of a Turkish wrestler.
And hairy. Coarse black hair covered him everywhere, over his chest, on his arms, down his belly. Two big gun turrets for pecs, and a belly like a stack of sandbags—-he was a hairy Abrams tank.
And down below, he had a field mortar!
I always thought of myself as decently hung. Had no reason to be shy in the locker room. But he had something spectacular. I’d never seen such a cock on a human being. Soft, it looked about eight inches long, and about as big around as the handle of a Tommy gun. He was circumcised like most Muslims. Damn, if that thing ever gets hard, it’ll shove me out of the lean-to!
When I looked up at him in astonishment, he smiled. Voice like a foghorn: “Ils nous font nu, similaire à leurs frères dans Abu Ghraib.”
Ohmigod. They make us naked–like their brothers in Abu Ghraib.
He went on: Qui êtes vous?
Who am I? I struggled with my high school French. From long practice, I understood it well enough, but just as I could understand my college professors but not respond with their grammar and vocabulary, poker oyna my own French was rough: “Je soo-ees le sole-dat American. Qui etts vooz?” “La Légion Etrangère française. Je suis turc.” Damn, he was Turkish! He IS a Turkish wrestler! And from the legendary French Foreign Legion!
“I am speak also the English.”
I sat up. “How did you get here?”
“Same as you. My mens are ambush. I am not get away. They are catch me, and I am here.”
I told him my name, and his turned out to be something unpronounceable in Turkish. He smiled. “You are just calling me ‘Partisan.'” I figured his Foreign Legion team had been assisting Algerian partisans, so “Partisan” it was.
I quickly learned about life in the detention camp, a mini-Auschwitz. Prisoners they couldn’t ransom they let die. Food, when we got it, was green slime with a few chunks in it ladled out into filthy plastic bowls. It tasted like piss. Probably was.
The worst part was the beatings, and we got one at least three times a week, and sometimes they were serious. More than one man died from the beatings. I often came back from a beating so helpless Partisan had to take care of me for a couple of days.
We “detainees” numbered a dozen or so. We never “hung out” together. Life in the detention camp was a constant struggle not to die in heat that reached at least 120 degrees every day. The only daily goal was to get out of the sun. There were no barracks, no prison shacks, not even tents for us. Every prisoner had to find his own shelter or build one with materials he could manage to steal. Some had built shelters, dug themselves holes, or crouched in the shade of the Jihad buildings. They were the unlucky ones; they got beatings every day–handy, as they were, to the guards.
It was a sad miracle Partisan took me in. His earlier partner had died. His lean-to was good shade, and the scrap of canvas meant we didn’t have to lie in the sand. I asked him where he got the canteen. “I kill a guard.”
“What??”
“Is simple. Here is so hot, mans many time drop dead from sun. Attack of heart. The stroke.” He smiled. “I come up behind guard. Snap neck. He die quiet. I take canteen. Other guards think he die of sun.” Damn! Partisan is one mean motherfucker.
In the first couple of days, I got beatings often. Guards yelled questions at me in French and Arabic, and when I recited only my name, rank, and serial number, they started in on me. The beatings always ended by tossing me out the door to lie in the sand outside the building. And then Partisan came over, picked me up, and took me back to the lean-to.
He saved my life. Keeping the prisoners alive was not an important goal of the Jihad of Holy Fire. so if I had died of heat stroke, lying bloody and unconscious in the noonday sun, it would have been “the will of Allah.” Partisan was my guardian angel.
Partisan, too, got beatings. On occasion they dragged him away, and a while later I found him unconscious and bloody outside the building. I then dragged him back to the lean-to and took care of him. But for every time I nursed him back to consciousness, there were three times I woke up to his hand, cooled with water, gently rubbing my forehead.
As days went by, we got to know each other. Partisan had joined the Foreign Legion as a way of getting French citizenship. He had served in a couple of wars and a few special-ops skirmishes. I told him about my home, about Evangeline, my wife, and how I missed her. About my son David and how proud I was of him. A high school kid, David was a basketball star and a handsome young guy if I did say so myself.
Although the days were furnace hot, nights in the desert were cold. No one froze to death, but it was damn uncomfortable. Since we had no blankets, it wasn’t long before Partisan and I woke up every morning snuggled close to each other, sharing body warmth. I liked him. Partisan was a good guy. Big as a Titan–standing up, he was a good 6’4″ (to my 5’11”)–and even with that fierce, dangerous look, his voice was actually gentle. Deep, chief-lion powerful, but gentle.
One night as we lay spooning against each other for warmth, my back curled up against his chest, I felt jerks as if he were coughing–or crying. I turned to him “What is the matter?”
Damn, he was crying. “I am miss my womans.”
I rolled onto my back, and we talked.
“I wish to kiss my womans,” he moaned. “How I miss this.”
Finally he looked deeply into my face, his black eyes burning into me like searchlights, blinding me. I heard only his voice. “We are the making believe. I am thinking of Açelya. You are thinking of Evangeline. We kiss them.”
Somehow it sounded good. His lips came closer to mine. They were the same lips that spoke soft encouragement to me when I lay moaning and bruised, the same lips that talked to me about home, the same lips that sometimes brought a smile to my face.
He canlı poker oyna pulled me closer, and somehow in that terrible, upside-down world, it seemed right. Our lips touched.
I strained to think of Evangeline, strained to think of her timid, shy face. I forced myself to imagine her without the strict, religious straitjacket that kept her gestures of affection almost formal. But I breathed in Partisan’s scent.
I smelled him every day, of course–none of us ever got to bathe, and we were all used to the stench of sweat and filth–but as he kissed me, I smelled something else, something earthy and fetid. Familiar.
Although I kissed his face, somehow I smelled his balls. Or maybe I imagined I did. It was very strange. But also very arousing. I realized only Partisan was in my mind. I was kissing a man. Not Evangeline.
The least I could do was play along, let him enjoy his fantasy. Gradually our arms went around each other, and we hugged tightly. The cologne of Partisan’s balls–or what I imagined–turned me on so much, my breathing sped up. A deep, intense growl came from his throat, and his lips fired electricity across to mine.
I closed my eyes, melting into him, and when I felt his tongue slip out and touch my lips, I gasped–but I opened my mouth to him, a great rush spreading through me. I French-kissed Evangeline often, but she almost never reciprocated. Her tongue stayed in her mouth. Proper. Modest. Decent.
But with Partisan, my tongue rose to battle the invader, and as we thrust and parried, suddenly I was confused, emotions running riot inside me. God, I’m horny!
Unsure of what to do, but loving the sensations surfacing from within me, I tilted my head to kiss him back more passionately. His fingers moved up my throat to tickle my jawline, and more passion shot through me. Instinctively, I deepened the kiss, sucking at his tongue, wallowing my lips over his, and–I never thought I would experience such a thing–when he rolled closer to me and our bodies touched full-length, I felt the big hardness of his cock against my own throbbing dong. Helpless to resist, I joined him as we ground our cocks together.
I knew what was happening? And I was scared.
I broke from the kiss, trying to pull away. Sweat ran into my eyes, and I desperately wiped at them, nervous as hell, wondering how the fuck I was going to get out of the situation.
Partisan pulled me closer again. Fuck, what am I going to do? He saved my goddamned life! I can’t refuse his friendship! I looked over at him. Rivulets of sweat coated his chest and lower belly, dripping from the black hair. I like hairy. As I digested that thought–god, I’d never thought anything like that before–Partisan’s face moved closer, and damn, I opened my mouth and kissed him again without thought. Kissing a man, after all, was like kissing a woman–but there was something more. When his hand rested on the top of my head, I lowered my hand and rubbed his back, down low, finally feeling his buttock, cupping it, fondling it. He broke the kiss. “Come on now, let’s do right.” Do right? Do what right? He sat up and pulled me to him, grinding the wiriness of his beard against my cheek. His eyes were dark. Like a shark’s. I glanced down between his legs. God! I’d never seen him hard before. Huge cock! Had to be a foot long! Fuck, look at that thing! The cockhead flared like a purple cobra. Wait a minute, what’s happening to me?? Not only did I just kiss the guy, now I’m admiring his cock! He didn’t miss that. He put his hand behind my neck and pulled me closer. Very close. The nudeness of his body against mine like a body-wash of Spanish Fly. “You are liking what you are looking?”
To hell with it, I let myself go. I opened my mouth, kissed him again, and “Yeah.” Fuck, my voice sounds like a sigh! Couldn’t believe it. I was so goddamned horny, I almost swooned in his arms. He looked down at me with a smile.
I was so horny I could’ve fucked a block of ice, I waited. Eager. Wanting to try–whatever he had in mind.
Sure enough, Partisan’s hand squeezed my butt, pulling me closer to him, mashing our two throbbing cocks together even tighter–and he nuzzled at my neck. Breathing hard, I raised my chin to give him better access, writhing like a cat as his hands rubbed all over me, stroking me like a pussycat. A moan I couldn’t hold back sounded like a contented purr. Damn, what is he doing to me? I’ve never felt like this before! And it hit me: I’ve never felt so turned on before, not even with Evangeline! She never gave me foreplay like this.
Foreplay?? Hell, this started out as a simple goddamned kiss! I couldn’t deny it. For as much as my mind fought against it, my body was on fire, aching, eager, wanting–it. Whatever it was.
When Partisan lifted my legs and placed them on his shoulders, I wasn’t surprised. I couldn’t even manage to be outraged. As he moved forward over me, internet casino he rolled my ass upward, baring my asshole, and once in the saddle, his body heat poured into me, and his sweat dripped onto my chest and belly, burning me like falling drops of lava. I bit my lip. God, it was wonderful.
He lay over me, and as the firm hairs of his beard pressed against the side of my face, I moaned. His fucking cock was a goddamned heat-seeking missile–it hit my asshole on the first nudge.
Sweat poured off me. Damn, am I sure I want to do this? I should tell him to stop! I thought about Evangeline. I thought about my son David. What he would think of me?
But I didn’t stop Partisan. Somehow I couldn’t.
The big organ pressed against my asshole, and with pain like he’d stabbed me with a sword, he stabbed me with his sword! Agony! Fuck, it was bad! I bit my lip, fighting to keep quiet, then gnashed my teeth as I learned a new torture almost worse than the beatings.
I changed my mind. “Stop!” I hissed, but it was too late. Partisan’s big cocked stretched my asshole wider than I thought possible and slid into me like skewering me on the barrel of an advancing tank! And he went in deep. Way deep! I swear I felt that big thing all the way up to my chest.
He lay against me, his sweaty chest against my legs, pressing them back against my chest, his face against my cheek, his breath in my ear. But he had stopped. I wanted him also to pull it out, but I waited. Perhaps he would do it by himself.
But as I waited, the pain began to fade away. It didn’t hurt any more–or at least not so much. My asshole had stretched. My god, I took him deep in my guts. He’s in me! Something about that thought awed me.
Partisan lurched at me–a practice hump–then he rose up, looked down at me, and smiled. “Now you good. Now you ready.” Hell, he didn’t stop! Just letting me get used to his cock in my ass! I was pissed, but almost immediately the probing strokes of his big dong hit some sensitive spots inside me, and before I knew it, I got goose-bumps as my guts thrilled to his huge cock snaking in and out.
Curious, I reached down, under my balls, to feel his cockshaft as he fucked me. God! I could not close my fingers around it. My poor asshole was strapped around that thing like a rubber band around a sewer pipe. Partisan took short strokes, scouring my butt (and my hand) with his wiry crotch hair.
I retrieved my hand and stared up at him, awed at how masterful, how confident, how male he was His bravery and manhood excited me deeply. The more he thrust into me, the more pleasure he gave me until my eyes lost focus, and I gave in. I floated in mid-air. All the agonies of our situation disappeared. I was free! Partisan had brought me an unbelievable pleasure. Release from fears and terrors. Without thought I spread my legs wider to give him easier access.
Again and again he hit something inside me that made my toes curl. Slowly rising on his hands, he settled back on his knees, humping more powerfully, and I had to close my eyes. It was too much. Running my hands up and down his sweaty arms, I felt an orgasm starting in my balls.
I was going to cum! From being fucked! No! This is the height of surrender! God, he’s making me cum just from fucking my ass!
I gritted my teeth and swore to myself that I would not let it happen. Think about something unsexy! I cannot give up my manhood to him so completely!
An old, fat, naked woman with a hairy crotch! That almost did it, but between moans and groans of his own, Partisan grunted in a hoarse voice how good I was, “tight ass,” made him “feel the sexy,” and that made me even hotter. God forgive me, I even clenched my ass to make my hole tighter for him. My bedroom that day when I was 12 and the toilet flooded over! Good. Sickening. The orgasm was struggling to get off the ground, but I had shortened the runway. I thought more about the bedroom: my puppet, Mopsy, sitting in the liquid shit, ruined forever.
Then it hit me: Partisan had me like a puppet on a stick. God, how hot! I moaned uncontrollably as at that precise second he began to play with me–pinching my nipples, squeezing my balls, making me suck his finger–and I was a goner. If the shit from that toilet washed over my head, I couldn’t have stopped the freight train of the newly supercharged orgasm as it built again in my balls.
I couldn’t hide it. “Oh, fuck, man, go faster! I’m cumming! I’m almost there!” Partisan switched somehow, changed the angle or something, and suddenly his cock hit my spot every time, every stroke. He smiled down at me, winner of the match, champion of our contest, and all I could do was wait, helpless. My life depended on that fabulous male organ of his. As he took total control of me and claimed my willing ass as his, he actually played my orgasm like an Indian snake-charmer, moving slower, moving faster, jabbing here, probing there. As I lay back, a slave to his pleasure, the clinching of my asshole around his cock was all I could manage. He brought me to the brink of orgasm again and again, only to pull me back, moaning and pleading, to start the build-up again.
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