They had first met in an insurgent camp outside Yogyakarta in the Indonesian jungle, far from their own country of the Philippines. In the Philippines there was little chance that they would have met, especially while the Americans were still there in force, but even in more recent years when the government had been weak and taken up with internal squabbling.
Rahib, long-time leader of the Moro National Liberation Brigade, was seasoned and deliberative and Islamic, and he came from the Moro people in the southernmost island of Mindanao. Hilario, in contrast, was young and vibrant—a regular fire brand—and was nominally Catholic and the result of an excellent mix of native Filipino and Spanish blood and came from the northern island of Luzon.
And beyond this, Rahib and Hilario’s father, Humberto, had been political rivals and enemies from the earliest days of efforts by such Third World leaders as Sukarno, Nehru, and Castro to bring all of the undeveloped world together to stand against the Western nations. And in those efforts, these leaders had worked—seemingly unsuccessfully in Rahib’s and Humberto’s cases—to bring all of the charismatic revolutionary leaders together, and to combine their forces, to stop fighting each other for control over a nation that was in the hands of yet other forces.
Humberto was long dead and his original organization defunct, but out of the ashes of that had arisen another insurgent organization that had become the bane of the Americans and the Manila governments they supported in an urban warfare environment. And the leader of this Philippine Nation Brigade was Humberto’s young son, Hilario.
In a never-say-die effort of the old Panchsila doctrine leaders, Rahib and the son of his nemesis were enticed to meet with insurgent leaders from other countries for the first time in a congress of remnant revolutionary groups across Southeast Asia. Hilario was still open to high thinking and had a fire in his belly for change, and he was susceptible to the principles of Panchsila. Rahib who had been around long enough to know that Panchsila stemmed from an effort to keep Islam spreading in Southeast Asia was not.
However, Rahib was sexually attracted to Hilario and could not help but notice that Hilario was attracted to him even more, like a puppy sniffing after a bone. And Hilario was highly sexed and was a pushover for more mature, well-muscled men. The two came together, interestingly enough, for exactly the same selfish reason—disrespect for Hilario’s father, Humberto.
As the conference wore on under the heaviness of high-flown speeches that were dusty from decades of useless delivery, Rahib’s amusement at the thought of fucking Humberto through the puppy following him around turned into a possibility and then an intention. With Hilario, it started with the attraction to Rahib, the man, solid and mature, well-muscled and silent until discussions were at their deepest quandary and then cutting in with the wisdom of many years on the trail and in the insurgent hunt. And those many hard years were etched in the man’s body. The primitiveness of the jungle camp did not accord much privacy, and Hilario saw Rahib in the showers. His body was powerful, his Moro tattooing was intricate and fascinating, his cock was thick, his balls were heavy, and, most intriguing of all, his body was pocked with the medals of combat that can’t be properly symbolized by colorful and shiny baubles.
Only after Hilario decided he wanted to be fucked by Rahib did he start thinking of what a delicious revenge that would be on the unloving and abusive father who had never had a favorable thing to say about the Muslim insurgent leader.
Hilario was the aggressor. Rahib had planned the taking, but he was always deliberate and slow in unfolding his campaigns. Hilario was impulsive and direct. He started by wearing nothing but low-slung jeans and always being in Rahib’s line of vision. His was a lithe, berry-brown, and perfectly proportioned body that came with the delightful mixing of the genes of dramatically separate races. He moved gracefully, like a dancer, and his beautiful body was always in motion. Rahib was not the only man to watch the youth in motion and want to grab that, and hold it, and penetrate it deeply as it slowly melted down at his feet.
On the day Hilario entered the shower room when only Rahib was there and directly asked Rahib if he’d like to fuck him, Rahib turned the smaller, younger man belly to the concrete wall, crouched below him, and willingly thrust his thick cock up into the soft core of his enemy’s son. With each thrust, Rahib declared a death to each person and force that stood between the disparate Philippine revolutionary groups and seizure of the mutually hated, American-influenced government in Manila. Hilario answered, between groans and moans of pleasure, with a pledge of assistance and cooperation. If the Moro leader ever needed him, Hilario said, his insurgent band would be there to help.
And in that strange way of zealots always putting their zealotry at the center of their lives and natural functioning, an exorcism of a mutually hated, long-departed man was consummated, and the seed of future cooperation was sown just as surely as Rahib’s seed was implanted deep in Hilario’s channel. In addition, the conference attained probably its only success toward meeting its goals—and never even knew it.
For the remainder of the conference, the two very different leaders bedded together, while Hilario endeavored to introduce Rahib to sophisticated and refined sexual positions and Rahib trumped that with lost-to-the-fuck power ravishment. The one technique that Rahib readily absorbed from Hilario’s preferences was bondage. Hilario liked to be lightly controlled with strappings and entrapment when he was fucked.
At the end of the conference, ironically enough, while Hilario returned to the Philippines to insert his band of young, energetic insurgents ever deeper into the major Philippine cities and his forces grew, Rahib took his Moro insurgent band to the north island, Luzon. Although in time he was successful in displacing American influence there—especially around the former U.S. service recreation center at Baguio—as the U.S. forces were being pulled out of the region, the toll of combat on his own forces was significant.
As the Americans left, the government in Manila began to take on more of its internal defense responsibilities, and within months of declaring Baguio insurgent held, Rahib’s Moro National Liberation Brigade was trapped in the dense forests on the nearby Mount Pulog and the Philippine army was poised to announce that yet another insurgent band had been wiped out.
At that point, Rahib’s long-ago rivalry saved his life. A small army of young, inspired hot brands streamed out of the cities and into the highland jungle of central Luzon. The forces of the Philippine Nation Brigade under the leadership of Hilario was reconstituted in the foothills of Mount Pulog and merged with the battered and combat weary remnants of Rahib’s Moro band.
The two leaders met, all smiles. They agreed on the spot to merge their forces, without regard to the real differences in doctrine, religion, ethnic origin, and political goals that had made them separate forces. And, not being able to readily agree on a name, they settled on the only shared word in their individual titles, and the combined force now became known only by the bland name “The Brigade.”
“We must celebrate tonight,” Rahib said with a big grin, knowing full well that the equal nature of the merger was a farce—that to the extent he controlled the impetuous young Hilario’s ass canal, he controlled all of the insurgents gathered. He had just rejuvenated his own forces at the mere cost of a title. “We will dine alone, you and I, in my tent.”
The look Rahib gave Hilario left little doubt who would be dining on what.
“I should like to bring my lieutenant along with me,” Hilario said, reaching back behind him and pulling a tall, solidly built man of greater years than Hilario and most of those in his youthful band forward into the circle of senior combatants. “This is Fernando,” Hilario said.
Rahib took one look at the seasoned combatant Hilario had brought forward and at the way Hilario held the man’s arm, and Rahib instantly knew that this was competition. He marked himself for a fool for not realizing that the impulsive and randy Hilario would not have a lover, and he decided he needed to establishing the poking order from this new beginning.
“I would love to talk with your lieutenant further and to give him full position in our counsels, Hilario, but I would like this first evening together to be a meeting of the minds of just we two principal leaders. I would be happy to see you at my tent at 7:00 PM, please.” And then he turned and left, not bothering to check the glances exchanged between Hilario and Fernando.
That evening, the wily and experienced Rahib did manage to establish the poking order. He fucked Hilario, with Hilario’s wrists tied above his head on the tent’s center pole, and Rahib lifting his legs off the ground with hands grabbing Hilario’s hips and pounding up inside his channel. Rahib had figured that Fernando had not guessed that, although Hilario said he enjoyed exotic positions and refined fucking, what he melted to was just a controlled deep pounding by a thick cock.
And when Rahib was finished with Hilario, he sent him back to Fernando immediately as a “try to top this” challenge. Fernando’s stretched out, sensual, slow-fuck side splitting of Hilario inside their combined sleeping bags did, indeed pale in Hilario’s unconsciousness in comparison with the exciting domination Rahib provided him.
During the following months, Rahib managed to walk a precarious but ever-more-steady line in sublimating the many differences in temperament and beliefs and goals within his expanding insurgent force and keeping Fernando in a distant third place, all through his cocking mastering of Hilario. And as time went on, his position and hold strengthened, and the insurgents slowly regained control of the Baguio region and the government troops began to cordon off the region rather than continuing to try to wipe the insurgents out—and to complain of outside support of the insurgents to their American allies.
At that point a new element entered in the mix.
Rahib, Hilario, and Fernando were standing in the center clearing of the main camp one late afternoon—dancing around an argument over Rahib’s minimizing of a one-time goal of the Philippine Nation Brigade and Hilario just standing and slightly frowning as Fernando lost point after point with Rahib—when a commanding, Western-visage, shockingly out of place figure strode into the circle.
All around the periphery rifles were raised and safeties were clicked off, but the figure continued his measured strides right up to where the three insurgent leaders had been conversing. He was a large, hulking figure, cut to demanding military standards, dressed in jungle combat garb with brown camouflage fatigue trousers over combat boots and a brown athletic T stretched over an expansive muscled chest descending into a narrow waist. His biceps were like trunks of trees, and he was easily shouldering a duffel bag over his shoulder, carrying a submachine gun in one hand, and dangling one of the insurgents’ perimeter scouts under his other arm. The scout was minus his trousers and briefs and just collapsed and moaned in the dust when the stranger dropped him.
“Not the best of welcomes,” the stranger barked, “You’ll find another scout out on the trail. Not the worse for use, I hope.”
Rahib stayed the progress of the insurgents from the periphery of the circle, who, rifles still raised, were closing in around the stranger.
“Who are you, and who sent you?” Rahib asked, challenge and no fear in his voice.
“They call me Sling,” the intruder answered. “And Osama sent me.”
“What is this?” Hilario said, turning to Rahib, who obviously had heard the answer to his challenge that he wanted to hear and was motioning the insurgents to lower their rifles.
“He is an expert in commando operations, Hilario,” Rahib answered. “We have agreed, you and I—and Fernando—that, as exuberant and motivated as your men are, they lack the training for rural warfare. You have been fighting in the cities. And when we put my men with yours for training, there has been too much friction. Sling here is an expert trainer. He comes to us from comrades in Colombia. He will help make us strong.”
“But, he said Osama. That isn’t—” Fernando muttered, the concern clear on his face. And there was more than one reason he felt an uncomfortable concern. He had his eyes on Hilario, who was staring intently at the stranger. Fernando knew that look. Hilario was so hard to control. He was a randy brat; he’d open his legs for any mature, muscled man, if Fernando didn’t keep him under control. Fernando was already losing ground to Rahib with Hilario. And now here was a brand-new threat. Fernando was listening out of one ear to the conversation between the insurgent who had knelt to help the disarmed scout, and the scout was saying that the hulking Westerner had fucked him after disarming him and he was babbling something about a strap.
“Come, Sling and Hilario,” Rahib interjected forcefully into the discussion. “We will go to my tent and discuss plans for the training. It could not have come too soon. We’ve heard that the government forces are building. They may be planning a dry season offensive.”
Rahib did not want to dwell on who actually had sent Sling. He wanted to minimize the Islamic connections. But these connections were key to Rahib’s plans for the future. In his mind the insurgency group was fundamentally promoting the interests of the Islamic nation, even if the youths Hilario brought into the mix considered themselves nationalistic Catholics.
Hilario had trouble paying attention to the formulation of plans during the meeting—which Fernando tried to attend but was turned away from at the entrance to the tent by two of Rahib’s right-hand men. Hilario’s eyes were glued to Sling’s pecs and the quarter-sized nipples pushing through the material of his athletic T. Hilario had also heard the scout say that the stranger had fucked him, and Hilario was lost to arousing speculation from that moment.
Sling started his training immediately. It did not go smoothly, although Sling obviously did know his craft well and he was a good enough instructor. What Fernando noticed in watching him at work, though, was that Sling was slyly fomenting unrest between the members of the two disparate bands that had been flung together with little preparation. When he was working with Hilario’s men, he slipped in disparaging remarks about Rahib’s seasoned combatants. And when he shared rations with Rahib’s veterans as they all squatted around the fire, he criticized the abilities and talents for rural combat of the brash and snotty young men from the cities.
When Fernando tried to speak with Hilario about this at night when he was making gentle and slow love to his young leader after Rahib had sent him back to his own tent, Hilario just turned on his side and drifted off to sleep, exhausted at the bound cocking Rahib had already given him.
At the first chance Hilario could get in the next few days, he spied out Sling in the showers, simple woven bamboo-paneled sections set on stone floors with hoses set in frames above them. And the small, young revolutionary gasped at the sight of the man naked. His body was more magnificent than Rahib’s even. He was younger than Rahib and his muscles were rock solid and the cock and balls hanging down from his bush were, if anything, meatier than Rahib’s. And, like Rahib, his body displayed the honor of combat scars. On him, they just made him seem more dangerous and desirable.
Hilario let out another gasp when he became aware that Sling saw him watching and Sling turned to him and, with soapy hands, began to work his cock, giving it almost impossible length and thickness.
Two evenings later, rather than going to Rahib’s tent, Hilario decided that he needed a shower as he watched Sling, only in his combat fatigue trousers striding toward the showers with soap, a towel, and some sort of black leather thick strapping over his arm.
Hilario entered the shower enclosure naked. Sling turned to him and gave him a half, “I knew it” smile. He was working his cock up with soapy water again.
They stood there, staring each other down, for a long minute. Hilario was unsteady on his feet, and his rising cock was betraying his interest.
“Have you come for this?” Sling asked, moving his hand on his cock.
“Yes,” Hilario said in a small voice.
“Come here, kneel, and blow me.” Sling growled.
As Hilario knelt and took Sling’s cock in his mouth, Sling added, “And work yourself.”
After a few minutes, Sling pulled Hilario up, standing, close to his chest.
“Work them both,” he directed, and Hilario took the two jutting cocks together in his hands, while Sling palmed the young man’s buttocks and then, using soap under the cascading water from the overhead hose, spread the orbs with his palms and began working his fingers into Hilario’s channel and opening him up.
Sling reached over to where he’d dropped his towel and came up with the thick black-leather strap Hilario had seen slung over his arm when he was walking to the shower.
“Ever used one of these?” Sling asked. “It’s called a plow belt—and that describes what it’s used for quite well.”
“No,” Hilario answered, but the way he said it indicated that he clearly was interested in what it did. It was about four feet long and ten inches deep and padded. It had hand holds at either end.
Sling took one handle in one hand, flipped the sling around Hilario’s back and grabbed the other handle in the other hand.
“Climb my cock,” Sling directed. And he crouched down, jutting his midsection forward, as Hilario positioned his hole over the head of Sling’s cock and, with the help of his hand, moved the cock inside him to the rim of its bulb head.
Sling pulled the plow belt tight under Hilario’s buttocks and pulled up in a strong motion as he quickly rose from his crouch, sending Hilario’s channel on a deep dive down the length of Sling’s long, thick, hard cock.
Hilario cried out at the taking, flung his arms around Sling’s neck, climbed Sling’s hips with his legs, and held on for dear life and Sling used tightening and releasing of pressure on the strap slung under Hilario’s buttocks to stroke Hilario deep with his cock.
Hilario came before Sling did, and then, when Sling came, he just dropped one end of the belt and let Hilario collapse down his legs onto the stone floor of the shower enclosure.
Sling picked up his towel and sling and soap and walked out of the enclosure.
Two nights later, Hilario told Fernando it was time for him to go sleep among the insurgents for a while and work on their morale. This had been Hilario’s answer when Fernando tried to tell him again that Sling appeared to be sowing dissension between the two insurgent factions. When Fernando was gone, Hilario asked Sling to move into his tent.
At the same time Hilario stopped visiting the tent of Rahib in the evening.
In short order, tension had mounted and tempers had gotten as short among the leaders of The Brigade as they were among the insurgent underlings.
Two days later, in the midafternoon, with the temperature so hot and the sunlight so intense that the men retired to their tents and to the shade for their midday siesta, Sling was fucking Hilario in Hilario’s tent. Sling was standing in the middle of the cleared area inside the tent, in a half crouch. Hilario was bent over the plow belt held at each end by one of Sling’s fists and suspending Hilario’s belly above the ground, his asshole connected to Sling’s midsection by Sling’s impaled cock. And Hilario was moaning and groaning in deep passion as Sling raised and lowered the young insurgent leader on his throbbing cock with the black sling under his belly. This was the third such fucking using the sling in this position, and Hilario had begged for it rather than taking a nap.
Sling was standing to where he could see out into the center of the camp from the sheltering shadow of the tent interior. He saw Rahib standing out there, shouting something, and then Fernando lurched into view, facing off with Rahib and waving a pistol. Sling could see the figures of other insurgents, moving about, forming up two opposing lines.
While Hilario was still crying out at his own ejaculation and begging for Sling to finish him, Sling lowered Hilario to the ground, dropped the ends of the plow belt, and reached for Hilario’s throat, his thumbs seeking out the vein that would black the young insurgent leader out.
Hilario wasn’t quite out, but definitely was stunned, when the first shot rang out in the camp center. Sling crouched low, grabbed up his fatigue trousers, and pulled the knife out of the sheath attached to the trousers’ legs. He was at the back of the tent in a flash, picking up the duffel he’s stashed there in one hand and slitting up the wall of the tent with the knife held in his other hand. He turned and, at the sound of automatic weapons fire, Sling saw, past the figure of Hilario, who was groggily fighting to sit up, both the body of Rahib sprawled on the ground and the body of Fernando slowly falling to the ground. Stray bullets were zinging into the tent and pinging against this and that, and although Sling didn’t stay around to see anything else clearly, he thought he saw Hilario jerk and grunt and start to topple over in the periphery of his vision.
Silas “the Sling” Collins, a senior member of the Agency’s special ops unit that was informally known as the candy store, could still hear the gunfire coming from up the slope of Mount Pulog when he was half way down the mountain. But he also was beginning to tune his ears into the sound of the chopper coming to pick him up, the chopper he’d summoned with the GPS device hidden in his duffel that he’d set off as soon as he felt he was safely away from the fire fight that was imploding the recently created Philippine insurgent Brigade.
It had been a fairly easy and quite effective operation, really. The hardest part was for whoever managed to make Collins believable as a connection between mainstream Islamic terrorism and Rashid’s Moro insurgent group.
As he drew close to the whirlwind caused by the blades of the hovering chopper, Silas laughed when he looked down and saw that he was still clutching and dragging his favorite sex toy, the plow belt. He was happy he wouldn’t even have to replace that.