One Night in Beirut

But for his photo—dancing close to another man in a known homosexual club—in the premier society magazine of Beirut? This would be hard to push underground, along with the rest of the Beirut nightlife that flourished—in a "devil may care; tomorrow we die" atmosphere—in war-torn Beirut.

That wasn't the worst of it, though. It was the man he was dancing with. Samir. Her own older brother, Samir Garfeh. Handsome, cocky, and rich, from a prominent Beirut family, he was known to all who read Monday Morning. Everyone in Lebanese society knew Leyla was Nabil's wife and Samir's sister.

There had been inklings of the two, of course, but nothing out in the open like this. The patriarchs of the two families had gotten together and had agreed to explain how often Samir and Nabil were seen together by saying Nabil was courting Leyla, Samir's sister. After that, it was easier to push that to a marriage and a geographic separation of the two young men.

What was Samir doing in Beirut, Leyla mused. He was supposed to be in Amman, Jordan, safely with the rest of her family, which had evacuated south when the Israelis began shelling Beirut, while the Alwaiti family evacuated to Cyprus, where they already had residences and a business.

Samir was in Beirut? There were rumblings of his involvement with the PLO, but surely the family wouldn't have let him go to—and be trapped in—Beirut with a PLO connection. That was a death sentence—and not only from the Israelis. The family hadn't told her he had left Jordan. But perhaps the PLO wouldn't let them tell anyone.

This photo. So many blows to her—and to the families and to her children—how many blows could she take with her whole world crumbling around her?

A muscular, hirsute arm raised over her naked chest from behind her in the bed and pulled her into an equally muscular and hirsute chest. He was naked too, and hard against the small of her back.

"What is wrong, little one?" Andreas Tsialis, the sailor from downstairs, asked. "You keep looking at the magazine and sighing. What is worrying you?"

"Nothing. Just family problems. The fighting in Beirut is ruining everything. Beirut is dying. The world as we have known it is dying."

"Cyprus is not dying, though," Andreas rejoined. "Cyprus is vibrant—robust, big, hard."

He wasn't really talking about Cyprus.

"Yes, I understand," Leyla said. He was driving her mad. He had one arm under her, his hands playing with her full breasts—squeezing them and rubbing and teasing the nipples. He paid attention to her in ways that Nabil never didn't—never seemed passionate enough about her to do. Andreas was a sexual animal. He worked her body before entering her. He gave pleasure as well as taking it. And there was nothing tentative or withheld in his fucking.

He'd once told her he'd fuck anything that moved. She believed him, although she didn't take it as a compliment. He was so alive and robust, though, that she couldn't deny him anything, even when he wanted to take her in primitive ways. He was all smiles and muscles, a big-cocked man. His other hand had been palming her belly, but it moved down, his fingers rubbing and spreading the folds—entering her and plunging deep.

He played with her there, holding her in close embrace, while she writhed and he finger fucked her. "Andreas, Andreas," she murmured, as he worked her, relentlessly taking her to and beyond a climax. They rested, Andreas nibbling at her throat, his fingers never stopping, building again. Nabil never did this, never took her to and beyond multiple climaxes.

"Andreas, please," she whispered.

"Please what?" he asked with a low laugh.

"You know what," she said, wriggling her buttocks, lifting them, putting herself in position for him, feeling his thick, strong cock pressing between her thighs, already moving, in and out, in and out.

"You mean I am like Cyprus?" he asked. "Vibrant, robust, big, strong, hard."

"Yes, all of that," she moaned. "Fuck me, Andreas. Not just with your fingers."

"You know what I like best."

"Yes, yes. Do it."

He moved his hand back to palm her belly. "Whose baby is this, Leyla?"

"You've asked me before. I said it could be either of you."

"Just the two?"

"Yes," she responded indignantly and with a bit of fire. "What do you take me for, a whore?"

"Yes, I take you as a whore, and that's why you let me in your bed. It's because your husband doesn't take you like a whore. Whose baby is this inside you?"

"I don't know. But it can only be you or my husband." But it wasn't true that she didn't know. She knew whose baby it was. She remembered exactly when it had been planted, who had seeded her, how easily it had been planted—how it would have been planted the next day if not that night—by the same man—the man with the insatiable cock meeting her deep need. She knew how hard it was for Nabil to get it up for her, although he did try, and he had succeeded at least twice. No, three times. He actually could think this baby was his. When she was sure she was pregnant with Andreas's baby, she had made sure Nabil lay with her totally to believe it could be his.

"If it's mine, you could come to me," Andreas whispered in her ear. "You know that, don't you? You have enchanted me. I will be happy to take the other little ones too. You can leave Nabil and come to me."

Did he dare tell her what he knew Nabil clearly preferred? Did she know it? She never disparaged her husband in front of him. She betrayed him, yes. She opened her legs to Andreas and took him inside her—willingly, wantonly. So, she betrayed her husband. But she did not disparage Nabil in speaking with Andreas—even though she had every reason to take on another man—a real man. Would he have to tell her how he knew what Nabil preferred? Could she take that? With Greek Cypriots like him, sex was sex was sex, and men like him couldn't get enough of it. He would couple with anyone who aroused him—anyone with a beautiful body. Could Lebanese understand that?

Andreas had not stolen Leyla from Nabil. Nabil had not secured his own. Leyla had fallen into Andreas's lap like luscious, ripe fruit. She had grasped and drawn him inside her that first time. He made sure that it was her choice.

"It's more complicated than that. It's a family affair. No more questions now, Andreas. Be good to me."

"And I'll ask you again and again whose baby this is," he declared as he adjusted her and himself, positioning himself at her bung hole rather than her cunt, where he would take her as her pregnancy unfolded—not because she wanted it that way but because that's where he preferred, if he could, take it from women and men alike.

"Oh, Andreas. Oh, Andreas! Nim! Nim!—Yes, yes," she called out as he suddenly pulled her belly back, pulling her anal entrance to his bulb, and penetrated her, moving up the channel, spreading and stretching her. He continued to work her breasts with one hand and moved his other hand down from her belly to her folds, entering her with two fingers and pressing her clit with his thumb. His fingers were long and thick. They fucked her as deeply as Nabil did there, while his hard cock probed her other channel.

Bringing her hips into the rhythm of the fuck, Leyla grabbed up a pillow and pressed it to her face, taking the pillow casing into her mouth, trying her best not to cry out again, with her children just across the wall—a thin wall, not like the thick stone walls of the family villa outside Beirut, which Leyla had no idea whether it still stood. She moaned deeply as the thick cock lodged itself deep in her anal passage and began to move—in and out, in and out—and his thick fingers stretched and rubbed and moved inside her other channel, his thumb worrying her clit mercilessly.

Family. She had a family—scattered and shattered. It was comforting, though to imagine that, as her Beirut world collapsed, there may be another family, another place for her—pleasure for her than Nabil obviously never could give her.

She bucked and moaned and exploded and flowed for Andreas as he continued taking her out of the cruel present and into the heavens.

* * * *

Beirut, Lebanon

Saturday, 3:30 a.m., 17 July 1982

"Samir! Samir!" Nabil cried out, not being able to see for the smoke and dust the shell had raised. "Are you OK?" Nabil himself seemed whole other than a few bruises and scratches caused by flying debris, although he felt woozy from a bump on his head. A hole had opened up in the corner of the roof, and Nabil could see the sky alight with shooting stars. The barrage had become even more intense, the worst night yet, Nabil was sure. Was it being used to cover a wholesale invasion by the Israelis? He called out to Samir again. The blast had thrown him back against one of the counters.

But Samir didn't answer, and Samir wasn't OK? As the smoke cleared, Nabil looked down to see Samir staring at him with unblinking eyes, a look of surprise on his face. A shard of glass from the counter display unit was sticking out of his neck. The blood was still flowing, but it wasn't doing Samir any good.

Before Nabil, in shock and both his mind and his ears buzzing, could do anything else, the gas oil drums in the back room of the store, there to provide winter heat to the store, exploded and flames shot up from the rear of the shop. Nabil only managed to stand, pull on his trousers and sandals, and make it out of the shattered glass front of the store before the building was fully engulfed in flames.

He stumbled out into the street, where hell had arrived. Buildings up and down both sides of the street were alight, bring wartime destruction and daylight into central Beirut's night. Lurching south on Route du Liban, he turned south on Avenue Charles Malek, seeing an area clear of fire in that direction. As far as he could see down that road, he saw a young woman, moving crouched over and erratically, as he was. They were the only civilians he could see on the street. He was vaguely aware of a few bands of armed soldiers moving on the street. He had no idea who any of them represented—the Lebanese or Syrian armies, the PLO, or even the invading Israelis—and it hardly mattered.

In his addled mental state Nabil got into his mind that the woman was Leyla, his wife. His hand fingered her necklace in his pocket. He was overcome with the need to give her the necklace, to tell her in some way how much he loved her for the sacrifice she had made, how much he appreciated her loyalty, and how sorry he was that he could not give Samir up.

He moved, like a zombie, up the street to try to get to her and help her—to comfort her and seek her forgiveness. He wasn't anywhere close to her, though, when she was accosted by a band of soldiers and dragged, screaming and kicking, into an alley.

He paused, looking around and seeing only flames and crumbling buildings. Then he renewed the effort to get to Layla, to help her. But then he was surrounded by his own band of soldiers, grabbing him, lifting him off the street, dragging him in another alley.