Narjis and Omar at the checkpoint - erotic writing

here's another new character popping up at the checkpoint: young Narjis. So far, we've had Um Maysara, Maria, Omar and Suhad. To read previous parts, go to the label "Shai at the checkpoint - novel in progress".

Again, this is still only raw writing, and I'm just playing around with some new characters, experimenting to see where they lead me to.

It’s him! From the chat! La hawl wala quwata… what a small world. Ya’ani…

She panics, glances at her father in the driver seat, shifts in her chair, adjusting her head cover. Narjis felt her cheeks redden and something lightly tickling her inner thighs as she remembered the video chat with this Zuzu. Zuheir Zidan, Zahi, Zeid, Zakariya, Ziyad, Zaki. She let the names roam in her mind while she shifted in her chair again. She felt her cheeks now like two burning balls set on fire as their car moved forward. Closer to him. No, he can’t recognize me. Not with the hijab. He was standing at the side of the dirt road, sipping steaming shai from a tin cup, eyes glazed over, fixed on some point in mid-distance. Their car came to a stop right beside him. Narjis couldn’t face the temptation and she looked straight at him, studying his now-clothed body. In her mind, she saw his tight abdomen with its curly black hairs. Then further down. As she played the video back in her mind, the fire in her cheeks spread, moving down, down and into between her legs. It was warm and wet now down there, with a tingle. Narjis knew now she was housing a terrible secret inside her body, which flowered and burnt and made her whole body turn into embers.

Omar sipped his shai as he listened to Um Maysara telling him about this young girl, Maria. From Haifa, too. Maybe he knew her? He’d been with many girls her age, but couldn’t remember all their names. Now what is that one with the hijab staring at?! When their eyes met, he thought he recognized something familiar in them. Huge, round eyes like the eyes of a reem. Thick, long eyelashes and a very thin line of kohol. He’d seen these eyes somewhere. Only recently. With all the women he’s been with in the past year, he couldn’t put a name to the eyes. She held his gaze, her eyes frozen. When she saw recognition on his face, she withdrew from the window, plastering her back to the vinyl of the seat, looking away.

When they reached the checkpoint, it was the usual. Ahmad, her father, a hajj, was always suspect. They had to get out of the car and let the soldiers to a thorough search. Ahmad’s wife, Hiyam, would joke and say that he could be a model for a terrorist commercial. Ahmad was a big man with strong arms. Before becoming the Imam of their small village Salem, he had been an arms trader. As such, and since he dealt with the Triangle’s under-world, he took great care of his body. He ran ten kilometers every day –  religiously. Even during Ramadan. He lifted weights every other day. Twice a week, he did fifty four laps in Um El-Fahem swimming pool. Then, one early morning during the last days of Ramadan six years ago, he turned away from his life. One small praying mat and one single prayer – it’s all it took.