Date: Wed, 08 Aug 2001 06:22:35 -0400
From: lesli 99 <lesli99@hotmail.com>
Subject: Operation Queer Bait Pt 14

The sun was no more than a faint glow over the east coast of the US when
the NSA technicians manipulated their keyboards in response the the
operation order issued at 0400 hours.  'Techcom telemetry' responded with
an ACK, indicating that instructions had been received, followed within
seconds by positional reference feedback.
  Content that things were working, the technicians moved on to other early
morning tasks, checking back occasionally to confirm continued operation to
instructions.

High over the Ural Mountains of Russia, the gigantic SURSAT satellite fired
prearranged retro's in response to the data uplink coming from Ft Meade by
way of a terestial relay in the northern reaches of Norway.  The retro
firing modified the geostationary 'spy' satellite's orbit, slowly bringing
it down over the Caucasus and parking it over the Arabian peninsula.  At
the same (or nearly) time, another relayed signal reached a pair of low
altitude TACSATS and modified their polar orbits to put them on a near
vertical pass across the same peninsula.  Their offsets provided for a
maximum of coverage for the assets deployed.

Meanwhile, in the dirt and sand in an isolated section of Kuwait, the
lumbering Sea Hawks put SAS Alpha and Bravo detachments 'on the sand',
equipment and all.  As the birds headed back to wherever they came from,
the hooded warriors took stock of their surroundings and melted into
oblivion.

The cause for all this deployment of multi national assets played out
thousands of miles to the northwest, as Mr Baden-White stood before
Parliament to be confirmed to the high level diplomatic post offered him by
the British Government.  Mr Baden-White was now a member of the inner
sanctum of British movers and shakers, a most prestigious position.  His
dues paid thru years of loyal subject to the crown, he was destined for
greatness.

Which raised the stakes in their search for Anthony big time.  To the
British Government, Anthony was a major liability, and they wanted him
back.

With a captital 'B'.  And now.

US intelligence assets were re committed from their normal tasking and
given over to support the mission.  Chief of US Naval Intelligence (who
could actually be seen as my ultimate 'boss') issued a directive which had
my chief handler on a plane to London to explain what was going on.  He
would brief a selected group of decision makers on what we were doing to
locate Anthony, complete with the revelation that Anthony was, apparently,
being held against his will by some MidEast group or the other, and that I
(having somewhat the same sexual proclivity as Anthony) was, at this
moment, undercover in an attempt to locate Anthony so the SAS teams could
execute a 'snatch'.  The intelligence communities of both countries were
playing a multi million dollar game of cat and mouse with my current
'owners'.

SURSAT had provided a constant stream of video and IR data as the
technicians manipulated it's controls to track the car as it sped across
the sandy stretch of Arabian desert.  It had captured images of me boarding
the yacht moored in the Persian gulf, of the yacht slipping it's moorings
and heading south along the coast toward Dubai before veering sharply
eastward.  The low altitude TACSATs provided crystal clear photos and heat
imaging, exposing the entire boat and it's crew to analysis back in Ft
Meade.

The 'low tech' operation I had started with had suddenly gone 'up town' in
terms of the technology deployed.

As the subject of all this high tech surveillance, I was totally unaware of
any of it.  How could I be otherwise?  I was living in another world,
dealing with another set of challenges, totally absorbed in absorbing.  A
luxurious world of make believe and self deception, aided by the drugs they
were giving me to keep calm and docile.  The weeks spent in Saudi had
served to make me that way, to take away any thought of resisting, of
trying to flee, of freedom.  And to test me, to prove to my 'owners' that I
was worthy of the role they planned for me.  Passing that test, they moved
me on to the next, and final, phase of my development.

I was being trained and conditioned for a role that would bring them
immense profit, either money or, more importantly, influence.  The
political situation shifted here like the sand blowing on the desert.
Factions dealt with one another thru influence or violence, what ever
worked at the time.  Negotiating alliances called for a steady hand and a
goodly supply of whatever the other side might 'need' or find value in.

Ossira ben Ghiromah owned the largest stable of whores in all the Middle
East, both women and boys, and parlayed them like the most precious of
investments as he served both sides of any and all situations, using the
boys for those who had certain 'odd' tastes as he put it.  If two sides
wanted to trade 'favors' as a negotiating chip, more than likely Ossira
owned the 'favors' that were traded.  In this position, he was one of the
most influential of influence peddlers in the area, if not the whole world.

The stable of boys was divided into groups of 'butch' and 'bitch' depending
on physique and masculinity.  My inclination put me squarely in the 'bitch'
category, and my time on the yacht would be designed to perfect my behavior
as one.  'Perfect' in the sense that, while I was obviously submissive
toward men, my mannerisms were still enough from the western world that I
just might do something offensive in my new surroundings.  Arab men, as I
suspected, were of a different mindset concerning respect and submission.
What passed for friendly behavior in our world could be construed
differently in theirs.  That could not be tolerated and great pains were
taken to re orient westerners to these subtle differences, not with the
idea of being western with an appreciation of middle eastern ways, but with
the aim of changing behavior til it was strictly of their norm.

At any rate, life on the yacht was different from anything I had ever
experienced.  Calmed to the point of dullness by the drugs, I patiently
tried to absorb the ideas they were teaching me.  It seemed, to be honest,
that they were training me to be more and more feminine in everything I
did.  From sitting, to walking, to eating or drinking, my feminine
mannerisms were reinforced as they tried to erase any trace of masculinity.
I was verbally castigated when I made mistakes.  Food was withheld in
certain instances.  I was sent to bed without 'supper' for the showing the
slightest sign of rebellion, for refusing to the the most basic task.  I
didn't realize it at the time but I was being shaped into the Arabic model
of a male whore, from the way I acted to the way I thought.

I was in Arab dress constantly, wearing the long flowing white cotton robe
and sandals.  I learned to were the distinctively red and white checkered
head covering when outside, even on the boat.  I had traded my white jockey
briefs for black thong underwear that doubled as sleeping attire.  On
selected occasions I was allowed to sunbathe on deck wearing them.

There was absolutely NO sex during this period, even though there were
others like me on the boat.  I was in training.  They were trained, and my
interaction with them was that of a student.  They were 'role models' so to
speak and I was encouraged to be as much like them as I could.  It was
training in it's most basic, but highly effective form, and I found myself
doing better each day.  A subtle, to me, change came over me in the next
few days as I acclimated to my new enviroment.

By the time we reached Basra, my mind was there.  Nothing to bother me,
nothing to worry about.  I was safe here in the company of my kind.  There
were handsome sailors who tended to the yacht, there was a cook who
prepared and served our meals.
  And of course there were my wonderful sweet mentors to guide me farther
and farther toward my ultimate destiny of serving mankind as best I could
in my new found role as a whore.  Life was, to coin a phrase, a bowl of
cherries.

I watched the docking from the back, recreation deck, taking in the
decrepit surroundings that are Basra.  A battleground in times past, it
still bore the scars of abuse and neglect.  Our gleaming white yacht was a
study in contrast next to the run down pier where we moored.  Altogether an
utterly depressing place.

"We are going ashore" the voice came from behind me.  It was Jon, the
angelic looking Finn who had been the most helpful of my three 'mentors'.
I had a secret thing for him, but my training had forbade any interaction
like that.

"We are?  When?"

"Tonight.  I don't know the time, but we should prepare."

"Where are we going?"

"It is not our place to ask those questions" Jon admonished "our purpose is
to do as we are told.  You know that.  Where is not our concern."  He was
right.  I had made a faux paux in asking and I knew it.  We were to serve
at the direction of our guardians in strict obedience.  I made a mental
note to correct this defect in my character.  But Jon knew that I, as a
novice, would be prone to character mistakes like this in the beginning and
he patted my hand as a way of showing that he understood.  Emboldened by
his kindness, I decided to ask him something that I had been wondering for
the past few days.

"Jon, do you mind if I ask you a personal question?"

"Of course not."

"Do you enjoy this………….I mean, your life here?"  I wasn't sure
if he would respond or if I had made another faux paux.  The quickness of
his response slightly surprised me.

"Immensely" he responded.  Then more pensively added "my time here has led
me to realize that my purpose in life, my talent so to speak, is in
providing pleasure.  To men.  And in the course of providing this pleasure,
I take great pleasure.  Do you understand?"

"Yes, I understand.  I feel much the same.  Something inside me says that
what I really like doing, well I'm good at it.  It makes me feel as if my
efforts, my life even, is worth a great deal.  At one point, I thought it
was lack of self worth, but now I realize it's recognition and proof of
self worth."

"Exactly" he added in a low tone "I am what I do.  And what I do gives me a
great deal of pleasure.  I don't really remember life being any better.
Even in some not of the worse situations here I still feel more in tune
with what I am doing than ever before."

"And how did you end up here?"  it was an honest question.  I wondered
about all three boys on the yacht.  How did they come to be members of
Ossira's 'harem' of whores?

"Ah, well for me it was a natural choice.  I mean I had come to the Middle
East for holiday and entered into, how do you say, a relationship.  One
friend led to another, and another, and before long I caught the eye of the
right people.  The rest was simply, as they say, history."

"And the others?"  I asked, referring to the two Russians who had been my
mentors for the past days.

"They were prostitutes in Russia before joining us.  I don't know the exact
details.  Now, we must prepare ourselves."  he said, giving me an answer
and cutting me off at the same time.  Oh well, I had time to learn the
people at their own pace.

Jon led me below decks to the state room I had shared with the group for
the past days and instructed me in the finer art of 'preparation'.  The
ritual began with waxing our bodies to remove all traces of hair, something
that was a trademark of Ossira's whores.  We started the mildly
uncomfortable process with our legs, proceeding to our buttocks, stomach,
chest, and finally both arms.  It left us both with a blushed red tan to
which we applied soothing baby lotion which had the effect of turning my
the red to a deeper brown tan.

The waxing was followed by careful plucking of our eye brows til they were
thin, almost lady like.  An old razor was used to shave our armpits.

The final task, prior to dressing, was by far the most interesting.  In
order to assure cleanliness, and to prevent any embarrassing accidents
during the course of sex, we both took enimas.  While I had used an anal
douce on many occassions, I had never experienced anything as erotic and
moving as an enima.  I delighted at the feeling of the tube piece as it
slid past the semi tightness of my anal sphincter and forced it's way into
my cavity.  Jon helped me by raising the enema bag above me and exerting a
strong, sharp clap that compressed it and force it's contents thru the tube
and into my insides.  The absolute exstacy of it made me nearly faint, it
was so strong and powerful.  It was as though a gallon of warm semen had
filled me instantly, and I gasped at the sensation of it.

"Oh...........ohhhhhhh Jon" I moaned as he continued to squeeze the bag
until every drop was inside me.  It was as though I would burst from the
enormously sensual filling.  My head tossed from side to side as I tried to
savor the new sensations washing in and over me.  I had never, ever
experienced anything like it, and I couldn't think of anything I wanted
more than to feel this.  The warmth of the water that was in me set me on
fire with sexual desire.

"Now, lay still.  Rest.  Let the water remain inside until you can't stand
the pain any longer.  Then sit on the toilet and void it."  he patiently
instructed.  Pain?  No.  No pain.  Only the warmth spreading throughout my
body as my stomach seemed to swell before me.  Then a realization of
pressure.  Then more pressure, building to the point where I knew what he
meant.  I knew that I couldn't hold it inside me much longer.  My hole was
convulsing, alternately clinching and releasing the hard plastic tube that
had invaded me.  I sat.  Then stood.  Then hurried to the toilet where I
pulled the tube out just as the first powerful gush of slimey brown liquid
mixed with softening feces forced itself past the lips of my hole and shot
out into the toilet bowl.  The pressure immediately subsided as more and
more of what had been in my bowels emptied into the brown stained bowl.  I
must have sat there for five minutes as I voided.  First in gushes, then a
steady stream, then only soft farts.  My bowels completely empty, but aglow
with what had just happened, I made my way back into the bedroom to find
Jon lying on his back in the floor, his legs raised, a tube inserted in his
anus.  I moved to help him, clutched the bag, and repeated for him what he
had done for me.
  I squeezed until the bag was empty.  As I looked down on him, his eyes
glazed, I could imagine how great he felt at this moment.  He quickly
pulled the tube out and made his way to the toilet where he emptied his
bowels into the slimey mess I had left in the bowl.

Jon then showed me how to clean myself, with baby oil, using my finger to
force enough of it inside my hole to act both as a cleanser and lubricant.
He also showed me the trick of lying on the floor with my legs elevated
against the edge of the bed while forcing the mouth of the bottle into my
hole and squeezing a gob of the liquid inside.  It felt wonderful.  I felt
wonderful.  Clean and wonderful.

Jon next showed me how to apply just the slightest tint of purple eye
shadow, followed by a dab of rouge to each cheek bone.  It gave me a
delicate, almost doll like look.  I must admit, the ladylike look
accentuated my facial features.

We dressed, the black thong bikini first, then the white cotton floor
length robe.  It clung to my oiled skin.  I slipped on my sandals and we
were ready to go.

On deck, I noticed the two black Mercedes waiting at the dock, engines
running.  We made our way down the gangplank and separated, each to one of
the waiting cars.

"Remember" Jon said in parting "do what they want you to do.  It is best"
and with that, we parted company as we went on to our separate rendezvous.
I didn't know it at the time, but it would be months before we saw each
other again.

Sitting in the back of the limo, my 'escort' in the front with the driver,
I tried to concentrate on the ride.  The streets of Basra were flooded with
a seemingly endless mass of bodies making it difficult for the driver to
navigate thru them.  He blew the horn endlessly as he cut first right, then
left, nudging the crowds before us.  Magically, he didn't kill anyone.  The
faces of the crowd, staring into the limo, eventually merged into a solid
mass of incomprehensible humanity.  I stopped focusing.

Evan Mc Gregor shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot as he tried to
remain as inconspicuous as possible.  The heavy Arab robe caused him to
sweat uncontrolably and he was sure he would never aclimate here.  The
product of Arab immigrants to England, he retained the dark skin and hair
of a native.  And his Arabic was intact, which made his assignment to SAS
Detachment Alpha for this mission a done deal.  It might be hot, but at
least it wasn't Belfast.  And while he may be nervous and uncomfortable, at
least he didn't have to worry about one of these kids blowing him to
kingdom come.

Evan was standing in this particular spot because intelligence data coming
from the US NSA was tracking the route of two black limos, Mercedes, that
had picked up two passengers at the yacht moored along the river.  The low
level TACSATs had provided sufficient detail to determine that one of the
passengers from the yacht was blonde, the other dark haired.  The blonde
could or could not be the mark, one lad named Anthony.  The other appeared
to be a positive match on the 'mole' who was reported operating within the
smuggler network that supposedly the English boy.  Evan didn't have the
faintest clue who Anthony was, or why SAS was snatching him.  It didn't
matter.  Evan and all those on the mission were professionals, and the less
they knew about the mark, the less they would have to give over to their
captors in the unlikely event they were taken alive.

"Tag's 100 mick your pos" the earpiece hidden in Evan's ear barked.  Alert
now, cross the street one more time.  Walk up to the end of what passed for
a block, then cross again.  Then, yes.  There it was, the black Merc making
it's way thru the crowd, horn blarring.  Turn.  Along the street, walking
straight for it.  Veer.  Push.  Position for a visual.  There.  There in
the back seat, just like they had reported.  Definately a white face.
Peer.  Got a glimpse as it passed.  Not the mark.  The darkhaired one, the
mole.  Yep, that was him.  The one they had trained with in the hills near
Thurso, the one that Donald McMillan had tagged 'queer as pink ink'.
Positive ID.  Relay it to base.  Now it was up to Bravo Det to run the
other to ground for an ID.  If he was the target then the op would engage,
ambush, snatch, and in the words of Pink Floyd, 'run like hell'.  If not,
well they'd keep looking.  Fading back into the crowd, Evan reversed
direction and made his way back to the Det Alpha safe house.

Det Bravo made a visual on Jon within five minutes of Evan's siting of me.
Resigned to continue the hunt, they regrouped and communicated the results
of today's chase back to London via portable satellite.  London relayed
that to Fr Meade immediately and NSA tagged the two vehicles 'mole' and
'blondie' as they continued to track our movement.  Even though the results
hadn't been what the hoped for, and thus a quick end to this mission, they
were none the less impressive.  For the first time now, London had a
reference point in Ossira's organization.  The yacht moored in the river by
Basra was ground zero as far as the mission was concerned.  They would
continue monitoring all activity around the yacht, never letting it out of
site.  And they had two of Ossira's operatives indentified, the cars
carrying Joh and me.  They would continue to track these as well, hoping
against hope that one of us would lead them to Anthony.

Shortly before breaking for lunch, the operators at Ft Meade made note that
the car dubbed 'blondie' had gained access to some sort of military base to
the east of Basra, discharged two passengers.  Some seven and one half
minutes later, the car dubbed 'mole' had entered the compound area of a
partially destroyed power plant just past the northern edge of the city.
It also appeared that two passengers had gotten out and entered the power
plant.  Both cars parked and the drivers stepped out for what was presumed
to be a smoke break, as the targets disappeared from site within the
respective buildings.

Nothing to do but wait and watch for something to happen.  The NSA techies
checked to make sure the recorders were running and then broke for lunch.

Night was settling over Basra for Joh and me.

To be continued
lesli99@hotmail.com