Nothing But This
Nothing But This first appeared in Black Lace’s Sex and Shopping. A woman wandering in a North African souk with her boyfriend is lured away by a weird, enigmatic youth.
*
The Boy creeps forward. I’m so scared and I’m so wet. But wet is winning. I follow, turning a corner then another until he ducks into a small archway in the wall. Moments later, I’m there too, head down and heart hammering as I descend three worn, white steps.
In front of me, a cool cavernous chamber opens out. Hung with tapestries and oil lamps, its edges are banked with stacks of carpets, and in a far corner stands a cluster of earthenware jugs alongside sacks of grain. Sunbeams, soft and fuzzed with dust, slant down from high plasterwork arches, a tranquil light for prayer. It smells of straw and mice.
I catch a glimpse of the Boy as he flits from one stone pillar to another then stays there, hiding. Sitting cross-legged on a tall pile of carpets is a bald, muscular man with dark skin and heavy brows, his jawline shadowed with bristles. He’s bare-chested, whorls of black hair clouding his pecs and making a seam over his neatly-rounded paunch. He looks like a cross between the Buddha and a thug. It’s not a look I’m familiar with but I do like it. He has a small, neat smile, and he’s observing me steadily, chin propped on his fist. I get the feeling he’s been expecting me.
‘Hi,’ I say, trying to sound brave.
I walk deeper into the chamber, across the flagstone floor, shoulders back. I know this man is going to fuck me and, frankly, I’m ready for it.
No one replies. The man keeps watching me, smiling. Though I’m still scared, I have an inkling of a new confidence. I’m starting to feel powerful and ageless, like some whore of the Old Testament. The Boy emerges from behind his pillar to lean against it, arms folded and smirking. His attitude’s changed. He has the jaded, haughty air of a rent-boy, hard-faced and sleazy. It’s attractive in a sick kind of way. His eyes are normal too. Well, relatively speaking. They are the most astonishing sea-green – National Geographic eyes – but they are normal in that they are human. I must have been seeing things earlier, a trick of the light, nothing more.
They both watch me as I sashay forward. I feel deliciously easy. I’m a harlot, houri, concubine, slave. I could dance like Salome, seduce them with a strip show, except I don’t have seven veils, just sarong, vest and Birkenstocks.
Besides, my guess is, these guys really don’t need seducing.
‘You chose well,’ says the man, addressing the Boy.
Now hang on, I think. Didn’t I just walk here myself of my own free will? Then I correct myself. Who am I trying to kid? I’ve been picked up, haven’t I?
‘My uncle,’ grins the Boy, nodding at the man.
Uncle tips up his chin in a curt greeting. ‘Show her to me,’ he says to the Boy.
Barefoot, the Boy saunters forward. He parts my sarong, exposing my legs, and presses his hand between my thigh. All the weight of my body is suddenly in my cunt, resting in that skinny hand. My gusset is damp and he paddles his fingers there, grinning up at me before latching on to my clit. He rubs through the fabric, judging my expression. I want to appear impassive but the smell and touch of him makes me dizzy with longing. Truly, I can’t remember ever feeling so horny. I guess I don’t manage to pull off the cool, composed look because the Boy chuckles softly. In a whisper, he says, ‘Ah, you like that, don’t you? Hot little bitch.’
Well, you got me there, I think.
