9 comments/ 99232 views/ 14 favorites The Secret Memoirs By: nick whistler The Secret Memoirs of Elizabeth Bartlett Chapter I. I have lived a life of strange and fascinating adventure, of violent contrasts between abject subjugation and sublime command, of both the greatest pains and the greatest pleasures imaginable in the life of woman. But these pleasures were those unspeakable to society, those carnal pleasures, those deep, dark revels of the body that in our age are hid away and forever banished from the light of day. Much as I yearn to, I dare not speak of them aloud. Instead, it is to mute paper I commit my story, in expectation of the day when, perhaps, my name may rise from the page, and these scratches of ink conjure images of soft sanguine flesh and bodies locked in passion. For the purpose at hand, little need be said of my first eighteen years upon this earth. I was an English country girl, raised first on my family's own modest farm until the death, first of my mother when I was six, and then my father when I was twelve. From then I grew up on the estate of my widower uncle Thomas Bartlett, a man of some wealth and also a stern, strict follower of the old sort of religion. Of my neighbors, none need be mentioned except Katherine, who was to become my best friend. Kat, as I called her, was two years older than me and much less ignorant of the ways of the world; even as I carried on in complete ignorance of all carnal matters, she was playing kissing games with the boys from the village; it fit our characters, somehow, that her hair was a playful blond, and mine a dark, rich brown. As we grew into the flower of young girlhood, Katherine's figure filled out to a voluptuous collection of curves, wonderfully matched by her sly and playful face. I, on the other hand, grew more svelte and smooth, though my breasts and buttocks turned out full enough; I believe it is not too immodest to say that I was quite a pretty girl. By the time we were seventeen, Katherine resembled one of Boucher's coquettish nymphs, in appearance as well as character, while I, not tall or petit but admirably well-proportioned, possessed the passive grace of a Grecian nude—though, of course, my modest demeanor always kept me most resolutely clothed. (I am not sure the same could have been said for Kat.) I was, indeed, a most modest young woman, and carefully kept so by my pious uncle Thomas. In Kat, however, I saw a hint of something strange and unimaginably forbidden, something I felt stirring, if only most faintly, within the depths of my own being. * * * In the Summer of 1866 I embarked on the first journey of my life. Uncle Thomas, shaking off some of his customary domesticity, decided it was high time for a grand tour of Europe and the Holy Land, and so we set off. With us were Katherine (and only Katherine, for while Thomas was willing to pay for her passage, even his generosity did not extend to treating her entire family) and another family of our neighbors by the name of Whipple, consisting of a mother, a father, and their young son. We traveled through France and Italy, celebrating my eighteenth birthday in a searing hot Rome on the twenty-sixth of July. Our tours were perfunctory in the extreme, restricted, as they were, merely to viewing such ruins, churches and palaces as we could before returning to our place of lodging in the evening. But for a girl who had never left the English countryside it was more than enough. From each stop we were conveyed to the next by the same steamship, the Galatea. Along the way a sort of society sprung up among the passengers. We attracted a young man by the name of John Grayfield to our expedition. Even then, I could not but notice that it seemed to be Katherine's bold charms, more than an interest in Biblical history, that persuaded him to join our tour of the Holy Land. We arrived in Palestine in August and made our way through the various more or less uninteresting towns of the region. (The only attraction of these decrepit villages, it seems to me, is the attachment of their names to certain passages in a dusty old book.) John left us in Jerusalem as we prepared to cross the Sinai to Egypt—his constitution, he said, was not meant for desert voyages. So the rest of us set out across the dunes on camelback with two hired Bedouin guides armed with antique muskets showing us the way. Here, however, is where my narrative breaks from the model of the usual travelogue. For as we passed through the broiling desert something happened that was to utterly change the course of my life. We were three days into the desert. I was in the center of our little caravan, perched precariously on my camel, clothed only in a loose yellow walking dress and no corset, with my face shaded by a wide-brimmed straw hat—a loosening of sartorial rigor permitted by my uncle as an accommodation to the heat. It was near mid-day with the sun pounding down when I heard a crack echo through the air. I twirled my head around. One of the Bedouin guides rolled over in his saddle, dead. The other pulled his long musket from its sheath, but before he could bring it to his shoulder another shot pierced the sky and he, too, fell dead. I looked to my left. A dozen or more men swathed in robes and turbans streamed over the nearest dune, guns at the ready. A flurry of shots flew out. Uncle Thomas drew a revolver from his side. "Run, Elizabeth! Run!" he shouted. Without thinking I kicked the flank of my camel, sending him racing forward. Though I heard what seemed like a thousands shots ringing out, I did not turn my head to see the struggle raging behind. Instead I rode as fast as I could—to where, I knew not. As the sound of gunfire faded in the distance another sound took its place: pounding hooves, and the yells of men fast on my trail. I desperately kicked my camel in a wild attempt to outrun my pursuers. The chase was short. Suddenly I felt myself slipping; the camel tumbled into the sand, sending me sprawling. As I regained my senses I became terribly aware of the two black-robed men standing above me. They wore smiles of malicious glee and spoke to one another in foul, barking voices. Their faces were shaded by their great turbans. Fear swept across me. Their burly hands grasped my shoulders and pushed my back into the sand. Their bodies pinned me to the ground. I squirmed. Then one of them, a man with a terrible scar across his cheek, slipped a great curved knife from his waist and held it to me bosom. I became absolutely still, except for the heaving of my chest with each of my short, panicked breaths. The scarred Arab slipped the tip of his knife under the neckline of my dress. I though my life was surely about to end. But rather than driving it into my flesh, he pulled it violently away, cutting the cloth the ribbons. The other Arab grabbed hold of pieces of the mangled fabric and rent them apart with his powerful hands, while the other cut slit after slit in my dress with his knife. I was terrified. Soon nothing was left but shreds. Beneath the ruins of my dress only a short chamise shielded my flesh from their touch. And this, too, was soon under attack. The scarred Arab made an incision in the fabric just above my navel; then, roughly but with unexpected precision, he carefully pulled the knife up, extending the incision between my breasts and up towards my neck. Every second I feared he would slip and send the blade slicing through my tender flesh. When the scarred man had made the final cut through the neckline of my undergarment, the other instantly seized either side of the rent material and pulled it violently apart. I gasped. My breasts were suddenly exposed, naked to the desert air and to their eyes. No man had ever seen them before, those full mounds of softest ivory. To my terror was suddenly added a tremendous sense of shame, such as I had never felt before. The two men's mouths curled in vicious grins. Their calloused hands fell onto my virgin flesh, grasping my tender breasts. I recoiled, but there was nothing I could do. I did not have any idea what it was they wanted to do to me, but I knew that whatever it was I would have no choice but to submit. And then another gunshot rent the air. The two men jumped to their feet. I looked up in a daze. There was a man on horseback, astride a magnificent black horse like none I had ever seen—and the man, too, was like a vision. He was tall and dark, dressed from head to foot in gleaming white robes. In one hand was a raised, smoking pistol. At his side were a sword and dagger, each in a jeweled sheath. With the sun behind him I could not make out his face. The two men in black robes pointed at me and barked something. The man on horseback said something in return, with a deep voice that was even, yet filled with resolution. The others walked away from me, mounted their camels, and rode of across the dunes. The man in white dismounted his horse and walked to where I lay half-naked in the sand. He knelt by my side and calmly drew his dagger. I was terrified, once again, for my life, certain that he had come to put me to death. But instead he slipped the tip in the slit cut into my chamise and drew it down, from my navel to the hem. When the cut was completed, he pulled the entire undergarment—split now from top to bottom down the middle—and threw it behind him. I knew not what to do. Her I was, lying naked as Eve in the desert underneath this great, strange man. He had a thin black mustache. His dark brown eyes had a burning intensity I had never seen before. For what seemed like a very long while he merely looked at me. In spite of myself, I felt an unfamiliar fascination stirring in my belly. The man put his arms around me and pulled my face to his. His lips met mine—the first time I had ever been kissed. He pressed himself against me in a long, deep embrace, as if the passion I could feel raging in his heart were passing from his body to mine. What will I had to resist died at that moment. He kissed me again, and then again, each time lingering over my lips before parting. Not understanding, I let him do as he wished. As he kissed me, his hands slowly slipped all over my naked body. Without thinking I wrapped my arms around his back—why, I could not imagine. It seemed as if he were covering me completely. Gradually, his hands made his way to my waist, and then between my thighs. He gently parted my legs. For a moment he raised himself off me and took lifted his hands from my skin. I heard a rustling of his robes. When he settled back down I was startled to feel a pressure against my loins—something warm and hard. I could not imagine what it was. Till then I had seen the male member only as sculpted in marble, and never erect—the mystery of that moment was untainted by carnal knowledge. Uncomprehending, the sense of terror returned to me. The pressure built between my loins. But the man's kisses and caresses, combined with the shock of all that had happened in so little time, had sent me into a strange state, something like a waking dream. To my surprise I began to feel a strange pleasure, a warmth rising from the depths of my body, such as I had only felt a few times before—once when leaning forward on a galloping horse, or sometimes when dipping into the hot water of a newly poured bath. He entered with such slow delicate force that I hardly was aware of what was happening—and if I had been, it would have done me no good, since I knew nothing of such things. But after a few minutes I became aware of a pain within me and the fear returned. I wanted once more to flee. The man in white, though, did not stop. Instead, he kept pushing, gently but firmly, pushing, pushing, against the walls of my body. And, after a few more moments, I felt something give way. There was pain, too, but something had changed: the way was clear. Not long after, he started pushing in and then pulling out of my sex. Looking down, I glimpsed the strange, confusing sight. Something, it seemed (though I could scarcely believe it), was penetrating me, something attached to the man himself. Of course I did not understand. But I did not need to understand. Each stroke was filling me with greater pleasure than the last, and each was a greater pleasure than any I had felt before. Without thinking I began to strange sounds, somewhere between a gasp and a moan. "Ah, ah, ah, ah. . ." I pulled my arms around his body and pressed my chest to his. This strange sensation, this man pressed against me, inside me, as if he and I were one, overpowered any thoughts I might have had. My back buried in the dune, my eyes blinded by the sun, I abandoned myself to the pleasure building within. After what seemed at once an eternity and a moment, I felt a wave of ecstasy wash over my body. I cried out. "Oh! Ah! Ahhhh. . . Oooohhh . . . Ooooohhhhh. . ." My cries transformed into moans—deep moans of the deepest satisfaction. I shook from head to toe. As this unprecedented rapture swept through me I felt the man above shake and moan as well; deep within my body I felt him twitch and jerk. We shook together, united, our pleasures mingling—and then, as the climax faded away, we fell into each other's arms. Some time later—I cannot say how much later—we separated. He fixed his robes. I lay on my elbows in the sand. Despite all the horror of the day I felt an odd satisfaction, almost, even, a sense of happiness. A few moments passed—and then, without warning, the man in white scooped me out of the sand and set me on top of his horse. A second later he mounted the saddle behind me and we were off, speeding towards the falling sun. The desert wind whipped through my long, brown hair and over my skin. Grains of sand glistened on my naked breasts. Strangely, I did not think of Uncle Thomas or of the Whipple family or even of Katherine as we rode across the dunes. Perhaps somewhere below my reasoning mind there was something telling me they were gone, forever gone, and best forgotten. I did not feel grief, nor pain, nor regret, but only a tremendous sense that my life had begun anew, for better or worse, and what was to follow would undoubtedly be unlike anything I had known before. * * * After perhaps an hour or more riding the dunes an encampment appeared before us. Several dozen tents were pitched in the bed of a dry river; near the center of the cluster rose a tent that was higher than the others, its cloth crimson embroidered with gold. Around the tents swarmed a great number of robed bodies. As we approached I felt fear rising anew in my, fear that my naked skin would be subject to the gazes of countless unfamiliar men. I tried to cover my breasts as they gathered around But as we passed the outermost tent, the man in white yelled something at the men around us; instantly, they fell prostrate on the sand. Riding through the camp I saw not a single eye raised from the ground. A minute later we reached the great tent—in fact not one tent but several stitched together to create several connected rooms—in the center of the camp. The man in white dismounted, lifted me from his horse, and set me down in front of the tent. He raised the entrance flap and gently pushed me forward. Blinded by the light of the desert sun, I was at first unable to make out anything but a soft red glow. As my eyes adjusted to the muted light I perceived the countless pillows and cushions lying on the floor and the odd, unfamiliar gold and silver vessels strewn among them: water pipes, vases, and so forth, a veritable garden of luxury. The chamber was bound by thick red cloth and perfectly round on all sides except the one adjoining the next tent in the complex. At the center a pole stretched perhaps four yards to a peak, where the only direct sunlight penetrated the tent as a shaft of shimmering white. The man in white clapped his hands and called out in words I could not understand. A silent moment passed—and then, the flap on the flat side of the tent opened. To my amazement, two women passed through it into the room. Both, like myself, were young—in their twenties, no doubt—and, what was more, completely nude. I had sometimes looked at my own form in a full-length mirror in my uncle's house. But I had never seen another woman unclothed, except as statues or paintings. Indeed, these two women had something of the statuesque; they had that graceful ease of bearing that warrants calling them nude rather than merely naked. Each possessed long black hair that flowed over the shoulders. One, the taller of the two, was a creamy light brown, an Arab woman of the finest stock; her figure was suave and slender, elegant as the desert itself. The other was a far darker shade, like fine chocolate, and much fuller in figure: she was an Indian, cut from the same stock as the voluptuous sculpted maidens that embellish her country's heathen temples. The triangles of skin between their legs, I was amazed to see, were both completely without hair, like the women in paintings. The man in white said something to them and then, without another word, left the tent, fastening the flap behind him. The Arab woman turned around and went back through the flap to the other tent. Her movements were smooth and unhurried. The other woman stood perhaps five feet from me. Her eyes looked deep into mine, while her full lips were pulled into the gentlest smile I had ever seen. Around her neck and between her bulging breasts ran a chain of large white pearls. Her ankles were adorned with delicate chains of gold. With a silent gesture of her hands she indicated for me to sit. I sunk into a mound of pillows on the floor. I became aware of the sweet intoxicating scent of some enchanting exotic incense permeating the air. In the half-light of the room the woman's skin seemed positively to glow—so did mine, for that matter. She sat down beside me, never letting her eyes leave mine, as I lay on my back. For a long while—I cannot say how long—we stayed in this position. I felt myself slipping slowly but irrevocably into a state of intoxication. So deep was I in this spell that I was not startled when the woman reached out and touched me gently on the shoulder. She leaned over me, her smile and her eyes filling me with a sense of infinite relaxation. Pointing at her heart, her lips opened, and I heard a whispered word. "Ananda." It was her name. "Elizabeth," I whispered in response. Just then the Arab woman reentered the room. She was still nude, but now carried a large bowl of steaming water in both her hands. For a moment the unexpected sight threatened to disrupt the trance, but Ananda's gentle touch soothed me. The Arab woman set the bowl at my side and knelt beside it. She looked into my eyes and pointed at herself. "Numa." Her voice was as soft as her companion's. I noticed now that she had also carried in—under the bowl, I assume—a neatly folded stack of several small and very fluffy white towels. She dipped one of these into the bowl, squeezed it slightly to expel excess water, and brought it to my belly. The sensation of the warm, moist towel on my sun-parched skin was intensely pleasurable. Numa lightly ran the towel over my body. Ananda took another towel and started doing the same. Together they touched every inch of me. I had never felt anything as soothing. I let them move my body any way they wished. They lifted my arms, turned me over. My back, my breasts, my buttocks, my legs, my neck, my arms—every inch of me was offered to their touch. Numa slipped her hand between my inner thighs and gently parted my legs. I did not resist as she pressed her towel into the brown curls of hair above my loins. Gently and without haste, often returning the towel to the bowl for fresh water, she touched my most intimate regions; even as she did, Ananda kept herself occupied ministering to the rest of my body. Pulling my legs aside, she stroked the delicate skin where my thighs met the soft mound that lay between them. The Secret Memoirs With the greatest care imaginable Numa brought her warm, moist cloth to rest over the lips of my sex itself—and then, slowly, parted them. The heat of the water seemed to penetrate my very being as she gently rubbed each fold. As she did the pleasure that I had sensed the first time her and Ananda touched me, and had continue to build every minute they continued, increased by a great degree, such that it was no longer merely a feeling of abstract, passive contentment but of real, active desire and excitation. A few moments later I was disappointed to see Numa pull the towel away from me and sit up on the pillows. Ananda, at least, did not stop; on the contrary, it seemed, she touched me with increased focus determination, lingering over those spots where her touch would give me the most pleasure—my abdomen, my neck, the underside of my breasts, my nipples (now rosy pink and firm with arousal). Forgetting Numa's lost touch for a moment, I closed my eyes and enjoyed the feeling of Ananda rolling my right nipple in soft folds of warm, wet cloth. When I reopened my eyes, however, I was slightly startled. Numa had drawn the basin of water close up between my legs, covering the rim with a blanket to avoid the metal touching my skin. In it she was rubbing a bar of some kind of soap, producing a thick, creamy lather. But the focus of my concern was the open razor that lay at her side. I could not guess what it was she intended to do; fear, so absolutely banished by the caresses of these two ladies, stirred in my heart. To my absolute surprise, Numa took a dollop of lather and pressed it between my legs. It was beyond my imagination that she actually intended to shave me there—but yes, so it seemed she did. I was distracted from my apprehensions, however, when Ananda leaned over me and pressed her lips to mine. As she kissed me, her breasts brushed my own. I felt the buds of my nipples tracing their way in her warm skin. Her pearl necklace drooped from her neck down between my breasts. Her mouth was warm and soft, like some newly discovered delicacy, and the experience so novel and entrancing that I hardly noticed Numa's razor against me. With a steady hand she drew the cold steel between my legs, cutting off soft curls of dark brown hair. I spread my legs even wider to allow her an easier vantage. Ananda held me in her arms. I reached up and ran my hands across her warm, dark skin. Our kiss finally ended, but her mouth did not leave my body; instead, she slowly drew her lips down over my chin, down my neck, down to my breasts. With her tongue she traced the outline of my right nipple. Numa, meanwhile, was diligently at work shaving between my legs. The fear I had felt at first had quickly disappeared: Numa had a hand as steady as a mountain. I even began to feel a strange sense of excitement each time the razor passed over my skin. With each pass she rinsed the razor and gently wiped the newly bare spot with her warm cloth. Ananda still had her mouth at my breasts, moving from one nipple to the other, while her hands roamed across my waist, my chest, my arms, intertwining with my own. Numa finally finished with a few short strokes just to the left and right of the lips of my sex. Even without confirming the fact with my hands I knew that the skin between my legs was now completely bare. Ananda lifted her head from my breasts and kissed me again—a kiss deep, hot, smelling of sweet spices. Then, to my surprise and delight, I felt another tongue on my body—Numa's, pressed against the newly-shaven mound of flesh between my legs. I gasped. Her tongue danced across my sensitive skin. Every touch set off a wave of pleasure radiating through my body and sent me shaking, almost squirming, beneath her. Ananda was leaning over me so that we were pressed close together from head to waist. The soft warmth of her body was heavenly—I felt as if I was being engulfed by some force of indescribable bliss. Numa's tongue, meanwhile, wandered lower and lower between my legs, approaching closer and closer the center of my pleasure. Finally, after what seemed like an age of teasing, the tip of her tongue lightly grazed the exterior lips of my sex. With Ananda's mouth against mine and Numa's below, I felt as if I was falling into some ancient state of complete oneness with these two women. But, at the same time, I was more aware of my body than I had ever been before, for it was now for the first time that I was filled from head to toe with a warm, pulsating pleasure that seemed to penetrate every fiber of my being. The sensation grew only stronger when Numa pressed her tongue between the lips of my sex. Soon she was licking the delicate folds within. Her tongue was agile; it seemed as if she knew my body better than I did. Ananda, too, seemed to want nothing more than to give me pleasure (switching back, now, to licking my breasts) and indeed she succeeded, though her kisses and caresses produced a sensation less intensely focused than Numa's tongue. Together, they made me feel as I had never felt—never imagined it was possible to feel—before that moment. I began to feel a deep warmth well up from within me. For the second time that day, the second time in my life, an incredible wave of ecstasy exploded through my flesh. I shook and wildly embraced Ananda. "Oh! Ah! Ah! Ahhh!!!" I cried out loud. Numa kept licking my sex through it all, pressing the tip of her tongue deep within me with a steady rhythm. Ananda, too, did not stop; if anything, she held me even closer. When the last echoes of my climax died away, they finally drew themselves from me—but only to shift positions so they could on either side of me, skin pressed against skin, arms entwined. Soon I drifted off to sleep in a blissful haze. * * * It must have been the next morning when I awoke, for the shaft of light from the sun at the top of tent was streaming in at a low angle from the east. I was still naked, lying on a mound of pillows and cushions and blankets, but now I was alone. Not knowing what to do, I walked over to the entrance flap of the tent and peeked outside. I was startled to see two large men—there may have been more—armed with swords standing outside. I decided it would not be prudent to attempt an exit. A few minutes later the flap to the adjoining tent opened. Two naked women entered—one was Numa, but the other was an Arab woman I had not seen (though she was, I could not help but notice, just as beautiful as Numa). Taking me by the hand they led me through the entrance from whence they came into another room. I gasped in astonishment. This chamber was far larger than the one I had been in and smelled even more strongly of incense. Strewn around the room were the bodies of what seemed like an infinite number of beautiful naked women, all in various poses of languid relaxation (counting the number later, I discovered there were in fact only fifteen). All of them had evidently been shaved like myself. Some were sleeping in each other's arms, others took turns smoking a water pipe, still others combed each their hair. They were all almost completely silent. As they noticed me, each turned to look at me with a smile and returned to what they had been doing. The colour of their skin ranged from beige to almost black—but none, I noticed, where as light as myself. I was, it seemed, the only European. Numa and the other Arab woman (whom I would later learn was named Fatima) indicated for me to lie down on the cushions; I obliged. For a time I was nervous, not knowing what to do or what to expect. But within a few hours the atmosphere of sensual lethargy overcame my nervousness—indeed, almost overcame my consciousness itself. I soon made myself at ease in my new home, but it took many more days for me to slip gradually into the state of benign contentment that already reigned over the minds and bodies of the other girls. I was helped on the way by the generous ministrations of my fellow harem women. Their bodies, their hands, their mouths were always available for my pleasure, and in the circumstances I lacked the will (or the desire) to refuse. Our love burned slowly but hot; our movements were like a ballet performed underwater. The slide from caress to kiss to something more was so gradual and so natural that I was hardly aware when it was taking place. The longer I stayed, the less I reflected or remembered; it seemed as if there was a powerful spell cast in this strange realm of pleasure and beauty. My life was like a dream without beginning or end. It was not long before I ceased to think of my life before the harem at all. Forgoing memory, I abandoned myself to complete sensuality. Time seemed no longer of any consequence; the coming and going of days was little noted. There was, instead, another rhythm that took its place, a rhythm of desire, of the rise and fulfillment of physical pleasure. And this became my only world, a world of silence punctured only by occasional cries of ecstasy. Although from the beginning I enjoyed the oral attentions of the harem girls, it was a few days before I could bring myself to reciprocate the action. A few days after I had arrived, however, I was lying among a mass of girls. One of them had already begun to lick my sex; the sensation filled me not merely with pleasure but with a need to feel hot flesh fill my own mouth in return. As if reading my desire, another girl in the group—a voluptuous Egyptian named Kalila—spread her legs a few inches from my face. Encouraged by her benevolent smile, I cautiously ran the tip of my tongue across her sex. Finding no displeasure in the sensation, I grew bolder, licking along the whole length of the lips; with each lick I pressed a little harder. She tasted sweet and was almost odorless but for a faint womanly scent that served only to arouse me further. Finding the crease between the lips, I gently parted them with my tongue. The texture is what delighted me most—creamy, smooth, and moist. I licked gently up and down, tracing each fold with my tongue, feeling her move beneath me. To my satisfaction, Kalila started moaning in pleasure. At the same time as I sped up my strokes, the woman licking my own sex—I did not know who it was, nor did I particularly care—increased her own, matching every escalation of pleasure. After a few minutes Kalila started to scream and buck her hips. I kept my mouth pressed against her, as the other women had done to me. I had brought another woman to a climax for the first time—and if this was not satisfaction enough, I felt my own climax break only a moment after hers had started. We moaned together, our separate pleasures converging into one. There were many, many repetitions of this first experience, and though each was unique in its own right, it was in the nature of the place that in my mind they would combine into a single blur. How many times I made love to these harem women, and in how many ways, I cannot say. Over time I came to know every one of them in the most intimate ways imaginable, exploring every crease and corner of their bodies in the long, hot days in the harem tent. So leisurely were these sessions that they often took hours to start and even more hours to end, with the slow burn of deep pleasure punctuated by innumerable climaxes—climaxes that often followed close on the heels of the one before and the one after, blending into a delirious haze of ecstasy. And this was the greater part of my waking life. There was, indeed, very little else to occupy my attention. The outside of the tent was guarded by burly men with fearsome scimitars, and even if I had the desire to escape (I did not), there was nothing but barren desert for countless miles in any direction. Life in the tent was seldom interrupted by intrusions from the outside world, for it was the whim of the Sheikh (yes, the man in white) that we women of the harem should never see the light of day. Perhaps it was his fear that other men in the camp would see us and try to steal us away, or fear that the harsh sun would ruin our silky skin. At any rate, in addition to growing into a diligent student of the arts of love, I became a connoisseur of the few other pleasures available—incense, the water pipe, and, of course, food. Three times a day a blind eunuch entered the tent to serve us our meals—invariably something rich and steaming hot, redolent with the scent of exotic spices and served in great chaised-silver bowls, tastes that seemed to raise in me the desire for other pleasures. Invariably it was not long before it was the flesh of my companions I brought to my mouth, rather than the food. The only other intrusions were those of the Sheikh himself, who came nearly every night to select a woman to suit his pleasure. The first time I was chosen, three days after I had arrived, he took me into the adjoining chamber of the tent—where Numa and Ananda had met me that eventful day—and lay me down on the pillows. The mystery of the first day in the desert was then solved: I saw, clearly for the first time, his stiff member jutting like a flagpole from between his legs, watched it as he pressed it to the lips of my sex and then filled my body with his desire. I liked those rare nights when the Sheikh took me. His movements were rougher, more vigorous than those of the women; I liked, also, the sensation of being penetrated to the depth of my loins, as the harem and its flittering tongues never could. The other nights, however, were not wholly without pleasure, for it was the Sheikh's custom to take his chosen woman only to the chamber next door; separated only by a wall of cloth, I was able to hear every moan, every gasp, every cry of love as he ravaged the object of his desire. Sometimes I would follow along, pleasuring myself with my fingers in concert with the sounds I heard on the other side of the partition; other times, another woman would join in the pantomime, and we would coax each other to heights of pleasure in time with the Sheikh's. Much time passed, though I did not notice. Every so often the Sheikh would order a change of camp; when he did, the tents were quickly packed up and the camels saddled with supplies before setting out across the desert. To transport the women of his harem, the Sheikh provided sixteen covered sedan chairs, each carried by eight bearers, transporting his precious human cargo. It was only at these times, incidentally, that we were clothed: just before we were to leave, the blind eunuch would give each of us a robe and a veil to wear on the journey. I enjoyed these trips—not least because it was the only time I could catch a glimpse, however brief, of the outside world, after leaving the tent but before entering the veiled sedan. Uncounted days turned to uncounted weeks, turned to uncounted months. How long I had been in the harem I could not say. I did not care. There was a change of weather, certainly, but I was scarcely aware of it: the heat of the bodies around me kept the tent in a constant sultry sizzle. There was one night, though, that was unlike all the others. I was asleep in the arms of another woman when I was stirred to consciousness by the hand of the Sheikh on my shoulder. He lifted me up without a word and carried me out the tent and past the guards. When we were on the edge of the desert he set me on my feet and took my arm in hand. Together we set off up the slope of a tall dune overlooking the camp. It was a full moon. The sand and the tents and the sky all had a silvery, ethereal sheen, all the more dreamlike for not having been glimpsed by my eyes in so very long. A few lonesome fires burned in the encampment. Though I was completely naked, the air was warm enough to keep me comfortable. A slight breeze played through my dark hair. We reached the crest of the dune. The Sheikh, seized by a sudden bout of energy, threw me down on the sand. Quickly but with no loss of composure he stripped his white robe from his body. In a moment he was naked; a moment later, his body was pressed against mine in an embrace. I surrendered myself to his touch. He kissed as if only my body could quench the fire burning within him. Soon I felt that rare, longed-for pressure of his swollen member pressing the walls of my sex, entering my body, rocking me back and forth, pushing, pushing, filling me with his fiery passion. The coils of his hair rubbed against the bare flesh between my legs (every time even the slightest hint of fuzz appeared around my sex, one of the harem women would shave it off again). In time I reach my peak of pleasure, shaking, open mouthed, eyes half closed; as I did, the Sheikh sped his strokes so that his climax would catch the end of mine. Pulsating together in ecstasy, I let my screams echo across the endless desert night. * * * That was the last time I saw the Sheikh. Three days later I was jolted out of my relaxation by the sound of countless screams coming from outside the tent, followed by a series of distant bangs. For the first time in I knew not how long memories of that first day in the desert flooded back to my mind: they were gunshots, unmistakably. The other harem women roused from their various states of rest; every one of them wore an expression of surprise and concern. The battle raged outside the tent. Inside, there was nothing I could think to do. The gunshots and screams got steadily closer until they seemed to be only just barely outside. I wrapped a blanket around my body, the first time in months I had thought to clothe myself. A few shots, and then terrible sounds of slicing and screams, pierced the air; the outlines of two bodies slumped against the side of the tent. An instant later the entrance flap was thrown open. A stream of robed men armed with variously with scimitars or guns streamed into the room. The women screamed. I vainly tried to find a means of escape, but before I'd moved two paces a pair of rough arms encircled my waist. I was lifted off the ground and carried away, out of the tent, into the blinding sun. When my eyes adjusted to the light, all I could see was death and destruction—the bodies of the Sheikh's men, the blaze of guns, the flash of steel. I nearly swooned from the shock. When it was all over a few minutes later, there was nothing left of the Sheikh's encampment but ruined tents and the blood of his people. The blanket had long since slipped from my body and I was again naked as Eve, feeling more vulnerable than I ever had before. I was brought before a man in a huge red robe riding atop a caparisoned camel—it was at his command, I assume, that fetters were clasped around my hands and then attached to the saddle of a camel. I was a prisoner now, a spoil of war. He was at least kind enough, however, to provide me with a dirty rat-eaten robe before sending me on my way across the desert as merely one insignificant element of his dismal caravan. So began my westward march across the desert. There were other harem women in the camel train, but they kept us separated by so wide a berth that I could never make contact with any of them. The sun was harsh and the sand hot, but I was at least kept well-fed and provided with as much water as I required—they had an interest, it seemed, in maintaining my health, and more particularly my figure. At night, the men and camels laid down to rest, as did I, though my movements were still constrained by the chains binding me to a rather bulky camel saddle. It was at these times I feared one of my captors might take advantage of my predicament and force himself upon me, but it seemed the leader of the band—whoever he was—wished me to remain untouched. The first and only man who tried had his hand lopped off by a scimitar before it reached my body. A few days later the caravan passed over the top of a large dune. On the far side I heard shouts—I feared another attack might be in progress. But as I crested the ridge the mystery was solved: the caravan was crowded around the edge of a huge ditch dug into the desert. Inside were countless workers wielding shovels and pickaxes. It was my first sight of the then-unfinished Suez Canal. A primitive wooden bridge had been erected over part of the ditch; across this rickety structure the caravan marched into Egypt. The Secret Memoirs As we went, the landscape became greener and greener, the air more humid, as we penetrated deeper and deeper into the fertile Nile delta. I saw villages of clay huts and women with clay pots balanced on their heads and swaying date palms in the setting sun. It would have been rather pleasant were it not for the shackles on my hands. The people in these villages seemed to know not to interfere with the progress of the caravan. If I tried to look one of them in the eyes, he or she would shrink away; whole crowds dispersed at the sight of our camels. At night we slept just outside the village, or in the center square, always under the open sky—for who needs a roof in a country with no rain? One blistering day I noticed that the concentration of people and buildings, rather than rising and then falling across a mile or so of walking, continued to rise. The simple mud huts of the farming villages were replaced with stone buildings, some of multiple stories; the lazy mud streets soon gave way to bustling alleyways. It was a city. The residents of this city, however, seemed to take as little notice of us as had the villagers. Not a single person lifted his or her eyes to meet mine. Somewhere deep in the belly of this metropolis one of the men in the caravan stopped my camel and detached my chains from the saddle—though he did not, I was displeased to note, unchain my hands. We had stopped in front of a large stone house fronted by a tall wooden door with two barred windows to either side. I noticed that several others of my fellow harem women were already waiting on the steps—like me, each was still had her hands bound. Two men armed with scimitars stood guard; another—the man in the red robe who had ordered me chained—stood in front of the door. The door opened. The man in red uttered a greeting, which was quickly returned, and stepped inside. A moment later the two guards pushed me forward into the room. It was a large atrium, open to the sky and flanked on each side by two stories of arcades decorated with intricate carved latticework. In the center was a marble fountain. A man entered. He was dressed, to my surprise, in an impeccably tailored black European suit and top hat, though his complexion was dark and undoubtedly Arab. He was accompanied by several menservants in native dress. The harem women and I—there were six of us in all, among them Numa and Kalila—were lined up for his inspection. Each of us was still dressed in the ratty robes the caravan men had given us. The man in the suit looked at each one of us in turn, circling around to see our figures from every angle, leaning in to examine particular points of interest. After a few minutes he said something to the man in red, who had been watching the proceedings with an expression of nervous expectancy the whole time. The man in red shouted something out in return, and a flurry of incomprehensible words and spirited gestures erupted—haggling, I could only assume. Several times fingers were pointed at me. Soon, though, the sale was complete: the man in the suit indicated for a manservant to bring a large bag to him, from whence he counted out a quantity of gleaming gold coins. The man in red then extracted a key from some fold of his robe and went to unlock the chains of each of the harem women, including myself. At last I was able to stretch out my arms unencumbered by iron chains—but if I was glad to be free from this discomfort, I was nonetheless aware that I had not regained my liberty. The scene I had just witnessed had been a business exchange, a transfer of property from one owner to another in which I was the commodity at hand. Or at least so it seemed. The five other women were marched off through a passageway into another part of the house, but as I began to follow one of the guards held out his arm to stop me. When they were gone the man in the suit walked up to me and turned me round. He put his hands on my shoulder—and then, without warning, ripped the robe from my body. The ancient fabric fell to the floor in pieces. I trembled. The man in the suit looked me over carefully from head to foot. He poked a finger into the flesh of my abdomen, then cupped my breasts under his hands and felt their weight and firmness. Turning around me, he traced the curve of my buttocks with his fingers. Comfortable as I had become with nakedness, this was something different, being scrutinized and appraised like livestock—all under the watching eyes of the man in red, the guards and the servants. \The man in the suit went to his knees in front of me, his eyes inches from my sex. With his fingers he parted the lips and roughly felt the fleshy folds. He turned to the man in red and said something—a question, apparently—and received a short response. After he was satisfied with his inspection, he stood up again and addressed the man in red. More haggling ensued, and a deal was reached. More gold coins were disbursed. It seems I was a special purchase, bought separately from the other girls. A beautiful young white woman, I was a rare piece of merchandise indeed. I had hoped that after this ordeal I might at least be able to rejoin my fellow harem women, with whom I might have enjoyed at least the comfort of familiarity. But instead I was led to another room, a small, dark chamber in the rear of the house, where I was locked inside. A new robe lay on the bed; I put it on. It was here I was to spend every hour of the next few days. The room was by no means uncomfortable—in comparison to the rigors of the desert, at least—but I nonetheless fell into a dejected mood. I had no inkling as to what might happen next. A few days later at least part of this question was answered. I was led out by two menservants into the atrium of the house; the man in the suit was waiting for me. A moment later, shackles were slapped around my feet. Another moment and I was once again marching through the streets of the city, in the company of the man in the suit and his servants—the rest of the harem women were nowhere to be seen. Soon we approached a harbor bustling with ships. It was then I first recognized the city from engravings I had seen in magazines: I was in the port of Alexandria, great emporium of the East. Like the countless other goods that passed across its docks I was to be shipped away to some distant buyer. The man in red led me up a ramp into a vessel (some sort of cargo ship about a hundred feet long); he seemed to confer briefly with one of its officers before turning to make his way home. As I was pushed by an Arab seaman into the hold, I turned to catch a final glimpse of him, the middleman in my sale. He looked into my eyes, his face unsmiling, and raised his hand in a faint goodbye. * * * The hold of the ship was unpleasant but not unbearable. My quarters were a tight space between two bulkheads near the prow; I slept on a thin blanket spread over bales of cotton. A small gap between two planks afforded me a modicum of light. My legs were chained to a metal ring screwed into a beam, but for much of the day these binds were loosed and I was allowed to roam more or less at leisure on the deck—though always, of course, under the watch of an armed crewman. The captain, it seemed, had orders to deliver me untouched to my destination, for the men, though they stared at me as if I were an apparition, were never so bold to actually approach me—with a single exception. One night, a sailor somehow managed to slip into the hold and find my berth. He forced himself upon me, quickly, violently, and with no thought other than the rapid satisfaction of his own desire. Though the experience bore a vague resemblance to my nights with the Sheikh, I was amazed that the same action could feel so different with a different man. The voyage was not long. I awoke one morning to see land through the gap in the planks—and not merely land, but a city, a city of domes and minarets. A few hours later we were at dock; I was unchained, led up into the open air and then down the gangplank. In the distance I saw the unmistakable silhouette of the Hagia Sophia—I was now in Constantinople, capital of the Ottoman Turks. To my dismay, though not exactly to my surprise, new shackles were placed around my hands. I was transferred to the custody of an elderly Turk, squint-eyed and possessing a beard like a broom, and his young assistant, a boy of not more than twelve. These two led me through a maze of streets, past stands hawking fruit and cheap copperware, past old women begging in the streets and men stooped over from the weight of the loads carried on their backs, until we finally turned into an old but magnificent looking building perched on the peak of a small hill. We went in. Inside was a world of decrepit elegance: an atrium full of chandeliers, fountains, intricate screens of stone and wood, all cracked and faded and stained with what must have been centuries of wear. A man in a Turkish soldier's uniform greeted us as we entered. The old man and the boy led me through the atrium to a door at the rear, then through another door. They removed my chains—and then, without a word, vanished the way we had come, closing and locking the doors behind me. The room I was in was tiny and almost completely dark. I feared I had ended up in some strange prison. Suddenly a door in front of me—a door I had not realized existed—slid open. I gasped. A rush of hot, moist air hit my face—and then I saw a woman smiling before me. She was a lustrous brown, the colour of her skin only deepened by the dark green of her elaborately buttoned dress (less a dress, in fact, than some typically exotic Turkish concoction, unlike anything I had seem before). Her face was elegant, with a long straight nose and high cheeks, and her eyes like black velvet—black and smooth as her long hair. She could not have been more than thirty. She said something; I did not understand. Her hand grasped mine and pulled me forward. The room was a bath, a sumptuous affair of white marble and blue tile, the steam making the air seem tangible, thick. A circle of windows around a blue-tiled dome cast long rays of light to the floor. In the center of the room was a circular pool with a tile bench running around the edge a couple feet under the water. The woman put her hands on my body. She slowly undid the fastenings of the loose robe I had worn since Alexandria. I did not resist. The fabric, caked to my skin by perspiration, peeled away. Soon it dropped to the floor, and I stood naked. She indicated that I should go to the pool. At that precise moment there was nothing in the world I could imagine desiring more. I lowered myself into the hot water, feeling it wash away the grime of the sea voyage, feeling myself reenergized as it soaked my tired skin. The woman, to my surprise, had not left the room. Instead, she, too, was stripping off her robe. I could not help but watch as she slowly unbuttoned her dress (a strange, incomprehensible cut I had never seen before—something Turkish, I assumed). I watched as her small, firm breasts appeared, watched as she stretched out her delicate arms, as she slowly pulled the dress over her abdomen, and then off entirely, exposing her firm buttocks and elegant legs. It seemed she was prolonging the process of undressing—for what purpose, I could not say. But the effect on me was pronounced. Somehow this undressing served to make her even more beautiful (and, yes, desirable); each part of her body that came into view was as a little revelation, tantalizing me with the promise of more to come. When she was finally naked she sat by the edge of the pool and slowly slipped in. She rarely let her eyes leave mine. I floated in the water, feeling absolutely comfortable and relaxed for the first time in many days. The woman swam over and touched me underwater, then smiled. It seemed she was playful, and I was in a mood to reciprocate. We dipped in and out of the water, finding each other's bodies; I grasped her, she slipped away. I was having fun. At the same time we must have both been aware that this was more than mere innocent play. I felt desire rising in me, the same familiar desire I'd felt for the women in the harem tent. Underwater our skin was slick, smooth; we slid against one another, feeling the heat of our bodies merge with the heat of the water. Her deft hands roamed over me. Gradually she became bolder. Her hands fluttered over ever more sensitive spots: my breasts, my buttocks—and, eventually, my sex. Inside me was building up a greater and greater need, a need that I desperately wanted her to satisfy. After a few moments there was an unexpected pause. Both of us stood still, standing chest-deep in the center of the pool, panting. Our breasts floated half out of the water, little waves lapping our nipples. Suddenly, she leaned in and took me in her arms. I returned her embrace, and we kissed. The heat of her mouth, the steam, and the water seemed to envelop me. Without thinking I pushed my lips and my tongue to meet hers. Her hands were falling along my back down to my buttocks. Her breasts were pressed against mine. Cradling my buttocks in her hands, she lifted my feet off the floor of the pool and pushed me to the edge of the pool. Setting me down on the submerged bench, she leaned in over me. Her lips closed around my left nipple. "Ah!" I exclaimed. As she licked my sensitive breasts, her hands parted my thighs. Her fingers brushed the lips of my sex, bathing the hidden creases with the hot water of the pool. I felt a finger slip inside and gently pulse in and out of my body. Dripping wet, gleaming in light as it fell in thick rays through the steam, I leaned back against the edge of the pool, reveling in my beautiful companion's assault on my body. Suddenly there was another sensation. The woman had pressed another finger between my legs—but not to my sex. Instead, she pressed lower, against that other, forbidden orifice just below. She gently rubbed the tiny bud under water, plying its virgin flesh. No one had done this to me before, and I had never thought of doing it to myself; the sensation was entirely new. To my absolute astonishment she hesitantly pressed the finger inside, even as here other hand was at work a few inches above. I gasped. "Oh!" The initial penetration was accompanied by a rush of pain—I was reminded of that first day in the desert with the Sheikh. I was unnerved to feel this new and unimagined violation of my body. My first reaction was to draw back. But as she gently rocked her finger back and forth within me I was surprised to feel that the pain was diminishing, indeed being replaced by something else, a completely unfamiliar sensation. With both my orifices penetrated at once, I felt more full than I ever had before. Her mouth was still fluttering over my breasts and stomach. I felt another finger slip between the lips of my sex. At the same time, she pressed her thumb over the tiny nub just above the entranceway, the little protrusion that I had long since discovered was the key to my most intense pleasure. She did not rub it, exactly, but only pressed her thumb against it and rotated it slightly, each rotation sending shockwaves through my body. Meanwhile I was pleasantly surprised that the finger in the hole below had ceased to be the least bit uncomfortable—on the contrary, I even felt a sort of pleasure rising in me. Perhaps it was only the novelty of the experience, but I felt myself craving this new penetration, pressing myself against it, wanting to feel it deeper, deeper. And then, suddenly, she withdrew. With a superbly graceful movement she slipped both her hands out from between my legs and back under my buttocks, then lifted me up towards the edge of the pool. Seeing what she intended, I helped to lift myself to the rim. I sat on the edge; my legs were spread wide, opening myself entirely to her, with my feet dangling over the edge into the water. She wrapped her arms around my thighs and pulled them up slightly, maneuvering me into the optimal position. I supported my upper body on my elbows so that I could get a view of what was happening. The Turkish woman was floating in the water with her head between my legs. She opened her mouth. I felt her soft, hot tongue caress the lips of my sex; where her fingers penetrated, her mouth enveloped. They were sensitive and swollen from the heat of the bath. She lapped between my legs, relishing each lick as if my body were some newly discovered candy. Her every touch was delicate and precise, drawing from me a little bit of pleasure, each building to that ultimate pleasure I so desperately craved. With less shock, but with hardly less unfamiliarity, I felt a pressure against my lower orifice. The passage was easier this time, my body's natural reluctance eroded by arousal. The double sensation was maddening, driving me higher, higher into ecstasy. I felt my climax building, gathering force with the inevitability of a force of nature. But then something terrible happened. Without warning, as I was on the very verge, she pulled entirely away from me. Only the steam touched my body. I looked into her eyes in dismay, hoping this was only a momentary interruption. But no—she put her hands to either side of my thighs and pressed them together. My body cried out for her touch, but she was adamant. I tried to reach down to finish the job myself, but she held my hand away from my body: she would not allow it. Feeling my high tide of pleasure ebb away, I resigned myself. I realized this woman would not permit me that greatest of pleasures—though for what reason I could not say. The Turkish woman pulled herself out of the water. I stood up, dejected. She walked to a closet in the wall and pulled something out—clothes, I assumed at first. But I was mistaken. Instead, she carried over several pieces of jewelry. One was a gold and pearl necklace. She slipped it over my head. Next were two bracelets of emerald and ruby, then a long rope of woven gold, so soft and fine it felt like satin; she clasped this around my waist so that it hung in a graceful curve over my hips. And this was all—no clothing, no makeup, nothing. I was almost completely dry by now, though my skin was still soft and moist from the rising steam of the pool. The Turkish woman led me to a door at the far side of the room; it opened to another room (a small annex, it seemed), then another door. A half-lit corridor stretched before me. The walls and the high, arched ceiling were badly cracked but clean and nicely appointed with Persian rugs running the entire length—evidently it was no forgotten secret passageway. The Turkish woman guided me down the hall. I must have been somewhere deep inside the building, though I had no way of knowing: the only view to the outside was a series of small skylights through the roof. After a few dozen yards the woman stopped me in front of a door, one of several I had seen at the side of the passageway. She opened it—and then unceremoniously pushed me inside and closed the door. Unexpected revelations in unfamiliar rooms were not exactly strange to me by this point. But even so this scene was something to take my breath away. The room was not exactly large—maybe twenty-five feet on every side—but it was packed to the brim with exquisite items of furniture: ottomans, couches, huge pillows, stools. What was more interesting, however, was that it was also stuffed with people: men and women, all in varying states of undress, in varying stages of lovemaking. Some were merely sitting together, almost fully clothed, other men were naked, thrusting themselves into equally naked women. A cacophony of moans, gasps and screams filled the air. Some people were grouped in intimate little pairs; others, in groups of three, four, five or more, engaged in actions of such intricate debauchery that I could hardly tell who was doing what to whom. A vast seething mass of human flesh presented itself to my eyes.