"I thought that maybe, after class, we could go for a drink and maybe dinner."
"That sounds great, Lex, but I can't tonight. Maybe another night."
"Yeah, sure, no problem." If Captain Lex Brown, hunky black Air Force officer teaching the signatures class at the photographic interpretation course at Beale Air Force base, east of Yuba City in California was disappointed, he didn't show it. I had been giving him every indication that I was interested. I did hope there would be another time. He was a hunk and a half and just a couple of years older than I was.
Yes, if we actually went on a date and he wanted to bed me, I'd already decided I'd let him. I wasn't that hard to get, I could be randy at a wink from a good-looking and fit top, and I'd seen Brown in the base gym showers. He was a muscular god and hung like a stallion. My butt twitched just from looking at him.
Being sent to this course by the Agency and promised a complete change in career path if I did well in satellite photographic interpretation had been my reward for--and deliverance from, I hoped, the far more taxing and dangerous work in Sam Winterberry's Candy Store operations. The Candy Store was a special unit of the CIA that combined the world's two oldest professions, spying and prostitution, to run operations against the opposition. I had been one of the pieces of candy being dangled at men, and Sam had treated me as a piece. I had been used to suborn men the Agency wanted to turn and use, using sex. I had done a full share of lying on my back and opening my legs to turn men for the nation.
I hadn't given up on sex, but Sam, after four dangerous missions with four male targets, which some side couplings with others involved, had, at last, granted my request for a change in career paths within the Agency. But that didn't mean I'd given up on sex with men. So, I hoped that Captain Lex Brown wouldn't give up on that offer of a drink and dinner and then hopefully something else just because I couldn't do it tonight. I had made arrangements to get away tonight. The photographic interpretation class was intense. I needed to break away for a night.
I left the classroom area that was buried in a hangar behind a hangar on one of the Beale Air Base's airstrips. I walked from the back hangar to the front, in which two SR71 photo recon jets were parked. I nodded to the Hispanic E-6 Tech Sergeants, Hector Herra, who was working maintenance on one of the Blue Birds, and walked out into the first sunlight I'd seen that day. Classes had started before the sun came up and there were no windows in the classroom area. It was a top-secret vault. It was one big SCIF.
I hopped into my Mustang and drove the short distance to the BOQ where all of the students except for the married ones were housed. I packed enough gear for the weekend and drove the Mustang to a Walmart lot in Marysville, between the base and Yuba City on Highway 70, and exchanged my car for the Honda Civic I'd rented. On the way south on 70, I stopped at a McDonald's for a burger. After that, it was south again on 70 to the much smaller burg of Pluma Lake and an older motor court off the highway, Branson's Cabins, which was just that, a gas station fronting on a line of six cabins, renting by the hour, night, week, or month, depending on how long the sex couples or migrant farm workers renting them needed a cheap room and squeaky bed.
The squeaky bed was very much what I had in mind. The sound of the moaning bed coils in rhythm with a man's dick inside me doing its thing was arousing to me. It helped me perform better in bed. It was a fetish from all those seedy hotels foreign spies had taken me to and laid me while CIA agents recorded my taking for blackmail use.
I'd rented one of the cabins for a month. I'd see how that would go. I'd only used it twice in the first three weeks. As I parked well away from the cabin I'd rented, I looked around the lot. Other than a Camaro, with a hunky Hispanic guy at the wheel parked by the end unit, no one was around that I could see. That was good. That was the way I wanted it.
I took my overnight bag out of the back of the Honda and entered the cabin I'd rented. I shut but didn't lock the door. I stripped and went into the bathroom and took a shower. When I came out of the bathroom, with just a towel around my waist, I found I wasn't alone. The Hispanic bruiser who had been sitting in the Camaro was there, stripped down to his briefs. He might have stripped all of the way if I had taken a bit longer in the bathroom.
He was a tank--a heavily muscular body builder. Pushing forty and all solid man. Bald and thuggish, covered with tattoos. He stripped off his briefs and I saw that he was there for action. He was one big bull and was in full erection. He had restraints and a hand whip clutched in one of his hands. I got hot on role playing and pretending. Tonight he was a Colombian drug lord, there to punish and snuff me. I went hard.
I didn't have time to react to the intrusion and the Hispanic hunk knew what he wanted. He was on me in a second. Big and muscular, he was more than I could have handled if I wanted out of this. I didn't want out of this, though. I wanted to pretend to resist but then be taken hard. The Hispanic hunk knew what the scene was to be.
I struggled but backhands across the face and a fist to the solar plexus had me on the ground, winded, and on my knees. My wrists were tied behind my back. He grabbed a handful of hair, pulled my face into his groin, and growled, "Suck it and make it good, or else. Bite me and I'll snuff you."
There it was, the threat to take it all the way--to use me up. I went harder.
I'd always been a submissive who was heated up by dominating control. I was getting dominating control.
"Please don't hurt me," I whimpered.
He slapped me across the face and growled, "I said suck it."
I took his cock in my mouth and gave him head.
I was put on my belly on the bed, my arms over my head, my wrists restrained to the headboard, as he whipped my buttocks, back, and legs--hard enough to raise welts; not hard enough to bring blood. I panted hard and, because of what I'd lived before and what I had found had taken me to the height before, I cried out, "Yes, yes, beat me. Punish me. Take me to the shed!"
I ground my body into the bed, making the bed coils sing. Squeak, squeak. He made the whip sting. Again and again. The bed coils sang as I writhed away from the strike of the whip. I got harder.
Sometimes in what I did for Sam Winterberry and the Candy Store unit, I had come near to real death at the hands of the men I was working on turning. And in those moments, I had reached the apex of sexual arousal. My desires had been suborned by my past.
My surrender revved him up. There was no romance in the man or any concern much to prepare or please me. It was all about him. He was on top of me, his knees encasing mine.
"Take it, bitch!" he growled.
A beefy arm went under my belly and pulled me up. The hand of the other arm, though, pressed me down with his fist buried between my shoulder blades. Holding my legs close together with his knees, he mounted me, penetrated my now-tightened hole with a thick, long, erection, and fucked the shit of me.
For seconds, he put me on my back, my wrists again tied to the headboard, spread and bent my legs, and put my feet flat on the mattress. Nudging his knees between my thighs, he thrust up into me and for the next fifteen minutes, the headboard bounced off the wall in vigorous rhythm as he fucked me to hell.
The music of the night. A squeaky bed. I moaned from arousal.
When he was done and had gone to the shower, leaving me panting and moaning on my back, unable to close my legs, he returned, drying himself off with the towel I'd come out of the bathroom with. He dressed in his working uniform and released my restraints.
"Same time next Tuesday?" he asked.
"Sure," I answered, that deciding whether I'd rent the cabin for another month.
