Judas Iscariot, Brutus, Benedict Arnold, Aldrich Ames: some of the most hated names in history. Of all the villainous types, traitors are the most universally despised. No one wants to see redemption for a traitor; they want to see them dead, ideally in the most cruelly ironic way possible. Traitors are the lowest of the low, the worst of the worst.
Trent Michael didn't think that was fair. They were just guys, trying to make their way through life like everyone else. Life was hard. Sometimes it forced you to make difficult choices. No one got a kick out of knifing their best bud in the back, but if it was him or you what else could you do?
People didn't understand that. Life wasn't a game. If you got dealt a shitty hand you couldn't just muck it and wait for the next one to come along. You only had that one hand and you had to play it the best you could.
Some people had it easy. They got the pocket rockets. Looks, money, brains, athleticism, connections--a pair of aces right from birth. It was easy for them to play it straight, to be the Golden Boy, the hero.
What about the guy with the deuces? What was he supposed to do--toss them in the gutter, push all his chips over to the Golden Boy and smile as the fucker walked off with the pot and a chick on each arm, because that's how it was supposed to be? Fuck that. The guys with the deuces, or the five-two-offs, weren't they allowed their own dreams and ambitions? Sure, they had to play differently--use a bit of graft, use a bit of grift--but they still had to play their hand.
One person's betrayal was another person's strategy for winning. It was all a matter of perspective as far as Trent was concerned.
People didn't see that. It was all those stupid Hollywood movies, brainwashing them with worlds painted in black and white. Where everything revolved around the Golden Boys and everyone in their way was a "bad" guy to be booed. And none were booed louder than the guys that switched over to Team Evil.
Why? They were just playing the hands they'd been dealt. Not everyone could play like the hero. Not everyone had the aces.
They were just guys making the best of what they had.
Trent had given the succubi Forward Operating Base Helmuth.
Succubi, that's what Private Mark Sherwood had called them.
Private Sherwood was a nerd. He was into Dungeons & Dragons, Magic: the Gathering, World of Warcraft and all that stupid shit. During lunch one time he'd told Trent a succubus was some kind of demon vampire. It took the form of a sexy chick to lure men into having sex with it and then drained their energy. All of it.
Trent thought Private Sherwood needed to get laid.
That was at the start, when no one was taking the rumors and stories all that seriously. It was soldiers messin' with each other, trying to gross each other out with campfire horror stories. But the stories kept coming. Men went missing. Bodies turned up shriveled and wrinkled like raisins left out in the sun. Jokes about sexy demon bitches fucking men to death lost their funny.
They were sexy. That was the freakiest thing. You wouldn't think something with horns, tail, leathery wings like a bat, and sometimes even hooves could be sexy. You'd think something like that existed in nightmares, not wet dreams. Yet here Trent was, surrounded by five of them and almost doubled up by the raging boner in his pants.
It was their human parts. Horns, wings and whatever didn't matter when the rest of the package came straight out of a Playboy centerfold. Slutty eyes, big tits and slinky hips: they looked like the girls teenage boys rubbed their first one out to after discovering their father's porn stash, and never forgot as they grew up. Recollected through a prism of wet dreams and nostalgic memories of furtive masturbation, those girl's bodies morphed into an impossible ideal of sexual perfection. Bodies like that didn't--couldn't--exist in the real world. At least Trent had thought so until he'd encountered the succubi in the flesh. When he looked at their bee-stung lips his first urge was to press his own against them in a kiss. When he looked at the perfect curves of their exposed titties his first urge was to grope those ripe hemispheres with his hands ... grope them, squeeze them, bury his face right between them like he was rooting for golden truffles. When he looked down at the moist, shadowy cleft between their legs he ached to place his hands on their slinky hips and piston his cock back and forth into that wet pussy until he exploded.
When you looked at them long enough, those freaky demon bits faded right away.
Trent had given them Forward Operating Base Helmuth. He had his reasons.
"Thank you for your help," one of the succubi said. "It was invaluable."
Silky hair the color of fire cascaded down onto her shoulders. When he looked at it Trent longed to run his hand though it and feel the silky smoothness slide over his fingers. She'd given her name as Lophi.
They were standing on a rocky outcrop overlooking the base. Plumes of smoke rose up behind him into a roiling purple and red sky. All the personnel--his bros, homies--were dead, captured or worse. Trent wasn't, and that was all that mattered.
"My pleasure," he smiled. "This is your world. We're the aggressors. We shouldn't be here."
He didn't look behind him.
It was the truth. This wasn't Earth. The scientists had managed to open a gateway to another dimension and then the men-in-charge had done what men-in-charge always do--slammed down greedy fingers and tried to grab what they could.
The locals had other ideas on that...
Trent wasn't down with it. He was just an Average Joe--okay at sports, but not good enough to make it as a pro; not a dummy, but not super-smart either; decent enough in the mirror, but no heartthrob. He hadn't been gifted a winning ticket in the uterine lottery either--no money, influence or flash contacts for ordinary ole Trent. He was an Average Joe and he'd signed up because Uncle Sam would see he'd got fed and pay his bills, and that was about as much as an Average Joe could hope for.
That hadn't given Uncle Sam the right to post him off to another freaking dimension. Or hell. That's what the other guys called it: hell-space. The name fit. Where else would you find girls with horns, wings and tails? No, sending Trent to hell was not part of the deal. He wasn't down with that at all.
He gave the devil girls his most ingratiating smile. "Now if you'll excuse me, ladies, I must be getting--"
Lophi wrapped a steely hand around Trent's upper arm. "You can't leave," she said. Her eyes were wide--like big shiny black pebbles. "We haven't given you your reward yet."
"What kind of reward?" Trent asked.
Another succubus crowded in behind him. He felt her naked breasts rub against his back. They were as big as basketballs and soft like marshmallow. Her hands slid down his front, seeking out his groin.
"Something nice," she whispered in his ear.
Trent's stubby erection grew larger as she rubbed it through the fabric of his combat pants. He shivered as her other hand reached down and cupped his balls. She blew into his ear.
"Patience, Chauli," Lophi said. "We mustn't spoil our hero's appetite before the rewards awaiting him back at the palace."
"Palace? You want to take me back to your palace?" Trent said.
"It is a place of wondrous pleasures," Chauli whispered in his ear. Her palm continued to rub up and down his erection.
"Really?" Trent said with a broad smile. "That sounds good," he said.
The gate back to Earth was a click away. He doubted he'd be able to get ten meters before they fell upon him.
"How are we going to get there?" he asked.
The succubi tittered. Chauli's hands left his junk and gripped the underside of his armpits. He felt a whoosh of air as her powerful wings swept downwards. His feet left the ground. He watched the rocky outcrop recede below him as she took him up into the sky.
"You're heavy," the succubus whispered in his ear. "We'll burn some of that fat off you tonight."
The moist tip of her tongue dabbed at Trent's earhole.
"Sounds like fun, baby," Trent said.
Flaps of her great black bat wings took them higher into the roiling purple sky. In hell-space the sky always had the color of a lurid bruise, as if continually on the verge of a storm that never materialized. The other succubi wheeled around them in formation as they circled the smashed base and then swooped over rolling red hills dotted with bright green boulders.
Lophi and a raven-haired demoness flew out ahead. They met, flew apart in a downward curve and cut open the sky in an arch of sparking pink light. Chauli flew right through with Trent carried beneath her.
They were somewhere else. Same raging purple sky, but the ground was rocky and sparse. A castle squatted on the skyline like a predatory black toad. Demons swooped and whirled around it like parasitic midnight bats. Fires burned within the walls like angry boils.
"A little creepy for a pleasure palace," Trent said.
"That's not our palace," Chauli said.
She carried him up over the ridge and down into the valley beyond it, and down further still as a great chasm tore open the valley floor like an ugly scar. Down into--
Trent's mouth fell open.
Oh sweet fucking Mary, mother of God.
.... There is more of this story ...