Girl Trade - full length erotic adventure novel (Xcite Erotic Romance Novels) (15 page)

My breath caught in my throat and a shiver zipped up my spine. My entire body was a touch paper on a firework and suddenly I was fizzing. I was about to explode, atomise and reform with new ideas, new opinions, new desires. Everything I had ever known was forgotten.

I had gone into a daze and came out of it as the older woman made a cackling noise in the back of her throat. As I glanced at her, I realised how similar she was to the girl, an older version. Perhaps the girl was eighteen and she was her mother, a woman of less than forty but aged and worn, and I thought that this time of being young was so fleeting you had to grab it before it passed, that in life we get one opportunity to indulge our fantasies, and this was mine. Perhaps one day in the distant future I would spend my hours pruning roses below the shade of a straw hat and I would smile and be happy as I thought back to that summer when all inhibitions disappeared.

The woman gave me a beaker filled with icy water and I wondered how they managed to keep it so cold without refrigeration. I drank the water down in one gulp and she filled the beaker again from a gun metal-coloured urn.

‘
Shukran,’
I said.

When I gave the beaker back to her, she touched my hair, running it through her fingers. She said something to the girl and they both laughed.

‘It’s like straw,’ I said, and they shrugged on hearing these meaningless words, and I thought I’d give anything for a bottle of conditioner.

‘Maysoon,’ the girl said, pointing at herself, and she repeated her name. ‘Maysoon.’

‘Chengi,’ I replied, and the women laughed once more.

The musicians began to play again and I was astonished when Azar got up to dance. His movements were harmonious but awkward, his long loose hair flying about like a cloud of smoke. Where the men in the circle had sat spellbound and silent when the girl danced, they now clapped and laughed, and the more they laughed the more exaggerated Azar’s dance became.

Maysoon pushed me forward and we moved closer as Mo stood to join in the display. He placed his hand on his heart and bowed. He appeared to ask Azar to dance, and Azar curtsied in a feminine way that made the men roll back and forth in peals of laughter. The dance was like a tango or a salsa, a dance from my world but bizarre, and I wondered if it were me they were mocking and, if it was, I didn’t mind. We deserved to be mocked.

The two men finally fell over and Azar leapt on Mo and appeared to be kissing and biting his neck. The men in the circle rolled about and slapped each other on the back.

The musicians packed up their instruments and went to eat. I followed with Maysoon and joined Samir as the men came to their feet. We strolled through the open gates, Samir and Hanif with some other the younger men, and I noticed that Azar was close by with a Kalashnikov over his shoulder.

Along the near wall, closest to town, the caravanserai that had appeared lifeless during the day was thronged with little camp fires and gatherings of men without women amusing themselves with primitive games and chatter. I watched an older man with a white beard fleecing a younger man with the three shell trick, moving the shells in arcane patterns over a lacquered tray, and no matter how many coins the young man slapped down on the ground, never once did he find the pea beneath the right shell.

Samir had a go and lost. Then Hanif. Then another man.

The sheikh had another go and, when he was about to choose, I put my hand over his to stop him. The night grew silent. All motion ceased. Even the snake charmer blowing his flute paused mid note. I pointed to another shell. I don’t know why I knew, I just knew. I felt it.

The man with the beard looked up into my eyes, then back at Samir. The sheikh nodded and the pea was revealed beneath the shell I had indicated.

The men around Samir shuffled their feet and seemed relieved when he turned to me with the tolerant smile a parent may show a clever child. He collected the few coins he had won. He then squeezed my cheeks with more affection than was necessary and I thought: if you are going to bring a native with a bone through her nose back to the obdurate people at home you must expect the unexpected.

The snake charmer started playing again. A dusty-looking cobra curled lethargically from the basket and I thought of actors forced to say the same lines night after night on the successful run of a play. Some of the men tossed coins into his upturned fez and we continued. Men smoked hashish through a hubbly-bubbly that gurgled like indigestion. I loved the pungent smell and thought of night clubs, dancing, Bobby below me painted like girl. He was tempted to be himself but held back. It’s what we do. What we all do. The secret is to go beyond your own limits and then go further. That’s what I had done swimming from La Gomera to the island. That’s what had brought me here to Mauritania.

A woman in black was heating a foul-smelling, glutinous substance in an iron pot, while a man using a brush made from the crushed end of a piece of cane smeared the solution along the seeping green gash on a camel’s leg, the camel half rising as the scalding stuff touched the sore, then dropping its head philosophically back down again into the dust.

We continued beyond the caravanserai and circled the fort. The men were talking, their words like lines of poetry, rhythmic as music. We made our way through the date palms and banana plants. The oasis was cut in sections by shallow gullies protected by ridges of sand, the trees and plants like pieces on a chessboard. The land was irrigated from a well with a metal lid bolted shut with iron stays and a padlock. Water was precious, the stone shower a luxury I would remember as I journeyed on into the dark hell of secret Africa.

Maysoon laced her fingers through mine as we entered the fort and tightened her grip as we crossed the courtyard. It was quiet now, the people gone, just the hint of roasted meat and hot bread lingering on the air. We giggled like girls at boarding school as we climbed the narrow flights of stone stairs. She ran on her toes along the walkway and threw off her cape as we entered the tower. She lit the brass lamps with a plastic cigarette lighter of the sort I had seen men in town selling in the streets, her movements making the flames shiver, the shadows chasing her about the walls.

What is your wish?

Ask and it shall be given.

As she skipped around the room, the chiffon veils were teased from her body as if by the invisible hand of a conjurer until she was naked but for the beaded belt. She moved closer, her bracelets shimmering, her long fingers swirling, hypnotic, drawing me to her as if by the pull of gravity.

I slipped from Samir’s clothes, my limbs seduced by the rhythm, and felt as light as a bird on the warm air, our dance a sensuously charged flamenco with clapping hands, thrusting breasts, stamping feet, solemn expressions. My gaze transfixed on the girl’s gorgeous belly, her pudenda a heart-shaped fruit, her pubic bone, which at first appeared to have been shaved in a pattern, was, I realised, scalped bare of pubic hair and polished in a sheen of perspiration.

The pattern I could see wasn’t hair, but a spider hanging by the silken thread dissecting her body. When she raised her chin, the blue line rose from that point just below her bottom lip and the creature appeared to be crawling over her treacle-coloured flesh. It was the most surreal and sensuous thing I had ever seen, more erotic than I could have conceived in my wildest dreams, a seal of sexuality. Maysoon like me belonged to the sheikh. Like me, she had forsaken everything to live out her erotic nature. We moved closer, the bowl of her abdomen fitting in the concave of my hollowed stomach.

We danced until the sweat poured from us and collapsed on the thick pile of carpets below the domed roof, our tongues fighting to get into each other’s throats, the tang of her saliva sweeter than honey. We kissed until we were breathless and though I adored kissing Samir, there’s nothing like the lips of girls, the taste of girls, the taste of Maysoon. Men have that cute accessory, that magic wand, that grub that grows into a butterfly. But girls have soft pink lips that describe shamelessly on our faces the ripe fruit between our legs, the outward sign of our inner desires. We are shaped the way we are shaped for a reason. We are shaped for fucking. I didn’t know this and now I did know. It was like learning a marvellous secret.

Maysoon licked my face, she nibbled my ears and chin, her tongue like a brush jabbing into the well of my collar bones. She took my breasts in her palms and squeezed hard, drawing out the flaming buds and biting down on each one, biting until a shudder of agonised pleasure took me in its embrace. She gnawed at my hip bones and raised her head to gaze at the silky nest of my pubic hair. She ran her fingers through the curls, slipped them inside me, removing them slicked in juice that she sucked from her fingertips, the perfect cherry-red bow of her lips bloated and wet.

She twisted her body in one agile movement, scissoring my head between her legs and dipping down into my groin, her tongue reaching into the soggy swamp of my aching sex. We were dancers dancing once more, rocking back and forth, her oils slipping down my throat in a stream; girl champagne, an Oriental elixir that made my taste buds rejoice. As I drank from the cup of her delicious sex, little spasms ran in pins and needles down my legs and up my spine. My knees rose and I pushed down with my feet, arching my back and drawing her
lingua
deeper into my
cunni
and, like a ballerina before a mirror, repeating the movement, sliding my tongue further into the canal of her gorgeous cunt.

With faultless timing, I felt her body stiffen as my own body stiffened. Through the gurgling slurps of our ecstasy we screamed in orgasm, gasping and panting, breasts aquiver, our slippery skin like sea creatures sliding over each other, limbs tangled, pussies like
vibrating anemones
with bleating lips slowly opening and closing. When I had experimented with girls before I had been afraid that I might be a lesbian. Now, the very notion seemed silly and clearing it from my mind was like growing from a half person to a full person. I had sprouted wings. I felt like an angel. In passion, anything is possible, the love of men, the love of women, the ending of taboos, the subtle, ambiguous joy of discipline, the ingenious transformation of pain into pleasure. In the orgy we lose our individualism and approach the divine.

Maysoon rose from her ministrations and as I opened my eyes I was at first surprised, but then not really surprised to find the sheikh sitting cross-legged beside our little dais of carpets, the light from the moon a pale glow on his sensitive features, his eyes on mine. At his side there was a carpet beater, a short-handled implement with a paddle made of bent cane. I didn’t notice it until the precisely curved loops of the cane crossed my flesh.

I shrieked in pain.

As he stood, Samir scooped the thing into his hand and tossed it next to where we lay. Quick as the sunrise over the desert, the girl had the cane in her hand and fire streaked across my bottom. I was so shocked by the speed, by the audacity, I remained stock still as the wicked device took another taste of my astonished flesh.

There wasn’t a third. As the cane came down once more, I rolled to one side and sprang to my feet. I hadn’t spent five years attending judo and gymnastics for nothing. I slipped my leg between Maysoon’s ankles, bent her over my right hip and dropped her down on to the mat. Her eyes opened wide and so did her long fingers, the cane slipping from her grasp. I snatched it up, held her down, my left arm around her waist, and beat that pert little bottom again and again.

One, two, three, four, five times.

She shrieked and blubbed.

Ouch. Ouch. Ouch.

In passion and pain we speak the same language.

She wriggled free, crawling as fast as she could across the room, that reddened bottom like a siren calling, like a beacon guiding me through the shadows until I brought the cane down once more for luck.

‘Six,’ I screamed, like I’d scored a goal in hockey.

She squealed like a beaten puppy, reared up and charged me, throwing herself across the room and knocking me off my feet, slapping and biting, her firm belly and meaty breasts holding me down. We turned over and over, kicking, lunging, licking, pulling hair. The bites turned into kisses. I heard the sound of the carpet beater coming down again, this time in the hand of the sheikh, and she cried in agony before rolling over, pulling me on top so that I would take the next blow on my burning ass.

We continued wrestling, kissing, licking and screaming as the sheikh chose his target and beat us relentlessly, bottoms, thighs, sides, breasts, the concentric rings of the carpet beater creating a pattern of swirling arabesques that matched the pattern on the carpets.

My body was a lake. Tears of pain and pleasure fell from my eyes, juice rolled from my wet pussy, and I didn’t even notice Samir shedding his robes until I felt his cock slip into my moistened backside and all the air escaped from my lungs in one long gasp of sheer rapture. There is nothing like having your pussy rimmed by a dancing girl, your bum beaten by a handsome sheikh and his long perfect prick piercing your back passage. I went up on my hands and knees and we fucked like dogs.

I was panting, roaring, holding him tight with my vaginal muscles, taking more, wanting more. My entire body was a giant clitoris as big as the dome above our heads. Maysoon had wriggled bum first between my stretched arms and I slid my tongue through her inflamed cheeks into the winking black eye of her pretty anus.

With superhuman self control, Samir withdrew his cock and parting was such sweet pain and pleasure. I carried on rimming Maysoon’s ass while he presented his cock to her greedy gullet. She swallowed it down and I had the feeling that I was part of some fabulous machine, the pressure of my tongue pushing into the girl as she opened her gullet deeper for Samir, drawing his cock further down into her throat. I thought if we kept going in time the tip of my tongue would touch the split head of his penis, and I thought breathlessly, girlishly, immaturely: my God, this is a threesome, this is a first, another first, and I love it, I want it, I want more of it, all night, tomorrow, every day, that time spent doing anything but fucking was time wasted until you open your body to start fucking again. I was born to be doing just this. It was shocking and amazing and shameful and a relief to know.