The lights are dimmed. There is some incense burning, and the room is warm. I am encouraged to take my clothes off. The laptop shines on the floor, emitting a sound that is eastern, a slow drum beat with an occasional moan. No pan pipes. He asks for a scarf to cover me with, I hand him a Hammam towel, which he places like a shroud over me. He tells me to close my eyes. I feel him scamper across the bed and sit on his haunches behind my head. His hands start to caress my neck and shoulders. It’s hard not to giggle. The music and the situation is amusing; the fact that this was totally unexpected too. Not half an hour ago we were having a drink in the pub. And now this.
(Much later, when I’m thinking about the experience and reliving it to write, I wonder if this was actually the brush off. What was in it for him, I wonder?”)
His hands massage my arms, my hands, my legs and feet. I am not turned on until he gently pulls my legs apart. His hands work up my thighs and I grow wet. Maybe he senses this because next I feel his tongue on my nipples, and I giggle. I slip in and out of a dream in which I am Cleopatra travelling on a boat down the Nile flanked by servants and slave girls. The incense and slow drum beat add to this. But the sighing noises bring me back to my room and the situation. I want to be fucked now; I want his hands inside me and his body on mine.
But I stop myself because he is in control here, I am the passive vessel for his ridiculous magic. He wears only his boxers; yet I cannot tell if he is hard, big or turned on. I am so close to orgasm now. When he asks me to turn over it is a relief. I can’t place my head comfortably so I wiggle a little and he asks if I’m okay. He works on my shoulders and neck again and on my hands and wrists. The oil smells divine, but I do worry about my sheets. His hands travel again up my thighs and I no longer have control of my body.
Do I orgasm? I feel like a queen. That is enough.