7 comments/ 30602 views/ 6 favorites The Babes of Beirut By: RAMJET69 Author's note: This story is fictitious and is a product of the writer's imagination. The characters and situations are strictly for the reader's enjoyment and bare no resemblance to actual events or facts. * 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. The Babes of Beirut 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, making her stumble. "I said turn around!" Regaining her balance, Rikki looks toward Alchena. She's frozen where she sits, her expression pleading with Rikki to do what he says. Quickly remembering her own Tyrannosaurus Rex metaphor, Rikki turns around. Her eyes widen. Holy-shit, now 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 him to the floor like a stone made of Jell-O. 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?" "Do you not hear what Abu Bukhari say? He 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. Rikki cringes as 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. 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. The sharp toe of her stiletto-heal boot slams 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. The topless girl crawls away. Rikki is crouched on her hands and knees. To her, the door looks a mile away. The pathway is a dangerous sea of jagged broken glass. "Egry besoraa!" Alchena yells. "Run. Run fast!" Getting up, Rikki starts to scramble toward the door. What if it's 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. "Yel-la," he says pulling her forward. "Police come. I hide you 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 on the ninth floor. 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 warm slit 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. He lifts his undershirt over his head. 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 bare 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 her clothing 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, Carrie Underwood's "All-American Girl" drifts from a CD player on the toilet seat. 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 light finger-swish across her clit-tip spawns a powerfully erotic jolt. She jerks her hand away. "Gawd Lovette," she scolds herself, rolling her eyes. "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 bureau 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 in that same, mysteriously deep, and strangely delicious spot. Between Alchena's legs, natural stimulation is flowing like a river. Her tingling pussy drips with liquid heat. Bukhari sucks her large dark-brown nipple into his mouth. She closes her eyes as a wave of pleasurable warmth floods her pounding heart. Rikki twists off the shower valve. She 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 ropes snap tight 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 aren't just breasts, but 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. Her tongue finds his left nipple. Bukhari's neck muscles tighten as she lays a long wet lick on each. 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. "Get me 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 his pants. But you tell Jack-boy that 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 Bukhari 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. 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 safe house and 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." The Babes of Beirut 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 his stomach slaps her ass. Soon that American blonde will learn to FEAR as this Palestinian fears. "Ah-oh-ah-oh," Alchena groans as he slowly begins to thrust. * * * 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. Call it property. No. Shit." She snaps the recorder off. Rikki looks edgy and frustrated. 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 all-American 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. 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. The living room 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 and each splendid muscle move as it 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, the 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? 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 could 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. Bare skin strains 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 as if 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. "You didn't wear a 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 my boobs 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. "Mustn't touch until you 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 downward 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.