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Reelin' in Iraq: A story of Love awakening
by Vivian Darkbloom (address withheld)

***

A soldier caught behind enemy lines finds a special 
friend, and discovers true love for the first time (Mg,
ped, rom, bd, military)

***

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 knew 
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. 

END

For more stories by this author: 
http://www.asstr.org/~vivian/

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This story was written as an adult fantasy. The author
does not condone the described behavior in real life.

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Kristen's collection - Directory 48