by Jina Bacarr
He grunted, though I detected a fire in his eyes that burst into a flame with the sound of my voice, lower, huskier. He moved faster and I brought my hips up higher to meet each thrust, my pubic muscles tightening around his cock until I couldn’t hold back the convulsions any longer. I reached a pinnacle of pleasure I hadn’t known before, riding the wave as multiple spasms made me forget I was making love to a man in my motorcar that I hardly knew not far from the watchful eye of the Sphinx.
I was pleasantly surprised to discover a wildness and raw strength about him that drove him to take me harder, faster, deeper than I’d ever known. I willed him to keep going but he couldn’t wait. A rush of excitement came over him and he slammed into me with the urgency of a man who couldn’t stop if he wanted to, shooting into me with a long, hard thrust, yelling out, his bare chest shiny with sweat and dusted with a fine patina of sand. I hadn’t stopped coming, my breathing hard, my pussy muscles squeezing tight and sending wave after wave of pleasure through me. It was as if we were both locked in our inner worlds, burning with delirium, riding the crest of our blinding lust, though knowing any moment someone could come upon us. My late husband was adventurous, but never like this.
My romantic sojourn to reach new heights while having an orgasm had begun when we parked off to the side of the road, less traveled today, I noted with surprise, to dally a bit longer on our way back to Cairo after visiting the Pyramids. I had insisted on being the navigator when we started out, convincing him I knew the way, as I had made this trip many times in the past. I had a driver from Shepheard’s bring my motorcar round to a back entrance of the hotel. I had no desire to become entangled in the bustle of British officers racing around in a mad frenzy, babbling about the German army crossing the Polish frontier. I didn’t want anyone to see me leave with the American. Anyone as in Ramzi or Laila.
The day was lovely when we headed for the Pyramids in my motorcar with its six cylinders and seven-bearing crankshaft and front torsion bar for improved stability. I smile as I write down the technical jargon for this fine motorcar made in Coventry. (Lord Marlowe insisted we own a similar roadster since it was manufactured in the charming town where we had our hideaway cottage.) I was rather pleased to locate such a motorcar in Cairo, noting we could cruise quite comfortably at seventy-five miles an hour.
With Chuck at the wheel, his strong hands twisting and turning the steering, he commented how it held the road when he put his foot on the accelerator. I admit I enjoyed watching the hard muscle in his forearm tighten when he shifted gears. I licked my lips, he noticed, commenting we could stop if I was thirsty. I was hungry, I said, toying with the buttons on my blouse, and slid over closer to him, close enough to feel the heat of his breath on my bare neck when he took his eyes off the road. Just for a moment. With a teasing smile, I reminded him I had picked up a basket packed with tea and biscuits from the hotel kitchen and placed it in the concealed locker designed to hold suitcases. I suggested we stop near the Great Pyramid, then slipped a finger into my mouth and wet it with my saliva before sucking on it. I enjoyed watching him squirm, his breathing coming faster, drops of perspiration breaking out on his forehead. I felt so naughty, like a young girl on a secret rendezvous with her handsome flier.
We sped past villas with gardens filled with flowers, swaying eucalyptus trees and shadowy palms before we reached the Mena House Hotel at Giza. We slowed down to pass by the line of tourists gathered outside the gate and waiting for local dragomen to take them up the hill to see the Great Pyramid then down the hill on the other side to see the Sphinx, all astride a bored camel overloaded with colorful amulets and beads.
I waved when I saw Lady Palmer and her daughter, Flavia, waiting to make the half-hour ride to have their photograph taken with a camel, but we didn’t stop. I couldn’t help but smile when I imagined her reaction should they meet up with a jackal or a hyena on their trek. I hadn’t seen anything of her since I left Port Said, though I knew she was stopping over in Cairo before continuing to Bombay. I had found Flavia trying to sneak into the Cleopatra Club, but I promptly had her removed, as much for the girl’s sake as my own. I didn’t need her poking her nose around the club and gossiping about my activities, nor did I want her to fall under Ramzi’s spell again. Underneath her saucy exterior, she was a respectable girl and I owed it to Lady Palmer to keep her that way.
A foul mood suddenly came over me as if I were observing the Pyramids at sunset and I could see nothing but the darkness on their shadowed sides. I remembered that day in Port Said when last I saw the British noblewoman and her daughter. That was also the day when my fantasy world collided with reality and I sent the Jewish girl away to meet her untimely destiny. I was still trying to convince myself I was entangled in what I had perceived to be a hopeless choice and that was why I didn’t help the girl. Was I being neurotic thinking about her now? I shivered. Or was it because Maxi’s presence and her disturbing stories about life in Germany had severed my sharply defined boundaries between my world of social standing and refinement and her world of prejudice and dictatorship?
I had also caught snippets of conversation in the lobby of Shepheard’s Hotel about how the Polish defenses were overwhelmed in a few hours and how German planes bombed Warsaw and Krakow. What next? I believe the shiver I felt was a premonition of what was about to happen, a matter of completion, unifying the circle I had yet to complete.
When Chuck asked me who I was waving to (did I detect a glimmer of jealousy in his voice?), I explained Lady Palmer was an old friend and, I dared to add, riding a camel to see the Pyramids wasn’t half the fun as what I had planned. To emphasize my point, I laid my hand on his hard thigh then bit down on my lip when he tensed the muscle. Without commenting, he revved up the engine and off we went down the well-traveled road up to the foot of the Great Pyramid.
It was late morning when we reached the pale golden wedge, weathered by centuries of hostile winds and a hot unforgiving desert sun. It appeared almost translucent in the mist that hovered around it, burying the naked footprints of the last servant to leave the tomb once it was sealed. I shan’t bore you with the details of what we saw at the Pyramids, only to say the limestone blocks towering up to the sky always give me a chill, its massive size overwhelming me with a spiritual notion that a vaster concept than saying it’s just a tomb is at play here. If you’re wondering if I mean Cleopatra’s perfume, I shall let you make your own discourse on that.
By the time we drove down to the little hollow beside the pyramid, my hand had moved to his inner thigh and I clutched the bulge between his legs. I was conscious of the tension between us, biting, seething with need, a burn so hot I could already feel a circle of pleasure rotating deep within me, my clit begging to be stroked and sucked on.
We stopped not far from the Pyramids (away from the few tourists lingering) and set up a red tent to shield us from the hot sun. It was cooler under the tent, though everything had a reddish tint from the bright sun streaking through the thin fibers. I pulled out the vacuum flasks of hot tea and milk and we had tea and biscuits, talking as strangers do about the heat, what we liked and didn’t about Cairo, world politics, and how strong was the German army? We moved on with the conversation, our passions looming hotter than anything we discussed. Neither of us wished to continue such a droll subject, as if by ignoring the world situation we absolved ourselves of guilt. Instead, we fell victim to the rather powerful smell of spices that surrounded us. I didn’t have to ask if he liked my perfume. He leaned over and sniffed the back of my neck, breathing in deeply. I was also aware of the surprisingly sweet smell hitting my nostrils when I opened my legs. (I had rubbed Cleopatra’s perfume between my thighs before leaving the hotel.) I believe the magic of the scent also extended to its use as an intimate perfume and enhanced my own natural odor, making it more provocative and alluring, something I intended to discover when we returned to the motorcar. We settled in, ready to go, when I put my hand over Chuck’s before he pressed the starter butto
n.
“Would you mind opening the roof?” I asked in a coy manner. “It’s stiflingly hot in here.”
“So I’ve noticed.” He stared at my breasts and I swear his gaze made my nipples stand at attention. He turned the crank and as the roof over our heads slid open, I unbuttoned my blouse and pushed it down my shoulders…
Here, now with the American’s arms around me, snuggled together in the motorcar, I felt safe. Something I hadn’t felt since that morning when Lord Marlowe hugged me then spanked my bottom before I left for our cottage in Coventry, the day his motorcar crashed. By the way, you may wonder why I call Chuck Dawn the American since I am also American born. I shall only tell you this: I had no choice but to sever my ties to my Yankee heritage years ago when I left that New York City tenement to seek my fortune. I have no one back there who cares whether or not I’m alive. Yes, it hurts, but I have managed all these years to switch off that part of me that remembers the young girl who danced on the fire escape, yet I realize now it was always in the back of my mind. I have often thought about going back to the States to see my mother, but that is impossible for reasons I will later explain. They are too painful and too dangerous to do so at this point.
All these thoughts roll over me like the pleasant smell of warm honey drizzling over salty nuts, treats my mother made for me during the holidays when I was a child, as I listened to Chuck tell me stories about his adventures, his stunts with the air circus and flying the mail from London to Bombay. I pushed all thoughts of my past life from my mind since I had decided to return to London with Chuck as a passenger on his flight. I had no illusion about him. He was an American, a madcap flier, a man who liked his sex raw, his women sensual. He knew me only as Eve, an Englishwoman with an appetite for men and sex. It was better that way since I was still using drugs. I had hidden a small vial filled with white powder in my trouser pocket. I had sniffed the drug earlier so as not to experience a crash. I couldn’t go through that now. I was happy, but it wasn’t from the euphoric effects of the drug. Before, I felt unable to coordinate my actions, like a mermaid caught between two rocks. I was swimming but going nowhere. I couldn’t reach a climax. But all that changed with Chuck.
We spoke as strangers often do when their paths cross in a time and place that seems to exist outside their normal world, yielding up of ourselves, the personal. A sense of camaraderie weaves its web around you like a protective embrace and you speak about things in your life you would never mention to close friends. The conversation became strained when I asked Chuck if his family worried about him flying around the world. His mouth set in a grim line and he mumbled something about his brother being the reason he left home.
Over a woman? I dared to ask. He clenched his fists and wouldn’t say any more, then asked me about my late husband. So obvious he wanted to change the subject, and since I detected a chill in the air that didn’t please me, I ventured forth and recalled a young woman’s fancy romantic memories and explained how we had spent our honeymoon here in Cairo among the Pyramids and sought the privacy of the chalet-style bungalow built for German archaeologists. (I left out any mention of meeting my late husband in a Berlin cabaret.) He found it odd an Englishman would bring his young wife to Egypt, so I explained to him about my avid interest in Egyptology and my late husband’s willingness to indulge in sensual games far outside the realm of acceptance from his circle of friends.
“What kind of games?” he asked, curiosity pushing him forward.
“Sassy, erotic games,” I whispered, my voice velvet with the promise of pleasure.
“For instance?” he said, baiting me, knowing I couldn’t wait to tell him.
“Have you any idea how pleasurable a riding crop feels upon your arse when applied with a tender hand?”
He drew in his breath. “No. Tell me.”
“My late husband was fond of taking a crop to the bare skin on my buttocks or with a cane made of rattan, though thinner than those used in British schools for upper-class strappings.” I experienced a prickling sensation on my skin and a lovely tingling in my pussy just thinking about it. I continued, “Though a strong hand can also be most pleasurable.”
He smiled wide. “Like this?” Before I could answer him, he turned me over and spanked me on my bare buttocks. Hard. I let out a gasp, feigning surprise at his superb execution of so subtle a form of pain play, though my surprise mingled with anticipation of more.
“You can do better than that,” I said with an evenness of tone, challenging him with my direct stare.
“You little vixen. You asked for it.”
He raised his hand again and struck my buttock cheek, then the other, making me cry out with a harsh moan, then back and forth until I began to squirm, all thoughts of keeping my emotions under control dissipating each time his palm struck my arse.
I raised my buttocks, tightening my pubic muscles and letting myself flow with the delicious torment, knowing he would most likely stop before I could reach another orgasm since he didn’t understand the rules of the game. (I don’t want to interfere with your enjoyment of the scene, dear reader, but I believe the American had no knowledge about the exchange of power involved between the master and the submissive. I wasn’t about to relinquish my orgasm to explain it to him.)
He surprised me when he paused and ran his fingers over my arse, concerned about the redness widening over my flesh, he said, fanning my fire even more. I shook my head, telling him I was fine, though I couldn’t stop a convulsive shiver from making me shudder. Then I begged him to continue.
The day was waning, the sunset as warm and wonderful as the man sitting next to me as we drove madly back to Cairo down the road that has lured curious tourists to the Pyramids for seventy years. (It was built for the visit of the Empress Eugénie.) I had planned to take Chuck to the Citadel afterward to watch the sunset, the famed fortress built by Saladin, though I was wary of what new scandal I might create if someone I knew in the British troops stationed there saw us together (they’ve been using the fortress as a barracks for so long, I’ve no doubt it’s fortified with guns and ammunition in anticipation of this war everyone’s predicting we’ll be drawn into). I wanted to share with him a visual delight I often enjoyed with Lord Marlowe. Cairo at sunset. I never cease to be amazed at the view of the city from the parapet of the Citadel with its large domes, towers and minarets rising up and poking through a silky veil the color of yellow limestone, the sun’s fading rays ripping it into shreds of fine dust. The poignant memories of my time here with Lord Marlowe were strong, pulling at me in such a way I was glad I couldn’t feel the heavy emotions stirring within me because of the intense high from the cocaine. I’d wisely kept my drug use from the American.
I thrilled to Chuck’s closeness as waves of yellow sands crept toward us and a west wind made drifts like snow outside our motorcar, the orange sky with its pale violet afterglow bathing us in a Daliesque aura. The locals say it’s the heavier air brought on by the intense heat that brings in the golden-red rays of the sun, but excludes the blue rays from its palette so that everywhere you look the sky is tinged with yellow. That goldenness was accented even more on an afternoon like today when a high wind and most likely a sandstorm to follow prevailed.
I pushed aside that thought, ignoring the air turning a sulfur color, the sun racing toward its nightly slumber like a red ball of fire, the blistering bubble shimmering like amber glass. I couldn’t believe it when the motorcar sputtered then squeaked before the engine died on a downward slope. Chuck swerved the car to keep it from going off the road and we bumped into a hole, jerking us about, but that wasn’t the worst of it.
“What happened?” I asked, slightly shaken up.
“We’re out of gas.” Chuck banged on the petrol gauge as if that would solve the problem.
“That’s impossible!” I uttered. “I told the bell captain to make sure the tank was full.”
“Looks like he didn’t understand English.”
“Or someone
siphoned off the tank.” An unholy thought entered my mind, unnerving me.
“You mean the Egyptian.”
“Yes.”
“What does he mean to you?”
“Nothing,” I said, knowing as I said the words it was true. Whatever I felt for Ramzi was finished when he threatened me in the crypt. “We have a business agreement, but like many men who don’t believe a woman can handle her own affairs, he believes he owns me as well.”
We got out and walked, headed back to town, but not for long. I was correct about the sandstorm. A billowing, wild gust of wind and dust ringed with crimson near the horizon meshing with dirty yellow headed straight toward us. Whipping my hair in my face, dust covered our clothes and I tasted sand in my mouth. We took refuge in the motorcar, secured the windows and rooftop, and prepared ourselves for what turned out to be a long night. The temperature in the desert drops quite low at night, even in early September. I believe you’d like to hear about more wild sex and spankings and I deign to disappoint you but I must. Our emotions as well as our physical needs were spent and a different bond formed between us, a gathering of souls, if you will, bound together by the magic of the desert, pulling us to stay, knowing once we left, we’d always have that pull to return. I can’t explain it, but the desert seeps into your bones, especially after you’ve experienced the intense quiet and marveled at the sparkling stars keeping you awake with their brilliance, as if a wealthy pasha had scattered millions of diamonds on the rich basalt carpet in the sky. All around us we felt the rhythm and power of the Pyramids, not giving up their secrets even under the shadow of night. Or had they? Did Cleopatra’s perfume warn me of danger twice before?
