Arabian Fantasy

Pushing my peaked cap up a little further on my forehead, I lift my camera up from where it dangles against my chest on its strap, resting the telephoto lens on the rough brickwork to focus on the figures I can see gathering in the lee of a burnt-out car. They are dressed in the standard uniform of the paramilitary, a motley assortment of tattered cast-off fatigues and local dress, the only uniting factor being the traditional keffiyeh head-dresses they all wear. I rattle off a series of photos, wishing the whirr of the motor-drive wasn't so loud, catching the group's leader in close discussion with his men, individual expressions of pain and hatred as they survey their enemy, weapons cradled in their arms like babies.

I shift to the other side of the window to look out across the makeshift battleground towards the other group, similarly dressed, similarly armed, similarly motivated. As I watch, one of them moves out of the shelter of a shadowed doorway, carelessly putting himself in full view, and his reward is swift and fatal. I raise my camera to catch his final seconds, stomach churning at the blood and the look of shock on his face just before the light goes out in his eyes, but I cannot allow that to stop me.

As I pull back from the window, my attention is caught by movement right in front and just below me, and I watch in curious surprise as a lone figure slips silently and carefully through the huddled remains of the dwellings which one lined this street to halt not five yards ahead of me. His movements are smooth and unhurried, cat-like in their fluidity as he effortlessly drops to his stomach to cover the last few yards on elbows and knees to avoid detection, finishing up in a spot that gives him a better view of the action than me.

He is dressed as the other protagonists, head and face hidden in the folds of the keffiyeh, automatic weapon held casually close, but there is something about him that does not fit here. His body under the dusty sweat-stained, mis-matched fatigues is solid and powerful, and the skin of his muscled forearms, though tanned, does not have the swarthiness of a native Arab.

As I ponder this, he pulls something from inside the faded khaki shirt, and after a moment I realise that he too is taking pictures of the scene. I curse under my breath at the unfairness of the fates in allowing someone else to steal my glory, and raise my camera again to retaliate the only way I know how.

The clink of the metal casing against the rock of the wall is barely audible, but I see his head snap round to look suspiciously in my direction, hands automatically reaching for his gun. He springs into perfectly enlarged focus through my camera lens and I am startled to see, in the shadows between the folds of the keffiyeh masking the lower part of his face and hanging over his forehead, a pair of bright blue eyes staring straight back at me. I gasp in shock and pull back, the camera slipping from my fingers, and when I look again through the broken window he has gone.

I take deep breaths to calm myself enough to continue my self-imposed task, wiping at the trickles of sweat running down my neck from behind my ears and rubbing my damp palms against the rough fabric of my own olive green combat pants. Hearing more sporadic gunfire I pull myself to my knees again, and I am in the act of raising my camera when a whisper of moving air behind me sends me spinning round to find myself face to face with my mystery man. I'm distantly proud of the fact that I don't scream, but might allow that is only because fear has frozen the breath in my chest and clamped my throat closed.

The clear blue eyes observe me cautiously, the only things visible in the shady recess within the folds of cloth. Close up I observe subconsciously that I was right about the power of him. His shoulders and chest are broad and imposing, muscles bunching as he shifts his weight, but from the casual way he crouches he is obviously a man comfortable in his body.

He finishes his visual stocktake of me and my surroundings and with a peremptory jerk of his head indicates that I should follow him. I draw a breath and open my mouth to protest, but his hand reaches out to press warm fingers across my lips to silence me, and I grudgingly admit to myself that, the way sound carries in the hot humid air, talking is probably not the best way to stay out of trouble.

I try to indicate to him by shaking my head and pointing from my camera to the general area behind me that I don't need help, that I just want to stay, but he is intransigent. My growing indignation at his persistent interference begins to outweigh commonsense and it is only when he gestures with the barrel of his gun that I realise I might actually be in trouble. With bad grace I give in, stowing my camera into its canvas bag and pulling my hat lower over my eyes before following him out of the back of the building. I try to mimic his easy movements but succeed only in making what sounds like enough noise to wake the dead as we clamber over and round the rubble and away from the continuing fighting behind.

Several times on our stiflingly hot journey through deserted and damaged buildings he reaches to pull me with him into detours around groups of armed men, smoking and chatting in the shade. I can tell we're moving towards the slightly more habitated areas of the city, areas held more firmly by one or other of the factions, and as we start to encounter the occasional civilian passer-by I try to talk to him, to tell him I have no further need of his assistance. But he continues to silence me with a glare, tugging at my arm to keep me moving.

Night is falling as he leads me into a dilapidated courtyard and towards a ramshackle structure to the right. He stoops to unlock the door, and I am surprised to hear the key turn smoothly in what looks like, but obviously cannot be, an antiquated lock. He pulls me into the darkness, closing and re-locking the door firmly behind us, and I stand fuming with outrage as he moves into the room to find and light an oil lamp. As my eyes become accustomed to the dim light, I see that we are in a large room, the walls partly hidden by draped and tented canvas, and the floor part-covered by stacked boxes and what look suspiciously like kit bags.

He finally draws the keffiyeh away from his face to reveal a strong jawline and white teeth, and just the hint of the dimples that might appear should he ever smile - which at this moment doesn't seem likely. In a soft American drawl he demands to know just what the hell I thought I was doing out there, eyes glinting dangerously in the dim light. My temper, frayed by the heat and the aftereffects of the excitement, explodes as I counter with demands of my own - what was HE doing there, how dare he drag me away like that when I was on a job, what gives him the right...

He turns away dismissively, pulling off the head-dress to reveal short, ruffled brown hair, and my indignation increases. I try the door behind me, but it remains resolutely locked. I turn back, starting to demand he lets me leave, only to find he has stripped off the shirt and is pouring water into a basin. Soft light plays over his sweat-sheened torso, muscles rippling as he buries his head in the basin to emerge dripping and shaking the water from his hair and eyes. The words die in my throat at the sight, but my anger will not let me go so easily.

He splashes water over his chest, then turns to nail me with an icy stare. It's dark, he says, no time for me to be out on the streets in this part of town alone, and he cannot leave now. When morning comes, he will make sure I get to safety - others will be there then, but in the meantime I'll just have to make myself comfortable. I seethe at his seeming arrogance, his inability or unwillingness to see what he has cost me, while part of me cannot help but gaze hungrily at the fine beads of water clinging to his skin.

He turns away again to start sorting through equipment, and I slowly realise he's set up here for some serious action. For the first time I stop thinking about my lost opportunity and start to wonder what he was doing out there. The question makes me unaccountably nervous and I slide towards the door again, fear of the unknown here and now overwhelming me.

Sounds of voices come distantly from the street as I reach for the doorhandle again, and I see him raise his head to focus on them, soft yellowish light bouncing from high forehead and cheekbones. With swift movements he douses the light and crosses the room to my side, tugging me roughly away from the exit. I struggle automatically, but he imprisons me in his strong arms and gathers me to his naked chest, the musky scent of him filling my nostrils as my face presses into the hollow of his throat. I pull away, starting to protest at his treatment, to demand again he lets me leave, but a firm hand clamps over my mouth to quieten me and looking up I can see he is ignoring me, still concentrating on what is happening outside.

In fury I force my mouth open enough to sink my teeth into his fingers, taking strange pleasure in his sharp intake of breath as the hand falls away. I take a gulp of air preparatory to yelling for help, not really considering that I might be taking myself from the frying pan into the fire. But before I can make a sound I am stunned by the feel of his warm soft mouth closing on mine, capturing my lips with his, trapping my arms with the strength of his embrace, crushing me against him, and the anger and fear drains from me as I melt into him, my hands moving cautiously to clasp the smooth heated skin of his back as I become dimly aware of the voices drawing ever nearer...

The voices are just outside the door and almost reflexively, I return his crushing embrace as though I could hide there, meld with him and be hidden and protected. The voices are drowned out by the blood rushing in my ears and without thinking, I demand entrance with my tongue. He starts to respond, parting his lips enough that I can feel the smooth barriers of his teeth, but then he breaks away abruptly leaving me panting and somehow feeling very vulnerable.

He whispers that the voices are gone, and the disappointment that wells up within me is almost enough to reduce me to tears. Typically, I turn those feelings into anger, demanding to know what right he had to do that.

He raises an eyebrow and informs me that it was a case of survival and that I seemed to be getting pretty carried away. Whether with trying to run away, or with that kiss he doesn't say, but I can guess, and feel myself blushing.

A red light that suddenly starts flashing in the deepest recesses of his stash of equipment distracts him. As he starts speaking softly, I realise that it's a radio. The professional part of me takes over and I retrieve my camera, snapping away, trying to catch the tension that radiates from his semi-shadowed body and face. He raises a hand to shield his face from the flashes, or maybe he simply doesn't want to be photographed. That thought stops me; maybe his picture being published would be dangerous. But then, I can't say as I'm taking these photographs for entirely professional reasons.

Resting easily on his haunches, he finishes his call, then hangs his head low, his face entirely in shadow now and I can't tell whether it's a posture of defeat or if he's simply thinking, planning what to do next. I raise my camera again, but before I take a shot, he springs towards me, snatching at my weapon.

I would rather die than give my camera up so I fling myself back, catching his jaw with my foot. He drops like a stone, and I retreat, hugging the camera to me. He picks himself up, shaking his head and looks at me through slitted eyes; I could almost swear he's growling at me, a low sound in the back of his throat.

He stalks back to the boxes and kit bags and stows as much as he can about his person. Guns, knives, ammo, and devices I couldn't even begin to guess at, all disappear into hidden pockets. A heavily muscled calf is revealed as a knife slips into a sheath, and leather straps materialise around his wrists and biceps, providing more places to stow small, and no doubt deadly items. A clean, though rumpled dark sweater, light but concealing, covers his bare torso and arms, and belts go over the top, covered with small pouches and loops, each quickly filled with yet another piece of equipment.

He places the keffiyeh back around his head and shoulders and a thought makes me smile; what wouldn't I give to unwrap that Christmas present? Well, I wouldn't give up my camera, and there are probably one or two other things if I thought about it hard enough, and besides which, I doubt I could be that patient.

I stand up, and he spins, a revolver in his hand that hadn't been there a second ago; I freeze. He blinks slowly, almost as if he's forgotten that I'm here. He informs me bluntly that he's leaving and that I can stay here or reach safety with him. I have to wonder why the prospect of safety seems to fill him with such bitter anger. From the kit bags I suppose that he has comrades here somewhere; maybe he's being forced to leave them? Or maybe it's something else.

I inform him in turn that hell would have to freeze over before I would lose the opportunity take the pictures that are begging to be immortalised here in this hostility.

A sharp whistling interrupts, followed by a crash and the unmistakable sound of an explosion. The place rocks on its foundations, and I stumble and fall heavily on the unstable ground. A strong hand hooks under my arm and I am pulled to my feet. I stare in horror at my hand, blood dripping between my fingers from the broken pieces of my camera.

He quickly and efficiently brushed the pieces to the floor, taking the now redundant strap from around my neck and binds my hand up with gauze and bandages, promising to see to it properly when we have a chance. I'm still dazed as he pulls me through the door and out into the screaming inferno that the streets have become. I look vaguely in the direction of my lodgings, thinking of my spare cameras, but only a smoking crater remains.

Soldiers run, shouting orders and demands. Civilians stand mesmerised as their homes go up in flames, no care for their own safety as bullets whine past and the whistling sound of another bomb approaches. I am pulled relentlessly on, my feelings, my entire self numbed by the horrors around me.

I stumble over rocks, slide into ditches and scramble up slopes, always pulled onwards and away by this man that I don't know. As the burning city takes its dying breath behind us, the numbness wears off and I collapse, my thoughts reeling.

The hands are there again, pulling me up, urging me onwards, but I've had enough, and I tell him so. He stops abruptly, crouching down to face me, our noses bare millimetres apart, and his eyes glinting almost gold in the dark crimson of the sky behind me.

He tells me to get a grip, I tell him to fuck off. He slaps me without real power, attempting to break my hysteria and I slap him right back, with all the force I can muster. There is a moment's awkward silence, his eyes, the only part of him that I can see, softening. Then they harden once more and he asks if I feel better. He doesn't wait for an answer, but pulls me on, and I follow.

I consider myself fit, but my lungs are gasping and my knees ache by the time he calls a halt. He hands me a canteen of water before disappearing into the brush. Bushes rustle before I make out the dull metal of an old jeep uncovered from its hiding place.

He opens the door with a mock bow and I grin shakily as I accept and clamber inside. He suggests that I rest, but I cannot with all the emotions raging through me, and I take the time to sort things out in my own mind.

The long ride through the desert is taken in silence, each of us lost in our own thoughts. I think I must doze for a while, despite the bouncing ride, for dawn rouses me to discover that we are approaching a camp of sorts. Brightly coloured tents are arranged in a sheltered hollow, camels and horses allowed to roam as they please and men covered from head to toe in multicoloured garments move busily about their chores. A nomadic tribe, I guess, and despite the armed guards that lie half hidden in the sand, we are allowed to pass unmolested, directly to the camp.

My companion tells me to stay in the jeep and trots over to a tall, regal looking man. I, of course, get out of the vehicle and follow more slowly, taking in every detail and regretting the loss of my camera. I approach the two men, both of whom clearly scowl at me even through the fabric across their faces, and I stop a few feet away, suddenly nervous. Black-clad women materialise from tents, and I feel woefully underdressed in this company, almost naked under their surreptitious gazes. There is a sharp, heated conversation, of which I am quite obviously the subject, before my companion storms over to me, grabbing my arm, bruising as he drags me towards a plain little tent on the outskirts of the canvas village.

I complain loudly, telling him to let me go, but he says nothing, merely quickening his pace, forcing me to follow. I can feel they eyes of the nomads staring at me and my humiliation is complete. He thrusts me inside the tent and closes the flap behind him. I glare as I yell at him, venting my anger, but he remains silent, his eyes stormy and hard.

He discards his keffiyeh, removes his belts and assortment of leather holders, tossing them carelessly to the fabric and cushion-covered floor, and the grim set of his jaw only fuels my tirade. He raises a hand, snagging my hair and tells me to shut up. I open my mouth to spit in his face, but his mouth is over mine before I have the chance. I try to push him away, but he pulls me further into his embrace, crushing as he did before and my resistance weakens. They say that there is but a hairsbreadth of difference between anger and passion and right now, I don't know which it is that I'm feeling.

He pulls me closer and again I attempt to meld into him, this time not to hide, but to make him mine, the anger-fuelled passion - or is it passion-fuelled anger? - making me aggressive in my movements. He matches me equally, our tongues meeting, duelling, each attempting to invade, neither willing to back down. A nip at a soft lip, and I am exploring inside his mouth, tasting dust and water as I run my tongue behind his teeth, satisfied as a shiver passes through him. Then he is in mine, flicking about, searching out every nook and cranny. He shifts slightly, his hips pushing roughly against mine as a strong thigh parts my legs and he grabs my backside, pulling me into him. A small explosion rockets through my gut and my free leg moves almost of its own accord, lifting and pressing against the solid, undulating contours of his calf, his thigh, to clamp around his slim hip, giving him greater access. I can feel the heat of his groin against mine, feel the solid flesh throbbing beneath the thin material and groan with need.

He lowers me to the soft but firm ground, never breaking our embrace, never moving his lips from mine until I am flat on my back. He leaves my mouth to nuzzle at my throat, licking and biting, trailing sparks through over-sensitised skin. I bring my other leg up to join its mate, trapping him against me, and use my hands to pull his sweater up enough that I can run my fingers over taut muscles and smooth skin, enjoying the feel of his solid warmth. I push the sweater further up, insistent and he allows me to pull it over his head, mussing his hair. His eyes gleam a feral grey and he smiles triumphantly, unleashing his dimples for the very first time.

Through lust-blinded eyes I leer at him purposefully, using my legs to pull him back towards me, but he resists, running his hands up my waist and over my belly, much as I had done to him just a moment earlier. I rub at his arms, revelling in the play of his muscles as he works, pushing my top off, accompanied by touches of fire and lightning bolt kisses, nipping and licking every inch of exposed flesh. He reaches beneath me to unhook my bra and I take the opportunity to run my hands through his soft dusty hair, my turn to nuzzle the faintly stubbled jaw and throat, taking in his unique, sensual scent. He moves down, his full lips feather light now in their ministrations as they make their way to my newly freed breasts, and suckle there, the inferno in my gut shooting flames through my veins to centre where his lips and teeth work.

His hands side slowly down my sides, massaging gently, before they slip beneath my pants. I raise my hips, crushing my groin against his, allowing him to push my combats and knickers down. He has to lift himself up to accomplish this, so I dive in to divest him of his own pants and boxers. I take in a sharp breath involuntarily, as it registers that he doesn't disappoint in any way, perfectly proportioned and as lust driven as I.

I launch myself at him, animalistic desire overwhelming me, pinning him to the ground, gazing into his stormy eyes, his broad grin glowing in the canvas softened light and giving into the sudden urge to bite at his nose. He growls and rolls me over biting back at me and I giggle helplessly, until he slides his hands under my shoulders, lifting me slightly to gnaw at my throat, marking me, making me his, even as I respond to the hot flesh lying against my stomach, pulsing with a life of its own.

I return his actions with a marking of my own, digging my nails deliberately into his back. His tremors echo mine and I pull up into him, my hips seeking his, demanding release. He obliges and I'm back on the ground as he helps me. His entrance is rough, but he waits for me to adjust, groaning as he holds back, biting his lower lip in ecstatic anguish. On my gasping signal he thrusts in until I am filled completely, then he rests a moment, nibbling at my lips, already bruised and tingling wildly. My hips rock against his, and gently he responds.

This cannot last long for we are both too close to the edge, but it is he who is drawing this out, taking long, slow thrusts as I add to the scratches I have already made. Miraculously, we climax together, a sharp cry from me as I spasm around him, molten lava washing over me, bright colours exploding before my eyes, and a long, shuddering groan from him before he collapses on top of me.

A little later I wake up to find myself sprawled almost possessively over him, and he, with his arms holding me close, and one leg trapping mine, doesn't seem to want to let me go. I ask myself again, what wouldn't I give for this one?

And I can't think of a single thing.

FINIS