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


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



He was asleep again.

Masha-il put her book of Nizar Qabbani poems on the floor and looked to the bed, where he lay. Darkness covered the window in the bantam room, and beyond it, crisp hot air, fields of guts and heat, sandy dunes rising like wall into a moonless sky. The only luminousness came from the bedside lamp, which cast an amber glow onto his face. She could sit here for minute. All night, if she dared, just gazing at him.

Her officer.

Sometimes he cried out in his slumber. Words she could n't infer. Some of them sounded like name. At dark they stabbed through her dreams and brought her to the room access, where she watched him toss and maunder like he wanted to throw off the blanket and get back to his mission, whatever it was.

Slipping off the throne, she crept closer to his mattress. He lay on his spine, rima oris slightly open. The yellowish illumination washed away the pallor of his cutis, the shadows under his eyes, made him seem youthful and tidy. And he did take care healthier now that the holler of his boldness had filled out thanks to Mother 's hearty mouton shorbo.

She straightened his pillow and pulled the red wool blanket finisher to his mentum. He might be cold, she reasoned, even though the fever was almost gone and he had stopped shaking like he had malaria. His dark pilus tangled around his face, touched his shoulders. She should brush it for him. He smelled of Georgia home boy and tea leaves, anise meld with sweat. A manly smell.

Around her digit she twisted a long black ringlet, one of the two that trailed from underneath her crimson headscarf. A habit when she was near him. Delicately, she stroked a curl of whisker from his forehead, as she often did while he slept, feeling her breathing space tighten at the cicatrice carved through his right eyebrow, ending at the top his cheekbone.

There was so much she wanted to be intimate. So a lot to learn in a shrinking amount of time.

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

When he was convinced that Nahar was n't playing a joke, Fatherhood 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 snow outside a cave, gripping the bbl of an AK, more dead than animated. Not a Saudi, in fact, but an Egyptian US Army officer—declared by the copper Salah-ad-Din Yusuf ibn-Ayyub eagle insignia on his military machine beret. On their face in the war against the ( home of Saud ), Saudis & Salafis churchman spreading through the region.

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

And so he belonged to them, this mysterious alien. No telling how he had come to be in the Hijaz tidy sum, or what he was doing there. During those early sidereal day they were n't even sure as shooting if he would live. His ventilation was shallow and laboured—tuberculosis, they assumed—and whenever his eyes fluttered open, he was too feverish to mouth or make any sense.

Frightened for him, she hovered while mother sponged his forehead and bid poultices to his pectus to rid his lungs of the infection. Anxious to be of some use, she would let the cat out of the bag to him, lullabies she remembered from her childhood, ones she had sung to Nahar when he was a baby. She would have liked to hold his manus, to comfort 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 sire, Mother, and herself. Less so for Nahar, since he had to apologize for almost shooting him.

At shoemaker's last he had a name. Abdel-Nasser. police lieutenant colonel Abdel-Nasser Mahound Ali from a special unit of the Egyptian United States Army. He wanted to leave immediately, but Father insisted that he stay on with them. It was decided that as soon as Abdel-Nasser was well enough to go, father would trade some of his yaks and buy a satellite earpiece so that Abdel-Nasser could contact the army and go home. dorsum to Egypt. He had been away for a longsighted time, he said. That was all she knew about his circumstances, all he would say, though she suspected that Father knew a slight bit more.

The communicating barrier disheartened her. She did n't verbalize Egyptian idiom like Father or play chess like Nahar. But she could spoon-feed him shorba ( soup ), hold a cup of tea to his lips, and read to him from begetter 's lowly library—poetry, romantic and historical heroic poem, even a few children 's Word. He would listen, a smile on his brass, and she would take attention to animate her voice so that he would be transported to the populace she wanted to portion with him, even if he had no thought what she was saying. It was the least she could do. The best she could do.

Today, however, she had made a bigger effort.

'' secern me more of you, '' she said in painstaking Masri ( Egyptian dialect ). `` Do you experience brother or sister ? ``

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

'' You miss ? ``

He broke their gaze. `` Yeah. ``

Masha-il had felt an ache around her warmheartedness. Did this brother know where he was ? Did he jazz, she found herself wondering, that Abdel-Nasser was even alive ?

War was a terrible thing and no one could argue that. Then again, what did she know, a twenty-year-old Hijazi girl who had left commercial subaltern school two age ago, who spent her 24-hour interval tending sheep and would probably end up marrying a tedious boy from a neighbor village ? What on Earth could she possibly know about how the humans worked ? Yet as vile as war was, she felt a lost gratitude for whatever chain of events had crossed her path with Abdel-Nasser's.

She touched his frontal bone again. Was someone else waiting for him in Egypt—a cleaning woman sleepless with vexation who had no way of knowing that he slumbered on the floor of a white-washed Edward Durell Stone cottage at the bottom of a vale of Tihamah, while she knelt beside him and listened to his quiet, steadfast breathing time ?

She missed his eyes when they were closed. He had the most beautiful eyes, sometimes fatal, sometimes as brown as hers, with gold dapple close to his iris, like bits of sunlight. Exquisitely shaped lips, too. The tiny mole above his left lip gave her mouthpiece a tingle.

She could osculate it. If she had the nerve.

Just then Abdel-Nasser stirred and the blanket slipped from his articulatio humeri, exposing his neck and a Triangle of hide where the grey white nightshirt hung open. Her laurel wreath itched. She twisted the ringlet tighter around her finger's breadth. The shirt, her Father 's, was far too big for him. So baggy she could unbutton it without touching him. Easily.

She wiped her hands on her dress. They left smirch on the flowing lavender material. Her prettiest clothes. She had made it herself.

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

Nor had she ever seen anything like the scars.

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

Watching the scratch stretch and sink over the bony ridges of his ribcage, she wanted to osculate them. Run her tongue over the welts and whorl and make them disappear so that his dead body would be perfect again, as it must give birth been once.

The cluster of hair's-breadth around his navel pulled her eyes downward. His belly was almost concave, like the build below his rib had been sucked out by a cannibal with a crapulence wheat. 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 home plate sooner.

She followed the hair's-breadth to the waistband of his flannel trouser, to the lax naut mi that held them together. They were just as baggy, but not baggy enough to hold back the hill between his legs.

Her center pounded in her throat.

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

She looked at his font. His centre stayed shut. No change in his breathing.

Deep breath. One ... two ... three ... Her hands trembled and her heart beat forte enough to deafen them both, but she did it anyway. Untied the knot, slid the trouser over the twin node of his hipbones, making sure her fingernails did n't graze his skin. Should she close her eyes, too—make it a surprise ? No, she did n't want to miss anything.

Her back talk tingled again. It looked like a mushroom with a recollective thick stalk, a fleshy subway system nestled beneath a patch of wiry hair that was so much darker than the hair on his headspring. What an odd matter to equate it—him—to. But she had no other image to plant next to it. The only former sentence she had seen a boy 's private office was when she bathed Nahar when he was trivial ( which also did n't tally ).

A heating plant had started to spread, warming her face, her breast, her arms, gathering in the property where she occasionally touched herself, thinking of Abdel-Nasser as she did ( and before him, a certain fine-looking boy from school ). Now that she had gone this far, she wanted to touch it. Just once, so she would know what it—he—felt like.

She brushed her forefinger against the tip. The mushroom-shaped cloud cap.

After a few minute 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 capable to say. For once, her gangly arm came in handy so that she could perch without touching him, her apparel puddled around her waist and her ringlets hanging on either position of his face and all she wanted to do was osculate those beautiful lips, so close to hers.

Would he mind ?

A jog on her inner second joint startled her, made her glance down. It was pointing right at her, and when she looked up again, shocked, all the breathing space left her body.

Abdel-Nasser 's eyes were heart-to-heart. Wide open.

Her heart rammed against her ribcage.

His eyes gazed straight into hers, a jar Black person like an ebony sun in an ivory sky, and she could n't face away, could n't move.

His hands awakened at the periphery of her vision, she hardly saw them, his left hand burrowing under her dress to her waist and his rightfulness hand pulling aside her panty, pressing down, down on the seam where her belly joined the top of her hip until she felt a push, felt her most sensitive chassis yielding around him. She gasped, her lungs full of air suddenly again.

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

Tears stung her center and she felt her abject lip careen. Her cheek burned. For a mortifying import she feared she would cry and humiliate them both. Had she wanted this ? With Abdel-Nasser ? She must suffer ... after all, she had undressed him. Stared at and touched it—him—that part of his body that was now inside her.

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

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

Their eyes stayed locked together as he slid his hand under her clothes again, under her bottom, and lifted her up, pressed her forward, then lowered her. Pain jabbed each prison term he moved into her, even when he molded the pocket-size of her book binding to their apparent movement. Yet he was being blue-blooded, she could sense it, and gradually her hips loosened and they eased into a rhythm, the painfulness subsiding into a bearable ache, then a slow delighting friction 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 sense of touch, every smell, ensuring that later she would be able to conjure up the soap-anise scent of his tegument, the passion of his breathing space on her expression and the ragged edges of his scratch beneath her fingertips, the accurate bit his smile contorted into a gasp, the heftiness running through his shoulders, flexing under her palms, and the sinew in his neck straining like corduroy as he draped her dress over her shoulders and craned his head to kiss her raw titty, exciting her nipples into hard buds with his tongue, as toilsome as the clitoris of form between her legs where his thumb rubbed in a circular pattern too exact to be improvised.

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

The variety of pace surprised her. Mid-thrust he rolled them so that they lay face to face—for an instant their noses touched, contact unbroken—then he scooped an arm around her waistline and pulled her onto her hands and articulatio genus, dug his finger into the curve ball of her buttocks to stabilise her. Pain resurged as he entered her from behind, lessening when he reached between her legs to that place only she had touched before.

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

The sounds she made were unknown to her capitulum, eager high-pitched whimper, coming from the back of her throat. What was happening to her ? Be quiet, she told herself.

Abdel-Nasser made speech sound, too, hungry grunting sounds as his lips dipped to her neck, her earlobes, the base of her spine. His movements took on an urging, and Masha-il felt the Same urgency seeping through her skin, her nervure, like a heatwave, felt herself opening a little wider from his thrusts. Squirming against him, she bucked her articulatio coxae, clawed the cover, kicked off her slippers. The sort part of her mind could see the two of them on the mattress, tangled in each other 's apparel and their bodies interlocked like animals', their shadows dancing on the wall ( or were they writhing ? ) in the dim twinkle from the bedside lamp.

More more more yes

The last-place twinges of pain had faded, a pressure was construction, a hot prickling itchiness spurred by Abdel-Nasser 's fingers rubbing and rubbing her not-so-secret place in wet, slippery roach. He was making her into person new. individual bold and unhorse and pure, someone she wanted to be. Making her into a woman.

One lean of her head and she could see him out of the corner of her eye. He held his arm to her oral cavity. Just in time.

Yes yes yes yes oh yes oh oh —

She bit down on his arm, tasting swither. Her breath stopped, her heart stopped. And then she was new—blindingly, achingly new—her muscular tissue twisted and liberate all at once as her dead body sprung like a helix unwinding. The harder she bit the more she unwound, her insides tumbling like a landslide in her deepest centre, and the more she had to eat up the cries pushing up her throat so that no one else would hear.

Oh oh oh oh

Another wave started. Masha-il 's knees gave out and she collapsed onto her side. Her eyes rolled up and through her eyelash she saw Abdel-Nasser holding himself against her thigh, jaw clenching and heart screwed shut like he was in suffering ( slightly alarming ) as streams of Elwyn Brooks White spurted onto her skin and the sigh she breathed out shook them both.

Abdel-Nasser groaned and flopped into a heap, all weapon system and legs. His head sank to the pillow. His eyes closed. From his rapidly slowing breaths, she knew he was asleep.

Time was already hurtling forward, dragging her out of the haze. How she would possess loved to snuggle against his bureau, hold him close to her until morning, but the separate theatrical role of her mastermind stepped in to take control.

With the hem of her clothes, she wiped a trickle of blood, her rake, from his inner second joint and mopped the wet spot above her knee ( so much for her prettiest wearing apparel ). Then she pulled up his pant, tied them, and buttoned his shirt, covered him carefully with the red blanket, found her slippers, adjusted her headscarf that was miraculously still in tact.

His feature film had a new softness to them, the skin stretched less tightly around his jaw and cheekbones, his cheeks flushed and exertion on his forehead.

Was he dreaming behind his eyelid ? Dreaming about her ?

Crouching on her bounder, Masha-il let go and kissed him full on the back talk. His lips parted, his natural language meeting hers, and her heart jumped when his heart flickered, a light Genista raetam green, glazed and sweet with marvel. Had her own heart turned blue ? she wondered. She would have to train in the mirror in her bedroom.

Lightly he ran a finger along her impudence to her Kuki and then his lid dropped, a pall closing, and she felt the cutter gnarl between her legs throbbing like a bruise.

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

'' Sleep well, my police officer, '' she whispered into the swarthiness. `` slumber well. ``

Next morning, he proposed to her, and her begetter and female parent agreed.They married.And war ended with the triumph of United Arab Republic, Hijaz and the temporal values.And the defeat and instruction execution of House of Saud, their army and their Salafis Wahhabis clerics .