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Message-ID: <53449asstr$1144267803@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Vivian Darkbloom <vdkblm-OBLITERATE-SPAM!@yahoo.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Reelin' in Iraq [Mg purple revised]
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Date: Wed, 05 Apr 2006 16:10:03 -0400
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
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  I've been revising some of my older stories as I post 
  them to storiesonline.net, so I figured I'd post the
  revised editions to ASSM as well.  

  To more fully enjoy this story in living, breathing HTML,
  please visit our website at:
 
    http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/vivian/www

  Now offering over 130,000 words of pure prurience!

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


 

                             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, please visit our site:
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