Vengeance
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Vengeance free porn video
Vengeance
Synopsis: A former intelligence agent who lost everything in a
terrorist attack decides to get revenge. His methods are quite
unconventional...
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Vengeance
"Comfy?"
The man on the cot turned his head, startled from a fitful sleep.
He started to move, and immediately was restrained by the
shackles on one leg and one arm. He glanced up, past the glare
of the bare bulb, toward the face of the man addressing him.
"Who are you?" he finally demanded in accented English. "What
do you want?"
Above the cot, a figure tilted his head back and laughed. His face
was hidden by a blank mask. "I am your worst nightmare," the
figure said. "I bring you justice." The voice was muffled and
electronic sounding. The figure was clearly interested in
obscuring his identity.
The man on the bed tugged against the restraints. "Only Allah
can bring justice!" the man spat angrily. But the faceless figure
didn't respond. "What do you want?" he demanded again. The
prisoner was swarthy, with dark hair and a bushy black
moustache. His body, hidden by a non-descript robe,
nonetheless showed well-toned muscles. A fire burned in his
eyes, a raging hatred of his unknown captor. "You can't do this to
me," he protested. "I have my rights."
"Rights?" the figure snarled angrily. "Rights? You have no rights.
Animals have no rights! Vermin have no rights!" He bent down
and clamped his powerful hand on the jaw of the captive,
squeezing as painfully as possible. "And you are nothing but
vermin - a pestilence on humanity!" Without warning, the figure
pulled a syringe from his pocket and quickly stabbed the captive.
He shoved the fluid into the bedridden man, then stood and
stormed out of the room, slamming the heavy door shut behind
him. A metallic grating sound indicated to the man that a heavy
deadbolt was being slid back into place.
On the bed, the captive suppressed a moan of pain. The shots
were painful, and his jaw hurt from the iron grip of his captor. But
he wasn't going to let his tormenter see any weakness. He
glanced around for the thousandth time, inventorying his situation.
The room was small - perhaps eight feet on a side, and besides
the cot, the only furnishings were a sink and toilet. The paint on
the walls was faded and dingy, and the room was without
windows, illuminated only by the single bare bulb hung too high
for the man to reach. With both limbs chained to the same
corner of the bed, he could barely - just barely - reach the toilet.
Of course, this arrangement made sleep difficult. It also ensure
that there was no way he could commit suicide.
Outside in a narrow corridor, the tall figure leaned heavily against
a wall. The mask slipped, revealing the face of an older man, his
hair tinged with white, his features gaunt. His eyes had a haunted
look to them. Slowly, very slowly, he pulled a small picture from
his pocket. Tears streamed down his face as he studied the well-
worn picture.
**********
"Who are you?" the captive demanded again. He'd long since
given up on demanding his 'rights'. He glanced at his food - a few
fruits and vegetables and water. It was enough to keep him alive,
barely. At least his captor wasn't forcing him to eat forbidden
foods - like pork or alcohol. But on this meager diet, the man
knew he was losing weight - and muscle mass and strength -
quickly.
The figure stared down at the prisoner. "You don't need to know
that," he answered simply. "But I know who you are." The voice,
even through the electronic disguise, was tinged with menace.
The prisoner tried not to flinch. His eyes, however, betrayed him.
"You aren't Mahmood Sahid," the figure said evenly. "You've
gone by dozens of names over the years, all to avoid notice. But
your real name is Abdullah Achmed." There was an iron certainty
in the voice.
The man on the bed did flinch this time. He was imprisoned by
someone who knew a very great deal about him. That was a
terrible surprise. But still .... "So you know who I am. So what?"
The figure laughed, and the electronics made it sound sinister and
evil. "You don't care that I know you're one of the most wanted
terrorists in the world?"
Achmed sneered at his captor. "If you torture me, Allah will help
me. If you kill me, Allah will grant me a place in paradise." He
shook his head. "You can do nothing to me." His voice carried
the conviction of his fanatical devotion to his religion.
The figure laughed again. "You might ask yourself why I haven't
asked you any questions, or tortured you." He leaned over and
pulled out the syringe. Again, the needle stuck Achmed, and
some unknown fluid was injected. "But you will find out. Soon."
The laughter turned to a maniacal chortling, a thoroughly
unnerving sound.
**********
Achmed awoke slowly. His room was dark, and he tossed. He
felt uncomfortable; his body ached where the injections had been
given, and his head felt heavy. What had happened? The last he
remembered was the injection - and then everything went black.
He struggled to sit, fighting the chains, and finally managed to get
upright. His face and neck ached as if thousands of bees had
stung him, and his arms and legs and chest, too. He felt weak;
for several minutes, he struggled to figure out how long he'd been
in this prison. With no windows, it was hard to reconcile the
passage of time. Clearly, though, it had been a long time. He felt
weak, and undoubtedly he'd lost a lot of weight.
Slowly, he became aware of the pressing need of nature.
Achmed carefully hobbled to the toilet. Even that was a
humiliation; the chains were fastened such that he had to sit even
to urinate, with one arm and one leg outstretched toward his bed.
For perhaps the hundredth time, he thought of drowning himself,
but even that act was made impossible by his shackles.
He pulled up his pants and hopped back to the bed. He sat down
heavily, wondering what to do. There had to be some weakness,
some way for him to escape. No captor could be that perfect; he
knew that there was _always_ some little security breach. But try
as he might, he couldn't identify it; his mind seemed clouded.
The light snapped on, startling Achmed and momentarily blinding
him. The door creaked open and his captor walked in. "What are
you doing to me?" Achmed demanded again. He started to rise,
but his head spun and he collapsed back onto the cot.
The harsh electronic laugh mocked his futile attempt at rising.
"Patience," the voice hissed. "You'll know hell soon enough."
The man stepped to Achmed and plunged the syringe into his
arm.
Achmed found a reserve of resistance and fury within himself. He
pushed at his captor even as he struggled to his feet. The floor
felt as if it were wobbling, but Achmed fought the dizziness. He
cocked his arm and swung, knowing all the vulnerable spots that
could incapacitate or even kill a man.
The captor easily blocked Achmed's best shot, catching his hand
in mid-swing as if it were a child's slap. As Achmed struggled
futilely, the evil laugh resonated from the electronic soundbox.
"Feeling a little weak today?" the captor mocked him. He easily
pushed Achmed back onto his cot.
"What ... what have you done to me?" Achmed asked, now
worried. Even with the diet, he should have been much stronger.
"You mean to make you weak?" the man in the mask taunted.
"Just a little gift from me to you. Suffice to say that you'll never be
as strong again as you once were." He watched Achmed's
reaction, and he guessed what the man was thinking. "Oh, and
your 'talent' for planning these detailed little operations? You'll
find it harder and harder to concentrate on terrorism from now
on." He began to laugh as he slipped out of the room, closing the
door behind himself.
**********
"Are you awake yet?" The taunting, hated electronic voice
echoed in the suddenly-light room.
Achmed squinted, trying to block the blinding light. He felt groggy
again, a little worse this time. Slowly, he pushed himself up from
the cot. "What do you...." His eyes widened at the sound coming
from his mouth. "What have you done...?" Even that question
went unfinished as he heard his own voice.
His captor laughed. "What's wrong, Achmed?" he asked cruelly.
"Cat got your tongue?"
"What have you done to my voice?" Achmed's eyes were wide
with fear as he spoke and listened to the impossible sound
echoing in his ears. He glared at his captor. "What are you doing
to me?"
The figure in the mask laughed again. "Sending you to hell," he
hissed. "You like the effect? A little botulinim toxin in your vocal
chords causes muscular paralysis. It tightens them up a bit. So
you can say goodbye to your bass voice - forever!" The figure
gave Achmed yet another of the cursed injections. "Eat hearty,"
he mocked, pushing a plate of fruits and vegetables to Achmed's
bedside. "Tomorrow is a big day for you."
"What are you doing to me?" Achmed demanded once more. He
started to rise angrily. Maybe he lacked strength, but he still
intended to show his defiance.
A few words of Arabic spewed from his tormenter. And like a
trained dog, Achmed dropped his head and dropped to his knees.
His eyes widened at the way he had reflexively assumed a very
submissive posture to his captor. He fought some hidden inner
force, struggling to force himself to speak, but he couldn't. For
several minutes after the door had slammed shut, he held the
pose, unable to rise or even speak. Finally, he felt the force let go
of him, and he crawled back onto his cot.
**********
Achmed pried his eyes open slowly. His body felt like it had been
through a meat grinder. His chest ached, his stomach ached, his
legs ached, and his rear ached. The blackness of the room didn't
help him orient himself either. For several long minutes, he lay on
the cot, wondering why he ached so. What had that devil done to
him this time?
Slowly, he realized a pressing need in his bladder. He carefully
hopped toward the toilet, mindful of the aches in his body and the
chains on his wrist and ankle. He wondered why he was wearing
a different garment - like a tunic, or .... Achmed's mind froze as
he contemplated the other possibility. He sat down and reached
with his free hand to take care of his business.
A scream echoed through the cell door and down the hall, an
anguished cry of utter pain and loss. More screams followed,
then they changed to cursing and threats, all vile and hateful.
Slowly, a man came into the dim hallway. He strode purposefully
toward the door, stopping at the last minute to put on his mask.
Then he flipped a switch and threw back the deadbolts.
"Ah, I see you're awake," he commented lightly.
Achmed sat on the toilet, his hospital gown raised and baring his
crotch. His eyes glared hatefully at his captor. His jaw clenched
and unclenched, working furiously as he struggled to find an outlet
for his rage.
"Oh, you've discovered my latest gifts," the man mocked through
his electronic voice disguise.
"I'll kill you for this," Achmed tried to threaten. With the higher
pitch to his voice, the threat sounded meaningless.
"Oh, but that's not all." He stepped to his prisoner and rudely
ripped off the hospital gown.
Achmed glanced down, and his face froze in horror. On his chest
were two very distinct breasts, mounds of mammary tissue
capped by big round nipples. He screamed again.
"You hadn't even noticed them, had you?" the captor taunted. "A
little post-hypnotic suggestion that I turned off yesterday." The
man leaned back against the wall casually. "You see, for the past
three months - yes, it's been three months - you've been getting
hormone injections. Female hormones. So now, you've grown
yourself a nice healthy pair of breasts." The captor leaned over
and cupped one of Achmed's tits. "They go so nice with your new
genital arrangement, don't you think?"
Achmed tried to glare at his captor, but the shame of his changes
overwhelmed him. He dropped his face, and in the last second,
his captor had seen the defiance vanish, replaced by genuine
fear.
The masked figure stepped back to the door. "You're probably
wondering what I'm going to do with you now, right?" He saw
Achmed's head lift just enough that the captive could see him.
"Well, you'll have to be patient. We're not quite done with you ...
yet."
**********
"Well, what do you think?" The masked figure held Achmed's
head up by his hair - now much longer and styled in a very
feminine American style. "I think the lips really do it, don't you?"
Achmed glared at the mirror. He stood naked before a floor-
length mirror, still chained by his ankle and handcuffed. He tried
to turn away, but his captor wouldn't let him. With his diminished
strength, he knew it was pointless to fight.
The woman in the mirror was stunning. Her lips - his lips - were
full and sensuous, courtesy of some collagen injections. His
cheeks were higher, and his coarse nose was gone, sculpted
through plastic surgery into a dainty and very feminine nose. His
ears were pierced, twice each, and large hoop earrings dangled
from them. His face seemed smoother, his skin more lustrous,
one of the side effects of the hormones he'd been given. There
was no stubble, no moustache, and there never again would be.
Heavy electrolysis had taken care of that.
On his throat, Achmed no longer had a prominent Adam's apple -
gone, shaved in more of the cosmetic surgery. On Achmed's
chest, his breasts, already large through the hormone shots, were
even larger, augmented with implants. His chest hair and armpit
hair was also gone, lost forever in more electrolysis, as was the
hair on his legs. Four weeks in a corset and some liposuction had
reduced his waist to very feminine and alluring proportions. His
ass was rounder, more padded, another side effect of the
estrogen.
And then there was it. The one unmistakable sign that he was
forever changed. His penis - gone, replaced surgically by a
woman's sex. He now had a full vagina, fully capable of sex as a
woman. He _was_ a woman.
Achmed wanted to cry, and even that impulsive reaction
maddened him. He knew he should want to strike out, to
retaliate. Instead, the hormones and his hypnotic 'conditioning'
had made his first reaction one of a woman - tears. His whole
being betrayed everything that he'd believed in and had been.
"How did you do this?" Achmed asked in a tiny voice.
"Simple, really," his captor replied. "I already told you about your
voice. Well, the same toxin was injected into some of your
muscles. You've lost about forty percent of your muscle strength,
and it's long since atrophied, never to return." He shook his head.
"My associates tell me that was a particularly tricky set of
procedures. We wanted to make you permanently weak, like a
woman, but without leaving you paralyzed or clumsy. The rest is
simply cosmetic surgery." He laughed. "Oh, and a bit of
hypnosis."
"What are you going to do to me?" Achmed finally asked fearfully.
"Rape me?"
The figure shook his head. "No. That's not my style." He
glanced up and down Achmed's figure, causing the terrorist to
blush. "No, I think I'll just send you home."
The fear in Achmed's eyes turned to genuine terror. He knew
what fate he would have as a woman in a fundamentalist Islamic
country. Women had no rights. They were barely acknowledged
as people. And now ... he was one. "No!" he pleaded. "I'll tell
you anything you need to know."
The man in the mask shook his head slowly, laughing the harsh
electronic mocking laugh that Achmed knew so well. "I already
bled you for information months ago," he reported evenly.
Achmed's eyes widened as he realized that he'd lost his last
bargaining chip. "With all the hypnosis, your mind is empty of
secrets." He waited for the full reaction, the terror on Achmed's
face. He was now truly nothing. "Oh, and I bet you've been
having some very disturbing thoughts and dreams lately, haven't
you? Dreams of flaunting your body in a bikini? Of seducing
men? Of being a sex object for men?" He watched Achmed
tremble, and he knew he'd rattled the terrorist. "More gifts. No
sense being a woman if you don't think and act like one." He
laughed harshly. "You'll find a few other suggestions. Like the
sound of Arabic tongues will make you feel submissive and
horny." He spat out a few words and watched as Achmed
writhed, torn between his hypnotic training and his old mental
patterns. He could see that the old patterns were losing.
"Oh, and speaking of the hypnotic sessions, with your help, we
rounded up a few of your associates. They're just down the hall,
and I think a little reunion might be in order, don't you think?"
Achmed froze as he realized his fate. His friends and associates
- the men now captured, would undoubtedly rape him. He fought
the impulses loosened by the powerful post-hypnotic suggestion.
He trembled as he realized that his newly sculpted body
_wanted_ the men to take him, to have their way with him. He
wanted to scream at the mental torture, but he couldn't. Another
suggestion, perhaps? And even as he wanted his former
compatriots, he knew that he would be nothing to them, and there
was no way he'd ever convince them of who he really had been.
And then he realized something else. His friends were probably
in for the same fate.
"Welcome to hell!" the masked man laughed cruelly.
**********
"What the hell has he done to Achmed?" the agent asked,
"They're getting into the car, but that's not Achmed. It's some
Arab broad!" The agent lowered his binoculars and glanced at his
partner. "Something funny is going on here. Where'd the broad
come from? Should we move in?" The two men were concealed
on a ridge overlooking the isolated run-down house in the Arizona
desert. There wasn't much cover, and both men were sweating
profusely from the intense heat.
The second agent shook his head. "Nope."
"No?" the first agent asked sharply. "Why not? He's going to get
away. Again."
"You never met Agent Lester, did you?"
The first agent shook his head, puzzled. "No."
The second agent, a much older and more experienced man,
said, "Too bad. He was one of the best." He glanced back at the
house, watching the dust trail as the car drove away. "He retired
years ago. Went into business for himself as a corporate security
specialist."
"So what happened?"
"His New York office was in the towers." He paused, feeling his
voice choking. He fought back the surge of emotion and the
painful memories of 'the day'. "His family and co-workers were
planning a big birthday party for him. His wife, three kids, and
nine grandkids. They were all in the tower. He lost everything."
The first agent felt a chill. No wonder the old man was acting a
little strangely.
"After the attack, he got hooked up with a few other men who had
suffered similar losses. Kind of a cabal. They've got access to
money, connections in the agency and in the CIA and Mossad,
pretty much everything they need to get their revenge." He cocked
his head toward the house. "I'd imagine that's what he's up to.
You can bet that Lester milked him dry." He glanced at the
house.
"But the broad?"
The second agent's eyes were narrowed to mere slits. "Lester
fights to win. My guess is, if we took them in, we'd find the prints
on that broad match Achmed perfectly. The only way to stop
terrorists, Lester probably figures, it to make it very bad to get
caught. And these are a bunch of people who are ready to die to
be martyrs. How do you discourage them?"
The first agent's mouth dropped open as he realized what was
going on. "So he's changing them into the least respected
members of their societies? The ultimate in humiliation?"
"Did you look at the list of equipment he's procured over the past
seven or eight months? Enough to equip a small surgical suite.
And there are the deliveries from his 'associates'. Medical
supplies, no doubt."
The younger agent fought his astonishment. "But that's
impossible! You don't learn surgery like that in a couple of
months!"
The older partner smiled again. "Remember the backgrounds of
the guys who've been visiting lately," he admonished the
youngster. "There are a couple of really good doctors on that list."
Slowly, realization dawned on the junior partner. "My God!" he
exclaimed. "This is some kind of nightmare conspiracy!" He
shook his head in disbelief. "They're turning the terrorists into ...
women?"
"And no doubt, he's videotaped and taken pictures of the entire
process. Pretty soon, they'll be in circulation all over the Islamic
world. Lester and his friends have a lot of CIA and Mossad
connections to see to that. If Lester is right, in a couple of
months, no young Islamist is going to want to bet his balls that
he'll get caught trying to perform an act of terrorism on
Americans." He stood up and brushed off his pants. "Come on.
Let's go have a little talk to Lester and see what kind of info he
squeezed out of Achmed. Before he turned him into whatever the
hell her new name is!" He started down the hill toward the house,
leaving his astonished younger partner scrambling to catch up.
FIN
Tamera
- 03.08.2021
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