Kildar

by John Ringo

  "Yes," the girl replied. "And do mathematics. I can read and write in Russian, Uzbek, Arabic, German and English. For that matter," she continued in not badly accented English, "I can speak all of them as well."

  "And he kept you locked up in a harem," Mike said, shaking his head. "What a fucking waste. Pardon my language."

  "The master need never apologize," Anastasia continued in English. "In fact, it is a sign of weakness that the girls will exploit."

  "Hmm . . ." Mike said, thinking about that one. "I think we might have some differences in approach and we'll have to see how it works. For one thing, this harem will not be entrapped except by situation. And I'm not going to be married to any of them, or you for that matter. On the other hand . . . Western militaries handle their soldiers differently from most of the militaries in your area; had you noticed that?"

  "Not really," Anastasia said, frowning. "I do not associate with soldiers."

  "You're going to be associating with a bunch of them as early as tomorrow," Mike pointed out. "But in developing nations, the troops are treated like dirt and the officers don't even think about talking to them as equals. In American militaries officers, good officers, treat their subordinates like humans that have their job to do. Officers have the job of making or expanding decisions for their unit and they give the troops their orders. The troops have the job of expanding on those orders to the limit of their position and ability but they don't see the officer as God or something. They treat him with respect and the good ones with admiration. But they don't hesitate to bring up alternatives if asked and if an officer has screwed up, he'll admit it and work on ways to change that."

  "And this is how you would treat the girls in your hareem?" Anastasia asked, frowning. "I'm not sure how they will respond to that."

  "I don't understand any of their responses," Mike admitted. "I thought when I brought up them staying as . . . concubines they'd freak. Most of them looked as if they wanted to get on their knees and give me a blowjob right then and there."

  "I think I can explain that, at least," Anastasia said after a pause. "They were girls from small farms in the area, yes?"

  "Yes."

  "And they had been sold by their families to be whores," the girl continued. "The house you live in is much like that of the sheik, you said. They had been taken from their small farms, where they had to work very hard for very little good in their life. They had very little of their own, maybe only their clothes and those are usually from older sisters, and they lived in a place that was very . . . rough. They had thought they would be whores, to be used by any man who had the money and sometimes in very bad places. Instead you offer them security in what to them is a palace. I can understand it very well. I was sad, very homesick, when I had to leave my family. But to live with the sheik was . . . paradise." She stopped and shrugged at his expression.

  "My greatest fear in life was what I would do when I grew too old to be with Otryad anymore. He had discussed finding me a husband but anything would be a step down from being his hareem manager; I was not going to find a rich husband, you understand, not in Uzbekistan. I would be the wife, maybe not the first wife, of someone less important than Otryad. My . . . status was not high enough to get better. I was not a virgin, among other reasons. Otryad is very good about sending his women out into the world; he tries to find them husbands and if he cannot he sets them up with money of their own. But he likes young girls; I was only still in the hareem because I was a good manager. But Darya was old enough to take over while still being younger, and fresher, than I."

  "Well, I didn't see the rest of his hareem," Mike said, using her term. "But if he was kicking you out of his bed he was an idiot."

  "There are women aplenty in the world to a man with money," Anastasia said, shrugging.

  "Not many that are as good looking as you," Mike said, then frowned. "Okay, except among the Keldara, I'll admit."

  "These are your retainers?" Anastasia asked, curiously.

  "I don't know what to call them," Mike admitted. "I hate just calling them tenants. I suppose retainers is a good word. The men are generally pretty damned handsome and the women are fucking outstanding. The beer's good, too. Great place to live. Not that I wouldn't mind going back to the States some time. But, for now, the valley's a good place to live. I'm doing good work there, getting them up to speed on modern farming, I got them equipment so they could retire their horse teams, and I'm training them so they can defend themselves. Not much of that, yet. That's why I'm hurrying back; training starts on Monday after this planting festival."

  "You will be training them?" the girl asked, curling up in the seat and leaning forward to listen.

  "Not day-to-day," Mike said. "But I'm going to be out there for specific items. I'll probably have to lead them in some of the stuff they're going to be doing. So I'll probably show up for each new item, prove I can do it, and then retreat. If I demonstrate my ability when they're just getting introduced to it, it should look like I'm such a fucking master they won't believe it. Take running; I'll probably lead the first run. After they're fully trained, there are probably a few that will be better than me; they're mostly younger for one thing. But if the first time they go out, the Kildar smokes them, well that will stick in their mind. The Kildar can run, the Kildar can ruck, the Kildar can patrol and the Kildar can shoot. That way when we go out to actually do something, they'll be confident in my abilities, even if by then some of them are better than I am."

  "It sounds like it's a good thing I'm an expert in massage," Anastasia said, smiling.

  "Oh, I'm pretty dialed in," Mike said. "I've been working out since I got there; the muscles are as good as they're going to get with all the damage. I won't mind having somebody to help me get out of bed in the mornings, though."

  "You have trouble with that?" the girl asked

  "Bad joints," Mike said, shrugging. "Mostly a legacy of beating them to death on the teams. Any time I stay still for a long period of time, and I don't move much when I sleep, they freeze up. So getting out of bed is a pain. It passes after a while. Mostly," he added, rubbing one elbow absently. Ever since getting caught in an unpressurized wheel well on a mission he'd had trouble with that joint. "So, I hate to ask about the sex thing, but where are we on that? From one point of view you're an employee. As far as I'm concerned, you could be married to someone else and do your job . . ."

  "I think not," Anastasia said, carefully. "You are my master."

  "Be careful with that term," Mike said. "That has a very specific meaning in sexual relations. Unless you meant it that way?" he asked, glancing at her.

  "You are the master of the hareem," Anastasia said, cautiously. "But, yes, I'm aware of the meaning of the term. I don't know you well, hardly at all . . ."

  "I don't even know your last name," Mike said. "Is it Otryad?"

  "I have not been married to Otryad for more than twelve years," Anastasia said, frowning. "My last name was changed to my maiden name when I divorced: Rakovich. He keeps four wives, as the Koran dictates. All the others are concubines. He marries and then, when it is time to get a new wife, divorces and keeps the girl in his hareem. This way he can approach families with an offer of marriage."

  "Personally, I've got problems with that," Mike said, his jaw working. "But that's his society."

  "He is not unpleasant about it," Anastasia said, sighing. "But it is hard, knowing you are but a temporary addition to his household. However, you are the master of the hareem and my job is to manage the hareem and provide you with sex in addition. I do not have a problem with that, in fact I look forward to it; you are very beautiful."

  "That's the first time anyone's said that to me," Mike said, laughing. "Be aware, I'm used to either dating for sex or buying hookers. I'm not sure how to handle this relationship."

  "Try not to treat me as a whore," Anastasia said. "Think of me as a wife whose job is very specifically to provide sex. But . . . I have needs," she added, carefully.
/>   "I'm generally considered decent to good," Mike said, glancing at her again. "But I tend to be a bit rough by preference."

  "Rough is good," Anastasia said, sighing in relief. "Very rough is very good."

  "Really?" Mike asked, raising an eyebrow. "How rough?"

  "As rough as you can manage," Anastasia answered. "Do you know the term masochist?"

  "You're serious?" Mike said. "In that case, we need to negotiate carefully. Rough is a very broad term."

  "The rougher the better," Anastasia said, looking at the floor of the plane. "Otryad was not . . . rough enough. And there was never enough sex with so many girls in the hareem. I was lucky towards the end if I had one night a month with him. And he was never strong enough with the whip."

  "O-kaaay," Mike said, with a whistle. "I can see where this is going. I don't have a bondage dungeon set up yet but it can easily be arranged."

  "That would be wonderful," Anastasia said, delightedly. "I had access to the internet, yes? I saw some of the bondage dungeons on there and they excited me very much. I would love to have you take me to a bondage dungeon and treat me roughly as a slave to be trained."

  "But you're already trained," Mike pointed out.

  "I could be bad," Anastasia said, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. "They had a terrible time with me at first; I was often bad just so that I would be beaten. When the hareem manager then, that was Shahla, realized what was going on she was very angry. After that I was good, just so that I could be properly beaten from time to time. Shahla was very good with the whip; I miss her. After she left Otryad had to do it and he never really had the same touch."

  "Yeah, but we still need to negotiate," Mike said with a sigh. "I don't know that . . . experienced as you are, you were in the hareem. The rules are different on the outside. For example, what about being whipped in front of people you don't know very well? A scene as they call it. Or play 'sold' to another man? Have you ever been butt-plugged and then put in a submissive position and auctioned off?"

  "No," Anastasia said, breathlessly. "But it sounds terribly exciting!"

  "Oh, good God," Mike said, flipping up the seat arm. "I need a blowjob and I need one now."

  "Yes, master," Anastasia said, leaning over and unzipping him. With her teeth.

  Mike leaned the seat back and closed his eyes as she began to slowly lick his member like a lollipop to be savored. After a moment he snorted.

  "Master?" Anastasia asked, lifting off of him.

  "Never mind," Mike said, slapping her lightly on the back of the head. "Get back to work."

  The snort was for the situation. He was in a private jet being blown by a fucking expert. One that looked like she should be making a million a year as a supermodel. It had been a long damned route to this moment.

  And Anastasia was an expert. She'd started by licking him and pumping him to get him fully engorged then taken him in her mouth, slowly stroking at first. Despite not using her hands, it was one of the best blowjobs he'd ever gotten. She had tremendous suction and her lips pressed around his dick as firmly as fingers. As she continued she sped up, stroking up and down so far that he could feel his dick entering the back of her throat. She alternated with taking him all the way down, right into the throat, and swallowing so that the muscles sucked his head down her throat.

  She sped up slowly, finally going into a long continuous stroke at high speed that had him right on the edge of bursting. At which point he realized he'd forgotten to negotiate one thing before starting. On the other hand, to hell with it; she was a harem slave. With that thought he started pumping in her mouth.

  Anastasia caught it all, choking a bit at first and then sucking him dry.

  "Was that good, master?" she asked, straightening up and tucking him away.

  "You can do that any time you'd like," Mike said.

  "Good," the girl said. "I like giving blowjobs. Otryad did not like them that much but he would let me give them since I enjoyed it. That is why I tried to learn to give them well, so he would enjoy them also."

  "You're great," Mike said, leaning back in the seat. "Very, very good, and I say that as a guy who has gotten a fair number of them in his life."

  "Is there any wine?" Anastasia asked, cautiously. "I like the taste of cum, but the aftertaste is . . . not so good."

  "In the back," Mike said, thumbing over his shoulder. "There's a wine cooler with white and a rack with red."

  "Would you like a glass?" Anastasia asked, getting up and looking to the rear of the plane.

  "No thanks, I'm a beer drinker," Mike said. "On second thought, see if they have a Johannesburg Riesling. I could do with a glass."

  "Then you will go to sleep, yes?" Anastasia asked, walking back to the gallery area.

  "I could sleep," Mike admitted. "It's been a long day."

  Chapter Eighteen

  As it turned out, Anastasia slept. Mike reclined both of the seats and the girl had snuggled down next to him, arms held vertically over her breasts so her hands were folded under her chin, pushed in hard against his side and in a few minutes was fast asleep. It had been a long, tough day for her too, Mike figured. Torn away from the only home she'd known since she was twelve, flying for the first time, possibly being with the first man other than Otryad that she'd ever had sex with. She seemed comfortable, though, content. She wasn't having bad dreams, at least.

  She was so fucking beautiful, it made Mike angry to think about her life. He knew that he had a blind spot when it came to beautiful women. Plenty of them, even in the West, had lousy lives. But a creature as visually perfect as Anastasia would have been able to write her own ticket in the States. Instead, she'd been sent off to be a harem slave. And she considered herself lucky, with reason. The whole developing world was awash with girls like Anastasia, ranging from her situation to the girls in the Alerrso brothel.

  Without the economy and culture to support equality, women came out a distant second in the war of the sexes. Even the "lucky" ones who found husbands had lives of unremitting toil, popping out one baby after another until their bodies were worn out. The rest filled the brothels of the developing countries. The luckiest ones were the girls near Western military bases; the worst actions of the Western troops, by and large, were the norm in other cultures. American troops mostly just wanted to get it stuck in or sucked off. The few of them that were into pain paid for the privilege instead of thinking of it as a right.

  But even those didn't have much of a life. After they got old and worn, at all of twenty or so, they'd be shipped off to lower quality brothels, slipping down the ladder rung by rung. The bottom of the barrel were places around the Mediterranean waterfront, especially Istanbul. Trying to find a good looking whore in Istanbul was like looking for gold in a tarpit.

  Mike wasn't sure how long this gig in Georgia was going to last, but he knew damned well that none of his girls were ever going to wind up in a whorehouse in Istanbul. Not even Katya, although she deserved it.

  Mike got up carefully at a chime from the sat phone, trying not to disturb Anastasia. She muttered but stayed in place.

  "Jenkins," he said, putting in the earphone.

  "Mr. Jenkins, this is Lieutenant Timmons," the duty officer said. "There will be a Georgian military helicopter at the airport in Tbilisi at two AM."

  "Thanks, Lieutenant," Mike said. "Not looking a gift horse in the mouth, it has room for two and some luggage?"

  "It's a Blackhawk converted for distinguished persons transport," the lieutenant replied. "Plenty of room."

  "Great," Mike said. "Thanks for the help. Hope the rest of your duty goes well."

  "All I have to do is stay awake," the lieutenant said, chuckling.

  "What duty officer stays awake?" Mike asked. "That's what enlisted men are for."

  "Ones that work at embassies," Timmons said, somewhat bitterly. "It's not like regular SDO work. And guys on duty at SOCOM and the Pentagon for that matter. Norad, Cheyenne . . ."

  "Got th
e point," Mike said, smiling. "Well, come on out for a beer and some steak some time; I owe you that at least."

  "Will do, sir," Timmons said. "Two AM."

  "Works," Mike replied, "Have a good night."

  Mike covered Anastasia with a blanket, then pulled out a copy of the training schedule. Since he wouldn't be staying over in Tbilisi, he'd be back for equipment issue. That was a two-day affair with basic uniform and field gear issue being in the morning and weapons issue the next day. Normally troops would get their weapons and then rack them. In normal militaries they'd spend a few months learning to clean the damned things and field strip them before they ever got to shoot them.

  With the Keldara, Mike was taking another tack. They'd be issued on Friday right at the range. The only pretraining they'd get was on safety and aiming. Then they'd zero in the weapons. After that would be the class on stripping, cleaning and reassembly. One reason for that was that they were bound to mess up the cleaning. That meant nice dirty weapons to rag on them about come Monday and regular training. A weekend with a little grime here and there wasn't going to ruin the guns. Hell, knowing the way that the Keldara did things, the weapons were probably going to be spotless.