Chapter 6

Posted: August 20, 2006 - 03:00:30 pm?

Jamilah Hassan was a very pretty woman. Her eyes were a light brown near the pupils with a dark green outer ring. Their unique color, wide spacing and her high cheekbones gave them a very cat-like quality. Her nose was thin and turned up slightly, while her mouth was generous and full lipped. She had a slight overbite that made her somehow even more attractive. She had a nice body also. No, her breasts weren't big like Fatima's or her legs long like Basheera, but the package was still excellent. Her skin was smooth and blemish free, her complexion a tawny tan. She was just a very attractive woman with a terrific personality. I was amazed at the tender feelings I had for her after such a short time.

There was one other thing about Jamilah for which I was unprepared; she was the most passionate woman I had ever met. Jamilah let it all hang out, and absolutely everything I did sent her to the moon. It was the most intensely gratifying sexual experience of my life, as her unrestrained ardor made me the lover that I'd always wanted to be. I had always been proud that I was an unselfish partner, but, with Jamilah, I swear the more pleasure I gave her, the more I experienced myself.

Jamilah had a clit the size of the last joint of my little finger, supersensitive nipples and a g-spot as large as a half dollar coin. Not only was she multi-orgasmic; in addition, she was a screamer, a squirter and a scratcher. I started kissing my way down her fine body as soon as I talked her out of her slip. By the time I reached her smoothly shaven vulva she had already shivered and squealed through two minor climaxes. When I wrapped my lips around her big love button she almost detached my ears pulling me against her tighter.

After about fifteen minutes of muff munching I came up for air. I flipped Jamilah's legs over my shoulders and went at her jackrabbit style, fast and furious. She stayed with me stroke for stroke, and we both came so hard we almost blacked out. I was down for the count, but Jamilah was brimming with energy and happiness. She jumped up, grabbed a washcloth and dipped it in the bucket that held my next morning's cleanup water. I protested when she started washing both our privates. I didn't protest this when the other women had done it because I knew they were leaving. I was hoping Jamilah would stay longer, though, because I was looking forward to round two if I could find the energy.

"You can wait on that, Honey, the night is young," I said.

Her beautiful eyes gleamed in the candlelight as she looked at me with a smile.

"Oh, it is very young, Neeko, but we are Janabah (unclean; impure) now. We must be Taharah (clean) before we continue. We wives are very strict about following the Prophet's words on cleanliness."

"Is that why you shave down there?" I asked.

"Yes, but now I think I will have other things in mind when next I shave my Faraj. I forgot how good that feels, it has been fifteen years since I last had that," she answered.

"I can't believe Hassan stopped doing that for you, you taste wonderful," I said.

"Hassan would never do something like that, he only used me for his pleasure. My roommate in school and I used to do it, though. The housemother caught us doing it and we had to leave school in disgrace. That's how I ended up married to Hassan. He was doing some sort of business with my father at the time, and offered a small dowry for me along with a promise to move me far away from Baghdad. Hassan said I was a Jezebel and that Adara's lameness was the punishment for my sins."

Jesus! This guy Hassan had to be the biggest asshole that ever lived. I pulled her up against me and kissed her.

"Hassan is gone now, maybe you will find a husband that accepts you as you are. He'll be a lucky man to have you by his side and in his bed," I said, encouragingly.

She smiled real big and planted a scorching kiss on my lips.

"Yes he will." she sighed. "Let me show you how lucky he'll be."

And so she did, twice more, in fact. In between sessions I had my face firmly wedged in the gap between her thighs as she bucked and squawked through too many climaxes for me to count. I now knew the meaning of being fucked senseless. Jamilah raved about my performance but I was really only along for the ride. Snuggling with her, both of us sated and sweaty, was almost as nice as the sex itself. Jamilah was the whole package, sweet, smart, and sexy as hell. What a cruel fate that she was stuck out here in the desert, all that potential going to waste.

I slept until after seven the next morning, slept like a baby as a matter of fact. Jamilah was gone when I woke up, but I could still smell the lingering scent of her. Fatima came down to get me for breakfast; she smiled and surprised me by giving me a big hug and kiss. I was thrilled that I navigated the stairs much easier; in a day or so, I would be through with the cane.

I loved eating breakfast with all the women, it was fun and lively as they teased me about all the strange noises they heard coming from the basement last night. We sat on the floor around a low table. Adara, Tahani and Kalila were on one side of me and Basheera, Fatima and Zahrah were on the other. Jamilah sat opposite me, alternately smiling and blushing at the other women's remarks. The sudden noise of a vehicle outside the house broke up the party. Basheera jumped up and ran to the door to see who it was. She looked out then whirled around.

"Ba'athists (baath party insurgents, remnants of Saddam's old power structure)," she hissed.

Jamilah grabbed my arm and practically dragged me to the basement. I started to head for my cell but she diverted me over to some shelves set under the concrete suspended stairs. She pulled out a couple of storage containers and lifted a concealed panel on the wall. The cubbyhole she exposed was just large enough for me to wriggle into. When she closed the panel it was completely dark and absolutely quiet in the coffin-sized space. My heart was thundering in my chest. I lay there, my mind filled with nightmare scenarios as to what might be happening outside. The following hour was the longest of my life, as each second passed with agonizing slowness.

Just as I started to relax somewhat, the panel concealing me swung upward. It was impossible to see who opened the panel, because the sudden light blinded me. My heart revved into overdrive again until Jamilah spoke.

"They are gone now, Neeko, you are safe," she said.

I rolled out of the tight space and she helped me to my feet. Jamilah led the way back to my cell, where Adara was chained to the wall, lying on my pallet. She giggled at me when I raised my eyebrows in surprise.

"Someone had to be in here in case the jihadists searched the house. It is well known that Hassan punishes us this way," she said.

That made sense because the room did have an occupied look to it. Once again, I was impressed with how sharp these women were and how well they worked together. And, once again, I was reminded what a complete asshole Hassan had been.

"I'll spank you if you are a bad girl, so you don't have to worry about this punishment any more," I said with a grin.

She was looking at me inquisitively as Jamilah unlocked the shackle.

"Spank?" she asked. "I do not know that word."

I guess I was still giddy from my stay under the stairs to do what I did next. I sat down in the chair and motioned her over too me. She looked mystified until I pulled her across my lap and lightly swatted her on her ass.

"This is spanking. It's what I do to women who misbehave. Of course if it were real, I'd pull up your skirt and make your pretty little kara (ass) ahmar (red)."

She giggled and squealed as I playfully swatted her a few more times. When I stopped, she seemed reluctant to get up. I pulled her upright and perched her on my knee.

"Of course I know you'll be a good girl and I'll never have to do that to you," I said.

"Umm, I don't know Neeko, I'm bad sometimes," Adara said dreamily.

Just then, Jamilah cleared her throat. "So am I," she said huskily.

The other women joined us before I could reply. We all sat around the basement, as they filled me in on the visitors. I received a real education that day about the Iraqi insurgency. I also understood how fortunate I was that Basheera found me instead of the Ba'athists. This area of the desert was the stronghold of the cadre of two defunct Republican Guard divisions. The commander of one of the divisions had appointed himself warlord of the area. His troops made sporadic visits to the scattered farms in the region to enforce loyalty and collect tribute.

Hassan had been a friend of the rogue general and Basheera was afraid that the family would be in danger if the soldiers found out that Hassan had disappeared. Another fear she had was the general's interest in Kalila. That weasel Hassan had been bargaining with the general for a suitable dowry for his eldest daughter. Kalila was quite naturally petrified of becoming the wife of a man even crueler than her father. Basheera did not think she could hold off the general much longer.

Basheera then related to me that one of the soldiers today had boasted about their gunners shooting down two American warplanes in an area southwest of the farm. The soldier went on to boast that the general still had many other weapons hidden in the desert. The general had absorbed most of the other resistance groups in the area and now controlled over two thousand square miles of western Iraq. The savvy old general called himself Sheik Omar Abdullah. He conducted his military operations on the periphery of the area to draw American and Iraq government forces away from his stronghold as he gathered strength.

That night I finally got to take a shower. Man it was fantastic, even though the water was not as hot as I would have liked. Basheera even dug me out another pair of boxers. The boxers were made of a silky material and were a red and green plaid. They were not my style but they covered my ass so I didn't complain. I was laying on my bunk thinking about all I learned today when Fatima came into my cell. I started to get up but she motioned me to stay where I was. When I lay back down she whipped her abaya over her head and gracefully slid under my thin blanket with me. When I pulled her against me, she sighed contentedly.

I loved the feel of Fatima's body next to mine. She was such a cute little cuddly handful. As I thought that, my mind strayed towards my feelings for all the women in the house. I was amazed at how strongly my attachment to them had grown. It was a revelation of sorts for me to realize that I had feelings for all of them, even though they were all so different from each other and different from the women that I thought were my type. Yeah, I had a type of woman I seemed to gravitate toward, women like Vickie Salvatore: cool, sophisticated and beautiful. Funny, I could still feel the same for these women who were polar opposites from Vickie, yet still love her too. I was going to have to devote some serious thought to that.

For the moment, though, I pushed aside all the philosophizing and concentrated on Fatima. I propped myself up on my elbow and looked at her as I ran my hands over her sleek silky skin. Her eyes never left mine as I touched her and her expression was beatific as she cooed at my touch. Fatima had big brown eyes that fit her heart shaped face perfectly. Her nose was proportionate to her face but had a noticeable bump on the bridge. Her eyelashes were long and thick and her eyebrows swept up slightly at the end. She had one of the most expressive faces I'd ever seen; open and guileless, what you saw was the real Fatima. She wasn't a brain surgeon, but the real Fatima was just fine with me.

I spent a long time showing Fatima how I felt about her. And, just as it had been with Jamilah, I think I got as much, if not more, for my efforts. I think that lovemaking was so much better with the Hassan women because I was the first to ever make the effort to please them, so I went the extra mile. The extra effort on my part made my own orgasms sweeter and more intense. Fatima was too sensitive to have multiple orgasms, but she loved to cuddle and kiss in between her peaks. As horny as I was, I still enjoyed that as much as anything. We were both almost comatose after our second session ended in a blazing simultaneous climax. Fatima didn't demure when I cleaned us both up and snuggled against her. I was happy when she fell asleep draped across my chest.

I think about now is a good time to tell you a little about myself. Maybe by knowing about my past, you can better understand why the Hassans had such an affect on me.

I was born in a small town on the east coast of Florida. My father, Theo Pappas, owned a shrimp boat that he and his brother crewed together. My mother was a 'mail order bride'; her marriage arranged between my grandparents and her family in Greece. My mother was very young when she married my father; she was only seventeen when I was born. My father was an abusive alcoholic twelve years older than my mother. I was seven when my mother reached her limit with my father. She fell in love with my Uncle Stefan and left my father for him. My father responded by getting drunk and killing both his wife and his brother then committing suicide.

My grandparents refused to take me in after my parents' death so I became a ward of the state. I bounced between foster homes, never staying in one place more than a year until I was fifteen. I was not a bad kid, but I had a propensity for hanging around the wrong crowd and getting into trouble. I found more trouble than I could get out of right after I turned fifteen. On the night in question, Billy Brooks, Carl Long and I swiped a case of Bud from Carl's dad. We sat in the woods and drank until we were shitfaced then for lack of anything better to do, we stole Billy's father's pickup truck and went joyriding. Just like an episode of Cops, we ended up leading the Highway Patrol on a spirited chase up I-95 almost to St. Augustine.

I was driving of course, and I shouldered the blame for everything, hell, what did I have to lose? I was convicted as a youthful offender and placed in a juvenile detention center near Orlando. Believe it or not, it was the best thing that ever happened to me, because that's where I met Jim Gleason. Jim was a retired Special Forces Sergeant Major who volunteered his time at the center. He formed an Explorer Troop and taught us about nature and he talked to us about life. Gleason was the only adult I ever met that I trusted. When my year in juvi was up, Jim and his wife Grace became my foster parents. I loved Jim and Gracie, and I respected the hell out of them. I have always tried to model myself after Jim Gleason. Even at the age of sixty, Jim was bad to the bone but never flaunted it. He always told me that a real man walked the walk, instead of talking the talk.

When I turned eighteen, I graduated from high school and enlisted in the Army. Since all my police records were expunged when I turned eighteen, I started with a clean slate. Because I had high test scores on the Armed Forces Vocational Aptitude Battery, I was allowed to pick Combat Medic as my MOS (Military Occupational Specialty). I also volunteered for duty as a paratrooper and attended jump school after basic training and my medic course. For the next forty months, I served as a medic in the 82nd Airborne Division. I left the Army in the summer 1993. I enjoyed my enlistment, by and large, but I wasn't crazy enough about it to reenlist.

That fall, I entered the University of Central Florida using the GI Bill. Once again I lived with the Gleasons although I wasn't home all that much. The GI Bill paid my tuition and fees but I had to work to support myself. I found a job as an EMT for a private ambulance company. I worked Friday night until Sunday afternoon, two sixteen-hour shifts with eight hours off between them. I enrolled in UCF as a sophomore because of my service schools and a couple of courses I took at the Education Center at Fort Bragg. I applied for and was accepted in the Physician's Assistant Program, a difficult five year school that had a very high dropout rate.

I graduated from college in 1997 as a certified PA; I was twenty-seven years old. One of my college friends was an Air Force ROTC cadet named Pete Costas. Pete's father was Greek but his mother was Puerto Rican. Pete's family was the most boisterous bunch of people I'd ever met. Pete went straight into the reserves after he graduated. He quickly forgot his disappointment from not getting active duty when he found out he could attend flight training easier as a member of the Air National guard. Somehow I let Pete con me into applying for a direct commission in the Guard because his unit was short of personnel. Pete gave me all kinds of shit when three months later I was in his unit as a First Lieutenant, having leaped over Second Louie because of my prior service. Blind dumb luck caused us to both be in flight school six months later when the active duty component couldn't fill all the seats in a class. After basic flight instruction, we went to follow on A-10 training. In early 1999, we returned home as freshly minted Warthog Jockeys.

Did you notice I never mentioned anything about a social life? I didn't because I never had much of one. I think that basically I avoided much entanglement with women for two reasons; one was that after I got out of juvi, I was always trying to better myself. The other was that I was scared that I might become my father. They say the apple doesn't fall far from the tree and my family tree was rotten to the core. I did date some, and I slept with a few women but I always avoided any type of commitment. I had this notion of an ideal family in my mind and I didn't think I could live up to the husband and father part of it. When you add in that I'm basically a shy and quiet person, you can see that I am far from Romeo material.

So here I was, thirty-four years old and I had just started seriously dating my first woman. I cared a great deal about Vickie but I was already feeling stronger stirring in my heart for all of the Hassan women. It was nuts, but dammit, it was real.

Fatima slipped out of my cell at five in the morning. I hated letting her go and she seemed reluctant to leave. I had slept really well with her draped on me, her soft warm body pressed against me. I thought that I could easily get use to this, even though I slept mostly alone all my life.

Day twelve was the watershed day for me as far as my injuries were concerned, because on that day I was mobile enough to walk without the cane. When I walked up out of the basement all the women commented on how much better I looked. After breakfast, Basheera took me outside and gave me a tour of their operation. For a spread smack in the middle of the desert, it was impressive. Abu Hassan might have been a scumbag, but he had sure set up a nice place here. The most noticeable feature outside the house was two greenhouses that sat about a hundred feet from the kitchen door. The greenhouses were about eighty feet long and forty feet wide. The greenhouses were about fifty feet apart and the area between them was cultivated. The garden plot was partly planted in rows of carrots, onions and radishes, while the rest was covered with crisscrossed melon vines. A fence between each end of the greenhouses kept critters out of the garden.

It was a typical truck farm I thought until Basheera led me into one of the greenhouses. Instead of the flowers and vegetables I expected, I was shocked to see row after row of four-foot tall stalks of marijuana interspersed with a few tomato plants. The plants looked dry and withered. Kalila, Zahrah and Tahani were sitting at a long table along the wall doing something with the flower buds that Fatima and Jamilah were plucking from the marijuana plants and bringing to them. I looked at Basheera questioningly.

"What's all this?" I asked.

"Hasheesh (hashish)," she replied.

I wondered over to the table and watched as the women carefully rubbed the flowers against a silk mesh. Below the mesh were small piles of yellow salt like crystals collecting on pieces of black paper. Every so often, one of the women would pick up the paper and tip the resin into a Ziploc bag. The next time Jamilah came up with a shoebox full of semidry flowers I stopped her.

"What are you doing?" I asked

"We are separating the hashish resin from the flowers. This is how we earn our living, or at least it was until Hassan disappeared. Hassan sells the resin to the hashish traders who turn it into solid blocks and sell it in Europe. We have not sold any since Hassan left because we fear the hashish traders will simply kill us and take the resin if Hassan was not there. That is why we were so poor when you arrived. Now Basheera hopes that you will stand in for Hassan and sell all we have collected. We have twenty kilos to sell. The money from it would provide for us for at least a year."

I was dumfounded, but I should have known that a slimeball like Hassan would not farm an ordinary crop. I could see that selling the hash resin was the short-term solution to the wives plight. As I thought about it, I could see that once the resin was sold, the women would have the money to tide them over until they could start to bring in some legitimate crops. I decided that, if they would switch to something more conventional after the sale, I would help them convert the resin into cash.
Joe J & Wet Dream-Girl
Chapter 7