Desert Princess

The Italian Army kept an elaborate system of brothels in North Africa. There were two kinds, one for enlisted men, the other for officers. The officers' brothels, of course, were much better. They were cleaner, the girls were younger and prettier, and the doctors visited them daily to check for venereal diseases.

I had never visited a whorehouse until I was in Benghazi. American men, unlike Europeans, are generally not practiced in such a pastime. They have a tendency to fall in love with the whores. This always leads to trouble. Even more trouble can be found when you combine love with lust and compassion. Listen to my story.

For three months I'd been training Italian soldiers how to repair and drive trucks. I'd made friends with a young lieutenant from Naples who was in charge of the motor pool. He began to invite me out after work, and one evening we ended up at the officers' brothel. This particular place was set up as a cabaret. Wine and champagne and beer were served at tables while you made your choice of woman. Every night the cabaret was filled with increasingly drunk officers being served by dark eyed and generally luscious young arab girls dressed in flimsy little costumes.

I was the only one drinking Peroni beer. Everyone else was swilling wine and smoking cigars. Me and the lieutenant were talking and looking around when I was stopped short by the most stunning image I had ever seen in my life.

She was tall, maybe 5'6, and only in her early twenties. She was wearing a gauzy white costume with silk trim, all white, and this accentuated the rich, deep, golden brown of her skin. I still can't find words to describe that color-- A little warmer than copper, a little darker than bronze, as smooth and lustrous as polished teak. Her face--small and round, pudgy cheeks, a small sculpted nose, and its size and shape didn't seem to fit on her exceptionally long neck. Her hair---black. Black as the dune shadows on a sahara night, shining as though it were wet, long, thick, full...falling in gleaming dark waves over her shoulders. Her breasts were not large, but they were firm, and very round, and straining against the white gauze.

When she moved, she sparkled and jingled like a chorus of silver bells, because that's what she was covered in: silver. She had bracelets of engraved silver, bangles on her wrists and forearms, rings on every finger and even her thumbs. She had two ankle bracelets and large hoop earrings. Around her neck were at least three chains and necklaces, including an elaborate one of silver beads from which hung golden pendants. Imagine all of that jewelry glistening on her dusky skin.

I was fascinated. I could not take my eyes off her. The lieutenant saw me staring and put his hand on my shoulder.

"Enrico, don't involve yourself with her." He had concern on his face. "That's the major's woman. Her name is Sirah. She costs one hundred fifty dinars an hour, but nobody of course would pay it anyway. The major uses her."

"One fifty might be worth it." I knew not many could pay that. The average worker earned five hundred millimes a day, half a dinar. In two months I'd been able to save only three hundred dinars, not enough for my passage home.

"She is the major's prize. His trophy."

"How so?" I asked

"The major uses her...to...perform, for his staff. The major is... a very cruel man. You might see one of these performances."

In the days that followed I worked myself into an obsessive fever over that girl. Finally I asked my friend to take me back to the brothel, and he was too happy to bring me along when I offered to pay at least twenty dinars for the woman of his choice. The night we arrived it was sweltering hot, a typical humid night along the Mediterranean coast, unlike the inland desert where the land lost heat at sunset. The cabaret was filled with a blue swirling maze of cigar smoke and the laughter of officers as they swilled chianti.

We had just sat down when someone called to the lieutenant. It was from across the room, in a little curtained alcove. We went over and found three officers sitting at a table, drinking expensive iced champagne. It was the major and two of his staff officers, both captains. The major was a tall rugged looking soldier, a mountain troop commander in the war. Rugged and handsome, yes, but he also had that hard cruel look about him. That cruel relentless look.

"I've wanted to meet the Americano," he said, offering me a chair and a glass. "I think I can show you some things here that might be yourself when you return to your country. I'll show you about how strong men remain in control of stubborn people."

Everyone laughed and I looked up, feeling someone at my side. It was Sirah, inches away. Her arm brushed my wrist and for the first time I felt her warm firm skin. An electric thrill surged through me, starting at the back of my neck and flowing between my legs.

I was so close I could smell her. She didn't smell anything like American women, who were always scrubbing themselves raw with soap. This was a natural smell, a delicious spicy scent of coriander and hot sand and dried sweat, covered with a lilting fragrance of jasmine flowers. Sirah smelled alive.

The major pulled her down to him and sat her on his knee. She perched there uneasily, his hand clenched tightly around her arm. She turned to look at all of us gathered around the table. Her eyes were flashing and sparkling, dark as they were. I had never expected such dark eyes to sparkle. There was no delight in that sparkle. It was a look of defiance. The major then clamped a hand over her left breast and squeezed it roughly, digging his fingers right into the stretched gauze. I felt anger rise in my throat.

"Do you know who this girl is?" He asked. He was looking at me. "You think this is a dirty little peasant girl? No. Look at her. She has a refined face, no? Her father is Sheik Moncef Rassas. This is his youngest and favorite daughter. Her father had fifty men under his command when we fought the Turks. When the Turks were beaten, he kept his loyalty to them and refused to surrender. I surrounded his camp. We killed all his men, slaughtered his livestock, sold his camels. We made a prisoner of him, but spared his family. I did, however, take this girl to make a whore out of her. Very symbolic punishment. By transforming her into a slut, I can show my power. From a pampered princess to a performing slut."

The major stopped kneading her breast and slid his hand away. Her nipple was bulging out through the thin material, and the officers laughed. The major twisted her shoulders around and flourished his hands in front of her breasts. Then he pushed her off his knee and she stood facing us. With a sudden and violent motion he tore her little dress away. It fell in white shreds to the floor. She stood defiantly in front of us, stunningly naked. I felt a powerful surge of excitement and shame.

She had extraordinarily wide hips, which led to thighs seemingly not made of bone or fat or muscle, but rather molded out of some delicious smooth brown wood. Between them was a sparse little tuft of dark hair. The major reached between her legs, but she viciously slapped his hand away. Then she climbed up on the table.

What she did next astounded everyone. She supported her weight on her left arm and spread her thighs in front of us. She began to rub the palm of her right between her thighs, very gently at first, down over that dark patch of fur, staring dreamily out through the smoke as though we weren't there. I had never seen a sight so graceful, so heavenly. Her beautiful little feet, strapped into her white sandals, flat upon the red tablecloth, her gracefully curved little hand, with its silver rings and henna tattoo, gently moving over her mound. Her pussy lips began to widen at her touch, and she started to increase the speed, sliding gently, than faster, letting her index finger slip ever so carefully into her slit of tantalizing shadow.

Now she leaned forward, shifting her weight to her hips, and eased her thighs wider, her knees high in the air. With one hand she spread the lips of her pussy. It was like the wingspread of a butterfly, and inside was a brilliant glistening pink color, very tender and wet. She began to trace two fingers along the edge of her lips, and as she did the tender folds of flesh began to gleam with wetness. Her white enameled nails were fairly glowing, matching the flash of silver rings. Her left hand, thumb and forefinger, tugged at her tiny hood and she rubbed gently at the nub of her clit. Now she had both hands pleasuring herself, and she shamelessly continued, her delicate hands swirling and moving like some elaborate dance.

The table was silent, the sounds of the cabaret receding into the distance. The only sound I could hear was from the increasing wetness of Sirah's pussy, a delicious sound like a stream of water gently falling into a pool. It was a slick, squishing noise, and it made my mouth water. As she continued, I noticed a large crescent shaped stain spreading outward on the red tablecloth. Her hands increased their speed, two slim fingers circling around her soft lips, two more stroking her clit.

I watched Sirah's face. Instead of her defiant gaze, she had now closed her eyes, her long lashes falling over her cheeks. Her mouth opened slightly and the tip of her tongue slid out just a fraction and ran over her lower lip. It looked as though she were fighting to keep silent, but a faint sigh came from deep in her throat. Then she mumbled something so lightly I couldn't make it out. She was talking in Arabic, little sounds and meaningless phrases of pleasure. I realized I was watching something wrong, but couldn't help myself. I was frozen in fascination and lust.

Sirah's head fell sideways to her shoulder and she opened her mouth. She began her orgasm. I watched her shoulders tremble, and her hips thrust forward, swaying rhythmically from side to side. Her fingers were deep in her pussy now, and the wetness was shimmering on the inside of her thighs. A long, deep sigh flowed out from deep inside her. A musky smell filled the alcove.

I looked around at he four soldiers who sat transfixed around the table. An amazing thought came to me. The major had tried to shame Sirah to show her his power. But it was Sirah who shamed us all. She had proven her power over us, her power to enthrall, to hold us captive in her incredible beauty. It was a mystical feminine sexual power that we could never match. I shuddered at a new emotion that took hold of me. It was a mix of passion and lust and embarrassment. I jerked to my feet and turned to leave.

The major broke the silence and looked up.

"When will you Americans learn," he said loudly, "that you cannot change the world?"

I walked back to my room, my heart pounding, my blood on fire, a raging erection between my legs. I was determined to change things. I was not sure if Sirah was a princess or a whore, but I knew one thing. She would be either MY princess or MY whore. I would find some way to take her from the major, to make her mine forever. She now held me in her power.