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by
Matt Cutter gritted his teeth as he strained against the unyielding chains binding him to the far wall of the storage shed. Even possesing a massive bodybuilder's frame from almost daily workouts, he failed to loosen them and free himself. The druglord Nicodemus must have wanted to make absoultely sure that none of his employees took liberties with the contents of the shed. The towing chains held him securely to the sturdy steel bars covering the windows. Matt felt like a helpless, puny weakling.
A lungful of frustration audibly escaped from his parched lips. Why didn't he just punch the guard, instead of trying to bluff him? That's all he needed to do. Just one simple punch and he would be back in the truck with Mendelsohn, speeding to warn Sheena about the mercenaries hot on her trail. One stupid action had put both their lives in danger. But there was still hope. Mendelsohn was still out there with the truck, waiting for him. Memories of his associate's past resourcefulness and dependability surfaced. He dropped his head to his chest in despair.
Finding himself with a surplus of quiet time inside the sweltering confines of the storage shed, Cutter rolled the events over and over in his mind. Maybe being caught in flagrante, tapping into the druglord Nicodemus' phone system, had gotten him off balance and he did the first thing that came mind. That was probably it. Finessing customers and BS-ing his way out of a sticky situation had become second nature since opening Cutter Unlimited nature tours. That was the problem - he had softened too much over the years. His skills as a former mercenary for The Company were rusting away. A bead of salty sweat rolled into the corner of his eye. He slung his head, flinging perspiration into the unseen recesses of the room. Footsteps at the door caught his attention.
Nicodemus walked in, accompanied by two of his bodyguards. Lean, under six feet tall and wearing an air of ruthlessnes, his dark complexion and slight accent betrayed his South American ancestry. He took a seat on one of the many crates in the room and questioned the poker-faced intruder. Cutter's trademark witty answers didn't agree with the druglord. He motioned for the guards to motivate the intruder standing spread-eagle against the far wall of the shed.
Cutter could see the satisfaction in Nicodemus' eyes after every punch delivered by the guards. His tenderized insides ached and churned. The salty of taste blood surfaced in the back of his mouth. Where the hell was Mendelsohn when you needed him? Where he always was - somewhere else.
"Who you work for, tough guy," the druglord said, expelling the words like an unwanted mouthful of phlegm. Cutter licked away the trickle of blood on his lower lip. A short-tempered Nicodemus walked over to Cutter. "Think you're strong. Think you can take down Nicodemus." The heat of his words and breath flowed over Cutter's face.
"Not the first time," Cutter said between forced breaths. "Worse vermin than you."
A hand mercilessly squeezed the defenseless contents of Matt Cutter's crotch. He screamed through clenced teeth, trying to dissipate the intense pain shooting through his torso. The veins and muscles on his neck flared. His face took on the vivid crimson hue of a severe sunburn. He inhaled sharply and tried to scream through his open mouth, but no sound came out - only strings of saliva dangling from his lip. The death grip released. Cutter gasped deep breaths, his head hanging against his chest. Spasms of nausea welled up within him.
The druglord smirked. "Who's tough now?" He gestured at Cutter. "Americans send the big muscles and the big guns. You all got the small cajones."
Still in the grips of nausea, Cutter forced himself erect and wiped his mouth on his shoulder.
Nicodemus brought his face close to Cutter's, their noses almost touching. "Tell me, ugly American. Tell me and this ends." Bloody spittle exploded onto the druglord's upper lip and cheek. He stepped back and gave a tilting nod to Cutter. He wiped the offending fluids from his face and onto Cutter's shirt. "You are weak. And a dead man."
The druglord walked to the far side of the shed and motioned to his bodyguards. "Do the ugly American," he said with the solemn expression of a man who had witnessed many such episodes.
The guards both pulled out their sidearms and pointed them at Cutter's head. Nicodemus cursed at the two guards in some dialect of spanish. One of the guards shook his head and backed away from the prisoner. Nicodemus pointed a cocked handgun at him, convincing him to follow orders.
Something moved against the back of Cutter's shirt, working its' way along his shoulder blades before departing. A snake? No one else in the room noticed.
The reluctant guard gave a final questing glance at his employer and proceeded to rip open Cutter's khaki button-down shirt. He popped the Velcro cover of the knife sheath attached to his belt and pulled out a large military-style knife. The cold blade pressed against the flesh of Cutter's neck and slid downwards, cutting the olive green tanktop down the middle, exposing the bruised washboard abs hidden beneath.
Cutter felt sensations growing distant. He knew instinctively what was about to happen. He would be gutted like a pig - his entrails slowly pulled out as he watched. Cutter felt somthing grab his waist, and something else patted his back three times. Mendelsohn?
The other guard unbuttoned Cutter's jeans and forcibly pulled them down to Cutter's ankles. When the bodyguard caught a glimpse of the prisoner's underwear, he flashed an enormous grin and tried not to laugh. The reluctant bodyguard looked at the underwear with wide-eyed disbelief. Nicodemus burst out in a deep hearty laugh. Cutter looked toward the source of everyone's amusement and saw nothing out of the ordinary. Maybe Little Cutter was taking a look outside. Nope. Maybe they were just making fun of Little Cutter. Whatever it was he didn't get it.
"El toro grande - big bull man," Nicodemus said, feigning a serious demeanor over his amused expression. "Why you wear the ropa majores - the woman clothes?" He laughed out loud.
It dawned on Cutter that some types of men's fashion had still not made inroads into the masculine spanish societies of South America. "These are for men," he said, defending his choice of zebra-striped jockey shorts.
"This is for the men," Nicodemus echoed, giving an exaggerated nod. He stuck out his jaw and rubbed the dark stubble on his chin. "You must be the popular one... with the men." He walked closer to Cutter. "You like the touch of the men," he said, running his fingers through Cutter's disheveled hair.
Cutter pulled away from the sadistic latino. Fingers gripped his hair, yanking his head forward. He stared at the pores in the druglord's face. He considered spitting again, but decided against it.
Nicodemus saw the momentary look of fear in the prisoner and used it. "What the matter, man with the big muscles," he said. He leaned in and whispered brutal taunts in Cutter's ear. "You want I should do you up the ass - take you like my women." He ran his tongue along cutter's ear, sealing the intent of his words. Cutter recoiled from the oral assault. He headbutted the druglord, knocking the man backward against the crates.
"It no matter," the druglord said, gesturing toward his two bodyguards. "You still gone to be their beech." Cutter tensed up. Nicodemus played him again. "You such tough strong bull," he said, grinning like a python about to devour a bird. "We keep you around for the whole camp, then we stake you. Up the ass."
The mountain of muscle shivered. He had seen the slow agonizing horror of the stakings firsthand in the mountains of Columbia and the high plateaus of Brazil. It was a nightmare left over from 15th century Romania and the reign of Vlad the Dragon. Prisoners were placed on tip-toes with a sharpened stake positioned between their buttocks. Attaching heavy logs and other weighted items quickened the job. As they grew tired from the long hours of standing, the victims slowly impaled themselves. It wasn't the first time Cutter had experienced tubesteak riding between his cheeks, but he had no intention of being the camp whore or being turned into a beefy shishkabob. Maybe Mendelsohn could get his act together for once and pull off some kind of rescue. Cutter closed his eyes and let his head drop backward against the window bars. What was taking that idiot so long?
Cutter felt his body lurch and saw the blueness of the sky. Is this what happens when you are shot dead? His body hit the ground with a painful thud. Beyond his feet he saw Nicodemus and the bodyguards staring with their mouths open. Nicodemus screamed something inaudible to the guards. Bullets splintered the wood near Cutter's extremities, raising small puffs of dust in the arid dirt nearby. Dirt? He was outside and still alive.
He looked upward. A thin steel cable extended about fifty feet ahead, attached to the rear end of his zebra-striped truck, which was "getting the hell out of Dodge". Mendelsohn had actually came through for once. The man had attached the cable to the section of wall where Cutter was tied, and pulled Cutter and the wall to freedom. That was what he had felt at his back in the shed.
* * * * *
After ten minutes of shrubs and thorned bushes pelting the prone Cutter, the truck came to an abrupt stop. They had successfully lost the two jeeps full of armed guards sent after them. Mendelsohn slammed the door to the driver's side and walked to the back of the truck. Cutter stared up at his scruffy bearded associate.
"What took you so damn long," Cutter barked. "I told you five minutes."
Mendelsohn crossed his arms and shuffled from one foot to the other. "Do I look like a mercenary?" He sulked or was talking in his usual boring montone - it was hard for Cutter to tell which.
"Let me guess," Cutter said. "You couldn't get the safety off." Mendelsohn echoed the words, candidly admitting this latest addition to his weighty list of personal failures.
Medelsohn looked over the semi-nude Cutter from head to toe. "What happened?"
"Nothing. Fortunately."
"I never get invited to parties," Mendelsohn said flatly. "The ones you go to are just weird."
Cutter pulled gently on the chains to get the man's attention. "Do you mind," he said.
Mendelsohn retrieved the bolt cutters from the truck. "Zebra," he said, staring at Cutter's underwear before cutting through the chains. "Nobody wears zebra anymore. Except maybe zebras. Women can wear zebra. Too 70's. Don't go there. Some things are better off dead."
Cutter squinted his left eye. This was another one of those times when he had no idea what Mendelsohn was rambling on about. The man could ramble incoherently with the best of them. Maybe he was an escapee from some mental ward. It was possible. And when he wasn't rambling, he was boring - southern kentucky Colonel in the middle of a month long filibuster kind of boring.
Cutter massaged his unbound wrists, easing the circulation back into them. He walked stiffly to the edge of the truck and emptied what was left of his bladder after the kidney-busting ride provided by Mendelsohn. As he put Little Cutter back inside his briefs, he felt eyes upon him. He glanced back and saw Mendelsohn leaning to one side trying catch a glimpse. The startled voyeur immediately looked somewhere else and scratched at the mottled grey and brown beard on his cheek.
Cutter propped himself aginst the truck and pulled his pants back on. He ignored the long stares from Mendelsohn, who was busy loosening the steel cable and winding it back onto the rear wench. Both men got into the cab of the truck and sped off to warn Sheena. Cutter tried to concentrate on his driving, but the glances from the man sitting next to him were unnerving.
"Zebra," Mendelsohn said grinning.
"All right," Cutter said. "I get it. HA. HA. Now will you just drop it."
"Fine," he said, leaning back into the seat and crossing his arms.
The silence lingered for one minute, then two. Cutter could stand the tension in the air no longer. "What?"
"Nothing..."
"Mendelsohn!"
The passenger cringed. "Don't yell. You might spook the zebra."
Cutter glanced over to gage the other man's expression. Dead pan. No clue whatsoever. Either it was a lame joke that had already been beaten to death, or the man was just psychotic. Cutter went with the former. "Yeah, funny."
The most boring oratorist on earth spoke. "I don't get hazard pay. You handle the mercenary stuff, I just book the tours. I crawled into a hornet's nest and nothing."
Cutter grinned to himself. "Do you want a raise for what you did today?"
"Money is good."
"Money I don't have," Cutter said. "You've seen the books. The money aint't there to give. Anything else, just name it."
Mendelsohn stroked his chin and brought forth a single word. "Zebra."
Cutter swerved toward an open patch of grassland. "You want me to get you briefs like mine?"
"No."
Cutter chewed on his lip. "Then what do you want? Say it and it's yours."
"Blowjob."
A single word that completely distracted Cutter from his driving. He swerved violently to miss a thorn bush directly in his path. "No job," he said after regaining his composure.
"The grapevine says: Matt Cutter, camp beeeech."
"You heard everything," Cutter said, trying keep his cool. "That's what took you so long."
"And I couldn't get the safety off too," Mendelsohn offered.
"Say a word of this," Cutter said. "And you'll have just what you wanted - no job." He glanced at his associate, making sure the point was understood.
"So, no thank you for saving your life," Mendelsohn asked, flashing his dark puppy dog eyes.
Cutter slammed on the brakes. He sat there with the engine running, looking at Mendelsohn. The eyes. The obligation. "Alright," he said, throwing his hands in the air. "Just stop. I hate it when you do that thing with the eyes." Cutter floored the gas pedal, jolting the truck back to life.
"It'll have to wait though," he said. "I don't have the time to do the job right now."
Mendelsohn shook his head. "Drive," he said. The man shifted around in his seat, leaned over, and put his head in Cutter's lap.
Cutter glanced down at his unzipped jeans. The sound of a thorn bush whacking the paint off the truck focused his attention back onto his driving. Rough fingers grabbed Little Cutter, pulling him from the safety of the underwear, engulfing him into a hungering warmth. After a couple of minutes of near collisions with the local flora, Cutter stopped the truck. Sheena was always more capable than him at surviving in the jungle. He would get there as soon as he could.
Cutter put his hand on the back of Mendelsohn's head guiding him, setting the rhythm. Mendelsohn grabbed the waist of Cutter's jeans and pulled them down below the knees. He wrapped his arms around the overly muscular legs and took the throbbing dick deeply into his mouth. He slid his mouth along the shaft over and over, deeper and deeper. He ran his tongue along the length of Little Cutter and down to the still tender balls. Cutter still ached from the interrogation and guided Mendelsohn back towards the shaft. The man who had saved his life comforted him with the slow, juicy polishing of Little Cutter's head.
Cutter relaxed in his seat, savoring the pleasure, letting it drown out the pain he felt in the rest of his body. He felt his friend swallow him deeply. He felt the brush of beard against his balls, gently tickling them over and over in time with his own breathing. The ache in his groin grew into need. He held Mendelsohn's head with both hands and pushed into the eager mouth again and again. Need changed into unstoppable instinct. Pushes became thrusts. Thrusts became assaults. His hips flexed harder and harder. Impaling deeper. Deeper.
Pleasure flooded through his tired body. Nothing mattered. He felt his life, his energy, his fluids leave his body in waves, going to where they were wanted most.
Time started again. His body went limp. Life-giving energy was gone and needed time to be replenished. Mendelsohn made a juicy popping sound with his mouth and swallowed. He licked the shrinking remnants of Little Cutter from top to bottom, making sure it was in spotlessly clean condition.
"Good job," Cutter said.
Mendelsohn shrugged. "Money would have been better." Cutter grinned at what he hoped was a joke.
After a quick clean up, Cutter hastily rummaged through the back of the truck. He threw away the remains of his former shirt and tanktop, and pulled on a khaki t-shirt. He wanted to drive, but he couldn't keep his eyes open. Lengthy interrogations in tropical conditions, followed soon after by sex, can do that to a man. Mendelsohn took the wheel. Cutter curled up into the passenger seat, watching the silhouettes of trees race against the dwindling sunset. He slept with his head against the window the rest of the trip.
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