H003

The plane was, Conner estimated, four hours out of Frankfurt when it started its descent. He couldn't be precise on the time, because they had taken away his wristwatch. In fact, in a men's room in the Frankfurt airport, they had taken all of his clothes away. He'd also been given an intrusive cavity search in a stall, while one of them, armed with a mop bucket and mop stood at the door behind a "closed for cleaning" sign. Then he'd been given a new set of clothes. Somehow they'd gotten the sizes right.

They hadn't denied him a window seat, though, and he knew they were landing on a remote runway of the U.S. Air Force base at Incirlik, on the underbelly of Turkey. His handlers hadn't anticipated this—at least not in the instructions they'd given him—and he only knew it was Incirlik because the others had prepared him so much better so much longer. It didn't matter, though. Taking all of his clothes from him hadn't made a difference; neither did the consensus of his handlers that the destination would be somewhere in eastern Europe. Of course they could just be zigzagging him around Europe and the Middle East to totally mix up his sense of direction.

They certainly would do whatever they could to hide the ultimate destination. The whereabouts of ultimate destination was a large part of what he sought in his assignment.

The apparent military officer who was the only other passenger on the plane was wearing a U.S. Air Force uniform with the insignia of a lieutenant. He'd made no effort to hide an identity with the U.S. military, so Conner assumed he wasn't really U.S. military. Conner's handlers—who also claimed they were U.S. military, had prepared him for that subterfuge. They'd told him those who were transporting him were CIA. But Conner didn't care about those games. It didn't mean shit to him who they represented, or who his handlers were doing this for. The cause was fine; the money was better; the adventure of it was arousing to him.

It beat the monotony of what he had been doing. And he'd been waiting for an opportunity like this for some time.

The escorting officer hadn't bothered to cover up his nametag, which said "Preston." So, Conner assumed he wasn't really named Preston. That didn't bother him either, because he wasn't really named Conner.

He was, however, exactly what he had been contracted to be—a male escort . . . prostitute . . . rent-boy . . . male whore. Whatever they wanted to call him. And he understood that where he'd be going it would be to service dozens of men who hadn't had any for some time—men in top physical condition whose demands would be rigorous.

But, at the same time, he was more than just a male prostitute and was on this journey to accomplish more than satiating a lineup of randy and fit men.

Before he deplaned, Lieutenant Preston placed a blindfold over Conner's eyes and guided him down the stairs to a waiting jeep. Conner had seen the jeep parked where the plane had come to a stop, and he thought it just a tad late for Preston to be blindfolding him. But then Preston wouldn't have known that Conner had been schooled on identifying possible landing ports from the air, aided in this case by the approach from the direction of the setting sun that had been taken when coming in over the Mediterranean Sea.

When the blindfold was taken off, Conner found himself in a small room that must be a medical room of some sort—a doctor's examination room. The coloring was stark white and the furniture was limited to a metal desk with a straight metal chair facing it and another one beside it; a dominating green enamel medical examination table, complete with stirrups; a standing scales; and a clothes horse. A full set of clothes down to briefs, socks, and shoes was hanging on the clothes horse. There were two doors, but no windows. One door, closed—and Conner had heard the lock turn—evidently led to the corridor they had entered from. The other, Conner could see, led through an open door into a bathroom with a small shower, again looking very sterile and medical.

Preston was leaning back on the desk top and giving Conner a hard stare. The man could do scary quite well. He wasn't what Conner thought of as an Air Force officer—someone on the thin side to fit more readily in the confined spaces of a jet cockpit—and with refined features. Conner had always thought of the smarter and more patrician military men as going to the Air Force, with the grunts going to the Army and the truly thuggish going to the Navy. Conner preferred being fucked by the latter—and by Marines whenever possible.

Preston looked like a Marine—thus, to Conner, a thuggish grunt with superior intelligence and great bulk. That's mainly why Conner hadn't thought Air Force. Preston was built large, not as in fat, but as in tall; rugged facial features; broad chested, tapering down to a relative thin waist; heavily muscled; buzz cut; and a demeanor of power, authority, and no nonsense. Definitely not Air Force in Conner's mind. He assumed former Marine or Naval Seal turned CIA.

Conner knew it would be folly and useless to oppose the man; he had no intention of doing so. Nor had he been instructed to try to resist anyone at this phase of the trip. His job was to get to where these men, whoever they represented, wanted to take him. Just that, nothing more, that was the basic mission. Anything else he could find out was gravy.

"You know they will want to fully test you before they take you to the secret base, don't you?" he had been told. "You will have to prove yourself at this point—a point much before we want you to reach. All you have to do is reach the secret base and try to accomplish certain identifications. You must make them want to complete the journey. They will test you for capability and endurance."

"Yes, sir, I understand," Conner had answered, wondering, of course, how taxing or distasteful this testing would be, but such an assignment not being out of line with what he'd had to do in the Las Vegas male brothel at a desert ranch he'd be recruited from.

Happily, from the moment he'd seen the pseudo Air Force lieutenant approaching him in the business lounge at the Frankfurt airport, Conner had been looking forward to the moment he knew they had reached here in this medical examination room somewhere in the Incirlik Airbase complex.

"Strip, please," Preston said in a commanding voice. "Do it slowly, the way you would do it for a client—the way you'll do it for any of the men who want you to do it. The clothes can just be tossed in the corner over there. You won't be wearing them again."

Conner did as he was told, slowly and teasingly removing the clothes, all the time giving Preston sultry looks. When Conner unbuttoned his shirt, Preston unbuttoned his as well and let the sides flare away from his body. He wasn't wearing an undershirt. His chest was as massive as Conner had perceived it would be, with bulging pecs, rimmed on the underside with a matting of blond, curly hair, which then trailed down his sternum, washboard abs, and hard, flat belly.

There were some well-built cowboy types who came to the ranch outside Las Vegas, but not many who looked as good as this guy did. Conner liked having sex; he even liked it rough; he liked it better with a well-built dude. He'd loved being fucked by every Marine who had fucked him.

As Conner unbuckled his belt, Preston unzipped his trousers and fished out a half-hard cock that, in its length and girth, complimented the rest of his manly, Marine's body.

"Stop," he commanded before Conner unbuttoned and unzipped his trousers. "Come here, go on your knees, and give me a blow job first. Make me like it."

Conner knelt in front of Preston, as the officer leaned his buttocks back into the edge of the desk and palmed the desk top with stiffened arms extending out from his body. Conner took the cock in his mouth and gave the man deep head. Preston grunted and groaned in a low, bass voice as Conner sucked him off expertly.

"The balls. Suck the balls," Preston growled, and Conner complied. After he'd licked and sucked them briefly, Preston growled again. "I want to face fuck you." He took control of Conner's head with his hands, and Conner returned his attentions to the cock, more or less just holding his mouth in a big O and providing straight passage to the back of his throat, while Preston manipulated Conner's head with his hands and pumped the young man's face with his cock.

With an, "Oh Fuck, oh shit, I'm gonna come," Preston jerked Conner's head off his cock and creamed the young man's face. The officer released Conner's head, and the young man swallowed the cock again and cleaned it with his mouth. He looked up into Preston's face and grinned to show that it hadn't been a chore for him. Taking the size of the cock had been a bit of a chore, but not one that Conner couldn't handle. Size did make a difference in Conner's enjoyment.

Nothing that was happening now was taxing or distasteful to Conner, and he was trying his best to convey that to Preston.

"OK, back to the center of the room and take the rest of it off," Preston said in a deep, trembling voice.

Conner didn't have to be told that he'd done well. He knew he'd passed that part of the test.

After he'd put on a striptease for Preston, he was told to go into the bathroom and take a shower.

"Clean yourself out well. There's a douche bottle in the shower to help with that."

When he started to close the bathroom door, out of habit, Preston growled, pushed it open, and stood in the doorway, leaning on the frame. "I will watch you soaping up and showering. Make me want to fuck you."

A half hour later, Conner was bound to the examination table, on his back, his legs raised and spread in the stirrups, and his wrists bound to the side of the table on each side, as Preston proceeded with another cavity search, this time with his greased fist up to the knuckles in Conner's ass—and eventually beyond. Conner had already sucked him hard again, with his head flopped over the top of the examination table, giving Preston a straight shot for his cock in Conner's mouth as Preston leaned over Conner's chest, chewed on the young man's nipples and ran his tongue down Conner's belly before swallowing his cock in a sixty-nine position.

The cavity search ended with Preston mining Conner's passage with his cock.

Eventually, showered again and dressed, Conner was led out of the room and into a small waiting room—again windowless and, he presumed, with the exit door locked. A young muscle man, with a blank look on his face, and reading a girlie magazine sat so close to that door that Conner knew he couldn't have left by the route without permission if he wanted to. Conner wasn't built for muscle work; he was built to please muscle work.

He wasn't the only one in the room, however. There were two slim, but busty, young women—one blonde and one brunette, sitting very close together on a waiting room-style couch across the room from him. They were whispering to each other. Conner couldn't decide what the language was, but it certainly seemed east European to him. Not as guttural as Russian, but close.

In their dress and their demeanor, it was clear to Conner what they were. He'd been told there would be female prostitutes too—obviously more than one, given the probable mix of interests of the soldiers Conner and the women would be servicing at whatever secret base they were being taken to. Conner was a little miffed. They looked more like whores than he thought he did. He'd come from a high-class brothel. They looked almost scaggy.

Preston walked over to the women and pointed to the brunette, reaching down and grabbing her forearm roughly and pulling her up from the couch when she didn't respond immediately.

There was a knock on the door, and the doorkeeper let in a scruffy looking Turk, swarthy and hirsute and scowling slightly. Conner wondered how Preston and his people wouldn't have realized that Conner would know a Turk when he saw one. But then, he'd been pulled out of a Las Vegas brothel at a desert ranch. They probably hadn't done any sort of a background check on him at all to find out that he'd been around the world a couple of times before landing out in the desert.

If they'd done a half-way thorough background check, they wouldn't have hired him at all.

"This is the pilot for the next leg," Preston said to Conner. "There's a deal going with him, and I want to make sure you have the stamina for what's ahead anyway. You are to take any man I send to you before I clear you for the next leg of the trip."

Preston then took the brunette into a different examination room than Connor had been in—and that Conner hadn't noticed before—and slammed the door behind them. Ah, he swings both ways, Conner thought. He tucked that away in the back of his mind in case it would be useful later.

In the meantime, the Turk—the pilot for the next flight—herded Conner into the first examination room and fucked him doggy style on the examination table. While he was doing so, Conner tried to make enough conversation to unobtrusively fold in subtle questions about where they were going with telling the hirsute Turk that he was a magnificent swordsmen, but the pilot was tight lipped—at least until he decided he wanted to suck Conner's cock to an ejaculation.

Standing at the door as he left was his copilot, the pilot said in broken English. Conner wasn't told that he had privileges next, but he didn't really have to be told.

The copilot was both more inventive in positions and a bit looser lipped with information, especially after Conner demonstrated, with loud cries in the man's own language, that he was being taken expertly—better than the pilot, which the copilot seemed to appreciate hearing. The copilot used the examination table stirrups for Conner's arms and knelt on the end of the examination table, with Conner's ankles locked at the back of the copilot's neck, while the copilot fucked him and beat Conner's cock off with his fist. The copilot inadvertently dropped that they would be flying northeast and that the land would be desert. He also dropped the term, H zero zero three. H003. It seemed to be a place. And it gave Conner his first concrete piece of intelligence to pass back when he was able. His handlers had other ways to follow and locate him, but he now had a possible installation name.

A younger, willowy man, who wanted to be fucked rather than to fuck, was next. He later proved to be the steward on the very private flight of the C-130 Hercules cargo plane that flew Conner northeast from there. Conner, of course, had been schooled in identify the various transports and cargo planes flying.

Conner had no idea who the next to last guy was. He was a Turk and had a bigger cock than his body size promised, but Conner didn't see him anywhere after that. He was older—but not less vigorous in his fucking—so Conner surmised he must have been management level in this operation. The last one to appear and fuck him was the young man who had been guarding the door. He was American, by accent, and kept saying how much tighter and more enjoyable Conner's hole was than that of the blonde. Conner assumed he was talking about the blonde prostitute who had been sitting out in the reception room.

In all Conner had been fucked by six men. Not much different from a Friday or Saturday at the Las Vegas brothel. He decided he must have passed the endurance test, as it wasn't long after he'd showered the cheap-smelling perfume of the blonde off his body that Preston had returned, told him to dress in the new set of clothes provided, and he was led, blindfolded, out to what turned out to be a C-130—with just bucket seats and various-sized boxes of supplies in the fuselage portion he was in and no windows.

He tried to figure out how many hours the flight was, but the coffee the steward gave him must have been drugged, because he dozed off and had to be awakened as they were landing. Before he went to sleep, though, he saw Preston roughly pull the blonde up from where she was sitting and take her farther to the back of the plane and beyond a wall with a door in it. She was making a lot of noise over the rumbling of the engines before Conner drifted off to sleep, so Conner thought Preston probably had some special needs when he went with a woman.

* * * *

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.