Behind Enemy Lines, a Marine Finds Love

Held captive in the brig, Corporal Trevor Jones' situation seems dire... until an unforeseen twist alters his fate forever.

As of 2025, the BOYSLUT Substack is now accepting and publishing fiction erotica. For submission guidelines, please head here.

Read parts I and II of this story here and here.

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Illustration by Jason Leviere (@mister_dashing)

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June 2009, Indian Ocean, fifty miles off the coast of Seychelles

Trevor lay on the deck of the seized vessel, gasping for air, while half a dozen pirates aimed their guns at his exposed body. Beside him, the pirate Trevor had tried to save lay on his back, unconscious, his chest motionless.

“Detain him,” Captain Garad said, pointing at Trevor. “Ali, perform CPR on Omar!”

As one pirate tied Trevor's wrist behind his back with coarse rope, Ali rushed over to Omar and began chest compressions. He then tilted Omar’s chin back, pinched his nose, and attempted to breathe life into him. He repeated the sequence ten times until he looked up at Garad and shook his head.

“Keep going!” Garad shouted. Ali gave another rescue breath, and Omar coughed up water, then swallowed the fresh sea air.

“Breathe,” Ali said. “You are safe.”

“To the brig with him,” Garad said. “I need to think about what to do with Corporal Jones.”

A pirate jammed the muzzle of an AK-47 in between Trevor’s shoulder blades and front-kicked his bare ass, pushing him forward. His dick, shriveled from the cold water, looked so puny.

“Move!” the pirate commanded.

Trevor locked eyes with Omar as he was escorted from the deck. The pirate’s eyes were still bloodshot from the saltwater but also large and round—flickering with unspoken pity. Omar surely knew what horrors awaited Trevor and perhaps thought the Corporal didn’t deserve such atrocities.

Trevor didn’t protest as he was led down the companionway to the brig. He kept his head held high until he was shoved into the cell, where he collapsed to his knees. The heavy door slammed shut behind him, the sound of robust locks clicking into place.

Alone, Trevor could finally take a moment to calm his nervous system, to reflect on what occurred. What the fuck just happened with that squid? With Omar?

Trevor started shouting, deep diaphragmatic roars as loud as he could. Tears flowed freely, and they felt good. Trevor didn’t dare cry in front of his squad. It had been years since he had truly purged his emotions, allowing the heavy weight of his pain to rise to the surface and releasing it in an unrestrained catharsis.

Once he was out of tears and his voice hoarse, the captured corporal lay on his side, curled into a fetal position. While his nervous system was more regulated, he still couldn’t stop replaying his underwater affair with the squid and Omar. It was intense, erotic, yet deadly, and he felt some form of bond with Omar. The two experienced a beast together and barely made it out alive.

Trevor drifted off into a light slumber when a bucket of cold saltwater woke him hours later. Ali stood inside the brig with a plate of legumes and rice. Since Trevor still had his hands tied behind his back, Ali spooned a mouthful and fed him. Neither man spoke during mealtime, and Trevor couldn’t get a read on Ali. His face was neutral.

As Ali rose to leave, Trevor asked, “What do you plan to do to me?”

“That all depends on your government.” Ali let out a long sigh. “Thank you for saving Omar. I hope you live,” he said before shutting and locking the door behind him.

There was a small window in the brig, secured by jail bars—just big enough for a sliver of light to shine through. The sun was setting over the horizon, and the night air grew colder by the minute. Soon, the southeast trade winds would blow upon his wet, naked body. If only his body hair was more functional and could provide warmth against the impending gale.

Trevor sat upright, shaking in the nude. He began to meditate, picturing himself at home—his real home in Crestline, Ohio— not basecamp. During his first year in the Marines, Trevor felt homesick daily, but these days, he rarely thought about his hometown. Only on particularly troubling occasions would he allow himself to daydream about home, about Tim.

Since meeting in kindergarten, the two boys were inseparable. During school, they’d pass notes. After school, they’d run barefoot through the quarry, that is, if the two weren’t in detention together for some cockamamy prank. At thirteen, Trevor stepped on a nail, and it punctured his heel, hitting the bone. Tim carried a bloodied Trevor on his back for a mile until they found medical assistance.

Tim knew Trevor better than anyone. And though they never said or acted upon it—they loved each other deeply, passionately. In times like these, imagining Tim’s broad smile with his big ol’ buckteeth comforted Trevor. He gave the Corporal the courage to keep going.

Trevor snapped out of his trance when he heard the brig door unlock. Captain Garad entered, accompanied by two pirates wielding handguns.

“Corporal Jones,” the captain said. Trevor rose to his feet. “Your government doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to free you. We only asked for five million dollars for your exchange.” Garad paused speaking, scratched his patchy beard, and resumed pacing in front of the marine.

Without warning, he lunged at Trevor, backhanding him across the face—the captain’s ring leaving a red mark on Trevor’s jaw. As Trevor cried out in pain, the captain followed up with a punch to his solar plexus, knocking the wind out of him. Trevor dropped to his knees, gasping for breath, his mouth open but no words escaping.

Garad grabbed Trevor’s face with his large hand, squeezing the marine’s cheeks together. With his free hand, he brought a dagger to the side of Trevor’s neck, the blade pressing against the skin.

“You better pray your government deems you a necessary asset. If not…” The captain traced the dagger across his neck. Trevor concealed his fear—his face blank.

The captain didn’t seem to like this one bit. He grabbed Trevor’s dick and testicles with one hand and squeezed. A sharp pain shot up from his groin to his abdomen.

“If you’re not afraid, Corporal Jones, you should be,” he said, dragging the blade flat across Trevor’s shaft. He punched Trevor a final time in the abs, then sauntered out of the brig.

Trevor lay motionless on the cold floor. His entire body ached inside and out between the captain and the squid.

For the first time since the mission began, he didn’t attempt to keep his fear at bay. He didn’t breathe or meditate. He didn’t yell or tense every muscle in his body and relax them. He was too tired to ward off his feelings. Fear quickly consumed his body. No, more than fear: dread. He felt like he was being buried alive. In a way, he was.

Nightfall came, and Trevor remained still. He lay on the floor gazing out the window at the moon hanging high in the sky when he heard the door unlock. For a moment, he hoped someone had come to inform him of his release, but he quickly dismissed the thought. Such optimism was dangerous for a man in his position.

Omar quietly opened the door, putting his finger to his lips, signaling Trevor to be quiet. His steps were soft as he approached the prisoner. Without uttering a word, Omar grabbed a knife from his boot, brandishing it in front of Trevor’s face. The blade gleamed ominously in the moonlight.

Trevor froze. Since joining the Marines, he often thought about how he’d die. He pictured himself drowning in the ocean’s black depths, a single shot in the forehead straight through his brain, and being beaten to death by Jax and John—hazing gone too far. Trevor never imagined he’d die at the hands of a pirate, especially one whose life he’d saved.

Omar maneuvered himself behind Trevor and started cutting the rope. “A life for a life,” he whispered into Trevor’s ear, his breath hot against Trevor’s skin.

Trevor’s hands were free, though rope burn remained on his wrists. “The lifeboats are on the upper deck, stored in the davits,” Omar said. Trevor didn’t move; he was lost staring into Omar’s light brown eyes, that unique color not seen anywhere in nature—only seen in eyes. “Go!” Omar continued, raising his voice. “Before anyone wakes up.”

Trevor knew he should start running towards the upper deck, but his legs wouldn’t budge. Flashes of Omar and the squid surged through his mind. Trevor’s cock in Omar’s mouth.

Trevor was no longer in control of his limbs when he reached out and touched Omar’s broad shoulders. Omar did not withdraw. He didn’t flinch.

For the first time, Trevor began to analyze Omar’s face. He was beautiful, though not conventionally. His nose was big and crooked, resembling a seagull’s beak. His dark, bushy eyebrows were asymmetrical, the left far larger than the right. A scar the length of a caterpillar etched across his cheek, and his lips, though chapped, were a striking shade of deep crimson, like ripe cherries waiting to be plucked. Each imperfection told a story; each feature served as a reminder of a life fully lived.

Trevor gently pried open Omar’s mouth with his thumb. He leaned in slowly, giving Omar ample time to pull away. Omar stood as still as a bronze statue. Their lips brushed against each other, and all reservations—any sense of decorum—vanished in that moment. The men craved one another, yearning for each other’s touch. Though they had just met that morning, it felt as if some part of them had longed for this connection their entire lives.