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
Nude. 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 under 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
