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Message-ID: <47290asstr$1081257002@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Vivian Darkbloom <vdkblm@yahoo-OBLITERATE-SPAM!-.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Reelin' in Iraq - A story of Love awakening (Mg)
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Date: Tue,  6 Apr 2004 09:10:02 -0400
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                        Reelin' in Iraq

                  A story of Love awakening
                     by Vivian Darkbloom

    He woke up in the dark room, for a moment imagining
    himself cozily at home in Montana. But as he tried to
    add up the shapes he saw, to impose the doorway he
    knew against the pattern of light, the old woman
    against his mother, her old wooden chair against the
    familiar ones of his home, his mind reluctantly
    dragged into sufficient wakefulness to realize how
    many thousands of miles he was away from home.

    The old woman smiled to see that he was awake, and
    lovingly pressed the back of her fingers against his
    cheek. Her dark hair, the old-fashioned glasses, her
    wrinkled and dark-freckled olive skin, the
    foreigner's features of her face made him wish to
    cringe with xenophobic revulsion, had he the strength
    to do so. But she must have read the expression on
    his face, and withdrawing her hand, with a knowing
    wisdom, spoke a sentence in their impenetrable tongue
    to the girl standing behind her, about 10 years old.
    The girl drew forward.

    Aside from the dark hair and similar features, the
    two were about as opposite as could be. One young and
    thin, with large, dark curious eyes, leaning on the
    shoulder of the other old and chubby, wise with the
    ways of the world.

    He was starting to remember. The blast. The roadway,
    the people all around.

    "Where's my patrol? Where is everyone? What have you
    done with them?" He demanded, hoarsely.

    The girl seemed to understand a little of what he was
    saying. Her face was one of sadness. She simply drew
    a line with her finger across her throat. The same in
    any language: dead.

    His feeble energy collapsed again.

    He remembered the day before the patrol, receiving
    the news. "Johnson's dead. I'm sorry." His sergeant
    know how close the two had been. After that, setting
    out, northwest of Fallujah. In spite of the news,
    getting out of the bunker the mood was jovial. Smiles
    played on the lips of his five companions in the hot
    sunlight as they cruised the crowded street in the
    armored vehicle. The gears growled as wheels gripped
    the uneven surfaces. The driver, an african-american
    woman he felt an occasional yearning for shifted and
    plied the steering wheel, satisfied with her job.

    As they drove jovially, his mind had drifted again to
    Johnson, the numbingly repetitive shock of hearing
    about yet another attack on American troops, another
    anonymous statistic to the newspapers back home, his
    buddy of ten years back now. Wondering how it had
    been for him, had it been quick? Or was it minutes or
    even hours of consciousness, feeling the blood
    filling his lungs, gasping for breath? Thinking he
    might have a chance, only to realize the fatal
    hardening clutch of death was upon him. That's one
    journey you can only travel alone.

    No, Johnson would not come marching home, but would
    arrive instead inside a giant zip-loc bag. A larger,
    more opaque version of the ones used to package the
    weed or hashish he and Johnson used to score every
    weekend.

    He hated the girl and the woman even more for what
    they had done to Johnson. OK, maybe it was not them.
    But the woman's son, the girl's older brother.
    Madmen, lunatics, every one of them. He hated the
    incomprehensible words they exchanged, the
    unfathomably knowing looks.

    The old woman sighed and placing her hands on her
    knees in the dimly lit room, worked her way out of
    the chair. One more sentence to the girl as she
    waddled out of the room, and the girl took the old
    woman's place in the chair.

    "I take care of you," said the girl, in broken
    english. "Sleep now."

    The last thing he saw before his eyes shut was her
    eyes, beautiful dark wells of curiosity, her
    infuriatingly long black lashes.

    He remembered two days before the patrol, the last he
    saw Johnson still alive, the two of them performing
    reconnaissance on a school that had been bombed.

    He and Johnson were grappling with the question: How
    did one explain to the young boy that what had once
    been his arm lay in a pile of limbs in the corner?
    That American Bombs had condemned him to a life of
    otherness, of crippledom, that a few moments of
    horrible, wrenching impact had altered his future
    forever?

    The worst part was that the boy was so quiet, so
    uncomplaining, so accepting. He wanted the boy to
    rise up shouting, demanding, screaming at the
    unfairness of it all. He spoke no english, but the
    translator relayed the message. "He just wants to
    know, where is my arm," said the old robed man with
    the turban and long grey beard.

    Johnson cursed about it afterward. "Fuckin' W Bush,
    more perverted than a dozen pedophiles. Look at what
    he done to those children. How many lives has he
    fucked up? All `cause of some playground petty
    argument. Saddam insulted his daddy, so he sends in
    the troops and fucks up everybody's life. Shit.
    Fuckin' W bush ain't no more grown up than a 4-year
    old."

    Clever Sergeant, said nothing, simply glared. A mere
    few months ago (another lifetime) such talk would
    have been unthinkable. Disloyalty, unpatriotic. But
    now, with morale crumbling, the mission dragging on,
    Sergeant knew the troops needed to let off steam. He
    was obligated to glare, to cling to the remains of
    established order, but in his heart he knew the same
    feelings of conflict, wrestled sleepless with what
    grueling duty required.

    "W fo' WORTHLESS!" shouted Johnson, after Sergeant
    had left the room. "WORTHLESS FUCKIN' BUSH!"

    Typical Johnson, voicing the frustration he himself
    felt deep inside. But now Johnson was gone, an empty
    silence where the cantankerous familiar voice of his
    friend had once been.

    And now he supposed the others who had been on patrol
    with him were dead as well. His dreams of passion
    with the beautiful afro-american lady-driver,
    fantasized nights of sweaty rhythmic exertion and
    release, were now char-broiled steak riddled with
    shards of glass. He remembered bits and pieces now,
    how he had been sitting in the right rear seat,
    perfectly positioned to flirt with the eyes of the
    beautiful black woman driving, exchanging knowingly
    arched eyebrows, the sound of her lusty
    almost-masculine laughter.

    He remembered how he had seen the bomb, something
    resembling dynamite sticks tied together with wire,
    flying towards the windshield. He had ducked,
    accidentally pulled the latch causing the door to
    fall open, him to fall out. The blinding flash, the
    thundering din, followed by the silence of his
    ringing ears. Perhaps the car door had shielded him
    from the blast. Some cursed miracle that had spared
    him while it released his companions from this hell.

    He knew that the gloriously silky-soft smooth
    feminine face of the driver, a great work of
    beautiful art, had been mercilessly shredded, rudely
    vandalized by unfeeling flame. Obscenely graffitied,
    courtesy of Nasty Worthless Fuckin' Bush and his
    stupid, arrogant, childish playground bickering and
    bullying.

    In her last heroic act, the beautiful negro woman had
    slammed on the brakes, so that when he hit the ground
    the velocity did not kill him. There was her final
    goodbye-kiss, a profound act of tenderness, their
    final lovemaking, her foot jammed hard on the brakes
    gently, caressingly, touched his body through its
    jarring impact on the hard, bumpy road. He felt
    himself falling once more, and darkness closed around
    him and he tumbled into dreams of confusion and
    decay.
      ________________________________________________

    When he awoke, the room was filled with daylight. The
    girl stood before him, holding a tray with food on
    it. Weird, foreigner's food. What happened to good
    ol' steak and potatoes? The kinda breakfast that
    sticks to your ribs! She stood on tiptoes, to set it
    on his lap. Even more infuriatingly beautiful in the
    innocence of morning sunlight, God's new day.

    His hunger awoke with the aroma of warm grain. The
    food was good. He wasn't even sure what it was, but
    it filled him in a way those army rations didn't,
    quite. The girl sat, Indian-style (Persian-style) on
    a mat on the floor beside his bed. Endlessly
    watching, fidgeting childlike, her eyes deep pools of
    secret beauty. She had an elusive quality of the ages
    of time. Sometimes when he looked at her face, he saw
    the contours of ancient civilizations. She seemed at
    once ever so young, yet ancient and wise beyond the
    years of the earth.

    He tried to hate her again, but now bathed in the
    warm cleansing rays of innocent sunlight he found it
    difficult. His mind drifted to the time he and
    Johnson had found a couple of Iraqi whores, how she
    opened her moist vein of pleasure for his throbbing
    desire, her above him like a stormy sky, the sounds
    of pleasure in the next room from Johnson and his
    girl. How when he shot his shrapnel into her abdomen
    it reminded him of the feeling of firing off his
    machine-gun in battle. How his trusty M-4 carbine
    danced like a feather in his hands as it sprayed
    harsh metal U.S. bullets, pain searing through the
    greasy Al-Qaida sleazeball, tearing into the flesh of
    the enemy like nails into bleeding flesh on the
    cross. The sleazy whore, he imagined her moans to be
    cries of agony, her nipples like the hardened tips of
    bullets protruding from the soft flesh of her
    dangling round boobs, hanging above him like strange
    fruit swaying in the branches of the water-balloon
    tree.

    Nearly finished eating now, he muttered to himself,
    "I wonder if these people have any coffee." The girl
    re-appeared (he hadn't noticed she had gone) with a
    large mug full of steaming dark liquid. Gingerly he
    tasted, and instantly almost spat out the
    bitter-sweet syrupy stuff. But coffee it was, and it
    satisfied the need (at least, until he abruptly
    reached the sandy grounds at the bottom)

    When she saw him finish she grinned and held out her
    hand to take the mug. Leaning forward she snatched it
    and bounced away out the door. In the few seconds
    that she was gone, he found himself missing her.
    Damn.

    She returned with a long, cream-colored robe, and for
    the first time he realized he was naked. She held it
    out to him. Where was his camouflage? His equipment?
    His machine-gun?

    He slid, rolling out of the sheets to standing,
    unconsciously running his hand along the back of his
    shaved neck, when he noticed the swelling in the back
    of his skull. Nervously he probed with his fingers,
    until he hit a tender spot that sent sparks of agony
    across his field of vision. OK, better leave well
    enough alone.

    He realized he was standing naked in front of this
    gaunt, beautiful 10-year-old girl, waiting patiently
    for him to take the robe she held, her eyes
    alternating between gazing at his face and glancing
    down at his manhood unfolding in front of her.
    Annoyed at the half-erection, he snatched the robe
    and held it between them.

    Again he tried to be angry, but her fawning gaze
    melted his rage, and try as he might he couldn't
    connect the jumper cables between her and the greasy
    Al-Qaida and the soft sweet loving eyes in front of
    him now.

    He held out the robe in disgust. "I can't wear this,"
    he said. Apparently she mistook his ethnocentric
    narrow-mindedness for the technical uncertainty of
    how to don the garment, and she lifted it from his
    hands and circled behind him, expertly draping it
    over his shoulders. As her gentle fingers smoothed
    the wrinkles down his back, he felt a tingle of
    affectionate yearning.

    Not the kind of yearning he was accustomed to, not
    the usual pelvic twitch, but something softer than
    that. It was a shift within his breast, a calming of
    his heartbeat. As though the egg in the nest shifted,
    finally the warmth of the hen's thighs had yielded
    its fruit, and ready to hatch, the shell began to
    crack and crumble. That was it, a softening of his
    heart. The hardened shell to be replaced by something
    soft and alive.

    He shook his head. He had to hate these people. his
    sanity demanded it. Or did it? They were being so
    kind to him (so far, at least).

    She smiled up at him, and the brightness of the
    innocent morning sunlight filled his soul.

    His mind spun with a million questions. Who were
    these people? What did they want? When were they
    going to let him return to his patrol?

    The mischievous warmth of her smile made all the
    questions fly away like a row seagulls that had been
    standing on the beach being chased by a dog.

    Maybe it was his hatred of her that fanned the flames
    of her affection, the impossible challenge, the
    mountaintop in the distance. Whatever the cause, she
    had succeeded in sinking her hooks into his fragile
    heart, and ever so gradually (but unrelentingly) she
    was reeling him in.

    She took his hand, and led him out into the hallways,
    around a corner, through another door, and he was
    astonished to find himself standing on the edge of an
    enormous beautiful garden, his senses flooded with
    sunlight, sweet floral scents, the buzzing of
    insects, and the fluttering of butterflies.

    The garden was enclosed on the four sides by the
    graceful arches of the home they were in, open to the
    sky above. Pulling on his arm, she led him over to a
    wooden bench, where the two of them sat down
    together, her leaning affectionately against him. He
    sensed unseen eyes on them, and thought he glimpsed
    through the leaves in the other corner of the garden,
    the eyes of the older woman, smiling smugly,
    knowingly behind her glasses.

    His mind was filled with crazy imaginings ... He
    pictured the himself and the girl getting married in
    a big expensive wedding, living together in a big
    expensive house, her by his side as they drove their
    SUV on vacation in the mountains...

    He shook his head. No, he couldn't even be imagining
    such things. Maybe it was something they put into the
    food. Or the coffee. He tried to force his mind to
    reason through the predicament. Surely, he couldn't
    just attempt to escape. First, he would need to find
    his things, don his grubby, grimy, scratchy, heavy
    uniform in place of the comfortable, loose clean
    garment he was wearing.

    Then what? It was well known that the life-expectancy
    of a lone American in this part of town was not long.
    He sighed. Ok, so he would just have to wait.

    She swung one leg from the bench, crossed over the
    other knee that dug softly into his thigh,
    rhythmically with the swinging.

    He found his resolve to escape melting in the
    sunlight, with his fascination of this feeling he had
    never known before. Sure, he had had girlfriends back
    home before. Everyone else did, it was expected. But
    this was different, special. Just for him. It made
    him feel like a celebrity.

    He tried to put his finger on what was different.
    Those other girls had been like something he had
    owned. With the girl beside him he had a strange new
    yearning to make her happy, to do everything for her,
    to turn him into the queen of his life.

    Sheer insanity.
      ________________________________________________

    He had known the way things were headed when she had
    leaned her elbow intentionally against his hard-on in
    the afternoon sun.

    Dinner had been more than he could eat, and as he lay
    down in the bed to sleep, she curled up on a mat
    beside him. He wondered, did she usually? Or was this
    her bed? He tried to take her place and put her up on
    the bed, (Whoa, where did that act of compassion come
    from?) but she refused and so they lay together
    separately.

    Until the bombs thundered in the distance. She sat up
    with a start. At her innocent age, she well knew the
    twisted perversion of what a bomb could do. Boom,
    Boom, in the distance, they could feel the impact
    through the floor.

    She climbed up under the sheets beside him, and he
    felt the intense heat and trembling of her tiny body
    against his naked skin. She was really scared.

    Awkwardly, he tried to comfort her, caressing and
    putting his arms around her, holding her. At this
    point, he was too numb to be scared, too numb to feel
    anything except tired of the violence. She pushed
    herself against him, and the trembling eased.
    Eventually the bombing ceased, but she stayed with
    him, cuddled in his arms, facing away in spoon
    formation.

    They dozed lightly, and in the middle of the night he
    woke up to find her lovingly running her finger up
    and down the length of his almost painfully hardened
    penis. She started to see him awake, but did not stop
    running her finger, from the base to the head and
    back again, lightly sending tingles up his spine with
    each gesture. the mysterious huge dark orbs of her
    child's eyes penetrating unblinkingly all the while.

    We could be dead tomorrow, he thought. How could it
    be a crime to make love tonight? And he knew it was
    wrong, but he waited in vain for the voice of his
    conscience to scream out for him to halt. Silence.

    She turned around, and he brushed the tip down the
    crack of her tiny buttocks. His finger slipped
    between her legs, and he felt the dryness of her
    sacred valley, so he began to gently knead her
    clitoris. Startled, she moaned softly, spreading her
    legs to grant him better access. With his other hand,
    he ran his fingers lightly up and down her thin, flat
    chest, each time when he touched her flat penny-sized
    nipples, a jolt of electric ecstasy pulsed through
    her body. Her moans grew in volume and intensity. She
    closed her enormous eyes and relaxed her head back
    onto his chest.

    He kissed her sweet innocent lips, and she responded,
    chasing his tongue as he ran its tip around her
    mouth. The fingers of his hand in between her legs
    were now dripping with delightfully slimy stickiness,
    and he probed gently the hole, eliciting a gasp of
    pleasure.

    He felt an intense longing, desire, partnership,
    friendship with this strange beautiful young girl. "I
    love you," he said, wondering if he had ever
    truthfully said it before to anyone. Sure, he knew
    that saying I love you got girls to have sex with
    him. But this time, unlike the rest, the words sprang
    from a deep inner fount of emotion, of intense caring
    for this exquisitely wonderful tiny person.

    More than anything, he wanted to make her happy. He
    ignored the hard-on, and it subsided to some extent,
    but he knew it would come back. His heart raced as he
    turned her around, and traced with his tongue a thin
    line from the bottom of her throat, to her belly
    button, down, down, down...

    His mind swirled with a never-before known thrill as
    his tongue engulfed her sweet smooth sexuality, the
    forbidden secret honey-button, oh so sweet. She threw
    back her head, legs spread, caressing his ears as the
    rough surface of his tongue stimulated the flowing
    juices, opened the floodgates of ecstatic pleasure.

    He had read somewhere that even a girl as young as
    four years old was capable of orgasm, but he had
    never believed it. That is, until tonight. When her
    writhing thrusts slowed to a climax, and she exploded
    around his mouth, hands ripping at the stubble that
    covered his scalp, there was no mistaking.

    The time had come. His machine-gun had reloaded, and
    stood like a grand sentry before her, harder than
    ever before.

    He kissed her again, smearing her juice against her
    lips. She responded with passion he had never known
    with a "real" woman, reaching her tiny hand down to
    guide the barrel of his gun towards her waiting,
    dripping, burning, aching valley of desire.

    Once more he ran his hand up and down her smooth,
    hairless torso, simultaneously sparking the ecstasy
    of contact with her nipples and poking the tip of it
    into her hole.

    She gasped, and shuddered, arching her back to force
    him inside of her, surrounding him with the loving
    hot sliminess of her nurturing lower mouth. He felt a
    ripping, and release, and she whimpered softly but
    continued pushing and pulling, working him into her
    like a fishhook, relentlessly reeling him in.

    As they made love, it was as if every particle of
    animosity between their two cultures had
    disintegrated and flown away like leaves in the
    breeze, leaving the sky clear as if after a newly
    fallen rain. In their love, they had discovered the
    language both shared, that words could never
    describe. And somehow in their union, they felt
    unknowingly a new hope for the human race, for the
    generations on the planet, for the nations and
    rulers.

    As he exploded into her, they came together, and he
    gave her the gift of his seed in exchange for her
    nurturing, as both shared sweet secret sacred symbols
    in the common tongue of sexual pleasure, the walls
    and barriers of culture and values tumbled down.
    Their orgasm was like a trumpet before the walls of
    Jericho. His release set free a pure white dove of
    freedom and equality whose wings beat powerfully the
    winds of change spreading over the entire earth.

    The walls of hostility dividing classes, races, and
    nations crumbled to dust before the brazen defiance
    of their forbidden orgasm. They dared the fates, the
    destinies, the graces, the winds, the gods and
    titans, the mountains. They defied the world of
    division and agony, and as it receded a new one
    sprang up in its place. A world, maybe imagined, but
    in which they lived for the duration of their
    blissful bubble, a world of equality, of plenty, of
    laughter and celebration.

    As if lifted in an enormous colorful hot-air balloon,
    or looking back through the picture-window in a
    taking-off rocketship, the walls and boundaries and
    laws, rules, and morass of mores that had seemed so
    overwhelming shrunk to antsize as the landscape
    receded and blended into one circle of light and
    life.

    In their laughing, giggling, gleeful giddy bubble
    they soared above all the commotion of judgment and
    division, laughed refreshingly in the face of old
    identities that fluttered to the ground like
    untethered fetters, tattered costumes of the old
    regime as they pirouetted and lept naked over the
    starlit moonscape below.
      ________________________________________________

    Days passed, he lost count of how many. He grew so
    accustomed that his old world seemed now to be the
    foreign one. The lump on the back of his head was
    healing, and he even started to get used to the
    Turkish coffee.

    And there was the girl. Though it hardly seemed like
    his love for her could swell to greater proportions,
    every day it did. But overhanging their passion and
    emotional caring was the knowledge that someday it
    would need to end, soon they would come looking for
    him, and eventually somebody would ask the right
    questions, leading them back to him.

    The ecstatic orgasms followed in the moonlight by
    gentle caresses and the coziness of each others
    warmth as together they watched the birds flying
    across the cloudy night sky, the sunshine of daylight
    warmth as she methodically moaned in pleasure,
    impaled on the stiffness of his staff, drawing out
    the sweetness again and again as they made love day
    and night, both sensing the impending shadow of
    approaching reconnaissance mission, until one day as
    they were sitting together (fortunately clothed --
    but holding hands) the old woman in glasses ushered
    in Sergeant, along with two other uniformed and
    musket-toting soldiers.

    "How are you doing?" Sergeant asked.

    The reply was a sigh, and with misunderstood
    reluctance "Alright."

    Their parting was simple, daydream-like. He gave her
    a hug, and she squeezed him tighter than ever before,
    and when she finally let go he was ushered through
    the milling crowd of glaringly sullen onlookers into
    the armored vehicle.

    The last he saw of her was her enormous dark eyes, as
    she sadly gazed through the curtain of dust rising
    behind the vehicle, watching him being taken away.

    He looked down and covered his face to conceal the
    tears from the men next to him.
      ________________________________________________

    The debriefing (the first of many) was brief.
    Sergeant walked in as he was sitting in his bunker,
    studied the scene, sat down opposite diagonally in an
    adjacent chair. Sergeant and soldier, soldier
    continued staring off into nothingness.

    Sargent, seeing that the other would remain silent,
    opened the conversation. "Guess they'll be sending
    you back soon."

    Soldier looked up blankly, eyes filled with
    deep-seated confusion. He recalled the time Sergeant
    had made them march in a circle chanting "Kill Osama,
    Kill Al-Qaida!" Then flashed the image of the
    beautiful people who fed him, who loved him.

    The gun that had once danced as a feather in the
    palms of his hands lay before him on the stern metal
    coffee table. He picked it up and held it, in his
    arms, sensing the familiarity. But even without
    ammunition, its cumbersome heaviness overwhelmed him.
    His arms grew weary, sagged with the burden, and he
    allowed gravity to defeat his grasp on it as he
    gently set it back on the table.

    "I can't kill these people," he said simply.

    "Now let me ask you straight," said the sergeant.
    "Did they use any force of manipulation or torture to
    coerce you or break down your willpower?"

    He smiled. "No sir. They took good care of me."

    "You're sure about that."

    "Yes sir."

    "Alright then." Sergeant stood up again. "I ain't
    gonna try and pry it out of you, `cause when you get
    back there'll be a dozen head-shrinkers to do that.
    So I guess I'll leave you to your contemplations."

    "Yes sir. Thank you sir."
      ________________________________________________

    Sooner than he imagined possible, he found himself
    high in the sky on an airplane, staring out the
    too-tiny round plastic window down at the houses
    below, wishing her in the empty seat beside him,
    studying the landscape, the palaces and gardens,
    wondering which one was hers, until all gradually
    receded and vanished behind him to be replaced by the
    monotonously dull gray expanse, and finally the
    ocean.

    Even without her, he felt his heart lighter than ever
    before, a dove in flight, soaring beyond the rainbow
    bridge to eternal peace bliss and harmony.




   -------------------------------------------------------


   For more stories, visit our site on asstr-mirror.org
   http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/VivianDarkbloom/www/

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