POW (Prisoner Of The Widows)
Chapter 1

Copyright© 2006 by Joe J

Romantic Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Warthog pilot Nick Pappas is shot down over the Syrian Desert in Western Iraq. He is taken prisoner by the four widows of an Iraqi farmer. The widows need labor on their desert farm and Allah has just dropped one from the sky. But their plans for Nick soon change, as the lonely widows and their teenage daughters become captivated with their handsome captive.

Caution: This Romantic Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa   Ma/ft   Mult   Consensual   Romantic   Reluctant   Harem  

Someone once told me that many an avalanche started out the size of a snowball. I understand the metaphor much better now; I understand it because one time a broken piece of copper wire sent my life spinning out of control...

My name's Nick Pappas and on the day that my life took a huge left turn, I was a 34 year old Air Force Reserve Captain, flying an A-10 Warthog over Western Iraq. My wingman and I were mission complete, having expended our ordnance pounding a bunker system occupied by an Al-Qaida unit that snuck into Iraq from Syria. We were on our way back to Al Jabar, our home airfield in Kuwait, flying at about 1000 feet AGL (above ground level). We were flying so low because we were looking, believe it or not, for a stolen Mercedes Benz SL 600. The intelligence wienies had received a tip that the car, stolen in Jordan, was filled with explosives and headed for Baghdad. I was pretty blasé about this follow on mission bullshit, but my wingman was all over it; he was dying to see what a two-hundred thousand dollar car looked like after a burst from his seven-barreled, 30mm Avenger cannon.

I was on cruise control as I gave my mission status to the AWACS (Airborne Warning and Control System). And why the hell not? I had twenty days left in country until I would be released from active duty; plus, the AWACS controller I was gabbing with was my girlfriend, First Lieutenant Vickie Salvatore, my brown-eyed, raven-haired Italian princess.

Yeah, life was good for me — until all of the sudden Vickie's voice disappeared from my radio. Just as I was calling Pete Costas, my wingman, to confirm that my radio worked, the threat-warning klaxon in my cockpit started warbling. I turned hard right and started fighting for altitude when the klaxon changed pitch to radar lock then incoming SAM (surface to air missile). I jinked the opposite direction and hit the flare dispenser as the threat warning system screeched two more incoming missiles. Before I could react I felt my plane shudder and a flash of tracers passed my canopy. I was too busy to be thankful for the titanium armor around my cockpit as one of the missiles struck my right engine. I fought my controls and barrel rolled right as the redundant fly by wire system compensated for the loss of thrust and the aerodynamic drag from my destroyed engine.

I was banked hard to the right when I saw Pete's plane explode in a ball of flame. The sight cut me to the core; Pete was my best friend. I was shocked by Pete's apparent demise but dumbfounded that his plane blew up as it did. The A-10 was a high survivability aircraft and not prone to explode. Tough about Pete, but I had problems of my own trying to control my damaged plane and unass the area. I'd mourn for him if I got myself out of this mess. I was bouncing from side to side trying to evade the ground fire that I knew was coming from at least two soviet ZSU-23-4 air defense vehicles. The ZSU-23 was an older design Soviet gun platform but it had been updated through the years and was a deadly foe for low flying aircraft. Its four 23MM chain guns were radar controlled and highly accurate. Not to mention later versions like the pair below were equipped with SA-18 fire and forget surface to air missiles.

I could attest to the accuracy part when a burst of shells chewed the nose off of my Warthog before I could heave my plane to the side again. I could actually feel the 23mm slugs thumping against the armored bathtub that enclosed my cockpit. After what seemed like forever, I was out of the kill zone of the ZSUs but a long way from being out of trouble. My plane was heavily damaged and flew like a brick, and worst of all, the burst to the nose took out all my avionics and communications. I made it another fifty miles or so before acrid smoke started seeping into my cockpit. I expected to lose my second engine any minute and my plane was struggling to keep me above five hundred feet. I clearly wasn't going to make it back to Kuwait so I ejected while I still had some altitude. I figured the shot up Warthog would be lucky to make it another five miles.

The canopy blew as designed and the ejection seat worked perfectly, I was buffeted some by the explosive charge that sent the seat upward but the experience wasn't nearly as bad as I'd heard others describe it. I figure I had it made; I simply had to call for help on my PRC-112 survival radio and hide out until the cavalry arrived. Then a gust of wind caused my parachute to oscillate and I started swinging back and forth under the nylon canopy in wide arcs. I hit the ground like a ton of shit, all my weight on my left leg. Excruciating pain shot up my body as my ankles and knees absorbed the initial contact of my hard landing. I landed feet, ass and head; my head hit the rocky ground hard enough to knock me out even with my helmet on.

I woke up with the mother of all headaches. I was groggy from bashing my head into the rocky desert soil so it took me a few seconds to get my bearings. I immediately wished I was still unconscious when I saw the two hazy figures standing over me pointing AK-47s at my head. As my vision cleared I saw that my captors were women. I also realized that my hands were tied with the strings from my boots and that my survival vest and helmet had been stripped off me. My heart sank when I saw my survival radio smashed into a pile of twisted metal and shattered plastic and my pistol tucked into the sash of one of my captors.

It was hard to read my captors expressions, as they were covered head to toe except for their eyes. They wore square shouldered, flowing dark brown burkas and face covering niqab veils. The AK-47s were unwavering though, and the women looked as if they knew how to use them. My leg was throbbing to go along with my headache and I couldn't suppress a groan. As soon as the sound was past my lips the larger of the two women smacked me upside my head with the barrel of her assault rifle and said something in Arabic. I spoke some Arabic but her speech was rapid fire and my head was mushy, so I looked at her blankly.

"She said to stand up," the second woman said in passable English.

"My legs are injured," I replied pointing down to my oddly twisted left foot.

She nodded, turned to the other woman and explained the problem.

The first woman made a sneering sound and prodded my leg with the barrel of her rifle. I moaned in pain and almost passed out again. Satisfied that I was telling the truth, she said something to the English-speaking woman and stalked off.

As soon as the departing woman was out of earshot, the woman left guarding me spoke again, her voice less hostile.

"I am called Jamilah. Basheera says you are a weakling, as are all infidels," she said.

I grunted in pain. "Basheera might be right, my ankles and knees hurt like hell. What are you going to do with me? If you turn me over to Americans you will be rewarded." I said.

"We widows of Abu Bakr Al Hassan will discuss that when we get you home. Basheera is the senior among us though and is very wise. We often do as she suggests."

As we waited for whatever Basheera was doing I was counting on the AWACS sending help my way. The big 707 kept tabs on all aircraft in a four hundred mile radius via the transponders in our planes, so I knew they had scrambled the search and rescue teams as soon as Pete and I disappeared from their screens. They would know within a hundred meters where both of us crashed. At least they should have, had I known the truth I'd have been scared shitless...


Lieutenant Victoria Salvatore stared in disbelief as the 24-inch monitor in front of her went blank and her headset went silent. One second she was atingle talking to Nicky on the radio as she tracked his flight back to Al Jabar, the next she was sitting in eerie, semi-darkness. She looked to her right when her boss, Major Sheldon started cursing.

"Power outage, and the backup APU (auxiliary power unit) is not coming on line either. We're dead in the water," he growled.

The flight engineer came hustling back from the flight deck; Major Sheldon joined him as he removed an access panel on the starboard side of the plane. It took ten long minutes to get the electricity restored, a broken wire from the temperature sensor led to a false thermal overload condition that shut down both APUs. It was another agonizing five minutes before the computer system rebooted. Sentry 33 had been mission noncapable for more than thirty minutes.

Vicky keyed her mike as she watched her display slowly come to life. It took a few sweeps of the big radar dome to acquire everything in the air and a few ticks longer for the computer to identify them.

"Spartan seven-one this is Sentry three-three, sorry about that, we had a glitch."

She released the transmit button and waited to here Nick's mellow baritone. When the radio remained silent she tried again.

"Spartan seven-one this is Sentry three-three, acknowledge."

Her eyes swept the screen of her display looking for the symbol that represented Nick's Thunderbolt II. Then the symbol for both nick and his wingman flared on the screen blinking red. Vickie recoiled in horror and grabbed Major Shelton's arm. She pointed to the screen as she switched to the guard (emergency) frequency and keyed her microphone. The blinking red transponders meant that Nick and Pete Costas' airplanes were on the ground. She kept the panic out of her voice as she tried to raise either pilot.

"Spartan seven-two this is Sentry three-three, acknowledge."

She followed procedure and tried to reach both Nicky and his wingman twice more. As she called she peered at her display. The closest asset to the Spartan flight's position was a Texas air National Guard C-130 hauling supplies to a forward deployed Ranger unit. She punched up the C-130's radio frequency and called him.

"Cowboy four-seven-two this is Sentry three-three, how copy?"

"Ma'am, you are wall to wall and tree top tall," came back an unmistakable nasal twang.

In spite of the situation Vickie had to smile, the C-130 pilot was a friend of her and Nick named Jericho Jimenez. Jericho was pushing sixty years of age so everyone called him Pappy. In civilian life he owned a trucking company so he tended to treat any radio as if it were a trucker's CB.

"Cowboy, Sentry three-three is declaring a SAR (search and rescue) emergency, stand by for authentication."

Pappy's voice immediately lost its twang and was all business, "Roger, Sentry three-three, standing by."

While Vicky was diverting assets towards the crash site, Major Shelton was notifying the command headquarters of the emergency. In fewer than ten minutes a Combat Search and Rescue mission plan was activated. Ironically, the first phase of the mission was the launch of two A-10s to provide close air support for the rescue teams.


Basheera returned in less than half an hour. She was walking, her AK-47 at port-arms, beside a small cart being pulled by a donkey. Yet another woman was leading the donkey, this one unarmed. The woman leading the donkey pulled the wagon up beside me, and then she knelt down and checked my legs. Her touch was gentle as she unzipped my flight suit leg. She didn't gasp at seeing my injuries; instead she looked at my face. I was relieved to see that her large, expressive brown eyes only held concern and tenderness.

"Marhaba, ismy Fatima. Ma ismok?" she asked, speaking slowly.

At last, Arabic I could understand! She had said hello, her name was Fatima and she asked what my name was.

"Marhaba Fatima, ismy Nick, " I replied.

Before Fatima could say anything else Basheera waded in with her sharp machinegun voice. She appeared to be giving Fatima hell about something. Fatima ducked her head and nodded then stood up. Basheera waved Jamilah over to my side also.

"You must get in the cart mallah (pilot) Nee-k, we will help you up," Jamilah said.

I had been dreading this moment since I spotted the cart. My head and body already throbbed with a pain as intense as anything I'd ever felt. Basheera took Jamilah's Kalashnikov, slung it over her shoulder and kept me covered with her own. I wondered what the hell she thought I was going to do as badly injured as I was. Jesus it hurt when they got me on my feet. I think the only reason I didn't pass out again was to spite Basheera. The trip was horrendous as even the smallest bump sent jolts of pain through me. The mile long trip to the women's house seemed to take forever. By the time we arrived I had been gritting my teeth so long my jaw ached.

The late Abu Hassan must have been a damn good desert farmer, judging from his house. It wasn't that imposing from the outside; it probably was only a little over a thousand square feet. Inside, though, it was very nicely furnished with colorful wool carpets and rich wooden furniture. The house had a basement dug into the sandstone that was cool and also well furnished. The basement was actually larger than the footprint of the house. A small room in the basement became my cell. The room was about ten feet square and lit with a naked bulb with a pull string. I was most interested in why the room had an eyebolt with a pair of wrist shackles on a chain imbedded into the concreted into the wall. Basheera covered me as Jamilah untied my hands and attached the iron manacles to my wrists.

I did not struggle, hell by then I was barely conscious, now that the adrenalin rush of the last two hours was over. I was also parched.

"Ma'a min fadik (Water please), " I asked.

Fatima looked at Basheera who nodded.

I saw the smile in Fatima's eyes. "Na'am Nee-k (yes Nick), " she said.

Fatima returned in a couple of minutes with a ceramic pitcher and cup. Gently lifting my head, she brought the cup of water to my lips. The water was ice cold and tasted as good as any champagne I've ever had. I drank a couple of cups and smacked my lips gratefully.

"Shukran (thank you)," I said.

Fatima nodded and departed the room; Basheera said something to Jamilah who translated for me.

"We decide your fate now, mallah, we will choose wisely, Inshaallah (if God is willing), ' Jamilah said.

Basheera turned off the light, closed the door and threw the outside bolt, leaving me in almost complete darkness. When the women disappeared I finally had a chance to assess my injuries. In my civilian life I am a Physician's Assistant so I know how to conduct a physical examination. Granted, I was checking myself and it was fairly dark but the principles remained the same. I knew I had suffered a concussion but figured that as alert as I felt it wasn't that bad, still it was worrisome that I had lost consciousness for even a few minutes. My left ankle was definitely severely sprained probably a type two sprain and my left knee was moderately hyper-extended. My right ankle and knee were both mildly sprained but would probably hold my weight.

I sighed as I realized that if the women didn't volunteer to hand me over to Americans I have to heal more before trying to escape. My only hope for rescue was if the SAR teams came and searched Al Hassan's house. I also needed my survival vest and the medical supplies in it. One of the advantages of being a PA was that the medics weren't afraid to issue me medicines and medical supplies. My survival vest contained everything from morphine syrettes to a minor surgery set that was the same size as a rifle cleaning kit. Of course with the concussion, I couldn't take any painkillers yet, but in twenty-four hours or so I'd be good to go.

I no sooner finished my self-examination than I heard the women start talking in the large room outside my cell. I began to worry when twenty minutes had passed and I could still hear the women debating. After a few more exchanges, the door of my make shift cell opened. As my eyes acclimated to the light I saw that there were four women now and that instead of burkas and veils, they were wearing lighter and less bulky abayas with scarves on their heads. Abayas are long flowing cotton gown like affairs that cover the wearer from the neck down; the scarves the women wore coved their heads but left their faces bare. As I looked at them I had to admit that Abu Bakr Al Hassan had excellent taste in wives because they were all very pretty. The wife I hadn't met appeared to be a teenager. My inspection was cut short when Jamilah spoke.

"Mallah, we have reached a decision but one thing troubles us and may affect what we do," she said.

I was shifted on the sleeping pad on full alert as her delivery and posture gave away her tension.

"What things trouble the wives of Abu Hassan?"

"How do we know you are not a Jew, Neek? Basheera says if we gave succor to a Hebrew the fanatics in this area would kill us most horribly."

"Why does Basheera think I am a Jew?"

Jamilah made an exasperated expression, a subtle hint to me that she did not agree with Basheera's suspicion that I was a Jew.

"She says you look like a Jew."

If this weren't such a deadly serious situation, I would have laughed at this ridiculous assertion. Obviously, the paranoid Basheera had mistaken my dark Greek features as Jewish, and I had to convince her she was wrong. I had to do some quick thinking, or I was a goner for sure.

I tuned my gaze towards each of the women as they looked at me. Jamilah's tone of voice indicated that she hoped I could convince them I wasn't a Jew. Basheera's eyes were hard and cold, her lips drawn into a thin disapproving line. The young woman looked confused and apprehensive. Fatima gave me a slight, private smile from her position slightly behind Basheera. An idea suddenly came to me.

"If I can prove I'm not a Jew, what then? Did you tell your sister wives about the reward my country will pay?" I asked.

"If you can convince us you are not a Zionist Shaitan (devil), we will discuss it more. The reward will be considered, but money is not everything, mallah," she said haughtily.

I nodded. "I meant no offense about the reward, I know you are all Muhsanat (virtuous women) and not driven by greed. I can prove that I am not a Jew because I am without Khitan (circumcision)."

Jamilah's eyebrows rose in surprise and she turned to translate to the others. After a short conversation mostly with Basheera, Jamilah turned back to me.

"Show us you zakar (penis), so we may see this for ourselves," Jamilah ordered.

Under normal circumstances I would have been embarrassed to drop my trousers in front of a group of women. These were most certainly not normal times, I thought, so if showing the women my Johnson kept me out of the hands of Al Qaida, they could take pictures for all I cared.

"If you will free one of my hands, I will show you my zakar."

Jamilah turned to Basheera and translated my request.

Basheera responded by shaking her head and saying something about not trusting the infidel. Then she gave an impatient snort, handed her ever-present AK to Fatima and stalked over to me. She pushed me onto my back none too gently then wrestled my zipper down. To my complete surprise she reached into my boxer-briefs and fished my dick out through the opening. The women exchanged a buzz of conversation as they gathered for a closer look, Basheera still holding me.

Basheera pulled my foreskin down and exposed the head of my penis, she seemed fascinated by the loose hood of skin and kept moving it up and down. It was amazing that in a situation like this my rebellious Greek soldier decided to stand at attention. Besheera's eyes widened as she felt me pulse and stiffen in her hand, yet she didn't relinquish her grip on me, instead she continued to squeeze me rhythmically. I closed my eyes in mortification, expecting any minute for Basheera to start cursing me - or worse. In fewer than fifteen seconds I was fence post hard.

"Ana asif (I am sorry)," I mumbled.

All three of the other women were hovering over me by then watching in wide-eyed wonder. Basheera finally released her soft grip on my rod and said something to Jamilah. Jamilah blushed in embarrassment at whatever Basheera said and addressed me in English.

"We accept your proof you are not a Jew and we go now to make our final decision," she said.

The women left the room and closed the door, once again plunging me into darkness. I was confused as hell about what had gone on just then. Basheera's examination was much more thorough than it needed to be. I mentally shrugged and had to admit that her touch had taken my mind off my throbbing left leg. After another ten minutes Jamilah opened the door.

"We have agreed on your fate," she said, her voice flat and neutral.

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