Cleopatra's Perfume. Jina Bacarr

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      I waited. The warmth of his breath made my nipples harden, indicating the Nubian’s mouth hovered near my breasts, the heat from his body making me tingle. Still nothing. Why?

      Shifting my weight from foot to foot, I tugged on the metal rings holding my body, as well as my mind, prisoner. I couldn’t see anything, frustrating me. Was I not going to savor the probing fingers of the tall Nubian, pulling the outer lips of my pussy apart, holding me open for Ramzi’s approval before flicking his tongue into me? Moving in and out, sucking, lapping up the moistness, but not withdrawing his tongue moving across my clitoris until I arched my back in total abandon. What was he waiting for? What macabre ritual was this? Anger pumped through me, replacing the ardent desire rising in me. I was about to demand he untie me when—

      “Remove the blindfold, Mahmoud.”

      Ramzi’s voice. At last. My body tingled. My spirits rose. Before I could take a breath, the veil of darkness lifted, but I couldn’t see with a clear eye. Subdued lighting cast eerie shadows everywhere, but it didn’t hide the nude Nubian, his bare arms shining with his sweat. I hungered for him to touch me all over, his black fingers rubbing my hard clit…oh, damn him, I couldn’t wait any longer.

      “Mahmoud, I—I…” What could I say?

      Panting, I tried to catch my breath, my eyes silently pleading for him to pleasure me. I lowered my gaze to my pubic region. He shook his head, his gesture indicating no. The game has changed, his eyes told me, but I was in no mood to act coy when Mahmoud blew his breath onto my throat. He smiled, bowed, then his teeth grazed my nipples, teasing them into hard buds, then flicking them with his thumbs until I cried out. I bucked and twisted my hips, desperate to quell the rising burn building between my legs.

      “Ah, my beautiful English lady wishes Mahmoud to arouse her.” Ramzi moved into the light, his magnificent bare chest hard and brown, his lower body encased in wide white satin trousers pulled in tight at the ankles, a deep red cummerbund hugging his hips. As he walked toward me, his feet bare, I noted a shimmer of light bouncing off the naked blade of a curved dagger hanging from his belt. I recognized the jambiya, a weapon native to the Arab world.

      “You wish me to supplicate you to receive your cock?” I dared to ask him.

      “Not tonight, my English rose.” He said something to Mahmoud in Arabic. The Nubian bowed then left the room. Turning back toward me, Ramzi kissed my nipples then pinched them, making me gasp. “When Mahmoud returns, I have a different game planned for you.”

      I was mad with desire.

      My body twitched and shimmied under the Nubian’s firm touch, his fingers slick with the spicy, melted perfume, the tingling sensations skipping over my skin, exquisite, and satisfying. I’d never experienced anything so pleasurable as the black man’s hands anointing my skin with this exotic perfume. Massaging my breasts, curving down over my rib cage, his hands gripping my hips, then inserting one finger inside me circling my engorged clit, then another exploring my anal hole with a dexterity that made me crave more.

      Ah, dear reader, I can’t tell you what joy I experienced the first time I surrendered to the spell of Cleopatra’s perfume. Certainly there were moments of incredibility, but aren’t these moments due to the limitations we place upon ourselves to accept what we deem to be the impossible? Wasn’t it merely my civilized mind trying to override what my body hungered for?

      I surrendered to my carnal needs, pushed all thoughts aside, my loneliness winning the mental game when Ramzi produced a pale golden alabaster box carved with delicate emblems outlined in black. Atop the container sat the nude, bare-breasted figure of a queen holding a scepter and perched on a throne. Cleopatra. He opened it and a powerful aroma overwhelmed me, what I’d describe as a combination of sweet, spicy and musky. The organic earthy scent sent my head into a dizzying tailspin, so strong was the smell. Tugging on the restraints, I leaned forward and sniffed again. Inside the box I saw a solid, waxlike substance also the color of pale gold nestled inside. Perfume as the Egyptians made it.

      I watched Ramzi nod to Mahmoud. The Nubian removed the unguent, then, rubbing his large black hands together, the solid perfume became more viscous as it melted in his palms. With sensual strokes, he applied the perfume between my breasts, around my nipples, pinching them, then down my rib cage, massaging my pubic mound before parting my thighs and anointing my labia with the scent. I sighed over and over, letting go, not caring if I revealed to the Egyptian the intense hunger I possessed for sensual gratification.

      Be aware, dear reader, though I choose to pursue a sexual life outside the ordinary, I’m cognizant of the fact I invite criticism and what can be conceived by others to be mystical and audacious. Call me a sybarite, if you will, but fate handed me a life most women only dream about in their imaginations or read in novels.

      I wasn’t about to let it go.

      I became aware of a tingling sensation beginning at my toes then edging up toward the inside of my bare thighs as he continued dabbing perfume behind my ears, on my throat, between my breasts, then snaking his finger into my anal hole, twisting it, then pushing deeper, deeper. I spread my legs wider, the urge to engage all my senses in this adventure dominating my will. How did he come into the possession of such an atar? I asked Ramzi. And why anoint me with its intoxicating scent?

      He didn’t answer me but merely smiled, then showed me a large ruby-and-pearl ring he swore he’d taken from an antechamber said to contain Cleopatra’s personal jewelry, including the legendary pearls she wore to seduce Caesar. He eased the ring onto my forefinger then slipped his hand between my legs. The white heat singeing my flesh with his touch was so extraordinary I nearly swooned. I willed myself to remain conscious, not only to revel in the frenzied sensations shooting through me, but to listen to him reveal the mystery of the evocative scent.

      I will tell you the story of Cleopatra’s perfume as Ramzi told it to me, word by word, for I’ve never forgotten it.

      He came into possession of the perfume from a dragoman in Cairo, a guide and translator who had led an antique-mad American into the Valley of the Kings some months ago. Filling the man’s head with stories of mummies adorned with strings of amulets and ornaments of gold at their throats, coverings wrought with gold and silver and inlaid with precious jewels, he led the man down the lonely and desolate highland path leading into a darkened tomb. Then, in a heated whisper, his torch shining into the open sarcophagus, he expressed surprise to find it empty, its treasure pilfered by robbers.

      When the disappointed tourist became angry and demanded his money returned, the guide assured him he knew of a secret tomb hewn in the wall of the rocky basin of Deir el-Bahri, a site where a mass grave of kings had recently been discovered. What he didn’t tell the American was that what had once been a sepulcher for royal mummies for three thousand years to hide them from ancient tomb robbers was now his personal cache of rare artifacts. One by one, the dragoman led unsuspecting foreigners to the hidden opening in the cliffy massif between the Valley of the Kings and Deir el-Bahri, each time “discovering” a statuette or mummy wearing a golden collar or mask. Once he’d arranged with the foreigner for the artifact to be smuggled out of Egypt for a high price, he replaced it with another artifact for the next unsuspecting modern-day robber.

      What the guide didn’t know was that he wasn’t the first to discover the hole in the side of the mountain covered with stones. At the end of the nineteenth century, a British occultist and Egyptologist named Edward Thorndike stumbled onto the cache of dead Egyptian kings hidden away by high priests thousands of years ago. A desperate man, besieged by grief at the loss of СКАЧАТЬ