Taste of the Nile

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Amateur

Ch. 1

I was on tour in Egypt, or more honestly on assignment in Egypt. I am a photojournalist for a small women’s magazine in New York. They send me off at times to take pictures around the world, of women, culture, whatever would seem interesting to the readers back home. This trip was actually an addition to a vacation that I was taking to the Nile so I had this time more time to sit back and enjoy instead of worrying about glare, angles, and shading.

And leaning back was what I was doing. I had just arrived and settled into my not-technically-a-motel room and was now enjoying a quiet relaxing drink at a nearby restaurant. They didn’t have any alcohol, but in truth the jet lag alone kept that desire from being pursued and instead I was sipping a delightful lemonade-like drink called Asiir something.

The coolness of the drink helped allay the heat that had covered the land. The nearby Nile cooled things a little, but ever-present was the sweltering desert heat that told you that you had come to Africa. For a New York Jew with a little too much Irish blood on my father’s side, I was having a difficult time compensating.

My usual jeans and t-shirts were imprisoned in their bags and instead I was wearing a thin cotton sundress and a large hat to shield my face. I felt my inner feminist rebel against the clothes, but common sense soundly trumped principle. Besides, my hair was still in its original short condition and I thanked God for that. A cool breeze on the back of the neck is invaluable in the desert.

I glanced around the room passively like a lioness scanning the veldt after a good meal. There were a couple of families, eating together, dressed in mostly Western fashion speaking a beautiful Arabic. The odd disconnect between their mannerisms and dress brightened my spirits as well as the infrequent English words that leaked out of the conversation. A few old men playing backgammon in the corner looked up at her, but the tone of their faces showed that they considered me nothing more than another American tourist, someone to be ignored in the daily ritual of life.

I sighed and looked around some more and then I saw her. She was dressed in a black flowered top and tight faded jeans, the type that became faded with good honest hard work in the dirt. I knew that much of the country, especially in the tourist cities did not place much weight on the burqa, and here I was thankful for that. She was stunning and moved lithe as a cat to a table at the far end of the restaurant.

Cats…I thought briefly back to my college days and especially to a mythology class I had taken my sophomore year. I remembered the tales of Bast, the cat goddess. How she was a beautiful goddess with the head and mannerisms of a cat. Sandpaper rough tongue, mmm…Anyway, in that moment when I saw her, that was what I thought of. That was how Bast would have moved.

She had a skin of an exquisite shade of brown, halfway between the golden light of the sands and the intriguing dark of the Nile mud. It was a bewitching brown that slid race across it like a knife, looking both ethnic and non-ethnic at the same time. It was an exquisite exotic flavor that bewitched my quasi-Jewish mind.

But most of all, it was the eyes that captured me. They were an emerald green that seemed to gleam from across the room and were set in such a secretly smiling manner that I wanted to desperately unlock their secrets. They pulled you in from across the room, holding you entranced and spellbound and weak as a preadolescent.

I watched entranced, but unable to do the slightest thing about it. I was locked into the view unable to move, breathe, think, or even signal my sudden attraction. Below I felt the heat rise in my panties and I wondered how long it had been. The last was Sarah, some 2-3 years ago. She had betrayed me with a male friend I had previously thought to be gay and overnight had gone from my love to a straight chick who mildly disapproved of me. I had foresworn anybody for at least a year after that heartbreak and time and work had kept me from changing that.

In short, I was sublimating hard and the mystery women was unlocking all the hormones I had repressed through the betrayal and fights and slamming doors. I felt like I was back in high school again, lusting after the cheerleaders in their short skirts as they blew kisses to their men on the team. I was in rut and I was helpless to do anything about it.

After an hour of internalized debate over whether to walk over or not, the decision was made for me as my mystery women left the restaurant jovially exiting and talking blasely on a small Nokia cell phone.

Once she was gone, the spell broke and I felt like a moron. I had sat there and let her slip from my hands. She may have been a heterosexual or in a relationship or one of a thousand things, but I had never got up to even inquire. Dejected and self-blasted I finished my drink, it was now watery and warm from the time spent in my hand and beyliikdüzü escort a waiter slowly came over and gave me my bill for the drink and the small plate of what I learned later to be pigeon that I had ordered to prolong my visual worship of the mystery woman.

I walked out into the dwindling day to return to my hotel and get a good rest before the next day’s tour to the Giza pyramids. My steps were forlorn and melancholy and every thought turned into a dream about the mystery lady and her emerald eyes.

I masturbated furiously back in the hotel, desperately plunging my fingers in grim hope to allay my mad desire and infatuation that was awakened in me, but nothing seemed enough. I wished I had brought my 7-minute girlfriend along, but the security measures that have been in place since 9-11 have made me wary to bring any items on a plane that are “too personal.”

Frustrated I fell asleep my fingers still buried in my naked cunt and dreamed softly of emerald eyes and earthen brown skin.

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Ch. 2

I awoke irate to my telephone wake-up call. My evening fantasies had caused me to toss most of my sheets and pillows off the bed and left my eyes puffy and red with lack of sleep.

I was thus, not in the best of moods when I arrived at the tour jeeps. I was awake, a cold shower, very cold (I’d complained quite angrily to the manager of the hotel about the odd lack of hot water in my room) had seen to that. I had a cigarette dangling out of my mouth. I’m not often a smoker, but when I’m angry or frustrated, I find myself lighting up. I had my shades on, black and tilted forward as if daring someone to comment on them. On top of this I had my large camera bag draped over my shoulder.

Overall I looked more butch than I had in awhile despite my continued wearing of my sundress. I briefly cursed my Irish blood for making me so averse to the dry heat of a desert and hoped the strength of my deodorant would last throughout the trip.

As I approached the group my mood darkened a little. The pervasiveness of cowboy hats from Americans who’d decided that they might as well check out the Pyramids before all the Muslims rebelled against them. They were talking loudly about how stupid A-rabs were and how they couldn’t get a good Budweiser down here and why did McDonalds cost so much.

The young drivers loaded the bags up onto the jeeps and tried their best to smile away the insults against their religion and people and I empathized quietly behind my seething. If there was anyone who knew how bad an American tourist could be, it was me.

I might have remained in such a fearful mood all day, if it had not been for the arrival of the tour guide for the trip. The cigarette dropped into the desert sands of the edge of the city with a soundless plop. I recognized immediately the bewitching emerald eyes of my mystery woman from the restaurant. My jaw froze in shock as I watched her hold her clipboard in front of her and march confidently like a ring-mistress around the jeeps.

My heart skipped a bit as she turned towards me. I wondered if I was awake or dreaming as she stared into my eyes and approached. I felt drawn, excited, lost as she approached close enough to smell the heady scent of the Nile on her. Inches from me, she stared deep into my eyes and my brain was too flustered to do anything but soundlessly mumble syllables.

All of a sudden, the spell was broken as she bent down suddenly and picked up my carelessly dropped butt. She turned away carrying the cigarette and told everyone not to litter in the deserts and to dispose of all their refuse in a special trash-bag on the lead jeep. Her accent of English was slightly mid-eastern but carried much more of a British tone. I would learn later that this was because she had been educated in her youth at Oxford.

The voice also carried something behind the stilted London trill. There was an undertone of time and tradition and the shifting sands of the desert and most of all the promise of great things to come. I smiled through the flush of my embarrassment and in a trick of the heat I thought I saw her glance back over her shoulder at me and wink.

My spirits thus lifted and consequently my panties soaked, I fell in with the other tourists who had all ceased their cacophony of Americanisms. We listened all of us entranced as she told of the purpose of the trip, the nature of the pyramids, and the respect we must show when we view them. She then began to read off the jeep assignments.

Whether it was fate or providence or mere coincidence that I got placed in her jeep, I know not, but I was not going to question it. I sat in the seat behind hers while she spoke over the intercom to the other jeeps about the history of the Egyptian people, the complex rituals for the voyage of dead kings into the Afterlife, about the myth of Anubis and the weighing of one’s heart against a single feather. The talk was fascinating but in many ways bodrum escort a rehash of the histories I learned in college and I found myself focusing on the beauty before me.

She called herself Angua and through the blowing scent of the desert wind, I smelled her. She carried the Nile with her and its scent of warm wet breezes, reeds, and mystery overwhelmed every sense. I felt myself completely owned by her and wanted nothing more than to taste her, drink in her scent, confirm my suspicions that her beauteous mound would taste similarly like mead. I wanted to get drunk off that taste.

She wrapped up a long talk and took a quick break to down some water in a plastic bottle that she had in her pack. The water running over her lips was agonizingly sweet torture to me and I bit my lip to try and suppress the rising emotions.

Looking back as she drank, she stared deep within me as if tasting my lust, letting it run over her. I felt the stare deep within me as if she could taste the heat of my loins with it and she smiled enigmatically at me.

“What’s your name, luv?”

The question burned unexpectedly for a moment and I found myself stammering like a boy at his first strip club. My Irish blood reddened my face like a Christmas ornament as well, broadcasting my extreme embarrassment to the world.

“B-B-Bernice,” I finally stammered out quickly and with a not so small feeling of relief. Angua’s emerald eyes sparkled for a second as she seemed to muse over the name.

“Quite a nice name,” she said at last, her eyes never once moving from their direct gaze into mine. “So you’re a camerawoman?”

Not trusting myself enough to speak, I nodded affirmative. My heart was beating heavily in my chest and I could feel my throat going suddenly dry. Angua watched me like a jackal as I discreetly shifted my legs, letting them rub ever so slightly against my clit. Angua smiled.

“I have always been fascinated with cameras, but I have never been able to get very good pictures. Perhaps, you’ll be so kind as to take a few photos that I can have,” her voice developed a deeper undertone and I felt the draw of the Nile delta, feeling the slow pull towards the Mediterranean Sea.

Greece is just north of us, I thought suddenly and randomly. These spun into thoughts of the Amazons, Aphrodite, and mostly of Sappho. I felt myself grow weak at the knees at this thought and then just as quickly a nagging thought pulled at me: Was this beautiful Egyptian flirting with me?

She smiled at me. “So would you be able to do that for me?”

“I…uh, I think so,” my normal verbosity was quite literally demolished into broken inanities under Angua’s intense emerald eyes. Like cat’s eyes, I thought. Instinctively I remembered my thoughts of Bast’s rough tongue. I couldn’t help but smile dazedly.

She smiled secretly back at me and then returned to her tour guide duties explaining the history of the desert, the native flora and fauna, and all the other usual random tidbits of information that pollute the quiet moments of a scheduled tour. Through it all, I could feel Angua looking at me through the corner of her beautiful Arabian eyes and I thrilled to it.

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Ch. 3

The tour was overall fun and interesting, but a little underwhelming overall. I set up and took a bunch of shots of the pyramids and sphinx, getting a few killer photos to post around my room or in a few specialized places in the magazine. Angua let one of the male drivers take much of the group over around the pyramid while she stayed behind to watch me finish my photography. Once the group got out of sight, she spoke.

“I saw you watching me yesterday,” she said betraying no emotion in her voice. It was said as merely an irrefutable fact and even if I had wanted to deny it I would have found myself quite unable.

“Yes, I did,” I said glibly, though not as well as I could. The intense emerald eyes were still holding me captive and the ever-present scent of the Nile still held me transfixed. Only my intense concentration on my job kept me from melting into idiocy again. “I’m sorry if I offended you by doing so and-“

“Hush,” she said approaching me in her cat-like gait. “I notice you are of the Sapphic persuasion, are you not?”

“Yes…” I responded wondering hopefully if this was really occurring as I hoped.

“Good. There are so few of us in Cairo and a woman can get lonely awfully quick,” Angua muttered, her voice dripping so sensually that I could feel the passion of a thousand Emperor’s mistresses radiate across the dunes. She wrapped her arms softly around my neck and kissed me gently.

Her lips were as soft as silk and tasted slightly of honey wine. I let myself fall into the kiss letting go of all my self-control. I pushed my tongue hesitantly forward, parting her lips and entering her mouth. Her tongue was slightly rough but expertly sensuous. She wrapped herself around my tongue and massaged it, pushing bolu escort it ever slowly back into my own mouth. The sensation caused my eyes to flutter open with raw lust and excitement and I saw her eyes on the other side shut tight enjoying the kiss.

Oh God yes, I thought as the kiss stretched on for minutes. My loins began to buzz with excitement and my love juice began to drip slowly down my thigh. I could feel the weight of three years of pure sublimation hit me hard as every pore in my body wanted to ravish the Arabian beauty right here in the sands in front of the Pyramids.

Angua broke the kiss first and pulled back, leaving me looking a bit like a gaping fish, desperate for the taste of her saliva again. “Mmm,” she exclaimed. “That was nice. Well, photographer Bernice, I must say we need to finish this conversation later at my house.”

“Eh?” I felt a bit like a bitch in heat whose coitus is suddenly interrupted by a splash of water. Angua just smiled as the male driver returned with the group and she walked away from me. Her hips swayed ever so slightly and her brown skin glistened in the high desert sun. I was seduced completely and utterly and I knew it. My thoughts turned to the night and what it would bring and my panties became so soaked that they would hardly be usable again.

I took no more photos for the remainder of the day. My thoughts were so preoccupied with the night ahead that I couldn’t concentrate on even the most basic of photographic tasks. I found myself impatient as we were shown the ancient tombs of kings. The morbid thought that I was getting so hot in the midst of so much necropolictic glory, worried me briefly, but overall I paid it no mind.

Time faded at around that time. I knew that the tour had come to a close and we had packed back into the jeeps for a return to the tour location, but I couldn’t remember a second of it. I remember briefly being told that Angua would take her personally to her house and everything for an hour after that sensual statement faded completely from all forms of memory.

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Ch. 4

The next thing that I remembered in fact was embracing Angua in her doorway, pulling her tight against my body, letting her curvaceous body press against me. Her desert heat warmed deep into my lust and I found myself pounding my tongue deep into her mouth, drinking of her saliva as if it was soma or ambrosia.

I let my hand wander down to her ass which straddled the line between non-existent and too large in a perfect way allowing me to squeeze its firm and curved beauty. I let my hands work on this task as I kissed deeply and slowly began to feel hands lifting my dress up.

I broke the kiss long enough for Angua to lift my sweaty flower dress over my head. My white freckled breasts stood out from my body pertly and invitingly for her caress. And caress she did, taking each in her brown hands and manipulating them softly and carefully. Every few seconds, she’d brush the nipples and after little more than a minute, she bowed down to kiss them.

The feeling of her warm mouth on my breasts was enough to send shudders through my body. This was the first time in three years that I had felt the sensation and the brushes of her cat-like tongue against my nipples were doing the job of a thousand vibrators. I began to moan earnestly and placed my hand on the back of her long dark hair and pressed her into me.

Angua conquered my breasts completely and utterly and I the Jewish slave could do nothing but enjoy her ministrations. With the heat of lust building in both of us, the smell of the Nile increased and pervaded every corner of the room. Everywhere seemed to be the smell of the reeds.

After what seemed like days but likely not more than fifteen-twenty minutes, she stopped suckling my breasts and began to slowly lift her own flowered shirt. Taking the break and opportunity, I fumbled with the front of her jeans, undoing them and slowly pulling them down.

Her beautiful Arabian hips appeared from the top of the jeans and I desired instantly to worship them. I jerked her jeans to her feet as quickly as possible and feel to my knees in front of her as she pulled her shirt off completely. I gripped her panties as if they were the entrance to a temple and reverently I peeled them down as well.

The mound revealed unto me was more perfect than I could imagine. A mass of black fur covering a light brown panty line with lips that jutted out so pinkly that they could do nothing but draw attention. The mound itself was shaped into a near perfect v so that all came to a very special point.

Grinning I asked her briefly if the Qu’ran said anything about cunnilingus being an abomination before I began. She stopped for a second at the minor break of the mood.

“You know…I don’t think it says anything at all about it or even lesbian sex in general. And now if you’re done with the theological discussion, can you please get to work on my cunt?”

“Yes, mistress,” I replied with a smile, dropping her softly onto the ground and spreading her legs. I saw the delta in her cunt and softly I began to drink of it. I moved softly at first, running my tongue along the folds of her labia, tracing its pink path in the desert browns that surrounded it.

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