An Egyptian soldier in 2015 War against household of Saud & their Salafis
clerics.With a Hejazi Virgin of a worldly family who loved Egypt and its profane values and hated star sign of Saud and their Salafis clerics.


To the memory board of Princess Misha'al bint Fahd al Saud



He was gone again.

Masha-il put her Christian Bible of Nizar Qabbani poems on the floor and looked to the bed, where he lay. Darkness covered the window in the tiny room, and beyond it, crisp hot air, airfield of sand and heat, flaxen dunes rising like ramparts into a moonless sky. The only Light came from the bedside lamp, which cast an amber freshness onto his boldness. She could sit here for hours. All night, if she dared, just gazing at him.

Her officer.

Sometimes he cried out in his quietus. Words she could n't empathize. Some of them sounded like names. At Night they stabbed through her dreaming and brought her to the threshold, where she watched him toss and mumble like he wanted to confuse off the blankets and get back to his mission, whatever it was.

Slipping off the stool, she crept closer to his mattress. He lay on his back, mouth slightly open. The xanthous spark washed away the wanness of his cutis, the apparition under his eyes, made him count jr. and healthier. And he did seem healthier now that the hollows of his impudence had filled out thanks to female parent 's hearty mutton shorbo.

She straightened his pillow and pulled the red wool mantle finisher to his Kuki. He might be cold, she reasoned, even though the febrility was almost gone and he had stopped shaking like he had malaria. His black hair's-breadth tangled around his human face, touched his shoulder joint. She should brush it for him. He smelled of max and tea leafage, anise combine with sweat. A manly smell.

Around her finger she twisted a yearn black ringlet, one of the two that trailed from underneath her crimson headscarf. A drug abuse when she was near him. Delicately, she stroked a lock of hair from his forehead, as she often did while he slept, feeling her breather tighten at the scar carved through his mightily brow, ending at the top his cheekbone.

There was so much she wanted to make love. So much to teach 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 brother, had bounded into the valley, AK Kalashnikov rifle bouncing around his neck, shouting that a Saudi spy had tried to dash one of the sheep. ( Because we do not consider ourselves Saudi but Hijazis, the archetype and right name of our country and our nationality ).

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

He came back half an hour later with a dark-haired man slung over his articulatio humeri, unconscious. Found face-down in the blow outside a cave, gripping the barrelful of an AK, more deadened than alive. Not a Saudi, in fact, but an Egyptian US Army officer—declared by the copper Saladin Eagle insignia on his war machine beret. On their side in the war against the ( theatre of Saud ), Saudis & Salafis clerics spreading through the region.

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

And so he belonged to them, this inscrutable stranger. No telling how he had come to be in the Hijaz Mountains, or what he was doing there. During those early on days they were n't even certain if he would hold out. His breathing was shallow and laboured—tuberculosis, they assumed—and whenever his eyes fluttered open, he was too feverish to speak or make any sense.

Frightened for him, she hovered while Mother sponged his forehead and agitate poultices 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 childhood, ones she had sung to Nahar when he was a baby. She would hold liked to deem his hands, 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 father, female parent, and herself. Less so for Nahar, since he had to apologize for almost shooting him.

At last he had a epithet. Abdel-Nasser. deputy colonel Abdel-Nasser Muhammad Ali from a especial unit of the Egyptian Army. He wanted to pass on immediately, but begetter insisted that he stay with them. It was decided that as soon as Abdel-Nasser was well enough to travel, father would deal some of his yaks and buy a orbiter phone so that Abdel-Nasser could contact the army and go abode. backrest to 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 of the Church knew a piffling bit more.

The communication barrier disheartened her. She did n't speak Egyptian dialect like founding father or spiel chess like Nahar. But she could spoon-feed him shorba ( soup ), hold a cup of tea to his lips, and read to him from Father 's humble library—poetry, romantic and historical epics, even a few children 's al-Qur'an. He would heed, a smile on his expression, and she would take attention to animate her vocalism 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 least she could do. The Charles Herbert Best she could do.

Today, however, she had made a bigger effort.

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

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

'' You miss ? ``

He broke their gaze. `` Yeah. ``

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

War was a unspeakable thing and no one could argue that. Then again, what did she get laid, a twenty-year-old Hijazi girl who had left commercial secondary school two old age ago, who spent her Clarence Shepard Day Jr. tending sheep and would probably end up marrying a leaden boy from a neighbour village ? What on Earth could she possibly know about how the world worked ? Yet as despicable as war was, she felt a incapacitated gratitude for whatever Sir Ernst Boris Chain of result had crossed her way with Abdel-Nasser's.

She touched his frontal bone again. Was person else waiting for him in Egypt—a charwoman sleepless with worry who had no way of knowing that he slumbered on the flooring of a white-washed Harlan Stone bungalow at the bottom of a valley of Tihamah, while she knelt beside him and listened to his quiet, steady breathing time ?

She missed his optic when they were closed. He had the most beautiful oculus, sometimes pitch-dark, sometimes as brownish as hers, with gold speckle close to his flag, like flake of sunniness. Exquisitely molded sassing, too. The tiny bulwark above his left lip gave her mouth a tingle.

She could kiss it. If she had the nerve.

Just then Abdel-Nasser stirred and the blanket slipped from his berm, exposing his neck and a triangle of skin where the grey flannel nightshirt hung open. Her palms itched. She twisted the whorl tighter around her finger. 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 daub on the flowing lavender material. Her prettiest dress. She had made it herself.

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

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. bout came to her eyes. Who had done this to him ? What had he done to deserve it ? What could any homo have done to merit being beaten so badly ?

Watching the scrape stretch and sink over the bony ridges of his ribcage, she wanted to kiss them. Run her knife over the wheal and coil and realize them go away so that his organic structure would be staring again, as it must throw been once.

The cluster of haircloth around his navel pulled her eyes downward. His abdomen was almost concave, like the flesh below his ribs had been sucked out by a anthropophagus with a boozing straw. 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 whisker to the waistband of his flannel pant, to the at large knot that held them together. They were just as baggy, but not loose-fitting enough to conceal the mound between his legs.

Her heart pounded in her throat.

She wanted to see him. It. All of him. Nahar and her parents were in bed and Abdel-Nasser could allow for any day. She might not get another chance. 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 trouble ?

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

oceanic abyss breath. One ... two ... three ... Her hands trembled and her heart beat tatty enough to deaf them both, but she did it anyway. Untied the knot, slid the knickers over the Gemini knobs of his hipbones, making sure her fingernails did n't graze his skin. Should she close her oculus, too—make it a surprise ? No, she did n't want to pretermit anything.

Her mouth tingled again. It looked like a mushroom-shaped cloud with a farsighted thick angry walk, a sarcoid tube nestled beneath a plot of land of wiry hair that was so much darker than the hair on his headway. What an odd thing to compare it—him—to. But she had no other image to works next to it. The only other time she had seen a boy 's private component was when she bathed Nahar when he was little ( which also did n't numeration ).

A heat had started to spread, warming her nerve, her pectus, her arms, gathering in the place where she occasionally touched herself, thinking of Abdel-Nasser as she did ( and before him, a sealed handsome boy from shoal ). Now that she had gone this far, she wanted to touch on it. Just once, so she would know what it—he—felt like.

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

After a few minute it twitched and she snatched her bridge player 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 W. C. Handy so that she could perch without touching him, her dress puddled around her waist and her whorl hanging on either side of his boldness and all she wanted to do was buss those beautiful sassing, so close to hers.

Would he listen ?

A jog on her inner thigh 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 open up. Wide open.

Her heart rammed against her ribcage.

His oculus gazed straight into hers, a jolting nigrify like an ebony sun in an bone sky, and she could n't look away, could n't move.

His hands awakened at the periphery of her vision, she hardly saw them, his leave alone bridge player burrowing under her dress to her waistline and his correct mitt pulling aside her panty, pressing down, down on the crease where her belly joined the top of her hip until she felt a push, 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, quick, searing.

bout stung her oculus and she felt her dispirited lip tilt. 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 got ... after all, she had undressed him. Stared at and touched it—him—that region of his consistency that was now inside her.

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

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

Their eyes stayed locked together as he slid his hired man under her frock again, under her buttocks, and lifted her up, pressed her forward, then lowered her. Pain jab each time he moved into her, even when he molded the small of her back to their motion. Yet he was being docile, she could sense it, and gradually her hip joint loosened and they eased into a beat, the painfulness subsiding into a bearable aching, then a ho-hum delighting detrition that began to carry her breath away.

So this is what he 's like ... a pocket of her idea had closed itself off, had resisted melting, so that it could record every touch, every sense of smell, ensuring that by and by she would be able to cabal up the soap-anise perfume of his skin, the estrus of his breath on her face and the ragged edges of his scars beneath her fingertips, the precise moment his smile contorted into a gasp, the tendon running through his shoulder joint, flexing under her palm, and the tendon in his neck straining like cords as he draped her dress over her shoulders and craned his chief to kiss her naked breasts, exciting her nipples into hard buds with his tongue, as intemperate 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 stay quiet. Yes, she wanted to groan. That feels so well. Please do n't stop.

The change of stride surprised her. Mid-thrust he rolled them so that they lay face to face—for an heartbeat their olfactory organ touched, tangency unbroken—then he scooped an arm around her waist and pulled her onto her hands and knees, dug his fingers into the bender of her arse to steady her. trouble 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 phone she made were strange to her ears, tidal bore high-pitched whimpers, coming from the back of her pharynx. What was happening to her ? Be quiet, she told herself.

Abdel-Nasser made phone, too, thirsty grunting sound as his lips dipped to her neck opening, her earlobes, the base of her spine. His front took on an urgency, and Masha-il felt the same urgency seeping through her tegument, her venous blood vessel, like a heatwave, felt herself opening a little wider from his thrusts. Squirming against him, she bucked her coxa, clawed the blankets, kicked off her carpet slipper. The offprint function of her judgment could see the two of them on the mattress, tangled in each other 's apparel and their torso interlocked like animals', their dark dancing on the rampart ( or were they writhing ? ) in the dim light from the bedside lamp.

to a greater extent more more yes

The concluding twinges of pain had faded, a pressure was construction, a hot prickling itch spurred by Abdel-Nasser 's digit rubbing and rubbing her not-so-secret blank space in wet, slippery roofy. He was making her into someone new. somebody bold and wanton and pure, individual she wanted to be. Making her into a woman.

One leaning of her head 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 breathing time stopped, her spirit stopped. And then she was new—blindingly, achingly new—her heftiness twisted and loose all at once as her body sprung like a coil unwinding. The harder she bit the more she unwound, her insides tumbling like a landslip in her deepest centre, and the more she had to swallow the cries pushing up her pharynx so that no one else would hear.

Oh oh oh oh

Another wave started. Masha-il 's stifle 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 streams of white spout onto her tegument and the sigh she breathed out shook them both.

Abdel-Nasser groaned and flopped into a wad, all arms and wooden leg. His head word 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 have loved to cuddle against his pectus, hold him close to her until dawning, but the separate component part of her mind stepped in to take control.

With the hem of her attire, she wiped a trickle of blood, her blood, from his inner thigh and mopped the wet patch above her articulatio genus ( so much for her prettiest dress ). Then she pulled up his trousers, tied them, and buttoned his shirt, covered him carefully with the red blanket, found her carpet slipper, adjusted her headscarf that was miraculously still in tact.

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

Was he dreaming behind his palpebra ? Dreaming about her ?

Crouching on her bounder, Masha-il let go and kissed him entire on the mouth. His lips parted, his lingua coming together hers, and her meat jumped when his eyes flickered, a light juniper William Green, glazed and sweet with marvel. Had her own eye turned blue ? she wondered. She would take in to delay in the mirror in her bedroom.

Lightly he ran a finger along her cheek to her Kuki and then his eyelids dropped, a curtain shutdown, and she felt the supply ship knot between her legs throb like a bruise.

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

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

Next morning, he proposed to her, and her father and mother agreed.They married.And war ended with the victory of United Arab Republic, Hijaz and the secular values.And the licking and execution of House of Saud, their army and their Salafis Wahhabis clerics .