Eating Figs

THE MATTE-BLUE SKY closed in like a helmet being lowered over her aching head. Salome fanned the baking air with her guide book, waiting for her charges to scour the temple for final nuggets of interest before the carriages could trot them back along the corniche to their muslin-wafted cruiser.

She’d had her fill of faded hieroglyphics, soaring monuments to omnipotence, giant slabs of granite or limestone fashioned into strutting Pharaohs. What had started as a favour, become a hobby, wound up a very well paid chore, was almost over. This was the final private tour before she could start her real job.

A cold glass of petrol-tasting Cru des Ptolomees wine was beckoning from the boat, shimmering like a mirage. A shower, a last feast of roast pigeon and stuffed vine leaves, then a dip in the tiny pool on deck under the stars. And finally, of course, that cosy chat and fat cheque from Mrs Weinmeyer.

The Egyptian silence buzzed louder, swelling and blistering in her ears.

Sweat trickled between her breasts, wetness spreading through the gauzy turquoise top she’d bought yesterday in Luxor market. She’d attracted quite an audience as she twirled before the mirror held up by the lecherous stall holder. Even a couple of scruffy policemen, lounging near the heaps of terracotta spices, weren’t sure whether to caress or arrest her as she lifted her arms, showing forbidden armpits and bare stomach, to drop the kaftan over her tiny camisole. Well, she was used to the staring. An auburn-haired, white-skinned Westerner got ogled and groped all the time. In museums, shops, trains. Hence her repertoire of fruity curses to send the men packing.

Not so easy when the clients came on to you. She could hardly tell the freckled Scottish professors, imported to give learned talks on Howard Carter, that they were the sons of camels. Or the sandals-wearing English daddies, giving their families the trip of a lifetime, that their mothers were whores.

And how to refuse Mrs Weinmeyer’s vodka-fuelled and extremely tempting requests, every night of the cruise so far, for a threesome to jazz up her fading marriage?

She tried to swallow. Even her saliva had dried up. She swayed against the honey-coloured pillar. Her feet felt shackled to the dust, as if she was a galley slave. Sweat was matting her hair, pouring down her back, yet she was shivering. Hurry up, campers, for fuck’s sake.

But the silence was absolute. No voices bouncing off the ancient stones. No scuffling feet. No clicking of cameras. Only the fresh white cotton of a gelabhia flapping above a brown foot. A man was sitting under the massive decapitated head of Ramses II drinking Seven-Up. Salome groaned, eyeing the beads of condensation on the lime green can.

‘My group. Fain?’ She waded through the heat towards him. ‘Where are they?’

The man’s eyes above a full black beard were brown and unblinking. Unusual. Egyptians were usually clean shaven. He shrugged, flicked away a fly, and tipped the can up over his open mouth. Salome would have sold her sister for a sip, but when the man held it out, inviting her to share, she felt sick.

‘Change money?’ the man asked gruffly, fumbling beneath his robe for some hidden pocket. She backed away with her hands up, but the man brought out a wad of dollar bills. He cocked his head at another man in jeans and a dazzling white shirt standing with his back to them in the shadows. ‘Change husband?’

Salome’s thoughts were jumping like grasshoppers in a jar.

‘Not mine,’ she croaked. She glanced towards the entrance of the temple, where ram-headed sphinxes waited in a row as if expecting Elizabeth Taylor any minute.

But the entrance wasn’t there. Just a wall of stone. The silence and sun were suffocating her. The man with the Seven-Up had gone. The ground was almost white in the heat, sphinxes and statues casting shadows thick as pitch.

Then, in a far corner, she saw two silhouettes wavering in the heat like skinny candles. Between them she could see the glint of the river. Sweat dripped in to her eyes, but she was afraid to blink in case these figures, too, disappeared.

‘We can go back to the carriages now, if you’ve all finished looking round.’ Her voice wheezed across the emptiness, and she stamped across the dust. The silhouettes seemed to collapse together for a moment, merging like two streaks of watercolour. One of them waved a stick-like arm. She came closer. It wasn’t Mr Weinmeyer, or Mrs Weinmeyer, or any of the other guests. It was the man with the Seven-Up. He was wearing sunglasses now. And the man with the Persil-white shirt. He looked as cool as if he’d just stepped out of the shower.

‘I’ve put your people in here,’ he said in a deep, terse voice. He pointed to a dark slit between two pillars. ‘This is the sacrificial chamber of Sekhmet, the greedy cat goddess.’

‘Yes, I know that.’ Salome snapped impatiently. ‘But what are you doing?’

‘Eating figs.’ He held out a straw basket, his hand dripping with juice. ‘Do you want one?’

She stretched out her hand towards the gleaming fruit, licking her dry mouth, but suddenly he pushed her through the doorway and she fell to the ground, grit scratching her elbows.

A sour draught licked through the chamber. She didn’t recall it being so small. Shadows shifted and whispered. One of them was bending over her, fingers like tentacles sinking in to her arm.

‘Let go of me!’ she hissed, trying to shake it off. The pinching stopped, and something scuttled away in the sand. ‘Now, can someone tell me what the fuck is going on here?’

‘Salome, thank God, you’ve got to get hold of the ship’s captain or something!’ Mrs Weinmeyer was gasping. ‘These guys are after some kind of ransom.’

The others crowded round, jostling and questioning. She pushed her way back to the two men.

‘An iznak​?’ she barked at the two shadows blocking out the sun. ‘Excuse me. What’s going on?

The men folded their arms. Someone behind her began to cry. ‘They say there’s scorpions –’

‘I can’t breathe –’

‘Salome,’ said Mrs Weinmeyer quietly. ‘They’ve taken us prisoner.’

‘Correct,’ one of the men said. ‘Rich foreigners. Your captain or your families will come looking for you and then we will tell them what we want.’

Salome felt the panic, thick as blood in the hot space. So thick she couldn’t breathe.

‘No, you bastards, I’m in charge here, not you.’ She stood up dizzily and jabbed her finger into Mr Seven-Up’s face. ‘You want a hostage, take me. These people hired me as their private guide. You let them go. They’ll get you money, or guns, or whatever you want.’

There was a pause. Another scuttling in the sand. Then an arm came round her throat and started to squeeze.

There was moonlight outside the louvered window. The slats printed lines all over her, binding her in hoops of shadow. Every so often someone flickered past, near enough to touch. She shifted her leg and there was a weird clank of heavy metal.

Outside there were noises. Echoes off water. Cockerels. It must be early in the morning. The cockerels were crowing frantically, as they do before the knife comes.

But it couldn’t be morning, because there was also music coming from somewhere. It was the same as last night’s entertainment.

The sexy belly dancer had undulated around the tables offering a basket of freshly split figs on a bed of basil leaves. Her band of musicians sawed and sweated. The male guests lapped up every sequinned, wobbling inch of her, their lust undisguised, because her movements blatantly said this is what I look like when I’m fucking. Or maybe that was just the drink. Mrs Weinmeyer had been plying Salome with French champagne in yet another attempt to seduce her. Her pale hands, weighted with diamonds, had stroked Salome’s back while Mr Weinmeyer, all steel-eyed Aryan beefcake, had watched silently from the bar.

Then the dancer had beckoned the two of them up to the front. She’d wrapped her velvety, mocha-brown arms round them to wind their hips with sparkly scarves, pushed her soft, warm body against them as she flirtatiously dragged their tee shirts up to bare their stomachs, then everyone had gone wild because Salome had this skill licked, cocking her knees, tilting her hips, wiggling her tits, letting her fingers ripple in coquettish invitation –

‘OK, she’s awake. Now we can get to work.’

Someone lit a lantern in the corner of the room. The flame sputtered then settled onto its wick. Evening, then. Both kidnappers were there. The bearded one had taken off his gelabhia and wore desert fatigues. Muscles bulged under his black tee shirt.

The lantern swayed on its hook, as if the whole place was on the move.

The Persil guy’s white shirt was sticking to his torso. Not so cool now. And apparently unarmed. Sweat streaked his upper lip. Salome looked at his jeans as he swaggered into the room. When the time was right, the obvious place to strike was in the balls. Make him double up so she could escape.

‘You’re all tarts, you English. Always half naked,’ he spat onto the floor.

‘Half Cuban, actually.’ They’d taken her white trousers. She was sprawled on the floor, legs open, wearing only her underwear and her turquoise kaftan, ripped now and filthy with dust. ‘So why undress me?’

‘Why do you think? No point having a hostage if we can’t play with her.’

He handed her another basket of figs. As she leaned forward to snatch it, something bit into her ankle. Her foot was shackled to the floor with an iron ring. Salome yanked and pulled but it only rubbed her skin raw. The fig juice spurted stickily over her chest as she stuffed the fruit into her mouth whole.

‘What’s this round my ankle?’ she mumbled, spitting pips.

‘It’s my version of a khuul khaal. You know, the precious badge of the married woman.’

‘But I’m not –’

‘No, but it marks you as mine.’

Salome’s heart was pounding. Sweat and fig juice dripped between her breasts, and seemed to crystallize on her skin.

‘Did you tell your clients how you can cast a spell by rubbing basil leaves between two leaves to create a scorpion?’

Salome’s neck prickled with new fear.

‘Yeh, Ali!’ The other guy muttered to him in Arabic.

‘Khaled wants to stop with the small talk. And I agree. I promised he could have you as his prize until your saviours get the money. And who knows? Maybe after that, too.’

The other guy squatted down and stared at her, hard, like he had at the temple. Salome tried to focus on the miniature reflection of herself in his eyes as he looked at her mouth, her throat, her breasts. But she couldn’t help staring at his red, wet mouth, splitting the piratical beard. He licked his lips, then ripped off her kaftan. Her breasts fell heavily forwards, covered only by the flimsy lace of her dirty, sweat-soaked bra.

‘After that you’ll have to let me go.’ Salome’s voice shook as she tried to cover herself. ‘Mrs Weinmeyer will do anything –’

Her stomach twisted sharply. Would she, though? Maybe Mrs Weinmeyer didn’t give a toss. Salome had turned her down, after all. Every night. Refused to climb into the huge circular bed in their imperial cabin to pleasure her rich blonde client and her silent, blond husband. How hard would that have been, for God’s sake? Any minute now some gun-toting terrorist was going to screw her on a rough, dusty floor when she could have been spread out on Mrs Weinmeyer’s satin sheets, totally in control, inviting Mr Weinmeyer’s long, pale cock to thrust inside her while his wife lowered her waxed, perfumed cunt onto Salome’s face –

There was another deafening burst of music. Curiously, it sounded nearer than before. A CD, playing on the deck outside the window. The same tinny, snake-charmer flute, the rhythmic, banging drum. The room, or boat, or whatever they were on, dipped and swayed violently as if in the wash of a much larger vessel.

‘You can shut up now!’ Ali drawled. ‘Can’t bear females chattering on.’

Khaled took hold of her legs, and opened them wider. He stroked them as if she was a dangerous pet, pushing them apart so that his hands could run up inside her thighs, up towards her warm, sweaty crotch.

‘Get away from me!’ She shifted frantically, trying to escape his probing fingers. Her breath caught in a rough gasp as he took hold of her and pushed her onto her back. ‘Not seen a white woman before?’

‘No point struggling.’ Ali laughed scornfully. ‘You’re easy meat. Khaled here thought he was going to have ten fat tourists to deal with. Not just one cute tour guide.’

‘They’ll throw away the key –’

‘Whatever, princess. Khaled gets ugly when he’s roused.’

Khaled grunted, and grasped at Salome’s hips, ripping at her knickers. She tried to close her legs, slapping weakly, but he pinned her wrists over her head.

‘When are you going to let me go?’ she bleated, faint with heat and the slow slide of surrender.

‘That’s up to your friends. Depends how much they value you. Quite frankly, we’ve got plenty already. Raided all the rooms while you were off cheer-leading. I’ve got a comfortable cabin upstairs and a willing skipper. And his even more willing wife, all ready to cook and scrub and do whatever I want. Very cute, she is. Lovely wet, pink cunt all wrapped up in a big brown arse. Just my type. And gagging for it. You know, she let me fuck her senseless in the galley just before we went over to Karnak to catch up with you lot. Got me going, you know, really got me in the mood for a fight. And I know her husband was watching, because I saw those eyes peeping through the port hole, saw him having a good wank –’

‘Oh for God’s sake!’ Salome pushed the sweat out of her eyes. ‘How long are you keeping up this charade?’

‘No charade, princess. I’m deadly serious.’ He took out a beer. ‘May as well get used to it. The Nile’s a very long river. This trip could take hours. Days –’

‘Let me go! I have to get back to New York –’

‘You’re going nowhere!’

Khaled smacked her, viciously, on her bottom, and she yelped with pain and fury.

‘Get on that phone and find out what’s happening out there!’

‘Don’t tell me what to do.’ Ali leaned forwards. His black hair was falling over his eyes and his hooked nose, dripping with sweat now. ‘You’re still our prisoner.’

She bit her lip. ‘OK. Let me go up on the deck, then. I can help the woman. I need air, Ali. I need light –’

Ali said, ‘Just go ahead and fuck the bitch.’

Khaled’s laughter choked in his throat. Fuck. A word everyone the world over understands. He unzipped his fly with his free hand. He pulled out his cock, which was almost erect, and circled his fingers round the base of it, ran them lovingly up to the knob, then down again. The foreskin wrinkled away, smoothed out over the surface as blood pumped through. Salome thrashed about on the floor beneath him and struggled for air and escape, but something awoke inside her, something toxic, coiling greedily at the sight of the thickness growing in his hand, aching to penetrate her. She thought it might be adrenalin rushing to equip her for danger. But it was something else. Mad, wild excitement. She was nothing, just a hot, empty cunt. He was a stiff, ready cock with only one place to go.

The mad, hypnotic music was inside her skull now. Khaled bit his lip as he massaged his cock, watching it grow stiffer, his pirate’s face intent on what he was doing. Salome closed her eyes, stopped struggling, giving herself up to the music. Fine. He was going to jerk off over her bare pussy. Let him. Whatever.

But then he thumped down between Salome’s sore thighs and with his cock still gripped tight in his fist he started to push its blunt tip in to her. She gathered all her strength to scream blue murder but instead, when his cock edged through her sticky opening and slid inside, the sensation was blinding and her moans dwindled into pure, lustful pleasure.

As the discordant music wailed, drums beat faster, Khaled pulled his haunches back, then thrust his cock further in. She thought of bulls or lions mating, she couldn’t help it, clumsily, urgently thrusting, just like this, not even speaking. Copulating like animals on the splintery, dusty floor. Her legs gripped to pull his groin into hers but he wasn’t interested in what she wanted, kept pulling back, banging himself into her, out of time, no rhythm, no finesse, just wanting to get his bloody rocks off, the sheer rampant roughness of him making her want to scream with laughter, the only thing stopping her was his dark head holding steady above her, jerking slightly with every thrust but staring. Always staring.

There was a sound outside the door, what sounded like the metallic drag of a heavy chain or anchor. But still the music wailed.

Khaled thrust harder, and faster, still staring into her eyes, his tongue sliding across his mouth, pumping and fucking her like a dog. Salome’s back scraped on the wooden floor, but the stinging pain kept all her senses acutely alert.

There was no kissing, or licking, or touching. Khaled still held her down with one hand, but the other was taking his own weight. There was just his cock, and her cunt. Muscles flexed constantly in his arms, his neck, his thighs, and suddenly he shifted his position, sitting back on his buttocks. He dug his fingers hard into her bottom and flipped her up towards him so that her back was to the watching Ali. He might have been masturbating as he watched, groaning, coming for all she knew, but the boat’s timbers seemed to be creaking and rocking and the music was deafening.

They were face to face, her straddling Khaled’s knees with her legs still wrapped round his waist. The chain round her ankle made a little echoing rattle of the one outside. Khaled’s cock was aimed into the small of her back. His face was close to hers. His breath was hot, and surprisingly sweet.

‘Kiss me, you bastard!’ she hissed.

She pushed her face forwards, rubbed her mouth against his, felt the scratch of his beard, the wetness of his half open mouth, but although that brief touch made her hysterical with excitement he didn’t kiss her back. But nor did he pull away. He just paused for a moment, panting loudly into her face, the excitement mounting uncontrollably. Someone started clapping outside, on the radio, in the room, she couldn’t tell.

But then he pulled back and gave a kind of rising yell and then he slammed into her, hips back, arching, slamming again, both of them shuddering with the jarring impact of bone on bone, the captor and the captive, and before she was ready he was coming, face dark with the effort of holding back, growling obscenities into her mouth and though she wasn’t coming she screeched triumphantly, feeling his body tense up. She bounced her butt across his legs, tightening her muscles round his cock and her legs round his waist, thought she was coming any minute, but then it was her turn to screech with fury because she couldn’t keep up, he was pumping violently into her, she’d done too good a job, his eyes were blazing, never blinking, watching Salome as she arched angrily away and he roared out his climax.

They tumbled chaotically apart, crashing on to their backs. Khaled’s cock slid out, pulsating heavily to a halt across her leg. She watched until it stopped lifting and spurting, and as she curled crossly into a ball, her cunt clutched with frustration.

‘Never had white women down as cold fish. Our big brown cocks not good enough to make you come?’ Ali tossed a box across the floor. ‘Try these on her, Khaled. A kinky lot, those Americans. We found these sex toys in the cabin of Frau Weinmeyer. More like weapons of torture, I’d say. Or maybe I’m just very innocent!’

Khaled snapped on a pair of nipple clamps and they pinched her viciously. It was as if her nipples had been bitten by something very sharp, or stung by a venomous insect. The sting eased into a red-hot throbbing, deepening to a new, dark excitement.

‘And my God, what’s this?’

Ali held up a belt with a kind of truncheon attached to it. Salome’s cunt pinched shut, then open again, as she stared at the brutal length of it.

The music suddenly stopped, and there was a knock on the door.

Salome tensed herself to scream for help, but Khaled, reading her again, covered her mouth.

A woman’s voice called, ‘Please?’

The triangle of light from the door illuminated a voluptuous figure in a long, glittering skirt.

‘Mona, darling. Habibti,’ Ali crooned. He kissed the woman on the mouth. ‘Come and meet my prisoner.’

Khaled lowered his hand and Mona gave a little gasp of laughter.

‘Salome from the American group! I was teaching you the belly dancing!’ She thrust her breasts out, tassels whirling, and wiggled her hips sensuously. ‘You were very good!’

Salome tried to signal her fear but Mona just smiled at her, allowing Ali to run his hands over her, bumping her belly-dancing hips against him.

‘I’m a hostage, Mona!’ Salome hissed desperately. ‘Help me!’

‘You’ve got it all wrong, Salome.’ Ali laughed. ‘She’s not your friend. She’s the one who got us in. So, habibti, try this contraption on for size.’

Mona made a face but he slapped her roughly, yanked up her long skirt, and strapped the harness round her waist. He bolted and buckled, ran the straps round the tops of her legs, bent her over so that the lavender strip between her butt cheeks opened briefly to show the little purple hole. He pulled one very thin strip so hard that it sliced through the untamed bush of Mona’s pussy, making her toss her glossy black hair and run her incredibly long red tongue slowly over her mouth, then he yanked her upright and she stood there, proud as a queen.

Except that now, poking through the emerald green folds of her skirt was a great thick penis made of leather, rearing at an angle as if growing out of her. She jerked her hips obscenely so that the leather cock jumped at Salome, and yet again Salome’s cunt pinched tight with an evil longing.

‘So, habibti, dance for us. And Salome, wasn’t she the dancer of the seven veils?’

The music started abruptly and at the same time the boat rocked sickeningly. Mona stepped towards Salome, wiggling her shoulders, and pulled her to her feet. Salome yelped as the iron ring yanked her backwards, but Mona just smiled. She had incredibly thick lips, and her tongue was flickering as she circled, stepping from foot to foot, flicking and rolling her hips, thrusting her wobbling breasts in the green sparkly bra, and all the while the brutal penis jumped eagerly between the silky folds of her skirt.

Salome stepped dizzily in a small circle, allowing Mona to put her hands on her hips to make her dance, too, and they started to step and whirl together, until Salome couldn’t see straight, the blood was pounding in her ears, and all at once Mona fell to the floor in a kind of over-dramatic swoon, laughing and pulling Salome down on top of her.

The chain clanked, and the men shouted and clapped. Mona’s huge brown breasts squeezed over her sparkly bra as she caught her breath, and she pulled Salome towards her and started to lick at her with that long tongue, lapping at her mouth, her face, along her cheek towards her ear.

‘You’ll enjoy it, I promise,’ she whispered. ‘These guys are a pair of pussies. We can escape whenever we choose.’

Her hot breath tickled Salome’s ear. Her body tightened with a mixture of excitement and relief. Then there was no more talking, just Mona’s mouth and hands, taking charge, the men standing back to watch. Mona’s arms were imprisoning Salome as her thick, wet tongue rammed into her mouth, forcing it open, forcing her to suck it. She’d not tasted a grown woman. Not since they’d mucked about at convent school. She liked it. And found herself thinking, this is what Mrs Weinmeyer wanted. Would she taste like this?

Mona was like a sensuous restless snake, she couldn’t, wouldn’t stop moving, her head was tossing from side to side as if she was already in ecstasy. She gyrated like a water-bed under Salome, moving her body as if they were dancing on the floor. Salome was too weak and dizzy to resist, and her body moved with Mona’s, skin on skin, sweat on sweat, Mona’s breasts rubbing against hers, her plump, hot body and her strong hands weaving a tight sexy web.

As they ground against each other, her legs parted and now her pussy was wide open, scraping the sharp sequins of Mona’s skirt and, oh God, rubbing up against that huge leather phallus poking at her stomach.

She tried to whisper ‘OK, when are we going to get out of here? When?’ but Mona was lifting her now, so that her aching breasts, nipples elongated and tortured exquisitely by the clamps, dangled over her face, and as Mona’s long tongue came out of her grinning mouth to flick one nipple she hoisted Salome right up and with another deft thrust of those agile hips pushed the leather dildo up inside her, so fast and so hard that Salome rose with the force of it, knocking her breath out of her.

Ali squatted against the wall, hands in his pockets, maybe reaching for his cock, swelling quietly in his trousers. Who knew? Mona was fucking her with Mrs Weinmeyer’s dildo, and with every push Salome bounced helplessly on top of her, knees scraping, chain jarring at her ankle bone, every inch of her aching and raw but alive with shame and shock and excitement.

Mona thrust the dildo in with her strong dancer’s hips and sucked on Salome’s sore nipples, tongue tweaking and flicking at the merciless clamps. Salome fell forwards, impaled by the thick weapon and by the searing sensations, helpless as a puppet.

Now other hands were pulling at her buttocks, prizing them open, making the delicate dividing skin sting in protest as it was stretched open. The fleshy cheeks wobbled as Mona tossed her. Sparks jumped in front of her eyes as she realised what Khaled was doing. Her bottom hole clenched tight as a fist as he wrenched her open and started to push his cock at her.

She was already being pumped to bursting point by the dildo, what the fuck was he doing, Christ, he was ramming himself between her cheeks, penetrating that tight resisting ring and making it melt open for him.

And now Ali kicked off his trousers and came to kneel over Mona’s face so that she was forced to fondle his balls and stick her fingers up his backside, spreading his buttocks so she could lift her strong neck and lick his arse hole with that amazing tongue of hers, and as Salome gaped at what they were doing and bounced on the dildo, Ali aimed his cock, straight and hard, at Salome’s face and with no word, and at the same moment as Khaled penetrated her bottom, Ali pushed his cock into Salome’s mouth.

‘At last. She’s silent,’ he grunted. Salome’s every orifice was brutally forced, and filled, bursting and burning with pain, shame, and a dark, dark desire.

All three of them possessed her, a perfect team. Khaled’s breath was hot on her neck. Mona was strong as an ox, no sign of stopping. Ali fucked her face and mouth. She couldn’t stop bucking and grinding, chasing her pleasure and grunting like the animal she’d become.

The nipple clamps were like terrier’s teeth, worrying at her, the exquisite pain now real agony, somehow numb and acute at the same time, shivering down to every nerve end, making her lift and plunge on to the dildo, grind harder onto Khaled, bite and suck on Ali’s cock.

Mona in particular gripped her like a limpet, long sharp nails digging into her skin, the phallus pushing further and faster, loosening her for Khaled, too, so that each time he went up her backside, the dildo went up more easily, everything lubricated by her juices. As she rocked forwards she was shafted up her cunt, as she rocked backwards it was up her arse, so her insides were melting too, she was opening her legs and buttocks as wide as she could, Mona and Khaled had her wide open, using her like a toy. Her jaw was cracking with the effort of taking the length of Ali’s urgent cock.

The boat bumped hard, as if it was coming alongside. What if the police were here? What if the tour group were about to storm the store room to rescue her from terror and torture, only to find her loving it, impaled by not two but three huge cocks, pinning her as if she was on some kind of rack.

The thought of them watching her made her arch wildly with pleasure as her climax crashed through her. She was feverish with the madness and danger of it all and let her body grip and slacken, fast and slow, until the men were moaning and grunting and spurting up her arse, down her throat, using every part for punishment and pleasure.

The heat and silence in the bare cabin was total, time stretching like frayed rope. The boat swayed and rocked under them, making Salome sick, dizzy and delirious at the same time. She thought, through the window, she could see a fluffy cloud in the sky, just like England.

And in the corner a hard black shape, about the size of an avocado, flickered in the basket, dislodging the fruit, and one of the figs rolled out.

Ali’s mobile phone rang, and he answered it, his cock still in Salome’s breathless mouth.

‘Money’s here,’ he drawled, snapping it shut. ‘But it seems the group won’t be going back to the States for a while. They’re all holed up in the Winter Palace. Gone down with some kind of poisoning.’

He kicked Salome out of the way and laid Mona out beneath him like a feast. He wrenched the buckles and straps undone, and threw her skirt up so that it floated down over her body like a parachute. Mona squealed and squirmed with pleasure.

‘Your turn, habibti. You’ve earned yourself a good fucking.’ He took his cock and nudged it up into the thick black bush covering Mona’s pussy. He glanced over his shoulder. ‘Still here, bitch?’

Salome sat back on her haunches. The metal ring had warmed to blood heat round her ankle and fitted like another bone. Out of the basket of figs the shape scuttled onto the floor, its tail curved over its back like a question mark.

‘Yes,’ said Salome, fingers trailing up her hot, sticky thighs as she settled down to watch. ‘I’m still here.’