As the opera was coming to a conclusion, Rushdy leaned over and kissed me gently on the lips again and whispered in my ear how sexy I looked in my tuxedo and how much a "good stick" I was for being a help to him.
I nearly flared up then, but then I could see the danger in his eyes, the flash of dominance. "David tells me that this is little different from your life in New York. Was he lying to me?"
Embarrassed—because David hadn't really lied, although he had no right to make such decisions for me—I lowered my eyes without answering. Then he whispered something about how beautiful and alluring I was, and I immediately was lost to him again.
I was walking on air as we left the opera house. I assumed the Rolls coupe would be brought around and we'd go back to Giza to fuck and fantasize over the lush sets and powerful music of the opera. But once again Rushdy surprised me.
"Let us walk the streets for a bit and come back for the car when the crowds have dissipated."
We did walk, into dark streets that narrowed into almost alleys, but it didn't seem like Rushdy was just rambling; it seemed like he knew where he was going.
In the middle of one narrow street, he stopped, turned abruptly to his right, and rapped on a wooden door on the ground floor of a building next to stone stairs that led up to what seemed to be the building's formal entrance. A window shutter in the door was pulled open and then the door was flung wide and a portly middle-aged Egyptian in a galabiyah, the traditional, long robe worn by Egyptian men, and a turban was all bows and welcomes and ushered Rushdy and me through the door.
The man leered at me as we passed and I shrank against Rushdy.
As the man was shutting and locking the door, Rushdy leaned down and whispered to me, "And now we are at the other end of the political spectrum. This is considered a hotbed of revolutionary fervor. I must play to the English tune, but this is where my heart is, with my people. But if the British ever—"
He broke off there as we were being ushered down a darkened corridor toward a beaded curtain covering a door, beyond which there as dim light, a cloud of smoke, and a low hubbub of sound.
The room we entered was directly out of the Arabian Nights: overlapping layers of Oriental carpeting on the floor, low tables in mother-of-pearl inlay, a mass of silk throw pillows, and draperies on the wall providing a tent-like effect. The room was full of bubbling hookahs, which helped explain the smoke. Scattered about the room were men, many of them middle-aged, some of them very young and paired with middle-aged men. Few were sitting alone, not being touched by someone else. They were stretched out in various degrees of embrace, puffing on the hookahs and many in some stage of sexual intercourse. Most of those in any form of dress at all only wore billowy diaphanous pants and turbans. A few wore spangled-decorated short vests over bare chests. Many wore nothing.
Rushdy and I were escorted to a hookah and pillow-strewn area of the room that wasn't already occupied and bade to settle down. As soon as we had, though, four men, two fairly young, two older, all beefy, appeared and sat, cross-legged, arrayed before us. All had their eyes on us—mostly on me.
"These men are among the revolutionary leadership, very important to the new Egypt. Strip down to your underdrawers," Rushdy said to me. "You'll be more comfortable."
"You?" I asked.
"Later," he answered. "Have you smoked hashish before?"
"Never," I answered.
Rushdy turned to the Egyptian who had admitted us, who had slipped his galabiyah over his head and was sitting, facing me, in a loin cloth and his turban, and stoking up the hookah. Rushdy said something to the man in Arabic, which I hoped was an instruction to keep the hashish content in the pipe mild. The man had a pot belly and slightly drooping breasts like a woman, but he seemed well muscled as well and had strong hands with long, sensuous fingers, which I watched, mesmerized, as he manipulated the parts of the hookah.
The pasha bade me to lay back in the pillows and relax and he stretched out beside me, putting an arm under my neck and gently stroking my nipples and belly with the fingers of his free hand. I thought back to his statement of thinking of fucking me in the box at the opera during the performance and wondered if I was less inclined to let him do so here, with these half-naked Egyptian men staring at us. I decided it wouldn't inconvenience me a bit.
The Egyptian moved between my legs, dragging the hookah toward me, and I spread my legs, raised my knees, and placed my feet flat on the carpeting.
He leaned over my bare torso, drawing the long cylinder of the pipe toward my face and looking down into my face with an expression that was half smile and half leer. I took a short pull on the pipe and a sense of lightness and well-being flowed through my body. I took a longer pull and felt the smoke flow through my body, moving me to the sensation of floating above the earth. Rushdy was stroking my chest and belly, and I felt his touch with heighted, sensuous sensation. It then seemed like more hands than just his were gliding over my body and touching me intimately. Another long drag on the pipe.
My underdrawers were being pulled down my legs and off and I raised my knees, my legs together, toes pointed so that the underdrawers could easily be stripped off. But then hands were palming my knees. Long, sensuous fingers, coaxing my knees apart. Another long drag on the pipe, and I felt my legs spreading, moving apart, flowing away from me. I was floating on the clouds, above the tree tops. Looking down at the trees. Seeing every individual leaf.
Long, sensuous fingers cupping my buttocks, raising my pelvis a bit from the pillows. Moistness coming down over my cock. I was engorging, my hips rising and falling gently, listening to a slight sucking sound above the bubbling of the hookah. And the murmurs of voices, in a language I couldn't understand. All of my sensations were gathering at my center; I heard myself sigh at the pleasure washing over me from the moist, rhythmic pressure on my rock-hard cock.
"Another pull on the hookah," I heard a voice say. Low, rich tones. Rushdy?
I did as bade. A tight, warm feeling came over me and I felt my seed release in a gentle flow. The moist pressure moving down my perineum, searching for, and as I dug my heels in the carpet, rising to it, finding the entrance to my channel.
"Again," Rushdy's voice whispered, and I took another drag on the hookah.
A body was crouched over me, between my legs, I arched my back and gave a long, low moan that went on forever as the throbbing shaft entered me, and slid and slid and slid up into my passage. A long journey back out of me, giving me a sensation of loss, and the feeling of being invaded and stretched again—and then again and again. Interminable stroking inside me and the feel of the flow along the walls of the channel.
"Another pull," the voice said.
Another invasion of my channel, the probe not as long as the first but thicker. I arched my back and moaned as in-and-out stroking resumed again, ending with another flow deep inside me.
We were riding above the clouds, me facing up into the heavens. A man on top of me, embracing me, his cock, not feeling the same as the two times before, the bulb rubbing in different places on the walls inside me, pumping slow and deep inside me as we floated through the air. I was sighing and holding him close to me, wanting him inside me. We began turning in the air, his cock thickening and lengthening inside me. And stroking, stroking, stroking. Releasing.
Rushdy at last, I thought. At last taking me. Again and again. Thicker than before, reaching deeper than before. I gave a little cry and a lurch as he released inside me, held, throbbing, for a moment, and then withdrew. Thinner now on reentry as he started stroking again. I was facing down toward the earth now and the cock was stroking up into me. My eyes picked out each individual leaf on the trees passing below and followed the intricate veining—on each individual leaf. Milky white cum flowing over the leaves.
Ah, Rushdy. Who would have known he would be so gentle and so filling and so big? So varied in his touch. And so fecund, releasing inside me again and again.
"Inhale again."
Laying stretched out on top of him, in his embrace, him inside me. And then him also on top of me, under and above at the same time. And entering me again from on top. While still inside me from underneath. The sudden clarity that there were two cocks inside me. But I was managing; I didn't care.
"Very good. Breathe normally. Take another pull on the hookah."
Hunched in the corner of the Rolls, the cool night breeze flowing around the windshield and blowing into my face, bringing me back into the world, I began to question whether it had been Rushdy at all. I was still naked other than my underdrawers. My tuxedo apparel was neatly folded at my feet. Rushdy was wearing his tuxedo.
He turned and smiled at me. And he was saying something, but, though I could see his lips move, I couldn't hear a word he said. But we'd had prolonged, all-out sex at last. Hadn't we? My ears were buzzing, everything around me outside of the car was a swirling blur.
Out in the desert again, beyond the pyramids. In the backseat of the Rolls, rising and falling on the cock. This time I was sure it was Rushdy.
When I woke in the late morning, naked, on my bed, Egyptian sun streaming into the chamber, it was to the realization that much of what had happened earlier in the hashish den hadn't been Rushdy at all. And it hadn't been just one man. Not even one at a time.
But what was done was done. I'm sure that's what the pasha would say if I queried him about the evening.
* * * *
I wasn't fully back in the land of the present until early afternoon the next day. We were in the Rolls, tooling along toward Alexandria. We already were half way there. I looked over at Rushdy, who was watching the road and smoking a cigarette. I thought I said something, but it came out as a fuzzy mess, if at all. He didn't act like he heard me. But after twenty-some more miles, he turned and looked at me. He smiled just like everything was perfectly normal.
"There you are. Back with us," he said cheerfully. "It won't be long until we are at the ship, and then the porter on the
Kiyi
knows just the concoction to fix you up."
That was it. The same same. A night of debauchery that wasn't going to be mentioned beyond me needing something to pull me back into the present. Well, if he was going to play the game this way, I wouldn't mess it up.
"The
Kiyi
?" I asked.
