Peace Doesn’t Sell
Black plumes of smoke choked the air as siren screams rattled the hillsides. The remaining Ajit-Kor mercenaries were scrambling to get out of Zkaaz, their comrades exploding in pockets of red as distant shots picked them off one by one.
Retaliatory gunfire spat out in all directions, trying to discourage the shooter, but to no avail. Sharp cracks from rounds splitting concrete, steel, and bone were their only indication that someone was, in fact, firing at them.
One of their freighters started to haplessly rumble out of the base’s entrance, crashing through fence, groaning on the hot, makeshift road. A few moments later, its tire spat and hissed, sending it sideways. 
Needless to say, the Ajit-Kor’s days were numbered.
Sierra loaded another round into her anti-material rifle, the fat suppressor-fixed barrel hissing trails of smoke. Telescopic scope let her see figures from her bird-hole with ideal clarity, picking them off one by one, quiet as whispers. 
Her finger tapped the trigger-cage, teeth clenched. Every shot taken seemed final, only to have another armed figure appear on some other part of the distant, square base. She was getting a headache.
Four days scoping out Zkaaz, one day of prep work, one hour of action. The sun beat on her mare frame every moment of it, penetrating the UPK sanctioned cloth protectors she was rationed. She just wanted it done. 
Contracts cooked up by the seniors at the peace-keeping agency dictated the operation wasn’t finished until “all members of the Ajit-Kor were eliminated.” Sierra hoped, at the time, Rich could get her some leeway, maybe get her a nice easy “suppress and capture” clause, but it was pointless. Whoever paid the UPK for the contract was dead set on removing a mercenary operation from power, for good or worse.
Sierra certainly expected a torrent of resistance. The Ajit-Kor weren’t known for their technical superiority, but they improvised well, and they knew the surrounding area. Perhaps fear robbed them of logic.
Hard to believe she couldn’t be seen. Even under her desert camo, the mare was “impractically” sized, or some at the UPK commented.
Indeed, her fat, heavy breasts squished into the hard, red hilltop dirt while busty bottom struggled to not rip through the military fabric. Wide of waist and large of body, those womanly traits were accented by the delicate sinew of muscular power.
Another shot cracked over the horizon. The recoil from her suppressed women caused her form to jostle, gently wiggle and bounce in the earth, though a lover was giving her a playful smack.
Prone on the hilltop, she scanned over the base, sights tracing each inch of shattered rock and bent steel for signs of life. None were present, far as she could tell.
Snorting, she shifted. Sitting up, her legs cracked and muscles yawned with soreness. She leaned into her supply cache – fat green containers – snatching a small bottle of water and taking a long drink.
It tasted sweet. 
She wanted to call it. She wanted to snap open her control console and ping command. Make the call. Enzo 3-3, she’d say, you are clear for mobilization. She’d hear the drone of oncoming transports and air assault vehicles and finally make her way home. But she knew that was bullshit.
While her AMSR made short work of any goddamn thing she pointed it out, she knew there had to be someone left in the base. Maybe an underground barracks was hiding a few stragglers. Didn’t matter. UPK licensed her as the de-facto operations lead and that meant single-handedly disabling the base. Easy stuff.
Finishing her water, she looked at the clear, desert sky. Tranquil and carefree, unlike below, unlike the hell she made.
Standing and stretching, she opened one of her caches and revealed enough small munitions that would level several city-blocks when properly charged.
Well, time to blow up a fucking military base, she thought.
-*-
“Our clients are looking to set up a lobbyist network once the Kor sympathizers are out of the way.”
Rich jotted down a fresh line of notes on his already growing pile of documents, the board members around him doing the same. 
Glen Persk stood under the dull glow of presentation lights, the iconography of several corporate and agency names behind him on holo-glass screen.
“But, the ‘problem’ is we have a little bidding war right now,” Persk went on. “Lewinksi LTD is already a well-established utilities company in the area, owning most of the water networks. On the other hand, VadTec has lots of deep ties in black operations globally.”
One of the other suited men piped up. “The Kazerban government hasn’t offered anything?”
“Well, nothing we’re interested in. Kazerban’s congress would just turn the surrounding Kzaaz area into a DMZ zone. That means none of our friends get what they wanted after their initial investment in this little ordeal.”
“Peace doesn’t sell,” another man said.
Rich felt his jaw clench, watching Glen go through another set of slides, pretending to make another round of notes. All the while, he couldn’t help but glance at the meeting room door, emblazoned Staff Meeting and Operations: United Peace Keeping and Associates.
He didn’t hear the next set of clicks as the slide went on, ignoring the myriad of bullet points associated with each lobbying company.
“. . . honestly looking for who puts us in the black after our overhead. We had to spend quite a lot to look nice for headlines. Rich, what was the cost again for that little op with your Sierra?”
Rich looked up, shifting. “Oh, ah.”
He pretended to search through his papers. He didn’t need to. “Well, $383,000 daily for deployment, not counting supplies. Then there was transportation, fuel, supplies, we-”
Glen nodded. “You get the idea, gentleman. Right now, every shot our agent fires out there costs us sixteen thousand dollars. Now, who honestly has an appreciation for that kind of spending?”
One of the men laughed, slapping the table. “Are we really discussing this? VadTech has posts all over the world. They’d owe us.”
The others nodded.
Glen Persk, PR Rep, agency head, holder of the “Office of Global Peace Operations” title, offered a smile.
“Let’s take a vote.”
-*-
Rich washed himself with the hottest water he could stand. He wasn’t out in field operations much, if at all, but he felt like a layer of filth settled over him.
Bathing, drying, and dressing, he logged the events of the meeting in his digital assistant, while filing physical copies in his personal storage. 
Times like these, he wanted to leave the head office of the UPK, but regulations and curfew kept him in place. That was a farce though, he knew. No sane department would just let one of their own wander off without clearance. That was a little too close to freedom.
Unless, of course, one stripped themselves of all their financial privileges and protections. Quitting was always an option, as was being on the UPK’s extensive “blacklist.” But perhaps it was worth it.
In his quarters, sitting at desk, looking over the daily news via personal computer, Rich wondered how Sierra was doing. It was so cold here, detached. The discussion of her actions was just a formality back in the meeting, one of statistics and costs.
Rich thought, what if something happened to Sierra? What did it mean to them? Was it a grievous blow to company morale, or a matter of lost investment?
Peace doesn’t sell.
A pause. Then, he unloaded his “black phone” from desk, a private device for making emergency calls. He dialed Sierra’s sec-line.
-*-
The Ksaaz facility was as messy on the inside as on the out. Nothing impressive, only large concrete barriers surrounding inner barracks, armory, and storage units. In its prime, it likely shipped tanks, fuel, shells, and other supplies to surrounding mercenary cells. But on its own, function over form.
Sierra stepped through it slowly, regardless. Her carbine with armor piercing rounds was more than enough to handle the primitive armaments the Ajit-Kor used, but all it took was one wayward bullet and bleeding that wouldn’t stop.
The dead mercenaries did all the bleeding for her. They were scattered – literally – in pockets of scarlet and loose limbs, fleshly shrapnel scattered in chunks from the AMSR’s devastating shots. Everything else was rubble, warped metal, or on fire.
Satisfied, Sierra began her work, setting down a series of high-caliber charges she carried in her backpack. It wasn’t too difficult to pick essential spots for them – support beams, frame corners, supply zones, each tagged for “death by fire.”
It wasn’t until Sierra reached another barracks that something felt wrong. Gripping her rifle, she entered the building like the others, checking corners and listening for contacts. And, like the others, most were the same. Limp bodies and abandoned bunks.
Setting down another charge, she almost didn’t see a figure move, a tiny body soaked in red at the end of the small structure.
Shifting immediately, she trained her sights at the figure, crumpled mass of scarlet and uniform. She stopped.
He was young. So fucking young. Maybe a teenager, but not even that. His skin was pale and a hand clenched at a deep rose of red that was his guts, likely a wound from wayward shrapnel. In his other, a rifle.
He saw her. He didn’t scream, or try to get up, or say anything. With a sad face, his arm twitched, and he struggled to raise the rifle.
“Stop!” Sierra shouted, moving closer. “Put it down!”
The universal language for “stop” was not hard to understand, guns transcended language. But the boy did not listen.
Slowly the rifle raised, shaking wildly in his weak arm. “Put it FUCKING DOWN!” Sierra repeated.
Don’t make me, she thought. Don’t make me fucking do it.
Perhaps with the last of his strength, the boy yanked his arm upward. Sierra squeezed her trigger.
He screamed, his rifle cracked with loose shots as his arm separated itself from shoulder, body going limp. Two seconds.
“Fuck.”
Sierra stared a while. He was a child. But he wore the Ajit-Kor colors as well as the rest. 
Sierra set the last charge. 
-*-
Double checking ever corridor and loose stone took the rest of the afternoon, well into the evening. Sierra found herself back at the hilltop, all munitions and explosives set.
She stood, fiddling with the interface system responsible for sending the detonation signal. Typically, this was a no brainer, but something about that kid. . .
She huffed. No. There was nothing to sympathize with here. The Ajit-Kor were responsible for private terrorist operations and a slew of activity that resulted in hundreds, maybe thousands of civilian casualties. They were all killers.
Right?
The detonation sequence pinged her for the passcode to authorize the explosion. She started to type it in, then stopped. She studied the ugly remains of Zkaaz. 
The Ajit-Kor were also natives and loose collections of the various indigenous tribes who lived in the surrounding locations for generations, shoved further off their homelands by utility interests and privatization.
And they used child soldiers, she reminded herself.
She rubbed her eyes. The mare was sore. 
“Goddammit, get it together.”
Finally, she finished the code sequence. An approval ping chimed back and a timer began to countdown: sixty seconds until detonation. 
Wordlessly, she stood and went to her supply cache. Most of the rations were already used, but there was one last compartment in the largest green box which remained shut. Until now. Ignoring all else, and with a hint of personal satisfaction, Sierra pulled open the cache and opened the buried compartment, a hiss of cool, frosted air meeting her.
The UPK were stingy when it came to supply costs, but damn if they didn’t deliver.
From the compartment, a mini-cooler, she pulled free a tall glass of Old Wesker’s Special Red, fat and full of the best beer around. The ten percent ABV didn’t hurt either.
Grinning, she snapped it open and took a long draft, the harsh bitter flavor a welcome refreshment against the warm evening air. 
The operation was done, as far as Sierra was concerned. She had to unwind. So, she undid the fastenings to both her military top and bottom, yanking off the heavy camouflage as her thick, buxom bust spilled free, guarded by sports bra.
She wiggled out of pants too, letting her thighs wiggle against the air, thick, full rear jostling wildly as she tossed the attire on one of the containers. 
While she stretched, the console began its final warning pings, as the countdown reached zero.
It was such an unusual thing, watching something become nothing. Zkaaz, primitive and crude it might have been, was still a massive base fortified with thick concrete and steel. Strange, how fire undid stone.
The ground swelled, then erupted in a pillar of orange, surrounded by pockets of fiery roses, as the explosions went off in a raging chorus. Walls shuddered and burst apart, and everything that wasn’t already in the sky was set ablaze. 
Sierra was holding her ears, the shockwave of multiple explosions jiggling her form. All thoughts and contemplation of the Ajit-Kor, their personnel, what they did, were gone now. They were history. Moments ago, they were something. Now they were nothing.
Ugly, bloated clouds of acrid smoke suffocated the sky, fire laying waste to metal, flesh, and rock. Sierra, of course, only found it appropriate to take off her sports top. Nothing better than slaughtering your enemies and then having a drink while bare to the world.
Her buxom, frothy front spilled to the cooling outside air, distant light gently ticking her brown shortfur. She nickered, taking another sip, imagining a pair of hands reaching out to toss and toy with her hefty front. The major downside to solo operations out in desert wastes: no one to fuck after it was done. 
Her command console pinged.
Curious, the mare glanced over to see an incoming emergency line call. Strange, as detail ops were typically delivered via radio, not console. 
Crouching, she inspected the incoming number. “Rich?”
Quickly typing in the approving sec-line code, the console showed a black screen, then a distorted set of images, then Rich.
He was difficult to make out at first, with artifacts distorting his form, though it began to clear. 
“Rich?” she repeated. “The hell?”
She pressed closer, fat tits somewhat present in the screen. 
“Sierra?” Rich said. “Is that you?”
The mare realized they were asking a lot of questions. “Who else would it be you goddamn nob! What are you doing calling the sec-line? Did something happen?”
Rich squinted. “Looks like it. Having fun without me?” A gesture to her bare breasts.
“Not as much,” she admitted. “You have something on your mind, then? You know how management gets when their supplies aren’t used ‘with permissions,’ the dry cunts.”
Rich didn’t respond at first. Something about Sierra’s fat busty front was a bit distracting. That, and the barely visible fireball some distance behind her, difficult to see through console vid as it was.
“Well. . .” he started. How to phrase it? How to even suggest it? “This line secure?”
Sierra sat, taking another swig of Old Wesker, shrugging. “Has your door been broken down by UPK enforcement for breaching its communication policy?”
A nod. “Right, right. Uh, well. Sierra, what do you think of the UPK right now?”
She rolled her eyes. “Oh come on Rich, did you really call me just to pose a bunch of hypotheticals? I’m tryin’ to unwind here.”
“I’m being serious,” Rich said, leaning. “I got started here after the tri-civil conflict and the Berjik genocide. I saw the UPK publicly bring that to light, get the UN to sanction Oslov, install a democracy. But, I didn’t see all the talks behind that.”
Sierra looked to the side, losing interest. A mild shudder. The sun was fading on her end and things were getting nippy.
“What I mean, Sierra. Well. Their words, not mine: peace doesn’t sell. Are we really doing the world good, or are we just another mercenary organization with damn good PR?”
Sierra sighed. This time, she took a long, slow draft of her drink. Her head started to buzz. 
She thought of the kid.
“Can’t answer that for ya’.”
Rich grunted, a bit frustrated. “Come on, Sierra. You handle their dirty work all the time. You’ve got to know something isn’t right here.”
She shrugged. “Nnnno, I mean, I’m getting’ drunk off my ass here. Nnnnot really in the best place to postulate.”
A pause. “Oh. Uh.”
Rich couldn’t help but glance at the ‘loosening’ mare, her usually rigidly trained body relaxing and stretching. His thoughts began to shift.
“Look. . .” he continued, “I’m just saying. Don’t you wish we could do better than this?”
Somewhere in the annals of a still sober mare, images of the kid flashed through Sierra’s mind. So, she drank down the last of Old Wesker and drowned him.
“Yeah,” she agreed. Then, she pushed the empty bottle between her fat breasts, squishing it between the massive sacs, using her arms to keep it in a smothered embrace.
“But I kinda’ wish this was you, more.”
On Rich’s end, the image of Sierra filled his screen, obscuring everything else. The massive, plump rack choked the empty glass like a metaphorical dick, and the mare’s cheeks had a notable flush. 
Rich knew her for a long time, and parts of him were always. . . curious. But like with so many other things, she took the reigns.
“Aren’t you on duty?”
She laughed. “Wouldn’t matter eeeven if I was. I could take on a whole army with my fat mare ass.”
Rich didn’t respond.
“What? Aw come on, that’s the real reason you called, right? You didn’t want to talk politics or shoot the shit about shady operations. Nnnope. I know you Rich. You wanted to steal a peek, didn’t ya?”
He looked to the side searching for a thought. Not for long, though. 
“Mmhm, I know it,” the tipsy Sierra went on. “Betcha’ thinkin it’d be real nice if this was your dick, huh? Pretty nice thought, I bet. Cock getting’ hugging by huge mare tits.”
It was Rich’s turn to flush, mind assaulted with such lewd ideas. He wondered what that might feel like. . .
“Look, uh, Sierra, I didn’t call to uh. . . do this.”
She laughed, slightly distorted, setting the bottle aside. “Yeah, maaaybe you’re telling the truth, but you sure as shit ain’t running off now, are ya?”
She smashed her breasts into the console, the vid-capture showing her smothered teats and dark-brown nips pancaking on the screen.
“Come on, you really want to run back to some boring old paperwork? Whose gonna’ do this for you? That stuffed cunt Jenny from financing? Rebecca from imports? Pleeease.”
Rich scratched his head. “Well, you make a good point.” His pants certainly weren’t getting any looser.
“Mmf, too bad this thing ain’t your head,” she continued.
Too bad indeed, Rich thought. There was certainly a terrible madness to being in such close proximity to Sierra’s lovely assets, and yet so far away.
“You knooow, there was this place I heard about out in operations few months back,” she said, pulling back from the console.
She slowly stood up this time, stretching, the curvaceous yet fit form present for Rich to see.
“Er, yes?”
Sierra turned around, panties snugly clasping at her equally generous haunches. “Yep. Nude beach. Private place. Not many of those around anymore, you know.”
Even through the monitor, Rich sensed where she was going with this. But he was too distracted by her plump bottom to say anything.
“Maaaybe it’s just the alcohol talking, but I always thought we’d go sometime. Man like you is so rigid he could use a pair of tits.”
The evening light was slowly reaching its end, the sun just cresting the desert horizon, so Sierra wasted no more time. She wiggled her hips slowly, then slowly pulled down her panties, leaving her nake to the night air. Her juicy, supple backside was as wide as the day, heavy and full, blending perfectly with her muscular form.
Rich glanced around his private quarters, half expecting someone to burst in at an inopportune moment. But it was just him, a screen, and a naked mare he couldn’t touch on the other side of the world.
“Dammit Sierra, why do you have to do this now?” he said. 
She laughed. Then, she went to all fours. “Aww, what’s a matter?” she responded through the garble of the console.
“Driving youuuu crazy, huh? Yeah, I’d be kinda’ cow-fucking mad if I couldn’t dip my wick in a naked mare myself.”
She shoved her haunches into the console screen, her enormous, jiggling cheeks taking over, the cleft of her mare cunt so teasingly hidden between the brown-furred cheeks. It was enough that it smothered the screen, traces of glistening sex smearing into the screen camera.
“Ain’t that a nice sight?” she said, tossing her hips in rambunctious shakes, causing heavy backside to wobble generously.
Rich offered a small ‘yes.’ 
Diligent fingers reached behind and pressed into the darkly colored tunnel, mare lips spread, diving into the hidden chalice.
“Mnf, well fuck. Now I really wish you were here, Rich.”
She started to massage her inner and outer lips, shoving digits into snatch, offering gentle moans with each push. Rich was beside himself, though did his best to maintain some sense of composure.
“What, uh. What about this. . . nude beach?”
For a moment, Sierra was lost in a dizzy cloud of pleasing herself and alcohol, barely hearing Rich over her own moans. Ears flicking, she looked back, giving a smirk.
“Nmm, exaaactly what it sounds like, Richy.”
She paused the motions of her fingers, turning around, face and breasts in view once more.
“You and me in a nice sunny spot. Nothin’ on except what the good lord gave us. My big fat ass out in the air and you, I dunno, probably jackin’ off. Or, maybe going balls deep,” she said, tempting.
Rich wasn’t quite sure how to respond. Sierra was always so forward. Though, the idea of pressing himself into her was certainly. . . alluring.
“If we leave the UPK,” he finally said, “that might be sooner than later.”
Sierra shifted, one arm hidden as she continued to touch herself. But, it was getting harder to see, as the light on Sierra’s side was fading faster.
Rich huffed, filled with thoughts of touching mare, but checked the time. “Sierra, I uh. Better sign off. They don’t monitor calls but too long on a sec-line and someone’s gonna get suspicious.”
She frowned. “Aww, leaving so soon? Things were just about to get fun.”
For once, Rich’s composure dropped. “Listen, if I was there I’d fuck you into the ground. But. Well, I’m not, so.”
The mare laughed. “Mmmf, we’ll pin it for next time then, eh Richy?”
Rich gave a sigh. “Next time. I’ll see you soon, alright?”
The console screen blacked out. Sierra was left alone to the desert, but her loins still begged for attention. The alcohol wasn’t helping, either.
“Soon,” she muttered back.
She shuffled to her back, resting on the supply caches, one hand tossing and squeezing a fat, heavy breast while other skilled fingers rubbed and wiggled on her loins. In her mind, she imagined a private room. She imagined her soft lips wrapped around Rich’s human cock, sucking and draining his length, licking his nuts, getting him to moan.
She closed her eyes, and imagined that same room with the both of them caught up in bed, as she mounted him, relentlessly bouncing her fat rump and full hips against his crotch. She imagined them on the beach, Rich behind, shoving himself into her, filling the void of her marehood.
So close, but so far.
Her loins burst from orgasm, leaking hot sex on the dirt ground, the air rattled with her moans. 
She pulled her fingers free, sodden from peak. No cock and no more alcohol, she mused miserably.
-*-
UPK operations took over quickly the next morning. Sierra met up with sec-teams as they “secured” the area, informing her a split decision was made to break up the territories between utility companies and black ops programs.
Sierra didn’t care. She hauled up, returned to the local base at Iziiks, cleaned up, and refreshed herself for the trip home.
By noon, after debriefing, she was already on a plane home. On it, she kept thinking about the night, what Rich said. And that fucking kid.
Peace doesn’t sell, she remembered.