Chapter 2 – Chapter 2

No one bothered to blindfold Conner and the two women when they staggered off the C-130. The women were more disheveled and staggering than Conner was. He touted up his wobbliness to both the flight conditions and the drug he undoubtedly had been given. He suspected that the women's condition was at least partially the result of having been roughly used during the flight while the plane was bumping along through turbulence. They both looked bruised. The two clung close together and cast suspicious and hard looks at the world around them. That they instinctively withdrew from Preston when he came close to them spoke to how roughly Preston had used them.

Conner smiled inwardly in thinking of how Preston had used him. At no time had he thought of shrinking away from the man and his monster cock.

The reality of the world around the three prostitutes explained why they weren't blindfolded. There was nothing but scrub plain to what Conner judged from the angle of the sun to be the west, north, and south, and barren mountains to the east. His geographic training and the piecing together where they'd started and what the copilot had revealed about their flight direction, Conner reasoned they were in one of the "Stans"—Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan, or Turkmenistan. Probably not Tajikistan or Kyrgyzstan, or there would be mountains rising on all sides.

There wasn't really nothing. They had landed on a short airstrip, which is probably why a C-130 was required, and in the near distance stood an anomaly for the otherwise deserted plain they were on—a compound that had all of the characteristics of a state-of-the-art maximum-security prison.

Which, if everything his handlers had worked to achieve, was exactly what he had expected to find at the end of his journey. Conner was sent to locate a suspected—by one foreign policy agency of the U.S. Government—an unacknowledged private prison—by another foreign policy agency of the U.S. Government. Putting two and two together, this was the installation that shouldn't exist and it was designated H003. That designation made Conner wonder if there were other prisons in the series—an H001 and H002, at least.

It stood to be determined whether what Conner was learning would ever make it back into the hands of those he was serving. Despite the multiple changes of clothing and the full-body searches, his handlers should be beamed into much of what he now knew. At the thought of this, Conner worried the molar that wasn't a real molar with his tongue. But there was the question of whether he'd make it out of here alive to serve his own interests. All he could do was to roll with the punches—and, in this context, the thrusts—and struggle for survival. In the meantime there was more he needed to learn.

They were met by a contingent of Marine-looking soldiers dressed in fatigues without insignia of any sort. All of the guards looked like they could break Conner in two, if they wanted to—and more than a few of them gave him surreptitious looks indicating they anticipated having a go at him. The three of them—Conner and the two women—were separated, the woman having to be pried from each other's arms—and marched to the compound, where they were taken in two separate directions—the women down one corridor and Conner down another. Conner was never to see either of the women again. He had no doubt how they would be used, but he had no knowledge of how and where they ended up.

He was marched to a room much like the one where he received clients at the Las Vegas ranch, except that it was larger to accommodate all that was there. Also, although there was a long window on the outer wall, it ran above standing height and was studded with thick bars.

Other than that, there was a double bed, a desk, with two straight chairs, a small sofa and upholstered chair, a chest of drawers, and a few ominous touches. There was a smaller version of the medical examination table, complete with stirrups and restraints, that he had been strapped to in the room at the Incirlik airbase. In the corner of the room a sling was hanging from the ceiling on chains. In the center of the room, other chains with restraints dangling from them hung from the ceiling, and there were hooks in the side walls, some with chains and restraints hanging from them. The room was fully carpeted, except for a circular cut-out area underneath the hanging chains in the center of the room. This was concrete and sloped into a drain from all sides. One door led to an efficient and sparkling clean bathroom, with a shower; and another door was to a closet, where the back wall was covered with all the whips, restraints, gags, and sex toys that Conner assumed would be involved in what he was doing here.

Although there were torture rooms at the Las Vegas ranch to be used at premium prices and with particular, masochistic and willing, prostitutes, there was nothing this sophisticated or merged with the other outfittings for male-on-male sex. If this was designed to impress and scare Conner, it accomplished its goal.

He was to find there were no street clothes in the bureau doors or closets—just various bits of provocative temporary-use wear—and he was made to strip and his clothes taken away by the men who had escorted him to the room and who closed and locked the door to the outer corridor when they departed. Except when he was told to dress in something provided, Conner was naked for the next eight weeks.

His next and subsequent meals were slipped in to him through a slot in the door. There was a well-appointed countertop refrigerator, he found, in one corner of the room by the bureau, though. He had all of the drinks, including liquor, and snacks he—or his guests—could want. And the meals he was served were good, the food plentiful. They obviously wanted to keep him fit. The closet contained workout equipment, and he learned to used the various sex paraphernalia dangling from the ceiling to aid improvised workouts.

And there was the other vigorous working out he got over the next eight weeks.

His first visitor was, he decided, the installation commandant. He was middle-aged, maybe even late fifties, but he was as fit as any of the younger prison guards there. And he was just as much in the need of sexual release. He was a particularly cruel man. Conner thought "former Marine" again.

Just as Lieutenant Preston had, the commandant leaned back into the desk and asked a naked Conner to pose for him and then to kneel in front of him, with only the commandant's dick exposed, and suck him off. That's where the experience with him parted from what Preston had done, though.

The commandant was more sadism inclined. He hung Conner from the chains in the middle of the room and flogged and zapped him with an electric prod and squeezed his balls and edged him in rounds of frustration in jacking him off before stripping fully—he'd already taken his shirt off, revealing a barrel chest and an abundance of salt-and-pepper chest hair—and fucking Conner from the rear.

He left the young man hanging until two guards arrived a half hour later to release him and help him hobble to the shower.

After he'd done Conner and the young prostitute was still hanging, the commandant said, "You know what you're here for, don't you? What you were contracted to do."

"Yes, sir," Conner answered through swollen lips, as the older man had been free about punching Conner while he was using him.

"You're known as a relief contractor. The men out here get cranky if they don't get enough relief. And they like fresh tail. You do well by my men, and you'll be going home in two months as contracted. Otherwise . . . well, let's just say you don't want to not do well by my men."

Conner was left for two days to recover. After that he fell into a regular routine. He averaged thirty visits a week and discerned, he thought, sixteen different men who used him, including Preston and the commandant. Since they'd brought in two women, Conner judged that more men were using them than were using him. Monday through Thursday, he serviced six or seven men each day—and it wasn't always Conner as a bottom; a good third of his visitors wanted him to fuck them. Some of them wanted to be abused as well. Fridays were for threesomes and gang bangs. Saturday morning Conner was given over to sadists, using the full range of toys in the room. Saturday afternoon was for one session of double penetration. And then he was given a day and a half to recover before Monday rolled around again.

It was a tough schedule, but it didn't prevent Conner from learning what else he needed to learn while he was there.

By standing on the desk, Conner could bring the window on the outside wall to eye level. He found he was looking down from a third story into some sort of exercise yard. Over several days, he was able to put together a schedule for the use of that yard. He also could identify some of the prisoners they were housing, and, no doubt, interrogating here. All suspected international terrorists. Some thought by the public to be dead. None of them, Conner was sure, were men those running this prison would know he had learned to identify.

There were the Yemeni terrorist organization leaders, Ali Abdullah Mansour, Abd-Rabbu al-Hiajiri, and Samir Saleh, who had been claimed to have been evaporated by a drone missile at a meeting outside Sanaa six months earlier. There was the former physicist and Russian separatist, Stefan Belur, thought to have gone effectively to ground. The Turkish separatist leader, Arif Aghan. Even an American, Jason Kowl, who had dropped out of sight after a failed attempt to bomb an airliner. All of the men were released into the courtyard separately and alone. All hobbled about, indicating that their incarceration and interrogation weren't a picnic. The Yemenis—including verification of rumors they were alive—had been Conner's principle concern.

Conner had all he needed to gather. Now it was just a matter of surviving the eight weeks and trusting that he would be let free, as agreed—a difficult and iffy proposition. But there was more than the money he'd been paid involved.