Cleopatra�s Perfume

by Jina Bacarr

  After that lascivious afternoon of sexual antics in Bar Supplice with Ramzi, I allowed my heated passions to cool, though he insisted on allowing him to show me the sights of Port Said. Eyes connecting, hands reaching, fingers touching, we competed at tennis, rode Arab steeds together and walked along the beach at sunset. Dabbing on heavy red lipstick to protect my lips from the sun but not from the burning kiss of my handsome Egyptian, I allowed him to exude his charm, though underneath I sensed his excessive callousness. I can’t deny that like most lonely women, I found myself fascinated by this extreme male example of sinfulness. Sitting outdoors over tea and a game of bridge at my hotel, he explained to me how he needed money to finance an expedition to the Valley of the Queens. A friend of his, he said, was close to unearthing the tomb of Cleopatra.

  I raised an eyebrow, curious. Such an expedition could only be a hoax, a ruse to get money from me. Cleopatra died long after the time of the Pyramids. I laid down my cards, losing interest in the game. I was lonely, so I continued to listen.

  What proof did he have? I demanded. He insisted the entire story of how Cleopatra died clutching a snake to her breast was a myth. He didn’t mind illustrating his point by circling my breast with his fingers, my nipple hardening. His bold gesture went unnoticed. Teatime had ended an hour ago and we were the sole occupants in the hotel restaurant.

  I bent closer to him, wanting to hear more. The royal tale of incest, power, greed and bloodlust had a much different ending, he assured me, one he would share with me if I financed his expedition.

  I must digress here, dear reader, and remind you I am no neophyte to the ways of the Near East. I explored the ancient Pyramids of Egypt with my husband, Lord Marlowe, on our honeymoon. He was a gentleman and a scholar. And the man who encouraged me to fulfill my darkest desires. Bent over the somber-faced sarcophagus of a pharaoh, my bare breasts resting in his stone mouth, my honey juices coating the gold detailing along his stone arms, I trembled and shivered with delight as I engaged in lessons in obedience and Egyptology.

  Naked save for a pair of white satin pumps, sheer stockings and red garters, I squealed in delight as Lord Marlowe pinched my quivering buttocks while he expounded on the Roman conquest of Egypt, then he struck my bare backside with the thinnest of canes designed to evoke pleasure not pain. The light stinging blows startled me at first, but soon gave way to a sensation of warmth that enveloped my lower body with an intense heat.

  I let go with a loud guttural cry, squeezing my eyes shut, the muscles in my buttocks tightening and contracting again and again each time I heard the whistle of the crop, knowing the exquisite pleasure I needed so desperately was about to find its mark. I contracted my pubic muscles, anticipating his cock driving deep into me, filling me, waiting. I cried out when he parted my cheeks and entered me. I bucked with wild abandon, grinding my hips against his groin harder, harder, until I could stand no more and I inserted one, then two fingers inside me and rubbed my burning clit until a rolling wave of pleasure overtook me, the rush of its power filling my ears and drowning out my screams of delight.

  Afterward, lying in his arms, he’d tell me about Caesar and Cleopatra and how the deposed queen devised a plan to smuggle herself into the palace in Alexandria wrapped in a rug, her firm young body a gift for the emperor. Naked except for ribbons of pearls encircling her neck and swung over her hips, she enticed the Roman general with a sensual dance, swaying her hips and playing with her breasts, then climaxing her performance by pulling out a string of perfect white pearls from her anus while bending over, her calf muscles straining, her long beaded black wig snapping against her cheeks. All this, he was eager to tell me while fingering my anal hole and making me squirm with delight, to enlist the Roman’s help in her struggle to control the Egyptian throne.

  I was intrigued with the story and, in a quasi-serious mood, I begged my dear husband to lay his supple cane upon my naked backside again and again to hear him tell me more stories. The reality was I thirsted for both the cane and knowledge. I left school when I was sixteen, not uncommon for girls of my class. I was uneducated, but savvy enough to know how to take care of myself from my travels around Europe, when and why is not important here. All you need know is I listened intently to Lord Marlowe schooling me in the fine arts, history and the ways of the ancients while he played with my nipples, flicking them back and forth, pinching them, nipping at them, then licking them to soothe the wild sensations sparking through me. I told him I imagined his cock spiraling up like an Egyptian cobra, naja haje, while he circled my breast with his tongue. That brought a chuckle to his lips. He informed me the cobra was more than six feet long and very thick. Like your cock? I’d quip. He laughed and continued his lecture, reminding me to listen well or I would again feel the fierce kiss of his cane upon my arse.

  I’ve never forgotten those days. I was a willing pupil and an apt student in the ways of the flesh as well as the mysteries of the empires of Egypt, my naked body lying in repose on eiderdown so soft I floated upon it as well as in my dreams. Behind me, an intricately woven lattice concealed me from the world outside, revealing only my silhouette, my arms up above my head, my wrists secured to serpentine-slender gold poles, my legs spread, his tongue delving into me, his sun-darkened hands massaging my parted thighs while he gave me the pleasure I craved…

  So it was I listened with a schooled ear to Ramzi extolling his fabricated tale to me, though my eyes widened with respect when he insisted the Romans, including Mark Antony, believed suicide to be an honorable death. But, he said, the ancient Egyptians believed it was a sin. (Cleopatra was Greek Macedonian, I knew.) I didn’t argue his point, though I wondered, Why was he lying to me about Cleopatra? I wanted to believe him, wanted to again lie my head on his shoulder, reach into his soul and pull him to me, but I held back, waiting. Waiting to see where this game would end. I had no idea what an extraordinary adventure awaited me.

  “Cleopatra was murdered,” he told me, his hand lingering on my knee under the round teakwood table. His touch lit a fire between my legs, a slow burn igniting my female urge to again experience sex with this handsome but savage man, an act condemned by the dour-faced society matrons I once craved would accept me. No longer would I bow to the demands of café society. I had allowed a man of the desert to brand my white skin with his touch, a taboo in my world. Breaking such a taboo would sully my reputation, though I didn’t care what anyone thought, so strong was the scent exuding from him. I ignored the insistent voice telling me he was a denizen of falsehoods meant to snare me in his trap. I was more interested in allowing him access to the patch of bare skin above my stockings.

  “Interesting theory you have about the death of the Egyptian queen,” I said, sipping my tea, though it had too much sugar for my taste and not enough milk. Thé à la menthe. Ramzi insisted it was a local favorite. “I suppose you also know who murdered her?”

  “Octavian wanted to rule over the Roman empire,” he said, “but Cleopatra stood in the way, so he ordered his men to kill her and make it look like suicide.”

  “Sounds intriguing.” I finished my tea, the sweetness lingering on my lips. I licked it off with my tongue. Still, my mouth burned with its icy coolness. “But I don’t believe you.”

  “You will.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  He leaned over, then put his hand on my neck and whispered in my ear, “I know how to convince you.”

  4

  N ude. A blindfold over my eyes. Restraints made of gold rope. Hands moving over my body. Mahmoud’s. Always the perfect bodyguard, I knew his touch as well as I knew the breadth of Ramzi’s cock.

  I shivered, remembering how the Egyptian’s strength overtook me the first time he’d entered me, his thrusts strong and insistent, though he wasn’t rough or abusive. No, his hands gripped each cheek of my buttocks with a firm touch both loving and passionate. Panting, gasping, my body slick with sweat dripping from my skin like a shower of penance for my past sins, I writhed unde
r him, tilting my hips upward to allow him greater entry.

  This time I would be more coy. More secretive. More seductive.

  I waited. Waited. Nothing. Mahmoud removed his hands, the loss of his soothing touch fueling the violent headache I couldn’t shake. Under the blindfold, I squeezed my eyes, rimmed with fatigue, heavy and dark, the velvet mask providing a haven from the maddening pressure pushing down on my brain with unwelcome pain despite the pleasure the Nubian lavished upon me.

  The tightening sensation squeezing my head started when we left the hotel, though the pressure of Ramzi’s hand against my back, then sliding down to cup my buttock outlined in my silk tailored dress, made it seem more like a nuisance. I didn’t protest when the Egyptian escorted me back to the Bar Supplice and bade Mahmoud to strip me while he watched, then tie me to the large iron rings set into the wall in the violet-hued room behind the stage.

  I waited. The warmth of his breath made my nipples harden, indicating the Nubian’s mouth hovered near my breasts, the heat from his body making me tingle. Still nothing. Why?

  Shifting my weight from foot to foot, I tugged on the metal rings holding my body, as well as my mind, prisoner. I couldn’t see anything, frustrating me. Was I not going to savor the probing fingers of the tall Nubian, pulling the outer lips of my pussy apart, holding me open for Ramzi’s approval before flicking his tongue into me? Moving in and out, sucking, lapping up the moistness, but not withdrawing his tongue moving across my clitoris until I arched my back in total abandon. What was he waiting for? What macabre ritual was this? Anger pumped through me, replacing the ardent desire rising in me. I was about to demand he untie me when—

  “Remove the blindfold, Mahmoud.”

  Ramzi’s voice. At last. My body tingled. My spirits rose. Before I could take a breath, the veil of darkness lifted, but I couldn’t see with a clear eye. Subdued lighting cast eerie shadows everywhere, but it didn’t hide the nude Nubian, his bare arms shining with his sweat. I hungered for him to touch me all over, his black fingers rubbing my hard clit…oh, damn him, I couldn’t wait any longer.

  “Mahmoud, I—I…” What could I say?

  Panting, I tried to catch my breath, my eyes silently pleading for him to pleasure me. I lowered my gaze to my pubic region. He shook his head, his gesture indicating no. The game has changed, his eyes told me, but I was in no mood to act coy when Mahmoud blew his breath onto my throat. He smiled, bowed, then his teeth grazed my nipples, teasing them into hard buds, then flicking them with his thumbs until I cried out. I bucked and twisted my hips, desperate to quell the rising burn building between my legs.

  “Ah, my beautiful English lady wishes Mahmoud to arouse her.” Ramzi moved into the light, his magnificent bare chest hard and brown, his lower body encased in wide white satin trousers pulled in tight at the ankles, a deep red cummerbund hugging his hips. As he walked toward me, his feet bare, I noted a shimmer of light bouncing off the naked blade of a curved dagger hanging from his belt. I recognized the jambiya, a weapon native to the Arab world.

  “You wish me to supplicate you to receive your cock?” I dared to ask him.

  “Not tonight, my English rose.” He said something to Mahmoud in Arabic. The Nubian bowed then left the room. Turning back toward me, Ramzi kissed my nipples then pinched them, making me gasp. “When Mahmoud returns, I have a different game planned for you.”

  I was mad with desire.

  My body twitched and shimmied under the Nubian’s firm touch, his fingers slick with the spicy, melted perfume, the tingling sensations skipping over my skin, exquisite, and satisfying. I’d never experienced anything so pleasurable as the black man’s hands anointing my skin with this exotic perfume. Massaging my breasts, curving down over my rib cage, his hands gripping my hips, then inserting one finger inside me circling my engorged clit, then another exploring my anal hole with a dexterity that made me crave more.

  Ah, dear reader, I can’t tell you what joy I experienced the first time I surrendered to the spell of Cleopatra’s perfume. Certainly there were moments of incredibility, but aren’t these moments due to the limitations we place upon ourselves to accept what we deem to be the impossible? Wasn’t it merely my civilized mind trying to override what my body hungered for?

  I surrendered to my carnal needs, pushed all thoughts aside, my loneliness winning the mental game when Ramzi produced a pale golden alabaster box carved with delicate emblems outlined in black. Atop the container sat the nude, bare-breasted figure of a queen holding a scepter and perched on a throne. Cleopatra. He opened it and a powerful aroma overwhelmed me, what I’d describe as a combination of sweet, spicy and musky. The organic earthy scent sent my head into a dizzying tailspin, so strong was the smell. Tugging on the restraints, I leaned forward and sniffed again. Inside the box I saw a solid, waxlike substance also the color of pale gold nestled inside. Perfume as the Egyptians made it.

  I watched Ramzi nod to Mahmoud. The Nubian removed the unguent, then, rubbing his large black hands together, the solid perfume became more viscous as it melted in his palms. With sensual strokes, he applied the perfume between my breasts, around my nipples, pinching them, then down my rib cage, massaging my pubic mound before parting my thighs and anointing my labia with the scent. I sighed over and over, letting go, not caring if I revealed to the Egyptian the intense hunger I possessed for sensual gratification.

  Be aware, dear reader, though I choose to pursue a sexual life outside the ordinary, I’m cognizant of the fact I invite criticism and what can be conceived by others to be mystical and audacious. Call me a sybarite, if you will, but fate handed me a life most women only dream about in their imaginations or read in novels.

  I wasn’t about to let it go.

  I became aware of a tingling sensation beginning at my toes then edging up toward the inside of my bare thighs as he continued dabbing perfume behind my ears, on my throat, between my breasts, then snaking his finger into my anal hole, twisting it, then pushing deeper, deeper. I spread my legs wider, the urge to engage all my senses in this adventure dominating my will. How did he come into the possession of such an atar? I asked Ramzi. And why anoint me with its intoxicating scent?

  He didn’t answer me but merely smiled, then showed me a large ruby-and-pearl ring he swore he’d taken from an antechamber said to contain Cleopatra’s personal jewelry, including the legendary pearls she wore to seduce Caesar. He eased the ring onto my forefinger then slipped his hand between my legs. The white heat singeing my flesh with his touch was so extraordinary I nearly swooned. I willed myself to remain conscious, not only to revel in the frenzied sensations shooting through me, but to listen to him reveal the mystery of the evocative scent.

  I will tell you the story of Cleopatra’s perfume as Ramzi told it to me, word by word, for I’ve never forgotten it.

  He came into possession of the perfume from a dragoman in Cairo, a guide and translator who had led an antique-mad American into the Valley of the Kings some months ago. Filling the man’s head with stories of mummies adorned with strings of amulets and ornaments of gold at their throats, coverings wrought with gold and silver and inlaid with precious jewels, he led the man down the lonely and desolate highland path leading into a darkened tomb. Then, in a heated whisper, his torch shining into the open sarcophagus, he expressed surprise to find it empty, its treasure pilfered by robbers.

  When the disappointed tourist became angry and demanded his money returned, the guide assured him he knew of a secret tomb hewn in the wall of the rocky basin of Deir el-Bahri, a site where a mass grave of kings had recently been discovered. What he didn’t tell the American was that what had once been a sepulcher for royal mummies for three thousand years to hide them from ancient tomb robbers was now his personal cache of rare artifacts. One by one, the dragoman led unsuspecting foreigners to the hidden opening in the cliffy massif between the Valley of the Kings and Deir el-Bahri, each time “discovering” a statuette or mummy wearing a golden collar or mask. Once he’d arr
anged with the foreigner for the artifact to be smuggled out of Egypt for a high price, he replaced it with another artifact for the next unsuspecting modern-day robber.

  What the guide didn’t know was that he wasn’t the first to discover the hole in the side of the mountain covered with stones. At the end of the nineteenth century, a British occultist and Egyptologist named Edward Thorndike stumbled onto the cache of dead Egyptian kings hidden away by high priests thousands of years ago. A desperate man, besieged by grief at the loss of his young bride killed by marauding desert tribesmen, he was in possession of a great treasure, a gift to Cleopatra VII, queen of Egypt, from the High Priest of Emon, her personal emissary. And a man in love with her. A perfume said to transport the body of its wearer to the safety of a secret room in the queen’s chamber in the Great Pyramid at Giza, should an act of violence culminating in death be committed upon them. There they would remain until the danger passed. Cleopatra scoffed, dismissing the existence of such a perfume, though she indulged her passion for scents by having perfumes made in her own factory on the edge of the Dead Sea. To make certain the doomed young queen would wear the perfume and, knowing Cleopatra feared losing her powers of seduction, the high priest added a powerful aphrodisiac to the original ancient formula to give her an irresistible allure to men. One whiff, he assured her, and every man was her slave…

  According to the legend, Cleopatra was wearing the perfume when Octavian’s men tried to murder her. As the priest predicted, her body disappeared, never to be seen again. Some say she escaped to Greece, others to Turkey, where she lived the life of a common whore rather than return to Egypt and be killed. What happened to the perfume is uncertain. Did the priest destroy it? Or hide it?

  According to Ramzi, the mystical power of the perfume was whispered about in the most elite circles throughout the centuries, from the Byzantine empire to the palazzo of the de Medicis to the court of Versailles to Napoleon. How did the perfume survive? I wanted to know. The perfume box was of calcite, he said, sealed by the natural changes in temperature and moisture over the years, causing the salts to crystallize around the lid and form a hard, protective incrustation, thereby preserving the perfume. Every hundred years or so, the perfume would resurface somewhere in the world, only to go underground again.