Hashished

As the opera was coming to a conclusion, Rushdy leaned over and kissed me gently on the lips again and whispered in my ear how sexy I looked in my tuxedo and how much a "good stick" I was for being a help to him.

I nearly flared up then, but then I could see the danger in his eyes, the flash of dominance. "David tells me that this is little different from your life in New York. Was he lying to me?"

Embarrassed—because David hadn't really lied, although he had no right to make such decisions for me—I lowered my eyes without answering. Then he whispered something about how beautiful and alluring I was, and I immediately was lost to him again.

I was walking on air as we left the opera house. I assumed the Rolls coupe would be brought around and we'd go back to Giza to fuck and fantasize over the lush sets and powerful music of the opera. But once again Rushdy surprised me.

"Let us walk the streets for a bit and come back for the car when the crowds have dissipated."

We did walk, into dark streets that narrowed into almost alleys, but it didn't seem like Rushdy was just rambling; it seemed like he knew where he was going.

In the middle of one narrow street, he stopped, turned abruptly to his right, and rapped on a wooden door on the ground floor of a building next to stone stairs that led up to what seemed to be the building's formal entrance. A window shutter in the door was pulled open and then the door was flung wide and a portly middle-aged Egyptian in a galabiyah, the traditional, long robe worn by Egyptian men, and a turban was all bows and welcomes and ushered Rushdy and me through the door.

The man leered at me as we passed and I shrank against Rushdy.

As the man was shutting and locking the door, Rushdy leaned down and whispered to me, "And now we are at the other end of the political spectrum. This is considered a hotbed of revolutionary fervor. I must play to the English tune, but this is where my heart is, with my people. But if the British ever—"

He broke off there as we were being ushered down a darkened corridor toward a beaded curtain covering a door, beyond which there as dim light, a cloud of smoke, and a low hubbub of sound.

The room we entered was directly out of the Arabian Nights: overlapping layers of Oriental carpeting on the floor, low tables in mother-of-pearl inlay, a mass of silk throw pillows, and draperies on the wall providing a tent-like effect. The room was full of bubbling hookahs, which helped explain the smoke. Scattered about the room were men, many of them middle-aged, some of them very young and paired with middle-aged men. Few were sitting alone, not being touched by someone else. They were stretched out in various degrees of embrace, puffing on the hookahs and many in some stage of sexual intercourse. Most of those in any form of dress at all only wore billowy diaphanous pants and turbans. A few wore spangled-decorated short vests over bare chests. Many wore nothing.

Rushdy and I were escorted to a hookah and pillow-strewn area of the room that wasn't already occupied and bade to settle down. As soon as we had, though, four men, two fairly young, two older, all beefy, appeared and sat, cross-legged, arrayed before us. All had their eyes on us—mostly on me.

"These men are among the revolutionary leadership, very important to the new Egypt. Strip down to your underdrawers," Rushdy said to me. "You'll be more comfortable."

"You?" I asked.

"Later," he answered. "Have you smoked hashish before?"

"Never," I answered.

Rushdy turned to the Egyptian who had admitted us, who had slipped his galabiyah over his head and was sitting, facing me, in a loin cloth and his turban, and stoking up the hookah. Rushdy said something to the man in Arabic, which I hoped was an instruction to keep the hashish content in the pipe mild. The man had a pot belly and slightly drooping breasts like a woman, but he seemed well muscled as well and had strong hands with long, sensuous fingers, which I watched, mesmerized, as he manipulated the parts of the hookah.

The pasha bade me to lay back in the pillows and relax and he stretched out beside me, putting an arm under my neck and gently stroking my nipples and belly with the fingers of his free hand. I thought back to his statement of thinking of fucking me in the box at the opera during the performance and wondered if I was less inclined to let him do so here, with these half-naked Egyptian men staring at us. I decided it wouldn't inconvenience me a bit.

The Egyptian moved between my legs, dragging the hookah toward me, and I spread my legs, raised my knees, and placed my feet flat on the carpeting.

He leaned over my bare torso, drawing the long cylinder of the pipe toward my face and looking down into my face with an expression that was half smile and half leer. I took a short pull on the pipe and a sense of lightness and well-being flowed through my body. I took a longer pull and felt the smoke flow through my body, moving me to the sensation of floating above the earth. Rushdy was stroking my chest and belly, and I felt his touch with heighted, sensuous sensation. It then seemed like more hands than just his were gliding over my body and touching me intimately. Another long drag on the pipe.

My underdrawers were being pulled down my legs and off and I raised my knees, my legs together, toes pointed so that the underdrawers could easily be stripped off. But then hands were palming my knees. Long, sensuous fingers, coaxing my knees apart. Another long drag on the pipe, and I felt my legs spreading, moving apart, flowing away from me. I was floating on the clouds, above the tree tops. Looking down at the trees. Seeing every individual leaf.

Long, sensuous fingers cupping my buttocks, raising my pelvis a bit from the pillows. Moistness coming down over my cock. I was engorging, my hips rising and falling gently, listening to a slight sucking sound above the bubbling of the hookah. And the murmurs of voices, in a language I couldn't understand. All of my sensations were gathering at my center; I heard myself sigh at the pleasure washing over me from the moist, rhythmic pressure on my rock-hard cock.

"Another pull on the hookah," I heard a voice say. Low, rich tones. Rushdy?

I did as bade. A tight, warm feeling came over me and I felt my seed release in a gentle flow. The moist pressure moving down my perineum, searching for, and as I dug my heels in the carpet, rising to it, finding the entrance to my channel.

"Again," Rushdy's voice whispered, and I took another drag on the hookah.

A body was crouched over me, between my legs, I arched my back and gave a long, low moan that went on forever as the throbbing shaft entered me, and slid and slid and slid up into my passage. A long journey back out of me, giving me a sensation of loss, and the feeling of being invaded and stretched again—and then again and again. Interminable stroking inside me and the feel of the flow along the walls of the channel.

"Another pull," the voice said.

Another invasion of my channel, the probe not as long as the first but thicker. I arched my back and moaned as in-and-out stroking resumed again, ending with another flow deep inside me.

We were riding above the clouds, me facing up into the heavens. A man on top of me, embracing me, his cock, not feeling the same as the two times before, the bulb rubbing in different places on the walls inside me, pumping slow and deep inside me as we floated through the air. I was sighing and holding him close to me, wanting him inside me. We began turning in the air, his cock thickening and lengthening inside me. And stroking, stroking, stroking. Releasing.

Rushdy at last, I thought. At last taking me. Again and again. Thicker than before, reaching deeper than before. I gave a little cry and a lurch as he released inside me, held, throbbing, for a moment, and then withdrew. Thinner now on reentry as he started stroking again. I was facing down toward the earth now and the cock was stroking up into me. My eyes picked out each individual leaf on the trees passing below and followed the intricate veining—on each individual leaf. Milky white cum flowing over the leaves.

Ah, Rushdy. Who would have known he would be so gentle and so filling and so big? So varied in his touch. And so fecund, releasing inside me again and again.

"Inhale again."

Laying stretched out on top of him, in his embrace, him inside me. And then him also on top of me, under and above at the same time. And entering me again from on top. While still inside me from underneath. The sudden clarity that there were two cocks inside me. But I was managing; I didn't care.

"Very good. Breathe normally. Take another pull on the hookah."

Hunched in the corner of the Rolls, the cool night breeze flowing around the windshield and blowing into my face, bringing me back into the world, I began to question whether it had been Rushdy at all. I was still naked other than my underdrawers. My tuxedo apparel was neatly folded at my feet. Rushdy was wearing his tuxedo.

He turned and smiled at me. And he was saying something, but, though I could see his lips move, I couldn't hear a word he said. But we'd had prolonged, all-out sex at last. Hadn't we? My ears were buzzing, everything around me outside of the car was a swirling blur.

Out in the desert again, beyond the pyramids. In the backseat of the Rolls, rising and falling on the cock. This time I was sure it was Rushdy.

When I woke in the late morning, naked, on my bed, Egyptian sun streaming into the chamber, it was to the realization that much of what had happened earlier in the hashish den hadn't been Rushdy at all. And it hadn't been just one man. Not even one at a time.

But what was done was done. I'm sure that's what the pasha would say if I queried him about the evening.

* * * *

I wasn't fully back in the land of the present until early afternoon the next day. We were in the Rolls, tooling along toward Alexandria. We already were half way there. I looked over at Rushdy, who was watching the road and smoking a cigarette. I thought I said something, but it came out as a fuzzy mess, if at all. He didn't act like he heard me. But after twenty-some more miles, he turned and looked at me. He smiled just like everything was perfectly normal.

"There you are. Back with us," he said cheerfully. "It won't be long until we are at the ship, and then the porter on the

Kiyi

knows just the concoction to fix you up."

That was it. The same same. A night of debauchery that wasn't going to be mentioned beyond me needing something to pull me back into the present. Well, if he was going to play the game this way, I wouldn't mess it up.

"The

Kiyi

?" I asked.

"We're going out on the yacht. On the

Kiyi

. It's a yacht. The meeting I set up at the opera last night. Businessmen. Some very important businessmen to Egypt's future."

I said nothing, just continued looking at him, attempting a neutral aspect. I wasn't sure I even could say anything yet.

"You'll like the

Kiyi

," he continued. "Fifty feet long, all teak cabins, a cabin for each of us and a saloon, with bar. Just two years old. A Coolidge fantail design, built by the Schertzer brothers. Top of the line. Might even take it to Malta one of these days."

"What day is it?"

"It's just the day after we went to the opera," he answered, all smiles and cheeriness.

"David and the camera crew?"

"Not back in Cairo."

"And while you are meeting on this yacht? What about me?"

"You'll be on the yacht too, of course. You can sunbathe. I know you want to do that regularly, to keep your tan up."

"A suit? What about—?"

"You're wearing one. Not as small as you are used to as your tan lines indicate. But it will have to do."

I put my hand down under the waistband of my cotton trousers and, sure enough, I was wearing a bathing suit. I turned my head toward the passing sand, feeling warmth go through my body, starting to go hard. He had dressed me, maybe? And maybe while he was dressing me? But, no, for some reason I couldn't explain I still felt unfucked by Rushdy—even after being sure about it out in the desert the previous night. Somehow I'd know he had done it when it happened. I ached for it.

We were out on the sea, no land in sight, when the men finished up their hours'-long meeting in the saloon below the roof where I was lying on a lounge bed, getting an over-all tan. The suit had been too big for me. I didn't want to ruin my tan lines—at least in the direction of too much coverage. Taking advantage of the vast, empty sea, I slipped the suit off for all-over tanning.

I had dozed and was fully unprepared for the first two men. One of them was above me, holding me trapped in a full Nelson, but able to look down the line of my body as the first businessman, naked, an Egyptian, not in bad shape, trapped my legs with his arms, sucked my cock, and slobbered on my hole. I struggled until the one at my head placed his lips next to my ears and in soothing tones told me how beautiful my body was, how perfect each part, how enticing my nipples with the large, brown aureoles were, how he wanted to suck on them and roll the nubs around in his mouth. How he and the other man had ached to be inside me since they'd seen me at the opera the previous evening. How very much they wanted to worship my beautiful body.

He also, more significantly, told me that we were out at sea, just those of us partying together, and that he was going to fuck me—that this was why I was on the boat.

The magic of his cajoling and of the Egyptian's sucking of my cock and tonguing of my hole, not to mention the reality of the situation, worked on me until I was bucking and begging for it. The Egyptian slid his knees under my buttocks, lifting my pelvis for a straight shot of his cock, while the man at my head, French, I think, released the hold on my arms, let my head fall over the top of the lounge, pressed down on my shoulders with the palms of his hands, and slid his cock into my mouth.

"So nice, so sweet, such a soft mouth," I heard him whisper, and, with a sigh, I started giving him head.

There were six business associates and each one did me at least twice before the

Kiyi

was nudging its way back into Alexandria harbor. I didn't mind the fucking. They paid attention to me and made sure I knew how much they needed me and had been trembling in anticipation of being inside me.

But the pasha's assumptions that I'd just give it up for any man who asked me nicely to open my legs for him . . . It's true that he had asserted that I would help him stay in his power position by dispensing such "favors" and that I hadn't refused him. But I hadn't agreed to it either. I was still here to be in Rushdy's bed, not for him to led me to the beds of other men—at least not as frequently as was happening.

I didn't speak a word to Rushdy on the drive back to the Giza villa. He prattled on, though, as if nothing at all had occurred. He stopped briefly enough at the front steps of the villa for me to hop out of the Rolls and lurch up the steps to the terrace and then to my bed chamber, while he drove the car around to the stables.

I assumed I wouldn't see him until dinner when he would tell me where else he was going to take me that evening to pimp me. But after he'd put the car away and gone to his room and changed into the open-fronted gauzy robe, he appeared at the French doors of my room out onto the terrace.

His body was as magnificent as always, and his cock was half hard.

Here we go, I thought, and everything I'd been through evaporated. This was it at last. We were going to fuck. I still wasn't sure that we hadn't fucked the night before, but now I would be fully conscious for it, could fully enjoy and participate in the experience. Nothing else that had happened mattered. I stripped off my trousers and shirt—I hadn't put the bathing suit back on—moved over to in front of him, and went down on my knees. I reached for his cock, prepared to swallow it.

But he brushed my hands away and walked around me and into the room.

That was it. I'd had enough. I told myself the spell was broken. Angry, I rose and turned. My fists were bunched up and I would have struck out at him if he hadn't moved a safe distance from me.

"That's it. I've had enough of your teasing and of your pimping," I yelled at him. "You can try to keep me here, locked up, to service your friends. But I will break out of here. I'll find David and escape this."

I heard him snort, which didn't help my disposition one bit. "Locked up? Break out? Find David? This is delusion. The only thing keeping you here is your own lust and your narcissism. I'm not keeping you prisoner. There, over on that dresser. Have you even bothered to look? Your open-ended ship ticket to London and enough cash to wait for the next ship—or the one after that. And David and the camera crew? They left for London two days ago. David said I could keep you, that he was tired of your pouting and manipulation. He said that, as far as he was concerned, you could do what you do, be what you are—a whore for any man's cock—here in Egypt just as well as you do it in New York."

"Keep me?

My

manipulation?" I screamed at him. "What about

your

manipulation?"

I launched myself at him, fists flailing. He laughed as I reached him, folded his arms around me, trapping both arms and hands, turned me toward the bed and bent over my back.

I felt his hard cock at the small of my back, sliding down, into the crack of my buttocks. The underside of his cock was rubbing across my hole, which was opening right up for him. I was panting and sobbing and moaning, trying to move my buttocks to present for him, trying to coax the cock to enter me. He just continued rubbing the cock across my hole. His teeth went to one of my ear lobes, and I groaned as he held it in his teeth.

"Please, please," I whispered.

"Such a beautiful little body," he whispered in my ear. "The face of an angel. A lithe, flexible, perfectly formed body. Blond. Arousing for Arabic men. Smooth, round buttocks. A sweet channel that any man would like to fuck. The way you get your way. The lust of men. The way I can get my way in today's Egypt too."

"Please, please," I pleaded. "Please fuck me. Fuck me. FUCK me!"

"I haven't pimped you. You love this. You are totally in love with yourself and your body. You loved being put on display. To be bid on. To move men to want to fuck you. To be fucked by them. You can't get enough of it—and of yourself."

"I have no fucking idea what you're saying," I moaned, as reaching back to try to grab his cock and get it stuffed inside me at last.

Moving his hips back, out of my reach, he released me and let me sink to the bed. "Of course you don't understand what I'm saying. It's not within your capability."

He moved to the French doors and turned. "You aren't a prisoner to anything but your own wants and your narcissism. You aren't in a cage here—at least not one that isn't of your own making. Yours is a gilded cage of your own construction, built of your narcissism and of your obsession with being fucked. I toy with you because I can and because it amuses me to see how you insatiably and blindly follow your narcissistic needs. Any time you want to leave, just take your things and go to the stable and ask for Issa. He'll drive you into Cairo or to Alexandria as you wish. You can leave any time you want."

"Of course I'll leave," I shot back. "Why should I stay here?"

He continued as if I'd said nothing. "If you stay, we go to the horse races in Heliopolis tomorrow. I have a horse entered. Sir Hilary wants to fuck you in the steward's box during the third, fifth, and ninth races. He was precise about that. I think he must have official duties for the other races. Or perhaps he just knows how long it takes for him to get it up again."