Cleopatra's Perfume. Jina Bacarr

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СКАЧАТЬ from me.

      I closed my eyes and reveled in these lingering sensations while the hypnotic plucking of what I believed was a small lyre, simsimiyya, stimulated me with a driving percussion and the steady beating of drums. Dama, devotional music and love poetry. The music played on an unseen device, numerous scratches interrupting the flow of the music and attesting to how often I imagined Ramzi indulged his sensuality.

      When I thought I could stand no more, Ramzi lay down beside me and pulled me on top of him. In my enthusiasm to seek closeness to the man, I wrapped my arms around him, crushing my breasts against his chest. Before I could find my breath, he rolled me over on my back and guided his cock into me, the loud groan erupting from his throat confirming what I already knew. I was a tight fit, which made him more determined to plunge his cock into me again and again with hard thrusts that made him labor and use all his strength. I moaned again, louder, my insides stretched by the size of him, my flesh quivering with feelings too long unstirred.

      Before I knew what was happening, Mahmoud knelt down in front of me, his knees so close to the sides of my head the smell of his arousal overwhelmed me. Salty, musky, a deep penetrating odor that filled my lungs. His huge cock brushed my cheeks, my lips, but it wasn’t his own gratification he sought. He leaned over and grabbed my breasts, pinching them and sending exquisite sensations through my nipples. I couldn’t stop my pleasure from building, my pubic muscles from contracting deep inside me. Ramzi sensed my release was near and as if he willed it, he renewed his thrusts with a newfound vigor as orgasm overtook us both, the drums and percussion crashing in my head, sweat pouring down my face as the contractions engulfed me, prolonged groans escaping my lips as I sucked the entire length of him into me before I lapsed into a dreamy state of unconsciousness.

      I believed then no man could ever satisfy me as Ramzi did, such was the deep pleasure and satisfaction he gave me in the days that followed. He had a way of looking at me with his left eyebrow raised in such a manner I never knew what he was thinking. Lowering my gaze, I detected much to my delight his cock also stiffened. With such magnificence about him—his nude muscular body, brown well-developed shoulders and chest—I shudder thinking about how he locked his fingers in my hair and pulled me to him and smothered my face with kisses, then turned me facedown into a valley of silk so smooth I swear I shed my skin only to take on a new one. Spreading my legs, he pressed his hand between my bare thighs and opened me to his touch. I cried out when his thumb pushed inside me, his fingers teasing my clitoris with masterful stroking before he thrust into me, deeper and deeper…

      Yet I chose to ignore the rational mental vibrations sparking my brain, enjoying more the pleasant sensations contracting throughout my lower groin. Sleek wetness forms now between the folds and drips down the bare skin between my thighs when I bring it to mind, my silk slip sticking to me, prompting me that silk rubbing against skin brings so much pleasure.

      Thinking, writing, I concentrate on my choice of words to describe my thoughts as the British transport pitches up and down—I grab the opened bottle of black India ink before it spills—as we fly against strong tailwinds, the insistent turbulence threatening to destroy my female fantasies with the claws of war since we’re flying over enemy territory. Am I afraid? Yes. Do I wish to turn back? No. I’m on a mission and I have my orders—no, I prefer to call them instructions, for I’m not a soldier. I’m doing a favor for Sir_____, an old friend of my late husband, a man to whom I owe allegiance, though I shall not reveal his identity because of security. At his insistence, I rode in a motorcar with blacked-out windows from London to the airfield at Leuchars, Scotland, before boarding the flight to Sweden.

      Unlike official agents who carry a reichsmark-laden money belt, pistol, concentrated food pack and silk map of their operating area, I’m armed with an old satchel filled with personal items (including Cleopatra’s perfume). I don’t carry a small radio receiver or an entrenching tool since I’m not being dropped into Germany behind enemy lines like agents enlisted to help local resistance movements carry out what the Foreign Office calls sabotage and subversion.

      I do have forged papers to identify me.

      Once I arrive in Stockholm, I shall travel to Malmö by train then across the Baltic Sea by ferry to Copenhagen. I dare not try to cross the sea from Trelleborg, Sweden, into Germany and run the risk of coming into contact with Nazi troops rumored to be crossing secretly into Norway. It’s safer to cross from the Danish capital into the small seaside town of Warnemünde in Germany and continue by train to Berlin.

      My pen shakes and drops of black ink dot the page like footprints tracing my path across Europe. I fear what awaits me in the Nazi stronghold, and it’s that fear that propels me to continue to record what happened to me in Port Said. I have no idea how much time I’ll have when I reach Berlin to finish how I came to take this extraordinary journey. I’m traveling under an American passport in my maiden name, Eve Charles, prepared for me by SIS, British Secret Intelligence Services, in London with the help of the U.S. Foreign Office. Yes, dear reader, I’m an American by birth, though I’m not comfortable with revealing the details of my life before I became Lady Marlowe. The job is dangerous and, unlike other agents, I speak only English and the limited German I learned as a child. Why I’m familiar with the guttural language of the stormtroopers is not important, for to reveal all would be to place myself in greater jeopardy. All you need to know is I’m not a spy—

      I struck out that last sentence before the attendant insisted I put away my writing pen and ink. We’re headed through a thunderstorm with heavy rain and lightning. Everything in the cabin not secured tumbled onto the floor of the aircraft, including my cup of coffee, along with the diary. I grabbed it before the attendant could retrieve it, breaking my nail, then I asked her if we were turning back. No, she assured me, a straight course through the storm would get us out of danger.

      Danger? How strange to hear the word spoken out loud when inside I cannot quell my anxiety. I push the wisps of hair sticking to my forehead off my face, scratching my skin with a broken nail. A few weeks ago I would have Mrs. Wills ring up my manicurist for immediate repair. Now it seems so unimportant. I chew on the ragged nail. I will know nothing but danger until I complete my mission.

      Trembling, I hold the red silk book flush against my breasts and grip the armrest with my other hand while I stare out the window. I see nothing but large chunks of ice pelting the glass. My pulse races as the captain maneuvers the plane to hold the altitude, but the gale pitches us about in the sky up and down with such intensity I fear we’ll be torn apart in midair. What if we crash? What if my diary falls into enemy hands? Oh, God, what was I thinking? No, I can’t reveal the nature of my mission to you. My intent in writing this diary is to record what happened to me in Port Said and Cairo and what I believe will happen to me should I fail in Berlin and a bullet finds its mark. Nothing more.

      Accordingly, I hesitate to regale you with a lonely woman’s sexual obsession, though depending on who you are, dear reader, you may find pleasure in my recounting of the man I came to know only as Ramzi. So I shall continue.

      After that lascivious afternoon of sexual antics in Bar Supplice with Ramzi, I allowed my heated passions to cool, though he insisted on allowing him to show me the sights of Port Said. Eyes connecting, hands reaching, fingers touching, we competed at tennis, rode Arab steeds together and walked along the beach at sunset. Dabbing on heavy red lipstick to protect my lips from the sun but not from the burning kiss of my handsome Egyptian, I allowed him to exude his charm, though underneath I sensed his excessive callousness. I can’t deny that like most lonely women, I found myself fascinated by this extreme male example of sinfulness. Sitting outdoors over tea and a game of bridge at my hotel, he explained to me how he needed money to finance an expedition to the Valley of the Queens. A friend of his, he said, was close to unearthing the tomb of Cleopatra.

      I raised an eyebrow, curious. Such an expedition could only be a hoax, a ruse to get money from me. Cleopatra died long after the time of the Pyramids. СКАЧАТЬ