The Ingdom

CHAPTER 11 - HUN (BRANDY'S STORY)

Soaking wet from the rain, I tore through the trees, hurtling over fallen branches and roots. A latex hood with cutouts for my eyes, nose, and mouth encompassed my head, keeping the hair out of my eyes. As frustrating as it was to be naked, collared, ring-gagged, crotch-roped with a rubber G-string, and have my arms restrained behind my back, such hindrances had little effect on my speed. And thanks to a lifetime of walking outside barefoot, my feet were far too callused to be daunted by the occasional sharp stone or twig.

I panted heavily as I scanned my surroundings.

I needed to find the unlocking station!

Once I could free my arms, I knew this would be a completely different ballgame. Hearing what sounded like the loud snap of a twig behind me, I instantly ducked and scuttled behind the nearest tree. I held my breath for several seconds, listening intently for any signs of life. Hearing my pursuers through the latex hood was proving to be quite the challenge. Not to mention the torrential downpour that drowned out virtually every other sound in the entire forest.

After a few seconds, I inched my head outward to see around the tree trunk. All I could see was rain and heavily wooded forest. I exhaled, standing once more to my feet. Just then, I felt something cold and hard press against the nape of my neck.

"Game over," said a deep voice.

Dammit

, I thought. I recognized the object pressed against my neck as the tip of a rifle. Unlike most rifles, however, this one did not fire bullets or rounds. Instead, this rifle emitted infrared beams. Sounds harmless, right?

Wrong

. In any normal setting, being hit with an infrared beam would be as consequential being shined on by a flashlight. But this was no normal setting. The wearable technology I was sporting had basically turned me into a target for laser tag. If an infrared beam were to make contact with any part of

my

body, it would trigger an electrical response in my collar and butt-plug. Oh, didn't I tell you? The rubber G-string I was wearing had a built in butt-plug. Fucked up, huh? So, upon being hit with an infrared beam from one of these rifles, 3,000 volts of electricity would be distributed simultaneously to both my neck and anus.

I sighed and allowed my head to drop forward in a sign of defeat. Statistically, this technique has tested the highest probability of prompting an attacker to lower his weapon. As poor luck would have it, however, the tip of the rifle remained firmly pressed against my neck.

Time for plan B

.

In one swift move, I turned my head to the side and kicked off of the tree in front of me with my dominant foot. The result was me hurtling backwards and colliding forcefully into my assailant. With my head turned, the tip of the tip of the gun slid across my wet skin and beneath my ear.

With the weapon no longer aimed at me, I had milliseconds to execute my next move. My assailant had been knocked off balance, but was still on his feet.

This needed to change

. Without hesitation, I parried left nailed him in the side of his knee with my heel. Crying out in pain, he dropped hard to the ground. Seizing what would likely be my only opportunity to knock him out, I spun and leapt into a tornado kick.

No sooner did I leave the ground, my assailant managed to aim his rifle towards me and pull the trigger. Agonizing pain shot through me from my neck and anus, causing me to suddenly lose all muscle function. Instead of rotating my torso and landing the kick at his jawline, I merely collapsed to the ground like a sack of potatoes, twitching and convulsing in the mud. Keeping his finger firmly planted on the trigger, I watched helplessly as he stood to his feet and casually stepped behind me.

Dammit,

I thought.

Did he have to keep the trigger pulled?

I was completely powerless as I felt him grab me by the back of my collar and yank me to my knees. Once I was kneeling in a doggie-style position, my assailant finally released the trigger. I moaned in relief as the electric shocks subsided. But though the pain had ceased, the grimace on my face remained as I braced for the fucking that was soon to follow.

I gave an involuntary gasp as I felt him tug my G-string to the side and plunge forcefully inside of me. My eyes suddenly shot wide open. Dammit, the cock was

huge

! Huge and ribbed... Fortunately, the rain had kept my vagina fairly lubricated. Otherwise, a cock of this size would have gone in quite uncomfortably. I clenched my fists beneath the armbinder, digging my fingernails into my palms. I growled into my gag as I felt him slide in and out. In and out.

After about a minute of this, I heard a loud whistle to my right. My assailant pulled out of me and released the back of my collar, causing me to topple forward onto the ground.

"

Bas

tard!" I yelled, face down in the mud. But with the ring-gag in my mouth, it came out more like, "Aathawd!" I rolled onto my side and laid panting in a fetal position. Wouldn't you know, he pulled out just as I was beginning to actually get something pleasurable out of it...

My assailant straightened up and stood at attention with hands by his side and feet together. I glared at the large black rubber dildo that was strapped to his naval.

Why the fuck did it need to be so large?

I wondered angrily. After a few seconds, several men stepped toward me through the tree line. In front was an older man in his late 70's dressed in military attire and a rain-repellent trench coat. I recognized him as General Leonard Hersh.

"Congratulations, Sergeant," he said in a growly voice. "You've been claimed. Again." General Hersh stared down at me the way a dog owner looks down at an accident on the kitchen floor. Despite his reputation as a stoic and emotionless leader, his gaunt face was etched with dissatisfaction at my repeated failures to overpower my assailant.

I dropped my head in a mixture of shame and resentment. This was my

fourth

time being captured this morning. This meant that I had been raped

four times

by a fellow navy seals wearing strap-ons. As debasing as that was, it was

far

more infuriating to be expected to complete a task that was so implausible. There was simply no way I'd be able to get the jump on an armed attacker while

my

arms were restrained behind my back! Real field conditions or not, this exercise was fucking

rigged

.

Hold up... Before I go any further into this story, I should probably introduce myself. My name is Debra Nolan. I'm 26 years of age, blonde, 5 foot 10 inches, and 139 pounds of pure muscle. My code name is Delta November Foxtrot and my mission alias is Brandy Michaels.

About a month and a half ago, I was hand selected to join a special operations task force codenamed

Mantis

. I was one of 5 women tasked with going undercover inside an international human trafficking syndicate. While I'm hardly a stranger to special ops task forces,

nothing

could have prepared me for the training I'd receive for

this

mission. Over the past month, under the command of General Hersh, I had endured just about every type of sexual stress test imaginable. But given the sexual nature of the role I'd be playing, this particular area of training would prove to be critical. Sexual endurance was essential to success.

The objective of this mission was to infiltrate the trafficking syndicate, duplicate data files from their main servers, and then get the hell out. Simple enough, right? I wish I could agree. The fact of the matter is- our statisticians awarded this mission a mere 20% chance of success. Typically, special ops won't even consider missions with less than 60%.

But as you might have imagined, extenuating circumstances played a big role in this particular case. Almost one year ago to the week, technology industries celebrated the invention of

AI quantum encryption

. In non-geek speech, this translates to artificial intelligence-based security software that renders devices and databases virtually unhackable.

If you're someone who's thinking that this sounds like a

good

thing, you should probably think again. In eight months from now, the anonymous creator of this software, who goes by

Harpocrates

, vowed to make his creation open-source and available to the world. When that happens, every criminal on the planet will have been given the gift of electronic invisibility. As someone in the military who relies on data interception to keep the world safe, this poses obvious complications. But regardless of how you feel about the Patriot Act and FISA, a crime wave was almost certainly on the horizon.

The announcement of the software's creation sent shockwaves through Washington. The joint armed forces suddenly had a hard deadline for making their move against their highest priority criminal organizations. Kicking the proverbial can down the road risked the possibility of watching these cartels and syndicates become virtual ghosts. The clock was now ticking.

That's where I come in. My infiltration into this particular syndicate had begun with my enrollment in a 'hunger games' style

hunt

. Along with roughly 200 other women from across the world, I would be transported to an undisclosed location in the woods, believed to be somewhere along the continental southeastern coast. Here, we would be naked and restrained in similar fashion to how I currently found myself. Wealthy male hunters armed with infrared rifles would proceed to scour the woods, hoping to capture and claim one of us as their own live-in sex slaves for the following three months.

As fucked up as that was, it was what happened

after

those three months ended that had the attention of the United States government. Each year, a plurality of women went missing around the same time of year. The syndicate was believed to be responsible. These women appeared to be meticulously chosen based on their societal footprint. Typically, they were women with little to no family, few savings, and low paying careers. They were people who wouldn't be sorely missed.

Given the fact that candidates were required to enroll one year in advance, we had missed the deadline. My fellow operators and I were forced to assume the identities of women who had already been enrolled. Upon tracking down as many enrolled women as possible, homeland security began the lengthy process of cross-comparing their profiles with our military databases to locate potential doppelgangers for recruitment into the task force. I just so happened to match the physical characteristics of a Ms. Brandy May Michaels from Tallahassee. She had attended the year prior and apparently enjoyed sexual slavery so much that she decided to return for round two.

But unfortunately for Brandy, she wouldn't be given the chance. Because, as of last week, she had been moved out of the state and placed in witness protection. We couldn't very well have

tw

o Brandy Michaels walking around, could we?

So, here I am. Nearing the end of my training for what was likely the most fucked up special ops mission in military history. Like anyone in the service will tell you, there were days I wanted to quit. Days where I wanted to desert and get the hell away from the madness. But days like today, I just wanted to kick someone's ass. Days like today kept me focused.

Which brings me back to my story...

General Hersh knelt down over me and began unbuckling my gag with one hand. "Tell me, Sergeant," he growled. "How many more times do you plan on trying that move before accepting that it

doesn't work

?"

"Sorry, sir," I replied as the gag was pulled from my mouth.

I wasn't sorry

. If I had any chance at taking down a hunter, it was gonna be by this attack combination or something similar. It was just a matter of the stars aligning...

The general simply stared back at me. Hersh always gave me the impression that he was calculating. He was widely accredited as being one of the military's most brilliant strategists and had a keen sense for reading people. I guess this was to be expected after nearly 40 years consulting for special ops.

"Why did you fall?" He asked me in a lower voice.

"Sir?" I asked

"I asked you why you fell," he repeated.

I hesitated before answering, "I was shot, sir."

He lifted his hand and rubbed his forehead impatiently. "I get that you were shot," he replied. "But that doesn't explain why you collapsed to the ground like a landed trout." I merely stared back at him. "Have you ever taken a bullet, Sergeant?"

"Yes, sir," I replied.

"Where?" He asked.

"My left shoulder, sir," I said, nodding my head toward the scar beneath my collarbone.

"I see," Hersh replied. "And what did you do when you got shot? Did you... fall to the ground? Curl into a

fetal position

?"

"No, sir," I replied, lowering my gaze. "I carried out the ambush as planned."

Hersh stood up, scratching his chin. "How interesting," he replied patronizingly. "I think I'd like to see what that looks like one of these times." And with that, he disappeared back into the trees. "Reset and go again!"

I sighed as one of the men accompanying him knelt down and forced the ring-gag back in my mouth.

Dammit.

Despite what Hersh was implying, there was simply no way I'd be able to push through a shot from one of these weapons! It wasn't the

pain

that prevented me from maintaining my balance. It was the debilitating affects that 3,000 volts of electricity had on your

muscles

!

Once my gag was buckled behind my head, the men standing around me dispersed, leaving me alone in the forest again. I rolled over and sat in an upright position. Leaning back on my enclosed palms, I lifted my face to the sky, allowing the rain to wash the mud away. Based on my previous attempts, I knew that I had roughly 2 minutes to rest before Hersh's whistle blew again.

As much as I resented General Hersh and his impossibly high expectations, I couldn't help but feel star-struck to be under his command. Hersh was something of a celebrity in the military. During the Vietnam War, he earned the nickname,

Hun

. The etymology of this name varies depending on whom you ask. The history books will say that it came from his time as a prisoner of war. According to fellow POW's who were held captive at the same time, Hersh coined a trademark reply for his "interrogation sessions". When being tortured by his captors, he would answer them with a single word. That word was

h

ơn

(pronounced "hun") which meant "

more

" in Vietnamese. Instead of complying with his captors' questions and demands, Hersh simply asked for

more

. This quickly became a battle cry of resistance. Once Hersh's obstinacy and bravery was witnessed by his fellow prisoners, they too adopted his catchphrase. No matter which prisoner was being tortured, no matter what questions were being asked, the standard reply was henceforth

hơn

.

The other story for how Hersh got his nickname is a bit darker. Not something you'd expect to read in an honors history textbook. The name

Hun

came from his alleged ruthlessness in combat. According to some, Hersh adopted a tradition that was infamous to the Huns of Mongol. Dating back to the 15th century, on the day of their birth, male babies were slashed with a sword on both of their cheeks. This was done as a means to make them learn to endure pain. Urban legend has it that Hersh was known to carve the faces of war enemies in similar fashion.

But regardless of which backstory was true, it successfully earned General Hersh his place as the unofficial poster child for military bad-asses. And based on my interaction with him over the last month, I would say that he certainly lived up to the reputation.

I ended up running the drill another twelve times after that. All twelve times, I was shot, bent over, and raped with the giant strap-on dildo. The electricity that accompanied being shot was just too intense for me to fight through. Unless the other girls were part-ox, there was simply no way that anyone would be capable of staying on their feet after such an assault. Despite my greatest efforts, I always found myself twitching in a heap on the muddy ground.

Eventually, I was too exhausted to put up a fight. Though I only had experienced one orgasm throughout the entire exercise, it had successfully zapped my energy and turned my legs to jello. Once it was clear that I had digressed beyond hope, I was dismissed for the day. Hersh avoided eye contact with me as he made his leave. I stared after him like an unwanted stepchild as his subordinates released from my restraints and handed me a poncho.

Upon returning to base, I spent the next 45 minutes in the shower. For as long as I could remember, the shower had always been my ideal place to decompress. And after a day like today, there was quite a lot to decompress from. Unfortunately, this was a rare luxury for military personnel. When deployed, we usually had to watch our water consumption levels and had to share the heat between everyone in the platoon. The nice thing about this particular mission, however, was my solitude. Since every woman was kept isolated from the others, I didn't have to share the barracks with anyone. I had all the time and hot water to myself.

Eventually, I pulled myself away, got dressed, and made my way to the mess hall. With exception to what looked to be a few data analysts off to the corner, I had the place all to myself. Sometimes, I'd see the other women eating meals, but we were prohibited from sitting with or talking to each other. Since the vast number of protocols for this task force were solo missions, there was no reason for us to interact. The more we knew about each other, the greater liability we would become should our covers ever be blown.

After my meal, I headed up to the roof. This was one of the only places I'd found on the base without security cameras. Aside from the shower, this was my perhaps my second favorite place to relax. The west side of the building also had quite the spectacular view this time of evening. Swinging my feet over the edge of some elevated ductwork, I sat for the next 15 minutes watching the sun set. A bright orange hue painted everything in sight and the wind tossed my hair behind me.

"How's it goin', Foxtrot?" a familiar voice said from behind me, snapping out of my daze. I turned to see Staff Sergeant Keith Winters walking toward me. Keith was our immediate commanding officer on the task force. He was the only other operator we were likely to have any contact with once we entered the field.

Keith and I went way back. We both hailed from the Navy and we even served together on multiple special ops teams. But our relationship wasn't

strictly

professional. During our second tour together in Beirut, we posed as honeymooners. The reason we played our roles so well was because we weren't actually

playing

them. There was little to no pretense in our displays of affection. And on top of our physical and emotional connection, we worked

incredibly

well together. So well that we continued to be paired up together for future missions. Our fun never interfered with our work and our work only intensified our fun.

When we weren't on missions, we had to be more creative about how we saw each other. Over the course of years, we'd managed to maintain our relationship in secret. But as exciting as that was, there were always days like today when I wished that Keith could just come clean with the world and hold me without fear of getting us both dishonorably discharged.