Twinges of fear crawl around behind Rikki Lovette’s breasts. She nervously drums her fingers on the rented Fiat’s steering wheel. Out the side window, Gourad Street is a glitter-fest of blinking neon. A half-block down, the Kremlin Club’s garish sign beacons brightly in English and Arabic.

B A R     B A R

L I V E    N U D E    G I R L S

“So this is the Paris of the Middle East,” Rikki mumbles softly. Her golden-brown eyes scan what lies between her and the club’s entrance. The packed sidewalk is a treacherous obstacle course. Milling around are tough-looking Lebanese street thugs shouting and scuffling with rowdy Russian soldiers. Mysterious burnoose-clad Arabs lurk in the shadows. Shifty-looking gawwads work an alley entrance, hawking street-sluts to any scumbag who’ll listen to their pitch. Two of the girls remotely resemble Britney Speers on her worst day. Three others are the size of a Mongolian cows.

Jack Parsons’ voice echoes in her ears. “Tread lightly Rikki. Beirut can be a dangerous city for an ambitious American news reporter, particularly a pretty girl like you.”

“Screw it,” Rikki mutters. “Gemmayzeh can’t be any worse than Chicago’s South Side after dark.” She raises defenses to redline and gets out of the Fiat. Tucking her purse tightly under her arm, she ventures down the sidewalk.

Inside the Kremlin Club, six spot lit exotic dancers shake, stretch and strip on white pedestals. An Egyptian rock band blasts out an ear-splitting rendition of the Rolling Stones’ “Let it Bleed.” The strippers are Eastern European or Oriental, save one. Alchena Yamun is the tallest. Her generous olive-toned curves are stuffed into tiny bright orange booty-shorts and a silk camisole top. Undulating to the music, she draws her butt-cheeks across a chrome pole, waggling her hips back and forth then sliding up and down. On a music beat, she whirls around, flexing her knees and rubbing the pole between her legs while gazing provocatively toward the whooping gaggle of drooling men at her feet.

Outside on Gourad Street, Rikki raises a small tape recorder near her lips. “Beirut’s red-light district could be anywhere, London, Amsterdam, even Tel Aviv.” She pauses and glances into a derelict building. “Amongst the danger, glitz and glamour, pathetic Palestinian refugees squat and watch Lebanon’s rich speed past in brand new Mercedes. In some aspects of life here, it’s hard to believe that any bloody conflict ever took place. The occasional covered Muslim woman seems to co-exist naturally with the young happy-go-lucky Lebanese girls dressed in stylish club wear.”

A slimy Arab in a black burnoose steps from the shadows. “Fuckie-fuckie-suckie-suckie?” he whispers as Rikki passes.

“Charra alaik,” she snaps in Arabic.

The man’s eyes bloom at the “shit on you” insult. Rikki’s nerves tighten. It looks like he’s about to spring at her. Quickening her pace, she ignores a barrage of wolf-whistles and goes inside the club.

Clouds of tobacco smoke sting Rikki’s eyes. The place is a sardine can. Music and shouting voices are loud enough to split eardrums. Boozed-up Arabs, wretched Russians and loose Lebanese cheer as spotlighted strippers whirl around, taking the tit-out-of-the-top look to its grossest level. Atop the long bar, three butt-ugly sluts jiggle and shake like ungainly drones. Dozens of topless waitresses scurry about with trays of beer and vodka held high over their heads. Cautiously, Rikki ventures forward.

A man groans.

Rikki’s eyes swing to a dark booth. Right out in the open, a leggy blonde is on her knees giving fellatio to a bearded Russian soldier.

Rikki yanks her eyes from the disgusting scene. Gawd, this is about as pleasant as watching a vulture regurgitate a belly-full of road-kill. “Note to self,” she says into the recorder. “Gemmayzeh is worse than the South Side after dark.” She cranes her neck looking for Alchena Yamun.

Atop her pedestal, Alchena’s glorious breasts bounce under the camisole with each vigorous dance step. Her long jet-black hair flies as she whips her head back and forth, thrusting her elbows up and down like pistons in a car engine.

Suddenly, Rikki has a distinct feeling of being watched, but writes it off as just some horny asshole ogling the snow-white Versace Jeans and flashy crystal silver backless top.

Twenty-feet away, a pair of intense eyes scan the American woman like the probing beams of Doppler radar. The Arab’s build is like a boxcar. Long, slicked-down hair surrounds a dark face that wears a relentless stone-like expression. Massive muscles strain against the white undershirt he wears. Ear-ringed ears and huge tattooed biceps complete an imposing presence that even the toughest dare not challenge. Moving forward, he watches Rikki like a hungry hawk.

“Excuse me,” Rikki says to a passing waitress. “I’m looking for Alchena Yamun. Does she work here?”

The waitress stops, sizes Rikki up then tilts the top of her head. “Center pedestal honey. She free in ten minutes. Cough up fifty bucks and she lick your pussy. You like?”

“Ah, no thanks.” Rikki looks toward the center pedestal. Alchena is facing away from the dozens of disgusting dudes crowed at her feet. Their arms look like wiggling octopus tentacles as they try to touch her white knee-high go-go boots. She bends over. Men roar as she tightens her muscled ass-cheeks. Putting her hand between her legs, she slides her fingers up and down her butt-crack working her shorts’ silky material deeper in herself.

“Gawd do I detest nudie bars,” Rikki mutters. Suddenly, he recoils as if she’s just been slapped. She whips around. In this shoulder-to-shoulder crowd, no way to tell whom the guilty party was. “Big mistake,” she mumbles. “Should ‘a chucked the Versace look and gone with frickin’ chain mail.”
 

Although surrounded by freewheeling sex, the tattooed Arab can’t tear his eyes away from that blonde dressed in white. He works his way closer, his black eyes affixed to her every tormenting curve and voluptuous valley. What a bosom, he thinks to himself. That blouse is as thin as gauze. She wears no brassiere, leaving her ornaments to ride free and high. He chuckles. That bitch will be a generous serving for the man who’ll claim her for the night.

Alchena’s chest aches from relentless bouncing and jiggling. The taste of sour semen still haunts her mouth. Men whoop as she squats and pushes her finger under her booty-shorts to caress and tease her pussy mound. It’s still tender after accepting two repulsive Uzbek’s cocks ten minutes earlier. Rising, she pivots and flexes like a cobra snake. The blinding spotlight swings away. Below, in the mishmash of shouting men, the American blonde stands out like a white rose in a patch of ugly brown weeds. That’s gotta be her, she says to herself.

The music switches to bone-rattling thuds. White strobe lights blink. Sandwiched in the mob of men, Rikki winces. Gawd, don’t these people ever bathe? The Russians stink like fesses and the Arabs, well they smell worse than a herd of Syrian camels. Suddenly something pushes repeatedly against her backside. She whirls around to confront the attacker. Lit by pulsing strobe lights is a gigantic coal-black blubbery chest, white teeth and a pair of eyes – lusty African eyes.

“Do you fuck as good as you look?” the African asks, as his massive amounts of fat jiggle to the sharp thudding music.

Rikki totters back for a second, gawking at his sheer size.

He steps closer. “How much to do-it?”

“Blow it out your ass, twinkle-toes,” she snaps right into the African’s face.

The African laughs. Without warning, he grabs her, mashing her body to his. Five grimy oil workers close in. They laugh as she struggles to no avail. He’s just too damn strong. Suddenly, a powerful arm clamps around the African’s jaw. The oil workers stop laughing and quickly move away. Huge tattooed biceps clench, snapping the African’s head backward. “Let her go,” a grating voice growls.

Rikki wrenches free and bulldozes her way through the gawking onlookers.

Hot breath grazes the fat African’s ear. “Get lost asshole,” the big Arab snarls. “Cuz I hate fatsos, I hate faggots, and most of all – I hate niggers.”

The African’s eyes grow wide as saucers. The tattooed man shoves him. He beats a hasty withdrawal.

Atop her pedestal, Alchena dances and watches Rikki’s humiliating retreat. “Bad news, girlie,” she says through a soft giggle. “You won’t last long messing with these wolves.” She pushes her foot forward toward a hungry Russian. He sticks out his tongue and licks her boot as if it were a lollipop.

Ten feet away, the tattooed Arab has a curious glint in his eyes. He follows Rikki, apparently magnetized the implied display of backdoor cleavage. Now there’s a babe that really fills a pair of trousers, he thinks to himself. Bitch’s feisty too. She knows she has half the schmucks in this place pissing their pants with her provocative clothes and flirtatious look. He cocks his head and leans toward the lanky weasel-like man at his side.

“Mohammad? See that American woman?”

“She is a juicy one,” the weasel says.

“Find out who she is and where she stays.”

The weasel nods. “We gonna employ her? American girls fetch big money in Cairo.”

“Not just yet,” the big Arab says. He looks toward Alchena.

Atop her pedestal, she’s stroking her pussy with one hand. With the other, she lifts each breast, rolling her nipples, which protrude provocatively through her thin top. She looks down. Rikki squeezes through the men at the base of Alchena’s pedestal. She looks up and waves. Alchena smiles down at her and nods.

Suspicion instantly paints the big Arab’s dark face. “Something’s going down,” he tells the weasel. “Watch that American woman. Report what you see.”

The weasel shrugs his bony shoulders and nods.

“Asshole,” Rikki growls as she elbows another butt-pincher. Dammit. Being pawed and getting goosed aren’t in the job description. Better retreat to safer ground.

Skirting a group of rugged Iraqi oil workers, Rikki takes refuge in a less populated spot. She sits on the edge of an empty table. The noise is deafening. The stench of stale booze, stale hashish and fresh piss invade her nostrils. “Nothing like spending a romantic evening in a sewer,” she grumbles aloud. Her eyes sweep past the weasel-like man. That guy could be an ax-murderer in a Stephen King novel. She swings her gaze to the young girl she’s about to interview. “Alchena’s geometry is trim and tight,” she says into the recorder. “When these guys fantasize about a harem queen, Alchena’s image would be front row center.”

An ear-piercing shriek cuts off Rikki’s thoughts. Drums pound. Cymbals clash. Spotlight beams swing in wide arcs. Rikki stands to see what the commotion is all about.

Alchena screams at the top of her lungs. Cloth tears as she violently rips her camisole to shreds, vibrates her naked chest wildly and tosses the shredded garment into the cheering mob. Rikki shakes her head. That’ll be fodder for wet dreams for years. Rikki’s nostrils flare. There’s a heady scent of fresh booze and stale body odor. She tenses. There’s a disconcerting feeling of uninvited hands sliding around her waist.

“Mister,” she says softly without turning around. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep your hands off me.”

He laughs, tightening his hold to her waist. Hot breath fans across her ear. “You make joke, yes?” he says in a low grating voice.

She squirms as the hands inch upward – toward her breasts. She twists around slowly. Lusty Lebanese eyes greet hers’.

“You don’t hear too good, do you?” she says with a deadpan look.

“Oh baby, you’re so well, soft and warm.”

“I’m glad,” Rikki says, her tone cool and smooth. “But you see, you don’t understand.”

“What don’t I understand?”

“That I’m a paid assassin and I’m working this party.”

He freezes instantly. His hands jerk away. Lust melts from his face in an instant. As he backs away, Rikki follows, her head forward, aggressively invading his space.

“Okay buster, as I see it, you got two picks here. Hang round, and you get caught in the crossfire. Then you go home to mama in a rubber bag. Or, you can buzz off and go jack-off in the toilet.”

“Ah, sorry-sorry,” he says backing away. “See-ya.”

“Gawd, what’s next?” Rikki mutters. “Some smelly scumbag offering a hundred bucks to chew the rivets off my jeans?” Moving around a waitress, she makes her way toward the very back of the club.

The weasel follows, nonchalantly keeping an eye on her every move. He too is smitten by Rikki’s natural good looks and raw sex appeal.

Rikki sits down at a round table, orders a Club Soda and continues her electronic note taking. “The locals and tourists alike seem happy. However, scratch the surface and the reminders of civil war, and the irony of it, are never far away. Say the wrong thing and the rebellious side of Beirut can rear up with the dagger-like teeth of a Tyrannosaurus Rex.” She pauses and sips her drink. “Definite divisions still sizzle in Lebanon. Smoldering religious fundamentalism sits side by side with naked consumerism –.”

Ten minutes later Alchena’s curvy figure materializes from the thick smoke. Rikki’s eyebrows rise. Alchena has changed into chocolate-colored-curve-loving latex pants and a silky beige Baby-doll tee. Chopped just below her breasts, it hugs her chest like a fine coating of body spray. Stiletto-heal boots complete the diva-display. But the Muslim headscarf looks ridiculously out of place.

“Come here often?” Alchena asks.

Rikki shrugs. “Only when I have an uncontrollable urge for smelly armpits.”

She laughs at Rikki’s quick wit. They introduce each other. As Alchena sits down, Rikki can’t help but notice the rhinestones that circle a daring oval hole cut just below the pants’ back waistband.

“Now that’s a rear-view that’d make a blind man drool,” Rikki says through a smile.

“In my business, what’s better than bare?” Alchena giggles. “Okay, Miss Rikki Lovette. You’re a reporter. I’m a hooker. Make me famous.”

Rikki switches on the small tape recorder. “Let’s start with where you were born.”

“Between my mother’s legs.”

Rikki laughs. “The bigger picture please.”

“Palestine. The Gaza Strip. It’s on all the tourist guidebooks. If you’re a Jew, watch out for wayward missiles.”

“I’m not Jewish, but I’ll certainly keep that in mind.”

As she speaks about her childhood, Rikki watches her face. Alchena is strikingly lovely. Her big brown eyes are wise, her lips luscious and smile infectious.

“School?” Rikki asks.

“No school. If your parents tell you you're stupid enough times you start to believe it.” She sighs. “Once I did dream of going to America to live with the Brady Bunch.”

“Their loss,” Rikki says with a chuckle.

“Also, I dream about fall in love, like in American movies and,” she pauses mid-sentence. “Being a young Arab girl is curse!”

Rikki arches an eyebrow. “Why do you say that?”

She leans forward in her chair. “Alchena’s story make you sick. You like sick?”

Rikki gestures to her bare belly with her thumb. “Strong stomach.”

“You won’t print my story in your magazine.”

“Rikki smiles. “Try me.”

“Okay, you’re on.” Alchena leans even closer. “My father beat me when I was six. He sodomized me when I was eight. Then my uncle raped me when I was ten.”

Rikki winces.

“When I was eleven, Father say, ‘you marry cousin Ja-ja Muk-moody.’ I was just a kid. No tits, no hair, no nothing.”

Rikki slides the recorder closer. “Tell me about him.”

“Ja-ja Muk-moody has bad temper. He love fighting and want go to Iraq. He want to join the Islamist insurgency and make war with the Americans. He tell Alchena he like killing more than woman.”

“Wow, that’s romantic.”

“After wedding, Ja-ja Muk-moody take me to dirty hotel. He say, ‘take off clothes.’ Alchena so scared. When I say no, he hit me. I hit him back. Then I run into the toilet and lock the door. Muk-moody is real mad. He breaks the door. He has big knife. He yells, ‘do-it or I cut you between your legs.’”

Rikki cringes. “Oh jeeze.”

“Then he push me on the floor and hit my face and – and cuts hijab from my body. His penis is so big. My vulva can’t open. He yells ‘Alchena frigid bitch.’ I was so mad I spit in his face. Then he twist this arm so hard I thought I’d die. Doctor say shoulder socket broke. Muk-moody told doctor it was a nuptial gift. They both laugh at me.”

“Nice way to start a marriage. What happened next?”

“Mak-moody tell doctor to cut me open. Next time he try fuckie, it felt like he going to toilet in me. Alchena throw up on him.”

Her words make Rikki’s skin crawl.

“When Mak-moody come home from making war, he tie me up, strip me down, take me, and then piss in my face when he was done.”

Rikki's stomach knots. “Oh you poor thing.”

“I dare you to print THAT in your magazine.”

“It’ll go in word-for-word. Tell me, how’d you wind up here?”

“One day, Mak-moody smuggles me into Lebanon. He takes me to whorehouse. He say, ‘Go, learn to be proper woman.’ Then he go away.”

“That’s so sad.”

Alchena shrugs. “Whorehouse is better than a hopeless life in Beirut streets. The girls take me in. There, I grow nice titties, learn good English, how to strip-dance and how to please a man.”

Rikki nods. “Tell me about the first time you ah, did-it.”

“He was a big-fat Saudi. I cried the whole time. But after a while –.”

On the other side of the club, the big Arab’s eyes widen as the weasel whispers in his ear. His thick tattooed biceps tighten.

Rikki looks into Alchena’s dark eyes. “Fakhri al-Amari said something about going to college?”

Alchena laughs. “And give up all this?”

“Then you’re not?”

She beams. “Three-point-four G.P.A. Alchena work hard and pay all. If Beirut police ever find me without papers, I go to horrid prison. So, I use forged papers and another name for school. When I have money, Alchena go back to Gaza and open safe house for troubled girls. Then –.”  Suddenly Alchena’s face goes chalk-white. She bites her lip.

“What’s the matter?” Rikki asks, instantly picking up on her concern.

“It Abu Bukhari.”

“qaHbeh!” a deep voice growls. “Are you working or talking?”

Alchena’s lips tremble. Expecting the worst, Rikki twists around. Abu Bukhari’s hands are firmly planted on his hips. The first five-seconds are like an electric shock. Thick thighs – fitted black pants – thin waist – enticing center bulge – massive tattooed biceps – wide muscled chest – rugged semi-attractive face – deep blackish liquid eyes – earrings. Put an electric guitar in his hands and he could be a rock star – a sexy rock star.

“Ma Ismok?” Bukhari says his dark eyes boring into Rikki’s.

Quickly recalling his thuggish attempt at gallantry, she dredges up her best nice-to-meet you smile. “Ana ismee Rikki Lovette. I’m a reporter wi–.”

Bukhari suddenly grabs Rikki’s arm and yanks her up. The chair tumbles to the floor with a clatter.

“Hey? Who pissed in your Wheaties?” Rikki snaps.

Bukhari jerks her closer. They’re eye-to-eye.

“Let go or I’ll scream,” Rikki hisses.

Bukhari laughs. “Oh you’ll scream all right. When I take you to the toilet and fuck you right up your round American ass.”

That ignites a bombshell that starts in Rikki’s boobs and explodes right between her butt-cheeks. “How dare you! I’m a professional American journalist and –.

“Please Abu,” Alchena whimpers softly. “Leave her alone. We were just talk–.”

Bukhari spits in Alchena’s face. “Your mouth is not paid for talking,” he shouts. “Go back to work. There are customers to be serviced.”

Rikki struggles to shove the butterflies from her belly. “Listen, we were –.”

Bukhari’s eyes narrow. “No talk! Now turn around slowly. I want to look you over.”

Fear grabs Rikki like a boa constrictor. How to respond to that?

Abu Bukhari shoves her. “I said turn around!”

Regaining her balance, Rikki looks toward Alchena. She’s frozen where she sits, her expression pleading to do what he says. Quickly remembering her own Tyrannosaurus Rex metaphor, Rikki turns around. Her eyes widen. Holy-shit, the bastard’s feeling me up. Scream or slug the S.O.B.?

Suddenly, there’s a loud sound of shattering glass. A woman shrieks. Angry shouts and hateful slurs boomerang around the club. The music comes to an unsettling halt.

“Cus, charra alaik!” a man yells from somewhere in the tense crowd.

All hell breaks loose. Arabs slug Russians. Screaming girls bolt. Others duck for cover. Beer mugs and whiskey bottles fly by Rikki’s face like buzz bombs.

Good-god, I’ve walked into a freekin’ bar brawl, Rikki thinks, trying to twist her upper arm free from Bukhari’s vice-like grip. A longhaired Lebanese careens into a nearby table. Bukhari jerks her out of the way as a barrage of empty beer bottles fly by and crash to the floor.

“Lookout,” Rikki shrieks.

There’s a thud as an airborne chair strikes Bukhari in his back. The grip on Rikki’s arm slackens. She twists free. Abu Bukhari’s open hand swat stings her left butt-cheek. She tries to bolt, but he grabs her shoulder and spins her around.

“Dream about it bitch,” he says over the angry shouts of the brawling mob. “I’ll pry your ripe American ass open one day.” Drawing back a fist, he slugs a passing Lebanese and then charges into the chaos.

Rikki frantically looks left then right, unsure whether to run or stay put. Three feet away, a fat Russian has one of the half-naked dancers by her hair. The huge African staggers by. A dirty oil worker raises a chair and smashes it against the African’s face. The blow sends the African to the floor like a stone made of jelly. A flying tray misses Rikki’s cheek by inches. She feels Alchena tugging her arm.

“Get down,” Alchena yells. They crouch, using the upended table as a shield.

“W-who was that whacko with the tattoos?” Rikki stammers.

“Miss Lovette, you get out – now. Go straight to airport. Take first airplane back to America.”

“Wait, what’d I do?”

“Bukhari wants YOU. Abu Bukhari is bad man. He gunman for Hezbollah.”

Rikki gulps. “Hezbollah? The militants?”

“Very dangerous militants. You in big danger.”

“Danger? Why?”

“Abu Bukhari LUSTS for you. He want your ass.”

“My ass?” Her eyes narrow. “I dare him to fuckin’ try.”

“You do not understand. Abu Bukhari kidnaps young girls. He use them, then sell them to brothel in Cairo.”

Suddenly, Rikki's stomach feels like she’s just ingested a wad of camel snot.

“He has many connections. He has many henchmen. They find you. Then Bukhari take you –.”

Suddenly there’s a loud crash as bottle explodes on the wall just behind them. Rikki covers her head with her hands as a shower of whiskey and bits of glass rain down.

“Yel-la,” Alchena says, feverishly pointing to her left. “Get out. That door. That way.”

Rikki’s eyes are wild. She zeros in on the door. Four robed Afghans, who are scrapping like angry dogs, block that escape. She hears muffled squeaks of protest. The fat Russian wrestles the topless girl to the floor. The girl twists and shrieks as he mauls her naked breasts.

“Fuckin’ Rusk,” Alchena growls.

The girl raises her head and bites down hard on his earlobe. The Russian yelps. Suddenly he’s on his feet. He raises his foot. Rikki cringes. There’s a thwack as the Russian’s boot impacts her jaw. A white object lands next to Rikki’s knee with a ticktack. It’s a bloody tooth.

Alchena’s cheeks redden. Her leg muscles tense. She lowers her head, ready to charge.

“No, don’t,” Rikki gasps.

Alchena shrieks like a banshee as she leaps from behind the table. Her head catches the Russian right in his nose. The crunch says he’d gotten the worst of that. Rikki ducks to avoid another flying bottle. She peers from behind the table. Alchena raises a muscled leg and slams the sharp toe of a stiletto-heal boot right into the Russian’s groin. He bellows in pain, drops to the floor and doubles over into the fetal position. Alchena plants her boot sole on the side of his face.

“Get out!” Alchena screams in Rikki’s direction.

Crouched on all fours, the door looks a mile away. The pathway is a sea of jagged broken glass.

“Egry besoraa!” Alchena yells. “Run. Run fast!”

Getting up, Rikki starts to scramble toward it. What if that damn door is locked? Her eyes dart left and right, frantically looking for an alternate escape route. A body careens into a table. There’s a loud crunch as a man’s head hits the cement a foot from Rikki’s feet. His nose is bloody and his teeth are awash in red. Two shirtless Egyptians gang-tackle him and pound on his face with closed fists.

Out of nowhere, a woman shrieks, “Look out! He’s got a gun!”

The word GUN hits Rikki like a lightening strike. Her heart skips a beat, clenches then hammers frantically in her chest. In a split-second, she’s at the door. The knob twists. With a push of her shoulder, the door swings open.

The overpowering stench of a back-alley dumpster invades Rikki’s nose. In the distance are the warbling sounds of approaching sirens. Gathering what’s left of her wits she lurches into a stumbling run toward Gourad Street, deathly afraid that any second some vicious thug might leap from the shadows and tackle her.

Police cars and military trucks are rolling up as Rikki runs down the sidewalk and jumps into the Fiat. Adrenaline pumping at double digits, she quickly locks the doors. Her trembling hands fumble with the keys.

Amidst the brawl, Abu Bukhari grabs Alchena’s hand. “Quickly,” he says. “Police come. You hide on my boat tonight.”

Alchena nods. With her in tow, Bukhari muscles his way toward a service entrance.

Outside, the weasel-like man appears from the alleyway. His beady eyes look up and down Gourad Street. He spots the blonde American wrenching a small blue Fiat from a parking space. Taking a pen, he jots down the license number on his palm. He hails a nearby taxi. The Fiat pulls away from the curb. The taxi falls in behind.

* * *

Wisps of drifting fog cloak the ink-like waters of Beirut Bay. Dozens of dilapidated fishing boats bob up and down, gently tugging at their dockside moorings. Across the misty darkness, a foghorn’s moan is distant and ghostly.

Two shadowy figures step aboard the fishing trawler Banu Sahm. They go into the main cabin.

The cabin is a cluttered filthy mess. Thick ropes hold two suspended bunks covered with dirty rumpled blankets. A dozen Kalashnikov assault rifles sit silently in a locked gun-rack. There’s a clink of a Zippo lighter. Orange light flickers across Abu Bukhari’s intimidating face. The brownish cigarette in his lips glows brightly. He exhales a cloud of brownish smoke, mixing the sweet scent of opium with the smells of diesel fuel and rotting fish.

Alchena looks at the imposing structure that’s standing just a foot away. Underneath her tight latex pants, her pussy clenches as she mentally prepares for what’s about to be.

“Thank you for protecting me from the police,” she says in a tone that’s soft and unafraid.

Bukhari nods. “I care for my women,” he says staring at Alchena’s breasts, thrusting slightly under the fitted Baby-doll tee. There’s a warm feeling between his legs. He cocks his head, watching as her upturned nipples emerge like twin thimbles as they push against the thin silky cloth.

“Whiskey?” Alchena asks in a soft submissive tone.

Bukhari grunts. As she goes about the appointed task, the glints from the rhinestones that surround that oval hole snare his gaze. Light teases her naked crevasse as her bare ass-cheeks roll provocatively inside the oval.

“Those trousers fit like a sausage casing,” he says.

Alchena looks over her shoulder. “I wear them just for you.”

Although Alchena’s beauty has his cock erect and throbbing, Bukhari’s mind drifts to that feisty blonde American. It is she, not the whore Alchena, who raises the hotter fire in his groin.

Five miles away, Rikki steers the blue Fiat toward her hotel. “Some investigative reporter I am,” she mutters. “Creepy Arabs feel me up like I’m fuckin’ fruit. I get hit-on every five-damn-seconds. Then I manage to get a Hezbollah white-slaver after my ass and get a brand new eight-hundred dollar Versace outfit soaked with cheap Lebanese whiskey.”

In the Banu Sahm’s cabin, Bukhari grabs a hunk of Alchena’s hair. He jerks her head back. Her neck-cords strain.

“So, do you want it now?” he breathes in her face

“Like the air I breathe,” Alchena gasps.

The lobby elevator at the Metropolitan Palace Hotel swishes open. Rikki steps into the small car. An elderly French couple follows. Both wrinkle their noses and cast a disgusted eye at Rikki.

“Elle a l’odeur d’une prostituée,” the old man whispers to the woman.

Rikki turns and looks him. On a whim, she molds her face into a smoky smile. “Fifty bucks, Gramps. Seventy-five and the wife can watch.”

Both look mortified, mumble something in French and scurry out the elevator door. It swishes shut. Rikki rolls her eyes as the elevator shoots upward. “Great career move Lovette. Now you can add ‘hooker’ to the already exaggerated résumé.” The elevator door opens.

The light from a kerosene lantern flickers on the trawler’s bulkhead. Below Alchena’s lower back, Bukhari’s finger circles the rhinestones then teases the tight confines between her ass-cheeks. Suddenly, he shoves her away. “Unbutton those trousers. Unzip them just a couple inches.”

“As you wish,” Alchena says. Her fingers slide the zipper toward a non-existent panty line.

“Get your Palestinian ass over here,” Bukhari barks.

Bukhari’s tattooed arms coil around Alchena’s body in a serpent’s squeeze. An involuntary squeak comes from her throat as his mouth covers hers’. The kiss is fierce. Crushed to his chest, her breasts become wonderfully warm and alive. There’s a bittersweet taste as his saliva flows on to her tongue. She feels a wild tremor quaking right through his clothing, through hers and into her thumping heart. Deep, natural arousal instantly heightens as his hands take charge of her breasts. She closes her eyes and whimpers softly as he gives one a solid squeeze.

“Yes, ummmm yessss,” she moans, feeling herself swell to the roughness of his sandpaper-like hands.

In room 912 at the Metropolitan Palace Hotel, steam clouds billow from the shower. Sudsy rivulets cascade down Rikki’s backbone, vanish into her crevasse, then fall, sending the acrid smell of whiskey to a watery grave. White soap bubbles grace her upper body flowing in an irregular course over her perfect up thrust breasts. As she washes, her thumb inadvertently brushes a nipple. There’s a slight feeling of burgeoning heat between her legs. For a moment, Rikki feels a trickle of inexplicable excitement in some subterranean spot. Abu Bukhari’s rock star face, huge tattooed muscles and tight male ass materialize behind her eyelids. “I wonder,” she muses aloud, slowly rubbing the soap bar across her nipple. “What would making love with a lusty rough-and-tumble Hezbollah gunman like Abu Bukhari be like?”

That thought brings on a slight tremor between Rikki’s legs. Releasing the breast, she reaches down and fans her clean-shaven pussy lips. Her finger finds her clit hard and extended. A mental image of that enticing center bulge in Bukhari’s pants flickers by. A brush across her clit-tip spawns a powerfully erotic jolt. She jerks her hand away. “Gawd Lovette,” she scolds herself. “How childish, getting zoned out fantasizing some Hezbollah’s big dick sodomizing your ass. The sadomasochistic louse probably fucks like a truck, sucks tit like an industrial milking machine and ejaculates enough bodily fluid to drown a small farm animal.”

In the shadowy cabin aboard the Banu Sahm, a knife blade presses against Alchena’s thrusting belly. Bukhari laughs as he slides the knife under the cropped Baby-doll top.

Alchena closes her eyes. Her nipples stiffen like rocks. “Cut it,” she murmurs.

From outside, the ghostlike foghorn sounds as the sharp knife blade slices the silky material up the center. Both breasts fall free to Bukhari’s hungry eyes.

Shampoo flows on to Rikki’s long blonde hair. “On the other hand,” she says aloud then switches to silent thought. An exclusive interview with a bona fide Hezbollah gunman like Abu Bukhari would be a journalistic coup. Who knows where it might lead? He might even pal around with Osama Bin Laden. Now that’d clinch a senior position at the New York office for sure. Her fingernails dig into her scalp. She frowns. It’ll cost though. Play a few aces and he’ll do it too. Taking a handful of shampoo suds, she reaches around and spreads it across her high-mounded rear. One soapy finger slides in and out of her crevasse, teasing her sphincter. An instantaneous flash of Bukhari’s masculine splendor invading that most private part triggers a slight warmish throb somewhere mysteriously deep.

Between Alchena’s legs, natural stimulation is flowing like a river. Her tingling pussy drips with liquid heat. Bukhari sucks her large dark nipple into his mouth. She closes her eyes as a wave of pleasurable warmth floods her pounding heart.

Rikki shuts off the shower and laughs as she squeezes the water from her hair. “How about calling it, I Did Anal with an Arab? A few nifty pictures and Playboy would pay big. Hell, the book deal alone would be worth a half-a mil.”

Beneath Alchena’s pants, she feels her outer-lips split open. Without panties, the wetness has to be soaking into the skin-tight latex. Spontaneous tingles suddenly spread, circling, exciting and hardening her clitoris as it pushes against the smooth latex.

“Get your mind out of the gutter Lovette,” Rikki says to the empty hotel room. As she towels herself dry, the thought keeps teasing her. She slowly drags the rough terrycloth between her legs. “Can I have a weakness for guys who kill for a living?” she whispers. She jerks the towel away. “Fuck him,” she says giving her reflection in the full-length mirror the finger. “No Hezbollah gunman with a rock star face sends Rikki Lovette’s butt into a feeding frenzy.”

Alchena lowers Bukhari pants. His erect cock slaps his belly. Since the first time, she’s been captivated by its size and just how masterful Bukhari’s cock is. As his mouth returns to her breast, her practiced hand slides his cock-skin up and down switching his incredible craving into severe physical want. A gentle nudge pops her nipple from his lips. The bunk’s springs squeak as she lies down. Bukhari’s muscled body is on top of her in a second. They roll over in anxious, desperate, open-mouth rolls. She winds up on top. He shoves her arms out so her breasts hang just inches above his face. His breathing is deep and labored. It’s as if what hangs just above his mouth are much-desired treasures. Breath catches in her throat as his fingernail runs along a breast’s bottom curve, then up, tracing the areola then the nipple-shaft.

“Ahhh-ooooo,” Alchena moans as he squeezes. Straining her neck, she licks his tattoo-covered biceps.

Bukhari’s neck muscles tighten. His head rises. Extending his tongue, he licks her left nipple. The roughness and warmth bring on a flood that engulfs both of Alchena’s breasts making them sizzle, tingle and quiver. The feeling works its way through her insides, bringing short, yet powerful twangs of deepening arousal.

From Alchena’s lips soft, guttural moans and coos flow out. His long licking movements arouse each nipple-tip, spreading through the shafts, and finally worming down to her pulsing pussy lips. “Take me Abu,” she whispers. “Take me rough.”

“Call the Washington Bureau,” Rikki barks into the phone as she paces. “I want complete details on one Abu Bukhari. That’s spelled A B U    B U K H A R I.”

Bukhari’s lips pull Alchena’s left nipple into his mouth. Alchena grits her teeth as he bites and chews.

“C’mon Julie, don’t ask how, just do it,” Rikki says into the phone. “Hey, screw a few frogs if you have to, but dig up who he is – what he is – and his relationship to Hezbollah. Yeah, yeah. Dammit Julie, you’re whining again. Yeah, I know he’ll piss and moan. But you tell Jack-boy Rikki said to turn the frikin’ screws or his wife finds out about that Vegas Hooters girl and her strap-on. Hold on a sec.” Rikki tosses the phone on the bed and slides a pinkish translucent teddy over her head. “Okay, back. Call Charlie Waggins over at the State Department. Use my name cuz Charlie owes me a really-big favor. Ask him for a full background bio. Tell him to check if Bukhari’s on their Delta-Danger watch-list. E-mail me everything. I wanna know it all, down to the size of Bukhari’s dick. Got that?”

A small smile crosses her lips as she hangs up the phone. “Humm, wonder how big he really is?” she whispers aloud. There’s that strange tingle between her butt-cheeks again . . . or, is it an itch?

Alchena’s mind swims. Although famous for his cruelty and possessiveness, she can’t ignore the shocks of excitement that surge inside her dripping pussy. Using her arms, she squeezes both breasts together, moving her torso from side to side, giving him first one nipple, then the other. With all of the pulling and sucking force his lips and cheeks can muster, he feasts, gorging himself with hard sucks and pulling tugs. For the longest time his entire world is riveted to Alchena’s breasts. Consumed in an undisciplined sea of sexual excitement, Bukhari grabs her arm and roughly rolls her on her back. Alchena’s stiletto-heal boots fly from her feet and hit a bulkhead with two thumps. His anxious hands jerk the latex pants over her hips. He smirks. There’s not a scrap of panties to deal with, not even a thong. Leaving her pants bunched around her ankles, he straddles her belly.

“Okay, slutty slave-girl,” Bukhari growls looking down at her. “Please me with your work.”

Alchena gazes at the glistening white drops that ooze from the tip of his cock. Wetting a finger, she delicately spreads the creamy liquid around her areola. Milk buds instantly emerge. Taking his cock in hand, it reddens to the gradual up and down movement of his foreskin and the gentle rub of cock-tip to her nipple-tip.

“In your mouth!” Bukhari groans. “All the way in.”

Kicking away her pants, Alchena quickly scrunches between his thick hairy thighs. Bukhari’s eyes clamp shut, his mind completely transfixed on what she’s about to do. She opens wide. In one smooth motion, she slips his long shaft into her mouth, deeper and deeper. Her disciplined throat accepts and holds his cock-tip in her throat without rejection. Gentle swallows and placid purposeful gulps induce throbs in every inch of his thickness. Alchena mentally masks this forbidden act with dream-like thoughts of an imagined lover, a prince charming, helping her build that wonderful castle in the sky to rehabilitate abused Palestinian girls.

Somewhere in Bukhari’s swimming senses is a vivid picture. It’s not of Alchena. It’s of that American woman’s rock-hard ass-muscles lifting, pushing, rolling and straining inside those so very tight white jeans. Never before has he seen an ass built quite like hers’. In his head, one echoing vow freezes. “It shall be Abu Bukhari who pries that American open.”

Rikki tosses and turns against the bed pillows. Abu Bukhari’s image refuses to go away. She grits her teeth, trapped between that delicate edge of caution and wanting to know more about, and perhaps experience, this strange and ruggedly attractive Abu Bukhari.

Alchena looks at Bukhari. For now, she owns him, rather than visa versa. With his cock deep in her throat, he’s hypnotized, completely absorbed in the wild fire that burns inside himself. With one last gulping suck, she slides him out of her mouth. He watches as she tilts her head back and swallows his pre-cum as if savoring a delightful taste. “Take me Abu,” she whispers hoarsely. “Fuck me like a woman deserves.”

With one swift motion, Bukhari rolls her on her belly. She rises to her knees, presenting her ass and pussy to him. With single powerful push, he shoves his cock into Alchena’s hungry hole. A gush of fire rises up from his groin as he feels Alchena molten pussy walls clamp and ripple around his powerful intrusion.

“Sooooon,” Bukhari groans as he slams in deep. Soon that American blonde will learn to FEAR as this Palestinian fears.

* * *

The next afternoon, Rikki steers her newly rented silver BMW along the quiet oak lined street. The upscale neighborhood seems quiet, lying peacefully under the bright blue haze of the late afternoon sun. “Northern Beirut is a far-cry from the trigger-happy powder-keg that Alchena calls home,” she says into the recorder. “It appears that Arab women must be content being but an object, a conquest, a second-class human. Strike that.”

Despite the peacefulness, Rikki looks edgy. She lifts the recorder back to her lips. “Who wouldn’t be afraid? For some women in Beirut, fear is like the plague. It grips you –.”

She sighs and clicks off the recorder. Reason and common sense say that until Jack-boy does his research thing, approaching Abu Bukhari would be suicide. She laughs aloud. What girl doesn’t fantasize about a Hezbollah gunman like Abu Bukhari salivating over her ass? She shudders. There’s that dumb tingle again. Two wiggles against the car seat cures the itch. She starts the recorder again. “Although I’ve changed hotels and rental cars twice, I keep a constant lookout in the rear-view-mirror for anyone following me. I’ve never felt so vulnerable, so alone.” She spots the house, but drives right past. Doing a U-turn, she returns to the house and parks across the street. She puts the recorder back to her lips. “Beached in her front yard is a sleek Sea Ray speedboat. A yellow Porsche sits silently in the driveway. It’s new.”

She looks down at the dossier Jack-boy had given her. “The last entry on her dossier is puzzling. It says: Suspected ---”

Rikki toys with the jewel that dangles from her navel. “Suspected? “Suspected what?”

She stares at the house across the street and speaks into the recorder. “Well, I’ve always wanted to meet a burglar. The kink in this scenario is that Lebanon is largely Islamic. Get caught being a naughty girl around here and the Beirut cops cut off your hands. Note to self. Research Lebanon laws.” After a quick makeup check in the mirror and a zipper check on the bomber jacket she wears, she clicks a new memory stick into the recorder and hides it in her purse.

The doorbell rings with a muffled “ding-dong.” There’s a menacing growl. Claws scratch at wood. “What now?” she mumbles, “a rabid dog?”

“Kul khara!” a feminine voice commands in Arabic.

The door swings open. At first glance, Tahina EsSahab looks more like a suburban housewife than a burglar. She’s petite, no more than five feet tall and probably weighs a hundred pounds soaking wet. Short-cropped strawberry-blond hair frames her softly featured face. The large pit-bull at her side eyes Rikki and growls, tugging on the leash looped around Tahina’s delicate hand.

Tahina’s breath catches in her throat. The innate beauty of the woman standing in the doorway weakens her knees. Her gaze drifts from Rikki’s salon-styled platinum-blonde hair to her large golden-brown eyes, to her pinkish cloud-soft lips, to the short and wrinkled bomber jacket. It takes little imagination to picture the twin treasures that lay just beneath. The sharp curve of her waist is naked. Tightly muscled abs say she works out. The slope of her tummy disappears under ragged Brazilian-cut jeans that look to be two sizes too small. Tahina’s gaze holds for a moment on a threadbare rip, so dangerously near – oh-so tantalizingly near –. Shapely legs, a dancer’s legs, curve down to pointy-toed boots. Every molecule radiates feminine perfection seen only in Tahina’s dreams.

Quite ill at ease with the silence and meticulous scrutiny, Rikki clears her throat. “Masa’a al-kair, Tahina EsSahab?”

Tahina smiles sweetly. “Aiwa.”

Rikki offers her hand. “Ana ismee Rikki Lovette.”

“Sorirart biro’aitak.”

“Nice to meet you too. Sorry. I know my Arabic is so atrocious. Can we speak English?”

 “If you like.”

Suddenly the dog lurches forward, growling and jerking the leash.

“Bad-dog,” Tahina says, shaking her finger at the savage looking creature. “Forgive Scarlet, Miss Lovette. She doesn’t know you. Won’t you come in?”

The dog growls. Rikki hesitates. “She won’t attack, will she?”

Tahina giggles. “Not unless I tell her to. Come in, please. You needn’t be afraid.”

Rikki eyes Scarlet’s salivating muzzle. “She’s lookin’ at my leg as if it’s a hunk of beefsteak.”

“Don’t worry, but you might want to leave your boots on, just in case.”

Tahina’s eyes follow Rikki as she steps into the foyer. Her gaze drops from Rikki’s bare tailbone and alights on the wide swath of muscled skin peaking out above the low-rise jeans’ waistband. Below and just left of the center-seam is another thread-covered hole? Rikki turns to face her.

“May I take your jacket?” Tahina asks.

“Sure.” Rikki flushes, as if caught off-guard. “Ah, no. I’ll just keep it on.”

“Okay. Come, we can talk in the living room. This way.”

Rikki follows Tahina to the living room. Tahina’s microscopic inspection has her decidedly intrigued. Probably means nothing, she thinks. After all, women do admire other women. Tahina’s section of the article’s opening sentences click off in Rikki’s mind, like a computer collecting data.

The Burglar of Beirut has a walk that’s delicate, deliberate and slightly catlike. Tahina Katyusha EsSahab exudes mysteriousness that electrifies curiosity. On the surface, she’s very feminine. The clothes she wears are remarkable for this part of the world. Her white sleeveless blouse is made of Indian silk. It does little to conceal that there’s nothing under it. A diamond studded waist chain rides tightly across her hips. Below that, a peach-color mini-skirt dips fashionably low across her cute, well-rounded rear. A glance around her living room tells a lot. The décor is plush, suggesting that that the burglar business must be quite profitable.

“What a lovely room,” Rikki says.

Tahina beams. “I designed it myself.”

Tahina’s focus falls to the fluid movement of Rikki’s backside. Each splendid muscle move wrinkles and captures the soft stonewashed denim. Those white threads that crisscross that other tantalizing rip do nothing to camouflage the tasty and very intimate skin beneath.

All of a sudden, Scarlet snarls.

Tahina tightens her hold on the jerking leash. “Scarlet, put those teeth away. You’re such a nuisance.” Squatting down, she unclasps the dog’s leather chain.

“What are you doing?” Rikki asks, suddenly nervous.

“Letting her loose.”

Rikki takes quick refuge behind the coffee table. “When she attacks, do I throw her a Twinkie?”

Tahina laughs. “She only eats fresh meat.”

She claps her hands three times. The dog obediently darts across the living room and out a doggie door. Rikki lets out a soft sigh of relief.

Tahina turns. Her gaze drops then rises. “Cute outfit. Leather and low-cut jeans are so modern and sexy.”

“The jacket’s World War II original.” Rikki turns three-sixty. “These are called Brazilian Bunz-Huggers. Like ‘em?”

“Gosh, they’re so, well, short. How do you sit?”

Rikki laughs. “Very carefully.”

Tahina’s giggle is girlish. “I bet those holes raise a few eyes around this town.”

Rikki winks at her. “Probably a few other things too.”

“Tea?”

“Love some.”

Rikki watches as Tahina turns, reaches up and takes a demitasse from a shelf. Okay, lilac panties again, as if I really care. Tea flows into the tiny pink cup.

“Fakhri al-Amari said you’re nice. Sugar?”

“Yes please.”

“She said I can trust you.”

Rikki takes a sip of tea. Lit by the yellow-gold light spilling from the window, Tahina looks sweet and delicate as a new rose. “Tahina, as I said on the phone, I’m with World News Daily.”

“What in the world does a famous magazine want with me?” Tahina asks.

“Well, I’m researching an investigative report about Middle Eastern women who’ve turned to crime to support their families. Fakhri thought you might be of some help.”

 Something flashes across her demure features. “I know nothing of such things.”

“We both know that’s not true. Many whisper that you are what’s called, a player.”

Tahina’s face is like a blank sheet.

“Tahina, I know I’m an outsider and asking a lot, but let me assure you that an American journalist never, ever reveal sources. Anything we discuss will be held in the strictest confidence. We won’t use your name, unless you want us to.”

She says nothing.

“Won’t you please help me? It’s a man’s world out there and I’m just a working girl trying to climb the journalistic ladder. My whole career rests on this article.”

“Sorry, but I have nothing to tell you.”

On the street outside, a battered beige Toyota stops behind Rikki’s BMW. The driver doesn’t get out. He scans the houses and nervously fidgets.

Rikki crosses Tahina’s living room and looks out a large window. In the backyard, Scarlet is deeply involved in tearing a powder blue sweater to shreds. Watching this, she contemplates her next move. Make the best of a bad bargain and split? A butt-fuck aside, Abu Bukhari seems far more intriguing than a burglar who looks like Shirley Temple. Find someone that’s less, well, vanilla? That’s possible. However, her success story might be very attention grabbing. Wait a sec. Why did she look at me like a loving puppy instead of saying, fuck-off and get out? Hold the phone. Intuition says that that flash of lilac panties when she squatted down and when she reached for that demitasse weren’t innocent accidents.

Shifting her gaze to the window glass, Rikki focuses on Tahina EsSahab’s reflection. Her eyes look naughty. Is she plotting? Or is it both?

If I can only touch her, Tahina is thinking. Look at her. She’s so exquisite, so shameless, and so assertive. Can she know? Is that why she teases me by wearing those sexy peek-a-boo pants that so generously flaunt what she craves to be kissed and caressed?

This can’t be just harmless curiosity or girlish jealousy, is Rikki’s counter-thought. Uh-uh. She’s – scrutinizing – considering – almost as if trying to determine if what’s beneath my clothes is warm and juicy. Suddenly, it hits. Suspected – blank. Rikki’s spine stiffens. Journalistic interest shoots well past redline.

Tahina watches Rikki’s rear muscles tighten and the bare skin straining at the threads that crisscross that thought provoking hole. The movements send Tahina’s mind spinning.

Rikki shifts her weight from one leg to the other. Data in: Cat burglar Tahina EsSahab is one of – those. Women in most Muslim countries must treat their sex lives like atomic secrets. Tahina must live in constant gut-wrenching FEAR of discovery. For under Shari’a Law, the punishment for homosexuality, particularly any kind of lesbian relationship, is severe, chillingly severe.

Behind Tahina’s eyes, the goal freezes. Somehow, some way, I will experience Rikki Lovette and she will experience me – tonight.

Behind Rikki’s left breast, a glimmer of guilt twitters as she plots a new strategy. Her stomach tightens. Data in: Risk – high, physical pleasure – marginal. Data out: If I’m gonna win the Pulitzer Prize before I’m thirty, part of the game is chewing some shit.

Rikki turns around. Tahina’s stare is unnerving. It’s as if she’s suddenly got x-ray vision and discovered Rikki’s two very private quirks. “Tahina, I won’t insult you by offering you money for your story. But isn’t there something I can do to make becoming part of my report worth your while?”

Tahina wets her lips. “There might be.”

“I’ll do anything.”

Tahina elevates an eyebrow. “Anything?”

“Yes, anything.”

Rikki’s feet whisper on the carpet, slowly closing the gap between them. How bad can it be? she rationalizes to herself. Tahina is pretty and smells sweet. Besides, I’ve done it before, well, once before. It was somewhat pleasurable and it didn’t turn me into a duckbilled platypus.

With Rikki just a foot away, Tahina tries to look at ease. Thoughts swirl. Just looking at her makes my nipples tight. And those eyes – those incredible golden-brown eyes. They glitter like they’re overflowing with what must be love and lust.

Rikki lifts her hand and trails her fingertips down Tahina’s bare arm. It brings on a wash of light-headedness. A soft uninhibited sound catches in Tahina’s throat. She stiffens.

“I want you to see something,” Rikki whispers. Holding her gaze thoughtful and steady, Rikki draws the jacket’s zipper slowly downward, stopping slightly more than half way.

Tahina gasps.

Blood rushes to Rikki’s breasts. Her stomach feels queasy.

Tahina arches an eyebrow then whistles softly. “What? No blouse?”

“Is that too quirky for you?”

She shakes her head. “No, but I’d like to know why though.”

Rikki glances at the carpet. “It’s kind ‘a, well embarrassing.”

“I’d really like to know.”

“Promise not to laugh?”

“I promise.”

“You see, my nipples are hypersensitive. Mash them in a bra and it drives me batty. So, I never wear one.”

Tahina gulps.

“This jacket’s my favorite. I just adore it when they rub against the soft fuzzy lining. It’s, kind-a, well, like an all-day turn-on.” Rikki giggles softly. “Am I blushing?”

Tahina’s lips tremble.

“It’s like a little private affliction, I guess.”

“Mayhap, are you the same as I?” Her voice was scarcely audible.

“I’d be interested in exploring that possibility. Would you?”

“Oh yes, more than anything.”

“Tahina, if we do this, you must promise to be completely open with me, self-incrimination excepted of course.”

Tahina starts to shake her head, although her eyes are giving full permission to proceed. The soft fragrance of Chanel Number 19 strays into Rikki’s nose as their faces draw near. Her fingernail touches Rikki’s dangling navel jewels.

Rikki pulls her hand away. “First, you must promise.”

“Yes, I promise.” Tahina anxiously takes Rikki’s hand and pulls. “Come. I have a very special place.”

Feet whisper on plush pile carpet as they walk down a narrow hallway. She seems confident, Tahina thinks nervously. But if she is like me, why is her hand sweating?

Meanwhile, in Rikki’s head, nervousness and a strange erotic want are like sparks from shorted-out electrical wires. Chew shit, Pulitzer Prize, chew shit, Pulitzer Prize, she mumbles repeatedly.

At the end of the hallway, Tahina opens a double door. Her bedroom is stunning. Reddish Mosul silk, embroidered intricately in gold-toned abstract shapes adorn the walls. The bed is huge, covered with burgundy sheets and dozens of big silk pillows. She presses a wall button. Electric motors hum. Curtains draw closed, shutting out the world, wrapping the room in semi-darkness. Romantic music plays. Scents of jasmine and rose water perfumes permeate the air.

 “Like it?” she asks.

 “I’m speechless.”

Tahina wastes no time. Unclasping the waist-chain, she slips out of her blouse, revealing quite unremarkable breasts. With a slithering sound, the mini skirt falls to her feet, leaving her naked, except for those lilac panties.

“Am I too skinny for you?” Tahina whispers.

“You’re perfect and very beautiful,” Rikki says in a breathy whisper.

“Rikki, you are the sexiest woman I’ve ever seen. You should be a model, not a reporter.”

“I was a model once for Playboy.”

“Really? Without your clothes?”

“Full-frontal and wearing nothing but a suntan.” She shrugs. “I’ve got nothing to hide or be ashamed of.”

“Aren’t you embarrassed when disgusting men on the street gawk at you?”

“Men always gawk at me. The Playboy editor said I have raw sex appeal. My analyst said I have a look that guys always notice and girls want to copy.”

“Men are so vulgar, aren’t they? Love the tummy jewel. Eight carat diamond, VVS grade, right?”

Rikki nods.  “It was a gift from my very ex-boyfriend.”

“Did you love him?”

“That louse? Ha. The bastard burned me – bad. I don’t need that heartache ever again. Besides, I have too many career goals to bother with the foolery of love.” She laughs. “Hold on. I’m supposed to be asking the questions.”

“Sorry. I was just curious.”

Rikki smiles. “I have a diamond nipple piercing too. Wanna see it?”

“Let me show you something first.” She opens a drawer and takes out a red velvet covered jewelry box. She opens it. A sparkling diamond choker glitters in the soft moody light.

Rikki gasps. “It’s so – awesome. If you don’t mind my asking, what’s something like this worth?”

“About a half-million dollars U.S.”

Rikki whistles softly as her fingertips brush the gleaming diamonds. “Is it stolen?”

A devious smile forms on Tahina’s pink lips. “Well, let’s say it’s a wee-bit warm.”

“Like something else maybe?”

She smiles. “I’d like you to wear it.”

Rikki gasps. “Oh could I?”

“I want you to. Turn around.”

Rikki is scarcely able to breathe as Tahina clips the necklace in place.

“There, now you’re perfect. May I make you more comfortable?”

“Yes,” Rikki whispers, still enthralled by the glittering diamonds that hang around her neck.

Tahina kneels and pushes Rikki’s pant leg up. Her hands gently slip up and down the knee-high boot-leather. It pulls Rikki’s attention from the diamonds to Tahina’s hands and their subtle communication that’s indescribable with words. There’s a soft zipping sound as the back zippers give way to Tahina’s gentle pull. She tugs the left boot off, sniffs its leathery fragrance, kisses the toe and sets it aside. The other slides off with equal ease. Tahina’s eyebrows rise.

“My gosh, a foot tattoo?”
 

Rikki smiles down at her. “I’ve got one more too.”

She stands. “Where?”

“When you find out, it’ll be our secret.”

Rikki’s fingers unhook the zipper and part the leather jacket.

“Mag-ni-fique,” Tahina whispers on an expelled breath. “You’re so, so big and yet still so firm. Did you have them enlarged?”

Rikki shakes her head and shrugs. “Great genes from my mom’s side of the family.”

Tahina slides the jacket from Rikki’s shoulders and lays it neatly on a chair. For a few seconds, Tahina gazes at the tiny twin diamonds that gleam from each side of Rikki’s left nipple. Tahina kneels. Putting her cheek against Rikki’s thigh, she fingers the loose threads around the hole that’s just an inch from dead center.

Rikki tenses.

“Don’t be afraid,” Tahina says in a velvety purr. “I’m very gentle.”

“Ummmm,” Rikki moans softly as she feels Tahina’s finger wiggle through the hole and slip under the denim. Gawd, that feels weird, she thinks silently. It’s like I got a worm in my pants – chew shit-chew shit.

Tahina’s other hand rises up Rikki’s thigh, skimming her butt’s sharp rise. Dainty fingers slowly graze the denim waistband, feeling, softly pressing the naked skin of Rikki’s protruding muscles.

“Oh, that feels so bitchin’,” Rikki whispers.

The front button pops open. As Tahina tugs the zipper down, she brushes her nose against Rikki’s tummy, inhaling deeply, as if the heat escaping the confines of the soft loosened denim were a hypnotic drug.

Tahina looks up and smiles. “You don’t wear any under-things either.”

“It’s another little quirk of mine. Denim feels so good rubbing against my naked pussy. Are you shocked at that?”

“Oh no. Talking dirty and sharing secrets is very-very sexy.”

“Do you like breasts?” Rikki whispers, circling her left nipple with a fingernail. “I do. I always have.”

“I like beautiful things,” Tahina whispers back. The bed sinks a little as she sits on the edge. “May – may I touch them?”

“I’d be very disappointed if you didn’t.”

For a breathless moment, Tahina watches lovingly at the slight pitch that Rikki’s breath brings. Her jittery hand reaches out. The pad of her index finger touches each diamond. Rikki’s eyes drift shut as tiny stabs of arousal twitter in the nipple, disappear, and then emerge somewhere deep between her legs. Tahina’s cool fingers close around the bottom of her right breast, bouncing it a little then gives it a solid squeeze.

“That tickles,” Rikki whispers.

“How do you stay so hard,” she murmurs.

“Overdose on Special K every morning.”

Tahina’s giggle is girlish. Such perfection. She’s so lucky. She’s so big, so firm, that she doesn’t really need a bra. Her breast skin is flawless and completely blemish free. The absence of tan lines says she suns in the nude. Tahina’s eyes focus razor sharp on Rikki’s erect nipple. It’s pale pink. Little bumps appear as her fingertip explores its surrounding circle. The color almost matches her slightly darker skin tone where it nearly blends in at the edges. She inches her face even closer. Bluish blood vessels, faint at first, grow darker with each soft finger stroke and each thump of Rikki’s excited heart. One of the diamonds winks at her.

“Doesn’t this piercing hurt?” she whispers.

“Sometimes,” Rikki whispers, stroking Tahina’s chin. “Like now, when I’m aroused.”

Outside, crickets chirp as a dark shadow falls across twilight-blackened bushes. Like a prowling panther, the intruder moves forward then crouches behind a leafy shrub. A few feet ahead, dim light glows from around drawn curtains. Soft voices drift across the darkening night.

“Gosh Rikki,” Tahina’s voice murmurs. “Your nipples are sensitive.”

“I told you they were.”

The weasel-like man snorts and shakes his head. Anger boils across his gaunt face. “Such evil words,” he growls softly.

In the bedroom, Tahina’s eyes remain riveted to Rikki’s thrusting breasts. Her next gentle squeeze sends electric tingles that weaken Rikki’s knees. Tahina’s finger extends, sliding over the nipple, caressing its shaft lightly then rolling the swelling bud in a circular motion.

Rikki’s response is deep and instantaneous. Both feelings are pleasurable. Although Rikki’s pussy remains imprisoned beneath her jeans, Tahina’s tender, intimate breast-play is raising a thin film of wetness around Rikki’s pussy lips.

The weasel peers from behind the shrub. Like a spotlight beam, his focus is on that lighted window. Ears strain to hear the muted voices drifting from inside.

“Oh Rikki, I’ve always dreamed of having breasts like yours. Mine are so small and droopy. May I kiss them?”

“Yes, if it pleases you,” Rikki whispers. “The undersides are my favorite spot.”

The weasel’s face looks as if he’d just swallowed a heavy dose of sour milk. Rising, he inches closer to the house.

Rikki looks down at Tahina. Cloaked in the soft light, she looks like a cherub, smitten by the goddess of her dreams. Warm tingles vibrate between Rikki’s legs as Tahina’s glossy lips close in.

Step by cautious step, the weasel moves forward. His shifting eyes automatically check the shadows to be certain there are no surprises lurking there.

Rikki’s body jerks. “Yes-o-yesss that’s the place. Mmmm, Tahina – umm, oh-god that’s it, flick-lick right where they jut out, oh – yessss, ummm yessss, now suck, oh suck on the whole nipple – no please, the one with the diamonds.”

Tahina’s lower lip skims Rikki’s tender skin, sliding upward. Rikki’s breast nerves tingle then spark at the warm feather-brush of her lips.

With her eyes just an inch from Rikki’s breast, Tahina is captivated. The webs of bluish veins are no longer faint, but pulse in an erotic zigzagging network just below Rikki’s suntanned skin.

Rikki feels the nipple’s shaft spring tighter, triggering a slight and uncontrollable lurch. The nipple piercing aches with each maddening throb. There’s a pulling sensation, and then a feeling of wet warmth, the roughness of a wiggling tongue, then a sucking sensation soothing the ache away. Pleasure pangs worm through the breast, plunge and crackle around Rikki’s stone-tight abs, working their way toward her flaming clit. Tahina sucks the nipple lightly, as one partakes of a ripe raspberry.

“Ummmm, Tahina, that feels ultra-bitchin’.”

Inside Rikki, Tahina’s sucking pressure inflates her clit, and ignites a thousand tender nerves that surround it. The feeling makes her rock on her knees. It’s becoming difficult to remain standing. Rikki gasps and staggers slightly. The nipple pops from between Tahina’s lips. She puckers then blows softly. Wet with her saliva, the nipple turns cold and tightens even harder. The ache returns. She grabs onto the other.

“Ouch – that hurts.” Rikki gently nudges Tahina’s head away. “You bit me.”

“Oh Rikki, I’m so sorry. It’s just that, well, I couldn’t help myself. Forgive me?”

“I’m no delicate flower,” Rikki says, smiling at her.

As they hug, Tahina’s body feels warm and very soft. Tahina’s hands slide up and down Rikki’s thighs, bringing on a ripple of shudders. Behind, Rikki feels a naughty hand slide across her tailbone then squeezing between her ass and the denim.

Outside, the weasel has the partly opened window squarely in his sights. Hunched over, he creeps forward, listening to the soft voices.

“You feel so sexy without panties,” Tahina’s voice coos softly.

The weasel swallows.

“Ummm,” Rikki moans. “My clit, oh, it’s out, oh-oh it feels so good rubbing against my jeans.”

“Can I touch you back here?”

“Yes please.”

In the bedroom, Rikki’s spine stiffens. Tahina’s probing finger nears her sphincter, circling, teasing – then slides up and down the jeans’ inside center-seam. Rikki lurches as she feels a knuckle pushing deep into her crevasse. Abu Bukhari’s face appears then fades away.

“Is this too intimate for you?” Tahina whispers.

“Not at all. I’m a very sexual person. I have no boundaries. No limits.”

“Can I rim you later? I’ll do it with my tongue.”

Rikki gasps. “Would you?”

“I’m a very sexual person too.”

“Would you like to touch my pussy?”

“That would be heavenly,” she whispers.

Starting at Rikki’s thrusting tummy, she pushes her finger beneath the denim and wags it from side to side. The lightness of her touch across Rikki’s outer lips shoots tingling sensations into every nerve.

“You’re wet.”

“Very wet,” Rikki purrs.

Outside, the weasel slithers sideward toward the window, cautiously keeping his back against the house.

“Touch me more,” Rikki pants, rolling her head from side to side. Tahina’s finger wiggles in, stroking her inner lips. Rikki’s clit snaps to full attention as Tahina fondles its tender tip. “Oh, oh, oh.”

Outside, the weasel freezes. His ears perk.

“My j-jeans,” Rikki gasps, “gawd-o-gawd get’em off me, please?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

The weasel’s eyes shut as he listens to the rustle of clothing being removed.

Tahina works the jeans over Rikki’s hips. Rikki feels spacey and distracted, secretly proud of shaving and waxing perfectly clean this morning. Tahina carefully folds the jeans and lays them next to Rikki’s boots. She returns attention to the nakedness on which her loving eyes feast. With her nose, she nuzzles Rikki’s navel jewels then her lower belly, and then the pillow-soft skin surrounding her oh-so-special place. Her lips tug and suck at the yielding softness surrounding Rikki’s outer lips. Deep tingles spread down Rikki’s spinal column invading her very roots. Tahina’s mouth ventures up. One hand squeezes Rikki’s ass while she nibbles and teases her navel and the dangling jewels with her tongue-tip.

“Can I put both fingers in you?” Tahina asks. “Please say I can, please?”

For a woozy moment, Rikki hesitates. Nobody has ever probed her butt before. Has this gone far enough? There’s a whirl of indecision. Curiosity, insatiable sexual curiosity powers forth the answer. “Oh yes. Please.”

Rikki’s butt-muscles clench as Tahina’s finger-pad orbits, probes gently, separates then pushes. A quick breath jerks into Rikki’s lungs. She feels her sphincter resist, then pucker, then give.

“Relax,” Tahina whispers softly as she gently strokes Rikki’s clit-tip. “Take deep breaths. I’ll be gentle. Let yourself go. Anal orgasm is so spectacular and unforgettable. Now fly, Rikki Lovette. Soar like a bird, rock softly on my soft cloud of love.”

Crouched under the window, the weasel listens intently. Sweat beads dribble down his face. He fidgets as if he can’t figure out weather to loosen his pants, scratch his ass or wind his watch. Above his head, he hears Rikki groaning.

“Fuckin'-a fuckin-a! Oh that’s it Tahina. Deeper, oh-god-yes, more, more.”

The weasel’s lips tremble as he struggles to remain still. Their voices are in his ears. What they’re doing drills into his brain. The window is less than a foot above his head. He seems paralyzed and doesn’t want to look. As good Muslim, he CAN’T LOOK. But, as a Hezbollah warrior, sworn to sword and gun to strike out evil, he MUST LOOK.

Rikki’s head rolls back and forth on the silk sheets. “Ah-ooooo-ahhh,” she gasps, twisting her hips slightly, strangely awestruck. It’s as if Tahina’s fingers in her ass have become a magic wand with the power to ignite a heretofore-unknown sexual explosion.

The weasel’s lips tighten. Bony fingers creep up the wall as he stands. He puts on eye to the window glass. His jaw drops. The two women are naked, he thinks on an indrawn gasp. They’re k-kissing? T-they’re using tongues. And – and the small one has two fingers in the other – in places only dreamed in Satan’s most wild and wicked dreams.

Behind Rikki’s tightly closed eyes, an image of Abu Bukhari’s massive cock leaps forward. His deep voice echoes, “I’ll pry open your ripe American ass another day.” Her muscles tighten around Tahina’s finger like loops of stretched piano wire.

Something moves in the window behind them. Too absorbed in each other, neither Tahina nor Rikki see the single dark eye peering through the slit in the curtains.

The bony, weasel-like man just stares dumbfounded. Just beyond his lips, gray condensation forms on the window glass with each rapidly expelled breath.

There’s a sucking sound as Tahina’s finger pulls out. Rikki’s pleasured and trembling nerves immediately miss its presence. Bukhari’s face and the vision of his cock probing her ass become transparent phantoms – then vanish.

Tahina slides her mouth up Rikki’s tummy. Taking renewed interest the undersides of each breast, she spends a moment sucking one while her hand teases the other with mischievous squeezes and pinches. Next, her inquiring lips kiss each rib, each hip, and then meander to Rikki’s neck, nose and ears. With a deep sigh, she buries her face in the nape of Rikki’s neck.

Consciously adoring the building arousal, Rikki closes her eyelids, whimpering softly as Tahina’s warm lips kiss and tug at the cleft of her chin. Tahina’s teeth find Rikki’s mouth, first munching softly at Rikki’s lower lip. Her warm, wet, moving lips capture then claim Rikki’s mouth. Her long tongue pushes in – deep – slipping, sliding over Rikki’s tongue then wiggling, teasing the roof of her mouth.

Outside, the weasel sweats.

Rikki swipes a look. Even with her eyes closed, she can tell that to Tahina, Rikki Lovette is a godsend – a creation – a warm illusion, who’s floated down from some far-off planetary system to sow sexual satisfaction upon the aching, starving mound between her legs.

“Lay down,” Rikki whispers softly. “Let me pleasure you.”

There’s a soft rustle as Tahina reclines on the burgundy sheets. “Am I pretty?” she asks spreading herself wide.

 “Good enough to eat,” Rikki whispers.

“I can hardly wait,” she giggles.

Silent thoughts bubble in the weasel’s brain. Such behavior is Satan’s work, he growls silently. Abu Bukhari may worship wicked women such as this, but not I.

Rikki lies on top of her slowly brushing her breasts across Tahina’s mouth and face. Rising, she pauses, leaving the twin mounds hanging just above Tahina’s eyes.

“Rikki, these are the most beautiful I’ve ever seen.”

Gently, Rikki draws her nipples over hers’. “So are yours.”

“But I’m so small.”

“But so elegantly beautiful.”

The weasel lifts his face from the window, turns and stares into the night. Although whispered that this strictly forbidden behavior goes on in the back rooms in Gemmayzeh, witnessing such a gregarious act has set an evil race to his pulse. He looks again. His black rodent-like eyes magnetize to the two beautiful women so deeply engrossed in their scandalous act.

In the warm bedroom, Tahina draws in a deep pleasure-filled breath as her glands respond to the slight pressure of Rikki’s fingers and swell with delightful firmness.

“See,” Rikki whispers, “they fit my hands perfectly.”

“Your hands are so, expressive,” Tahina purrs.

“It’s natural with a Leonardo da Vinci masterpiece like you,” Rikki coos softly.

Outside, the weasel’s jaw twitches at each word.

Leaning over, Rikki grazes Tahina’s upper lip with the tip of her tongue, then moves on to her shoulder, leaving little love-bites as she goes.

Tahina’s breath quickens. ”Ummm, suck on me Rikki. Milk me?”

The weasel jerks his face from the window glass. Disgust rages in his small eyes. He unclips a cell phone from his belt, deliberates for a second then returns it to his belt. Leaning forward he continues his stealthy surveillance.

A rash of gooseflesh rolls across Tahina’s dark areola as the long dangling ends of Rikki’s hair tickle and tease. She leans down. Her tongue finds Tahina’s nipple from the mass of platinum strands. Extending her tongue, Rikki flicks her nipple once, then twice. It freezes hard.

Rikki giggles to herself as she sucks. From the sounds Tahina’s making, it’s easy to tell that she’s is a groaner. Tahina’s the type that’s either horny or hungry. A thought jumps out of nowhere. Should I get up and make her a sandwich?

“You’re making me crazy,” Tahina says in a breathy whisper.

Rikki grins without removing her mouth from her nipple. With each moment, each lick, each tender woman-pleasing caress, Tahina is becoming more and more sexually alive. Restrained body language and gentle shoves to Rikki’s head shows that Tahina wants it – and wants it NOW.

Uh-uh, not just yet, Rikki decides. She needs to ache a little longer. Instinct says to torment the other nipple with nibbles that progress towards biting. Rikki grabs another peek. Tahina’s eyes are clamped shut. Her head sways to the sensual lyrics drifting from the stereo. Continuing to work the nipple-tip with butterfly-like kisses, Rikki slides her left hand slowly around the other. Using a milking motion, she teases the breast for a few seconds, and then attacks hungrily, pushing the tender gland with her nose and cheeks. It’s time to head south. Leaving the breast to Tahina’s thundering heart, Rikki slides her hand to the softness of her inner thighs.

With his eye glued to the window, the weasel’s face has turned mean as a scrap yard dog with a grudge to settle. His legs want to move, but his eyes demand to remain affixed to those two wicked moaning THINGS.

Tahina’s hands aren’t the least bit idle. She’s touching everything, completely infatuated by Rikki’s glorious nudity and her wide-open mind so heedless of any inhibitions. Her hands grope and knead the high mounds of Rikki’s rear. Her finger rims Rikki’s backside hole.

“Can I put it in again?” Tahina asks in a sultry voice. “This time I’ll make you cum.”

Outside, the weasel’s legs nearly crumple.

Rikki grits her teeth. “Yessss.”

The throbbing ache in the weasel’s groin is nearly beyond tolerance. His leg muscles tense. He moves two steps away from the window. “Those two rebellious women spit on the very decency,” he mumbles to the tree trunk next to his face. “They deserve to be taken.” He removes a small pistol from his jacket pocket and looks at the weapon. His thin lips curve into a wicked smile. “Evil women like them are always better taken by force than willing,” he mumbles softly.

Pleasure shudders spin through Rikki’s deepest nerves as Tahina’s finger slides in anew. This time she feels it wiggle. Rikki’s nerves spark then short circuit. Muscles ratchet then cinch tight. Her clit burns as if being licked by a fire’s flames. Rigid muscles throughout her entire body tighten more, as if threatening to rip from their tendons. Buried knuckle-deep inside Rikki’s anal cannel, Tahina rolls her finger, twisting, stroking, faster and faster.

Tension soars. Rikki’s muscles tremble. Her breasts swell like balloons. She lets out a closed-mouth scream. Orgasm, a THUNDERING orgasm suddenly detonates. Pleasure waves shock – then shake – then quiver, vibrating Rikki to her very core. Searing effervesces, hot as exploding nebula, power their way into everything that makes Rikki Lovette woman. Her breasts feel like twin rocks. Nipples tingle madly. Her clit feels as if it’s about to explode. Toes curl tight like knots. Wild numbing feelings rocket from her scalp to her feet, even into her fingertips. The nipple piercing shrieks in painful pleasure – overwhelming PLEASURE. Rikki rolls her head violently, releasing tension by letting out whip-like breaths.

Rikki’s passion ebbs slowly. Wrapped in post-orgasm bliss, she opens her eyes. She’s gone. “Tahina?”

“Was it good?” Tahina calls from the bathroom.

Rikki sits up on the bed. “Good? It was incredible. I’ve never-ever had an orgasm like that.”

Tahina’s naked form appears in the doorway. She holds up her hand. “All clean,” she says with an impish smile. “Hygiene is so import –.”

Scarlet barks.

Tahina freezes mid-step.

Rikki’s brow furrows.

Tahina’s head whips to the window. The weasel’s eye is gone in a split-second.

“Someone’s out there,” Tahina says on an indrawn gasp.

For a second, Rikki feels her stomach lurch. Sliding off the bed, she goes to the window and parts the curtains. There’s nothing but darkness and slowly waving tree shadows. “I don’t see anybody.”

“Look again, please?”

She looks again. Same story. Rikki turns away from the window. “You were expecting me to see a peeping tom standing out there with his thumb up his ass?”

“But Scarlet barked and I saw something move. I know I did.”

Rikki slips on a bathrobe. “Okay, I’ll go check it out, just in case.”

“Be careful,” Tahina says.

Rikki walks down the dark hall, her imagination half-expecting Abu Bukhari to burst from the shadows holding a blood-drenched knife. “Ha, that shit only happens in slasher flicks,” she mutters. There’s a soft click as Sshe flips on a kitchen light. She picks up a carving knife. “Just in case,” she whispers.

Cautiously, she opens the door to the backyard. She flicks off the light. After her pupils adjust, she scans the dark yard. Somewhere in the shrill sounds of the crickets’ chirp is a distant noise, a strange noise. It sounds like scampering. Scarlet is strangely silent. Rikki’s lips tighten. Some watchdog she is. What’s that? Thumping? Footsteps? She squints into the blackness. Through the dark tree trunks, a tiny light comes on. A door slams – a car’s door. An engine starts and she hears it pull away.

“Find anybody?” Tahina asks as Rikki appears through the bedroom door.

“Not a sole. Thought I heard footsteps and a car driving away. Shouldn’t we call the police?”

Tahina shakes her head adamantly. “No police.”

“Of course,” Rikki says. “How silly of me.”

“If he comes back, I’ll just let Scarlet loose. She’d love to turn the yard into her private cemetery.”

Rikki doesn’t have an answer for that. Tahina slips the bathrobe from Rikki’s shoulders.

“Anal orgasm is always special, isn’t it?”

“With the right lover, yes.”

“My turn?” she says, shyly lowering her eyes.

“Absolutely. Get out of your panties.”

“Or you’ll cut them off,” she says glancing at the knife.

Rikki laughs. “Now that’s kinky.” She puts the knife on the dresser.

“Where’s the other tattoo?” Tahina asks, quickly slipping the frilly garment down her legs.

“I’ll show you.”

In a playfully move, Rikki lies on the bed, rolls on her back and raises her legs to her shoulders. The lustful display attracts Tahina’s attention like a laser-guided missile.

“Gosh, a little bee right next to it.”

“Does it disgust you?”

“No, I adore it. It’s so like, totally outrageous.”

Using her toes, Tahina flings the panties across the room. Suddenly, it’s as if she’s grown an extra set of limbs. She’s all over Rikki. Her legs flex as she brushes her pussy-mound over Rikki’s legs and thighs. She obliges, countering each movement with one of her own, using her toes, fingers, breasts and lips. Legs and arms entwined, as both carouse in the soft fire of warm nakedness, discovering the coals that are burning in their most secret, intimate places.

Wrapped in a bodily knot, Rikki’s mouth finds her breast.

“Owwww, mmmmm, oh-oh-oh,” are her pleasure-moans.

Tahina spreads her legs wide. In the soft light, her love canal gleams with dripping juices. Like a snake, Rikki slithers down her stomach. She freezes. Ignore it? No, there’s no turning back now. Forcing herself, she lowers her head, suddenly indifferent to the strong odor of strawberry scented douche that’s invading her nose.

Suddenly an image of a duckbilled platypus with big boobs flashes. Dammit, if she squirts on my tongue, I’ll quit no matter what the career consequences.

Abu Bukhari’s rock star face pops into Rikki’s brain. A powerful shake to her head sends the image into oblivion. Rikki leans down. The circle of gentle kisses sends shivers across Tahina’s skin. In a moment, Tahina covers Rikki like a soft blanket, kissing and licking the wetness from between Rikki’s legs. The time feels right. Tahina rolls over on her tummy and raises her cute rump. Her tight little walnut pulses. She’s – ready.

“Oh hurry Rikki. You’re making me so hot. I can’t stand it. Oh, tongue-me. I need it so badly.”

Rikki spreads Tahina’s ass-cheeks with both hands. She gulps, closes her eyes and extends her tongue. The flesh is soft and warm. Unexpectedly, there is no disgusting taste. Starting at the bottom of her pussy, Rikki lays a long lick, all the way up to the top of her crevasse, and then kisses both butt-mounds.

Tahina moans and trembles.

Rikki does it again, pausing to wiggle and tease her brownish hole with her tongue-tip.

Tahina whimpers like a little puppy.

Just below, Tahina’s slit is slippery, wide open and cherry-red with arousal. With a few edge licks, her clit rises from its hood. Against Rikki’s licking tongue, the tiny nub feels inflated and pebble-hard. The taste of her juices is palatable, yet nauseating. At the first probing lick, she groans in pleasure. Rikki’s second tongue-stroke is more urgent.

Tahina snaps rigid from head to toe. “Yessss – yesssss,” she squeaks.

Goaded by an unconscionable force, Rikki licks, kisses, slurps and nuzzles, pulling her head back and forth, up and down.

Tahina writhes at the roughness of Rikki’s center tongue. Each lingering stroke, each probe is building her twisting, passion-filled soul toward the tingling explosion she craves so desperately. In this state, Tahina is like a helpless twisting snake. With each guttural squeal, she squirms on the burgundy sheets, her hands kneading any inch of Rikki’s flesh they can reach.

Five blocks away, the weasel’s bony form emerges from a filling station’s toilet. His face is contented, no longer strained. Taking his cell phone, he dials.

“Mas’a AlKair, Bukhari. Unh Mohammed. Kaifa Halok?” he says into the phone.

Tahina’s pussy ripples. Rikki keeps her tongue constantly moving. It’s impossible for her to ignore her velvety interior clamping on her tongue in cadence with Tahina’s hoarse, soft, throaty pleasure groans. With each lick, she grows breathless. Shrill squeaks spew forth then deepen, signaling an impending orgasm that will be explosive and bone-deep. Tahina’s hips rise, pushing her pussy against Rikki’s licking, probing tongue. She twists, lifts, and pulls, following the writhing rhythm her body demands and her brain covets.

There’s a slurp as Rikki extracts her tongue out to swallow. Suddenly Tahina rolls over. Her legs rise. Soft thighs clamp around Rikki’s neck. Strong leg muscles bind Rikki’s head to her, demanding the pleasure she so wantonly craves. Rikki extend her tongue full-length and wiggles it into her. Tahina gasps deeply, lifting her lower body up and down. Buried deep in the flesh surrounding her cheeks, Rikki senses that Tahina’s crescendo is about to detonate.
 

With her jaw stretched to the max, Rikki licks faster. Her overtaxed tongue and jaw ache. Tahina bucks at the next two clit-licks. Rikki pulls out to rest a moment. Good-god, she thinks silently. This is like giving mouth-mouth to a crankshaft in a steam engine.

In two tries, she snares Tahina’s clit and sucks softly on the shaking stem. Vaginal lubricant floods onto Rikki’s tongue. She swallows it down in one gulp. For fuck’s sake you little bitch, Rikki growls silently. Shift out of low gear and boil over.

Suddenly, Tahina freezes in mid-arc. The tension is so intense, so irrepressible that there’s no longer any way to prolong it. She screams. Wiggle-lick-wiggle-lick. Tahina’s entire body snaps tight.

“Yes, yes-oh-yes,” Tahina groans as if as passion is flaming in her every vein.  Her whole body shudders. Through her skin, Rikki can feel orgasm rake her – starting in her rippling pussy and overtaking Tahina from scalp to toes. She explodes with one vibrating, bucking convulsion after another. Even in the hushed, jerking solitude of Tahina’s quivering thigh flesh, Tahina’s screams and groans seem louder than Lizzie Borden’s mother did during those famous forty whacks.

As the moments drift away, Tahina’s orgasmic voice becomes languid with thick, heaving, heavy breaths of receding pleasure. Rikki’s neck muscles cave in. Her head drops on the sheets with a soft thump. Sticky pussy juice coats her whole mouth and dribbles down her chin.
 

Tahina falls limp. Five silent gasping minutes tick away. Rikki sits up. Pulling several tissues from a box of Kleenex, she wipes Tahina’s juices from her face. Lying in a sea of silk pillows and burgundy-toned sheets, Tahina resembles a quivering pile of jelly.

Tahina watches through smoky, lustful eyes as Rikki slides off the bed and digs out a pack of Marlboros from her bag. The lighter’s flame flickers on Tahina’s face, turning her skin orange-yellow. Lying down next to her, Rikki inhales deeply and rubs her leg up and down Tahina’s thigh.

“I didn’t know you smoked.”

Rikki smiles. “Usually I just mooch.”

“I have opium.”
 
 

“No thanks. How’d I do?”

“You’ve got some kind ’a tongue Rikki.”

“That’s what my editor says when we argue.”

“Rikki, I think I’ve found my own personal gold at the end of wonderful rainbow.” She strokes the bottom curves of Rikki’s breasts and sings softly, “To Allah I thank for the kiss, these cheeks and peaks, these lovely hips and luscious lips, to make glamorous, so amorous – love. It is from heaven that you are blessed – with breasts upon your chest . . .”

“Nice song. Do you have an ashtray?”

“I’ll get one.”

Sliding out of bed, Tahina’s nakedness disappears through the arched doorway. Rikki taps the cigarette’s ash into her palm, gritting away the short burning pain. A moment later, Tahina returns carrying a round tray. On it is a crystal ashtray, twin brandy snifters and a pear-shaped liquor bottle.

“Cognac?”

“Love some.”

The brown liquid gurgles as it flows into the crystal glasses. Rikki’s thoughts are silent. Given my druthers, I’d prefer a mega-dose of Listerine, rather than French brandy.

Tahina looks at her with a loving smile. “Rikki, you’re just so amazing. Gosh, no one has ever, done it to me like that before. Is there something wrong?”

“No. Got a toothpick? I think I got some of your pussy hair stuck in my teeth.”

She giggles. “Sorry.”

“Never mind. Got it.” Rikki takes the glass from her outstretched hand.

“What should we drink to?” Tahina asks.

“How about fucking?”

Tahina coughs into her hand to hide her laugh. “You’re so bad.”

“I tried the good-girl thing once. It sucked.”

The Cognac washes her taste from Rikki’s palate. Tahina giggles as she sits on the bed and folds her legs under herself. ”Gosh, I never dreamed it could be so, well uninhibited. No one’s ever given me a deeper satisfaction. You left me dazed.”

“I’m glad.”

“Would you like something to eat? I’ll warm up some Indian curry and I’ve got the sweetest grapefruit.”

“No thanks.” Rikki winks at her. “I’ve already eaten.”

“I’ll make a fire then. We could listen to music and cuddle. I’ve got all the latest records from the States.”

Rikki pulls out her notepad and recorder from her purse. “We’ve got work to do first.”

Tahina frowns. “Oh that.”

“I understand Tahina, that you’re very good with locks.”

“I never came across one that could defeat me yet. I learned from my husband. Dilshad EsSahab was a locksmith, you know. But that was before – he – was killed."

“Oh, I’m so sorry.”

For an instant, her eyes blaze defiantly and soften just as quickly. “Don’t be.”

“Mind telling me how he died?”
 

“He set off a roadside-bomb in Baghdad. Americans shot him dead.”

Rikki gasps. “My god.”

A flash of anger crosses Tahina’s demure features. “I’m glad that bastard Dilshad EsSahab is dead. Every night I bless the American hand which struck him down!”

Rikki looks into Tahina’s angry eyes. Dilshad EsSahab, whom ever he was, had to have built a terrible household to bring on a reaction such as that.

Rikki learns a lot about Tahina EsSahab. She only works twelve days a year. For eleven days, she plans. Then she pulls the job on the twelfth. Her thievery is limited to expensive firs, diamond jewelry and other smiles of good fortune.

“I always work alone,” she says, tracing the outline of Rikki’s lower lip with her fingernail.

“Why?”

 “Simple. That way no one can implicate me and I don’t have to split the take.”

“Aren’t you worried about being caught? The punishment for thievery is pretty stiff.”

 She giggles. “The Beirut police have trouble finding their own zippers in the toilet. I have contacts all over Europe. They can fence anything, completely undetected. After a heist, the merchandise moves by truck to a distributor in Czechoslovakia. He breaks it down and sells it to buyers in Brussels and Budapest. The neat thing is nobody knows who else is involved.”

Tahina’s vast knowledge of the intricacies of un-tumbling safe tumblers and unbolting dead bolts is impressive. Besides basic breaking and entering, she professes great knowledge on how to bypass complex electronic burglar-alarm systems, defeat sophisticated motion sensors and closed circuit television security systems. For a burglar, those traits are more valuable than a Saudi oil field pumping at full tilt. An hour later, she’s sound asleep.

A long hot shower and a gargle with Scope send the smell of Tahina’s pussy juices into the Beirut sewer. Rikki glances at her naked form in the full-length mirror. The image is just as perfect as when she walked in. The only damage is a small black and blue welt on the bottom of her left boob. She puts her finger to her neck. Then there is this necklace. Swipe it? What can she do? Call the cops? Five-hundred grand would be a tidy grubstake on some lost Caribbean Island.

Rikki dresses quietly. Kneeling next to her, she touches her finger to her lips, and then places the kiss on hers. “Tahina EsSahab,” Rikki whispers very softly, “you may be Beirut’s best burglar, but when it comes to sexual manipulation, you’ve got the IQ of a grape.”

Getting to her feet, Rikki unhooks the necklace and puts it on the bed. Picking up her boots, she tiptoes to the front door.

Outside, the street is peaceful. The Beirut night is clear. As she walks toward the BMW, she catches a glimpse of a strange-looking weasel-like man sitting in a battered beige Toyota.

I’ve seen that bird somewhere before, she thinks to herself. Her eyes brighten as the car seat accepts her weight. That’s got to be one of Bukhari’s henchmen. Good bet he’s the peeper too. She shifts in the seat as that mysterious tingle haunts her bottom. She closes the BMW’s door. “Okay Abu Bukhari,” she whispers softly. “You lust for my asshole? Well, c’mon, I’ll give it to you. But it’ll be on my terms, not yours.”

The BMW’s engine cranks then starts. As she pulls away from the curb, her busy mind is already plotting and planning. It'll be a very interesting challenge to deal with a lust-filled Arab overwhelmed by jealous fury.

That aside, tomorrow’s interviewee is Miss Angiea Nizza Himuz. She lives deep in the war-torn Muslim sector.

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Miss Himuz is also known as – THE BUTCHER.