Carrying the FlagChapter 7 Hadiya Naked in School
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Carrying The FlagChapter 8: Hadiya Sleeps Over free porn video
I wanted to put my arm around her but it was too hard to coordinate lurches as we headed down the empty hall from our lockers. We were both limping, her leg and my ankle. Cheering practice hadn’t gone well.
At least we could hold hands, so long as I was on her left.
“Do you think we should walk home like this?” Hadiya asked
“You mean, like, naked?”
“Yes!” she hissed enthusiastically, giving my hand a squeeze.
Her first day in The Program and she’s suggesting walking home naked? We’d already talked about walking home and decided we both needed to walk off our day in spite of our infirmities. I looked at her -- what a body! Slender, with small firm boobs with sharp little peaked nipples, a trim tummy with just the slightest curve below an innie belly button, a sweet, succulent peach of a pussy between her thighs, and all those gorgeous markings!
I wanted to know what they tasted like. If she let me my tongue would follow those vines and leaves anywhere they led.
“Do you think your parents are ready for two naked girls to walk in the door? One of them you?”
She gave a shrug. “Do you think with my handicaps I can do everything for myself at home? Both my mother and my father have seen everything. After it happened I could not stay in hospital long. My bed there was needed -- another bomb, outside a police station injured many people. So I was sent home. Changing my bandages hurt so much my father had to hold me. He cried. My mother still helps me dress and undress. I am doing more for myself every day, but father still has to help me in and out of the tub, though only mother bathes me. It is very hard to wash one-handed.”
I hadn’t thought of that. “So being naked in school isn’t such a big deal?”
“Oh no! Being naked in school is a very big deal! Being naked in public is completely different from being naked at home. Even there I do not go naked unless I have no choice. But here I must do it all the time, in front of strangers, boys and girls, men and women who are not family.”
She thought a moment. “It is funny. I find doing the normal, everyday things, such as sitting in class, or working at the white board, even eating lunch while I am naked -- it feels much different. Exciting! Walking home this way will be exciting!”
She gave a little shiver, and let go of my hand to touch her pussy. “I feel it down here. I am even a little wet down there.”
I was glad she took my hand again.
“I am very aware of being exposed. I feel the air all over me. I sometimes have an urge to cover up, but at the same time I want to jump around and dance, show myself off. I am feeling feelings -- does that make sense? -- I am feeling things I have never felt before, sort of down in my tummy, in my breasts, between my legs, like an itch that I need to scratch, only I do not think I should, even in private!”
I knew the feeling well. She was horny, and so was I.
“Right now I like this, the idea of being outside with nothing on, where everyone can see me. Anyone can see me. The booklet says we must do -- what is it called? -- reaching out? So why do we not walk home naked? Would that not count?” She was positively energized!
I nodded and gave her hand a squeeze. “That would count. It’s called ‘outreach.’ We don’t have to do it. It’s only encouraged. But you’re right, it would be fun, and yes, it would count.”
‘Specially with me, I thought.
Hadiya pointed out it would also save us from having to get dressed. “And speaking of that, it is late and everyone else has gone. Where do you suppose they have put our clothes?”
“I don’t know. Probably the school office. There’s still some people there.
“But if we’re walking home naked we don’t need to worry about where our clothes are, do we?” I added wickedly.
She laughed, flashed me that incredible one-sided smile, and shivered again. “And if we do not have our clothes with us there is no way we can change our minds once we leave here. It is late. These doors will automatically lock behind us. Once we step outside and let the doors close we must walk all the way naked, where anyone can see us.”
With an “I-dare-you” look at each other we pushed the bars that opened the big double doors, swinging them wide. Outside air swirled around us. It felt wonderful. The doors closed behind us, locking with a lip-smacking snap.
Sunshine, fresh air, and outside traffic noises welcomed us. There was nothing between us and the world but footwear and our whistles until when? Tomorrow?
We lurched down the steps slowly using a one-legged gait. My ankle appreciated it. Once off the last step she kicked her knee into walking gear. The gentle slope of the sidewalk past the Spirit of Central High statue made it easier. I guess we made quite a sight, a naked midget oriental and a naked half-”tattooed” South Asian girl limping down the sidewalk.
“Naked freaks!” someone driving by yelled, barely missing a fire hydrant that suddenly materialized in front of his car. “Why’n’chya put some clothes on!”
“Why’n’chya watch where you’re going!” I shot back, unleashing my finger as he drove away.
Hadiya giggled. “I have learned that is a very rude gesture.”
“Very. Be careful when you use it. It’s been known to start fights.”
Letting go of my hand she tried it herself. “Does it matter if I can only do it left-handed?”
“Not a bit. Or you can kinda get the idea across with just an arm movement, no fingers necessary.” I demonstrated.
She tried it. Even with her bookbag hooked at her elbow it sorta worked.
“So this cheerleading. How do you learn to fly? It sounds exciting. Do you flap your arms or something?”
I reclaimed her hand. “There’s no actual flying. It’s more controlling the falling. We practiced lifts today, getting me up to stand on other people’s shoulders or hands. Getting me down, that’s where the bases and spotters come in. They have to catch me. Getting down the last time was when I got in trouble.”
“How so?”
“I was off balance and twisted my ankle. We’d been at it for like two hours. Everyone was tired Ms. Waldorf sent us home before someone got hurt worse. If I practice maybe I’ll get to do some real flying at this week’s game.”
“Oh I hope so! I want to see you do that!”
“So you’ll be there? But what about the cannon?”
“I will deal with it,” she vowed. “Ms. Andrews hopes to take me to the firing range this week to get me -- what does she call it? -- acclimatized. She also tells me it will help if I talk about it as I remember it. But that is very hard for me.”
“I’ll bet!” I was quick to change the subject. “So, how’d your afternoon go with Mr. Mac?”
“Well, except that they called me Lurch.”
That got my attention. “Who did? Mr. Mac? When?”
“Some of the boys in the Industrial Arts club. Not all of them. Not Mr. Mac, of course, and not so he could hear them. Lurch is what I do. It is my limp. It is like a nickname.”
“Assholes,” I growled. “You deserve a better nickname than that!”
“I try to ignore them,” Hadiya continued. “I tell myself it is not an insult, but I know from the way they say it how they mean it. They do not think I should be in the club.”
We waited to cross the street so we wouldn’t hold up traffic with our limping, but that got us in the way of someone turning. He waved us across and smiled so I waved back. Hadiya gave him a full frontal. He goggled at her, then grinned and gave her two thumbs up. I guess he liked her paint job.
“Because you’re Pakistani?”
She shook her head. “Because I am a girl ... and a cripple!”
I thought that over. “You are definitely a girl, but that shouldn’t be a problem. That club’s full of gear-heads. All they care about is cars. What are you doing there?”
“I like cars. I am a good mechanic! Or was. Does that make me a gear-head as well?”
“Oops! I’m sorry, you’re right. There’s nothing wrong with a girl being a gear-head. Or anyone, for that matter. I guess I’m not used to it.”
“That is all right. In Pakistan my being a mechanic was not approved, except by my father and my brother. My brother appreciated it. I was his helper. When I was little I was always bothering him with questions, picking things up and putting them down, so he decided to put me to work.
“And now he is dead,” she added sadly. “Anyway, my mother did not approve. She is more traditional. She wanted me to be a good Muslim girl and marry whoever was picked for me. Now, without my right hand and right leg I am not a good marriage prospect, and not even a good mechanic. Maybe she was right all along.”
I didn’t know what to say to that.
“It is hard for me to do things one-handed,” she went on. “But Mr. Mac is very nice. He says it is my brain that matters. He says backyard mechanics are the best, that the boys could learn a lot from me, if they’d just listen. I can tell when they are having trouble fixing something, and try to help, but they ignore me. He tells me I should ask questions -- what he calls leading questions, ones that I already know the answer to -- instead of trying to tell them.”
I nodded. That sounded like something Bao told me after he made Sergeant -- about leading instead of pushing. Make them think it was their idea in the first place.
“Then I’d say you should listen to him. You be the brains, let them be your hands.”
She gave me a smile that glowed. “Yes. That is what he told me. And if I am having trouble I let them help me. That works, too.”
“But I do not work on carburetors.
“But cars are not the main reason I am in the club. Mr. Mac and I are working on a better knee joint. When we get the design worked out he wants the class to build it. It is very exciting to be working on something so important. Even some of the boys -- the smarter ones -- they like me -- are very excited about it.”
“Cool!”
“If we can get it to work Mr. Mac says that I might even be able to play football again.”
I’d heard that before, but didn’t want to discourage her. “Really?”
“That is what he says. I think I should be able to kick the ball now with my left foot, if I can get a good plant with my right, and keep my knee from folding. But the soccer coach will not even let me try. I think he is afraid I might get hurt. As if I was not already! And if my prosthetic leg should break we can just fix it again.
“Anyway, Mr. Mac calls me his assistant and says I will be his guinea pig when we have a design to test. We spent most of the time today analyzing my current prosthetic. Me being naked today made studying it easy. The boys were very interested in that, especially how the socket fit. I was sitting on a high stool, with my legs way apart.”
I snorted, “I bet.”
She giggled. “I even let them touch me. Some of them teased me by sliding their hands up my thigh, getting very close to me before I giggled and pulled away. I was too shy!”
I wished I’d been there. Would she have been just as shy with me?
“Then we watched the sophomore boy who is in The Program walking around -- Cal -- he is in the club, too. He went up and down steps while we felt how his leg muscles work. Mr. Mac has put up a picture like in the doctor’s office showing a man’s muscles, so we could figure out which ones control the lower leg.
“But the picture did not, you know, show the interesting stuff,” she admitted. “Cal was showing everything.”
“That is not part of his leg, and not a muscle!”
She giggled. “Of course not. But I could not avoid seeing those parts of him, just like the boys all saw my parts. His penis was hard and waving around, and leaking stuff. He was turning pink all over!”
“Blushing.”
“Yes. I wanted to touch him, not just his leg, but he was so embarrassed I was afraid he would run away. When we were in class together this morning I did not know what to do, and I think he was very embarrassed to ask me for relief.”
I snickered. As I’d expected, she was finding out it wasn’t easy being naked in school.
“But the girl who volunteered, she was eager. She was even licking her lips! She made it very easy for him.”
I laughed.
“Anyway, we learned a lot by watching Cal -- his knee, I mean.”
We spent the rest of the walk to her house talking about it. Well, it was more I listened while she talked. She used words like “lever arm” and “torsion” and “flexors” and “angles of impact,” “friction locks” and “dampers” and stuff. Thanks to Mr. Mac her technical vocabulary was really growing fast.
That’s okay. I get to teach her useful words like “asshole” and “motherfucker.” It made for fun lunch-table conversation.
“Mr. Mac wants the new joint to use what he calls off-the-shelf parts as much as possible. That will keep the cost down. He is getting money from the government to do the work. We will be working with the prosthetics people at the Vet Center. That’s where he got this knee joint.” She gave a little kick. “I am thinking of making physical therapy, or maybe even prosthetics engineering my career. Or orthopedics.” She said the big words very carefully. “There are so many in my country, children younger than me, who have wounds like mine and cannot get help.”
My bet was she’d be an engineer or a doctor. She’s super smart, and real technical-minded. She made me feel like a dunce. I still didn’t know what I want to be when I grew up.
At her house her mom was upset when we walked in, but her dad came to her rescue. It was all in Pashto, no subtitles for me. Hadiya grabbed her toothbrush and we left. I was glad we cut the visit short.
The walk to my house was through familiar territory. The neighbors had gotten used to my naked capers. Hadiya got noticed, of course, but we got nothing but friendly waves.
Me and Cha were welcoming. ‘Course I’d told ‘em all about Hadiya, so they knew about her amputations and her brother. I still hadn’t told Hadiya about Bao, but she couldn’t miss the formal picture of him in his Marine uniform with its red piping, shining brass buttons, and his white peaked cap carefully set. He looked so handsome, so serious, and so proud!
On the wall above it in a wooden frame was the American flag that had covered his casket, carefully folded into a precise triangle so only the stars on the field of blue showed. Below the picture were his medals -- service medals for his tours in Iraq and Afghanistan, the Good Conduct Medal, the Purple Heart, Silver Star, Legion of Merit, and the Navy Cross. That’s only one step below the Medal of Honor.
Yeah. Bao had died a hero. Small fucking comfort.
Oh, I was proud of him, but face it, I’d give ‘em all away to have him alive.
Hadiya looked at the picture for a long time. Then she looked at me, and everything that needed to be said between us was in that look. Now she knew.
At dinner it was good having her filling the chair across from me. When it’s just the three of us we don’t talk much. Hadiya was interested in what Cha and Me did, what their life in Vietnam had been like, and they were interested in hers in Pakistan. Me had made one of her best stir-fry mixes with wonderful seasonings. The bite-sized bits of chicken and veggies made it easy for Hadiya to eat one-handed, and there was rice, of course. She’d even brought her spork. We had chopsticks but she’s still learning how to handle them left-handed.
After dinner, after helping clear the table, we didn’t hang around downstairs. Homework was our excuse to retreat to my room.
Homework. Yeah! Sex ed homework. Me had known what my middle school sleepover had been all about. She and Cha had hid out upstairs, and they never said anything. She knew what we’d been up to in the basement playroom. She knew about tonight, too.
As usual, Cha was neck deep in that Egyptian river -- you know, “denial.” Sex was not talked about in my house unless I had friends over, and then never in front of my parents, especially Cha. Me coped with the messy female stuff, at least.
It makes me wonder how Bao and I came to be.
Up in my room Bao was the elephant in the room my friends and I tried to ignore. Tonight he had the company of Hadiya’s brother Hamid. I closed my door and we just gave each other The Look again, and came together in a long, long hug. There are no words. There would come a time for talk, but for now the skin-to-skin contact soothed at the same time it kindled different impulses. It was hard letting go, and we were both nervous.
I think she was scared. I was eager, but afraid I’d take a wrong step and scare her away. Fortunately I had a plan. “After all that cheerleading I need a bath. How about you? Will your -- decorations survive a bath?”
She had to know what I really had in mind.
She looked at herself in the mirror on my closet door, really looked at herself. And there I was beside her, undecorated, smaller, more compact, with a gymnast’s broad shoulders, slim hips and strong legs. She was taller than I realized, my breasts more bashful than hers...
“It is henna,” she answered, breaking my train of thought. “It is a dye. I’m told it will last for as long as it takes my skin to wear off. Perhaps two weeks.”
She drew a shaky breath. “And yes, I would like a bath as well.”
Toeing off my sneakers, pulling off my socks, I took a deep breath. “Come on, let’s go share a tub.”
“But I must take off my prosthetic. If we take it off here I would have to crawl to the bathroom.”
It struck me then how helpless she was without her prosthetic. When she’d been down in the hallway last week ... How could she have been so calm?
“No! Not if I’m around. You’ll never have to crawl when I’m around. Never. I piggybacked you before, I will again, anytime you need it.”
I got more take-charge. “Sit on the bed. Let’s get that leg off, and your eye patch, too. We don’t want that getting wet.”
She touched it. “My eye socket -- it is ugly.”
“Not to me. Not to people who care like I do.” I didn’t give her a chance, gently removing the satin band, exposing the empty socket.
It was creepy, yeah. There was no eyelid, no lashes, not even a hollow. Presumably there was a skin graft over something filling the empty socket. A glass eye probably wasn’t even possible. For now the eye patch blending in with her jungle vines gave her an otherworldly look. Later a simple black eye patch would do, if she wanted. She’d look like a pirate! Aarrgh!
I got on my knees, eased off her prosthetic and the elastic sock that protected her stump. It left its mark on her flesh.
“You know sex involves touching, a lot of touching,” I ventured, looking up at her.
She nodded tensely.
“So I am going to touch you.”
“Where?”
“Everywhere,” I answered, reaching for her stump. “But for now, just here.”
“All right,” she said softly.
Alphonse’s artists had henna-dyed her whole stump. I massaged away the sock’s impression. I couldn’t help looking at her pussy, its soft lips with just a hint of a ruffle between them. I wanted to dive right in. It was all I could do keep from reaching beyond the end of her stump.
After getting the sandal off her other foot I turned, offered her my back. She wrapped her arms around my neck, her legs at my waist, and I gave a lift, my ankle protesting.
Getting her to the bathroom was a total giggle-fest. We lurched from one side of the short hallway to the other, bouncing off the walls. I didn’t mind. She might not know much about sex, but she did know how to snuggle her naked front against my naked back, her breasts warm and soft. That made everything okay with me.
Well, almost everything. I shifted her left hand to cup my right breast, my nipple drilling into her palm. When I pressed her hand against my tit she got the idea and gently kneaded my boob. I purred. Oh, was she in for an education tonight!
So was I. I was learning how to help an amputee. Even the toilet was an adventure, with no grab bars for her to make getting up and down easy. I started the tub filling while she dealt with waste disposal.
And yeah, the toilet paper holder was on her right, where she couldn’t reach it, so I had to help her with that. I deliberately cheated. Tearing off some sheets I wiped her myself instead of handing them to her. I was using any excuse to touch her anywhere.
Getting her in the tub was a major challenge and I wondered how her parents managed it. She sat on the edge while I got settled in the water with its billows of bubble bath, my pigtail piled up under a shower cap to keep it dry. With her short cropped hair she didn’t need that, at least.
I guided and caught her as she slid backwards off the edge to settle between my legs, warm water sloshing around us. I wrapped my arms around her and just hugged and hugged her. She felt so good leaning back against me, her skin all warm and slick, her back against my chest, my hands below her breasts, my cheek against hers as I looked over her shoulder.
She was quivering. I’d worried all day about asking her what she knew about sex, but I felt too shy even now. What did I know about her life? When Bao was home he’d talked about how Muslim men treated their women. I’d learned enough to know that the men ruled, and it wasn’t always benevolent. It wasn’t as bad in Pakistan as it was in Iraq. In Saudi Arabia women weren’t even allowed to drive a car.
But even in Pakistan, s’posedly a democracy with laws, there were stories of honor killings, girls murdered by a brother or uncle, even their own father, for dishonoring their family, and no one went to jail for it. What went on behind bedroom doors? Most marriages were arranged, the girls married off as young as their early teens. Did their husband -- who was older and might already have one wife or more -- know about foreplay? Did the man even think of the woman’s pleasure?
I had the feeling that Islamic sex among married couples might be considered rape in this country. I hoped I was wrong. I was so ignorant of Hadiya’s culture. She could teach me as much as I taught I her.
For now I let my fingers do the talking -- or walking, in this case. I started washing her from the top, soaping her head, the left side smooth with very short, soft hair, the right with its scars not so smooth.
It sure wasn’t going to be a bath like her mom gave her.
From the crown of her head I ran my soapy fingers over her face, her lips and cheeks. I didn’t avoid the damaged parts, not her empty eye socket, not the remains of her poor ear. They all got my attention. I wanted her to know that all of her was precious to me. After sluicing water over her to wash the soap away from her face I continued on down her neck and shoulders, finding pleasure washing her arms as she slowly relaxed.
Sure, I admit the end of her right arm gave me naughty ideas, thinking maybe her dragon would like to explore my cave.
But I wasn’t about to go there. No, no, no!
Not yet anyway. Maybe someday.
Without thinking I began humming in time with the way I was moving my hands. It turned into “Roar Dragon Roar” as I soaped her right arm. She caught it and we both giggled.
I saved her good parts for as long as I could, but with her arms done I went for her torso, feeling the ripples of her ribs, tickling her underarms, getting giggles and gasps. Lalita hadn’t neglected waxing even there. Hadiya’s breasts were all warm and soft. She didn’t complain when I pinched and gently tugged at her nipples. Instead she moaned, so I nibbled on her neck, too. Her small, tight little tits hardened up nicely.
When she was used to that I slid my soapy hands down her tummy, and felt her tensing up again. I spent a lot of time below her breasts and above her navel. Her skin was satin smooth on her left, patchwork seamed satin on her right.
I wasn’t sure how much sensation her scars had.
When my hands headed down lower, down that soft slope leading between her thighs, she stiffened again, so I kissed the side of her neck -- the decorated side first -- nipped it, even, then shifted to the other side so I could whisper reassurances in her working ear. I offered to stop if she wanted me to, but she just gave a nervous shake of her head. I kissed her ears, both of them, and she started to relax again, tilting her head to give me better access to the side of her neck, so I nipped it again. She really liked that.
The closer my hands were to her pussy the faster her breathing got, and she whimpered. She felt so wonderful, warm and alive in my arms, under my hands. This was totally different from my randy relationship with Dee, my rhythmic pounding with Terrell, the athletic action with Matt. I wasn’t sure how Hadiya felt, but for me this was sweet, gentle love. All she had to do was say “no” and I would’ve stopped, but she didn’t so I didn’t. I could feel her trembling, but I think it was from arousal, not fear. She trusted me.
As if I would ever do anything to hurt her. She’d already had a world of hurt, hurt that would be with her forever. She deserved a lifetime of loving pleasure, and I was happy to initiate her to it. I tried not to have any illusions. The chances were she’d prefer a man’s love, but for now this was what I could give her, and I’d take whatever she shared back for however long that was.
When I finally cupped her pussy Hadiya gasped and rested her hand on mine. For a second her thighs reflexively clamped closed, then shyly, hesitantly parted, quivering. When I massaged her pussy flesh, her pubic arch curving over softer the hollow of her gateway, she opened her thighs wider, inviting more. Her left hand was on my right one, not pressing, not resisting, just riding along. Her dragon brushed along my right arm, encouraging me. My fingertips were cuddling her sex, one finger -- my bird finger -- nesting along the groove of her slit, gently, teasingly, delicately parting that warm crevice. She hunched a little as I carefully toyed with her slippery inner folds.
I was getting an idea of how inexperienced she was, and how hot my touch was making her.
“What is happening to me?” she asked.
“You’ve never touched yourself down there?”
“Only when I wipe, or wash. According to my mother the Koran says we should not touch ourselves like that, for pleasure. It is unclean -- harrar.”
“Our Bible says the same thing, but I suspect everybody does it. Or almost everybody, anyway, but they don’t admit it. It’s embarrassing.”
“Boys, too?”
“Oh yes, but they’re built differently, of course.”
She giggled nervously. “I know. I saw Matt’s at the football game, and those boys in office when they undressed. The senior boy, he started out sort of drooping and then got hard and stiff. And the sophomore boy when he got relief, and later, too. Yes, boys are very different.”
My finger explored a little deeper. I didn’t tell her she’d find out how different as the week went along.
“Rubbing yourself just so... ,” I demonstrated,” ... giving yourself pleasure is called masturbating.”
“Mas-tur-bating,” she said softly.
“When a boy does it -- he strokes his cock...”
“A cock? I thought that was a male chicken! A rooster.”
“A boy’s penis is also called a cock, a prick, or a pecker. If it’s hard he may call it a woodie. There are other words. When a boy strokes it until he squirts it’s called ‘jacking off.’ When a girl is doing this, she’s jilling off. Do you like it?”
My finger skated on her slick folds, dipping just the slightest bit into her opening down there. Did she use tampons? I didn’t know. I wanted so much to plunge it deeper, but wasn’t sure she was ready for that, mentally or physically.
“Oh yes! I feel -- very hot. I am -- what is the word I want? -- tingling, like spiders crawling all over me. It is a good feeling. A very good feeling, but a little frightening as well.”
“What you’re feeling is called ‘horny.’”
“Horny,” she repeated.
“That’s the feeling you get when you want sexual release. It’s the feeling you have when you want relief.”
“Ooooohhhhhh!”
I carefully teased her, judging how far to go by her breathing, the nervous shivers. She was brave! So brave! I snuggled her closer, nuzzling the side of her neck, trying to reassure her as I took the next step.
“And what you’re going to feel, that I’m going to make you feel, is an orgasm.”
“I have heard that word.”
I slid the tip of my finger up until found what I was looking for.
She gave a jerk. “AH! What was that you touched?”
“That is your clitoris.” My finger was well lubricated with her juices. I brushed it again, that delicate, tender little nerve-packed pearl under its little hood. She flinched.
“It is very sen--sensi-sensitive,” she gasped, tensing up more, but in a good way, her thighs trembling but not closing, her hips twitching. I put a little bit more pressure on her, circling and stroking the little berry.
“It has lots of nerves, and is the most sensitive part of your pussy...”
“My pussy?”
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