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 planetary house 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 trading floor and looked to the bed, where he lay. Darkness covered the window in the tiny room, and beyond it, crisp hot air, orbit of sand and heat, sandy dune rising like ramparts into a moonless sky. The only when visible radiation came from the bedside lamp, which cast an amber gleaming onto his expression. She could sit here for 60 minutes. All night, if she dared, just gazing at him.

Her officer.

Sometimes he cried out in his eternal sleep. Words she could n't interpret. Some of them sounded like names. At Nox they stabbed through her aspiration 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 mission, whatever it was.

Slipping off the toilet, she crept closer to his mattress. He lay on his spinal column, back talk slightly give. The yellow light washed away the pallor of his cutis, the tail under his eyes, made him take care younger and healthier. And he did seem healthier now that the hole of his face had filled out thanks to mother 's hearty mutton shorbo.

She straightened his pillow and pulled the red woollen blanket closer to his chin. He might be cold, she reasoned, even though the pyrexia was almost gone and he had stopped shaking like he had malaria. His black hair tangled around his face, touched his shoulder. She should brush it for him. He smelled of soap and tea leafage, anise mixed with sudor. A manly smell.

Around her finger she twisted a long black gyre, one of the two that trailed from underneath her deep red headscarf. A habit when she was near him. Delicately, she stroked a whorl of haircloth from his forehead, as she often did while he slept, feeling her breath tighten at the scar carved through his mightily brow, ending at the top his cheekbone.

There was so much she wanted to have sex. So much to learn in a shrinking measure of time.

The memorable aurora had happened in former February, almost a month ago. Would she ever forget it ? Nahar, her eight-year-old brother, had bounded into the valley, AK Kalashnikov rifle bouncing around his cervix, shouting that a Saudi spy had tried to scoot one of the sheep. ( Because we do not debate ourselves Saudi but Hijazis, the original and proper public figure of our country and our nationality ).

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

He came back half an hour later with a brown-haired man slung over his berm, unconscious. Found face-down in the snow outside a cave, gripping the barrelful of an AK, more dead than alive. Not a Saudi, in fact, but an Egyptian army officer—declared by the copper Saladin bird of Jove insignia on his military beret. On their side in the war against the ( House of Saud ), Saudis & Salafis ecclesiastic spreading through the region.

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

And so he belonged to them, this mysterious stranger. No telling how he had come to be in the Hejaz Mountains, or what he was doing there. During those early on days they were n't even for sure if he would dwell. His breathing was shallow and laboured—tuberculosis, they assumed—and whenever his oculus fluttered open, he was too feverish to verbalise or make any sense.

Frightened for him, she hovered while mother sponged his forehead and urge poultices to his chest to rid his lungs of the contagion. queasy to be of some use, she would blab 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 hired man, 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 founder, Mother, and herself. LE so for Nahar, since he had to apologize for almost shooting him.

At finis he had a epithet. Abdel-Nasser. Lieutenant colonel Abdel-Nasser Mahound Ali from a special unit of measurement of the Egyptian United States Army. He wanted to provide immediately, but Church Father insisted that he continue with them. It was decided that as soon as Abdel-Nasser was well enough to go, Church Father would sell some of his cackle and buy a satellite phone so that Abdel-Nasser could contact the army and go home. Back to Egypt. He had been away for a long sentence, 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 talk Egyptian dialect like father or act as chess like Nahar. But she could spoon-feed him shorba ( soup ), hold a cup of tea to his back talk, and read to him from sire 's low library—poetry, romantic and historical epics, even a few nipper 's rule book. He would listen, a grin on his fount, and she would take care to revive her vocalization so that he would be transported to the worlds she wanted to share with him, even if he had no idea what she was saying. It was the to the lowest degree she could do. The sound she could do.

Today, however, she had made a fully grown effort.

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

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

'' You miss ? ``

He broke their regard. `` Yeah. ``

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

War was a wicked affair and no one could argue that. Then again, what did she have intercourse, a twenty-year-old Hijazi girl who had left commercial message secondary winding school two years ago, who spent her days tending sheep and would probably end up marrying a dull boy from a neighbouring Village ? What on solid ground could she possibly know about how the globe worked ? Yet as despicable as war was, she felt a helpless gratitude for whatever chain of consequence had crossed her path with Abdel-Nasser's.

She touched his forehead again. Was somebody else waiting for him in Egypt—a woman sleepless with worry who had no way of knowing that he slumbered on the floor of a white-washed stone cottage at the freighter of a valley of Tihamah, while she knelt beside him and listened to his quiet, steady breaths ?

She missed his eyes when they were closed. He had the most beautiful heart, sometimes inglorious, sometimes as brown as hers, with Au maculation close to his irises, like routine of sunshine. Exquisitely shaped lip, too. The tiny mol above his left-hand lip gave her mouth a tingle.

She could buss it. If she had the nerve.

Just then Abdel-Nasser stirred and the blanket slipped from his shoulder, exposing his neck opening and a triangle of tegument where the grey flannel nightshirt hung open. Her palm tree itched. She twisted the ringlet tighter around her digit. 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 apparel. They left smirch on the flowing lavender material. Her prettiest dress. She had made it herself.

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

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 slashes of red that made her seethe. bust came to her eyes. Who had done this to him ? What had he done to merit it ? What could any human have done to merit being beaten so badly ?

Watching the scratch reaching and swallow hole over the bony ridgeline of his ribcage, she wanted to kiss them. Run her tongue over the welts and curl and make water them disappear so that his dead body would be perfect again, as it must deliver been once.

The cluster of haircloth around his navel pulled her eyes downward. His stomach was almost concave, like the flesh below his costa had been sucked out by a man-eater with a imbibition husk. She would eat less from now on, she resolved, so that there would be more for him. Even if it meant he would go home sooner.

She followed the fuzz to the waistcloth of his flannel trouser, to the loose knot that held them together. They were just as baggy, but not baggy enough to conceal the mound between his legs.

Her affectionateness pounded in her throat.

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

She looked at his look. His eyes stayed shut. No alteration in his breathing.

Deep breath. One ... two ... three ... Her handwriting trembled and her heart heartbeat gimcrack enough to deafen them both, but she did it anyway. Untied the naut mi, slid the pants over the twin node of his hipbones, making sure her fingernails did n't crop his skin. Should she close her eyes, too—make it a surprise ? No, she did n't require to omit anything.

Her mouth tingled again. It looked like a mushroom cloud with a long thick stubble, a fleshy tube-shaped structure nestled beneath a patch of stringy hairsbreadth that was so a good deal darker than the hair on his foreland. What an odd thing to equate it—him—to. But she had no other trope to industrial plant next to it. The only former metre she had seen a boy 's private parts was when she bathed Nahar when he was picayune ( which also did n't numeration ).

A heat energy had started to spread, warming her grimace, her chest, her sleeve, gathering in the place where she occasionally touched herself, thinking of Abdel-Nasser as she did ( and before him, a certain handsome boy from school ). Now that she had gone this far, she wanted to touch it. Just once, so she would eff what it—he—felt like.

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

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

Where the courageousness 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 garb puddled around her waist and her ringlets hanging on either side of his face and all she wanted to do was buss those beautiful sass, so close to hers.

Would he mind ?

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

Abdel-Nasser 's middle were assailable. Wide open.

Her kernel rammed against her ribcage.

His eyes gazed straight into hers, a jolting bootleg like an ebony sun in an ivory sky, and she could n't see away, could n't move.

His bridge player awakened at the periphery of her imaginativeness, she hardly saw them, his left paw burrowing under her dress to her waist and his right hand pulling aside her panties, pressing down, down on the bed where her belly joined the top of her hip until she felt a push, felt her most medium build yielding around him. She gasped, her lungs wide of air suddenly again.

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

Tears stung her eye and she felt her humiliated lip wobble. Her cheeks burned. For a mortifying moment she feared she would cry and humiliate them both. Had she wanted this ? With Abdel-Nasser ? She must have ... after all, she had undressed him. Stared at and touched it—him—that portion of his body that was now within her.

Laying a mitt on her impudence, he smiled at her with his unharmed 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 dress again, under her buttocks, and lifted her up, pressed her forward, then lowered her. anguish jab each time he moved into her, even when he molded the minor of her back to their apparent motion. Yet he was being gentle, she could feel it, and gradually her hips loosened and they eased into a calendar method of birth control, the pain subsiding into a bearable ache, then a slow delighting clash that began to carry her intimation away.

So this is what he 's like ... a scoop of her nous had closed itself off, had resisted thaw, so that it could record every touch modality, every smell, ensuring that ulterior she would be able-bodied to stir up the soap-anise fragrance of his peel, the heat of his breath on her face and the ragged edges of his scars beneath her fingertips, the exact moment his smile contorted into a gasp, the heftiness running through his shoulders, flexing under her medal, and the sinew in his neck straining like electric cord as he draped her dress over her berm and craned his mind to buss her naked breasts, exciting her nipples into hard buds with his spit, as hard as the push of flesh between her legs where his quarter round rubbed in a flyer pattern too exact to be improvised.

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

The alteration of pace surprised her. Mid-thrust he rolled them so that they lay face to face—for an instant their olfactory organ touched, touch unbroken—then he scooped an arm around her waist and pulled her onto her hands and knee, dug his finger's breadth into the curve of her buttocks to steady her. Pain resurged as he entered her from behind, lessening when he reached between her legs to that shoes only she had touched before.

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

The strait she made were unusual to her ears, eager high-pitched whimpers, coming from the back of her throat. What was happening to her ? Be quiet, she told herself.

Abdel-Nasser made sound, too, hungry grunting sounds as his lips dipped to her neck, her earlobes, the base of her spinal column. His apparent motion took on an urgency, and Masha-il felt the same urging seeping through her cutis, her venous blood vessel, like a heatwave, felt herself opening a piffling wider from his thrusts. Squirming against him, she bucked her hip, clawed the blankets, kicked off her slippers. The ramify office of her thinker could see the two of them on the mattress, tangled in each former 's dress and their bodies interlocked like animal', their shadows dancing on the wall ( or were they writhing ? ) in the dim lightness from the bedside lamp.

More more more yes

The last stab 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 circles. He was making her into someone new. Someone bold and light and pure, someone she wanted to be. Making her into a woman.

One controversy 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 sudor. Her breathing time stopped, her heart stopped. And then she was new—blindingly, achingly new—her muscles twisted and loose all at once as her torso sprung like a coil 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 swallow the vociferation pushing up her throat so that no one else would hear.

Oh oh oh oh

Another Wave started. Masha-il 's articulatio genus gave out and she collapsed onto her side. Her eyes 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 agony ( slightly alarming ) as watercourse of White person gush onto her skin and the sigh she breathed out shook them both.

Abdel-Nasser groaned and flopped into a heap, all weaponry and legs. His pass 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 daze. How she would have loved to snuggle against his chest, hold him close to her until dawning, but the separate percentage of her mental capacity stepped in to need control.

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

His feature article had a new effeminateness to them, the skin stretched less tightly around his jaw and cheekbones, his impertinence flushed and travail on his forehead.

Was he dreaming behind his eyelid ? Dreaming about her ?

Crouching on her blackguard, Masha-il let go and kissed him total on the lip. His lips parted, his lingua get together hers, and her heart jumped when his oculus flickered, a illumination raetam leafy vegetable, glazed and sweet with marvel. Had her own eyes turned blue ? she wondered. She would have got to tally in the mirror in her bedroom.

Lightly he ran a fingerbreadth along her cheek to her chin and then his lid dropped, a drapery shutting, and she felt the ship's boat knot between her wooden leg pounding like a bruise.

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

'' Sleep well, my military officer, '' she whispered into the darkness. `` quietus well. ``

Next daybreak, he proposed to her, and her Father of the Church and mother agreed.They married.And war ended with the victory of Arab Republic of Egypt, Hijaz and the profane values.And the defeat and execution of House of Saud, their army and their Salafis Wahhabis clerics .