Girl Trade - full length erotic adventure novel (Xcite Erotic Romance Novels)

by Chloë Thurlow

  The man with the beard looked up into my eyes, then back at Samir. The sheikh nodded and the pea was revealed beneath the shell I had indicated.

  The men around Samir shuffled their feet and seemed relieved when he turned to me with the tolerant smile a parent may show a clever child. He collected the few coins he had won. He then squeezed my cheeks with more affection than was necessary and I thought: if you are going to bring a native with a bone through her nose back to the obdurate people at home you must expect the unexpected.

  The snake charmer started playing again. A dusty-looking cobra curled lethargically from the basket and I thought of actors forced to say the same lines night after night on the successful run of a play. Some of the men tossed coins into his upturned fez and we continued. Men smoked hashish through a hubbly-bubbly that gurgled like indigestion. I loved the pungent smell and thought of night clubs, dancing, Bobby below me painted like girl. He was tempted to be himself but held back. It’s what we do. What we all do. The secret is to go beyond your own limits and then go further. That’s what I had done swimming from La Gomera to the island. That’s what had brought me here to Mauritania.

  A woman in black was heating a foul-smelling, glutinous substance in an iron pot, while a man using a brush made from the crushed end of a piece of cane smeared the solution along the seeping green gash on a camel’s leg, the camel half rising as the scalding stuff touched the sore, then dropping its head philosophically back down again into the dust.

  We continued beyond the caravanserai and circled the fort. The men were talking, their words like lines of poetry, rhythmic as music. We made our way through the date palms and banana plants. The oasis was cut in sections by shallow gullies protected by ridges of sand, the trees and plants like pieces on a chessboard. The land was irrigated from a well with a metal lid bolted shut with iron stays and a padlock. Water was precious, the stone shower a luxury I would remember as I journeyed on into the dark hell of secret Africa.

  Maysoon laced her fingers through mine as we entered the fort and tightened her grip as we crossed the courtyard. It was quiet now, the people gone, just the hint of roasted meat and hot bread lingering on the air. We giggled like girls at boarding school as we climbed the narrow flights of stone stairs. She ran on her toes along the walkway and threw off her cape as we entered the tower. She lit the brass lamps with a plastic cigarette lighter of the sort I had seen men in town selling in the streets, her movements making the flames shiver, the shadows chasing her about the walls.

  What is your wish?

  Ask and it shall be given.

  As she skipped around the room, the chiffon veils were teased from her body as if by the invisible hand of a conjurer until she was naked but for the beaded belt. She moved closer, her bracelets shimmering, her long fingers swirling, hypnotic, drawing me to her as if by the pull of gravity.

  I slipped from Samir’s clothes, my limbs seduced by the rhythm, and felt as light as a bird on the warm air, our dance a sensuously charged flamenco with clapping hands, thrusting breasts, stamping feet, solemn expressions. My gaze transfixed on the girl’s gorgeous belly, her pudenda a heart-shaped fruit, her pubic bone, which at first appeared to have been shaved in a pattern, was, I realised, scalped bare of pubic hair and polished in a sheen of perspiration.

  The pattern I could see wasn’t hair, but a spider hanging by the silken thread dissecting her body. When she raised her chin, the blue line rose from that point just below her bottom lip and the creature appeared to be crawling over her treacle-coloured flesh. It was the most surreal and sensuous thing I had ever seen, more erotic than I could have conceived in my wildest dreams, a seal of sexuality. Maysoon like me belonged to the sheikh. Like me, she had forsaken everything to live out her erotic nature. We moved closer, the bowl of her abdomen fitting in the concave of my hollowed stomach.

  We danced until the sweat poured from us and collapsed on the thick pile of carpets below the domed roof, our tongues fighting to get into each other’s throats, the tang of her saliva sweeter than honey. We kissed until we were breathless and though I adored kissing Samir, there’s nothing like the lips of girls, the taste of girls, the taste of Maysoon. Men have that cute accessory, that magic wand, that grub that grows into a butterfly. But girls have soft pink lips that describe shamelessly on our faces the ripe fruit between our legs, the outward sign of our inner desires. We are shaped the way we are shaped for a reason. We are shaped for fucking. I didn’t know this and now I did know. It was like learning a marvellous secret.

  Maysoon licked my face, she nibbled my ears and chin, her tongue like a brush jabbing into the well of my collar bones. She took my breasts in her palms and squeezed hard, drawing out the flaming buds and biting down on each one, biting until a shudder of agonised pleasure took me in its embrace. She gnawed at my hip bones and raised her head to gaze at the silky nest of my pubic hair. She ran her fingers through the curls, slipped them inside me, removing them slicked in juice that she sucked from her fingertips, the perfect cherry-red bow of her lips bloated and wet.

  She twisted her body in one agile movement, scissoring my head between her legs and dipping down into my groin, her tongue reaching into the soggy swamp of my aching sex. We were dancers dancing once more, rocking back and forth, her oils slipping down my throat in a stream; girl champagne, an Oriental elixir that made my taste buds rejoice. As I drank from the cup of her delicious sex, little spasms ran in pins and needles down my legs and up my spine. My knees rose and I pushed down with my feet, arching my back and drawing her lingua deeper into my cunni and, like a ballerina before a mirror, repeating the movement, sliding my tongue further into the canal of her gorgeous cunt.

  With faultless timing, I felt her body stiffen as my own body stiffened. Through the gurgling slurps of our ecstasy we screamed in orgasm, gasping and panting, breasts aquiver, our slippery skin like sea creatures sliding over each other, limbs tangled, pussies like vibrating anemones with bleating lips slowly opening and closing. When I had experimented with girls before I had been afraid that I might be a lesbian. Now, the very notion seemed silly and clearing it from my mind was like growing from a half person to a full person. I had sprouted wings. I felt like an angel. In passion, anything is possible, the love of men, the love of women, the ending of taboos, the subtle, ambiguous joy of discipline, the ingenious transformation of pain into pleasure. In the orgy we lose our individualism and approach the divine.

  Maysoon rose from her ministrations and as I opened my eyes I was at first surprised, but then not really surprised to find the sheikh sitting cross-legged beside our little dais of carpets, the light from the moon a pale glow on his sensitive features, his eyes on mine. At his side there was a carpet beater, a short-handled implement with a paddle made of bent cane. I didn’t notice it until the precisely curved loops of the cane crossed my flesh.

  I shrieked in pain.

  As he stood, Samir scooped the thing into his hand and tossed it next to where we lay. Quick as the sunrise over the desert, the girl had the cane in her hand and fire streaked across my bottom. I was so shocked by the speed, by the audacity, I remained stock still as the wicked device took another taste of my astonished flesh.

  There wasn’t a third. As the cane came down once more, I rolled to one side and sprang to my feet. I hadn’t spent five years attending judo and gymnastics for nothing. I slipped my leg between Maysoon’s ankles, bent her over my right hip and dropped her down on to the mat. Her eyes opened wide and so did her long fingers, the cane slipping from her grasp. I snatched it up, held her down, my left arm around her waist, and beat that pert little bottom again and again.

  One, two, three, four, five times.

  She shrieked and blubbed.

  Ouch. Ouch. Ouch.

  In passion and pain we speak the same language.

  She wriggled free, crawling as fast as she could across the room, that reddened bottom like a siren calling, like a beacon guiding me through the shadows until I brought
the cane down once more for luck.

  ‘Six,’ I screamed, like I’d scored a goal in hockey.

  She squealed like a beaten puppy, reared up and charged me, throwing herself across the room and knocking me off my feet, slapping and biting, her firm belly and meaty breasts holding me down. We turned over and over, kicking, lunging, licking, pulling hair. The bites turned into kisses. I heard the sound of the carpet beater coming down again, this time in the hand of the sheikh, and she cried in agony before rolling over, pulling me on top so that I would take the next blow on my burning ass.

  We continued wrestling, kissing, licking and screaming as the sheikh chose his target and beat us relentlessly, bottoms, thighs, sides, breasts, the concentric rings of the carpet beater creating a pattern of swirling arabesques that matched the pattern on the carpets.

  My body was a lake. Tears of pain and pleasure fell from my eyes, juice rolled from my wet pussy, and I didn’t even notice Samir shedding his robes until I felt his cock slip into my moistened backside and all the air escaped from my lungs in one long gasp of sheer rapture. There is nothing like having your pussy rimmed by a dancing girl, your bum beaten by a handsome sheikh and his long perfect prick piercing your back passage. I went up on my hands and knees and we fucked like dogs.

  I was panting, roaring, holding him tight with my vaginal muscles, taking more, wanting more. My entire body was a giant clitoris as big as the dome above our heads. Maysoon had wriggled bum first between my stretched arms and I slid my tongue through her inflamed cheeks into the winking black eye of her pretty anus.

  With superhuman self control, Samir withdrew his cock and parting was such sweet pain and pleasure. I carried on rimming Maysoon’s ass while he presented his cock to her greedy gullet. She swallowed it down and I had the feeling that I was part of some fabulous machine, the pressure of my tongue pushing into the girl as she opened her gullet deeper for Samir, drawing his cock further down into her throat. I thought if we kept going in time the tip of my tongue would touch the split head of his penis, and I thought breathlessly, girlishly, immaturely: my God, this is a threesome, this is a first, another first, and I love it, I want it, I want more of it, all night, tomorrow, every day, that time spent doing anything but fucking was time wasted until you open your body to start fucking again. I was born to be doing just this. It was shocking and amazing and shameful and a relief to know.

  The moment of stillness. He paused. He was a diver on the end of a diving board about to leap into the blue void. An astronaut counting down: ten, nine, eight, seven … a reluctant bride a moment before she says I do. And he did. As he slipped his cock from Maysoon’s mouth, I slid my tongue from her ass and watched as he pumped his beautiful seed spurt after spurt over her hennaed features, the white stuff reminding me for some reason of the sticky goo I’d seen bubbling in the iron pot at the caravanserai, but the smell was as pure as baby’s breath, as innocent as sin, musky, earthy, an aphrodisiac.

  I remained on hands and knees and crawled forward so that I could lick the nectar from Maysoon’s face.

  If erotic has a taste, this was the taste, the sperm of your lover on the hot cheeks of the girl whose anal juices coat your tongue. I could see above me the starlight through the twelve arched windows and wanted the heavens to slow down, for this night never to end.

  The sheikh folded like a fallen warrior at the Battle of Thermopylae, a naked Spartan who has given his all to save civilization. In ancient times, as we had learned in classics, while the Spartans ran around naked, they were pure, aesthete, minimal, while their cousins across the Aegean in Athens had fallen for the indulgence of the orgy. Those pagans drank their wines, they wrote their poems, they carved nudes from white marble and fucked their brains out. Threesomes. Foursomes. Scoresomes. There need be no limit to the number of partners, positions, possibilities. I had discovered my atavistic self in that round tower below the golden dome, that astonishing phallus poking into the universe.

  Samir had closed his eyes. I licked his cock, gently, as gentle as a kitten lapping milk from a saucer, slowly, innocently, lick, lick, lick. The little sheikh bobbed with renewed life and, as Maysoon engulfed the pearly head in her pretty mouth, I thought how wise those Athenians were, that in the orgy, who puts what into whom is immaterial, that it is the act of sex that matters, not that imprisoning sense of love, possession, devotion. Fucking the boy, Umah, had come naturally because it was the most natural thing in the world.

  While Maysoon continued pumping up the little sheikh, I straddled the big sheikh’s head. I balanced on my knees and dropped my fruit into his open mouth. Sex after sex is unhurried, tender, a vintage wine those Athenians would have appreciated. As I raised and lowered my body, flexing my thighs, I gazed down at the whirlpool of dark hair on Maysoon’s head. She stopped sucking off the sheikh when he was hard again and, as she looked up, our eyes met and I could see myself in her features. Through the power of mind over matter, we build a tolerance to all sensation, even pain, even pleasure, and I could tell by her look that Maysoon lived for the ultimate joy her body brings to others and the bodies of others provide in exchange.

  The lips of my sex were engorged, slicked with Samir’s saliva and the sticky sweet threads of my own juices. I was moving faster and faster. Like an athlete in a race, I threw myself forward as the winning tape approached and took the sheikh’s hard cock into my greedy mouth. We were on the edge of the desert and I was thirsty for his sperm. I was an addict. His cock was a hypodermic syringe and I needed another fix. My clitoris had pushed its way from its protective hood and Samir relieved its demanding throbs with the tip of his clever tongue.

  A gush of silky liquids slid down the canal of my vagina like thawing ice down a mountainside. My vaginal muscles were clenching and releasing with contractions. As I went into spasm, Samir withdrew his tongue, swung himself round on top of me and sank into my body like a torpedo slipping through the sea, pushing, pushing himself up to the neck of my womb, filling my impatient cunt to the brim. Time was suspended, the heavens had finally stilled, and when the torpedo ignited I exploded in a vast, shuddering climax which left me glazed and exhausted. I quivered and trembled. I wondered how many times I could fuck and be fucked, and in how many ways and positions and combinations. Was there a limit? A line that you crossed when it became ennui and repetition?

  Satisfaction, they say, is the death of desire. I don’t agree. I was deeply, profoundly satisfied. I was glad to lay there and recover my energy. But I knew already that I would soon be wanting more. He rolled from me and the girl kissed my eyes. Her lips were soft as petals and seemed to fit exactly into the sockets of my closed eyes. Across my body were pulsating little swirls of tenderness left by the carpet beater and the tower room had filled with the heady, pungent odours of orgasm. It was my first night in the red fort and I felt at peace. I remembered the sheikh pronouncing the single word Sahara as his home came into view from the deck of the ship. Now I, too, felt as if I had arrived home.

  Nine

  The Harem

  DADDY LIED FOR ENGLAND. That’s what he said when people asked what he did. He was a diplomat, a spy Mummy liked to say, and I was never sure if she was joking or not. I grew up in Madrid, Geneva, Washington. Then in Kent at boarding school, an old red brick convent with a slate roof and a view from the cliffs of the sea one way and the town the other. I was never completely happy living in big cities and it was a family tease that one day I would end up in Timbuktu.

  If character is destiny, I was fated to be carried off into the desert. From the deck of the ship I had imagined my own ghost and seen my unvanishing footsteps. When you don’t belong anywhere it doesn’t matter where you are or where you go, if you stay or move on. You become a leaf floating with the will of the wind. You are, at the same time, both of the world and an invisible pair of eyes looking down upon the world. You arrive at a place where the view forwards and backwards is the same, where the sun rises in the east one day and the west the next, where yo
u stop planning and regretting to live like the birds and beasts on intuition and instinct.

  Life in the red fort provided many slow hours for me to look back on the past, my schooldays, the journey from the Canary Islands along the coast of Africa. Samir had never been so playful, so loving, so natural as he was that first day. In the weeks that followed, I don’t recall that he was ever quite the same. I saw lines furrow his brow, a cross look about his features, flashes of temper that reminded me that when he flogged the man in black who had flogged me on the island he only stopped when I begged him to do so. At sea, plying his trade, he was in command of the time and tides. Within the walls of the fortress he faced the daily demands of his extended tribe and I had become one of that number, another card in the deck he was continually shuffling and rearranging.

  Maysoon remained with me in the tower. I learned more words of Arabic and she giggled like a child when I tried to teach her English. Through long sweltering days with the air like dragon’s breath piercing the twelve arched windows we would roll around naked touching and licking each other like two abandoned kittens. Her kisses sewed a line down my body. She slithered into my cleft, my lips opened for her lips, and I would sigh that sigh of people who have left on a journey and arrived where they want to be. Like a compass needle turning to the north, I swivelled over her silky skin to complete the circle, my tongue lapping at her like a lion at a salt lick, her sticky sap an elixir that kept me in a permanent state of euphoria.

  I could imagine nothing more beautiful than two girls joined in this way. I adored sex with Maysoon, it was as near perfect as perfect can be, but like the Persian carpet woven with its eternal fault because only Allah is perfect, we were incomplete without the sheikh. He made us feel absolute, electric, empowered. We needed his authority, his discipline, we needed his firm hand and long straight penis to feel totally alive.