4 comments/ 43922 views/ 5 favorites Orgasmotron: First Deployment Ch. 01 By: cheetah83 On an unnamed airstrip in Pakistan, the shrill engine of a Predator drone filled the evening air. The sleek oblong silhouette glistened in the sunset as it gained speed and altitude and eventually disappeared through the porous cloud cover. A Pakistani Army sentry followed its ascent with eyes shielded against the pink sky, then "tsk-ed" and returned his gaze to the smut magazine an American sergeant had furnished him with. The guard was clever. He knew he was at the forefront of a tremendous clash of geo-politics and ideology, not the least of which concerned the lavish prints of pink nipples and luxurious spread pussies he was holding. Porn as such was banned in the barracks, of course, as it was in most places across Arab countries. But the sentry who spoke decent English had been around American soldiers long enough to know that the bragging GIs who slipped him the magazines came from a different world. A world where paper rags of smut like this once had held an important, even legislative role in liberating a people from their self-inflicted stupidity. A world that could one day be his. What he didn't know was how this change was going to come about. ------------------------------- Half a world away, the president of the most powerful industrialized nation on the globe nibbled at a pretzel and looked up disbelievingly from the communiqué handed to him by the attractive National Security Advisor. "WHAT do you want me to hit them with??" The National Security Advisor straightened up her skirt. She knew this was going to be a tough sell, as was everything that even hinted at or in any way implicated the distribution of a single condom or a brochure on women's rights somewhere in the developing world. "It is an advanced psychotropic weapon, Mr. President. Developed by the Israelis." "What does the word "O.R.G.A.S.M." have to do with any darn weapon?" demanded the President. Putting on a prudential look of genuine insult, he added: "This is not the Clinton administration, you do realize." "Mr. President, that is what the people at the Israeli army call it, sir. The Orgasmotron." The Advisor shuffled her papers and endured the President's harsh look, which lost its edge eventually when it was inevitably drawn to the Advisor's firm breasts protruding under her business suit. There was an awkward pause for several seconds; then the President recovered: "Please continue, Madam" "The Israelis developed it to fight domestic terrorism instigated by suicide bombers," carried on the Madam National Security Advisor. "The... umm... Orgasmotron is a powerful infrasonic device, which triggers certain nerve and brain centers, inducing a change in behavior. The mechanism is somewhat similar to the audible Banshee system that the Israeli security forces have been recently employing for crowd control and demonstration dispersal at the Gaza Strip." She shot a glance at the President who was soundlessly moving his lips around her last sentence. "It's a sonic Viagra, sir." The President's eyes lighted up but he shook his head in a (not so unreasonable this time) total incomprehension. "The Israelis use... that... to fight suicide bombers?" "Yes, they do, Mr. President." The Advisor felt her feet were on more solid ground now. As she had discovered, in some areas the President was much more keen than his critics gave him credit for, especially when it came to commissioning new toys, disguised as tools for Homeland Defense or National Security. Everyone remembered the big Strategic Missile Defense flop from a few years back that eventually amounted to a cosmic cockfight with missiles and lasers, which did nothing, except bolster the egos of the men in power. Boys love their toys - especially the forbidden ones, safely hidden in their parents' closet. The Advisor could sense that no matter how Christian or Conservative he was, the President's modest attention span was completely looped around the next thing she was about to say. If this were Clinton, things would already be sliding down from his end of the desk. "Most suicide bombers in Israel happen to be young Arab men, sir. The Mosad, or Israeli Intelligence, often have specific leads and information on them but they cannot act to safely disarm them in a crowded urban environment. The Orgasmotron comes in handy because it acts selectively on males and disrupts the suicide bomber's attention, coordination and motivation all at once." "Their motivation?" the President's brow furrowed. "Mr. President, this is only to be expected. Imagine being strapped to 10 pounds of TNT and then, suddenly, discovering that life is full of... umm, voluptuous young women who give you... excuse my language, sir... a non-subsiding erection." "Yes, I can imagine that," the President said with eyes glazed, a dreamlike quality setting over his voice. "This can significantly dent one's resolve to commit a suicidal act of aggression, don't you think?" the Advisor pressed on. The President nodded. "Unfortunately, the Israeli Intelligence has encountered some problems with deploying Orgasmotron technology in the field. For one thing, it affects all males in the impact area and sometimes makes it hard for the trained female agents to get to suspects and neutralize them." The advisor pushed some file photos across the desk. One of them showed a crowded bus surrounded by police cars. On the forefront, a couple of olive-complexioned, muscular, uniformed women were dragging a handcuffed suspect out of the bus. Their shirts and khaki pants were torn, however, exposing bra straps, bikini and tanned flesh. Several splotches of sticky mess were visible on their flak jackets. Behind them, other agents were administering batons to the rowdy crowd in the bus. "Can I keep that?" the President's smirk was wiped clean from his face by the National Security Advisor's icy stare. "Joking..." "You see, Mr. President, Orgasmotron technology has its virtues and disadvantages. Our Pentagon analysts think that it can be especially effective against enemy combatants in Afghanistan, who are religiously indoctrinated and derive much of their combat morale through the rigors of abstinence." The President regarded her coolly. "Sorry, sir, I meant the oppressive Wahhabist tradition of wife mistreatment and subjugating celibacy." Madam Advisor corrected herself quickly. "Please, we need to reach a decision and act now, Mr. President" she added. "Before the target slips out of our reach as he has done so many times previously." The President didn't reply immediately but after a while he shifted in his chair and seemed to reach a decision. "So, you are telling me you have launched this Orgasm-a-thing already?" he asked, a clear note of indignation in his voice over not being allowed to push a button. "Yes, sir. Preemptively. The Israelis had it mounted on one of their unmanned aerial drones at out Pakistani base for testing. But the device is not yet activated." "What is... ehm... the impact ra-di-us of this thing?" the President asked, beaming at his own correct pronunciation. "About ten square miles, sir. Covering most of the sprawling cave and training camp complex," she indicated a big rectangle on the map she had previously been showing him. "A bit more than we need, really, but the estimated collateral damage out in the surrounding opium fields should be minimal." There was a pause as both of them mused about what exactly the collateral damage out in the opium fields would consist of. "And the... ehm... soldiers are in position?" the President pressed. "Moving in, Mr. President" the Advisor replied, secretly prepared to deter any more questions on that particular issue. "Good. Ehm. Let's do it then. Get these guys!" The President rubbed his palms together conspiratorially and the hallmark lopsided smirk he had been getting so much bad press about reappeared on his face. Looked at the right light and angle, it really appeared quite naughty and evil. "There is one more thing, Mr. President, Sir" the National Security Advisor insisted. "Hrumph. What is it?" "You've got to sign the Order." "Oh." --------------------- Coming soon - Part II Orgasmotron: First Deployment Ch. 02 Coming in below radar at twelve hundred feet, the big C-130 Hercules transport was skimming over mountainous terrain at the Pakistani-Afghanistan border; lights dimmed to avoid the Stingers of the Taliban. Inside the aircraft, the two men in the darkened cockpit barely dared to breathe. This was not because they were flying over hostile territory, or because of the importance and peril of their mission – these pilots were experienced veterans and had flown in and out of many hot and tight places. Hot and tight places was, indeed, what was on their mind tonight and they often glanced at each other or longingly shot a look at the little armored window of the cockpit hatch to the cargo bay, where their infamous passengers were preparing for a spectacular low-altitude airdrop, quite unprecedented in military history. "Are they doing it?" one of the pilots whispered. "Shush!" the other put a finger to his lips, unbuckled his belt, which was awfully against regulations, sidled over to the hatch and carefully peered out the window's edge. Inside the cavernous cargo area, eight paratroopers were seated abreast facing each other, four on each inside. "Abreast" was, indeed, the most fitting description of the spectacle, because the women strapped to the hard folding seats were no ordinary paratroopers and they wore no ordinary paratrooper attire. Eight sets of Kevlar brassieres previously seen only on Charlie's Angels bounced rhythmically with the low-altitude turbulence, giving the pilot an instant hard-on. Of course he had heard of the Amazon Squad before. The Army cared about supplying its men with illustrious sexual fantasies as much as it did about furnishing them with ammo and first-aid kits. Whether it was flying big-breasted rock stars to Vietnam villages or sporting bikini-clad playmates on aircraft carriers, the people over at the Pentagon obviously understood how important it was to go into battle with a faultless rifle and a well-polished monkey. Soldiers everywhere shot loads of cum in the barracks bathrooms to relieve the stress from the fact that they had to shoot people out on the streets. But the Squad were, well, different. They were real chicks and real soldiers, the best kinds of both. Rumor had it that they could shoot M-16s as well as any man but that they were allowed to wear camouflaged tank tops, mini skirts and outlined thongs, and the only thing the Army asked them to shave was their beavers. But they were no man's sluts. One time, a story went, an Amazon girl had actually struck a superior officer when he had tried to come onto her in a submarine. That lieutenant allegedly was quickly and quietly court-martialed to reinforce a "no touching" policy on the iconic sex-kittens-turned-soldiers. But other stories compromised this "policy". People claimed they actually had had sex with Amazons, even stalked them at clubs and bars in their private life. The pilot had never heard of any confirmed identity of an Amazon Squad girl and until tonight he had even doubted whether the whole outfit wasn't a myth. And yet here they were... in flesh and blood... eight loosely clad angels... everyone's heroes and dirty mind goddesses. The pilot involuntarily reached down in the darkness and started fondling his dick through his pressurized suit. Jeff wouldn't mind. He was almost sure that his crewman was doing the same thing right now behind the flying stick, because he had switched on the grainy black-and-white monitor that showed the cargo bay and his hands were nowhere in sight. --------------------------------------------- From a barren mountaintop outlined against the desert night sky a thin line of sparks shot up in the general direction of the roaring plane. The twenty-year old shoulder-fired missile had a faulty seeking mechanism and missed by a lot, failing to even set off the anti-aircraft alarm on the Hercules. It exploded into a white ball of hot metal shards in the instant after the two pilots almost simultaneously reached orgasm. The sky flashed around them but they didn't notice. The image of the eight girls in the dim red light of the bay was etched in their brains, and they didn't want to let it go and accept the fact that they had almost fucked the Amazon Squad inside their own aircraft. Almost.... They wouldn't dare talk or look at each other for the rest of the flight. -------------------------------------------- "Dammit!" The Captain of the Squad, Jenna Pagliai, readjusted her night goggles and spoke out of the corner of her mouth to the girl sitting next to her. "There goes your Lucky Fuck, Michelle!" She was watching the red and yellow outlines of the pilot's hands through the hatch as he was leaning on it to steady himself and behind them the white warm droplets of cum dripping down his trousers. What a looser. The girl next to her, Michelle Bernard, a frizzed-haired, freckled and cute private nodded, disappointment plainly portrayed on her face. Michelle had a whim, one of those soldier's superstitions. She would like to get fucked by a stranger right before a mission. Sometimes it was a chosen lucky Johnny from their escort; sometimes it was several guys who took turns as the girls cheered on. Michelle said that carrying someone's cum inside her calmed her nerves - the more the better. Including her and Jenna, the squad consisted of eight girls; each specialized in a particular field of Special Forces' combat operations and each, as Jenna proudly thought to herself, one super-tough bitch. Meg Pinkerton, the squad's radio and communications officer had previously worked the busy circuits of a downtown LA phone sex company, overseeing the dozen or so mostly transvestite women who took the calls and engineering those clever delays and automated responses that made clients stay on the line. Sharon Larks, the resident psychologist, had been in charge of security for a Las Vegas casino after obtaining her PhD from Yale. These were the two career "civilians", though three years in boot camp and the Special Forces had changed that. Sitting side by side and facing Jenna were Liz Lannana and Mena Castaleiro, former Navy Seals, They were victims of the Army's "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" policy, having been relocated from a Seal Unit after they were found at it in the showers and the scope of their intimate relationship discovered. The girls at the Amazon Squad had no problems with that. Last April they had all chipped in to buy Liz and Mena a two-way dildo deluxe for their anniversary, and they knew for a fact that Liz always carried it around in her mess bag. "So we can all take turns on bin Laden when we finally root him out," was Liz's standard reply, accompanied by a wink. Michelle was the quiet one. She had not talked about her past to any of the girls in the Squad since she joined up six months ago. They had come to love her regardless. She lacked the weariness and cynicism, circulating like an STD throughout the military. She was tender and warm, but she was also a nymphomaniac and readily admitted it. On several occasions she had gotten the Squad into trouble, but they had to keep her because she was their only proficient Arabic speaker. Their decision was also influenced by the fact that, albeit promiscuous, Michelle Bernard wasn't slutty. Sometimes they admired the way she went about it with fellow servicemen and strange foreigners, curious and almost innocent like a high school prom date exploring her sexuality. But the true leaders and fighting core of the Amazons, Jenna thought, remained the three women who had served in it well before the War on Terror, since its inception as a covert and little known strike unit under the CIA in the mid-1990s. There was Acacia Willis, the demolition expert who had an impressive, toned and muscular build even for a black woman and was sitting upright to the left of Jenna; eyes staring straight ahead; her fine dreadlocks neatly tucked in a tight bun and a camouflage headband. Acacia had been blowing up huts, tents and outposts in remote jungles, brewing up or defusing explosive concoctions and plastering molded C4 strips on doors marked for raids on five continents, pausing now and then only to visit her close-knit extended family in Austin, Texas or to investigate an air crash wreckage for traces of foul play. She could have been the mother of two kids. The one she had at 17 was given up for adoption to a wealthy Wyoming family. The other one she planned to have with her now divorced husband was aborted when a flak charge she was inspecting accidentally went off on a ship off the coast of Saudi Arabia. She said her life was a tumultuous lover – not a very gentle one, but one that in the end would see her through. Acacia's best friend and the other long-standing woman in the squad was also her complete opposite – Kat Sabawlski, a flamboyant Canadian-born, red-haired hurricane who had the bad habit of drinking herself sick and starting brawls with big guys at bars all over the globe. She was the one with the most gripping stories to tell at the campfire (which in real life consisted of an electric tent heater or a portable gas stove) and Jenna was privileged to have witnessed most of these in person. One time Kat had had one too many cases of Bud and had to pee off the deck of an aircraft carrier, when she was to board a Sikorsky chopper for a five-hour flight to the Canary Islands. The whirlwind from a landing jetfighter had picked up her urine as she squatted, pants down, over the rough seas, and flung tiny droplets high into the air, some of it landing right into the face of a two-star admiral who pretended he didn't notice. Jenna had almost suffocated stifling her laughter and so had two-dozen Navy men who watched the scene in utter fascination. But Kat's craziest story to date was also the scariest. It had happened in Bosnia ten years ago. The Squad had posed as prostitutes on call (they often did) in order to apprehend a Serbian war criminal before he flew into hiding. The Serbian general had put up a good fight, shot dead two Amazons and was about to abscond on a Private Cessna, when Kat clambered inside, dragged him out and literally minced his head through the plane's propeller. She lost four of the five fingers on her right hand. Two months later, she had electric prostheses implanted and spent weeks teaching herself to crush aluminum cans. She wasn't happy with the result and underwent another surgery, asking the doctors to remove more bones from her hand and attach a titanium frame and synthetic muscles. A couple more months passed and Kat had taught herself to crush tin cans and shoot the six rounds of a revolver in five seconds. She said jokingly that she knew she was back in shape when one day, after crushing her daily allotment of tin cans, she reached down with her new metallic fingers and gave herself the best orgasm of her life. After spending one crazy drunk night with her at a training camp in Ecuador, Liz and Mena attested she wasn't joking about that either. And this left, Jenna mused, taking a glance at her synchronized radio wristwatch, linked to those of the other Squad members... Jenna herself. Jenna was also one of the original Amazons, recruited fresh out of grad school after completing a double major in graduate forensic chemistry and linguistics, also starring in her college's varsity aikikai team. She was a pretty, 31-year old of athletic, yet discrete build, and her keen eyes and steady poise made her an instantly lethal combination with any kind of firearm that she could lay her hands on. Jenna knew well the limitations of her world because she had spent her life trying to transcend them. Being a woman and an attractive one made her vulnerable to entrapment by the desires, as well as the arrogant contempt, of the rank and file men striding in their tidy uniforms around her. She had dealt with that entrapment cleverly and carefully over the course of her career and shunned, though not entirely avoided, confrontation with her male superiors. "We are all whores," she sometimes thought to herself bitterly. "The men and the women – all countries' soldiers, we are all whores... Because we let a few men in smart business suits toss our bodies around, letting them mutilate us to the end of their myopic political fantasies. I'm just one of the more obvious ones. " But most often Jenna was happy to do the job she was assigned to, because the job she was assigned to actually did jackshit more for the people in her country, than the people in her country gave her credit for. She remembered one time when the Amazon Squad was at the forefront of a Special Forces operation to bust a notorious Colombian drug cartel. She and the other girls had been smuggled in under their usual disguise as high-class escorts to entertain the drug lord and his close friends. Jenna had been dragged into a private bedroom where the drug boss had fucked her under the gaze of two of his bodyguards. When he had started beating her because she wasn't faking an orgasm, she had waited obediently for the crackle in her ear-bud radio signifying that Special Forces were taking the building. Then she had reached for the pistol in his belt holster, shot the bodyguards and blasted his testicles full of lead in one quick motion. Her brusque actions meant that the Department of State could not get a widely publicized trial and this earned her many enemies in the White House and Capitol as well as Colombia. The Squad was subsequently relegated to minor peacekeeping tasks under the Army Marines and the UN. No one wanted to disband them because there always had been generals who felt secretly very aroused to have something like the Amazon Squad under their command. They felt "militarily" potent, bossing Jenna and the girls around. For once, tonight's mission and the unusual contrivance of Orgasmotron had proved them right. A big orange lamp in the ceiling started flashing and they could hear the whine of an alarm over the hum of the engines. Silently, Jenna nodded to each of the seven girls in the Squad. They had memorized all details of the mission procedures and were prepared to execute them, though most of them were simply baffled and felt that many things went beyond what they would usually be requested to do, Orgasmotron or not. Jenna checked on the tether of her parachute to make sure it was secure, then shouted over the din: "All right, ladies. You know the rules of engagement. Pants down, we finish off the bastards while their dicks fly high. There are fifty horny Talibans down there and not one must walk out of this alive. No sex, no funky stuff, just shoot them on the spot. OK?" ----------------------------- Two minutes away from the airdrop zone, the Hercules banked and made a final sweep north along its predetermined flight path. In the cockpit, the pilots were sitting in gloomy silence when their dicks suddenly jolted to life. Again. Unfortunately, they were not cleared on the object and mode of their mission, as were the women in the cargo bay. ----------------------------- Coming soon - Part III