Читать книгу Spies, Lies & Naked Thighs - Jina Bacarr, Jina Bacarr - Страница 14

9

I like to play sex games with the mark. It turns me on, the anticipation growing until I can hardly bear it and he’s pushed to the limit of his endurance. Sensory deprivation is the game I enjoy the most since it involves challenging my favorite sexual taboo: bondage. The shrink at TA headquarters says it’s because I have a distrust of men and I want to be in control. I’m not denying that. Before I became a TA agent, I had limited experience with sex, having spent much of my adult life studying and working for my degree. Yet I hungered for a man’s touch. I didn’t see why the male species didn’t understand women like sex, need sex, and we can give as well as receive.

On the other hand, I have to take some of the blame for my failure to maintain a lasting relationship. For years, I kept my emotions pent-up inside me, preferring instead to fan-tasize about my sexual desires rather than acting upon them. I was a loner in school and uncomfortable with boys’ comments about my body. How many times did I wish I had a boyfriend holding me in his arms, his hands sliding down my jeans, hearing him moan when he realized I wasn’t wearing panties, his fingers demanding entry into me? No one knew I fantasized about being a Frankish captive in a harim, the Arabic word meaning forbidden. A harem.

To feed my fantasy, I ravished book after book about the walled seraglio of the Caliphate, wildly romantic stories like the tale of a Persian entrepreneur who bought captives from the slave traders coming down from the Turkish border, how he trained the girls in the arts, clothed them in diaphanous, amber-scented gowns and lined their eyes with black kohl, sparkling with powdered pearls. Then he sold the most beautiful, the most talented girls to the Caliph for more than the equivalent of two prized racehorses.

No wonder I enhanced the fantasy when I found the Mask of Darkma and formed my own theory about what happened in the ancient vault. They say the past and the present are intermingled in the thoughts of those who write history. I could think of nothing but the past and what happened to the fleeing lovers. Their fear, confusion, relief, then acceptance of their fate.

The Turks are attacking, my lord.

Quick, woman, we must hide.

Down there, my liege, in the open vault.

You’re not frightened?

Not as long as I’m with you.

I found comfort in their whispers, knowing I’d unearthed not only the physical evidence of the existence of this brave knight and the woman he bedded, but the spiritual fulfillment of their quest.

I can still remember the thrill I felt racing through me when I held the mask in my hands. Crouching down on my hands and knees in a pile of dirt, I closed my eyes and I could hear the clanging swords echoing in my ears, men shouting battle cries, horses neighing, the Turks striking along the knights’ flanks, separating them from their foot soldiers, then knocking them off their horses covered in bright silk trappings and attacking them in their heavy mail armor.

And nearby the women watched and waited, their wails desperate, their hearts breaking, their tears flowing.

All save one.

A beautiful woman on horseback raced up behind her knight, screaming when she saw the horse and rider go down in a splay of sand, his saddle emptied. Who was she? Most likely, a consort. Spaniards took their women on campaigns, as did the French; even the sultan bade women from his harem ride with him. But this woman was different. She showed courage, focus and commitment. In the middle of the flaying, hacking and stabbing, she tended to her knight’s wound, then she grabbed his sword and on and on she fought beside her lover like a creature possessed, remembering the eve before battle, how her body had a will of its own when she removed her chemise in his tent and let it drop to the ground, both excited and at the same time eager to lie with her lord, how she cried out when he pressed into her soft flesh. I’ll never leave you, she swore, even when he insisted she mount his horse and save herself. She refused and together they escaped through the Roman ruins before taking refuge together in a vault left open by grave robbers when—

Off in the distance a great cloud rose over the horizon, dark and tumultuous, no warning, only the sticky humidity and whooshing sound of the tempest winds. No longer did the sun spark like lightning from the Crusaders’ armor and weapons. The clash of steel on steel dimmed as the sand spun and vibrated over them with whirling energy, burying them in a dark, lonely grave.

I envisioned the lovers embracing, their nude flesh touching, warming, comforting. At the same time, I wrestled with my need to tell the truth without my inhibitions threatening to hold me back. Whether I was uncovering the faded mosaic of a man and woman fornicating on a wall in Pompeii or polishing an ancient dildo with long, slow strokes, I believed it was my job to reconstruct history from the surviving bits and pieces of women’s daily lives and loves.

Including sex.

I nurtured my need each time I unearthed an artifact, like the small terra-cotta figurine with nude pointy breasts I found in a tomb, or held in my hand the bones of a slave girl I unearthed in a crypt in Jordan, her skeleton wearing golden wrist and ankle bracelets. Were her wrists fettered together with gold bracelets when she dropped to her knees and lifted her buttocks to give her master access to her? Did she cry out when he probed her, exploring her intimately with an intensity she knew would culminate in thrusting his cock into her? I visualized her grinding her hips, breathing in the cloying sweet scent of the harem, meeting him stroke for stroke, as he took her from behind, crying out as he drilled deeper and deeper into her.

Imagining the reality of these pleasures haunting my lubricious dreams helped me build on my dark desires. I became impassioned with the need to explore this sexual side of myself, wondering how I’d react when the man I desired tied my wrists together, then inserted his fingers into me, sliding them deep, deep inside me until he captured my hard bud, brushing it back and forth with loving caresses, my muscles instinctively tightening around his fingers, giving us both pleasure.

I attempted to explore that side of my personality with the man in my life before I left for Syria, but he balked. He didn’t have sufficient imagination to deduce the tempting possibilities a piece of rope could have on a girl; he was a math professor with a head full of equations that included me in one position. Under him.

He broke off our relationship, insisting he didn’t want to worry about me traveling in a danger zone. I tried to tell him the only danger I faced was crossing the winding streets in Damascus with the horn-happy drivers yelling and screaming at anyone in their way. He couldn’t accept that and wished me happy digging. He promised to write and he did for a while, but I never heard from him after I logged on to the Internet in a dorm in Harna and checked my e-mail. That was more than two years ago. I wanted to blame it on the Syrian government firewalls screwing up my e-mail, but I couldn’t. I had to face the inevitable. Unless I could find a man who shared my passion for wild, raw, stimulating sex, I’d end up alone. That disturbed me. I like getting down on my knees, and I don’t just mean digging in the dirt. Months of bouncing up and down on the hard seat of a four-wheel-drive Jeep for stimulation wasn’t the most satisfying way to have an orgasm. I didn’t have much choice, considering not much else revved up my libido since I embarked on my scholarly quest. Most penises I held in my hand were shriveled up, mummified genitals, like the penis of King Tut, the famous Boy King.

All that changed when I met Sharif.

Strip down. Rub henna on your hands and feet. Tie the gold ribbon around your waist.

Me? I proclaim, my voice catching in my throat, arching my eyebrows, playing my part so well I surprise myself. I’m a scientist, not a slave girl.

You want me to take you. I see it in your eyes.