by Jina Bacarr
I felt like that gazelle, embracing my new lover, this American flier, Chuck Dawn. A man with no destination but a warm bed, he said, hauling the mail all over the Near East for Imperial Airways, looking for excitement, trying to forget, though he didn’t say what that was. A woman? I doubted it. No woman caused a man that kind of pain, a melancholy that went beyond sex and resided deep in his psyche. I saw it in his eyes, contrasting shades of blue and green, swirling in a whirlpool suspended in infinity, never letting him rest, as if he was a guilt-ridden soul seeking atonement he would never find.
Would I be like the gazelle and scurry away? I wondered. Or would I linger and be eaten by the jackal?
After the sounds of our pleasure subsided, leaving us drained and satiated, he rubbed the remaining gold paint off my breasts with a gray-tinted cloth provided to the patrons to wipe away the unwanted residue of their passion, then he bit my nipples, making me moan with delight, nipping at the hard peaks, then kissing me all over, his lips devouring me.
Nearby lay his brown leather jacket, an oddity for the desert, though cool summer nights were more frequent than one would have imagined, a warmth seeping into my soul when I remembered how he threw it over my nude shoulders to protect me from Ramzi’s hard glare.
I didn’t notice the familiar smell it emitted until now. A new sense of need came over me, one not unfamiliar to me, but one that had mysteriously morphed into what I remembered as an arousing moment whenever I smell a certain leather. Not the fine leather that smells like flowers with underlying notes of mimosa or iris, but the ornate leather handle of a riding crop, one that I loved dearly in the hands of Lord Marlowe.
Why did that urge to feel the kiss of leather upon my bare buttocks continue to haunt me?
“I’ve never made love to a woman painted gold before,” Chuck said, sipping warm jasmine tea, a specialty of the brothel I was told.
I watched his amused expression under half-closed eyelids as the female attendant (a prostitute? I didn’t ask) soaped my body with luxurious milky suds, her touch tender and soothing and wildly erotic. I sat on the edge of the chipped marble slab, its once-blue color dulled by time and human sweat, dangling my legs over the side and wiggling my toes in the lukewarm water. I couldn’t help but moan when she eased her knuckles into the flesh circling my thighs, her massage relieving the soreness from stretching and pulling my muscles during my dance when I’d leaned over to allow the American to pull on the beads that gave me so much pleasure. When her fingers worked their way over toward my belly, I shuddered with a tremor of anticipation, making me wish her finger would find a way into my pussy. I looked over at the flier. The rapturous expression on his face told me he desired it as well.
“I’ve never enjoyed the hands of an American pilot upon my arse, Mr. Dawn,” I said, spreading my legs so he could see the girl circling my pubis with light touches, “so we’re even.”
What more could I say? His eyes never left me while the girl slid the creamy soap all over my body, its essence smelling of musk rose. I delighted in the memory of him sucking my pussy before the girl entered the bath and began soaping my body. It was that thought that made me sigh when she abandoned her journey around my groin, her eyes lowered, giving me no indication of her thoughts, then continued her exploration over my breasts, then twisted my nipples with her supple brown fingers. I allowed the stimulation to simmer in the pit of my belly, arousing me, wondering what lay ahead if I continued this illicit liaison with a man I knew nothing about. Or was it a spell brought on by my obsession for sex? You scoff at me, dear reader, reminding me I had no such reservations when I allowed Ramzi to engage my body in delicious bondage. I assure you, that was different. I had no choice. The virtue of Lady Palmer’s daughter was at stake. And didn’t the fortune-teller in Port Said foresee my affair with the Egyptian?
Suddenly I feared this stranger’s presence in my life. Though I enjoyed a submissive role with Lord Marlowe, I had trusted him completely, knowing he allowed me exquisite freedom to choose whatever mode of bondage or pain play that pleased me. I didn’t perceive that same compliance with the American flier. I sensed he wasn’t like Ramzi, a man with no morals but an exuberance for pleasure. Chuck Dawn seemed rugged, confident, a man who comports himself with daring and dare I add, recklessness? It would be difficult to deceive him and impossible to forget him.
“Is there a husband lurking somewhere I should know about?” he asked with an honesty in his voice, most likely referring to the propensity of British women stationed here with their husbands to take lovers.
“There was,” I said simply. “He died in a motorcar accident.”
“I’m sorry.”
I acknowledged his compassion with a nod, then turned to allow the girl to rinse the soap between my legs, the steam rising in the sunken bath perfumed with aromatic scents I couldn’t identify. “I assume you’re surprised to find an Englishwoman dancing nude in a club.”
“Nothing in Cairo surprises me…” He paused, then said simply, “I don’t know your name.”
“Call me Eve.”
He nodded. “I wish I could stay…Eve, but I have to continue on to Basra then Bombay, but I’ll be back in a few days.”
“I had planned to leave Cairo…” I turned to give the girl access to my buttocks, squirming as she rubbed what I believed was coconut milk on my skin to make it smooth.
“So soon?” he asked. “We’ve only just met.”
I turned back around and lay down, spreading my legs. He smiled when he saw the naked pinkness between my legs ready for his inspection. “But I’ve changed my mind.”
“What about the Egyptian?” He leaned forward for a better view. That pleased me.
“What about him?” I breathed out the words in a husky whisper. I squirmed under her caressing touch when the girl parted my labia and rubbed a sweet-smelling floral oil on my clit, making it burn.
“He seemed upset about you leaving the club with me.”
“Pay him no attention.” I breathed out the words in a husky whisper. “It’s strictly business between us.”
“I see. No further explanation needed.”
Was that a sigh of relief I detected in his voice?
“You’re leaving Cairo this morning?” I could feel wetness forming deep inside me, making me wiggle my hips in unison with the girl’s stroking, then I licked my lips in a subconscious gesture.
“I’m beginning to wish I wasn’t.” He looked at his watch. “But my plane should be gassed up and ready to go.”
He explained he’d been working for the British airmail service for three years, flying mail and passengers from London to Cairo, then on to Basra, Iraq, and to India, all the while I could see he was absorbed in the intensity of the scene playing out before him, the girl’s fingers sliding feverishly over my swollen bud, my need for release overriding my sense of reason and decorum, so it was I let go with an instinctive cry of pleasure I couldn’t stop.
He groaned, as if he envied the girl touching me. “But first, I’ll make sure you get back to your hotel.”
“I can take care of myself,” I said, struggling to get my breath.
“So I see.”
He stood up with his hands in his pockets and looked at me with skepticism in his eyes. Fatigue lines rimmed his eyes. Knowing why he was tired made me smile. He’d made love to me two more times since that first explosive climax, gold paint rubbing off my skin and smearing all over his tanned body. He’d washed quickly while I slept in another room in the brothel, scraping the paint and sweat off his skin before I awoke, giving me but a moment to take in the sinewy musculature of his chest, well chiseled, smooth and taut. His tight stomach muscles drew my attention, rippled with long hard lines I longed to lick with my greedy tongue, then I glanced downward to the long length of flesh I had enjoyed inside me. Hard, jutting out in front of him. I stood at the door to the bath, watching him wash his cock with long strokes. He caught me staring at him, my eyes taking in everything about h
im, his body posture exuding strength and power, the heat rising off his skin enticing me to want him again. I feel certain he would have lain with me upon the sheets if time had permitted, but with as much surety as a harem slave awaiting her turn with her master, I knew it did not.
I thought about the long flight he had ahead of him and the vial of cocaine hidden in the inner pocket of my robe. A pinch left. Enough to get him over his fatigue? I wasn’t sure. He was tall, strong, with hard muscles.
Fool. You’ll lose him if you don’t remove that insane thought from your head.
I assure you, dear reader, I did care what happened to him. Why, I didn’t know, but I did. I barely knew him, yet I couldn’t inflict the misery of the drug on him. He had no idea what was going through my mind, but he seemed offended by my terse comment, proclaiming my independent streak.
“I suppose you’d rather not be seen with a crazy flier bringing you home.”
“No.” I wiggled my shoulders, then my hips in a saucy manner. “I wouldn’t want to damage your reputation.”
He laughed. “I never liked your type before, but you’re okay for an English dame.”
I didn’t correct him. Why spoil his illusion? Let him think I was an English dame. What harm would it do? I did make one mistake. I should have told him the truth about Ramzi and me. It would have saved us both grief. All I knew was I wanted to see him again, lie in his arms and enjoy that special closeness with a man I missed so terribly. Why did I choose this American? If I dare to be honest with you, dear reader, the truth is he reminded me of my late husband. His lordship had that same kind of rugged control and daring as the young flier, though he kept his passion meticulously folded up and secreted away in his breast pocket, like a new set of playing cards encased in their plastic wrapper. But when we were alone, the game was wild and erotic, slick and wet. Though Lord Marlowe freely admitted our thirty-year age difference, he often stated it pleased him I found his presence appealing and didn’t leave him for a younger man. He insisted I was mistress of my own fate and had no one but myself to blame if I was unhappy. Leave him? Never. He encouraged me not only to stimulate my erotic desires of submission, but to expand my mind, fill in my knowledge of the world with books and discussion, understand politics, deepen my perception of life’s joys and despairs, and in the end, this gradual unfurling, this flowering that became Lady Eve Marlowe was his ultimate creation. I admit I was using my past love affair with my late husband to illuminate my present attraction to the American, to allow it to flow into a new sexual experience loaded with the bounty of exquisite pleasures, but still craving more.
How could I have known I would soon cause him to lose his perspective, to go off course, and then…
I stood up in the sunken tub, my nude body shining with pink skin tones in the morning light seeping through the tiny window overhead. The flier made no move to touch me, though by the sharp gleam in his eyes I could see he wanted to run his hands up and down my body. He was mesmerized by the sensual touches of the young attendant upon my body, as if he wanted to see more.
I, too, wanted him to watch her run her hot tongue across the lips of my clean, wet pussy, flicking it back and forth across my clit, then exploring my moistened inner folds with the tenderness only a girl with her skills could offer. After seeing Ramzi pleasure my German friend with Laila in attendance, I was hungry for that same pleasure, but I would have to deny myself.
A slight tremor shook me, a pounding in my head that wouldn’t cease, and the lack of sleep I experienced while I engaged in the use of cocaine terrified me. I was coming down from the drug. I couldn’t let him see me in the act of withdrawal, the ugly state of tremors and sweating. In a voice both breathy and filled with impetuousness, I convinced him I would be safe once he hailed a gharry for me.
With the hood of my galabiya pulled low over my head to cover my face, I bid the flier adieu then gave the driver the name of my hotel and left before I could no longer hide my misery, my thoughts scrambling. When I’d entered the Cleopatra Club on that late August night, a purple moon cloaked the sky in shadows as if to shield the stars from the audaciousness of my dance. Now I had awakened from my dream and on this blistering desert morning as I rode through the streets of Cairo, I saw streams of color swirl across the sky like the sensuous ribbons undulating from the hips of a pasha harem girl. I had dared to engage in an act with a man who promised more than sexual satisfaction. Yet my body ached, the drug inciting a restlessness within me that made me feel as if scorpions, snakes, giant ants and silver-black lizards, the denizens of the underbelly of the desert, devoured me. Though the morning was bright, in my world, night would soon fall and my body would go through its own painful torment, as if I were the desert receding into unknown places, dark and ugly places I could not fathom in my state of confusion.
I hung suspended in a melancholic daze over the following few days, while the world around me disintegrated. I fought within myself not to use, spilling the cocaine in my compact down the sink in the bath in my hotel room, washing the white powder down the drain and watching it disappear as if it were snowflakes melting into a whirlpool, while trying to ignore the sick feelings, the headaches, the sleeplessness. God, I thought I was going insane, suspecting everyone of knowing about my secret drug use, hearing voices, sneaking through the lobby so no one could see me, then becoming so paranoid I refused to leave my room.
After more than a week of suffering through the mental torture of not using, a drama of emptiness where only I was privy to my performance, I received a telegram from Chuck. Heart racing, hands trembling, I ripped it open. A happy smile erased the terrible times in my soul. He was returning to Cairo, when he wasn’t sure, depending on the monsoonal rains in India, but soon.
I wish I could tell you my need to use cocaine ceased upon hearing the news, but that would be a lie. Unlike some habitual users of the drug who can cease ingesting the stimulant at will, I faced psychological problems in my need for cocaine I’ve yet to acknowledge that would be my complete undoing. I haven’t reached that part of my story, dear reader, so I will carry on by saying that I continued to hear voices and couldn’t concentrate on the smallest task. My nerves were edgy, taut, but hearing from my flier made me feel more decisive and not as helpless to overcome the drug’s hold on me. Yet I retained a small cache of the drug hidden in my room. Addiction is not an easy thing to overcome, dear reader, as you shall see. But Chuck Dawn gave me the hope I could feel again as a woman. His presence in my life uplifted my spirits, threw me into an exalted state and fused my desire with anticipation for our next meeting.
Accepting the fact the drug was disrupting my existence, that it gave me no pleasure, I fought to maintain continuity in my life. I strove to restore harmony and balance in my mind and body, learning to again find enjoyment in a cup of hot mint tea, in visiting the Pyramids and basking in the warm desert breeze that once fanned the beauty of ancient queens, and indulging in applying Cleopatra’s perfume between my breasts, its spicy scent renewing me with its pinelike vigor and shimmering fragrance. Clear-eyed and sober, I tingled and overflowed with femininity, waiting for Chuck’s return, dreaming of that moment when I would press my nude breasts against his hard chest, his hands sliding down over my buttocks, then slipping around to my shaved mound before parting my thighs and pressing his hard cock into me, surrendering to my capricious mood, living the wild moment, the ecstasy.
Then Ramzi reappeared in my life.
And so began my descent into hell.
13
I was walking through the Muski, buying rugs and artifacts for my cottage in Coventry, knowing someday I would return to my hideaway where I could indulge in my memories of Lord Marlowe, asking him for forgiveness for my foolish dalliance with the Egyptian, knowing somehow he would approve of my interest in the American flier, when I heard—
“May Allah be praised, I have found my English rose. Alone.”
Ramzi. Hands on his hips, dressed in a wide white caftan,
blue turban swirling around his dark hair, he appeared without notice, as if he sought to spirit me away on his magic carpet.
“Go away, Ramzi.” I turned my back to him and feigned interest in red and purple silk-embroidered pillows, running my fingers over their smoothness, indulging in a sensual thought that had me believing I was touching the American’s hard, bare chest. I shivered. “You got what you wanted from me. I’ll not interfere with you taking over the Cleopatra Club.”
“I don’t care about the club. That was Laila’s idea.” He grabbed my hand. I was too startled to pull away from him. “It’s you I want. I am in love with you, my English lady.”
“What does a man like you know about love?” I dared to speak what was on my mind. I refused to believe him. Hadn’t he scoffed at the idea of love? “You’ve never allowed any woman into your heart.”
“What you say is true,” he said, “but that was before I met you, so beautiful, your breasts, your firm buttocks, your body arched in abandon when I put my cock into you…”
“Sex isn’t love, Ramzi. You enjoy women, all women. I can’t change that.”
“Ah, but it is Allah’s will a man be tamed by one woman lest he remain like a wild beast on the prowl.”
“I’m not in the mood for your pretty speeches, Ramzi. You fooled me once. I shan’t be fooled again. Let go of me.”
He refused to do so, slipping his hand around my waist, his lips so close to mine I could smell the sickly sweetness of hashish clinging to him. “You must listen to me—”
“Where’s Maxi?” I interrupted, not wanting to hear his petulant story. “Isn’t she waiting for you in the crypt to pleasure her?”
“It is over between us, I swear.”
“You’re lying. She’s taking you to Paris to show you off at her photo exhibition.”
