On Her Majesty's Sissy Service - The Spies Who Will Love You free porn video

On Her Majesty's Sissy Service - The Spies Who Will Love You By Katharine Sexkitten "Specialist Willoughby, reporting!" His voice was crisp, and clear, just as he'd been trained. Military service teaches all sorts of things to people, from the innocuous to the deadly, but the number one lesson has always been discipline, and ceremony. His uniform was perfect. As was mine. Despite spending my life dressed in civvies, almost exclusively women's clothes, I was after all a Major in Her Majesty's Armed Services. His salute was perfect, his body ramrod straight, his arm and elbow at the precise angle drilled into him over the five years since he'd enlisted. I let him stand there for a moment, and re-read some of the details in his personnel jacket. Not the boring bits, the career profile, the accomplishments, the badges and awards. I preferred to see the 'Deep Background' pages of the file. The juicy stuff. To go along with his exemplary conduct in Her Majesty's Royal Air Force, Specialist Bartholomew Reginald Willoughby lived a perfectly normal upstanding life, while also enjoying monthly discrete visits to a certain Gentleman's club, off base, in the city, where he chased his desires and applied his skills in far more interesting ways. He was a twink, in the current parlance, and, like I had when I was his age and I was a twink, he enjoyed older men romancing him, and seducing him. Military Intelligence is thorough, and confirmed that there were no breaches of security, that none of Willoughby's lovers were in any way connected to anything or anyone suspicious. They were just regular run- of-the-mill mature men, mostly married, who enjoyed the occasional sexual company of young adult men. I knew from personal experience that there were far more of these kinds of men in the world than most people would think. Far more. Willoughby was twenty-four. From Basingstoke. He'd had a normal, ordinary upbringing. He'd achieved excellent grades in every level of his schooling. Brother and sister, both unremarkable. Parents still alive, near retirement age. He was, sadly, like many gay men, in the closet. He was well-liked by the men and women in his unit. Affable. Perhaps a bit of a loner. Otherwise, a dedicated professional, skilled in computer systems, most particularly hacking, and surprisingly capable at hand-to-hand combat. Lethal, in fact. I motioned for him to sit down. The chair was placed in a specific spot. It would allow him the best view of the large flat-screen monitor over my right shoulder, and allow my monitoring equipment to continuously scan him, feeding me a constant stream of data on my open laptop. I looked at him. I studied his face. He had an almost-classical face, as if he'd stepped off the canvas of a Da Vinci, or a Rembrandt. His hair, perfectly cut to fit within regulations, was dark, black, and curly at the ends. His heritage was from the north, I thought. Of Great Britian. Or Europe, for that matter. His skin was pale, almost white. His lashes were dark and thick and long, and his eyes were a striking deep blue color, which contrasted starkly with his pallor. He had a pointed jaw, and high pronounced cheekbones, which had the only hint of color in his skin, a faint rose hue. His lips were plump, almost fat. And they were pinker than his skin. I imagined them glistening with lipstick and gloss. He sat according to his training. Straight back. Hands in lap. "Specialist," I said, "you've been through the initial orientation. You've volunteered for the opportunity to serve Her Majesty's government in a classified mission, without knowing the specific details. Is that correct?" "Yes Sir!" he said, loudly and crisply. I smiled at him. "For the sake of conversation, Specialist, let's leave the formality aside, shall we? We'll talk normally, like two blokes down the pub, alright?" He nodded. I looked at his file again. "You've signed the Affidavit, certifying you understand this unit will be operating in dangerous, even potentially deadly circumstances." "Yes sir," he said, at a more decent volume level. "Good," I replied, and looked at my laptop. His heartrate was normal, as was his respiration. His brain activity was alert, but not overly so. I looked at him again. There was curiosity in his eyes, and respect. He wasn't displaying any signs of intimidation, or fear. Some chaps would, volunteering for a potentially deadly job, not knowing the ins and outs. Willoughby was calm. That's a good quality. An asset. "I'm about to show you a video file. What you'll see is from several years ago, a 'double-oh' agent, undercover, working, all of it caught on a hidden camera. Doing," I continued, "what needed to be done, for Queen and country. Needless to say, this video is classified at the highest level, and the penalty of any future disclosure of the contents or even its very existence should you be caught is a life sentence, with no chances of clemency. Do you understand the implications?" "People don't speak about what they see, ever, to anyone," he stated. I fixed him with my iciest stare. "Not if they wish to remain alive." He found that daunting, I could tell. The data scrolling on my screen said so. Then he considered it for one or two more seconds, and nodded. "I understand, sir." I touched a remote and dampened the lighting in the room. I touched a different remote and started the video, digitally enhanced and in full graphic color, on the giant billboard of a monitor behind me. I didn't watch the video. I knew it backwards and forwards. I watched him, and my laptop. "Willoughby," I said, as the screen flickered to life, "I want you to tell me what you see. Relate everything that happens from this point on. Pretend I'm blind, and you're describing the action, telling me a story. Give me every detail." He nodded his agreement. "Alright, Major," he replied, and focussed on the screen. "It's a hotel room, I suppose. An upscale one, with a huge four-poster bed on the right and then a door that's closed, and to the left of that is a computer desk and what looks like a large living room, so I'd surmise it's a posh hotel suite. There's a gorgeous leather couch, and expensive looking art on the walls. There's flowers in vases here and there. The bed is covered in pillows, and...oh wait, the door is opening now, and, oh, a woman is walking in, and now she's closing the door..." I stopped the tape. "That, Willoughby, is our double-oh agent." He looked surprised. Training told him not to say anything. "Permission to speak freely, Specialist." "Thank you, sir. Well, it's just, I wasn't aware that there had ever been women double-ohs." I looked at him, icily, again. "I imagine there are many things you aren't aware of, Specialist." Then I hit the start button again. "Continue," I told him. "Right, sir," he gulped, and stared at the screen. "The woman looks to be in her thirties, or perhaps early forties. She's dressed very, um, elegantly, I suppose is the word. Very posh." I interrupted. "What is she wearing?" I watched his heartrate go up slightly. He was breathing just a tiny bit faster than before. "An evening gown. She's wearing an evening gown. From her shoulders to the ground, with a deep cut of cleavage, and it's tight in all the right places, if you know what I mean, sir, and it looks like silk, or something smooth like that, and it's the softest shade of purple." The scanners told me his eyes were dilating, and that there was an increased flow of blood to his groin. Good signs. "The woman has shoulder-length brown hair, thick and wavy, but perfectly styled, and she's...oh...now she's looking around, almost furtively. It's like perhaps she heard a noise or something...no, wait, she's just checking on...oh so now she's moved to the desk, by the door...she's looking in her clutch purse for something...wait, she's found it...now it looks like she's attaching whatever she found in her purse to the computer sitting there...she's plugging it into a port, on the back of the laptop...oh, now she's talking...I think to someone outside the door perhaps? I mean, there's nobody else there and....oh...'ang on...she's reaching behind herself and unzipping her dress and, oh blimey...it's fallen to her feet now...she's stepping out of it and...and...bloody 'ell, she's a looker, she is...sexy as all get out...a gorgeous bra and panties and stockings...the stay-up kind, you know, with the big lace band at the top...long legs, right down to her stilettos...she's moving back to the computer now...and she's looking around nervous-like...and she's waiting...and she's...oh, wait...'ere we go...she's unhooking the whatever thing and now she's popped it back into her purse...and..." "That thing," I interrupted him again, "was a sophisticated device, in its time. In just those few moments it downloaded the entire operating system, including all the passwords, while at the same time installing an invisible program allowing GCHQ to remotely monitor all the on-line activity the owner engaged in. And that person, who you're about to see, was a top target of a lot of different governments. Ours included." He watched the big screen. I watched mine. "Now, she's back in 'er purse...ah, now she's got a little makeup mirror or something, she's checking her lipstick...fluffing her hair..., you know, like the birds do, and...she's a little closer to the camera now...looking behind herself, at the door, from time to time....hmm..." He paused. "Speak freely, Bartholomew." "Yes sir," he said, "it's just....well, she almost looks...I don't know...familiar, sir...as if I might know her, or met her...or something...it's strange, I can't place me finger on it...oh wait...here we go...the door just opened, a big man just walked in...oh, he's a scary looking bloke...quite tall, quite big, broad-shouldered, towering...darker skin, quite tanned...chiseled sort of looks, dark thick hair, a square jaw...she's turned towards him, and put her purse down and oh! He's just walked straight at her and now they're snogging...kissing up a storm...his big arms are, um , you know, around her and she's 'anging onto his neck and...they just keep kissing and kissing and kissing...and they're still kissing...lots of open mouths and tongues and all that...oh, now he's slowly moving them towards the big bed, but they're still kissing and kissing...these two are right randy for each other...still kissing...oh, he's turned them now, he's got his back to the bed, and she's got hers to the camera...they're both still kissing, and such...his hands are slowly moving down, over her ass...squeezing her...while he keeps on kissing her..." His vitals were all rising. Blood flow, heart rate, oxygenation. His pupils were dilated more, his eyelids were fluttering slightly. The hidden leading-edge adapted night-vision camera could practically see through his uniform. Willoughby's nipples were distended, far more than when he had entered the room. His little soldier, as it were, was filled with blood, erect, straining in the tightness of his underwear and uniform pants. He was horny. "And still they're kissing and caressing...these two must really like each other...oh, 'ang on...they've stopped kissing...she's, um, sliding down his body now, dropping to her knees...his hands are running through her thick hair now...she's unzipping his pants...and, well,..." "Tell me what you see," I cautioned. "Well, her heads blocking my view, but it looks like he's...oh wait...yes, oh my...very big...he's a big fellow...down there..." "Down where?" I asked. "His cock, sir...very large...very well endowed, if you get my drift...and OH!...she's taking him in sir, in her mouth...she's servicing him, orally...and um..." Willoughby's heart rate and breathing patterns were on the rise again. I watched him shuffle a little in his chair, probably trying to manoeuver his clothes and give his erection some room to grow. His voice became softer now. "...she's sucking him off, sir...the look on his face is priceless...total pleasure...her head is bobbing up and down slowly, he's just caressing her and letting her go to town...he's saying a bunch of stuff to her...she keeps at it though, just making love to his cock..." The first two volunteers hadn't made it anywhere near this far before I'd thanked them for their interest. I didn't get the necessary vibe from either of them. Willoughby, on the other hand, was showing me all the things I wanted to see. He was rapt with attention, and physically affected by the images. I could picture him, picturing himself doing much the same thing she was, at multiple times already in his life. I watched his small Adam 's apple go up and down, as he swallowed. He was creating a lot of saliva inside his mouth, the sign of someone who is excited, who is stimulated. "...she's still loving him, with her mouth...still sucking on him, on his cock...he's moving his hips back and forth, round and round, slowly...he's still mumbling a bunch of words, I can't make out...but he obviously likes it...I mean, who wouldn't?...her ass is wriggling, squatting down like she is, on her heels...still sucking him...still sucking him..." His voice had become softer still. The way he was saying the words "sucking him" changed, from the detached to the interested. Young Bartholomew was now completely enthralled with his situation, absorbed in the sex going on in glorious digital color on the screen. He was into it. "....she's still sucking his cock...blimey, this guy can last a long time...still sucking...OH...he's pulling her up now, she's standing up again, and they're kissing again...heads are slowly moving back and forth, and lots of tongue...these two have definitely done this before...still kissing, and both of them are moving their arms around each other...caressing, touching...fondling..." I knew the next bits would be the deciding factors, of whether this young man would be invited onto the squad. "...kissing and caressing and...'ere we go, he's slowly turning her, so she's facing the camera now, her back to him...he's kissing her neck, and the side of her face, her eyes are closed and she's breathing heavy and he's whispering words into her ear...these two are right into it...she's grinding her ass back into him, into his naked cock...he just keeps kissing her neck and talking to her...it's a shame we can't hear them...she's turned her head now, and they're back to kissing again...blimey, long soft kisses, lots of tongue...kissing and kissing and kissing and more kissing...and bingo, 'ere we go...his hands are moving down her body now...he's pinching her tits, and her nipples...they're still kissing, long soft wet kisses...now his hands are moving further down...he's slipped his fingers underneath the edge of her panties now...I assume he's getting ready to...right-o, he's slowly easing them down off her hips...one side at a time...they're still kissing and... "FUCK ME JESUS!" His eyes were wide open now. He was sitting forward on the edge of his chair. His heartrate was through the roof. His brain waves were going crazy, like every stimulant in the world was affecting him, right there and then. "She's got a cock, sir..." Now, his voice was tiny. And whispery. "Sweet Jesus, Major...she's got a cock of her own...she's a man, sir!" I stopped the tape. "She is a double-oh agent, under cover, doing whatever it takes to execute the mission." He sat in silence, watching the screen, fairly willing me to hit play again. "Continue," I said, and pressed the button. A moment later, he did. "He's still kissing her...and reaching with one hand to his left, to the nightstand...on top of it, by the lamp...there's a bottle, or a tube of something...he's pushing down on it and it's squirting out something...I assume it's lubrication, sir...now, they're still kissing...she's rubbing herself now, stroking her little hard cock...while she kisses him...he's rubbing himself too...with the stuff he got from the bottle...they just keep kissing and kissing, like they've done it a thousand times, like they're familiar with each other...oh, now he's pushing on her upper back, bending her over...she's got her hands on her own thighs now, just above her knees...he's talking to her...she's talking back to him...it's like they're teasing each other perhaps, like lovers do when...OH...her head just snapped back, her mouth wide open...you can almost hear her moan...his lower body looked like it moved some...he must have entered her...AH YES...now he's slowly rocking his pelvis, and she is too...cor blimey, sir...they're fucking now...her, her, well, her thing, her cock, is bouncing up and down every time he sinks into her, from behind...his eyes are all scrunched up, and he's got the most determined look on his face..." All the data in front of me confirmed what I'd come to feel already. Willoughby was perfect for the job. "Now they're making love, Major...he's sinking himself into her over and over again, she's rocking back into him...they're just rutting, sir...plain and simple...each of them is moving their lips...they both must be moaning and muttering to each other, and themselves...they're banging away now...it's getting fierce...bloody 'ell, they're going to town with it...fucking away...just fucking...and fucking...and fucking..." He drifted off into silence for a few moments. A few minutes. Wild horses couldn't have dragged his eyes away from the screen. "His hands are on her hips now...he's pulling her into him, every time he strokes into her...both of them are slamming so hard you can see it, the way their flesh ripples, their bellies and sides...her ass cheeks...they just keep fucking, sir...banging away...she's straightening her back a bit now, standing up a bit now...still being rocked every time he slams into her...her cock keeps bouncing up and down and to and fro...they just keep fucking and fucking and...OH!...she's quivering now...her whole body is shaking around like she's 'aving a 'eart attack...he's really slamming her now...putting all of his energy into fucking her..." The next few moments of video would seal the deal. His voice had became loving. He was in awe of them. He was beside himself with admiration for them. Deep down, according to the data, he'd never been more turned on. He wanted to be doing exactly what she was doing, no question. "...fucking and fucking and more fucking and she's quivering and it looks like she's yelling out loud and now he's screaming too...right into her ear, it looks like...and his hips are moving faster than a freight train as he pounds into her from behind...and OH MY BLOODY FUCKING HELL...SHE'S SQUIRTING, SIR!...she's cumming...god, she must be howling, her mouth is open wide and pointed at the ceiling...AND NOW HE'S CUMMING!!!...he's stopped fucking her now, slammed into her and holding himself...he's cumming too...you can see him lurch...once, twice, three times, four times....more...he's pushing himself into her, trying to crawl inside her as he cums I expect...she's shooting ropes herself, they're landing all over the carpet in front of her...Jesus...that was amazing...amazing...just amazing...okay, they both are calming down now...they're both catching their breaths...his arms are around her now, and he's clamping his teeth onto her neck...she's reaching her arms back, above and behind her, trying to pull his head further into her...she's finished shooting now, there's a big drip of cum falling from her cock to the floor...his mouth is chomping on her neck now, sir...it looks like he's actually chewing on her skin...like he's leaving a mark...maybe drawing blood." I stopped the tape for good. He was breathing very heavily. "Your initial analysis, Specialist, if you would," I bade him. He had the hardest time tearing his eyes off the screen, even though it was black. Finally, he turned to look at me. I watched his eyes. There was a slight sheen of moisture on his forehead, and those deep blue eyes looked like they were on fire. Willoughby was turned on. "Well, sir," he said, pausing to try to catch his breath, and calm down enough to act like a military man again, "the agent in question appears to have successfully planted the computer bug, which I presume was the key point of the mission, and in order to continue her undercover role she had sex with her target." I nodded. "Any personal observations you wish to point out?" He thought for a moment. "Well, yes. Well, only that, um, she looked like she was enjoying 'erself, Major." "She was. Theirs was a passionate relationship. Exactly eleven days after this tryst was filmed, in that same grand hotel suite in Portugal, that double-oh agent terminated her mark." His eyebrows shot up. "She killed him, sir?" "Yes," I nodded, the icy stare back on my face, "I did." I watched his reaction. Mild shock at the seriousness of assassination turned into surprise, which turned into amazement, which turned into recognition, confirming his hints from earlier, which turned into a slow- creeping delight. I pulled my uniform shirt and its starched collar aside, and showed him the side of my neck. The indentations. "His name was Kurt Globheim. He was German born, but spent his adult years in Italy. He was the leader of a group known as the Sicilian Terrorist Intifada Freedom Front." Willoughby recognized the name. "He was STIFF, sir?" I nodded. "Frequently, I'm delighted to say." He allowed himself a smile. "He marked me that night. I became his, then and there. I'd spent over three months slowly worming my way into his life, a casual night of glorious fucking that eventually turned into an every night affair. The one-off which became on-going. The secret is that first encounter. Make it the best they've ever had, by far, and you're more than halfway to winning the battle. I played him perfectly. I was an insatiable slut, in his eye. Someone he thought was just a lucky, chance meeting. For weeks I kept him mostly in bed, never asking questions, earning his trust, taking his animalistic poundings again and again, drowning in his cum, and ultimately drowning in his affection. "After that shagging you just watched, we showered and cleaned up, and put new clothes on. He insisted I wear something off-the-shoulder. There was a huge gathering going on downstairs, in the ballroom. An enormous crowd of other assorted criminals and high-society rollers, gathered together for their usual debauchery. He wanted everybody there to see his teeth marks in my neck. It was his signature. It meant I was untouchable, that I was now in his inner circle. Hell, it showed in fact that I WAS his inner circle. "Later that night, in that very same bed, he fucked me longer and harder than he'd ever done before, which is saying a lot, believe me. That's when he asked me to live with him. I was totally in. Ten days of great sex later, and two more computer sweeps, I got the word from HQ, in a coded message. His secret bank accounts would be seized, his warehouse of weapons raided, his henchmen about to be arrested. All I had to do was finish the job. "Which I did. "I'm a double-oh agent. Licensed to kill. Two days after that, I personally escorted the rest of his sorry criminal cabal into the Lisbon International Mercenary Prison, ending them for good." Willoughby smiled. "They went from STIFF to LIMP," he whispered. This time I smiled. "Frequently, I'm delighted to say." I let some silence hang in the air. His thoughts, based on the biometric data I was watching, went from excited to calm quite quickly. Another good sign. Then I watched some realizations creep into his thoughts. "Major," he said, and then couldn't find a way to vocalize the words he was thinking. I stood up, and came around the desk, sitting on the edge, just in front of him. "Bartholomew," I said, quietly and respectfully, "at that time, I was the commander of a secret unit, known as 'The Sissy Squad'." I saw something resembling recognition in his face. "That's real?" he asked. "Yes," I said, "very real. Why? What have you heard?" "Well sir," he said, "Nothing. I mean, well, I've heard it spoken about a few times, you know, over the years, by one of the lads, here or there, you know, just in general conversation. Bragging and telling stories, having a beer in the mess or down the pub. I always thought it was mentioned, you know, derisively. I assumed it was a joke, sir." Then he paused. "No offense, Major." "None taken," I replied. "For security sake, it's always better if everyone else thinks it's a joke. That allows us to move in and out unrecognized." He nodded. Then he found his courage. "Permission to speak freely, sir?" "I insist." He chose his words carefully. "Why am I here? I mean..." "You are here, Specialist Willoughby, because there is a new and frightening danger in the world, and I've been tasked with recommissioning the Sissy Squad to defeat it. "Listen carefully," I admonished, "there are two doors out of this room. The one to your left, the blue door, leads you back to your unit, no questions asked, and no demerits on your record. In fact, it will be noted in your personnel jacket that you volunteered for a mission of the utmost importance to Her Majesty's Government, and while you weren't ultimately chosen your initiative was commendable, and I dare say you'll be receiving your next promotion a might quicker than most of your peers." He nodded his understanding. "The door on your right," I continued, "the red door, leads you to my Squad. The Sissy Squad. You'll go through vigorous sissy training over the next seven weeks or so, and then you'll be deployed, on the most dangerous of missions. You will face peril. You will be put in potentially deadly situations. If you survive, at the end of it, you will have achieved double-oh status for yourself. You will then, of course, be promoted to an officer rank, with the commensurate raise in pay. Your future will be set for you, your career guaranteed. The choice is yours. Pick the blue door, and everything about today will disappear. Totally top secret, never to mentioned by anyone. Pick the red door, and you will serve your country wherever it takes you. You'll travel the world. You'll experience people and cultures and lifestyles never available to you in your current posting." He kept nodding. "And you'll get more shagging than you can possibly imagine." His eyes shot open again. I leaned closer to him, to emphasize my point. "There are dangerous men all over the world. Many of them have, shall we say, exotic tastes in relaxation, which means that they all have an Achilles heel of sorts. For some of them, that involves us. Cross- dressers, transvestites, sissies. Feminine men who enjoy sexual encounters with other men. Use whatever name you like. I've been doing this job for more than thirty years, Bartholomew, and I've been fucked to heaven and back by the best of them. This is your chance." "My chance?" he asked. "Your chance to serve your country, to serve your Queen, to serve the interests of freedom and democracy, to fight crime, and to take down the evil people in the world." I let that sink in. "And in between your sex-filled missions, you'll be a walking feminine dream, and you'll get more cock than you ever thought possible." He just looked at me. His mouth was slightly open. I could see he was starting to breathe heavier again. "But," he whispered, "but, I mean, why me, sir? I...I...don't...I'm not..." I leaned over and put my hand on his shoulder. He was vibrating a little bit. "Bartholomew," I whispered, "you're a beautiful, sexual young man, sensual and romantic, with desires that go beyond the pale. Don't deny it. Celebrate it. Revel in it. There are more than several men at the Kit Kat Club who positively adore you." The mere mention of his secret, now shockingly out in the open, started him shaking. I placed my other hand on his other shoulder, and gently rubbed them. "No, no, there's nothing to fear. Your secret is safe with me. None of the men knew they were being interviewed. They're all safe, the same as you. Nothing will ever come of any of it. But make no mistake, they practically drooled just mentioning you. And why wouldn't they? Those that have had you say you're a most delicious, enthusiastic bottom. In a sublime way. You seem to live for it. Some of them used the word 'insatiable'. It's who you are. So let's put those desires of yours, those sexual talents of yours, to good use. Join me, and let's be sissy soldiers together." I leaned over, and gently kissed his lips. They were quivering. His eyes closed, dreamily. And he sighed, after I broke the kiss. "You'll live a life like no other, I promise you. It's entirely your decision." He walked through the red door. I went through eight subsequent interviews, all mercifully short, and found no one to my liking. My last man scheduled for the day, however, changed everything. Warrant Officer Thomas William George Bedminster. Twenty-nine years old, although appearing so very much younger. A true ginger. Peaches and cream complexion. Gorgeous cheekbones. A cherubic face. Lovely. I saw his massive potential the second he walked in the room. His face glowed, his skin flawless. He was lithe, and languid. He appeared to have the curviest rear end I've seen in many a year. His voice was like the sweetest warmest lightest fog, drifting lazily over one's ears. He swayed when he walked, his hips leading the way. There were only two notations in the 'Deep Background' section of his jacket. The first was that in his youth, he'd been caught three times having sex with men in public washrooms, once dressed as a slutty school girl. Dogging, they called it. The last arrest had scared him, the prospect of being sentenced as an adult thoroughly shocking him enough that he joined the army, and got himself on the up and up. Since then, he'd lived a monastic existence, and dedicated himself to his career. He kept a small apartment just off-base, and several discrete scans recently had shown that his on-line recreation consisted exclusively of gay porn. Most of it cross-dressing and sissy porn. He seemed, on the face of it, like a good candidate. I knew twenty seconds into the video that he was joining my team. His play-by-play of the tape was like listening to the finest erotic audiotape. He described everything about the woman deliciously. He knew the brand name of the evening gown. He'd seen it himself, in a fashion magazine, and it had always stuck with him. He recognized the shoes. When the kissing started, his vital stats, displayed on my laptop, went off the charts. By the time the double-oh agent was achieving a sissygasm, cumming without being touched, cumming simply from the pleasure of being ass-fucked, Bedminster was moaning, suddenly throwing his head back, slumping in the chair, and blasting a load into his uniform trousers. Afterwards, he showed no embarrassment at having just done something so seemingly unprofessional in front of a senior officer. His pride was too powerful. I recognized in him something of myself. He was a tremendously sexual person. Combined with all the skills Special Ops had already trained into him, and even more that I could train into him, I knew he'd be quite probably the strongest member of my team. After the same speech I'd given Willoughby, and an equally toe-curling soft little kiss, I watched the red door close behind the Warrant Officer's rounded, delicious rear end, and I sat back, relaxed. My team was complete. The Sissy Squad was assembled. Myself, Flight Leftenant Head. Willoughby. And Bedminster. Now the training can begin. The End.