The Babes of Beirut

Rikki struggles to shove the butterflies from her belly. "Listen, we were --."

Bukhari's eyes narrow. "No talk! Now turn around slowly. I want to look you over."

Fear grabs Rikki like a boa constrictor. How to respond to that?

Abu Bukhari shoves, making her stumble. "I said turn around!"

Regaining her balance, Rikki looks toward Alchena. She's frozen where she sits, her expression pleading with Rikki to do what he says. Quickly remembering her own Tyrannosaurus Rex metaphor, Rikki turns around. Her eyes widen. Holy-shit, now the bastard's feeling me up. Scream or slug the S.O.B.?

Suddenly, there's a loud sound of shattering glass. A woman shrieks. Angry shouts and hateful slurs boomerang around the club. The music comes to an unsettling halt.

"Cus, charra alaik!" a man yells from somewhere in the tense crowd.

All hell breaks loose. Arabs slug Russians. Screaming girls bolt. Others duck for cover. Beer mugs and whiskey bottles fly by Rikki's face like buzz bombs.

Good-god, I've walked into a freekin' bar brawl, Rikki thinks, trying to twist her upper arm free from Bukhari's vice-like grip. A longhaired Lebanese careens into a nearby table. Bukhari jerks her out of the way as a barrage of empty beer bottles fly by and crash to the floor.

"Lookout," Rikki shrieks.

There's a thud as an airborne chair strikes Bukhari in his back. The grip on Rikki's arm slackens. She twists free. Abu Bukhari's open hand swat stings her left butt-cheek. She tries to bolt, but he grabs her shoulder and spins her around.

"Dream about it bitch," he says over the angry shouts of the brawling mob. "I'll pry your ripe American ass open one day." Drawing back a fist, he slugs a passing Lebanese and then charges into the chaos.

Rikki frantically looks left then right, unsure whether to run or stay put. Three feet away, a fat Russian has one of the half-naked dancers by her hair. The huge African staggers by. A dirty oil worker raises a chair and smashes it against the African's face. The blow sends him to the floor like a stone made of Jell-O. A flying tray misses Rikki's cheek by inches. She feels Alchena tugging her arm.

"Get down," Alchena yells. They crouch, using the upended table as a shield.

"W-who was that whacko with the tattoos?" Rikki stammers.

"Miss Lovette, you get out -- now. Go straight to airport. Take first airplane back to America."

"Wait, what'd I do?"

"Bukhari wants YOU. Abu Bukhari is bad man. He gunman for Hezbollah."

Rikki gulps. "Hezbollah? The militants?"

"Very dangerous militants. You in big danger."

"Danger? Why?"

"Do you not hear what Abu Bukhari say? He LUSTS for you. He want your ass."

"My ass?" Her eyes narrow. "I dare him to fuckin' try."

"You do not understand. Abu Bukhari kidnaps young girls. He use them, then sell them to brothel in Cairo."

Suddenly, Rikki's stomach feels like she's just ingested a wad of camel snot.

"He has many connections. He has many henchmen. They find you. Then Bukhari take you --."

Suddenly there's a loud crash as bottle explodes on the wall just behind them. Rikki covers her head with her hands as a shower of whiskey and bits of glass rain down.

"Yel-la," Alchena says, feverishly pointing to her left. "Get out. That door. That way."

Rikki's eyes are wild. She zeros in on the door. Four robed Afghans, who are scrapping like angry dogs, block that escape. She hears muffled squeaks of protest. The fat Russian wrestles the topless girl to the floor. The girl twists and shrieks as he mauls her naked breasts.

"Fuckin' Rusk," Alchena growls.

Rikki cringes as the girl raises her head and bites down hard on his earlobe. The Russian yelps. Suddenly he's on his feet. He raises his foot. There's a thwack as the Russian's boot impacts her jaw. A white object lands next to Rikki's knee with a ticktack. It's a bloody tooth.

Alchena's cheeks redden. Her leg muscles tense. She lowers her head, ready to charge.

"No, don't," Rikki gasps.

Alchena shrieks like a banshee as she leaps from behind the table. Her head catches the Russian right in his nose. The crunch says he'd gotten the worst of that. Rikki ducks to avoid another flying bottle. She peers from behind the table. Alchena raises a muscled leg. The sharp toe of her stiletto-heal boot slams right into the Russian's groin. He bellows in pain, drops to the floor and doubles over into the fetal position. Alchena plants her boot-sole on the side of his face.

"Get out!" Alchena screams in Rikki's direction. The topless girl crawls away.

Rikki is crouched on her hands and knees. To her, the door looks a mile away. The pathway is a dangerous sea of jagged broken glass.

"Egry besoraa!" Alchena yells. "Run. Run fast!"

Getting up, Rikki starts to scramble toward the door. What if it's locked? Her eyes dart left and right, frantically looking for an alternate escape route. A body careens into a table. There's a loud crunch as a man's head hits the cement a foot from Rikki's feet. His nose is bloody and his teeth are awash in red. Two shirtless Egyptians gang-tackle him and pound on his face with closed fists.

Out of nowhere, a woman shrieks, "Look out! He's got a gun!"

The word GUN hits Rikki like a lightening strike. Her heart skips a beat, clenches then hammers frantically in her chest. In a split-second, she's at the door. The knob twists. With a push of her shoulder, the door swings open.

The overpowering stench of a back-alley dumpster invades Rikki's nose. In the distance are the warbling sounds of approaching sirens. Gathering what's left of her wits she lurches into a stumbling run toward Gourad Street, deathly afraid that any second some vicious thug might leap from the shadows and tackle her.

Police cars and military trucks are rolling up as Rikki runs down the sidewalk and jumps into the Fiat. Adrenaline pumping at double digits, she quickly locks the doors. Her trembling hands fumble with the keys.

Amidst the brawl, Abu Bukhari grabs Alchena's hand. "Yel-la," he says pulling her forward. "Police come. I hide you on my boat tonight."

Alchena nods. With her in tow, Bukhari muscles his way toward a service entrance.

Outside, the weasel-like man appears from the alleyway. His beady eyes look up and down Gourad Street. He spots the blonde American wrenching a small blue Fiat from a parking space. Taking a pen, he jots down the license number on his palm. He hails a nearby taxi. The Fiat pulls away from the curb. The taxi falls in behind.

* * *

Wisps of drifting fog cloak the ink-like waters of Beirut Bay. Dozens of dilapidated fishing boats bob up and down, gently tugging at their dockside moorings. Across the misty darkness, a foghorn's moan is distant and ghostly.

Two shadowy figures step aboard the fishing trawler Banu Sahm. They go into the main cabin.

The cabin is a cluttered filthy mess. Thick ropes hold two suspended bunks covered with dirty rumpled blankets. A dozen Kalashnikov assault rifles sit silently in a locked gun-rack. There's a clink of a Zippo lighter. Orange light flickers across Abu Bukhari's intimidating face. The brownish cigarette in his lips glows brightly. He exhales a cloud of brownish smoke, mixing the sweet scent of opium with the smells of diesel fuel and rotting fish.

Alchena looks at the imposing structure that's standing just a foot away. Underneath her tight latex pants, her pussy clenches as she mentally prepares for what's about to be.

"Thank you for protecting me from the police," she says in a tone that's soft and unafraid.

Bukhari nods. "I care for my women," he says staring at Alchena's breasts, thrusting slightly under the fitted Baby-doll tee. There's a warm feeling between his legs. He cocks his head, watching as her upturned nipples emerge like twin thimbles as they push against the thin silky cloth.

"Whiskey?" Alchena asks in a soft submissive tone.

Bukhari grunts. As she goes about the appointed task, the glints from the rhinestones that surround that oval hole snare his gaze. Light teases her naked crevasse as her bare ass-cheeks roll provocatively inside the oval.

"Those trousers fit like a sausage casing," he says.

Alchena looks over her shoulder. "I wear them just for you."

Although Alchena's beauty has his cock erect and throbbing, Bukhari's mind drifts to that feisty blonde American. It is she, not the whore Alchena, who raises the hotter fire in his groin.

Five miles away, Rikki steers the blue Fiat toward her hotel. "Some investigative reporter I am," she mutters. "Creepy Arabs feel me up like I'm fuckin' fruit. I get hit-on every five-damn-seconds. Then I manage to get a Hezbollah white-slaver after my ass and get a brand new eight-hundred dollar Versace outfit soaked with cheap Lebanese whiskey."

In the Banu Sahm's cabin, Bukhari grabs a hunk of Alchena's hair. He jerks her head back. Her neck-cords strain.

"So, do you want it now?" he breathes in her face

"Like the air I breathe," Alchena gasps.

The lobby elevator at the Metropolitan Palace Hotel swishes open. Rikki steps into the small car. An elderly French couple follows. Both wrinkle their noses and cast a disgusted eye at Rikki.

"Elle a l'odeur d'une prostituée," the old man whispers to the woman.

Rikki turns and looks him. On a whim, she molds her face into a smoky smile. "Fifty bucks, Gramps. Seventy-five and the wife can watch."

Both look mortified, mumble something in French and scurry out the elevator door. It swishes shut. Rikki rolls her eyes as the elevator shoots upward. "Great career move Lovette. Now you can add 'hooker' to the already exaggerated résumé." The elevator door opens on the ninth floor.

The light from a kerosene lantern flickers on the trawler's bulkhead. Below Alchena's lower back, Bukhari's finger circles the rhinestones then teases the tight warm slit between her ass-cheeks. Suddenly, he shoves her away. "Unbutton those trousers. Unzip them just a couple inches."

"As you wish," Alchena says. Her fingers slide the zipper toward a non-existent panty line.

"Get your Palestinian ass over here," Bukhari barks. He lifts his undershirt over his head.

Bukhari's tattooed arms coil around Alchena's body in a serpent's squeeze. An involuntary squeak comes from her throat as his mouth covers hers'. The kiss is fierce. Crushed to his bare chest, her breasts become wonderfully warm and alive. There's a bittersweet taste as his saliva flows on to her tongue. She feels a wild tremor quaking right through her clothing and into her thumping heart. Deep, natural arousal instantly heightens as his hands take charge of her breasts. She closes her eyes and whimpers softly as he gives one a solid squeeze.

"Yes, ummmm yessss," she moans, feeling herself swell to the roughness of his sandpaper-like hands.

In room 912 at the Metropolitan Palace Hotel, Carrie Underwood's "All-American Girl" drifts from a CD player on the toilet seat. Steam clouds billow from the shower. Sudsy rivulets cascade down Rikki's backbone, vanish into her crevasse, then fall, sending the acrid smell of whiskey to a watery grave. White soap bubbles grace her upper body flowing in an irregular course over her perfect up thrust breasts. As she washes, her thumb inadvertently brushes a nipple. There's a slight feeling of burgeoning heat between her legs. For a moment, Rikki feels a trickle of inexplicable excitement in some subterranean spot. Abu Bukhari's rock star face, huge tattooed muscles and tight male ass materialize behind her eyelids. "I wonder," she muses aloud, slowly rubbing the soap bar across her nipple. "What would making love with a lusty rough-and-tumble Hezbollah gunman like Abu Bukhari be like?"

That thought brings on a slight tremor between Rikki's legs. Releasing the breast, she reaches down and fans her clean-shaven pussy lips. Her finger finds her clit hard and extended. A mental image of that enticing center bulge in Bukhari's pants flickers by. A light finger-swish across her clit-tip spawns a powerfully erotic jolt. She jerks her hand away. "Gawd Lovette," she scolds herself, rolling her eyes. "How childish, getting zoned out fantasizing some Hezbollah's big dick sodomizing your ass. The sadomasochistic louse probably fucks like a truck, sucks tit like an industrial milking machine and ejaculates enough bodily fluid to drown a small farm animal."

In the shadowy cabin aboard the Banu Sahm, a knife blade presses against Alchena's thrusting belly. Bukhari laughs as he slides the knife under the cropped Baby-doll top.

Alchena closes her eyes. Her nipples stiffen like rocks. "Cut it," she murmurs.

From outside, the ghostlike foghorn sounds as the sharp knife blade slices the silky material up the center. Both breasts fall free to Bukhari's hungry eyes.

Shampoo flows on to Rikki's long blonde hair. "On the other hand," she says aloud then switches to silent thought. An exclusive interview with a bona fide Hezbollah gunman like Abu Bukhari would be a journalistic coup. Who knows where it might lead? He might even pal around with Osama Bin Laden. Now that'd clinch a senior position at the New York bureau for sure. Her fingernails dig into her scalp. She frowns. It'll cost though. Play a few aces and he'll do it too. Taking a handful of shampoo suds, she reaches around and spreads it across her high-mounded rear. One soapy finger slides in and out of her crevasse, teasing her sphincter. An instantaneous flash of Bukhari's masculine splendor invading that most private part triggers a slight warmish throb in that same, mysteriously deep, and strangely delicious spot.

Between Alchena's legs, natural stimulation is flowing like a river. Her tingling pussy drips with liquid heat. Bukhari sucks her large dark-brown nipple into his mouth. She closes her eyes as a wave of pleasurable warmth floods her pounding heart.

Rikki twists off the shower valve. She laughs as she squeezes the water from her hair. "How about calling it, I Did Anal with an Arab? A few nifty pictures and Playboy would pay big. Hell, the book deal alone would be worth a half-a mil."

Beneath Alchena's pants, she feels her outer-lips split open. Without panties, the wetness has to be soaking into the skin-tight latex. Spontaneous tingles suddenly spread, circling, exciting and hardening her clitoris as it pushes against the smooth latex.

"Get your mind out of the gutter Lovette," Rikki says to the empty hotel room. As she towels herself dry, the thought keeps teasing her. She slowly drags the rough terrycloth between her legs. "Can I have a weakness for guys who kill for a living?" she whispers. She jerks the towel away. "Fuck him," she says giving her reflection in the full-length mirror the finger. "No Hezbollah gunman with a rock star face sends Rikki Lovette's butt into a feeding frenzy."

Alchena lowers Bukhari pants. His erect cock slaps his belly. Since the first time, she's been captivated by its size and just how masterful Bukhari's cock is. As his mouth returns to her breast, her practiced hand slides his cock-skin up and down switching his incredible craving into severe physical want. A gentle nudge pops her nipple from his lips. The bunk's ropes snap tight as she lies down. Bukhari's muscled body is on top of her in a second. They roll over in anxious, desperate, open-mouth rolls. She winds up on top. He shoves her arms out so her breasts hang just inches above his face. His breathing is deep and labored. It's as if what hangs just above his mouth aren't just breasts, but much-desired treasures. Breath catches in her throat as his fingernail runs along a breast's bottom curve, then up, tracing the areola then the nipple-shaft.

"Ahhh-ooooo," Alchena moans as he squeezes. Straining her neck, she licks his tattoo-covered biceps. Her tongue finds his left nipple. Bukhari's neck muscles tighten as she lays a long wet lick on each.

His head rises. Extending his tongue, he licks her left nipple. The roughness and warmth bring on a flood that engulfs both of Alchena's breasts making them sizzle, tingle and quiver. The feeling works its way through her insides, bringing short, yet powerful twangs of deepening arousal.

From Alchena's lips soft, guttural moans and coos flow out. His long licking movements arouse each nipple-tip, spreading through the shafts, and finally worming down to her pulsing pussy lips. "Take me Abu," she whispers. "Take me rough."

"Call the Washington Bureau," Rikki barks into the phone as she paces. "Get me complete details on one Abu Bukhari. That's spelled A B U B U K H A R I."

Bukhari's lips pull Alchena's left nipple into his mouth. Alchena grits her teeth as he bites and chews.

"C'mon Julie, don't ask how, just do it," Rikki says into the phone. "Hey, screw a few frogs if you have to, but dig up who he is -- what he is -- and his relationship to Hezbollah. Yeah, yeah. Dammit Julie, you're whining again. Yeah, I know he'll piss his pants. But you tell Jack-boy that Rikki said to turn the frikin' screws or his wife finds out about that Vegas Hooters Girl and her strap-on. Hold on a sec." Rikki tosses the phone on the bed and slides a pinkish translucent teddy over her head. "Okay, back. Call Charlie Waggins over at the State Department. Use my name cuz Charlie owes me a really-big favor. Ask him for a full background bio. Tell him to check if Bukhari's on their Delta-Danger watch-list. E-mail me everything. I wanna know it all, down to the size of Bukhari's dick. Got that?"

A small smile crosses her lips as she hangs up the phone. "Humm, wonder how big he really is?" she whispers aloud. There's that strange tingle between her butt-cheeks again . . . or . . . is it an itch?

Alchena's mind swims. Although famous for his cruelty and possessiveness, she can't ignore the shocks of excitement that surge inside her dripping pussy. Using her arms, she squeezes both breasts together, moving her torso from side to side, giving Bukhari first one nipple, then the other. With all of the pulling and sucking force his lips and cheeks can muster, he feasts, gorging himself with hard sucks and pulling tugs. For the longest time his entire world is riveted to Alchena's breasts. Consumed in an undisciplined sea of sexual excitement, Bukhari grabs her arm and roughly rolls her on her back. Alchena's stiletto-heal boots fly from her feet and hit a bulkhead with two thumps. His anxious hands jerk the latex pants over her hips. He smirks. Not even a thong. Leaving her pants bunched around her ankles, he straddles her belly.

"Okay, slutty slave-girl," Bukhari growls looking down at her. "Please me with your work."

Alchena gazes at the glistening white drops that ooze from the tip of his cock. Wetting a finger, she delicately spreads the creamy liquid around her areola. Milk buds instantly emerge. Taking his cock in hand, it reddens to the gradual up and down movement of his foreskin and the gentle rub of cock-tip to her nipple-tip.

"In your mouth!" Bukhari groans. "All the way in."

Kicking away her pants, Alchena quickly scrunches between his thick hairy thighs. Bukhari's eyes clamp shut, his mind completely transfixed on what she's about to do. She opens wide. In one smooth motion, she slips his long shaft into her mouth, deeper and deeper. Her disciplined throat accepts and holds his cock-tip in her throat without rejection. Gentle swallows and placid purposeful gulps induce throbs in every inch of his thickness. Alchena mentally masks this forbidden act with dream-like thoughts of an imagined lover, a prince charming, helping her build that safe house and rehabilitate abused Palestinian girls.

Somewhere in Bukhari's swimming senses is a vivid picture. It's not of Alchena. It's of that American woman's rock-hard ass-muscles lifting, pushing, rolling and straining inside those so very tight white jeans. Never before has he seen an ass built quite like hers'. In his head, one echoing vow freezes. "It shall be Abu Bukhari who pries that American open."