Girl Trade - full length erotic adventure novel (Xcite Erotic Romance Novels) (16 page)

The moment of stillness. He paused. He was a diver on the end of a diving board about to leap into the blue void. An astronaut counting down: ten, nine, eight, seven … a reluctant bride a moment before she says
I do.
And he did. As he slipped his cock from Maysoon’s mouth, I slid my tongue from her ass and watched as he pumped his beautiful seed spurt after spurt over her hennaed features, the white stuff reminding me for some reason of the sticky goo I’d seen bubbling in the iron pot at the caravanserai, but the smell was as pure as baby’s breath, as innocent as sin, musky, earthy, an aphrodisiac.

I remained on hands and knees and crawled forward so that I could lick the nectar from Maysoon’s face.

If
erotic
has a taste, this was the taste, the sperm of your lover on the hot cheeks of the girl whose anal juices coat your tongue. I could see above me the starlight through the twelve arched windows and wanted the heavens to slow down, for this night never to end.

The sheikh folded like a fallen warrior at the Battle of
Thermopylae, a naked Spartan who has given his all to save civilization. In ancient times, as we had learned in classics, while the Spartans ran around naked, they were pure, aesthete, minimal, while their cousins across the Aegean in Athens had fallen for the indulgence of the orgy. Those pagans drank their wines, they wrote their poems, they carved nudes from white marble and fucked their brains out. Threesomes. Foursomes. Scoresomes. There need be no limit to the number of partners, positions, possibilities. I had discovered my atavistic self in that round tower below the golden dome, that astonishing phallus poking into the universe.

Samir had closed his eyes. I licked his cock, gently, as gentle as a kitten lapping milk from a saucer, slowly, innocently, lick, lick, lick. The little sheikh bobbed with renewed life and, as Maysoon engulfed the pearly head in her pretty mouth, I thought how wise those Athenians were, that in the orgy, who puts what into whom is immaterial, that it is the act of sex that matters, not that imprisoning sense of love, possession, devotion. Fucking the boy, Umah, had come naturally because it was the most natural thing in the world.

While Maysoon continued pumping up the little sheikh, I straddled the big sheikh’s head. I balanced on my knees and dropped my fruit into his open mouth. Sex after sex is unhurried, tender, a vintage wine those Athenians would have appreciated. As I raised and lowered my body, flexing my thighs, I gazed down at the whirlpool of dark hair on Maysoon’s head. She stopped sucking off the sheikh when he was hard again and, as she looked up, our eyes met and I could see myself in her features. Through the power of mind over matter, we build a tolerance to all sensation, even pain, even pleasure, and I could tell by her look that Maysoon lived for the ultimate joy her body brings to others and the bodies of others provide in exchange.

The lips of my sex were engorged, slicked with Samir’s saliva and the sticky sweet threads of my own juices. I was moving faster and faster. Like an athlete in a race, I threw myself forward as the winning tape approached and took the sheikh’s hard cock into my greedy mouth. We were on the edge of the desert and I was thirsty for his sperm. I was an addict. His cock was a hypodermic syringe and I needed another fix. My clitoris had pushed its way from its protective hood and Samir relieved its demanding throbs with the tip of his clever tongue.

A gush of silky liquids slid down the canal of my vagina like thawing ice down a mountainside. My vaginal muscles were clenching and releasing with contractions. As I went into spasm, Samir withdrew his tongue, swung himself round on top of me and sank into my body like a torpedo slipping through the sea, pushing, pushing himself up to the neck of my womb, filling my impatient cunt to the brim. Time was suspended, the heavens had finally stilled, and when the torpedo ignited I exploded in a vast, shuddering climax which left me glazed and exhausted. I quivered and trembled. I wondered how many times I could fuck and be fucked, and in how many ways and positions and combinations. Was there a limit? A line that you crossed when it became ennui and repetition?

Satisfaction, they say, is the death of desire. I don’t agree. I was deeply, profoundly satisfied. I was glad to lay there and recover my energy. But I knew already that I would soon be wanting more. He rolled from me and the girl kissed my eyes. Her lips were soft as petals and seemed to fit exactly into the sockets of my closed eyes. Across my body were pulsating little swirls of tenderness left by the carpet beater and the tower room had filled with the heady, pungent odours of orgasm. It was my first night in the red fort and I felt at peace. I remembered the sheikh pronouncing the single word Sahara as his home came into view from the deck of the ship. Now I, too, felt as if I had arrived home.

D
ADDY LIED FOR
E
NGLAND
. That’s what he said when people asked what he did. He was a diplomat, a spy Mummy liked to say, and I was never sure if she was joking or not. I grew up in Madrid, Geneva, Washington. Then in Kent at boarding school, an old red brick convent with a slate roof and a view from the cliffs of the sea one way and the town the other. I was never completely happy living in big cities and it was a family tease that one day I would end up in Timbuktu.

If character is destiny, I was fated to be carried off into the desert. From the deck of the ship I had imagined my own ghost and seen my unvanishing footsteps. When you don’t belong anywhere it doesn’t matter where you are or where you go, if you stay or move on. You become a leaf floating with the will of the wind. You are, at the same time, both of the world and an invisible pair of eyes looking down upon the world. You arrive at a place where the view forwards and backwards is the same, where the sun rises in the east one day and the west the next, where you stop planning and regretting to live like the birds and beasts on intuition and instinct.

Life in the red fort provided many slow hours for me to look back on the past, my schooldays, the journey from the Canary Islands along the coast of Africa. Samir had never been so playful, so loving, so natural as he was that first day. In the weeks that followed, I don’t recall that he was ever quite the same. I saw lines furrow his brow, a cross look about his features, flashes of temper that reminded me that when he flogged the man in black who had flogged me on the island he only stopped when I begged him to do so. At sea, plying his trade, he was in command of the time and tides. Within the walls of the fortress he faced the daily demands of his extended tribe and I had become one of that number, another card in the deck he was continually shuffling and rearranging.

Maysoon remained with me in the tower. I learned more words of Arabic and she giggled like a child when I tried to teach her English. Through long sweltering days with the air like dragon’s breath piercing the twelve arched windows we would roll around naked touching and licking each other like two abandoned kittens. Her kisses sewed a line down my body. She slithered into my cleft, my lips opened for her lips, and I would sigh that sigh of people who have left on a journey and arrived where they want to be. Like a compass needle turning to the north, I swivelled over her silky skin to complete the circle, my tongue lapping at her like a lion at a salt lick, her sticky sap an elixir that kept me in a permanent state of euphoria.

I could imagine nothing more beautiful than two girls joined in this way. I adored sex with Maysoon, it was as near perfect as perfect can be, but like the Persian carpet woven with its eternal fault because only Allah is perfect, we were incomplete without the sheikh. He made us feel absolute, electric, empowered. We needed his authority, his discipline, we needed his firm hand and long straight penis to feel totally alive.

We snoozed Maysoon and I, we slept and awoke drowsy. We kissed and caressed each other’s crevices and curves. I treasured the shiny dome of her shaved mount with its delicately etched spider and she admired the golden fleece of my lush curly pubes. I wanted to be the dancing girl and she wanted to be me, and we lost ourselves in each other during those endless afternoons when the heavens above the tower roof were like the open mouth of a furnace and I thought the day would last for ever. It was August, the hottest month. The sun rose over the desert like a shooting star, burnt the paint from doors and the glaze from china pots before vanishing exhausted in a black cloak of impenetrable darkness.

When Samir took me into town, Maysoon would be left behind. I wasn’t sure why, and I had no idea what she did when neither the sheikh nor I were there to acknowledge that wanton sensuality that must have emerged the moment the girl stepped from childhood.

Maysoon remained a child in many ways and in many ways she was a wise and worldly woman. She taught me to dance, how to roll my belly and my bottom; she showed me that just by going up alternatively on your toes on one foot and then the other, your hips shimmy, your shoulders turn and your whole body gyrates without effort. We danced naked until we fell laughing on the feather mattress and Maysoon taught me other things, things I would never have imagined or dreamed of, and I wondered how she knew those things; whether someone had taught her or she knew because she was born knowing as great poets and pianists are born with the gift waiting to be uncovered and explored.

Under the vibrating tips of Maysoon’s skilful fingers she tickled and teased my throbbing clitoris until from the spread arch of my legs I released a jet of spray that gushed out like an exploding fountain a metre or more into the air. She bathed in the fine haze. She spread the fragrant liquid over her breasts, she licked my sopping crack and the feeling of release would grab me once more.

Closing my eyes, I emptied my mind of all thought. Maysoon tapped and rubbed the mystery button until my stomach clenched. My body shook and trembled. I gasped for breath and screamed in ecstasy as the second squirt emerged like mist from an atomiser; the scent of sex, pure, unadulterated, divine. We changed positions. She spread out like a starfish on the feather bed. I caressed her erect and eager clit and watched in awe, my mouth open, as this beautiful creature ejaculated like a boy, her sap thick and luscious, her perfume feral and mesmerising. If Darwin was right and we evolved through the millennia, or if there is a Creator with a grand plan, either way we must possess these powers and potentials for a reason and the only reason is that they are there like the five senses to be used.

Unlike the other women, Maysoon did not cook or toil, nor carry water to the stone shower where we washed away the sweat and smelly damp juices that coated our flesh. As we stood shaking off the drips, the yellow parakeets that built nests below the ramparts squawked and danced from foot to foot as they observed our display, dancing girls and dancing birds, a recurring pattern that appeared to show a heavenly hand. We dried in an instant, and returned to the tower to make ourselves sticky again. It is a wondrous thing that five minutes from orgasm and I was aroused, ready to squeeze out another.

I adored being a girl. Boys shoot their load and fall asleep. They awaken flaccid and you get jaw ache making them hard again. Girls can go on without end. We are comfortable lying on our backs, down on our knees, suspended from ropes, naked when others are dressed. We have round meaty bottoms designed for spanking, thrashing, whipping, kissing, licking. We want to feel men pushing up against us. If men think about sex three hundred times a day, girls think about sex three thousand times a day. I remember reading about a girl who had coupled with more than two hundred men in one day for a documentary and others were trying to beat her record. Men think they are the hunters, we the prey, and it is woman’s best kept secret that in the land of sexuality men are blind while we can see across the galaxy.

Now that Maysoon had shown me how to squirt out lush bursts of girlie essence, I wanted to do it again and again; shoot my dew higher and higher until we coated the inside of the dome that topped the tower. Maysoon was a creature intended for one thing only and it came as a revelation for me to discover that I was the same.

I had discovered that in the frenzy of climax, at that moment of rapture, your soul leaves your body and you become one with the universe. It is the
satori
awakening that Zen monks try to reach; a glimpse of enlightenment, the sound of one hand clapping. In India, devotees through the centuries have been attempting to formulate the sexual act in the study of
tantra
, in the creation of the
Kama Sutra
. But I had a feeling that the uncontrollable joy of perfect sex arose not through study and mysticism, but from the breaking of taboos, the crossing of boundaries and frontiers, through transgression, multiple partners, submissiveness and discipline; through a life dedicated to living in the present where the pursuit of orgasm takes precedence over all, over love and loyalty, even over life itself. Could any death be better than one that takes you as you body erupts in spasm and your voice joins the song of the universe?

It became for me more a change than a pleasure to dress in my one suit of clothes and join the men when they drove into town. Now that I knew those myriad colours and costumes, now that I had savoured the exotic smells and seen the women carrying fish in wide baskets, the street stalls laden with Kalashnikovs, the dancing monkey, it was merely repetition and I yearned to get back to the tower, strip off my disguise and dress in the costume of nudity. As the beachcomber had shown me the moment I met him, a naked girl is inviting sex, and that’s all I wanted, the opportunity to draw the sheikh into my body and search for the holy grail of the ultimate orgasm.

From out of the dust the town came into view, domes and battlements rising over the flat roofs, the white towers of minarets, swaying palms vibrant with raucous green birds. People washed themselves around hand pumps in the street; men built boats with hand tools; the money changers stood outside the bank with money to buy and sell and I wondered what went on inside the bank, whether the only function the building served was to supply shade for the money changers standing below the awning outside.

My feet burned black as I trudged through the dust and dung a few paces behind Samir. Mo and Azar were at my side, smoking, armed to the teeth. Umah followed carrying a leather satchel with separate compartments joined by a wide strap. Samir purchased sacks of rice, rolls of cloth, the herbs and spices that didn’t grow on the oasis edging the fort and which gave the food we ate at night flavours and tastes that touched my senses like an opiate, an aphrodisiac that set fire to my imagination. The vegetables were pulled from the thin soil the same day, the chickens roamed at will through the courtyard not knowing the knife was always close behind, the fish came straight out of the sea and the occasional sheep was slaughtered just hours before the fires were lit. We only ate once a day, at sunset, and I always filled my plate. I had grown adept at eating with the fingers of my right hand and had learned in this land without lavatory paper that washing my bottom with my left leaves you feeling cleaner.

Azar shouldered the heavy sacks. Umah tucked the spices into the satchel and I gazed at Samir as he bargained with the traders, the brightly-coloured notes exchanging hands with the speed of the myna birds spiralling through the date palms. Azar, Mo and Umah seldom spoke but would on occasions burst into smiles for reasons I never understood. It was written in their faces that they were satisfied with their lives and content to be in each other’s company. They seemed to understand the universe and their place in it. They were not striving to be something else or someone else; to be all they can be. They already were and, knowing it, I came to see, is the recipe for happiness.

Umah had grown more confident now more time had elapsed since we had left the boat. He had started to gaze upon me with mooning eyes, but my indiscretion had been as innocent as it was impetuous, and to replicate the act would be premeditated. We grow through change, we die in repetition. The echo is already dead. Lizards climbed the tower walls and as I watched them navigate the phallic white curves of the dome I recalled some words from William Blake – the man who never changes his opinion is like standing water and grows reptiles of the mind. I was a lizard, a chameleon, a girl of many colours. I could do and be anything and didn’t know that time like sand in the hour glass was gathering speed, that the only permanence is change, and the idyll will always come to an end.

We met Africans in Hanif’s warehouse, men with young sons, pregnant women, families who came from somewhere and wanted to be somewhere else. They wept and argued and paid over vast sums of money that Samir folded into a stained leather pouch and slid inside his white
djellaba
. At any price the people wanted to reach Europe and no sum would have persuaded me to do anything but stay.

I met an Indian man who had crossed the continent from Kenya and was now making the journey to join his brother in Spain. He was an engineer, he said, with five children and a wife to care for at home in Mombassa.

‘There is no work now,’ he said, ‘how can I feed my family?’

I shook my head and looked suitably forlorn. It was so long since I had last heard English spoken the language seemed strange to me.

‘I don’t know,’ I said in a whisper.

It felt as if my words might shatter the fantasy and I would suddenly wake in my bed in Fulham with, with … that boy in girl’s clothing, that mirage in my shoes and make-up. Like the future, the past had become abstract, an unreal place I no longer believed in. There was just this moment.

The engineer looked into my green eyes, at the blonde ringlets escaping from my turban.

‘You are leaving here with us?’ he asked.

‘No,’ I said. ‘This is where I belong.’

I didn’t know it then, but this was to be the last time I went into town. We drank mint tea with Hanif and after, while Azar went to get the truck, I followed Samir to the goldsmith’s shop, a small, stone-walled building lit by the brilliant light emanating from the kiln. The goldsmith had the long white beard of a prophet and looked as if he might have been casting gold in those ancient moulds for a thousand years, although the metal shutter that rolled down over the door and the thick bars on the narrow window belonged to modern times. There was just enough space inside the shop for the low table that contained a set of brass scales with weights in pounds and ounces. It was on this ancient device that the goldsmith weighed the grit and dust and fragmented nuggets brought out of the desert by speculators dreaming of the riches of paradise.

The goldsmith took the wad of money Samir gave him, licked his scarred fingers and counted the bills,
wahid, ithnan, thalatha, arba’a, khamsa
– one, two, three, four, five, his voice a chant that made me feel giddy in the fierce heat thrown out by the kiln. On and on, a teacher instructing the art of pronunciation. When he reached the required sum, he pushed the rest of the bundle back across the counter to Samir. The sheikh didn’t check. He had the careless manner of people who have always had money and had no need to treat those grubby bills with special respect.