It served me right, really, for staying on in Ahmed's Bar for those final couple of beers and not catching the last transport back to base. I knew I'd have to walk every step of the way on a very warm, humid night and risk being picked up by a passing militia patrol and spend the night in one of their malodorous guardhouses. After all, Desert Storm had not long been officially declared to be over but it had left a number of sensitive issues hanging in Limbo. This, of course, meant that we Brits and Yanks had to watch our P's and Q's very carefully indeed.
As I strolled down the dark, narrow alley behind Ahmed's Bar a military jeep suddenly came screeching round the corner just ahead of me, lights flashing and klaxon blaring. It juddered to a halt right in front of me, slewing round to trap me against the mud brick wall of some abandoned building. Three armed men jumped out of the back of the vehicle, their heavy-duty guns pointing directly at my chest. The driver, a burly figure resplendent in khaki battledress, I took to be an NCO or junior officer, turned the jeep's headlights full on. They shone straight into my eyes, blinding me. The three militiamen were very excited, very jittery and very, very angry. I was rapidly becoming seriously apprehensive about the whole situation I had suddenly walked into. These were not toy soldiers wearing fancy dress uniforms or brandishing imitation stage prop weapons. Everything was all too real: real soldiers, real uniforms, real weapons and, most alarming of all, real aggression. It was evident to me these men were out to find someone - anyone - to push around and intimidate to justify their exaggerated sense of virility and power. A scared British soldier would be as good as anyone else, particularly as relations between Britain and their country had soured in recent months as a result of the one hundred and seventy-first coup d'état in half as many weeks.
Seizing my arms in a strong grip, the tallest of the three men pulled and shoved me against the side of the jeep. I banged my head and knees against the metal bodywork, not hard enough to cause any real damage, only sufficient to make them smart and sting a little. I was now truly scared. These bastards were serious - deadly serious. One of the other men stepped forward to assist Number One, forcing my hands above my head while kicking my legs apart with his regulation military combat boots. In an effort to overawe me still further, Number One pushed his body against my back, while Numbers Two and Three handcuffed me to the rail running around the edge of the jeep's roof. As Number One pushed against me, I felt the barrel of his gun crush painfully into the cheeks of my backside and the hard bullet-proof vest strapped to his chest dig into my back. Large quantities of adrenaline raced through my veins, mingling with the excess alcohol still in my system. My knees turned to jelly, my thighs shook and my vision blurred. What the fuck was going to happen to me now?
As if they were predatory animals scenting the fear of their prey, the three soldiers realised I was terrified for my life. They were enjoying the thought that I was afraid of what they might do to me and began laughing at me, joking between themselves. The man I took to be at least a sergeant, had joined the others and suddenly barked out an order in guttural Arabic. He looked at me for a moment, then mimed the action of searching for any concealed weapons I might have about my person. I am ashamed to admit that at this point I could not stop my bladder from voiding its contents down the inside of a leg of my jeans. The urine not soaked up by the pouch of the jockstrap I was wearing overflowed and ran down my leg to drain away into the sand, leaving me standing in a muddy pool of my own making.
The four men huddled around their prisoner and I could not suppress a whimper as one of them grabbed my top, ripping it up the back and pulling it over my head. He reached round to search my pockets and as he did so, his hand accidentally brushed against my soggy jeans and my cock. He knew instantly what had happened and laughed harshly, making some lewd comment in Arabic to the others, miming with his free hand the motion of a man taking a leak and then starting to masturbate. The others were nearly hysterical by now with laughter and talked rapidly together, glancing at me where I was still manacled to the jeep. The soldier who had discovered my shameful secret unbelted and unzipped my jeans, letting them drop around my ankles. He grasped the waistband of my jockstrap, which he roughly pulled down. Their laughter renewed when they saw my hardening prick and the sodden pouch of the jockstrap. The sergeant came over and proudly displayed his limited knowledge of English to his men. "Inglis boys are filthy dogs. . ." here he spat a large gob on to the damp patch of sand where my piss had been, ". . .and they piss in their jins, I see. Inglis boys not big like Arab boys! Arab girls not like small ones!" He repeated his taunts in Arabic for the benefit of his men and the laughter that greeted him was even more raucous. He reached out, pulling my head back by my hair and said something in Arabic to Number One, who picked up his gun and started rubbing the barrel up and down the crack of my arse. I squirmed, trying to avoid the cold metal jabbing menacingly into my buttocks. The sergeant barked out another order, which I did not need an interpreter to translate for me as, "OK lads, let's take him away, fuck him silly, then claim a reward from the infidels (he meant the Brits, of course) for 'rescuing' him!"
I was roughly seized and held as the handcuffs were removed. I cried out as blood surged through my wrists and hands once more. I bent forward, retching with fear, as the three soldiers picked me up and carried me between them, my wet jeans and jockstrap hanging round my ankles and still dripping. The three men brutally shoved me into the back of the jeep. They scrambled in, the sergeant started the engine and we drove off at high speed. I had no idea where we were going. I was fearful it might be to the infamous Al Khaba prison, used mainly to house local political dissidents. The place was strictly out of bounds to us British - it had the reputation of being the kind of place where prisoners, once incarcerated, never again emerged alive into the light of day.
My captors made me sit on the floor in the back of the jolting, swaying vehicle. They sat on the bench seats running down both sides of the interior. As we jounced along with clouds of thick, heavy dust roiling behind us, they began to fondle their own crotches, running their fingers along the bulging khaki flies of their uniform trousers. As lust began to build in them, they took turns to grab me by my hair and rub my face into their crotches, laughing and leering with that ugly, menacing grin which, in the universal language of sex, told me I was going to be seriously raped. One by one they were making themselves harder and harder and continued rubbing their guns on different parts of my naked body - chest, arm pits, belly, crotch, and arse.
At last the jeep came to a halt. The men jumped out, not bothering to make themselves decent, picked me up again and lifted me over the vehicle's tailboard, dumping me on to the sand. Thankfully, we were nowhere near Al Khaba but had driven into the desolate, bleak dunes which protected the town from the encroaching desert. Nothing could live in that arid desert and my fears for my life returned. The sergeant came over to where I lay on my back, supporting myself on my elbows and forearms. He stood over me, his hand running slowly over his tented trouser fly. He finally coughed, spat and then spoke in his fractured English. "Inglis take off shoes, pliz." I obeyed. "Inglis to remove dirty jins and underwear. Stand up with legs wide like soldier on parade."
I stood up and removed my jeans and jockstrap. I figured that if I adopted the 'Stand at Ease' drill position, this would signal to these military men that I was not going to try making an escape attempt. I think the ploy succeeded for a short while, as they moved away from me and lit up evil smelling cigarettes. I stood still, remembering my parade ground procedures. Stand at Ease does not mean you can relax, simply that you can lessen the strain of having to stand to attention for an extended period. The three militiamen kept close watch on me as they chatted amongst themselves in low voices and puffed on their pungent cigarettes. When they had finished, they sauntered back to where I was still standing, naked and immobile, waiting their next move. My faculties were returning to something akin to normality and I was becoming more alert to spotting any chance of making a break for it. Where I would run to, I had no idea. I was stranded out in the desert, well away from the town. Judging by the fact that the moon had set, it must be past midnight. Once outside the pool of illumination from the jeep's headlights, I would be in total darkness - and there is nothing as dark as a desert when there is no moon! I also had another problem - I did not know in which direction the town lay. I could theoretically plunge deeper and deeper into the vast emptiness of the desert beyond the range of dunes and become totally lost, with an inevitable outcome. However, let us face one problem at a time, shall we?
The three soldiers sneered at me as they took off their bullet-proof vests, unbuttoned their shirts and exposed their chests. Number One came up to me and grabbed a fistful of my hair. He used this to compel me to take one of his nipples in my mouth and suck. Number Two, meanwhile, started roughly rubbing my arse crack with his fingers. Number One was slowly forcing my head lower, still controlling me by holding on to my hair - painfully. My scalp felt as if it were on fire as he pulled my head first one way, then another, making me lick and nibble his torso as I was forced downwards, closer and closer to his pubic region. By the time my nose was inhaling the sweaty, musky odour of his pubic hair, Number Two had thrust a couple of thick fingers up my arse, cruelly finger-fucking me while my mouth and throat were being violated by seven and a half inches of rock hard, circumcised cock.
Things now began to hot up. The soldiers were hornier, losing their inhibitions and self-control. As one man pulled out of my arse, he stuffed his cock into my mouth and down my throat, forcing me to smell my own man-smell and taste my own man-taste. He would be replaced by one of the others, who had returned to take up position behind me, waiting his turn to fill my arse with his steely rod. The three soldiers were patently inexperienced at this new sport of man-fucking and were very rough: they shoved their cocks much too fast down my throat, nearly making me retch - but they seemed to like that! They made me grunt with pain as they fucked my arse too hard and too fast - but they liked that, too! The more I gagged and the more I groaned, the more it drove them into a frenzy of uncontrolled, demented fucking. They worked me over harder and faster while my prick became painfully hard and leaked sticky pre-seminal into the sand between my feet. With the three of them taking turn and turn about they were taking longer before handing over to one of the other two so it would be some considerable time before they reached the point of no return. Eventually I knew they must be close to ejaculating when they began ramming into me mercilessly and jerking off rapidly while waiting for another chance to bury themselves deep up my anal channel. With a loud grunt, Number One pulled his cock out of my mouth and I caught a glimpse of its large purple head before he shot three strong, thick spurts of cum all over my face. It was hot stuff, too, and seemed to singe the skin off my lips and burn my eyes. After he had discharged his load, he forced me to open my mouth and wiped his cum slicked dickhead on my tongue. Number Two pulled out of my arse and walked round to face me, pulling vigorously on his rigid cock as he did so. He forced his massive man-piece into my mouth and down my throat. Before I could even gag, he shot his load right down my throat. I never even tasted it. It dived straight into my belly. He gave four heaving thrusts and pulled out, rubbing the excess dribbling fluid from his cock slit over my face. Number Three took a more conventional approach and shoved his cock as hard and as far up my arse as possible. I screamed aloud with pain - the bastard had the biggest, thickest and strongest cock of them all and he meant me to feel it! He fired load after load after load inside me, shouting in Arabic something equivalent to, "Take that, you slimy British fucker!" When, at last, he had finished he pulled out roughly, sending hot spikes of pain racing along my ravaged chute, and wiped his dripping cock on my arse cheeks. His companions roared and shook with laughter and applauded him.
When they had all finished they cleaned themselves up as best they could and stuffed their still half-hard dicks back into their khakis. I assumed it was all over. I was still as hard as a rock - but had no way of finding relief. I was obviously at fever pitch, my solid prick leaking pre-seminal all over my naked feet and the sand. The sergeant came over to me and started yelling something in Arabic. From his tone of voice and the gestures he was making, he was calling me their equivalent of 'a fucking faggot' and other choice Arabic epithets, telling me I was not fit to be turned into dog food. Arabs consider dogs to be 'unclean' animals and to be called 'a dog' by them is one of the grossest insults they can throw! Without warning, he grasped my rigid cock and tight balls, jerking on them unmercifully. I almost doubled over with pain but he led me around the jeep, yanking on my dick and crushing my balls the whole time. The soldiers looked on, whooping and whistling as if they were cheering their favourite football team on. When we got behind the jeep, the sergeant pushed me backwards with sufficient force to make me sit down hard, on the floor of the vehicle. Slowly, deliberately, threateningly he started stripping in front of me. He was very different from the three younger men, physically more mature and powerful, knowing what to do with his cock. He wore a wedding band and I knew instinctively that he had acquired a lot of 'fucking' know-how. He teased the shit out of me while he was stripping his uniform off and he was very well aware of the effect he was having on me. He was in no hurry - he had all the rest of the night. To begin with, he removed his bullet-proof vest and then his shirt, unhurriedly undoing each button and pausing between each one to look at me with that salacious leer of which he was such a master. As he gradually discarded his shirt, he revealed big, powerful shoulders, a hairy, deeply sculpted chest, solidly muscled arms and a firm six-pack midriff. He let out a little moan, running the very tip of his tongue over his lips and a finger around and across his prominent nipples, staring at me all the time with his piercing black eyes. Despite my resolve not to give way to my baser instincts, he was reducing me to a quivering heap of lusting flesh - and he knew it! Slowly, he unclasped his belt and allowed the two ends to dangle from the waistband loops of his trousers. He moved in closer towards me, indicating by gestures he wanted me to lick the belt with my tongue. I began to obey him but he suddenly pulled the belt through the loops and tied it like a gag across my mouth. At a leisurely pace, he tantalisingly removed his trousers. He tossed them aside on to the sand and I gazed at the skin-tight cotton shorts he was wearing, which had obviously been a gift from some grateful American GI or US Marine grunt for his assistance in letting them learn more about the local 'culture'! Even in that murky light, I could see the swelling of his half-hard cock beneath the combat green cloth and I just knew he was going to be a full and thick nine inches or more by the time he was ready to fuck me. I felt my anus twitch and my dick pulse at the thought. As he stroked his cock with the palm of his hand, he grinned at me again. "Inglis like big Arab boy, yes? There was no necessity for me to reply, even if I had not been gagged, and I did not see how anyone could have possibly said anything to that.
Moving in closer, the sergeant rubbed his bulging shorts around my eyes and nose. I could feel the growing tumescence of his cock through the thin cotton and saw a small but rapidly expanding damp patch where he was leaking. He leant forward and untied the belt, removing it from my mouth and draping it around my neck. The three soldiers, who I was beginning to think of as 'the three musketeers', were more interested in the proceedings now and gathered round, watching and waiting to see what their sergeant intended to do to me. He pushed me to my knees in the sand, making me work on his cock through the shroud of his shorts. I felt the turgid man-meat slowly growing and expanding. He seemed to have the ability to control his dick, preventing it from stiffening too hard or too fast. I was warming to my task and worked frenetically on him, attempting to bring him to a full erection. He pulled my head away from his body and forced his clenched fist into my mouth, prising my jaws open,, striving to get his fingers further and further down my throat. I was drooling like a rabid dog, my jaws ached from the strain but his fisting worked: as my throat grew used to his fingers, I stopped gagging. At that moment, he knew I was ready.
Almost before I realised it, he had slipped off his undershorts and stood before me, gloriously rampant and naked, a masculine male preparing to fuck. He slapped my face with his heavy, leaking cock several times, an action that only served to increase his rigidity. He began feeding his cock to me, inch by solid inch. He knew he had to go slow, both for his sake as well as for mine. it was now at its maximum girth and hardness, dripping with pre-seminal, which I could taste. As my warm tongue made contact with his cock flesh, he seemingly grew even longer and harder, until he finally touched the back of my mouth. He was nudging it down my throat; I swallowed, he kept sliding further and further until every last inch was in. Slowly at first, he began a rhythmical pumping action. He kept this going for a short time, pulling out and letting me get some air, then shoving his prick back down my throat. This guy really knew what he was doing. I could tell he was getting a good fuck from the contractions of my throat muscles. It was making him as horny as a devil in hell. Finally, just as I began to sense he was not far off shooting his wad, he pulled right out, picked me up under my arms and tossed me backwards on to the floor of the jeep as if I was a sack of grain! His satellites were edging ever closer, guessing the time was near when I would be given the fuck of my life. The three musketeers were jerking themselves fast and furious, breathing hard, squeezing and pulling unmercifully on their own balls.
The sergeant reached forward and took hold of my legs, twisting them so that I had to roll over on to my belly. He pulled the belt from around my neck and beckoned to Number Two, the burliest of the three soldiers. He came over, his dick hard and throbbing with lust, took the belt and listened as the sergeant muttered something in his ear. Number Two gazed at me with an ever widening salacious grin on his face. The sergeant walked round in front of me, his cock deep claret and purple, shining with carnal eagerness, the knotted veins standing proud. Once more, he plunged his cock into my mouth, down my throat, as a stinging, cutting lash from the belt landed across my buttocks. I could not cry out as my mouth was too full of hot, surging cock. Tears sprang into my eyes and I twisted like a wounded snake but to no avail. He barked something at the other two and they increased the pressure on my legs, to hold me still. Clearly, Number Two was only warming to the task and laid a succession of heavy flailing swats across my burning buttocks. My assailant began to be a little more inventive by striking each buttock individually with a mixture of gentler blows and intensely painful lashes, sending fiery messages surging through my genitals to my brain. Blow after blow continued to criss-cross my backside until it felt as if it were about to burst into flames. Numbers One and continued holding me down as Number Two thrashed me unrelentingly, unmercifully. Just as I was about to pass out with the pain, the sergeant barked an order and pulled his dick out of my mouth. The leathering stopped, instantly. He walked slowly, heavily up behind me and I knew I was about to be fucked like I had never been fucked before.
Without any kind of preparation, he thrust his cock deep into my brutalised arse. He was not going to be slow or careful this time. This time he was rough. Forceful, brutal and merciless in his fucking, pounding in and out of my hole with savage strength, his heavy balls slapping sweatily against my ravaged cheeks. I could hear the three soldiers moaning with sympathy as they watched him ride me with such savagery for at least fifteen minutes. He withdrew his visibly pulsating cock shockingly roughly from me, turned me on my back and pushed my legs over my head, ignoring my cries of pain as my raw buttocks hit the metal floor of that fiendish vehicle. He simply ploughed into my arsehole as hard and as fast as he could. I screamed. I could not believe how that single, downward plunge of his cock made me shoot my load right there and then. My semen came in a single strong gush all over my face and into my hair. I was crying and torquing with pain. Giving a few more thrusts fathoms deep and hard into my gut, the sergeant threw back his head, let out a bestial roar and fired his load. He just kept on firing. Two, three, four, five, six times he shot large quantities of man-juice into me. Then, mercifully, it was all over. He pulled out of me as fast as he had entered, turned to the other soldiers who had been watching as they jerked themselves off, and said in his quaint fractured English, "Zat is how to fuck a man!"
They helped me to gather up the remnants of my jeans and top so that I could at least appear to be decently dressed. I was close to exhaustion and fought desperately to remain awake. The jeep roared off across the featureless desert plain and eventually arrived back in town. However, we did not stay on the main road for long, diverting on to a dusty track heading into the semi-darkness of approaching dawn. I must have nodded off for a few minutes until I was woken by a jab in my ribs. One of the militiamen was pointing through the dusty windscreen at something ahead. I attempted to clear my vision of sleep and peered through several layers of fine dust coating the glass and encountered the welcome sight of the glittering security lights of the British military base. As we got nearer, I saw the silhouette of a helicopter taking off from the pan. I was surprised when the sergeant, instead of dumping me in the desert close to the base, continued on right up to the main gate. He swung into the security checkpoint car park area where all vehicles had to wait before being allowed on to the base. As we came to a halt, a Military Police corporal emerged from the low brick building serving as a temporary guardroom and came over to us. I immediately felt reassured as I recognised Bill Overton from my barrack block. Bill looked at the registration number of the jeep, consulted something attached to the clipboard he was carrying and then put his head through the driver's window.
"Oh, it's you Aziz. What you got in there, then? Anything for us, or anyone we know?"
Bill clearly knew the sergeant very well, who was obviously a frequent visitor to the base. He got out of the vehicle, took Bill by his arm and led him a short distance way, across the car park area. They spent a few minutes talking, occasionally glancing over to us. I did not need three guesses to realise Aziz was giving Bill some bullshit about what I was doing in the back of an Arab militia jeep. They returned to the vehicle and Bill came round to where I was painfully lying, half asleep, on the floor.
"So, what's all this then, soldier? What the fuck has happened to you?"
Not knowing what Aziz had told him, I decided to brave it out and said, "I was kidnapped and raped, Bill. Don't you recognise me?"
Bill looked at me as if I was raving bonkers. "Christ Almighty, it's Jimmy! You'd better get yourself out of there and come with me. I'll take your statement and then get you checked out by the medics." Judging by Bill's reaction, I was going to have a difficult time of it convincing the authorities of my story. Bill turned to Aziz, while I clambered clumsily over the tailboard and attempted to stand up straight - not an easy thing to do given the condition I was in. Bill said, "OK, Aziz, that's fine. I'll let them know it was your patrol that found him and brought him in. You'll probably get another one of them official 'Thank You' notes from the Big White Chief himself." They both laughed and Aziz returned to the jeep, said something to the three musketeers in the back and started up the engine. They swung out, rejoined the highway and roared off into the early morning light, no doubt returning to their barracks well satisfied with their night's work and ready to face a good meal.
Me? I followed Bill into the makeshift guardhouse, where I was put through a detailed interrogation and had to answer endless questions, most of them being repeated over and over. Finally, I made a formal statement. At least I was given a steaming mug of good military strength British tea and a couple of slices of thickly buttered toast to sustain me. Bill Overton eventually took me over to Sick Bay, where I had to endure much probing and questioning by the medics. They decided I had indeed been "subjected to a sexual assault which was tantamount to rape" and that I had suffered other forms of "physical abuse". I had to give blood, urine and fecal samples. The doctor took much delight in closely inspecting my genitals - "You've got a big one there, my boy. Take care of it." - as well as my anus. He was disturbed by the wheals and bruising caused by the thrashing I had received from the leather belt and ordered me to be detained in Sick Bay for a week, to allow my injuries to heal. I had to complete a psychological test to determine whether I had suffered mental trauma or not as a result of my ordeal, but they could find nothing wrong there. I did not, however, let on to them that I would spring a stiffy any time of day or night when I recalled any part of my experience in the desert. Even hearing the name 'Aziz' could do the trick. After my week in Sick Bay, I was given a week's convalescence leave before returning to normal duty and taking up the threads of my life again.
After a few weeks, I resumed my occasional trips to town and found myself staying on in Ahmed's Bar for a final couple of beers, thereby missing the last transport back to base. I knew I'd have to walk every step of the way on a very warm, humid night and risk being picked up by a passing militia patrol to spend the night in one of their malodorous guardhouses. As I walked down the dark, narrow alley behind Ahmed's Bar I found myself waiting for a military jeep to come screeching round the corner just ahead of me, lights flashing and klaxon blaring. But nothing happened. No Aziz and his musketeers. No gun barrel poking me up the arse. Nothing. I once bumped into one of the guys who had questioned me in the guardhouse and asked him if he knew where they were. He shook his head, gave me a peculiar look and said, "I haven't a clue, mate. Whadda you wanna know that for, anyway? Fancy another night aht wiv 'em, do yer?"
I never did find out what had happened to Aziz and his merry men. Mind you, there had been a couple more coups d'état since my little adventure, so who knows? I only hope they did not end up in Al Khaba. Rogues they might have been, but they would not have deserved that!
Laurie Page, Oct.16