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[©2010 BY CLINTON09; ALL CHARACTERS OVER THE AGE OF 18; NO EVENTS DESCRIBED ARE TRUE; STORIES HAVE A ‘HARDER EDGE’ THAN MOST; BE WARNED; HERE BE DRAGONS]
[The depiction of these fictional characters for a fictional nation does not in any way reflect upon any other actual person or nation; the behavior evidenced here is not part of an accusation of accepted behavior in any actual nation.]
My name is Gunther. I used to be a pilot with Lufthansa before I took a job with an oil-rich nation. My much more lucrative job now is to fly the leaders of the country, and its companies, wherever they might want to go.
It is funny. Because I was a German, by name and occupation, I was trusted by this country and offered a job. I wonder where that arose—that trust I mean. At one time, Germany was willing to work with any country whose check cleared, a philosophy now more reflective of Russia and Red China. As a result, there were many industrial commission jobs done in the Middle East. I would hate to think that the German entre’ to mid-eastern employment was based instead on the anti-British history of Germany or, worse, the anti-Semitic history of the horrible Nazi period. I suppose I will never know, but the irony of all of this is, I am a German-American, my mother dragged to New York by my father to take advantage of that odd US law that grants citizenship due to simple birth location.
So here I was in the employ of this nation that was so small and so rich that it had to import poor people from Palestine and Pakistan to do the simple jobs.
One day I was flying an executive jet plane made by the Russians when we lost power at 25,000 feet. We had to make an emergency landing at Dubai. It was real touch and go for a while but I landed smoothly. My boss, on board along with the head of the largest oil company in the country, was so overwhelmingly relieved at being able to walk away from the landing that he invited me to his office (i.e. palace) for a fete. I knew enough about the country that I dare not decline the invite. Also, don’t ask for spare ribs, scotch whiskey, the Playboy channel, a sandwich from the Stage deli, Israeli TV, or anything that requires touching with the offside (left) hand. Just trust me on that. Oh, and if they offered me camel, I had to try it. Yes, it DOES taste as bad as it sounds.
At the little soiree’ held in my honor, my boss showed me his latest gadget, an iPhone knockoff (heaven forbid he could buy the American original). His finger simply brushed a screen icon and a flunky appeared. He said, “This man is a hero for us today; he looks lonesome. Correct that, please.”
The flunky bowed and left. He returned in 14 minutes with a gorgeous brunette. My boss said that as I may have heard, dozens of women from the US and Europe make contracts for their ‘services’, which leaves them as young millionaires in their 30’s when they return home. It would be a shame and disgrace, not to say a waste, if I was to decline the ‘attentions’ of this worthy one, Clarisse.
Well, the situation might be seen as unsavory by some of you out there, but heck. My job was on the line, and as he said, this was all bought and paid for all legal-like. So, as someone once said, “When in Rome, do as the Romans do!”
Clarisse was wearing a wrap-around black covering, black headdress, and black leather sandals. It was hard to tell anything about her. When told to go, I did follow her and her flowing robes down to this private bedroom attached to the government complex (palace?) We went into this large room that was very dark and very cool (thank God for air conditioning, the outside air temp was 93F). She swept her hand across some panel in the semi-darkness and indirect lighting came on. Wow! Talk about a play room. It was a dream for any rich juvenile. Not only did it have a bank of stereo and video equipment to impress Mr. Bose himself, it also had a complete Marklin HO train layout, a video arcade, mini bowling alley, and best of all, a huge ‘infield’…in other words, the entire floor space was covered in velveteen, with bumps for cushions and bean bags. You could literally accommodate 100 people on the floor, their attention on the huge movie screen on one side or LCD projector TV on the other. Clarisse hit a button and a very adult film started running. So what, you say? Well, in this nation’s theatres, R-rated films are banned, let alone X or triple X! But, here we are watching the great sheik John Holmes with his princess, Marilyn Chambers. Ms. Chambers was definitely not wearing a headdress. I only recognized the names from the film credits…no, really.
I was so wrapped up in all of the goodies in the room that I did not watch Clarisse. She disrobed, and a more beautiful brunette I have never seen anywhere. I mean, she made the nympho-babes(I meant info-babes) of cable news seem like boys in comparison. Lustrous raven flowing hair, big dark eyes, flawless complexion, pouting lips, and a statuesque figure, perhaps 37-25-37. As she approached yabancı escort me, the absolute vision of feminine beauty, one thing finally struck me. All of this time in there, she had not uttered one single word.
I broke the ice. I asked, “So our boss said that you are an independent contractor, just doing a different kind of job here?” Dead silence. She looked at this monitor that was at the far corner of the room, then looked down, then looked back at me. She waved her finger, put it to her lips. She came to me and eased my clothes off. She then closed on me, inviting me to touch, feel, grab, enjoy.
Well, I had been in that country for months. I got a vacation every six months, which I normally used to go to the US or to my parent’s ancestral home in Bayer (Bavaria, Germany.) During that long spell of six months in between vacations, I had some ‘dry spells’. The women of this nation were not unapproachable objects, but knowing HOW to approach them was so fraught with peril, I, like most other foreigners, just gave up trying.
So, here I was with this ‘Clarisse’ in a private room. You better believe that I just dove in. I gently but firmly pushed that raven-haired goddess onto a velvet colored forest of pillows. To my thrill, she didn’t need any sweet talking or instruction. Those long, tanned, shapely legs spread. It was a dream, I swear. Climbing on board this dark haired diva, I was so excited that my long dormant cock had come out to play, a full eight inches of appreciation. She deftly, silently, put my throbbing cock into her place of warmth, tightness, and excitement. Her powerful cunt muscles gave me a quick but overpowering yank. I pressed the issue, bottoming out close to the inner walls of her womanhood. That wasn’t good enough for me, so I drove forward, rolling her back so that her legs were now on my shoulders. Her demure and perfect feet were on either side of my ears, their smooth soles actually massaging my head lightly. This was like being engulfed in a sandwich of raven-haired beauty and sizzling sex appeal. Sawing away, the old ‘in out in out’, I was almost delirious. When I finally came, Clarisse twisted her neck as if SHE was getting off too, but I felt it all a bit surreal. Sure enough, she had tears in her eyes. It hit me square in the gut. From ecstasy, I now descended into un-ease. I asked her what was wrong. She looked at that (damned?) monitor, smiling, and put her finger to her lips again. She kissed me and silently gathered her clothes, leaving.
For the rest of the night, I had a kickass time with the train set in there (remember, toy trains and Germans do mix; these were Marklin HO after all; I even recognized some of the fake town names and businesses in miniature.) I also loved the film library, though it was all in Arabic or English. They did have my favorite, Das Boot, and it was the original in German, with English subtitles, so there was ONE German film.
My boss gave me the impression that I had the weekend to enjoy the ‘run of the palace’ with all that that implied. Sure enough, as soon as I arose about 9am, and not a minute before I awoke, a pretty blond arrived at my door. Unlike the statuesque beauty, she was petite, say, five foot two. She was the spitting image of Elke Sommer, the most beautiful German ever in film. It turns out she was from southern Germany, like me. When I asked her about herself, she smiled, glancing at that monitor, placing finger to her lips about silence. She had me dress ‘native’ in a wrap around wool garment. It looked hot and felt hot in the room’s air conditioning. Once we got outside, the glaring sun blinding me for a moment, the garment almost miraculously started to feel much cooler under that grueling sun. For one thing, the heat at the top created a small exchange system which was drawing the much cooler air of the shade beneath me up thru the garment. Neat.
The petite blonde, named Ilsa, took me by the hand to this white Toyota Land Cruiser. She sat me in the passenger seat, but it was set back about 2 feet from where a stock factory seat would be, and inset about 9 inches. This next part I would never ever forget. She sat me down, even belted me in. She then pushed my woolen garment up so that I was quite naked below the belt. She then pushed up her garment and lowered her tight, wet, hot, pussy to my eager to play cock. She settled silently on top of me and kissed me. This was the hottest thing I had ever done, but it was only starting. We were about to understand why lots of people love the desert, and not for the Gila monsters.
Out of nowhere, a driver jumped into the driver’s seat. He pulled hard on my safety harness, checked on hers (she had one too?), and belted himself in. An obviously ‘souped up’ Toyota engine started (it actually was a custom-ordered Lexus V-8), and we were off. I wondered where we were going, and then, POW, I figured out!! We weren’t going anywhere, we were just dune hopping. And, ouch, bounce, POW, it was unbelievable. yeni escort Every unexpected bounce was like the most powerful lovers coming together. Gymnast stars Bart Connor and Nadia Comaneci were an item at one time; I knew absolutely nothing about them as a couple, but if they did ‘have relations’, it could not have been much hotter than this.
When the driver tapped me on the left shoulder, pointing to this huge drift in the powdery sand, I knew what he meant. THIS was a good time to do my ‘business’. Well, ok then, I grabbed that demure blonde’s pert bum, held tight, and waited. With a noisy BAM, the Land Cruiser bottomed out in the sand, its shocks hitting bottom too. I was propelled almost thru this young lady. I grabbed her, almost kissing her flawless teeth back down her throat as I frenched her, my cock doing a similar celebration inside her warm wet inner sanctum. My cock had been knocked around quite a bit by this tumultuous trip; I loved that. Now, concluding the day’s event, I came with a fervor I had never ever felt. I didn’t know if the young woman was over 18 (she was 22), fertile (as a matter of fact, she was), on the pill (not allowed in that place), or single (she had been married, but that is getting ahead of the story). I didn’t care if she got pregnant (she did), was there under a lucrative contract (she wasn’t…none of them were), or anything. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I just wanted to enjoy a piece of heaven, and I had.
That night, my second and last full night in the complex, a henna haired beauty arrived at the doorway of my playroom. She was the spitting image of another henna headed beauty, the deceptively gorgeous wife on ‘Everybody Loves Raymond’. This woman was five feet five, buxom, leggy, she had it all. Something was eating at me, though. All of the women remained basically silent. The German girl was so relieved to speak German that she had shared a few things, but nothing about herself except her birthplace. Overriding everything were the looks, stares, glares, at that monitor in the corner. I think I understood what to do. As the henna-haired beauty disrobed and came forward, I stroked her flowing, silky hair in passing. I went to that bank of lights and doused the room. I happened to be excellent in low or no light (a great quality to have as an all weather pilot) and found her in the dark. I pushed her down to the velveteen floor on a pillow. She tensed up, awaiting my sexy assault. But not this time.
I whispered in her ear, “Are you concerned that they are watching us, that they can hear us?”
For two solid minutes, stone silence. Finally, she got so close I could feel the dampness of her tongue in my ear. She whispered, “I can’t talk; please don’t make me.”
I did not know what to do. I had to take a desperate chance. I had to force this beautiful young lady to talk, for her own good, even if I had to coerce it out of her.
I planted myself near her ear. I grabbed her hand and twisted ever so slightly. I whispered, “I know you are afraid. I can help—I have a brilliant foolproof plan of escape. But I cannot help if you don’t talk. Please let me help you. If you do not, I will be forced, in intense sadness, to twist your wrist until it pops. Now, are you being generously paid, or were you brought here against your will? TALK!”
Even in the dark I could see her distress. She spoke so low and so close to my ear that her breath sounded like static. She said her name was Darlene, she had been kidnapped from a beach off Barbados by men in a speedboat at night. It was all on an open contract (where it was made known that so much would be paid for such and such a young babe). She was put into a 20 foot reefer (reefers are refrigerated shipping containers) with four other girls and shipped to Dubai, where it was transshipped by truck to the great nation wherein we resided.
Darlene asked what my brilliant idea, anyway, was or was she risking her neck for nothing.
I said I didn’t know, but give me a moment. After wracking my brain for an answer, I asked her how she and the other girls were secured, and by how many guards.
She said there was only one guard from sunset to sunrise, and only one electronic frontier (security system) to overcome. I said both of those were no problem. I told her to return to her quarters, but she had to listen.
I asked her who was the strongest girl in that group of 12?
She said, no contest, she was.
Not trusting her word, I asked her to ‘make a muscle.’ She was not going to be the next Ms. Olympia, but she did have an honest 16 inch arm, rock solid. I said good. I asked her if she could be ruthless, if it meant the lives of her and her friends.
She nodded, reluctantly.
I said that she had to return to the ‘entertainer’ quarters, recruit the women to come with us, AND, this is the difficult part, suppress those that were not interested.
She asked what ‘suppress’ meant.
I said, “if it is just one, you yenibosna escort will have to make her unconscious or worse, with whatever force is needed, with absolutely no regard for her wellbeing. If two or three, the other eight will have to silently suppress them. If it is a 50/50 matter, than they, and we, are screwed. Now go, and be brave, be strong.”
If you hadn’t guessed, I had some training in special operations for the Bundes Heer (German army), which also got me my wings for pilot. I found my old clothes neatly hanging in the hidden closet of my playroom. Donning the old duds, I went into the hallway, delighted to see no one up at 4:35am local time.
Walking down the carpeted floor, I could walk at a very fast pace just short of running, yet remain totally silent. Rounding the bend towards the women’s quarters, I saw the night porter (i.e. guard). He was not on his toes as he recognized me as the chief pilot. I sort of ruined his day with a palm to his nose. I had broken it, and hoped it was only that as he slumped to the floor. I didn’t have time to call 9-1-1. I got to the quarters. It would have been a great relief to see all 12 women, queued up and eager to leave. To my alarm and sadness, the women were looking at Darlene and the floor. I came up and found a brunette, from the subcontinent. Darlene had followed my orders to the letter. This young lady to all of our distress wanted to raise an alarm; Darlene used every scrap of her young athletic body to ‘suppress her’. I prayed she would be OK, but her motionless body would not stop us. I ordered the women to follow me.
We got to the edge of the sliding security doors leading outside. I waved them to stop. I noticed a bundle of cables running from the door control into the wall. There was a connector joining the wall to the cable run. Hoping that that was the key to disabling the door control, I yanked it. To my embarrassment, Darlene pushed me aside; in her emotional state, she was immensely strong and yanked the industrial hard connector apart. She smiled at me; I patted her on the shoulder and motioned for all of them to follow.
There was an airfield right outside. I knew every plane there, as I flew them all. We had a perfect plane, God-sent if you will forgive me. The storied Hercules C-130 was the great plane that delivered the Israeli rescue teams all the way from Israel to Entebbe in 1976. If we were lucky, I could deliver these women to freedom now. I didn’t have the exact heading, but knew how to pick up Euro air traffic control, of course, and would head to the south German airfield near Munchen (Munich) in Bayer (Bavaria). That was the only country east of France where I would feel secure.
We did not have the time or the ability to lower the huge ramp in back, so we used the side door, lowering the small stairway built-in the side. The girls scampered on board. Darlene was last. I told her to figure out the seat belts and belt everyone in. I scampered to the front. To my relief, and frankly, surprise, the plane was all ready for its morning run. The mechanics and ground support had taken the lazy way out, topping it off, and walking thru (the safety checkpoints), the previous night. The starter generator was right outside if/when I needed it.
Soon, we had all four GE turboprops humming. Normally, I would have used two to taxi, but we were in a hurry. Power up, and we lifted in that almost vertical takeoff of a C130. Banking slowly so the girls didn’t get bounced around, we headed to my beloved Bavaria.
Being this was 5am, and the people to sound alarm had been ‘suppressed’ (the guard dragged into a closet), I was confident the little nation was not going to scramble its four US purchase F16 fighters to seek us. They COULD over take us with ease if we didn’t reach European air space, so I was really pushing the four engines.
Reaching air traffic control from Trieste, I told them where we wanted to head. They asked enough to figure out that this wasn’t ‘a movie flight’ and we were a wildcat operation. Concern spread throughout the air traffic network; NATO was informed, and sure enough, two fighters from Italy tried to divert us to their clutches. I remembered distinctly the exact same scenario which happened in the 1980’s. The Italians forced an American rescue mission down and imposed their own peculiar law to the situation. I was having no part of that, Sidewinder missiles or no. I called Wien (Vienna) and pleaded for them to have the Italians handoff to them or the German authority. I pointed out that we were over the Adriatic and not over Italy. That did it, and the Italians relented. What a relief.
Risking a lot, I had to see what was happening back in cargo. I put auto-pilot on, put the intercom on and up, and poked my head thru the tin door, asking if everyone was okay. They all looked very pale, very worried, some even visibly ill. I smiled, realizing I shouldn’t have made the effort, and returned to the controls.
Four F16’s from the German air defense force now appeared, motioning me to pick up a commonly used frequency. I found it, found them. The commander of the small attack force ordered me away from Munich airport and to a divert field, the military base nearby. I was delighted in fact to go there, a totally secure environment.
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