by Ann Jacobs
His throbbing cock demanded release. Release that was very close to bubbling from his loins.
Too close if he was to trap her in her own seductive game. Jamil breathed deeply, struggling to regain control.
His muscles aching from having been stretched for too long in the same uncomfortable position, he stroked along the outer curves of breasts cloaked in the thin fabric of her tunic.
Her little moan and the shudder that reverberated through his fingers made him bolder. With his thumbs, he found and circled her distended nipples.
And felt the jewelry she wore where none could see.
Somehow it made her seem more human. Less the scarred sister who lurked in the shadow of Dubaq's pregnant wife. And less the dominatrix taking her fill of his helpless body under the cover of night and garments that covered her from head to toe.
Before war had torn her world apart, had she loved and laughed and worn bright clothes? Had she danced naked for a lover the way Jamil had once expected his wife would someday dance for him, before that same war had snatched away his hopes and dreams?
He felt the chain and gave it a gentle tug. Her pussy clenched tighter around his cock, and her nipples tightened more against the pads of his thumbs.
"I wish to taste you here," he said as he pulled at both nipples and the chain that joined them. Then he lowered his hands, grasped the hem of her tunic.
"No." She flattened her body against his chest and grasped his seeking arms.
Her silk hijab tickled his cheek when he rubbed it against the side of her head. "Your scars will not repulse me."
"You cannot know this." As if to distract him, Leila moved faster, took his cock deeper with every downward stroke of her hips.
Jamil abandoned his quest to bare her breasts and sank his fingers into the firm, bare flesh of her bottom. When she attempted to free herself, he held her fast. "You are soft here," he said. "Much softer than the shroud you wear."
Warm, damp bursts tickled his neck, letting him know his touch aroused her, too. He felt rather than heard her tiny moan when he loosened his hold and began to stroke her trembling ass and thighs.
He loved how she seemed to respond to his slightest touch. The contractions of her pussy around his cock and the fresh gush of moisture onto his balls told more than the harder, faster, almost desperate pace of her fucking.
She was about to come.
And so was he. Clasping her silk-shrouded head in his hands, he dragged her down until their mouths met. Fucked her mouth with his tongue the way she was fucking herself on his cock. He encircled her slender body with his arms when her pussy spasmed around him, and he shot burst after burst of semen into her demanding womb.
"I would be the one to ride you, houri. Would you release me from my chains?" he whispered later as she lay on him, her energy spent.
"Perhaps tomorrow, my prisoner."
* * * * *
Her prisoner. No longer could she think of Jamil as her slave. Pleasantly sated from last night's sexual feast, Leila sipped her strong, sweet coffee and picked a plump date from the plate in the center of the table.
"We must prepare to return to Baghdad. I received word the Americans are expected to attack any day," Dubaq told Mernoosh. "My men will be needed to fight."
"When?" Mernoosh asked.
"In three days' time. First the Kuwaiti must complete the repairs I have been ordered to see done in the oilfield."
Leila's mouth went dry, and her pulse quickened. "Will we take the prisoners when we go?"
"Foolish woman. They will die here. Do you think I want witnesses if I am dragged before the courts our enemies promise for those who they will claim have committed crimes against humanity?"
Dubaq's beady eyes glittered when he spoke of murder. And Mernoosh seemed not to care what atrocities her husband might have committed. Might still commit.
But Leila wanted the Kuwaiti to live. "I have not yet had my fill of the Kuwaiti," she said before she could hold back the words.
"Let him pleasure her while he lives, husband. It is not as though some worthy man might choose to take her to his couch." Mernoosh stroked Dubaq's thigh, as if to remind Leila she had a man while Leila did not.
Dubaq laughed. "It shall be as you say. I have no time to make his and the American's deaths slow and memorable. Perhaps the American…" He paused, as though considering the degree of pain he might inflict in three short days. "No. If we are to close this camp, I have no time to devote to torture. They shall die together before we take our leave."
So soon? As Leila went about the chore of packing her sister's meager household effects that morning, she realized she had but three short days to take her fill of Jamil. Three nights to lie in his embrace and take her pleasure.
She wanted more.
And she didn't want Jamil to die for no better reason than to save Dubaq the risk of having witnesses to testify in some future court trial as to the extent of his brutality.
She reminded herself Jamil was an enemy.
Yes, Jamil had probably killed Iraqis. So had the American. More to the point, their allies had killed Saqr. But those killings had been the byproducts of waging war. Dubaq, she realized, relished killing for killing's sake.
He certainly took pleasure in torture. She'd cringed at the evidence of brutal beatings, seeing prisoners paraded about with newly severed fingers and toes. And hearing anguished screams from the bunker during amputations and castrations performed by her brother-in-law's own hands. Dubaq had obviously relished each and every act of brutality that had preceded the deaths of his prisoners.
Leila recounted thirteen brutal murders since she and Mernoosh had arrived at the encampment. Allah only knew how many there might have been in the years before that.
Blood pounded in her head. Her fingers tingled not at the memory of how Jamil's muscles had rippled beneath them last night, but at the thought of the previous day and how that other prisoner's cool, clammy flesh had grown colder each moment while she'd wielded a razor, preparing him for his final humiliation before death.
At least the man named Asad had cheated Dubaq of his last fiendish act of pleasure. He had entered paradise still a man.
Leila should not care. The Kuwaiti she was using meant nothing to her. Nothing but a lingam, hands, and a mouth to bring her pleasure. That they were attached to a human with a heart and soul and feelings should make no difference.
But even now she might be carrying Jamil's child. What would that child think if he learned one day that his mother had raped his father and then allowed him to be unceremoniously slaughtered like a lamb for a feast?
Folding Mernoosh's best hand-woven table covering and placing it in a box for transport, Leila tried to put Jamil from her mind. There was nothing she could do to change his fate even if she tried. But she could not help remembering how good it felt when she released the chains from his wrists and he held her in his arms.
In her own way, Leila cared for the first man who had brought her pleasure since Saqr's untimely death. What if anything she could do to save him, however, remained a mystery.
* * * * *
As soon as the two other guards were out of hearing range, Jamil made his proposition to Maktoum, the Marsh Arab who usually guarded him but who had been ordered to work with him and Brian today on the damaged pump. A proposition that could easily backfire and end Jamil's life before the sun went down.
"What makes you think I would betray my countrymen?" Maktoum asked after Jamil spelled out his request.
Jamil chose his words carefully. "Your countrymen have betrayed your people, left you to become their minions or starve. You appear to cringe at the atrocities Dubaq has committed on his helpless prisoners." Pausing, he looked the Marsh Arab in the eye. "And once you get to Kuwait, my cousin will pay you well."
Maktoum's black eyes glittered, and his thin lips curved up in semblance of a smile. "What is in it for me besides money? I could earn a few dinars more safely by continuing my work fo
r the army."
"Freedom. And it's not a few dinars you will earn, but more than you've ever seen. My family is wealthy and loves me well."
"You wish me to go tonight?" the man asked as though he'd made his decision.
Jamil no longer had the luxury of time. Not with Dubaq's men scurrying about, packing equipment and ammunition while they talked about returning to Baghdad in preparation for an American invasion.
His days were numbered. Besides, tonight was not one of Maktoum's nights to guard the prison bunker. If he didn't set his plans in motion now, he might never have another opportunity. "Yes. It must be tonight. "
Jamil explained how Maktoum must cross the border into Kuwait, contact his cousin Dahoud el Rashid, and enlist his help with the planned escape. "Can you remember all this?"
"Yes. But if I am to do it, you must do something for me. Not dinars, though they will be most appreciated. You must bring with you my grandfather, Zayed. He cannot survive here alone. And you must know I cannot return."
Jamil had no doubt the vengeance Dubaq would take on one of his own who had betrayed him would involve a slow and painful death. Although he did not quite believe the guard's assurances that his elderly grandfather could hold his own on the arduous journey they faced, he agreed to take him with them.
It was clearly a condition Maktoum would not negotiate.
And it was equally obvious to Jamil that it was in his own best interests not to complete the repairs on the pump today.
If he and the American were still here when the pump repair was finished or when Dubaq pulled his troop out of this prison camp, whichever came first, Dubaq was going to kill them. Logic told Jamil their deaths, if it came to that, would be quicker and less painful if delayed until the moment of the troop's departure.
Insha'Allah, before that time came Maktoum would have reached Dahoud and help would be on the way. He and the American would have escaped alive from the hellish bunker that had been his home for eleven years. And the guard's elderly grandfather would have been found to possess the strength and endurance of a camel. He would require such traits to endure the arduous trek across the desert.
As he fiddled with the mechanism that controlled the flow of oil into the main pipeline under the watchful eye of one of Dubaq's men, Jamil mentally plotted his desperate attempt to hold onto life-and regain his freedom in the bargain.
* * * * *
I don't want to do this, Diane.
In spite of himself, Brian lay chained to his cot, his cock as hard as stone as he listened to the sounds of Jamil having sex with the Iraqi woman as they bounced off the concrete bunker walls. Slapping sounds and low-pitched moans reminded him of the bride he hadn't seen for eleven long years. The hot, sweet nights they'd shared before he had shipped out to fly his F-15 in the Gulf War.
"Two of us can give you twice the pleasure, houri," Jamil said, his words punctuated by the woman's orgasmic scream. "Imagine my cock in your pussy like this, and his in your mouth. Or your sweet, tight ass."
"Do you truly want to share this with another man?"
"I want but to satisfy you. If it takes more than one of us…"
"It does not. More. Ohhh." She sounded the way Diane used to, just before she came. "Do not stop."
"His cock would fill you better than my fingers."
Apparently Jamil was having no better luck persuading the woman to release them both than Brian was having, fighting the futile urge to rip loose his chains and take care of his raging hard-on with his hand.
And the conversation Brian heard clearly through the thin wall that connected his and the Kuwaiti's cells made his balls tighten, his dick harden and throb against his belly. Involuntarily, his hips lifted as though there were a hot, wet woman just out of reach.
Hard breathing. Moans. Simultaneous screams of satisfaction told Brian his fellow prisoner and the Iraqi woman had achieved what he was denied.
Then silence, as though they rested for the next bout of erotic sport.
"He can hear us, you know," Jamil said while Brian lay in an agony of unfulfilled lust, unable to relieve himself. "Do you not want to let the American join in our pleasure?"
"I am no whore, Kuwaiti. Besides, you satisfy me well. I need no other man."
More than the woman's hormones were tied up with Jamil. She would, Brian imagined, set Jamil free before she would watch their jailer kill him. Perhaps she would let him go, too, if his fellow prisoner asked her to.
Brian willed his erection to subside, half relieved that she had rejected Jamil's suggestion of a ménage à trois. If he managed to survive and escape this hell, Brian would have the satisfaction of knowing he'd remained faithful to Diane.
Chapter Five
Under the desert moon, Maktoum pulled the ancient GAZ personnel carrier he had stolen off the road, abandoned it, and crept silently toward the Kuwaiti border three kilometers away, keeping well away from the rutted roadway.
Sweat rolled off his brow, caused more by icy terror than by the heat of the night. He had no illusions about what would happen to him if he were caught in this no-man's land. He would be a dead man.
Dubaq, the monster captain of the oilfield and prison regiment Maktoum had just deserted, would undoubtedly see to it that his death would be slow and painful. Death here at the hands of the border guards would at least be quick and relatively merciful.
The note Maktoum carried from the Kuwaiti prisoner weighed heavily in the pocket of the dingy brown robe he wore over worn-out army fatigues. Its color, he hoped, would blend with the desert sand and keep him from attracting the attention of guards he knew would be stationed at the checkpoint on the border.
A falcon swooped down from the sky and caught an unsuspecting desert snake, reminding him that danger came not only from creatures on the ground but from above.
Close. He was close now. Sounds of men talking in Arabic rang in his ears. Not the Arabic he had been taught, but some incomprehensible dialect. Had he crossed into Kuwait already?
He did not know. But he was certain the Kuwaiti town of Abdali lay on the road he had recently abandoned, not far beyond the border with Iraq. It was there where the prisoner had said he could find a telephone and contact this Dahoud el Rashid who would fill his pockets with Kuwaiti dinars.
The journey had been difficult, even though he had covered most of the distance in the stolen truck. His legs ached, and he gasped to force air beyond the constriction in his chest.
Maktoum tried not to think of how much more difficult his grandfather Zayed's trip would be, made on foot in the company of the two condemned prisoners.
But the old man had yearned to die free. And this was most likely his last chance to escape the tyranny he hated so much.
Nearly ninety years old, Zayed had outlived three wars, four wives, ten sons and daughters, and all of his thirty-eight grandchildren except Maktoum. Perhaps he would survive to escape the oppression he had endured for years under Saddam Hussein's despotic rule.
There.Maktoum saw shadows in the darkness. He blinked, thinking it was an illusion. But they were still there. And there were lights. He must have crossed into Kuwait moments earlier, and that must be Abdali in the distance. Excited, he increased his pace, less wary now of being seen. Surely the letter from the prisoner would save him now, should he stumble into the hands of Kuwaiti soldiers.
Unless the soldiers should decide to kill him first and ask questions later.
When Maktoum reached an army outpost much larger than the one the prisoner had described, his mention of the name of the man he had been instructed to contact brought him not a jail cell but a phone and refreshments, both supplied with shocking speed.
He quenched his thirst with a cold, sweet fruit drink as he dialed the number Jamil had given him for Dahoud el Rashid.
* * * * *
"Hello." Shana el Rashid stretched out on the sleeping couch, her sleek naked body brushing her husband's when she reached over him to get the phone. "Bear, it's for you
. I can't understand what the man wants."
Bear groaned. Damn it, he hated having his sleep interrupted for any reason other than to pleasure his beloved wife. "Another problem at the new oilfield, I suppose," he mumbled, taking the phone.
"Dahoud el Rashid here," he said in Arabic into the offending instrument. "What in Allah's name is so important that it can't wait until morning?"
But it wasn't the assistant foreman he had expected to hear. This was a man who called himself Maktoum. He spoke a strange dialect of Arabic and said what Bear thought meant he was delivering a message from his lost cousin, Jamil al Hassan.
Jamil? "Slow down, Maktoum. Tell me again that my cousin lives and that he wants my help."
Wide awake now, Bear snatched up a pad and pen, and scribbled down information as Maktoum blurted it out. Damn. He could hardly make out what the man was saying, other than to catch a few words and try to string them into something comprehensible. "You are in Abdali?"
Turning to Shana, he covered the mouthpiece. "Get me a map, love. And find a place called Abdali. It's in northern Kuwait, in Al Jahrah province near the Iraqi border."
A moment later she returned, kneeling beside him with the map spread out on the couch. With a long, painted fingernail, she pointed out a small town about halfway between Al Jahrah and Al Basrah, just across the border from Iraq.
"I see where it is now. We will meet you there," he said into the phone before hanging up and pulling Shana into his arms.
"Jamil lives," he told her, his hands unsteady as he digested the unexpected news. Holding out a hand, he steadied Shana when she rose gracefully off the carpet by the couch. "Insha'Allah, he will succeed in this scheme to escape his captors."