by Jina Bacarr
I was amazed at her ability to observe and capture the caressing and intimate qualities of light on her subject. Her photos were about the arrangement of shadow to illuminate his nude body as well as show tenderness and magnify his sexuality. Her love of dramatic lighting was evident, and her approach to photographing Ramzi reflected the intense, startling mysticism of an ancient civilization. It was as if erotic images seeped through the sands of time and rearranged themselves in her images. Yet I had no doubt her photographs were reflections of her as much as they were of her subject.
“They’re beautiful, Maxi. I can’t take my eyes off them.”
“They’re my best work.”
“Where will you exhibit them?”
“Paris, then London. Who knows?” she said with enthusiasm. “Maybe New York.”
“Not Berlin?” I asked, surprised.
She didn’t answer me. “I’ve asked Ramzi to accompany me to Paris next week.”
I lifted my too-thin eyebrow, making it nearly disappear. “Impossible. I need him here at the Cleopatra Club.”
“Can’t you get along without him, Eve? This is so important to me. I need him to create what you Americans call excitement about my work.”
“I’m also a British subject, Maxi,” I reminded her in a droll voice. Yes, I was jealous, but trying not to show it. “I’m known as Lady Marlowe here.”
She shrugged, her attitude changing. “How could I have forgotten? Though since I’ve been in Cairo, it’s like the old days again, the parties, the drinking—”
“And the sex?”
She turned away. A slight flush reddened her cheeks. “You’ll have to excuse me, Eve. I have more film to develop in the darkroom.”
And with that she was off, downstairs to the crypt where I had indulged in submission with Mahmoud, his strong arm wielding the whip as it hit my bare arse, then I allowed him to touch me in a way he dreamed about but never believed would happen. Ramzi had no knowledge of my indiscretion and had offered the crypt to Maxi for her darkroom. I should have resisted the temptation to sneak down, not allowed my jealous self to rule and my curious sexual self to succumb to what had now become my ultimate fantasy.
Ramzi with another woman.
I didn’t resist, dear reader. Instead, I crept downstairs with the stealth of a ghost on tiptoe, wrapped up so tightly in my own anticipatory indulgence, I could barely breathe, my nerves bordering on sexual hysteria, my body a fountain of pulsating rhythms.
I stopped when I saw them, lying on top of soft velvet cushions and glowing like lightning bugs mating under the dim blue light. Ramzi, Maxi. And Laila. Three nude figures heating up the cool and shadowy room. Teasing, laughing, Ramzi stroking Maxi’s breasts, her nipples hardening instantly at his masterful arousing touch before gliding down her body and forcing her legs apart, then cupping her outer lips and inserting a finger into her.
I didn’t have to move closer to know he rubbed her burning clit to and fro in a steady rhythm, her seeds of arousal glowing white hot, building and building until the need for release was so strong she could stand no more. I gritted my teeth to stifle a moan, envying her the pleasure of Ramzi’s expertise. She ran her hands through her short dark hair, pulling at the roots as she let out ecstatic cries. Laila leaned in closer toward her and I was struck by the size of the Muslim woman’s breasts, large with huge nipples. They seemed in stark contrast to her small waist and tight stomach. I never dreamed she displayed such a striking figure, so different from Maxi, who was tall and thin, boyish, with small, perfectly shaped breasts and nearly invisible hips.
Laila grabbed the German girl’s breasts, her pinching fingers adding pleasure to her response and causing her to twist her torso in wild abandon. At the same time, Ramzi didn’t let up, his finger (or was it two? He always used two fingers with me) sweeping across her swollen bud so fast his hand seemed to disappear and all I could see was a swirl of blue light. I imagined her moisture overflowing onto his hand, the contractions pulsating through her. Oh, it was too much for me to bear. Their way of moving, turning, touching each other stirred my blood, infusing me with jealousy but also desire, a mystery I wanted to unravel but didn’t. Why question the renewed arousal flowing into me like a heady wine, numbing the negative feelings I harbored toward this unholy trio? Isn’t this what I wanted to see? Ramzi with another woman? If only to prove to myself I had to rid myself of my obsession with him?
Without thinking about what I was doing, moving by instinct, I pressed my fingertips hard against my pubic mound, my insistent touch pushing through the soft silk trousers I wore, so desperate was I to get at my clit begging for relief. I didn’t care if the purity of the silk as well as my resolve dissolved into an ugly stain as my juices flowed through my knickers. All that mattered was that I wasn’t left out of this scenario, erased from their minds as a new passion filled them. I fidgeted with the soft voile of my blouse, wishing I wasn’t wearing a brassiere, wishing I were also nude. They couldn’t know I was here, so what consequence awaited me if I pulled down my trousers? Rubbed myself? Who would see me standing in the shadows?
I pulled down my white silk trousers, their fullness ballooning around me with an ethereal lightness as they slipped down to my ankles. I unbuttoned my knickers then inserted my finger inside me, my voice mewling with the softness of a kitten’s tongue lapping up cream. A twirling circle of pleasure formed in my belly, exciting me as I circled my clit, pushing my fingers back and forth, my head lolling from side to side. I started breathing heavy as my pleasure built, the visual stimulation of watching the ménage pleasuring each other nearly as explosive as my manual acrobatics increased the flow of my wetness, my pubic muscles tightening around my finger. I didn’t dare close my eyes, deprive myself of the three participants bucking and writhing, caught up in their late-afternoon tryst, their needs fueled by a depravity I recognized and coveted to my breast, my desperation made more so by my exclusion from their sexual antics.
Faster and faster I stroked myself, moaning and breathing hard but well out of sight from the nude tableau vivant come to life, as if the artist forged each stroke with paint as lucid and wet as the sweat dripping from their bodies. Maxi arched her back with such ease I could have sworn invisible wires pulled her up toward the Egyptian. Then Ramzi guided his cock deep inside her, making her squeal. Before she could stop him, he plunged into the German girl again and again, her hips pressing against him, driving him toward that exquisite moment I knew so well when he lost control, his seed flooding into me, as if he were drowning in a sea of pleasure.
I stopped rubbing my clit. A subtle chill replaced the burn, so great was my ego bruised at losing Ramzi to her. Envy killed my passion, struck it down with a sharp point that surged through me, right to my heart. I couldn’t reach a climax, though naked and wanting as I was, numbing me.
Then there was Laila. I couldn’t take my eyes off her, kneading Maxi’s breasts, suckling her, licking her. The Muslim woman’s tongue moved hungrily across her flesh, while a wild emotion overwhelmed me, an emotion I couldn’t control. Something rather disturbing to me.
I could no longer ignore my fascination with the two women exhibiting such passion toward each other.
I wanted to join them.
Over the next two days, I watched every move they made, Ramzi and Maxi. They laughed, yelled, fought over the photos, made up, then fought again. I couldn’t believe the extraordinary compassion they exhibited toward one another. They said what they thought (Maxi in German, Ramzi in French), and I believe it was that craziness that brought them together in this wild affair.
What perturbed me about their affair was that Ramzi continued to engage in sex with me after we closed the club every night. What had been a sacred communion between us, the celebration of an earthly joy, was now pure sex. Where once we played, resisting each other, teasing, none of that existed now. Without such resistance, I found no excitement in our coupling. I admit I complained in earlier pages about the mechanics of my
own orgasm, and though I should apologize for my seemingly selfish attitude, I don’t. Sex should be filled with luscious sensations arousing the very core of your soul, surrounded by sights and sounds, fragrant aromas and pleasant tastes, and the most important element of all, a loving touch. I hungered for these sensations, but I refrained from expressing myself in the sexual arena. Ramzi’s prowess diminished (he was, after all, fucking two women at different times each day), making me accept the fact he was a vulnerable mortal after all. Yet I said nothing to him. You see, dear reader, the male ego is very fragile and my Egyptian lover was no exception. Telling him he didn’t please me would arouse his ire. I feared how he would react to such an observation. I couldn’t deny I didn’t trust him. I may have been a slave to my sexual obsession, but my mental capabilities continued to function, warning me to be cautious. It wasn’t anything I could see, but something I felt. In the way Ramzi touched me, his hand lingering on my bare breast, tracing the areola round and round in a circle with his fingers but not pinching my nipple, as if he practiced restraint. Why? I wouldn’t know the answer until some time later. I’m very good at understanding my instincts. Lord Marlowe always said it was my uncanny knack of reading a situation that kept me from landing in a quagmire of trouble when I was a young woman. He also alluded to the fact I exhibited enough common sense to allow him to become my protector. I have to admit, a hurtful ache hits me in the pit of my stomach when I recall so many of his lordship’s maxims. It is that pragmatic and teasing attitude of his I sorely miss.
And so, dear reader, though I labored to bring back some mystery and wonder into my sex life with Ramzi, it never happened. Days turned into a week, then two, always the same. Ramzi making up some excuse why he couldn’t see me and when he did, why we should indulge in drugs instead of sex. I didn’t believe his lies, telling me he was worried about me, concerned that my lack of sexual fire was a physical malady. Was I ill? he wanted to know. No, I assured him, removing his hand from my thigh before he could reach under my skirt to find my clit and rub it, my wetness glistening on his brown fingers, fingers stimulating me and making me burn so hot my pubic muscles clamped around his finger as I let go with a shuddering climax I couldn’t stop.
No, I couldn’t allow him to go that far, not when my interest lay in other places. Warm, moist. Pink places. I couldn’t help but wonder, did he know I followed him every afternoon when he sneaked off to fuck Maxi while his stepsister seduced her with feline kisses? Bringing her to climax again and again while I watched them from my secret place? The club was quiet then, lulled into an eerie silence by the lack of human voices everywhere except here in the underground crypt. I swear, when I sighed my breath seemed to mix with theirs, the sweet breath of three women, mouths with hungers of our own wanting, needing the soft touch of a woman’s lips because men had failed us.
Hurt, lonely, disdainful of a man’s infidelity, I found more stimulation here than I did with Ramzi, watching the two women, my hand finding my way between my thighs, brushing the soft hair with an inquisitive touch the Egyptian never ventured to do, then playing over the outer edges of my pussy, taking my time, before allowing my finger to slip inside me in such a delicate manner I didn’t feel it at first. Then I’d observe Laila encircling the German girl’s shoulders while Ramzi watched, pressing her mouth to those full lips, her tongue forcing apart her teeth before she nestled her breasts against the other girl’s chest, their nipples touching, peaking in hard brown buds, the honeyed flavor of one body mixing with the cool ivory of the other. Sighing, moaning, their voices echoing round and round the crypt, I added my own vocal pleasure to theirs when I pushed harder and began rubbing my clit, wishing their pink tongues would linger on the peak of my bud, then lick it with the lightest touch, teasing me before flicking back and forth across my engorged ridge. The thought made me pause, then I shivered, my fingers picking up speed, stroking back and forth, not holding back when my moment of release came, allowing it to spread all over me, rippling through me, knowing at the same time I was watching my relationship with the girl I once called my friend dissolve. Strange feelings, losing a friend, loving her at the same time.
From that moment on, I felt unable to continue my charade with Ramzi, fucking him, him fucking me. Yet I was no longer willing to deprive myself of pleasure because this man didn’t have the ability to take the place of my late husband. I would find another love, be they male or female, and assuage this deepening pain, conquer it, for only then would I be whole again.
As quiet as a fading sigh, I pulled up my trousers and crept back up the narrow stairway, the sweet smell of my indiscretion leaving an aromatic trail behind me. All the while, I was planning, planning. Let Ramzi play out his drama, fuck his way to impotence, for I had seen him as he really was, a man without the capacity to love, filled with greed and void of a conscience. He was making a fool out of me, flaunting his indiscretion with Maxi while I was supposed to see him as being above suspicion. I tossed that sentiment away as easily as if it were the centuries-old dust from the crypt I wiped off my shoes. I no longer believed in his ideologies.
Remembering the very thing that brought us together, the alabaster smoothness of Cleopatra sitting atop the ancient box of perfume, her scent, her seduction of men, I knew exactly what I had to do. I would show Ramzi I was no longer obsessed with feeding my dream. The deep nightmare of trying to assuage my loneliness with his cock had depleted my soul of its spirit, but that was no more. I would again feel the fever, the burn, and recover the elusive romantic in me in such a way no one could stop me.
Two could play this game, dear reader.
But I assure you, only one would win.
11
I had been in Cairo for weeks, doing my best to avoid the realization the world was on the verge of total war. I had not believed everything would explode on a late August night in 1939, but I knew a change was coming…an unexpected change. What had begun as a wild adventure of scent, pleasure and submission was about to turn into something more salacious, more deadly, and I couldn’t stop it, as I couldn’t stop Hitler from racing toward his mad scheme of world domination.
His target was Poland. Mine was Ramzi.
The Führer was only hours away from raping and pillaging the defenseless country. I was minutes away from executing a night of scandal, whispered renditions of which would be told over and over again on the backstreets of Cairo, in the bazaar, hotel bars, anywhere people leaned forward with curiosity to hear about the night Cleopatra danced nude.
Midnight. Hot, steamy. The night was filled with impulses, some enticing and warm, some sinister. The outcome of this night had been shaped by my own needs and contained elements I would later discover were more mystical than mysterious. Perspiring under the heavy cotton of my black abaya, I hovered in the corner of the Cleopatra Club, observing. The Cobra Room was open for pleasure. I watched the dancers strutting around, their nude breasts with hard pointy brown nipples bouncing up and down, wisps of blue voile slung low over their hips billowing on trails of smoke from the lit cigarettes of club patrons, the dancers’ high-heeled, silver ankle-strapped shoes tapping out a steady rhythm to Josette’s jazzy piano solo. After the next chorus, I always made my entrance in a tight gold-lamé gown with the back cut so low admirers could fixate on the two dimples of my arse to soothe their boredom.
Not tonight. Tonight I would shed my outer skin and appear as the queen of the Nile.
Shimmering in gold paint.
And nothing else.
I would dance nude.
A golden skullcap and nose veil with strands of perfect pearls hanging from it hid my white-blond hair.
Was such a performance a fanciful poke in the kohled eye of the Egyptian queen or homage to her feminine wiles? I couldn’t decide. Both appealed to me. I don’t know what propelled me into the heart of darkness that night, perhaps it was the burden of expectation I’d placed upon Ramzi, desiring him to take the place of my late husband, my own tortured needs searing
my soul. Whatever it was, in the short time I’d been in Egypt, I’d lost the artistry I had acquired as a submissive, my skin bubbling up when I heard the crack of the whip, my mind and body playing with power with the man I loved, knowing he wouldn’t abuse that power, my entire body in an aroused state, him pinching my nipples, slapping my buttocks, and because I was in such a heightened state of arousal, I felt only pleasure, not pain. I was his goddess come to life, not a naked woman in a grainy photograph or a cold marble statue with a seductive smile. I gave back to him as much as he gave to me.
I had believed I recreated the relationship I had with my late husband with Ramzi; but instead of living my fantasy, I succumbed to his outrageous decadence and constant demands. I wouldn’t realize my opportunity to the road of redemption until I slid deeper into the hell I’d created. In my mind I was the ultimate temptress, my undulating dance of Cleopatra precipitating an irrational stir in the minds of all who watched me perform that night.
Out of the dark, carrying me slung over his shoulder (I was rolled up in a conical Persian rug like a squiggly caterpillar), Mahmoud emerged. Half-naked, clad only in wide red silk trousers nipped in at the ankle with gold rings, I imagined his muscular body sweating under the hot spotlight. Inside the rug I wiggled, the musty smell making me sneeze. The Nubian stopped, slapped me on the buttocks, then swung me around. I imagined he laughed. I couldn’t hear much, if anything. Dizziness grabbed hold of me, the sounds inside the thick rug muffled, but I sensed the curiosity, the whispers, the anticipation as the crowd stood back, waiting. All they could see were my feet adorned in strappy flat sandals in burnished gold hanging out of the end of the rug as he twirled me around. The rest of me was hidden from their sight.