Disclaimer: All characters involved in this story are over the age of 18 years old. No jinn were harmed during the writing of this story.
Special thanks to des67 and Carmilla234, who edited this for me.
Markos sat on his haunches, resting for a few precious moments before spreading out the old, ornate red-and-gold Afghan rugs he carried with him across the sand beneath his feet. He had been traversing a traditional Tuareg trade route from the salt mines of Taoudenni south to bustling Timbuktu for the past several days, and he was spent.
An anthropology undergrad from Harvard, Markos had been bouncing across the Sahara dunes in an old, beaten-up beige Jeep trying to keep pace with a Tuareg caravan he had been studying. The caravan had been laboriously traversing the trade route via camel hauling newly mined slabs of salt from the ancient Taoudenni mines.
Markos had kept a respectful distance as he traversed the desert alongside the caravan, staying just close enough to interact and trade with the Tuareg caravanners occasionally but far enough away that he would not interrupt their work. Crawling along in his Jeep, Markos kept the camels at the tail end of the caravan in view as much as he could while trudging through the treacherous Sahara dunes.
When the caravan had suddenly stopped and set up their tents, Markos understood that one of the caravanners had likely spotted a large sandstorm on the way. He quickly hopped out of the Jeep, then heaved his small yet spacious Tuareg-style tent out from the back of the vehicle and managed to get it set up before the winds picked up.
Having spread out the carpets he was using as a makeshift tent floor, Markos slathered more sunscreen on his sweaty skin before slipping out of the tent to double-check its moorings.
A tall, thin, jade-eyed, muscular young man from Louisiana, Markos' innate athleticism and outdoorsmanship helped him survive in harsh environments like the Sahara. His skin tanned in the desert sun nicely, and his shaggy blond hair matched the color of the sand dunes surrounding him.
Once Markos was certain the tent moorings were secure and that his Jeep was still in good working order, he set up camp and began to unroll his tattered old brown sleeping bag.
The winds began to howl as the sun set lower and lower, forcing Markos to close his tent. The remains of his dinner were stashed in a Ziploc bag near his extra-large backpack, and he was curled up atop his sleeping bag with a textbook on Nigerien Tuareg culture, fed but frustrated.
He struggled to read his text by lamplight to no avail; the winds buffeted his tent just enough to distract him. Irritated, Markos closed his book and shut off his battery-operated lamp, checked to make certain his tent was closed as tight as it could be, then slipped out of his white tee shirt, khaki cargo pants, and black Army boots and decided to sleep earlier than he'd planned.
Markos clamped his eyelids shut as the angry desert winds raged and whipped about his tent, trying to force himself to sleep.
Sleep wouldn't come though. He was lonely and he was horny. At twenty-four years old, Markos' sex drive was always in overdrive. Unfortunately, he was also incredibly shy around women, ever since he was a scrawny young nerd back in junior high. While growing more muscular and handsome as he aged, his shyness never dissipated, and he had trouble even talking to the gorgeous young women that populated the Harvard hallways. He had even more problems with the stunning Tuareg women at Timbuktu due to the cultural barriers between them, and the salt mining crew he had been tailing had no women among them.
As the winds outside screamed and battered his tent, Markos imagined several beautiful, curvaceous co-eds. He wished he was snuggling with one of them in his sleeping bag that cold desert night. Increasingly frustrated and aroused, Markos tossed and turned, struggling to find that magic sleeping position that would allow him to shut off his hyperactive thoughts and doze off.
As he re-positioned himself again, half in-and-out of sleep, Markos' hand hit a noticeable lump in the rugs beneath his sleeping bag. Wondering how he hadn't noticed the lump when spreading the carpets out earlier and worried about scorpions, Markos moved his sleeping bag and checked under the rugs.
Brushing away the small mound of sand that caused the lump in his rugs to form, Markos' hand clamped around a ring-shaped object.
Markos quickly turned his lamp on and examined the object. The lamplight gleamed off a rustic old bronze ring. The ring didn't bear any markings or gems and didn't appear to be anything special; it was just a simple bronze band of indeterminate age that looked as battered and sand blasted as his Jeep outside. Some caravanner had likely lost it in the dunes ages ago.
He sat and stared at the ring for some time before trying it on. The ring felt larger when he first picked it up, but when he slipped it onto his right-hand ring finger it fit rather snugly, like it was made for his finger.
Bored, half-asleep, and still incredibly sexually frustrated, Markos shut off his light and laid back down, shrugging off the mystery of the ring in favor of the more erotic fantasies that nearly lulled him to sleep earlier. Within moments Markos was finally asleep, his fingers instinctively rubbing against the ring he now wore.
Markos was soon awakened by the realization that it had grown startlingly still outside. The winds had all but vanished, except for the slightest of breeze outside...
And someone else was in the tent with him.
Before he could rise from the sleeping bag or put the lamp on to confront whoever had entered the tent while he was asleep, the other person cracked open the entrance to the tent, allowing the moon to peek inside.
Glittering moonlight shone off her glistening skin, outlining her sensuous curves. The sight caught Markos' breath in his throat, and he lay transfixed.
She wore the long black bemuz outer garment common to Tuareg women, though she wore it like a hooded cloak that seemed to flow around her in the breeze like angels' wings. Beneath the bemuz she wore a short black afer as a tight-fitting skirt around thick, shapely hips, a dress adorned with intricate Arabesques that appeared to glow in the moonlight. Her feet were shod with the traditional red leather irazagan sandals worn by the Tuareg people.
Her hair was jet black, and the lower portion of her face was covered with a sheer black tusawart veil that barely obscured her soft, exotic North African features. Scandalously for a Tuareg, her lithe arms, shoulders, midriff, and ample decolletage were all exposed. Her massive, perfectly formed breasts were barely contained by a skimpy black bikini top and a small black-and-indigo vest adorned in the same Arabesques as her skirt.
At first, Markos thought her skin had been stained blue; the indigo dyes used by the Tuareg in their garments occasionally tend to stain their skin a deep blue color, giving them the nickname "blue people". As Markos stared, however, he realized that her skin simply was blue, so blue that it glowed bright indigo in the moonlight.
