Jina Bacarr - Cleopatra's Perfume

I shivered, visibly shaken by his words, though I reasoned he had no idea why. A different scene played out in my head. A scene I’d first experienced years ago when—

—leather restraints bound my wrists, tying me to the bedposts, my breasts pressed against monogrammed white silk sheets upon which a lusty king had exploded his semen into his favorite concubine, my naked buttocks quivering in anticipation of the unyielding cane striking my needy flesh. A scene played out many times in Lord Marlowe’s cottage hideaway in the English countryside near Coventry.

But this was a hole in Port Said, hot air stifling, garish spangles masking the vices living here and making everything sparkle with a ghostly brightness. And I didn’t care. I didn’t care. At that moment my need to forge again the strange but loving relationship I’d lost was so strong in me it was as if I’d injected morphine into my thigh, as girls did in Berlin during the wild days of the Weimar Republic, and the blood flowed to my labia with such intensity I was powerless to stop it.

I held my chin up, defiant. “Obey you? I don’t believe you’ve ever fucked an Englishwoman or you wouldn’t sputter such nonsense.”

“And you have never known the pleasure of an Arab cock, my English lady, though should you please me, what I can offer you goes beyond mortal pleasure.”

He was baiting me and I knew it. My curiosity had been piqued and I played along, though I had no idea then my rash act would be my undoing.

Before he could reach out and pinch my hard nubs, I seized control of the moment and pulled down my trunk-style satin knickers, inserting my finger into my pussy. While he watched, I rub my engorged clit in time to a humming rhythm vibrating within me. A familiar tune, as if I were hanging suspended and couldn’t touch the earth. Nor did I wish to do so. Back and forth in rapid movements, my eyes never leaving his, I stroked myself, then with two fingers, faster and faster until I was breathing hard, panting, gasping—

“You leave me no choice, my beautiful English rose,” he said, exhaling, “but to do as you wish and fuck you.”

Sensual, savage, Ramzi was a man who enslaved my soul with his eyes. Dark brooding eyes, seductive, and knowing.

I was the star of his erotic cabaret.

Wearing nothing but red high-heeled pumps and a choker of tiny diamonds, I didn’t protest when his bodyguard, the tall nude Nubian, tied me to a wooden chair on an empty stage, my legs spread, each ankle fastened to a smooth chair leg, my wrists held down by worn leather straps on the padded armrests, my mouth gagged with black velvet. I squirmed with delight, so stimulated was I by the compression of my wrists and ankles boosting my arousal to a feverish pitch. I arched my back when the Nubian took my bare breasts in his massive hands with such care it was as if his palms were bronze cups containing them as his fingers twisted and pinched my taut nipples. Lifting my head up, the spotlight overhead stung my eyes with a piercing sharpness, jolting me as I struggled to moan, but instead I sank my teeth into black velvet.

“Is she ready, Mahmoud?” came the voice out of the darkness with the French accent. A sensual arabesque of smoke followed, emphasizing his rounded vowels.

Mahmoud said nothing, but his ebony eyes reacted, narrowing to a sliver, though he wasn’t able to hide his thoughts. The smile on his sensuous full lips told me he enjoyed playing with my breasts, each movement alerting me this was a man filled with duty, especially when that duty gave him pleasure. Brushing the points of my breasts with his tongue, the Nubian next inserted two fingers into me, searching for the slick evidence of my excitement. I didn’t disappoint him. Moistness oozed from between my pussy lips. I made what attempt I could to lift up my hips to give him easier access, my body taut and expectant and shimmering with sweat as brightly as the diamonds circling my neck and pressing against my wildly beating pulse. Smiling in a pleasant manner, he circled my clitoris in a steady rhythm, but not fast enough to bring me to the edge. I sank my teeth again into the black velvet filling my mouth, knowing I wouldn’t find release. That wasn’t his job.

Leaving me wanting, he withdrew his fingers. “She is ready.”

“ Bon. Untie her, Mahmoud, and bring her to me.”

I fell into the Nubian’s arms after he set me free, my soft nude whiteness blending with his black skin under the spotlight, making me wonder what amorous pleasures awaited me. I feared not this man of color, nor did I fear the smooth voice with the French accent coming out of the darkness, the swirl of smoke adding to his allure. A sense of the forbidden pricked at my mind, fueling my obvious need for his cock and making me take a deep breath as I pondered various fervid possibilities. Sexual organs swelling at the expectation of erotic activity, nude bodies swaying, secretions as lubricant, the white heat culminating in a frenzy, every muscle rippling and quivering, ecstatic cries, hips thrusting in a cadenced delirium…

I was not disappointed when I heard the voice ask: “Have you ever been pleasured by two men at once, my English lady?”

“No,” I whispered, closing my eyes to shield the lie behind those words, instead allowing him to imagine I was already experiencing an inner ecstasy from the mere thought of it.

“ Bon, relax and allow Mahmoud and I to take you to paradise.”

Alas, dear reader, I feel certain your temperature is rising, your pulse beating faster, though you may shun such an admission out of modesty, but I pray you don’t stop reading for I have yet to reveal to you the secret of the perfume. Yet I realize I’ve brought you too far into the story without telling you what happened next when I found myself nude and willing to be stimulated by these two men when I entered the Bar Supplice. So eager am I to relive that night of temptation beyond what I’d ever experienced, I can’t deny my body a delicious quiver of anticipation before continuing with my story. But first, you must understand the effect Ramzi had on me. Half-Egyptian, half-French, he moved in a circle of people who prided themselves on possessing the typical high-class European attitude of shunning public notice. Stealthlike, as if he created his style to tease my poor feminine soul—his hand brushing against my breasts when I passed by him, or his eyes from under long veiled black lashes following me when I left the room. I found him charming in a way that appealed to my naughty side, one which Lord Marlowe knew only too well and had nurtured with a fine hand.

Now I was alone without that hand, and that raw hunger for a man’s touch made me fierce with longing. I’d do anything to assuage that need so I could again experience the delicious sensations that made me breathless.

I beg your indulgence, dear reader, for allowing my female id to overwhelm my thoughts when I should capture them and put them into a cage with bars, a cage forged with words, for such is their power to hold the mind prisoner and that is what I must do, hold you prisoner while I tell you my tale, for I dare not lose you. My obsession with Ramzi is too incredible to believe: The attraction, the seduction, the promise. Yet the hour is late and I must finish my travel preparations. I leave London tomorrow on the first part of my journey to Berlin. En route, I will set the scene so that you, too, will understand why I didn’t resist, why I couldn’t. You must allow your subconscious to let go and come with me on my journey, for without you, no one will never know about the power of the perfume.

Cleopatra’s perfume.

Aboard a courier flight from Leuchars, Scotland, to Stockholm