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Dutch has been trained to endure a lot, but this was never in the cards.
Because who could predict being on your hands and knees in the mud, deep in a foreign jungle, and getting mated like a prize mare by the ugly alien son of a bitch that’s been hunting you and your squadron for days on end. No amount of hostage training could prepare anybody for that, not even someone as unflappable as Dutch Schaefer.
The bastard that murdered his men, men that were the only friends he’d had for months, all gone. It’s only him now, and like compensation for how it brutalized his men, the ugly fucker has jammed his thick, pulsating, multi-pronged genitals deep inside Dutch’s ass. Actually, the compensation comes in the form of the fact that it doesn’t need lube—it produces a gelatinous, almost sticky substance that accents each thrust with a hearty schlicking sound.
It couldn’t be compared to music, but goddamn if there isn’t some part of Dutch that actually likes the sound. Likes the strange feeling, even, when he swallows down his disgust and rage.
He doesn’t fight back. That’ll come later, when the fucker least expects it.