His interest was piqued at the quick arrival of Justice and an unknown partner in the village. It scared the hell out of him, but also drew his erection upright at the realization he’d come so close to being erased in the act of consumption or butt fucking. He grinned.
Ben’s agitation grew as he watched Justice swing a camera across the village. He knew it was a live feed back to Langley, Virginia. His fists rent against the hot air because he also knew his mommy would soon see what he’d done.
“Fuck her. I’m done talking to mommy.” He ducked behind the ridge. “Mommy, I miss you, but I’m not a bad boy. I am CIA.” He wiped a mixture of moisture and sand from beneath his eyes. Ben looked around as tingles of chills snaked up his spine.
“Who the fuck are you talking to, idiot?” Ben asked himself.
“I’m not an idiot,” he replied.
He sat up, his spine rigid and tight. He stretched his eyes open wide. His head cranked slowly left and back to the right. There was no one around—just him—who was he talking to?
Pay attention to Justice.
That shit bothered him. Ben tried to shake the solo conversation out of his mind. He’d been alone for a long time, but never doubted his sanity. He was doing his government’s work after all. It sure didn’t affect his libido—his dick was still as hard as desert rock. He resumed his watch over Justice and noticed that his partner was a female—a very pretty female. Nothing at all like his mother.
Ben’s monocular scope zoomed in on them. He dabbed his sticky tongue over chapped lips and pressed it into his bristly mustache. He thought the facial hair helped him look like Freddy Mercury when he donned sunglasses. He liked that persona, though his mustache was still pretty thin.
Ben’s pulse quickened as he spied on Justice. The man was so big—bigger than a big man, he was fucking huge and it drove him wild. Ben noticed his erection pulsing beneath the loose fitting tunic. He couldn’t watch one more second of Justice’s body gracefully traversing the horrific scene. Damn that beast was sexy.
Ben tried jerking himself off through his pants but the tunic material limited his movements. He pressed the waistband down with one knee while he tried to continue his surveillance over the village. He gripped his dick with his right hand and squeezed until the head turned purple. Masturbation for Ben was no longer about sexual gratification. It was about power and control—even if it meant just controlling his own cock.
Grunts escaped Ben’s open mouth. His tongue rested against his bottom lip as he beat his dick in a steady rhythm of heavy-handed strokes. Both eyelids fluttered as his breathing grew deep and sluggish. Thoughts twirled through his mind in a concoction of fantasy and guilt. He dropped the scope and fell forward onto both knees. He bit his bottom lip to stop the sounds as he drew near orgasm. He needed one more glance at Justice to help him over the hurdle.
His left hand scoured across the sand for the scope. His muscles ached and contracted as he leaned against a jagged boulder. Finally he found it, and pressed the lens to his eye.
“Where is Justice?” he whispered.
Ben caught sight of taillights disappearing over the horizon. His erection fell flaccid but semen dripped into his pants and onto the toe of his combat boots.
“Fuck,” Ben said. “I missed out.” It would’ve been a monumental orgasm.
“Follow him, idiot,” he demanded.
“I’m not an idiot.” Ben pulled his moist pants back around his waist and straightened his day coat.
Who am I talking to?
“I bet Justice has teamed up with the local security militia to capture you,” Ben said.
“Capture us you mean,” Ben replied.
“We better keep an eye on him.”
“Agreed. Lets move out.”
Ben cranked the old vehicle he’d commandeered earlier. He jumped as the satellite phone began to buzz. He grabbed the phone and sneered to see his CIA handler’s assigned desk number flash across the screen. His gut twisted at the attempted contact, but he knew what it was about—Justice’s video feed.
“I’ll show him. Maybe it is time to kill Justice Boudreaux.”
Ben laughed out loud as he shoved the phone back into the nylon pouch. “Let’s roll. You take Justice and I get the girl. She looks yummy.”
Ben shook his head violently. “That’s enough of that shit.”
An expert in stalking, Ben remained a safe distance from the caravan. The line of old clunkers and new military surplus vehicles from the U.S. rambled around narrow goat paths and zipped past huts and stone houses until arriving at a provincial outpost.
Ben kept his distance and pounded his thigh as he watched everyone exit their rides. He was pissed that Justice would team up with the local police to hunt him down. That totally violated all SOG protocols while operating in a covert environment. Ben didn’t mind the fair fight of one-on-one, but enlisting the locals made him reconsider his position towards the man he’d once admired.
He felt around for his long-range scope but wasn’t able to locate it before the group entered the building. He stretched his thin frame across the hood but wasn’t able to make out much within the shadows beneath the mud and cement structure.
Wild thoughts slammed around in his head as he cursed and kicked the dirt beneath him. His pulse spiked as he imagined what they were all saying inside that shitty building. Did they know where he was?
He winced as he dropped and his body crashed against the dirt. Ben rolled under the vehicle—had they dispatched a drone to blast him—it’d serve him right. Sweat meandered across his face and into his eyes as he lay as still as the dead beneath the chassis. His ears buzzed from straining hard to listen for an aerial device. He felt the familiar deep ache in the base of his skull from the stress.
Ben hated not knowing, so he decided to do something. He crawled out from under the closed space, and after brushing his duds off, he looked up into the ink of night and shot a big middle finger just in case there was a drone.
“Fuck off, if you think I’m going to go down like that.” He wiggled his thigh and pulled the light cotton pants away from where dried semen had stuck the cloth to skin.
“You tell ’em bad boy.” Ben cackled.
“No shit, huh? Lets get going. We gotta know what they’re planning to do to us.”
Ben took off toward the outpost, but stopped suddenly. Both hands sandpapered across his face and he growled in agitation, “Stop doing that shit.” He chuckled at the irony.
Anger pumped his muscles full of stiffness, but he still managed to maneuver quick and silent across the open range. The absence of exterior guards caused him to be extra cautious, but he had seen a large crowd dump into the outpost earlier. His eyes narrowed while thoughts of Justice’s betrayal bombarded his psyche.
Ben avoided the dim open-air patio but voices inside captured his attention. He struggled to settle his heavy breathing—it’d be a dead giveaway if a guard heard him panting like a dog.
Windowless, the building’s only door looked feeble. The place was a shithole where the Afghani and United Nation’s Coalition forces assigned crooked and questionable local police. Ben became even more curious as to why Justice would affiliate himself with a band of questionable characters.
“Fuck this, lets get out of here,” Ben whispered.
He punched himself in the left temple. “Stop talking to me.”
“Okay, but mommy would want us to be safe,” he pleaded.
Ben leaned into the darkness and flattened himself against the wall. He was dying to know what plans Justice and his bitch female partner had to capture and kill him. The interior voices became clearer. His interest was maxed out, but the sounds he overheard didn’t reconcile with a briefing or operation planning.
His palms scorched as he touched the mud building that still held most of the day’s heat in the walls. Ben pursed his lips at the sting of his cheek against the mud stucco, but it was the only way to eavesdrop.
He smacked in disgust. “And to think I just jacked off thinking good thoughts about that bastard.” A grin curled his mouth as the memory of his orgasm seeped into his thoughts.
A loud, booming roar sounded like a wild beast, but he recognized the voice as Justice Boudreaux. Ben’s body tensed to flee but his rigid frame wouldn’t bend to run. That didn’t add up—why would Justice be screaming while the others enjoyed such a clatter?
Maybe his female companion is entertaining the troops.
“Jabar, I’m going to kill you, motherfucker!” Justice’s voice.
Those words shook Ben. Justice was in peril. He was a fellow American after all. But Justice could take care of himself—right?
“Fuck off, American.” Ben heard a Middle Eastern accent say.
Fury bubbled just beneath Ben’s surface. No way in hell was some terrorist going to curse America or a brother citizen. He and Justice had both served in the Army, and despite their differing missions, they both bled for the red, white and blue.
“Ben, get a fucking grip, idiot. That dude wants to kill you. Fuck him—you’re home free, sucka.” He mocked himself.
He pressed his palms into the mud exterior and chewed the inside of his cheek, debating.
“Maybe so, what can we do? Oh heck, what can I do?”
“You had it right the first time, idiot.”
“Enough out of you,” Ben chastised.
Suddenly, the situation worsened, demanded his attention. His body readied for an attack or ambush. He was too close to have still been unnoticed but it made no difference. He was a machine that killed for his country. There was no better time to be that machine than now.
Ben squatted below scarce light and crept through the shadows. Cool night breezes and the anticipation of killing drove icy spikes into his spine. He reached the patio and had a clear view through the open door. The scene looked like one of the cockfighting matches he’d attended in the Philippines, horrible and chaotic.
No one gave a shit about him. They were too focused on what was in the middle of that tiny room. Ben licked his chops at the close collection of naked brown meat. He was well outnumbered, but oh momma the possibilities if he could overcome them all. That Popi village would fail in comparison to this ass buffet.
He patted an erection down and prepared. There’s a process to killing. You don’t just start in; the mind is your most lethal weapon—it has to be sharpened first.
“Hey, idiot,” he whispered.
Ben swatted his hand against his ear as if batting at mosquitoes.
“Where’s Justice, idiot? Why we going to get involved with this. You know mommy is going to whip us.”
Blood pooled toward his core, the body’s natural preparation for battle. A sharp shooter, Ben preferred knifes in a surprise assault. But he was still confused by the absence of Justice.
Then he saw it—he saw her. A combat boot hung limp at the end of a pale bloodied leg. An arm flailed in defense, but the demons jeered as they lined up with their dirty dicks to enter her.
Ben’s erection faded, his gut rumbled, threatened to erupt. Tears welled in his eyes. He felt his bottom lip begin to quiver, but tried to convince himself to remain clearheaded. All ten fingers white knuckled the leather-wrapped grips of his KA-BAR knives. He tried to breathe past the giant wet lump clutched in his throat.
“Oh my goodness, the poor girl,” Ben whispered.
“Kill those motherfuckers for America, Ben.” He blinked. “Do it now,” he screamed.
Ben exploded through the open door. Within seconds, he’d killed four of them. Shouts of horror and curses in Dari and Pashto filled the small space. No one reacted to defend themselves—they only shrieked like bitches. Ben slashed efficiently—no time or energy to waste on butchering them. Before anyone could slip their dicks back inside their tunics Ben had killed five others.
Ben’s breathing was heavy. His muscles screamed to stop.
“Go, idiot. They’ll kill us too,” he muttered through clinched lips.
A radio filled the room with a
klasik muzik
mix of vocals and instrumentals. Ben flashed on the belly dancing ragas associated with the classical rhythms. He grinned as he sucked air into his heaving lungs.
“Focus you idiot. This is no time to think about belly dancers.”
The knives in his hands zipped across throats and plunged into the back of skulls. “I didn’t stop working,” he buzzed at his reply.
Four more easily dropped in the chaos. To be fair, one took a bullet from another one who obviously wasn’t familiar with the full automatic function of an AK47.
Dust and smoke clouded the confined space. Confusion reigned over all but Ben. His focus was clear—kill everyone not American.
Exhausted, he climbed over the mounting piles of bodies. He’d come too far to stop now. Two men with rifles slung around their necks could’ve easily taken him out had they not been so worried about fastening their pants to conceal shriveling dicks. Before they looked up and leveled a weapon, Ben had plunged his razor sharp blades deep past their sternums. He’d never felt more alive or more powerful.
Ben heaved to jerk the knives back. He faced down a narrow corridor of death’s stench and flickering yellowed lights. He surveyed the cage doors and immediately knew what had gone on. Justice had not been cooperating—he had fucked up and been captured.
Through the cloud of conflict and shadows, Ben spotted a chubby man cowering against the back wall. Tears streamed over bulbous dark cheeks. Jeweled rings adorned flailing fingers. Ben stopped to savor the moment.
“You must be the Jabar I’ve heard so much about,” Ben said with a southern drawl just for fun.
“No. No. No. Jabar was killed. I’m a prisoner here too. You saved me, my hero.” Jabar wept.
Ben giggled at the acting, but mostly at the blubbery body he knew he’d rape very soon. His hard-on returned.
“So, you’re not the famous and mighty Jabar?”
“No, my king.”
“Say ‘Fuck off, American.”
Jabar buried his fat face in his meaty palms. “No.”
“Say it, Jabar.” Ben remained at the hallway entrance to heighten the drama of the moment. He did have a flair for theatrics after all.
“I no speak English.”