Cock-Sucker: Abducted

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I was a sex-slave of the gay Taliban.
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Of course, insurgency abductions are serious. Not something to be treated lightly, or as titillation. Writing this I was deliberately referencing back to the counter-culture poets and anti-Vietnam agit-prop writers who used extreme satiric and purposefully obscene images to attack what they saw as unjust foreign policy. The title is a reference yet further back to the kind of 'Man's Adventures' magazines of the 1950's with their exploitational anti-Nazi and anti-Commie stories of scantily-clad victims of evil ideologies. Yes, I know the Taliban are not necessarily active in Iraq, although 'Rashid' explains the connection, and hopefully the denouement is humanist and optimistic with a 'message' of common humanity, despite such tacky precedents. That the things that unite us are greater than the ideologies, cultural divides, sexual and religious prejudices that divide us...

Just because they call it the 'Green Zone' don't necessarily mean it's green. Like everywhere else in this benighted country it's hot and unpleasant. Made more nasty by the concrete blast-barriers, razorwire and patrols. Which was why Tariq takes me places I'm not really supposed to go. Of course, I trust him. With him by my side I feel invulnerable. He knows the city. He knows where to go. He leads me through a maze of narrow streets into the bazaar. Although times are hard, and prices are being ceaselessly bartered, there seem to be stalls and kiosks, and others just trading bread or fruit from boxes in alcoves. A constant babble of voices and movements with the sun glimpsed somewhere out there beyond the almost aquatic twilight of the 'souk's covered ways. Emerging out of the far end the sudden blast of dazzling heat is overwhelming, and for a moment I didn't realise what was happening.

A van halts abruptly in my way. It was green, I think, although corrosion and over-painting with designs and names makes it difficult to tell. Three men spring out, then the tailgates bust open and there's another. I just watch, unaware of anything sinister. Until Tariq breaks, and begins haring back in the way we'd come. I turn to follow, suddenly alarmed, but it was too late, they'd seized me and roughly propelled me into the back of the van. They were silent. The engine exploded into straining life as the doors were juddered back into place and secured. It accelerates away. The full horror of the situation canting my gut. This was the terror that was always there on the edge of your mind. It had happened to others, you'd seen them on Al-Jazeera, but of course, it would never happen to me. And Tariq...? Had he set me up? That was the most appalling aspect of it. Had he deliberately led me to this place? Had this been his motive all along? After all the sweet things we've done together, all the things we'd said... has it all been contrived just so that he could betray me? I couldn't believe it. But staring across at the two terrorists across from me, their faces hidden behind their keffiyehs, it seems I have no option but to accept that it is true.

The van lurches and careens at considerable pace, before slowing a little, I guess so as not to attract attention from APC's, the checkpoint armoured personnel carriers. It was unbearably hot. I was squatting on my heels, my back rammed up against the curving wall. They sit across from me, implacable, with their Kalashnikov AK-47's resting idly across their knees. My throat too dry to speak anything beyond 'please, don't do this.' It must have been twenty minutes later, the van-doors erupt outwards and I was shoved forward. My legs barely function. I get the impression we're in some kind of tightly enclosed yard. There's a strong smell of spices unpleasantly mingled with the stench of drains and decay. I was hurried through a door into a long gloomy passage, and eventually into a bare room.

Is this it? Is this where I'm going to die? They gesture for me to undress. At first I thought I must be mistaken. I go through a mime of not understanding. Then one of them pokes along the lines of my shirt with the muzzle of his gun, I get the message, and hurriedly do as indicated, nervous and self-conscious. Naked and incredibly vulnerable I await my fate. They pinion my hands behind my back, handcuff them there, and attach me to a water-pipe. All of this happens without a single word being exchanged. They laugh at my predicament, and leave the room. I slump down, finding as comfortable a position as I can manage, my back hunched up against the wall, my head resting on my knees. I sob uncontrollably for... how long? I don't know. They've taken my watch along with my clothes. I might have been there two hours, maybe longer. Sweat crawls and drips along my forehead, down my legs and thigh. I feel sick with apprehension.

There are muffled sounds elsewhere in the building, voices pitched just a little too low that I couldn't quite understand. Eventually one of the insurgents returns. He's removed his facial covering, and seems surprisingly youthful. Little more than nineteen. Releasing my hands, he passes me a long chador, and watches with keen interest as I fumblingly envelop myself in the disguising feminine garment. He was joined by two others and I was shepherded out of the building by an entrance onto a back-street where a battered saloon car waits. I realise that my unusual appearance is to enable me to be moved around the country without drawing attention. We drive for a long weary distance. There are tense moments when we pass lazy checkpoints who scarcely bother looking at the driver's ID, casually glancing at the other passengers before waving us on. I was tensed to yell out or make some sign, but I was under constant scrutiny, and I know my captors are armed.

Outside the city I was hooded for a while to further confuse me. Not that I'd know where we were heading. As part of the cultural liaison division I'd hardly been outside the Green Zone, let alone the city. We crawl up a coiling gradient with abrupt hairpin bends alongside steep arid cliffs. At last we arrive wherever it is we're going. A remote enclosed property. I manage to grab glimpses of groves of what I take to be warped olive shrubs. A vista looking out between dry crags over the lowland back towards the city, across this mystically ancient land of Mesopotamia and Sumer, by the rivers of Gilgamesh and Babylon, and above to the mountains. Land that had been watered by blood since the very dawn of history. I was escorted directly through to a room at the rear with no outside window, but a bedstead with a soiled mattress. The young guy waits as I remove the chador, then handcuffs me to the bed. Again I was aware of his keen interest in my body. Let him look. It occurred to me it was my foreskin he was looking at. Tariq had confided the same. Where circumcision is the cultural norm, a hooded cock is the cause of amused curiosity.

I lie back on the mattress that smells of stale piss. A vast wave of fatigue and aftershock taking me. It was obvious I was not about to be executed immediately, that I was the victim of some kind of hostage scam, and that negotiations would begin. Maybe they're already in motion? Despite everything I sleep dreamlessly. When dawn spills in, it was the light I'd craved for. Light I'd feared I might never see again. My eyes were starved for it. My bones ache for it. In its long absence it seems I've shrivelled to something less than the size of a sand-grain, something to walk on, something you crush without thought beneath the sole of your sandal.

'Asalaamu alaikum' he greets me.

I grunt, 'insha-Allah' in response. He gives me an enamel dish with a sparse mound of rice, some lentils and diced aubergine. I'm about to refuse it, until I realise it's exactly what they're eating. They're giving me equal shares. Guiltily, I sit on the edge of the bed, and eat. It leaves me still hungry. The water he gives me tastes distinctly odd too, with an unpleasantly fetid aftertaste. He speaks heavily accented Gelet Arabic. As though it's unfamiliar to him. His name, I discover, is Rashid.

When I reply, he's surprised I speak it well, but that's my qualification for being here. 'Yes, I've learned how to 'come' in at least two languages.' I use a slang term for 'come' which will leave no doubt about my meaning.

It's a quip I'd used with Tariq, but one entirely appropriate to repeating now. He stands there, watching me in a curious silence for some time. Then he extends the muzzle of his AK-47 towards my groin. I tense in nervous anticipation. The cold metal contacts my slack penis, sliding beneath to lever it up from between my legs, then to flip it loose. With an amused expression he uses the gun to stir it this way, and that. My first reaction is to squirm away from its chill touch, but I force myself to do the opposite. To lie back, smile encouragingly, and part my legs, allowing him greater access to it. Almost despite myself, it quivers into a lazy half-erection. He laughs, and raises the hem of his dishdasha, his long loose-fitting robe. He wears nothing beneath. I can see his cock. His smooth cafè-au-lait body is almost hairless, except genitally. He stands there, watching and monitoring my reactions. His AK-47 rests idly within his reach, but beyond mine. He reaches down and begins masturbating, each long slow down-stroke – soon becoming vertical up-strokes, ending by squeezing the shaft until the bulb swells and its eye opens.

'You like this, Crusader?' A curious tingle in the air.

'I like it very much,' if it's a lie, at least it's half-true, 'but I'm no Crusader.'

He moves with a tangibly strange reticence. 'Crusader you are. Christian you are, here to rape our homeland. What else can you be?'

'No. I'm just here to assist reconstruction.'

'Here to rape. So you are here, now for rape. Would that not be justice?'

My skin crawls with odd anticipations. With sexual threat, and promise. Sex was something I'd been only too happy to do with Tariq, and he'd betrayed me. I'd been only too eager to do it to him, and he'd turned out to be a member of the same terrorist cell. I remember each sweet time we'd been together with such a confused ache of desire and bitterness. Our relationship caught in a series of illuminated moments, snapshots taken when least expected. He was the honey-trap, and boy, was I trapped! The honey-suckle trap, and boy, did we suck and taste the honey. What did I have to lose by doing it now?

Although I'm still shackled to the bedhead I'm able to squirm forward, lean over into his groin, and lick my way up the full length of his cock, tasting its sweat-sour saltiness. He tenses as I slide my lips around its flared bulbous crown, and slip it deep into my mouth, sucking gently, then faster. Before he has chance to change his mind. It tastes clean now, and impossibly smooth. Its youthful vibrant eagerness throbbing hard up along my tongue. My throaty slurp is moist and vulgar, I try to keep it quiet so as not to draw unwelcome attention, but it's impossible. I daren't look up, nervous to see his expression, but I get all the reaction I need from the pulse of his cockhead pressed up against the roof of my mouth, the warm undulations of his stomach as he inhales sharply. I begin pleasuring him with a steady rhythm. But it happens too quickly, before I'm ready. He smothers a low moan as, in a whiplash crack of sudden energy, he spurts off in my mouth, semen squirting in a copious deluge, flooding my throat as his ejaculation goes on and on. Based on the speed, and amount of ejaculate, it must be a considerable time since he's last had sex. His whole body trembling as the rapture wracks through him. I breathe hard, concentrating on holding the spasming cock firmly between my lips until the shudders subside, and he relaxes back.

I'm erect too. When you're sucking a guy off you get a contact-high, no matter what the circumstances. With an impenetrable smile he reaches out, down to my hard-on. Grasps it roughly. Teasing my foreskin experimentally up and down, pursing it, exposing the blushing glans. Only two strokes are enough to bring me to ejaculation too, grunting as the stream of milky-white come spatters high up my stomach, my hips bucking. Perhaps it's meant as a kind of 'you bring me off, I bring you off' quid pro quo, a trade-off? A basis for negotiation, maybe? Or is this clutching at straws?

Sweat cools on our bodies. His perfect skin glows with vibrant energy. He glistens with the heat we've generated together. And yet, at the same time he seems almost embarrassed by what we've done. With my voice unnaturally husky I manage to say 'I'm not your enemy. I was never your enemy. I was never a Crusader. You never fought beside Salah ad-Din. We are just people. You and I. I'm not even a Christian. I need no gods. I believe in only what I can touch and feel.' After what we'd done, I intended 'touch and feel' to mean something more personal and specific.

If so, he misses my intention, picking up instead on something else I'd said. 'I don't understand. How can you look at the world, and deny the existence of a creator?'

'How can you look at the violence around us, and believe that this is the will of a caring god...?'

He pauses, as though he's about to respond, then just grins impishly, shucks his dishdasha down, and shakes his head. As I watch him go I'm thinking, this kind of thing had never happened to Terry Waite, or if it did he never let on!

There are silences you never want to hear. In a heavyweight silence, the moon seems barely a stone's throw away. These are lethally dangerous times. These people are the product of historical and psychic traumas shocking this land. But my initial terror is already a wild memory that fades and blurs. Replaced by a wasteful cancerous stalemate. If I could teleport out of this place I'd be just about anywhere else. But I can't. So I'm hunched forward on this stained mattress, elbows on knees, kneading my hands together. Kiss these demons out of my dreams. Give me novocaine. I've never thought of myself as a brave man. Sometimes you just get the unpleasant sensation in the pit of your gut, that you've lost control. That you're being carried by events. To be without ID is to be a non-person. Not that we'd been considered human anyway. Just a bit of international flotsam, temporarily useful, sometimes inconvenient, but with a short expiry date.

Rashid has been back several times, and we've had sex each time. More leisurely this time, less urgent. Chafik is the leader of the cell. His is a set, stern, determined edifice. Yet he uses me too. Maybe Rashid has talked, hinted about my sexual compliance? Maybe not. Perhaps he's just taking advantage of the situation. And I'm in no position to act coy. It's twilight when he forces his way into my cell. I try to control the panic in my gut. My mind racing, this is another opportunity. Once you've crossed that psychological threshold there's no going back, and it gets easier. I struggle up to meet him, but no, he forces me back down onto the mattress, and around, his intention blunt and insistent. He presses down on the small of my back with one hand, and uses a cloth soaked in olive oil to anoint my anal-mouth with the other. When he pulls his robe up I can't help but be drawn to the half-glimpsed image of the bone-hard cock jutting aggressively from his belly. Then I feel the heat of its bluntness pressing up against my rectum. I wince, brace myself. My hips lift involuntarily, as I feel its head penetrate me, forcing the sphincter open. We're both moaning, a mix of discomfort and pleasure. For him, it's a sexual conquest, a release. For me, is this fraternisation? Or turning the other cheek, in the most literal way. Loving your enemy, in its most physical expression?

Is it rape? Only in the sense that, when it's inevitable, you might as well lie back and enjoy it. He presses the full weight of his body down onto me, and it's as though he's forcing all the air out of me so I'm exhaling in one long whimpering gasp. He's straining into me inch by inch, filling me, until I feel his balls tight up under my ass. I steady myself as best I can as the thrusting begins, pressing back to take him, my own genitals swaying and bouncing with each deep penetration. I grit my teeth and close my eyes as it goes on, wordlessly. Stupidly my own fierce ejaculation begins spurting into the air even before I feel his forceful orgasm bursting deep in my gut. He withdraws almost immediately, wiping himself on the moist cloth, and leaves without a backward glance. There's a stifling fecund sex-smell in the room that lingers for a long time.

This was hard and impersonal. I feel sundered, used, but oddly calm, lying in the afterglow of that oceanic warmth that follows orgasm. It wasn't as it had been with Rashid. After all, a blow-job is just about the friendliest thing one man can do for another. I've never been what you'd call promiscuous, but sex has always been an important part of life, and when it comes to oral pleasuring I'm not exactly a novice. I know my way around the pleasure-points of that specific part of the male anatomy. As Tariq would surely testify, if only he was here.

Meantime, if they learn to like me, maybe it'll work to my advantage. So I ensure they like me. One night Rashid visits me. The next it's Chafik, at first with my hands still manacled behind me. Only later releasing them so I'm able to be more sexually active. Although my ankle's still manacled to the bed, he allows me time to work my saliva-lubricated fingers into my rectum to facilitate his ease of entry. Then bracing myself to receive each thrust, as he takes me from behind with the raw slap of flesh on flesh, as I try hard to force myself to conjure it as Tariq, my treacherous lover. There's another who enters my cell the third night, I don't even get to know his name until much later, Khuder. An older bearded man who wants to be sucked off. He has a big cock, and he laughs with cruel delight as I choke on it. But failure is not an option. He's less excitable than Rashid, I have to work on it, it takes a long time for me to bring him to climax deep in my throat.

Then it's Rashid again, allowing me time to cosset his balls as I suck him. They are tight and full. But I know I can empty them. My violators always visit separately, as though not admitting to each other what they're doing, while at the same time, they've worked out a rota. They must know. Another guy looks in at me. I lie on my back and part my legs, with it all on display, inviting. He looks, then withdraws. I've play-acted games of non-consensual sex before, with lovers. This is different. Of course it is. I lie there alone, my head on fire with unwanted thoughts. Getting unprompted erections. Why don't they come and take me simultaneously? Get it all over with at once? Yet it gets easier. I learn to know what they want.

Each time, as I ingratiate myself to them, doing whatever they want, I'm trying to develop the situation into debate. Work around the 'Stockholm syndrome' thing, make them see me as a person, a sympathetic individual, rather than a victim, an enemy, a target. Rashid talks. Chafik doesn't. Chafik fucks me in long deep strokes. That's all he needs. I have strictly functional sex with him. But I can never open a dialogue. Unlike Rashid, who seems to enjoy our arguments. I have no choice who I have sex with, but I try to get across to Rashid my preference for doing it with him. Not entirely insincerely.

'Admit it Rashid, this is no more your homeland than it is mine. You came here to fight the intifada, and perhaps to die for your faith, to fight the infidel.'

'In the Caliphate to come there will be no artificial national divisions between us, only the faithful.'

'But historically, you had the Caliphate a hundred years ago. You had the Ottoman Empire. And it was no more pure or corruption-free than any other empire in history, face it.'

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