He was gazing at her, smiling, when her deep brown eyes met his. They stared at each other for ten long seconds, talking without words. Their eyes reminded each other the box, acknowledged the silent meaning of the disappearance of the box, inviting each other to a tumble deeper into the curious rabbit hole. She returned his smile with a shy half smile herself, her face filled with excitement and anxiousness as to what might be awaiting her.
He ended the silent conversation they were having with their eyes with a long blink and led the way to the bedroom. She followed him, her heart already racing with the excitement of the unknown, remembering the intensity of the last time she saw the box. Her senses were already sharpened. She was well aware of the pleasant feeling of the silky carpet under her naked feet, the soft moonlight coming inside the window in the corridor as they walked through it, the sudden breeze from the half open window brushing her hair over her naked shoulders, making her shiver ever slightly.
He entered the bedroom before her and sat on the white leather chaise-longue on the corner of the large room. She followed him in but stood in the middle of the room to look on the bed, to confirm whether the box was really there. There it was. In the middle of the bed, standing out on the cream duvet. She then continued walking, looking at him, and sat next to him on the chaise-longue, not needing to say anything or ask questions. She was certain he would start his game. She was certain it would be fun and wicked. She knew his complex mind full of conundrums and puzzles very well. He was a science fiction writer by day. She, like his readers around the globe, admired his capability to imagine the unimaginable and to always finish with the most impossible, twisted ending. So she did not speak. She pulled her naked feet up on the sofa kind of hugging her bent knees in front of her with her arms, her long dark blue dress covering her knees and her naked feet, and comfortably waited.
In a while he started speaking. Rather, he was telling a tale.
"Once upon a time in Africa, there was a kingdom with land crossing mountains and plains, rivers and deserts. The land was fertile so were the women; they were voluptuous and lustful. Descending from a matriarchal ancient culture where they had the freedom to be with many men of different strengths for varied and strong offspring, their poise was lascivious, their voice and looks lewd.
"With the centuries, as the females lost their power and men started to lead and control, they decided to control their women's lust as well. They developed this practice of removing their pleasure core, putting a barrier in front of their rivers so they could never reach the sea, their water creating suppressed underworld lakes with no hope of ever getting to the surface."
She listened attentively as he was talking in a theatrical way, his words carefully selected and pronounced fully, his tone a bit unnatural. He had taken part in theatre plays earlier in his career and knew how to speak with actor's intonation. She was looking at his blue eyes and his shapely hands as he spoke, admiring his handsome face and imagining his hands all over her. It had been a long time since the box appeared last, and he had kept her chaste since then, touching her and edging her but always stopping right before her release, saying something playful right before he was done with her. She did touch herself, of course, but would not go over the edge herself. It would be betraying his twisted mind, disrespect to the effort and thought he put into tantalising her in so many surprising ways. She hated denial, she craved denial. More than anything, she craved him, day and night. She yearned for his slightest touch, she fantasized about him even when he was next to her. Her body had turned into a delicate silk waiting to be entwined into the most exquisite patterns under his weaving.
As if he understood what crossed her mind, he reached towards her and pulled her across the sofa next to him, enclosed her with his long arms all around her chest and bent knees, the back of her neck facing his face. He grasped a handful of her hair and casually pulled it, sending shivers down her spine, and continued talking. As he talked his fingertips would traverse her throat, her breasts and her belly button over her dress, light casual touches, oblivious to her reactions on the surface, but he sure felt all the trembles and quiet gasps he was causing.
"There was a king in this land who had four sons and one young daughter. The king loved all his children but adored his lovely daughter. She reminded him of his late wife, the mother of his only daughter, whom he had loved truly. He cherished her, wanted to give her all, protect her from everything. When she grew up and reached adolescence, when it was time to remove her pleasure centre, time to mutilate her in the most painful and traumatising way, the king could not bear even the thought of this. Respectful to the tradition and his culture, but loathing the awful fate of his daughter, he started to search a solution.
"He talked to all his confidants, tasked all healers, sorcerers, and shamans in the capital to come up with a remedy that could change her adorable daughter's fate yet comply with the tradition and god's will. After months and months of diligent work, finally they came up with something. A very special ointment made with rare herbs from the distant corners of the country."
As he was telling the tale, his hands were softly traveling her body, slowly caressing her arms, fingertips lightly brushing the nape of her neck, sending shivers down her spine, ignoring her desire for more and continuing his words.
"Do you like the story?"
"Yes, I am curious."
"Well, I don't know how it really ended. Yet I do know it is a real story."
"How come?" she asked, puzzled.
"I was having one of my browsing visits in some antique shops in Mayfair. I was looking for ancient African trinkets depicting supernatural powers for a small detail in my book. Then I came across this collection of old hand writings. They were in a foreign language written with a different alphabet, but transcribed in English on the same old papers."
"What were they?"
"They were ancient medicinal formulae from the Kanem Empire in Central Africa, found and studied by a British merchant in 1899 who apparently was also a scholar in pharmacology. He transcribed the ancient writings, adding his notes about the use of the formulas, history of the empire, and his studies about the local culture. He was very interested in the practise of female genital mutilation and was one of the first to publicly write about this gruesome reality in Victorian newspapers. Do you know why I am telling you all this tonight? Here?"
"No, but knowing you, I know you'll get somewhere." She smiled.
"Well, yes my dear, I will."
