by Selena Kitt
Emily let the kiss consume her, never once thinking to come up for air, letting her fingers tangle into his hair. As he dominated her mouth, all the little hurts she still felt in her body, the headache, the sore ankle, the dozen small cuts where the shrapnel had hit, all faded to nothing. His erection poked up in his fatigues; she could feel it pressed against her bare pussy through the thick fabric, and she ground herself against it.
Mike dumped Emily on the bed and sat down next to her. "Spread your legs. Keep them spread." She was naked and he was not; this was a theme of their sex life that they had often used. One of his favorite things to do with her had been to keep her naked for an entire weekend while he was fully clothed.
Today, however, there would be no games. He began tearing frantically at his boots and socks, then dragging his combat fatigues down, watching her while he did so. "Wider. I want to see you." And then: "Put your hands on the bed frame. Hold on, and do not let go. If you do, I'll spank your pussy."
Obediently, gasping at his words, she did what he asked, reached her arms back and grasped the old-fashioned metal bars.
Mike knew a moment of dark satisfaction. He knew what threats turned his little slut on. He knew what she liked.
In a second, he was naked, stretched out next to her, his fingers hard on her clit, his mouth on her nipple. But after about ten seconds of that, he was done. There was no waiting, not this time. That was her foreplay, take it or leave it.
Mike slid over her, knelt up, and grabbed her ass with two hands, grabbed her and impaled her. There was absolutely no other word for it.
It had been two years, but her wet pink tight pussy opened for him like he'd never left it. Roughly, he began moving Emily up and down his hard cock. Tipped back as she was he could see her clit plainly, could see its little tip coming out of its small pink hood, but because of the angle of her body, she wasn't getting anything where she needed it. "Please let me, oh God Mike," she begged incoherently.
He ignored her. Her round ass in his hands felt great, and there was no way he was letting go. He couldn't get to her with his fingers, he couldn't get to her with his mouth, and that was just too damn bad. He'd take his first and if she didn't like it, oh well. She'd get over it. He slammed into her again and again. Finally in desperation she let go of the bed frame and tried to reach her own clit.
Then he stopped. "If you don't put your hands back on that bedframe, Emily, I will tie them. And once I come, I will spank you so hard that you will not sit for a week. And then, I will not let you come. Ever. Again." Even as he said it, he realized that the threat was just a bit over the top… he'd have to let her come eventually… but the threat to spank her caused her to catch her breath in her throat in a half-sob. Her eyes darkened still further with lust, and she put her hands back on the bedframe.
Then, and only then, did he start up again, a demanding rhythm that took more than it gave. Without warning, the pressure building inside Michael burst and an immense wave of pleasure washed over him. He growled out through his climax, dimly aware that he was so loud they would hear him in the cafe downstairs. He tried to control his shouts but knelt up there was nothing to press his face against, and he gave up trying.
When he finally got his breathing under control, then and only then, did Michael let his cock slip out of her. She cried out at the loss. He rolled out of the bed and headed back to the bathroom. "Keep your legs spread and do not let go of the bedframe, Emily, unless you want that spanking, and right now."
"Mike…" she begged, and he ignored her.
Returning to the bedroom with a damp washcloth, Mike watched Emily's expression. She knew what was coming. "Mike no, please."
Mike knelt in front of her and pressed the warm cloth between her legs. His cum flowed out of her and he loved seeing it. He teased her clit just enough with the cloth to get her moaning.
When he'd finished his thorough task, Mike tossed the cloth on his bedside table, lay between her legs, and began trailing kisses down Emily's stomach. "Did you leave your hands where I told you?"
"Yes," she whispered.
"So I guess you're not getting a spanking." He trailed down even farther and caught her clit in a long soothing, sucking bite. She was so aroused, she was near coming after just a few seconds. He stopped and held her with his eyes. "If you move your hands or try to put your legs together, I'll do this with two fingers up your ass."
The threat very nearly put her over the edge, and as soon as he began tonguing her hard clit in earnest, she screamed out an orgasm of her own.
Chapter Eight
Five hours later, Mike sat with her on the apartment's spartan sofa, with Emily wrapped in a bed sheet, cradled on his lap. After their incredible sex, they had both passed out, but the demands of his stomach and his bladder had awakened him. With one glance at his watch, he knew that time was running out.
He had scooped her up, taking her out to the apartment's small sitting room, hoping that it would wake her up and keep her awake, but that looked like a forlorn hope. Her breathing was soft and regular, and Mike realized she'd fallen right back asleep. Other than the bedsheet, she was naked.
Did what had happened in the bedroom mere hours ago mean they were going to pick up their relationship again? What the hell was he going to do with her? He remembered when he was flying into Turkey, thinking about the 'precincts of pain' mantra. He was mad then, and was still mad now, but that was all bluster. He could never hurt her. Well, he could hurt her a little: nothing would give him more pleasure than to turn her over his knee and paddle her bare ass for a while, paddle her until she howled, while he lectured her about responsibility and carelessness and thinking about the people who loved you, but really hurt her? Not in this lifetime.
Really, he couldn't even begin to think about what was going to happen long term, could not let himself get distracted, because he desperately need to focus on what he needed to do over the short term .
He glanced at his watch again to verify. It was just after 2 p.m. local time. They'd been in the apartment about six hours, and it was seven hours since his last contact via comms, where he had announced that he was dumping his equipment and would be back with his driver in an hour.
Delta operators had a great deal of training and with that training, under normal circumstances, went a lot of autonomy and trust. The assumption was that he knew what he was doing and that he would get out and get out safely, one way or another. If this were a normal mission, it would be at least a couple of hours before anyone seriously became concerned.
But this cluster-fuck of a mission had broken all the rules. He'd just been sent in to exfil the President's own niece on a moment's notice, and then just as quickly ordered to abandon her. People were going to be very interested in what had happened, and neither of them was out of the woods at this point. Above all else, his behavior had to be by the books from here on out, or they would figure out he'd lied. They'd find her, they'd probably kill him, and it would be for nothing.
And it all came down to whatever it was that she was carrying in that damn backpack. Mike needed more information.
"Baby… Emily. Wake up. We've got to talk."
"No…" The cry was heartfelt and pathetic, but Mike was firm.
"I mean it. I'm sorry, but we need to talk. I'm going to have to check in fairly soon, or they're going to start looking for me. Before I do that, I am going to figure out how to hide you, maybe for a long time. And I can't do that unless I know what's in your backpack. They said it was stolen antiquities. You're smuggling… artifacts?"
Emily laid her head back against Mike's chest and snuggled more fully into his body. "I don't even know where to start. I'll just try to keep it simple." She took a deep breath. "You know that Jesus had a lot of disciples." As if it had a mind of its own, his hand slipped under the sheet and began stroking her bottom gently.
"Jesus? You mean THE Jesus?" She nodded. "Yeah, of course. Mathew, Mark, Luke, John and…" Mike realized his Sunday Schoo
l days were way too far in the past. He waved his hand, "and a bunch of others." He thought for a second. "Peter. And Judas who betrayed him."
Emily snickered. "Yeah, that's right. And there were others, too. One of the others was another Judas."
"I thought that was the one who betrayed him. For silver. And hanged himself." Mike was proud of himself for remembering. Sunday School was coming back to him in spades.
"There was more than one Judas. It was a common name. Like Bob or Tom or… Mike would be today. To keep them separate, a lot of times they refer to one of them as Judas and one of them as Jude, but it historically, linguistically, it was the same name. Huda in Aramaic. No one knows what happened to Jude, but one of the traditions concerning him was that he was also the actual biological brother of Jesus. Another tradition is that he went into what is now Syria and taught the people there."
"Into the mountains of Syria?" Mike asked slowly. He was starting to see where this might be going.
Emily nodded. They both knew the area well, and if someone wanted to hide out, there could be no better place. Not much had changed in two thousand years. She went on, "There have been legends, traditions, rumors for many years that Jude left a gospel. A complete gospel. Supposedly, a copy was brought back to Europe by the Crusaders and then disappeared. Another copy was given to the Vatican around four hundred years ago, and that one promptly disappeared as well."
"A Gospel? That's like a Bible book, right?"
"Well, more specifically, it's a book that contains the actual story of Jesus's life. As opposed to the Epistles—which are letters. The New Testament is made up of four Gospels, a bunch of Epistles, and then the book of Revelation, which is different than anything else. So… as I said… there have been rumors for years that Jude… St. Jude… left a complete gospel. This is potentially a big problem for a lot of people."
Mike shook his head. "I'm confused. Wouldn't that be good? Wouldn't the churches be happy if an another version of one of the gospels was discovered?"
"This is not another version of one of the gospels. This is a completely new gospel by one of the other disciples. That's a big difference."
"I would think people would be very excited about that."
Emily looked away. "Not if it contradicts, completely, what people commonly believe," she said softly.
Michael's hand on Emily's bottom stilled for just a second. "In what way?"
"Among other things, it states that the vinegar supposedly given to Jesus on the cross wasn't vinegar, but a poison to make him look dead. It says that Jesus was taken down from the cross before he was dead. Do you want to hear the exact quote? I've read it so many times, I know it by heart. And in the ninth hour, when his life had nearly left him, there was a great quaking in the earth, and stones rent asunder. And all said that Yaweh had decreed that this man should not die. And in the midst of it, when all had run away save the women, one Josephus came to the place and ordered the soldier to cut down the body of the Rabbi, who did so for he was afeared."
"Hold it. 'When his life had nearly left him.' Jesus wasn't dead?"
"According to this, when Joseph of Arimathea took custody of Jesus's body, he was not dead. In addition, this book makes no mention of the Virgin birth, the resurrection, or any ascension into heaven. Jesus one day tells his followers that his work is done, walks into the mountains, and is never heard from again. The story that Jude is telling is one of a great teacher and a great Rabbi. A prophet."
"But not God?"
Emily looked up at Mike straight on. "Not God. Not one place in the book is any divine origin for Jesus even suggested."
"Holy shit."
"So, four years ago, when I was first studying here, one of the oldest nuns in the community where I was being tutored took me aside. She told me that there had long been a tradition in the community that a chosen one would come, someone from outside, who was to be entrusted with a great secret of the community. She believed that I was the chosen one. Obviously that was ridiculous, but I wasn't going to argue with her. And when the fighting started, she told me the secret. That the community had been hiding a huge cache of documents for centuries, including supposedly this Gospel of St. Jude. " Emily held up her hand against Mike's interruption. "Now, don't get me wrong. As soon as I saw it, I knew it was something special, but ancient documents are everywhere. Most people don't realize just how many there are. Just the Dead Sea Scrolls were more than a thousand documents. There are documents and fragments of documents in libraries and in private collections all over the world. Literally hundreds of thousands of them, and many have never been translated. And there have been lots of rumors of other Gospels through the years. A couple of years ago, supposedly a letter from Jesus's wife was discovered. It turned out to be a forgery, nothing more."
Restlessly, Emily got to her feet and wrapped the bed sheet around her. As much as Mike would like to have continued to hold her, he knew he had to hear all of this.
"So, I sent off some samples to be tested. To three different labs. And all the tests came back the same. The papyrus and the ink dated from the second half of the first century. So all of a sudden, I had something huge on my hands." Emily walked over to her backpack, opened it and carefully extricated an ancient looking leather case, holding it out to Mike. "Before this time, the oldest Gospel known was a tiny fragment, dating from about 100 A.D. All of a sudden, I have a complete document, from start to finish, over ten-thousand words, reliably dating to within fifty years of Jesus's life, and supposedly written by his brother. Perfectly intact, reliably dated—" she repeated…
Mike interrupted, "and totally contradicting the teachings of every established Christian church."
"Pretty much."
"How did it get to Aleppo?"
"About two years ago, the nuns were captured when there was fighting around their convent. The ISIL rebels found the cache of manuscripts. Fortunately, Sister Ola managed to convince the commander that many of the manuscripts, and this one in particular, were of such value that they should be sold. He took Sister Ola and some of the other sisters hostage and they took them into Aleppo. A few days later, in Russian shelling, the commander was killed. Sister Ola managed to find the documents and hide them in the basement of a house in Aleppo. Sister Ola and the other nuns were finally released by ISIL, but could not get back to the house to retrieve the documents. Apparently, the commander hadn't told anyone about them. Our best guess is that he was going to try to sell them and keep the money for himself." Emily shrugged. "But no one really knows.
"The nuns called me, and I went to my uncle. Asked the President of the United States for help in retrieving the most significant archeological find of the last hundred years."
Mike got off the sofa, walked to the front to the room, and twitched aside the curtain. "And the rest, as they say, is history."
Emily walked up next to him. "I just don't get it though. Why would he want to kill me?"
"I'm not a religious person, but if what you're saying is true, a whole lot of people… millions, maybe billions… have died for something that doesn't exist. You know, Muslims have had the tradition for years that Jesus was just another prophet. It seems to me that if a document shows up that proves that beyond a shadow of a doubt, it would throw everything into chaos."
"And that's enough to kill me over?"
"I think it probably was."
"I don't understand why they didn't just drop a bomb on me, before they ever sent you, then."
"I don't know, Em. I think they wanted me to make sure you actually had it."
"So what do we do now?"
Mike dropped the curtain back down over the window, thinking that was a very good question. A young woman that he knew he could never stop loving held in her hands a document that the President of the United States would commit murder to conceal.
Michael Duncan's world just got a whole lot more complicated.
* * *
Three hours later, a very well-paid taxi
driver pulled up in front of a small stone church in the mountains of Western Syria. A fully veiled Syrian woman, with her eyes suitably downcast, got out.
Her husband stepped out with her, stepped away from the car, and spoke low so the driver could not hear them speaking in English. "The nuns will have to hide you. I will come back for you, but I don't know how long it will take. I need to make completely sure no one doubts the story. If you absolutely need me, go back down to the apartment. I've written the address down here." He handed her a piece of paper. "The man who runs the cafe on the first floor will be able to get in touch with the owner, and he will be able to get in touch with my mother, who will be able to reach me. I know it seems convoluted, but…"
"No," Emily said. "I get it. It's safest for everyone." She glanced through her veil at the driver. Like most taxi drivers the world over, as long as he was being paid, he didn't care what they were doing. "But how long?"
"Depends. If I get sent into Syria on a mission, I'll find some way to get up here. If not, I don't know. But baby, you can't tell anyone you're alive. No postcards to your mom, no Facebook to your friends. Promise me. Swear it."
"I promise." Emily was crying under the veil and she knew the fabric would start to get soaked soon. "What about… us, Mike?"
"The next time I see you, we'll figure it out. I love you, baby." Michael handed her a backpack. "Take care of it."
And with nothing more said, Michael got into the cab and left her standing on the dusty street. She watched until she couldn't see the cab any longer, then turned and rang the bell.
Epilogue
Michael slipped into the back of the dusty chapel. At the front of the chapel, a group of nuns were at evening prayers, twelve nuns all together, facing each other. The only other people in the chapel were six or eight elderly Syrian women kneeling as the nuns chanted.
In his loose didasha and gutrhal head cover, Michael looked like any other Syrian man—except there were no men in the chapel, only old women, kneeling in prayer as the nuns sang. Still no one paid him any mind.