An Egyptian soldier in 2015 War against House of Saud & their Salafis
clerics.With a Hejazi virgin of a secular family who loved Egypt and its secular values and hated household of Saud and their Salafis clerics.


To the storage of Princess Misha'al bint Fahd ibn Abdel Aziz al-Saud al Saud



He was deceased again.

Masha-il put her Book of Nizar Qabbani poems on the floor and looked to the bed, where he lay. Darkness covered the windowpane in the flyspeck room, and beyond it, crisp hot air, fields of Amandine Aurore Lucie Dupin and heating plant, sandy dunes rising like rampart into a moonless sky. The only light came from the bedside lamp, which cast an amber glow onto his boldness. She could sit here for hour. All dark, if she dared, just gazing at him.

Her officer.

Sometimes he cried out in his sleep. Words she could n't sympathize. Some of them sounded like names. At night they stabbed through her dreams and brought her to the doorway, where she watched him toss and mumble like he wanted to throw off the blankets and get back to his military mission, whatever it was.

Slipping off the faecal matter, she crept closer to his mattress. He lay on his book binding, sass slightly open. The yellowish twinkle washed away the pallor of his hide, the shadows under his eye, made him reckon younger and sizable. And he did calculate healthier now that the hollow of his cheeks had filled out thanks to Mother 's hearty mouton shorbo.

She straightened his pillow and pulled the red wool blanket finisher to his Kuki. He might be cold, she reasoned, even though the fever was almost gone and he had stopped shaking like he had malaria. His black whisker tangled around his expression, touched his berm. She should sweep it for him. He smelled of soap and tea leafage, anise mixed with swither. A manly smell.

Around her digit she twisted a long grim coil, one of the two that trailed from underneath her deep red headscarf. A habit when she was near him. Delicately, she stroked a lock of pilus from his forehead, as she often did while he slept, feeling her breath tighten at the scar carved through his right eyebrow, ending at the top his cheekbone.

There was so lots she wanted to make out. So very much to find out in a shrinking amount of time.

The memorable morning had happened in other February, almost a month ago. Would she ever forget it ? Nahar, her eight-year-old crony, had bounded into the vale, AK Kalashnikov rifle bouncing around his neck opening, shouting that a Saudi Arabian spy had tried to germinate one of the sheep. ( Because we do not deal ourselves Saudi but Hijazis, the master and proper name of our land and our nationality ).

When he was convinced that Nahar was n't playing a prank, begetter had taken the family gun and gone off to investigate.

He came back half an hour later with a black-haired man slung over his shoulder, unconscious. Found face-down in the blow outside a cave, gripping the bbl of an AK, more utter than alert. Not a Saudi Arabian, in fact, but an Egyptian US Army officer—declared by the copper Salah-ad-Din Yusuf ibn-Ayyub bird of Jove insignia on his military beret. On their side in the war against the ( family of Saud ), Saudis & Salafis clerics spreading through the region.

Although it did n't matter, Father stressed. When you were cast or wounded you did n't have a `` side. '' You belonged to everyone.

And so he belonged to them, this secret stranger. No telling how he had come to be in the Hedjaz slew, or what he was doing there. During those betimes days they were n't even sure if he would live. His breathing was shallow and laboured—tuberculosis, they assumed—and whenever his eyes fluttered open, he was too febrile to verbalize or pull in any sense.

Frightened for him, she hovered while mother sponged his forehead and campaign plaster to his chest to rid his lungs of the infection. Anxious to be of some use, she would sing to him, lullabies she remembered from her puerility, one she had sung to Nahar when he was a baby. She would have liked to agree his hands, to console him as he sweated and shivered, but that would not have been proper.

Two weeks had passed before he woke up. A wonderfully happy day for founder, female parent, and herself. lupus erythematosus so for Nahar, since he had to excuse for almost shooting him.

At last he had a name. Abdel-Nasser. Lieutenant colonel Abdel-Nasser Mahomet Ali from a especial unit of the Egyptian Army. He wanted to impart immediately, but Father insisted that he stay with them. It was decided that as soon as Abdel-Nasser was well enough to travel, Church Father would sell some of his yaks and buy a satellite phone so that Abdel-Nasser could contact the army and go nursing home. Back to Arab Republic of Egypt. He had been away for a long time, he said. That was all she knew about his circumstances, all he would say, though she suspected that Father knew a little bit more.

The communication roadblock disheartened her. She did n't verbalise Egyptian dialect like begetter or bring chess like Nahar. But she could spoon-feed him shorba ( soup ), hold a cup of tea to his sassing, and read to him from Father of the Church 's small library—poetry, romantic and diachronic heroic poem, even a few fry 's Word. He would listen, a smile on his face, and she would take care to animate her articulation so that he would be transported to the globe she wanted to contribution with him, even if he had no idea what she was saying. It was the to the lowest degree she could do. The best she could do.

Today, however, she had made a bigger effort.

'' enjoin me More of you, '' she said in painstaking Masri ( Egyptian dialect ). `` Do you birth brother or sister ? ``

'' I have one brother, '' he answered, speaking very slowly. `` Ismail. We 're twins. He looks just like me. '' With a promissory note of superbia, he added, `` I 'm ten minutes older. ``

'' You miss ? ``

He broke their gaze. `` Yeah. ``

Masha-il had felt an ache around her philia. Did this sidekick know where he was ? Did he do it, she found herself wondering, that Abdel-Nasser was even alive ?

War was a dire matter and no one could fence that. Then again, what did she make out, a twenty-year-old Hijazi girl who had left commercial secondary school two years ago, who spent her days tending sheep and would probably end up marrying a dull boy from a neighbor village ? What on Earth could she possibly know about how the human beings worked ? Yet as despicable as war was, she felt a helpless gratitude for whatever chain of events had crossed her path with Abdel-Nasser's.

She touched his forehead again. Was someone else waiting for him in Egypt—a womanhood sleepless with headache who had no way of knowing that he slumbered on the level of a white-washed stone bungalow at the bottomland of a valley of Tihamah, while she knelt beside him and listened to his calm, steady breathing place ?

She missed his eyes when they were closed. He had the most beautiful middle, sometimes black, sometimes as browned as hers, with atomic number 79 spot close to his irises, like bits of cheer. Exquisitely shaped lips, too. The midget counterspy above his pull up stakes lip gave her oral cavity a tingle.

She could osculate it. If she had the nerve.

Just then Abdel-Nasser stirred and the blanket slipped from his shoulder, exposing his neck and a trilateral of skin where the grey flannel nightshirt hung open. Her medal itched. She twisted the roll tighter around her finger. The shirt, her father 's, was far too big for him. So sloppy she could unbutton it without touching him. Easily.

She wiped her bridge player on her dress. They left smudges on the flowing lavender textile. Her prettiest dress. She had made it herself.

She was right. The washrag fell away from his hide after she peeled back the blanket and went to work on the buttons. She had never seen a man 's dead body before ( her father and her buddy did n't count, of course ).

Nor had she ever seen anything like the scars.

She had first glimpsed them when female parent changed his shirt. They spiderwebbed across his torso and back, harrowing slashes of red that made her seethe. tear came to her eyes. Who had done this to him ? What had he done to deserve it ? What could any human have done to deserve being beaten so badly ?

Watching the scars reaching and sump over the bony ridge of his ribcage, she wanted to kiss them. Run her lingua over the welts and whorls and make them vanish so that his body would be perfect again, as it must let been once.

The cluster of hairs around his navel pulled her eyes downward. His belly was almost concave, like the material body below his ribs had been sucked out by a cannibal with a crapulence straw. She would eat less from now on, she resolved, so that there would be to a greater extent for him. Even if it meant he would go dwelling house sooner.

She followed the hairs to the waistband of his washrag trousers, to the slack knot that held them together. They were just as baggy, but not baggy enough to conceal the mound between his legs.

Her nerve pounded in her throat.

She wanted to see him. It. All of him. Nahar and her parents were in bed and Abdel-Nasser could forget any day. She might not get another chance. But what if—and this was a terrifying thought—what if he woke up ? He could waken up right now. What would happen then ? Would he be angry with her ? Would there be trouble ?

She looked at his nerve. His center stayed shut. No change in his breathing.

oceanic abyss breathing space. One ... two ... three ... Her hands trembled and her heart rhythm loud enough to deafen them both, but she did it anyway. Untied the knot, slid the drawers over the twin knobs of his innominate bone, making sure her fingernails did n't crease his skin. Should she fold her eyes, too—make it a surprise ? No, she did n't desire to miss anything.

Her back talk tingled again. It looked like a mushroom with a farseeing midst stalk, a fleshy thermionic valve nestled beneath a eyepatch of stringy haircloth that was so much darker than the hair on his read/write head. What an odd thing to compare it—him—to. But she had no early image to plant life next to it. The only former time she had seen a boy 's private parts was when she bathed Nahar when he was small ( which also did n't count ).

A estrus had started to spread out, warming her face, her chest, her blazonry, gathering in the station where she occasionally touched herself, thinking of Abdel-Nasser as she did ( and before him, a sealed handsome boy from school day ). Now that she had gone this far, she wanted to touch it. Just once, so she would jazz what it—he—felt like.

She brushed her forefinger against the tip. The mushroom cap.

After a few irregular it twitched and she snatched her hand away, breathing hard. It looked bigger.

Where the courage came from, how she found herself straddling him, she would never be able to say. For once, her gangly arm came in handy so that she could perch without touching him, her dress puddled around her waist and her ringlets hanging on either side of his face and all she wanted to do was kiss those beautiful back talk, so close to hers.

Would he bear in mind ?

A nudge on her privileged thigh startled her, made her glance down. It was pointing right at her, and when she looked up again, shocked, all the breath left her body.

Abdel-Nasser 's eyes were surface. Wide open.

Her heart rammed against her ribcage.

His eyes gazed straight into hers, a rocky blackness like an ebony tree sun in an pearl sky, and she could n't look away, could n't move.

His custody awakened at the fringe of her visual sensation, she hardly saw them, his leftfield hand burrowing under her attire to her waist and his right hand pulling aside her panty, pressing down, down on the crease where her belly joined the top of her hip until she felt a pushing, felt her most sensitive flesh yielding around him. She gasped, her lungs full of air suddenly again.

A shudder ran through Abdel-Nasser 's body, and then pain flared, immediate, searing.

Tears stung her eyes and she felt her lower lip shimmy. Her boldness burned. For a mortifying moment she feared she would cry and abase them both. Had she wanted this ? With Abdel-Nasser ? She must throw ... after all, she had undressed him. Stared at and touched it—him—that constituent of his body that was now in spite of appearance her.

Laying a hand on her impertinence, he smiled at her with his whole typeface, like he did when she read to him. Reassuring. Irresistible.

Yes, she wanted this, and she returned the smile to let him know.

Their optic stayed locked together as he slid his hand under her dress again, under her buttocks, and lifted her up, pressed her forward, then lowered her. Pain jabbed each prison term he moved into her, even when he molded the small of her back to their social movement. Yet he was being gentle, she could smell it, and gradually her hips loosened and they eased into a rhythm, the infliction subsiding into a bearable aching, then a slow delighting rubbing that began to carry her breath away.

So this is what he 's like ... a pocket of her mind had closed itself off, had resisted melting, so that it could record every touch, every olfactory perception, ensuring that later she would be able to cabal up the soap-anise odour of his skin, the heat of his hint on her face and the bait sharpness of his scars beneath her fingertips, the precise moment his smile contorted into a gasp, the heftiness running through his shoulders, flexing under her thenar, and the tendon in his neck straining alike electric cord as he draped her dress over her shoulders and craned his drumhead to kiss her naked boob, exciting her teat into hard buds with his tongue, as hard as the push button of anatomy between her legs where his thumb rubbed in a circular pattern too take to be improvised.

She was losing the ability to stay quiet. Yes, she wanted to moan. That feels so dependable. Please do n't stop.

The alteration of yard surprised her. Mid-thrust he rolled them so that they lay face to face—for an instant their noses touched, contact lens unbroken—then he scooped an arm around her waist and pulled her onto her hands and stifle, dug his fingers into the curve of her buttocks to steady her. ail resurged as he entered her from behind, lessening when he reached between her pegleg to that place only she had touched before.

Yes. More. Please. Yes. Yes. Yes.

The sounds she made were foreign to her ear, tidal bore high-pitched whimpers, coming from the back of her throat. What was happening to her ? Be quiet, she told herself.

Abdel-Nasser made sounds, too, thirsty grunting phone as his sassing dipped to her neck, her earlobes, the stem of her spine. His apparent movement took on an urging, and Masha-il felt the same urgency seeping through her cutis, her veins, like a heatwave, felt herself opening a little wider from his thrusts. Squirming against him, she bucked her articulatio coxae, clawed the blankets, kicked off her slippers. The ramify component part of her thinker could see the two of them on the mattress, tangled in each other 's clothes and their eubstance interlocked like animals', their trace dancing on the wall ( or were they writhing ? ) in the dim luminousness from the bedside lamp.

Thomas More more more yes

The last twinges of pain had faded, a pressure was building, a hot tingling itch spurred by Abdel-Nasser 's fingers rubbing and rubbing her not-so-secret place in wet, slippery circuit. He was making her into someone new. person bluff and abstemious and pure, somebody she wanted to be. Making her into a woman.

One contestation of her caput and she could see him out of the corner of her eye. He held his arm to her mouth. Just in time.

Yes yes yes yes oh yes oh oh —

She bit down on his arm, tasting sweat. Her breather stopped, her heart stopped. And then she was new—blindingly, achingly new—her sinew twisted and loose all at once as her physical structure sprung like a helix unwinding. The harder she bit the more she unwound, her insides tumbling like a landslide in her deepest middle, and the more she had to live with the rallying cry pushing up her pharynx so that no one else would hear.

Oh oh oh oh

Another wafture started. Masha-il 's knees gave out and she collapsed onto her position. Her centre rolled up and through her lashes she saw Abdel-Nasser holding himself against her thigh, jaw clenching and eyes screwed shut like he was in torment ( slightly alarming ) as flow of white spurted onto her skin and the suspiration she breathed out shook them both.

Abdel-Nasser groaned and flopped into a pot, all arms and legs. His promontory sank to the pillow. His center closed. From his rapidly slowing breaths, she knew he was asleep.

prison term was already hurtling forward, dragging her out of the haze. How she would birth loved to snuggle against his chest, hold him close to her until morning, but the single out function of her genius stepped in to take control.

With the hem of her dress, she wiped a trickle of blood line, her blood, from his inner thigh and mopped the wet plot above her knee ( so much for her prettiest dress ). Then she pulled up his trouser, tied them, and buttoned his shirt, covered him carefully with the red cover, found her slippers, adjusted her headscarf that was miraculously still in tact.

His features had a new softness to them, the pelt stretched less tightly around his jaw and zygomatic, his impertinence flushed and sweat on his forehead.

Was he dreaming behind his eyelids ? Dreaming about her ?

Crouching on her heels, Masha-il let go and kissed him wide on the mouth. His lips parted, his knife confluence hers, and her heart jumped when his eyes flickered, a light juniper park, glazed and sweet with marvel. Had her own eyes turned blue ? she wondered. She would have to crack in the mirror in her bedroom.

Lightly he ran a finger's breadth along her cheek to her chin and then his lid dropped, a curtain end, and she felt the tender knot between her peg pounding like a bruise.

Masha-il turned off the bedside lamp and tiptoed to the door.

'' Sleep well, my ship's officer, '' she whispered into the iniquity. `` rest well. ``

Next break of day, he proposed to her, and her Father and mother agreed.They married.And war ended with the triumph of Egypt, Hijaz and the laic values.And the frustration and murder of House of Saud, their army and their Salafis Wahabi clerics .