Title:
Mission to Daleth IVAuthor: Soledad
For disclaimer, rating, etc. see the
index page Warning: this is the extended, adult version of the chapter. If you are under-age or squicked by descriptive same-gender sex, you should read the sanitized version of the story on FF.Net.
Chapter 05 - More Scheming
Author’s notes:
For visuals, S’Bysh’s quarters were inspired by the Orion scene of the TOS pilot “The Cage”. S’Bysh himself is supposed to look like the Orion trader in that episode, played by Joseph Mell. The intricacies of Orion culture are entirely my invention and have absolutely no basis in canon.
Sdan’s Jugalan duelling spear is not similar to the Minbari fighting pikes from Babylon 5 (this particular scene had actually been written years before B5 hit the air). It’s more like the alien’s weapon in the first “Predator” movie and will play a more important role in the 11th “Lost Years” adventure, titled “He Walked Among Us”.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Most inhabitants of Daleth Station believed that S’Bysh would never show up in his own bar - nor would he make an appearance in any of the other places of entertainment. The Orion potentate lived in seclusion most of the time, like all members of the Orion oligarchy, ruling his financial empire through associates.
Those associates never got to see him either, though. Only his aides did. No one, aside from slaves and his personal servants were allowed in his presence. Only a few selected persons - usually visiting dignitaries or fellow potentates from Orion, or even more rarely, the one or other important business partner - ere let into the inner sanctum of his quarters.
The truth was, however, that S’Bysh never set foot into his own establishment because he didn’t need to. The atrium of his quarters was adjoining the bar, and he could watch every performance through a huge, floor-to-ceiling window, transparent only from his side. His quarters included one of the corridors that joined the second ring with the third one, so he could walk from the bar straight to his private rooms.
The atrium would have been worthy of a hégemón back on Rigel VIII. Its walls were covered with white marble grating and heavy silk curtains in rich colours, giving it the look of an oriental harem. Rare - and expensive - plants bought here from the homeworld stood in every niche, and a semi-circular marble dais, strewn with soft silk cushions, served as the potentate’s resting place. Onyx-plated, small bronze tables, laded with selected bottles and fruit baskets, stood on the dais, in arm’s reach.
On this evening, S’Bysh was wearing an olive green robe of some shiny fabric and beneath it a red tunic and a dark blue vest. Humans would have found the choice of colours unusual - for an Orion, they symbolized his status in society, just like the thick golden cord with the tassels on both ends that held the otherwise open robe together upon his throat. Or the ceremonial golden ring worn in his left ear only.
He was a big man - for an Orion anyway, who tended to be stocky - and though he seemed fat, that was just an illusion. Born and grown up on a planet with high gravitation (Rigel VIII had 1.8G in standard measures) made him heavy with dense muscle, even though he never did any physical work. Here, at Daleth Station, he had to spar with his guards daily, or he would have lost muscle density. He hated it but accepted the necessity, as he planned to return home one day.
So, he was broad and stocky, but most certainly not soft. His business partners tended to underestimate him (side from his fellow Orions of course), since they found nothing threatening in a middle-aged, bald man - upper-class Orions shaved their entire body, including their head as a sign of purity - with a hooked nose and a big, luscious mouth. Not at first sight, anyway. But when they looked in those yellow eyes with the dark, slanted pupils, they realized at once just how dangerous this man was.
Currently, he was watching the usual evening performance - more precisely, the second number of the young Mo’ari dancer, while sharing a light supper with his chief aide, a blood-sworn servant. The supper wasn’t spread over one of the tables. A very young, green-skinned slave boy was kneeling in front of the potentate, balancing a heavy silver tray with the supper on his head. He had been kneeling there for more than an hour, motionless like a jade statue. Should he sway and drop the tray, it’d have meant his immediate death.
S’Bysh took a few choice bits from the tray. He didn’t need to fear from being poisoned. All his servants had sworn the blood oath, which meant that should he die, even of a natural cause, the servants would be killed by his guards on the spot.
After which the guards, too, would be executed, of course. The death of a potentate always meant the death of his whole household. With the exception of the slaves, naturally, as they counted as property and were given to the rightful heir. Therefore the loyalty of freeborn servants was ensured by their own survival instinct. This was a time-honoured custom that had served well for centuries, and the Orions didn’t intend to change it just to spare the sensitivity of their Federation neighbours.
The most trusted, personal servants weren’t allowed to wear individual names. Once they had sworn the blood oath to a potentate, they lost their names and were given a simple number that symbolized his status in the household. If this status changed, their number, too, would change accordingly.
S’Bysh’s current First was a middle-aged woman with excellent degrees in economy, computer sciences and pharmacy. Contrary to common belief among outsiders, females of the Alpha population weren’t kept as slaves by default. Assumed that they were born free, they had the same career chances as males had.
There even were female potentates. It was just hard to spot them, since they, too, lived mostly in seclusion. And even if they did show up, they shaved their heads like the male ones and wore the same wide, all-covering robes.
S’Bysh’s First still had her hair, of course. She was of common birth and a mere servant, after all - a fact emphasized by her simple, dark clothes. Her status as First was symbolized by a special choker: a golden circle around her neck, with a single ruby in the middle.
While eating a few bits with her potentate, she, too, watched the performance through the large window.
“So you have made up your mind, my Lord?” she asked softly. “You are ready to make your move, yes?”
S’Bysh nodded, his eyes, full of cold lust, taking in the supple body of the young dancer.
“The time is ripe,” he replied in a low, deceivingly mild voice. “I’ve waited for three years… and that brother of his isn’t as vigilant anymore as he used to be.”
“When?” his First asked; there were preparations to make, after all.
“Soon,” S’Bysh replied, “but not right away. First I have to deal with the Romulan girl. I’m getting the feeling that she’ll try to leave the station. She was seen with that foolish old human again. The smuggler.”
“Captain Vierchi? They meet every time he’s on the station.”
“True. But never before have they met at Thorev’s. Where is Vierchi scheduled to go next?”
“According to the station logs to Ilyra VI.”
“He won’t take the girl there,” S’Bysh wiped his hands in the thick, silky hair of another green-skinned slave boy absent-mindedly. “Too dangerous. He’ll have suggested her another way out. Let the girl be watched.”
“What if she tries to leave?” the First asked. S’Bysh’s yellow eyes narrowed.
“Nobody leaves here without my permission. Should she try to leave, have her taken and brought to my quarters.”
“Understood,” the First made some entries in her electronic notebook. “Do you want me to start making preparations concerning the dancer as well?”
S’Bysh nodded. “Yes. I want everything ready for the time I make my move.”
“Which drug do you wish me to use?” the First asked. The potentate gave him a half-bored, half-irritated look. He didn’t like being bothered with details.
“You are my apothecary. I’ll leave it to you.”
“Are you willing to wait until the arrival of Harry Mudd and his cargo?” the First inquired. “I’ve heard… interesting things of this new, advanced version of kireshet. It’s said to be considerably more… potent than the old one. We could combine business with private entertainment and test the drug on the boy.”
S’Bysh thought for a moment; then he nodded in agreement. “Very well. I’ll need time to break in the Romulan girl first anyway.”
“Madame Vithra might protest,” his First warned. “She is rather… protective about her employees.”
The potentate shrugged. “Madame Vithra won’t risk what’s still there from her battered beauty.” His smile became thin and smug. “Isn’t it a sad thing that a childhood illness like Kasaba fever would prove so… destructive for other species? Most unfortunate.”
“Would the pointy-ears not sleep with children, the fever had never spread on their world,” his First replied cynically and left to carry out her orders.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Arrhae was pondering all afternoon, but in the end she had to realize that she had no other choice than following the old smuggler’s suggestions. Fortunately, her modest quarters were on the habitat ring, in safe distance from Madame Vithra’s, otherwise she wouldn’t have been able to slip away unnoticed. The way Mondral had always kept an eye on her was becoming unsettling.
She still had the neutral clothes of a free merchant - the ones she had bought from Vierchi on her way to Daleth Station, for her ruby earring, the only thing of value she ever possessed - so she changed and headed towards S’Bysh’s Bar. This time, however, she took the disruptor, she had brought from home, with her. Vierchi hadn’t needed to remind her not to go unarmed; she was not suicidal. Not even someone well trained in Llaekh-ae’re, the ‘laughing death’, as the infamous Romulan art of unarmed combat was called, was supposed to enter S’Bysh’s without a weapon. Even less someone who - like Arrhae - was not trained in such techniques.
The four-armed Terellian guard at the entrance let her in without a second glance. She didn’t look dangerous; the experienced eyes of the guard could notice that in a moment. Terellian guards were practically infallible in their judgement of a person, that’s why they were sought after by the owners of such places.
It was almost dark in the bar, and one could smell the weak scent of illegal drugs oozing out from the separated back rooms. Arrhae’s stomach clenched painfully; she’d lived at Daleth Station long enough to know that certain Orion drugs could make anyone tell their deepest secrets - perhaps even a Vulcan.
“What’s your pleasure, stranger?” the scantily-clad Orion waitress - not a green savage, of course, but one of the golden-skinned, cat-eyed women of the Alpha population - approached her unnoticed, making her nearly jump in surprise.
“I’m looking for a man called Sdan,” she replied, deepening her voice convincingly; revealing that she, too, was a woman could have been fatal. “I was told I’d find him here tonight.”
“In the corner, just beside the door,” the half-naked slave nodded in the right direction and vanished in the crowd again, with a speed that revealed her fear from the customer in question.
The single man in flamboyant clothes sat there facing the bar, with his back to the wall as if he didn’t want to leave anything to coincidence - the typical stance of a warrior… or a mercenary. He noticed Arrhae’s approach at once, and his hand crept to the heavy, old-fashioned phaser pistol attached to his belt.
“Are you looking for me?” he asked with an accent that Arrhae couldn’t quite recognize. In fact, it was a mix of several different accents, among them Vulcan, Rigelian and even Orion.
“It depends,” she answered. “Are you Sdan?”
The man nodded. “Who sent you to me?”
“A Terran named Vierchi.”
“The old pirate?” the stranger grinned broadly; it made his stern, sharp face strangely attractive. “You keep dubious company, Llhei.”
Arrhae’s heart missed a beat. The Rihan title - the equivalent of the Standard ‘Madam’ - showed that the mercenary had seen through her disguise - in more than one sense.
“What do you mean?” she asked. Sdan snorted.
“I’ve been in this business too long to be fooled by these ugly clothes. Besides, I’d recognize a Rihannha blindfolded in a dark room.”
“Are you a… a Romulan, too?” Arrhae felt awkward, using the name Terrans had given her people. Sdan’s features tightened.
“That’s a matter of interpretation - and none of your business anyway. Step aside. You are blocking my view.”
Arrhae obeyed. The thought of doing otherwise hadn’t even occurred to her - then she was angry with herself for it.
“That’s better,” Sdan said. “Now, what do you want from me?”
“I thought Captain Vierchi had already told you? He said you would be willing to get me off the station unnoticed.”
“Perhaps,” Sdan leaned back, his glance turning from the bar to Arrhae’s face for a moment, “Sit. Where do you want to go?”
“I’m not sure,” Arrhae admitted. “I thought I would draw the least attention on one of the Rigel Colonies.”
“Probably the best solution,” Sdan agreed. “You could never act like a Vulcan convincingly enough; that would need years of intense training. Very well. I’ll leave tomorrow at 0500, local time. You can share the ship with me and choose the colony you like - for the right price.”
“For sharing your bed as well?” Arrhae asked in disgust, not believing that Captain Vierchi had truly sent her to this man.
But Sdan just grinned in that infuriatingly attractive manner that didn’t allow one to forget how dangerous he was, though.
“If that is what you want… I for myself never needed to force anyone to sleep with me.”
Ridiculously enough, Arrhae didn’t doubt the truth of that statement. Sdan was practically radiating sexual magnetism - the sort of predatory attractiveness few could withstand, regardless of race or gender.
“However, I had something different in mind,” the mercenary continued. “Can you handle the navigation controls of a starship?”
“Not very well,” Arrhae admitted. “I’ve flown small interplanetary shuttles, but nothing bigger.”
“The principle is basically the same,” Sdan answered. “You’ll learn quickly. Fact is, I have a new assignment, and I need a co-pilot. Accompany me on this trip, and I’ll take you wherever you want to go afterwards.”
“What sort of assignment is that?” Arrhae asked, a little suspiciously. “And just how big is the chance that I’d get killed?”
Sdan laughed. “It’s not a dangerous job - for a change. “I’ve been hired to bring the youngest daughter of the ruling House of Elas to visit her sister, the Dohlman. Who, for her part, had been recently married off to the planetary leader of Troyius, as part of the peace agreement between the two warring worlds.”
“What do you need me for, then? I’m sure this is not the first such mission for you.”
“That is true. But having another female on board would make my job a lot easier. Elasian women have a bossy attitude towards males.”
Arrhae nodded. She was used to deal with short-tempered noblewomen. She could do this - and earn her journey to safety.
“All right,” she said,” I’ll do it. Will you take me to Rigel II afterwards?”
“Sure, it practically lies on my way. I live on Rigel IV - theoretically, at least. I haven’t been there for years. It’s settled then. Be at docking bay 6 at 0500 tomorrow. Do you have much stuff with you?”
“Only a small travelling bag.”
“Good,” suddenly, Sdan grinned again. “As you’ll see for yourself, I don’t have much room aboard the T’Dit.”
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Diego Sanchez had been waiting for this particular message since last month. They all had been preparing themselves for the signal, which would finally bring this assignment to an end.
All necessary preparations had been made. All data had been collected. Hard proof had been verified; their men had been slowly, carefully infiltrating the station. Everything was ready. If they didn’t make any fatal mistake now, they’d be able to leave this accursed place, soon.
He was surprised a little that Ben had found it necessary to deliver the message in person. But Lieutenant Makepeace knew better when to trust his comm system. Apparently, this was not one of those times.
“This new Andorian comm tech is… well, a little too nosy, even for an Andorian,” the slim, handsome Starfleet officer explained. “And he is too damn skilled in his job. I can never know when he is listening - besides, I still have four weeks of leave that I won’t be able to use later.”
“Are you planning to stay here… until the end?” Sanchez asked.
The officer, also known as a con man and the Romeo of the relay station, nodded soberly. “We should finish this together. You’ll need every help you can get. At least I can carry a weapon openly, without rousing any suspicions.”
“I wish it were over,” Sanchez rubbed his temples in pain.
The other man looked at him with sympathy. “Headaches getting worse?”
“They barely ever stop nowadays,” Sanchez sighed. “And I can’t just shot myself full of painkillers all the time.”
“You need to go to a clinic when we are done here,” Makepeace said seriously. “Make a therapy. The human brain is just not designed to deal with such enhanced senses.”
“Speaking of which, how are your little implants working?” Sanchez asked.
Makepeace made a wry face. “They are working just finely. It’s my brain that is rebelling against them. I can’t wait to get the whole crap out of my skull.”
“You are lucky,” Sanchez murmured. “At least your changes are nor irreversible. When this is over, I’ll go to Vulcan for a year, at the very least. To a secluded monastery, somewhere in the deepest deserts. Won’t see anyone, won’t speak to anyone, just sleep and meditate.”
“Meditate?” Makepeace replied, utterly bewildered. “You? I’ll see the Great Bird of the Galaxy hatch from the mystic egg first, before I see you meditate.”
“Despair can lead a man to strange reactions,” Sanchez yawned. “Have you met Jon already?”
Makepeace shook his head. “That would be unwise. As a Starfleet officer, I can’t go everywhere, even though it’s common knowledge that my… cooperation can be bought for the right price,” he added dryly. “There are places on this station where Starfleet officers are simply not supposed to go. Not even corrupt ones. But I have run into Drreg in Horsa’s Pub. Guy looked decidedly unhappy.”
“He’s not in a good shape,” Sanchez nodded. “None of us are. We are starting to slip - in small things, like using the wrong names or reacting instinctively, instead of the way we should. This assignment has gone on too long. Thank God it’s going to end, or we’d break down, one after another.”
“How is Jon enduring the strain?” Makepeace asked. Sanchez shrugged.
“He’s behaving like a hard-nosed bastard. Like a drill sergeant in some boot camp. It’s understandable to an extent, considering that he is the one ultimately responsible for the success of our mission, but it’s not always easy to bear with him. He’s chewed out poor Drreg a couple of days ago so badly the poor guy needed hours to recover.”
“What about ‘Lena?” Makepeace asked.
“Nina,” Sanchez corrected warningly. “Be careful, Ben, things are more… delicate here than they are on that relay station of yours. She’s doing well - better than any of us, in fact. Everyone fears her foul Klingon tempers.”
They both laughed, but Sanchez noticed the wistful smile on the other man’s face.
“It’s really over between the two of you, isn’t it?” he asked softly.
Makepeace nodded. “This job doesn’t support family life. We agreed that we wouldn’t renew the marriage contract. Separation in friendship… that sort of thing.”
“That’s sad. I always hoped the two of you would work things out somehow.”
“So did I. But it apparently wasn’t meant to be,” Makepeace shrugged in defeat. “Our feelings haven’t changed that much, you know. It’s jut that in this job of ours… well, we don’t have the freedom of making any promises to each other.”
“True enough,” Sanchez agreed with some melancholy. “One just doesn’t realize these things when one signs up. And when you finally understand the price you’ll have to pay, it’s usually too late.”
“Have you… have you ever regretted your choice?” Makepeace asked.
“I regret it every single day anew,” Sanchez replied dryly, “but I don’t know if I’d choose differently, even if I could go back in time and do so.” He stood. “Come, we have to go. I’m expected in S’Bysh’s to help keeping and eye on Jon, and you are to meet Vierchi before he leaves the station.”
“He won’t be here for the showdown?”
“Of course he will. He just needs to get that old rustpot of his on the logged route, switch ships and lurk around in the asteroid belt, ready to fly us out when the time comes.”
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
When Arrhae reached docking bay 6 in the next morning and got her first glimpse of Sdan’s vessel, she was shocked, despite her Romulan fatalism. The battered old thing had probably been the courier ship of an admiral once, but now it looked like it could fall apart any minute. This was supposed to be the very fast ship the old Terran smuggler was speaking about?
“I see you don’t trust my old lady very much,” Sdan appeared behind her noiselessly, like a ghost. “She isn’t very pretty, but she can take more than one would believe… just like the one she’s named after.”
This time he was clad in simple, Rigelian-style dark garb and wore his long hair in a tight ponytail, which seemed to change his whole appearance, making him look like a rakolkh, this quick and cruel, hawk-like bird-of-prey that lived in the mountains of ch’Havran’s northern continent. The only unusual piece of his clothing was a thick, Vulcan-style leather west that covered his torso down to mid-thigh - and a bronze… staff in his right hand, unadorned, about a meter long. In his other hand he carried a large travelling bag.
“You are admirably punctual,” he added with a thin smile. “We can start in a minute.”
“You maybe… but not that one,” the guttural voice of an Orion answered in Arrhae’s stead. “That one belongs to our potentate for the next seventeen standard years or so.”
Two large Orion mercenaries stepped forth from the shadows of the docking bay - from that big, burly sort that was specially bred in pirate camps for fighting purposes only. They mental abilities could rarely handle the concept of three-figured numbers, but they weighed about three hundred pounds by standard 1G… and were fast, damnably fast.
“I have not signed a contract with your potentate, “Arrhae replied calmly, refusing to panic. Her hand rested on her disruptor, all her senses sharp and alert, knowing she’d only have one chance to fire.
“Doesn’t matter,” one of the mercenaries replied. “You are one of Madame Vithra’s. Our potentate is entitled to have any of her girls. Or any of her boys, for that matter. Don’t put up a fight, little bitch. You won’t gain anything, just a lot of pain.”
“We’ll see that,” Arrhae backed towards the ship, ready to fire without removing the disruptor from her belt. This was a useful little trick, one she had learnt at a very young age.
But she didn’t need her weapon, after all, although things happened so fast that she needed some tome afterwards to analyse what had actually happened. She saw Sdan sweep by, like a bizarrely elongated shadow; then something swirled around in the air like an angry insect, then something fell with a loud thud - and the two 300-pound Orion mercenaries were lying on the dirty floor, with bleeding wounds and broken bones.
Sdan squeezed the bronze staff in the middle, and its sharp-pointed extensions - about half a meter each - sprang back into the middle section, making it look like a simple staff again.
“What is that?” Arrhae asked in surprise.
“A Jugalan duelling spear,” Sdan answered. “The aborigines on the planet Jugal use these things for ritual fights for leadership over their warriors. I’ll tell you about them later if you are interested, but right now, we should board our ship and start s scheduled, before our friends call in for reinforcements.”
Arrhae had no arguments against that. To her surprise, the little ship looked a lot better in the inside than it looked on the outside, and a quick glimpse at the navigation controls revealed that it had an unusually strong warp drive. In fact, it was more than a little overpowered for its size, and Arrhae could only hope that structural integrity would hold out the strain the powerful engines inevitably put on the hull.
It had only one cabin, that included the cockpit, and a small cargo area, which apparently doubled as the bedroom. There was only one narrow cot, but that didn’t matter, as they were supposed to work - and sleep - in shifts.
Sdan gestured her to take the co-pilot’s seat and called Operations to check in for the start. He got the permission immediately, since h is request had been logged days earlier. Besides, there was practically no traffic at this early hour of the simulated day.
“Ready?” Sdan asked, and Arrhae nodded.
“Whenever you are.”
“Good. Initiating star sequence in five… four… three… two... one… and here we go.”
The docking bay doors opened to allow them into the midsection (one didn’t want to depressurize the whole bay when a ship left) then closed behind them again. The tunnel-like corridor kept them for a few moments, until the depressurizing process was finished. Then the outer doors opened, and they floated out into free space.
Captain Vierchi switched off the Bianchi’s viewscreen and turned to his First Mate.
“Call station security. Tell them, two Orions apparently had a flight in docking bay 6, as we found them beaten up and bleeding all over the place.”
The clone nodded and did as he was told. Vierchi stepped out of his ship and stared through the semi-transparent walls out into empty space, where his protégée had vanished.
“Good luck, girl,” he murmured. “I hope you find your place in this particular pocket of the universe.”
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Handing over the watching of their commanding officer to Drreg, Ben and Sanchez returned to the quarters of the latter, who, if possible, looked even worse than before.
“It’s not just the headaches,” he replied to Ben’s worried question, “it’s the tension in general. Not even a visit in the brothel helps anymore. The girls… I feel too sorry for them, and the boys can’t give me what I need.”
“What do you need, Miguel?” Ben asked, calling him deliberately by his true name. Sanchez shrugged.
“To give up control completely. To let go. What’d really help me, would be someone who fucked me through the mattress.”
Ben looked at him in surprise. “Since when are you bisexual?”
“I’m not,” Sanchez sighed. “This isn’t about sex… well, not entirely. It’s mostly about control. I usually prefer women, but they can’t give me the sort of dominance I sometimes crave, rarely as it happens. Usually, it’s Greg who takes care of my… my needs, Centaurians see these things pretty relaxed, but now he has to focus on Jon’s safety more than ever before. I can’t distract him.”
“Would you accept my help?” Ben offered. “You know I usually don’t sleep with men, but I’m not completely… inexperienced.”
It was Sanchez’ turn now to be surprised. “Would you do it?”
“Sure,” Ben shrugged. “We’ve done things like that for each other before. Well, it was mostly ‘Lena, but still… besides, you’re nicely made, it won’t be such hardship.”
Without waiting for an answer, he reached out to grab Sanchez’ head and pull him closer for a kiss. Sanchez, being slightly shorter, tilted his head to give him a better angle, and Ben plundered the soft, big mouth of the smaller man thoroughly. It had a slightly bitter taste, probably from all the meds Sanchez needed to keep his senses under control, but not unpleasantly so. Ben broke the kiss and smiled into the dark, dilated eyes of his colleague and friend.”
“Get naked,” he ordered, “I want to take a look at what I’m getting.”
Without a word, Sanchez stripped hurriedly, his hands trembling. Ben eyed him appreciatively - Miguel really did have a nice body. Not too tall, but all smooth, strong muscle, with a broad, well-shaped chest, well-endowed pecks, a washboard stomach, muscular thighs and legs and a mouth-wateringly firm, round ass that practically begged to be fucked. Even to Ben, who rarely slept with men and even then preferred to bottom.
He got rid of his own clothes and stepped closer to Sanchez again, rubbing their straining cocks against each other, smearing precum on both their stomachs, grabbing and squeezing the smaller man’s asscheeks roughly. Sanchez moaned and rubbed against him harder. Ben withdraw a hand and pushed two fingers into Sanchez’ mouth.
“Wet them,” he ordered. Sanchez sucked the fingers eagerly, covering them with saliva.
“Enough,” Ben said, pulling them out, then reaching around his friend and pushing the same fingers up Sanchez’ tight hole without preamble. Sanchez groaned, clenching around the invading digits instinctively. That earned him a sharp slap on one bare asscheek.
“Don’t tighten up on me,” Ben warned. “I’m not into long foreplays tonight. Relax, or you’ll be hurt badly.”
“Stop talking and fuck me already,” Sanchez groaned. “I’m no bloody virgin. I took Drreg up my ass more than once, and you know how big he is.”
“All right,” Ben said authoritively. “Get on your hands and knees then, and put your ass up in the air. I’ll give it you so hard you’ll feel it for a week.”
And Sanchez obeyed, trembling with expectation, hoping that submission and a long, hard coupling would help him to keep the gradual loss of control for just a little longer. Just until they finished this goddamned mission and could finally go home.
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