“With your approval, I have something for you,” he heard her say, though it didn’t register at first. He wasn’t concentrating, at least not on her words. As his glance traveled back up her body, it passed over her breasts and stopped. He caught his breath and felt his organ stiffen. Though her body was slim and spare, her two breasts were generous mounds erupting from the lean frame with darker circles surrounding the tips and the nipples pointed up, now only inches from his face. Embarrassed, he forced his gaze to move up to her face. Her found two deep, black eyes ridged in dark lashes.
She studied the water below his waist. “I think perhaps Allah’s newest soldier approves, yes?” She smiled, a gentle, understanding smile that allowed Rashid’s embarrassment to ebb away. Only then did he notice that she held a small clear vial in her hand. A golden liquid swirled in the glass.
“This is a special mixture of herbal extracts created to cleanse your body, heal your pains and bring you pleasure. May I?” she asked indicating the vial.
Rashid nodded and watched as the amber fluid flowed onto her fingers like warm honey and she massaged it onto his skin. His skin tingled at the touch of the liquid and her fingertips. The flesh she touched radiated a comforting heat. She started with his shoulders and her fingers moved down his chest, working patiently across each of the cuts slashed into his flesh. She worked without saying a word, the comforting smile never leaving her face. He lay, mesmerized by her naked beauty and gentle touch. When she had covered his chest with the amber solution, he glanced down at his body and thought he could feel his skin actually healing the hundreds of cuts and gashes. When he looked up, she had moved around the rock till she stood in front of him, her trim legs between his on the rock ledge. Without saying a word, she placed both hands on his submerged hips and lifted him up onto the rock until only his knees were below the waterline. Rashid wondered at her remarkable strength.
His attention returned when Jabirah picked up the vial she had set on the rock and continued her ministrations. She swirled the liquid around both of his hips, massaging it into the flesh, his skin dancing at her touch. Then she poured another portion onto her hands and wrapped her fingers around his now uncomfortably stiff organ, massaging the tingling mixture onto the sensitive skin. Excited, inexperienced, Rashid could not control himself. He squealed “Oh!” and erupted, sending jets of milky white into the air. She stopped her massaging, allowing him to fully experience the sudden climax. Feeling an odd mixture of orgasmic delight and shame, he stared in disbelief as the streams landed on the rock beside him.
Without knowing why, his immediate response was an embarrassed, “I’m sorry.”
A comforting smile greeted him. “You have no reason to be sorry. You are a great young warrior and I know this is all new for you. My role--and those of my sisters--is to help you, coax you, soothe you, even teach you. Is that acceptable to you?”
Rashid nodded and she continued. “I know that you must leave in only five days for your mission to fulfill Allah’s will. It is his will now that you experience much healing and great pleasure. For the next few days we will pull back the veil so you can see the delights that Allah has waiting for you if you are to join him when your mission is completed. So you see, we have just begun.” Glancing down at the liquid oozing down the rock like a small white snake, she continued, allowing the corners of her mouth to turn up into a slightly different grin, “Allah has made man so that you have much more where this came from. Our task is to help you experience some small portion of the pleasure he has planned for you.”
“Our?” Rashid asked, finally catching her reference to plural.
“Oh, yes. Four of us have been selected to minister to you and prepare you, body and will for the task ahead. Husna, Farah, Basinah and myself of course.” As she spoke, three beautiful, bronze-skinned women emerged naked out of the water and stood beside Jabirah, the four forming a semicircle surrounding his body.
“We are the consorts given to you by the Sheik. We have been entrusted with the task of opening avenues of overwhelming delight for you,” Jabirah finished.
Then Jabirah picked up the vial and poured golden portions onto the hands of all four women. Rashid stared in awe at the four nude beauties surrounding him, his male fantasies indulging in eight, large rounded breasts and a veritable forest of brown pubic hair. He found the power between his legs stirring again. He whispered, “So this is heaven. Allah, be praised!” He laughed in joyous celebration of his new manhood and role as warrior. As the hands of three new women descended toward his body, they joined their laughter with his, their mutual pleasure echoing through the chamber. Amidst the squeals of her sacred sisters, Jabirah grinned at Rashid and said, “I believe I can coax this brave soldier of Allah to attention again. What do you think?” Then she puckered her mouth.
Chapter 7
“I just can’t believe I’m going to my first real press conference to hear Harold Samson!” squealed Tess Esselmann, squirming on the passenger seat of my ‘02 Ford Focus. “You’re the greatest teacher, Ms. S, you know that!” Her brown eyes flashed with excitement.
Tess was the senior I had selected as editor of the student newspaper, aptly named The Anvil for our town’s heritage. At the time we were headed to an “Official Press Conference” concerning the scheduled execution of Asad Akadi. The press conference was being held at the HBE Prison and hosted by the warden, James Cromer, but the guest of honor was none other than Harold Samson, Director of Homeland Security. I had wangled an invitation for the two of us by trumpeting the educational benefits for my aspiring young journalist. In fact, it took a carefully orchestrated plan of groveling before the powers that be at both James Thurber High School and HBE to obtain the two coveted press passes. Jerod, of course, wanted to claim credit for getting the guest passes, but I didn’t believe him.
“Just take a couple of deep breaths, Tess.” I said and smiled, stealing a glance across the car seat. “We’re just supposed to be there to observe and learn.”
Tess was a petite girl with a slightly oversized nose and beautiful, brown eyes she hid behind large dark-framed glasses. Like a number of girls at school, she couldn’t decide how to wear her hair. It was on the shortish side and some days she wore it ratty and unkempt and other days she would braid it in mini cornrows. I once asked her why she seemed to work at looking plain--or at least trying to disguise some of her best stuff. Her only answer was “What do you know, Ms. S? After all, you’re 29.” The way she pronounced the number made it sound like a synonym for “ancient.”
Glancing across, I was pleased to see her auburn tresses were curled and pleasantly framed her rather pretty face. She had even spruced up in a dress of navy and white, further evidence of the importance she placed on our invitation. I don’t believe I’d ever seen her in a dress before.
I pulled the visor down to do a quick self-assessment. Not bad, I decided. Sparkling hazel eyes stared back under my carefully done eyebrows. A small, straight nose--which I’ve inherited from my mom, thank heaven--sat in the center of smooth skin that wrapped two prominent cheeks. In the mirror, I noted pale pink lips that circled mostly straight teeth when I smiled. I had selected a pearl gray sculptured pant suit that I hoped would make me look professional and feminine and, glancing down, I was pleased with how it hugged my 115-pound figure. I flipped the visor back.
“Ms. S, have you ever met somebody big, like Harold Samson?” Tess asked as she looked at me, her legs folded under her like a lanky, female pretzel, no doubt creasing the newly ironed dress.
“Do you mean somebody important or somebody with a large stature?” I asked for language clarification, and to pull her chain a little.
“Com’on Ms. S, somebody important, you know, nationally famous like Harold Samson?” she returned. Her right hand tugged on a loose curl.
“At college, I met a few moderately famous authors, but no, no one of national status like Harold Samson.”
“What do I say to him?” she asked, genuine
ly earnest.
“I don’t believe you need to say anything.” We pulled up and stopped and I turned to face her. “Look, Tess, when you’re asked, simply introduce yourself and show them your press pass.”
“Oh my God, my pass!” She began a frantic search through her tiny black purse, finally resorting to dumping the contents on the seat. “We have to turn around! I forgot my press pass!” Her fingers clawed desperately through the few items.
“Relax, Tess. I’ve got your pass with me.”
She sighed and began shoveling items back into the small pocketbook.
“Let’s go. Move the car!” I heard the words barked and realized that the sentry was motioning me to pull up in line to the checkpoint, his gestures exuding annoyance.
I threw the car into gear and hit the gas pedal, jackrabbitting forward. When I turned back to my window, the soldier was there, his face huge and close in the window. A pair of hard gray eyes stared at me above a sloping nose and a mouth that was a live caricature of the scribbled line from a “Peanuts” comic strip. He was dressed in full combat fatigues, complete with camouflage helmet above his stern face. Startled at first, I recovered after a bit and started to wind down the window, vowing to make certain my next automobile purchase includes at least a few “luxury” features, like windows you didn’t have to crank.
Before I had the window all the way down, he was speaking. “Press passes, please!” It was more command than request. As I fumbled in my cavernous bag, searching for our coveted press credentials, he said nothing, his face a disembodied visage hovering inches outside my window. His stern silence only made me more anxious, escalating my fumbling efforts. When this didn’t immediately produce the two badges, I lost all patience and dumped the contents on the seat in a harried imitation of my younger partner. Sure enough, the last two items out of the bag were our press passes. I handed them through the opening.
“Tess, could you scoop my junk back into my bag?” I turned back to the officer who was checking the info on our badges against a paper on a shiny metallic clipboard. Staring at the sentry, I mused he was so young, just a few years older than Tess, I guessed. Lately in our country there seemed to be an immense shift of responsibility toward youth. First with so many of them fighting in Iraq and Afganistan and now here on the home front. It seemed that we were foisting a tremendous burden onto kids who only months before had populated classrooms like mine.
The young soldier made a check on the sheet and extended both badges back through the window.
When Tess started to reinsert the passes into my bag, I called “Not in there.” She looked over at me, puzzled. As I pulled into the parking space the next sentry directed me toward, I said without looking at her, “If you put them back in there, we might never find them again.”
She passed me the badge with my name and image digitally embedded into it, her hand trembling a bit but her face beaming. We both clipped on the passes, each trying to find a spot on our outfits where the clasp wouldn’t ruin the fabric. Obviously, a guy had designed these clips. We slid out of the car seat and I automatically reminded her to lock the door. I had absolutely nothing worth stealing, unless you count a used CD of Paula Abdul’s first album and realized that locking the car was redundant in this heavily secured compound.
It took a few more minutes to pass through the metal detector and have another guard scan our badges with a digital baton. Once cleared, we were sent through a connecting corridor shaped like a long glass cylinder. As I stepped across the opaque walkway, the experience felt very much like passing through the glass tunnel in some of the modern aquariums I had visited, where the fish swim free and you’re caged. At just about the time I expected to see a shark swim by at eye level, Tess and I stepped through the opening to the conference room. We found ourselves clogged in the middle of a group of about a dozen journalists, all moving inside together.
Tess grabbed my sleeve and out of the corner of her mouth said, “Ms. S, I just saw a badge that said ‘Newsweek’ ...and another that said ‘Wall Street Journal’!”
I squeezed her arm and mouthed, “Big Time” and she giggled slightly.
Once inside, I forgot who was standing beside or in front of me. I couldn’t help it. I just stared numbly at the HBE Reception Room on this, my first visit to the famous Hammerville Security Facility. I edged Tess over to the right side, almost against the wall, as the flood of reporters continued to stream through the opening. While Tess stood stupified, wide-eyed at the journalistic celebrities among the throng, I tried to take in the incredible space we now occupied.
Nearly square, the room’s four walls were fashioned almost entirely of sparklingly clear glass, running at least twelve feet floor to ceiling. According to a reliable source, the glass was fully tempered, six-inches thick and bulletproof. Although the glass appeared to be clear, the building had used some new refractory technology so that the room was flooded with light, but the sun never appeared too bright. At every juncture in the room--floor, ceiling, corners where walls met--the huge plates of glass were joined by gleaming rectangular brass rods.
Standing back and taking in the whole scene, I noted that the room had the appearance of a gigantic crystal jewelry box, every surface sparkling in the light. More than anything else, the place screamed of money. As a building, James Thurber High School was nice, I had to admit, but compared to this architecture, it was clearly only a poor relation. And this was built to house convicts.
In front of the fourth wall, where the reception room met the front offices of the prison, stood a small square platform. This platform also was crafted of perfectly clear glass with beveled edges ending in brass corners. Sprouting from the center of the platform was a slender column of brass topped with expanding prongs that supported a clear glass lectern. In the front of this unusual glass and metal form sprouted a dozen microphones, their black sinewy cords running down and across the glass platform like elongated tentacles of some hidden giant octopus.
As I turned to share all this with Tess, she grabbed my arms and, her eyes darting toward her right, half-whispered, half-squealed, “ Look Ms. S, there’s Wolf Blitzer!” As I turned to look in the direction she indicated, my attention was instead diverted by the pair of doors opening behind the platform. After a beat, two figures emerged. Though I had never met either, I immediately recognized both men from the media coverage.
James Cromer, warden of the HBE Prison, strode first through the glass doors, onto the raised platform and stopped in front of the mikes. His movements were matched step for step by the Homeland Security Czar himself, Harold Samson. The space exploded with flashes from a hundred cameras, the brilliant points of light bouncing off the glass walls. At the same time the whir of digital cameras and the clicks of the 35mm’s echoed off the confluence of glass and metal and seemed to fill the air, instantly extinguishing all conversation. Both figures remained still, waiting for the bursts of light and sound to subside. Fifteen feet away I stood, studying the briefly frozen tableau, and something nagged at the back of my brain. Something was odd, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. Then a thought jumped, full blown, into my head.
Both men standing before us were, well, really small. I made some quick mental calculations, subtracting the height of the platform, and realized that both men were only five feet six or seven. The impression portrayed in the media, no doubt carefully orchestrated by the government, was that these leaders were taller, much taller, even giants in command, as if height were an apt male metaphor for leadership. Standing now on the foot high platform, they were able to look down at the reporters, from a position of strength.
Warden James Cromer was the first to speak. “On behalf of HBE, I’d like to welcome you to the Hammerville Security Facility.” I noticed that his features matched his diminutive frame--eyes, nose and mouth scrunched close together in a small, oval face--but his head was topped with a large coiffure of jet black hair, looking like a fashion holdover from two decades earlier. I took the bi
g hair to be a futile attempt to enhance his height and I kept waiting for him to stick his right hand inside his lapel. Looking polished and all business, he wore an immaculate, gray double-breasted suit with the letters HBE discreetly embroidered above the breast pocket. Beneath the suit, a crisp white shirt and black and blue striped tie were held captive.
“Mr. Samson will read a brief statement and then he and I will do our best to answer your questions.” He sported a beatific media smile as more cameras flashed and shutters clicked away furiously.
I stole a look at my student partner who stood with her eyes fixed on the platform. “Tess?” I whispered and got no response. “Tess?” I repeated, barely louder and pinched her arm slightly. Her head jerked toward me with the obvious question and I mouthed, “Notes.” She didn’t understand, so I whispered the single word and gestured toward the dais with my head. Suddenly she came alive, took the small notebook from her purse and began scribbling furiously.
Cromer cast a quick glance toward his press partner, who nodded and stepped up to the podium as he moved aside, the two movements seemingly choreographed.
“Mr. Asad Akadi is a terrorist,” Samson began without hesitation, looking at a slip of paper he extracted from a jacket pocket. Harold Samson’s moniker could not have been more inappropriate. Not one attribute did he share with his Biblical counter part. Rather than the famous long black curls sheared by Delilah, his hair was short, close-cropped and a mixture of ginger and gray, worn crew cut style. Two large, bulging eyes stared through bifocal lenses atop a pug nose. His face was creased with a firm, straight mouth. The skin on his face enveloping these facial features had a pale, almost pasty look. He was dressed in a navy suit with his trademark bow tie, this one gray and white. Briefly I tried to picture Samson of the Old Testament with a bow tie and almost laughed. I shook myself from my imaginings as the director continued.
Leave No Child Behind Page 5
