“What are you doing to me, Hunter?” My whispered words are meant for myself, but he hears them, comprehends them.
He gazes at me, and then I see resolution firming in his eyes. Yes. Now it will come.
But his words stop me.
“Trust me?” His accent is awful, his pronunciation butchering the simple syllables, but I understand his meaning.
Do I? Should I?
I do not know what he is going to do. Nothing about this man is what I expect. I am nodding my assent even though I am unsure of anything, everything.
Fear again blazes through me, and he is not kissing me to lessen its burn. He pushes my shoulder so I am lying on my back. His eyes betray nothing but hesitant tenderness, quiet desire. My heart is beating swiftly as he levers himself up onto his side, supporting himself on one arm. I do not know how he is able to lay like he is, leaning on an elbow, but he is. I can see the strain at the corners of his eyes, but he seems to simply push away the pain and focus on me.
I am a statue, motionless on my back, only my eyes moving to search his bright blue eyes.
Now he kisses me, and the boiling fear transmutes into need. His hand is on my knee. My bottom is against the ground, so I know he cannot mean to resume touching me there. Where will his hand move to next? Upward his palm slides, and I know his intent then. My throat goes dry, and the beating of my heart intensifies. Can he really mean to do what I think?
My clients, they pay for one thing: release. A willing female who does not expect anything in return. A pair of legs to open but which will not turn out children for them to support. Men do not touch me there. They have no reason to want to.
My breathing is shallow, approaching panic, and even his kiss cannot quiet me. I pull away and watch Hunter’s eyes. He stops his upward glide at mid-thigh and waits, eyes wide.
He is asking my permission to touch me in my most private place. Why am I so afraid? Men push their manhood into me there. It is not a sacred, private thing, my womanhood. But…yes, it is.
His fingers, there? Allah, I am terrified of the idea. Hands are the medium of expression, as eyes are windows to the soul. What does he want? Why does he want to touch me there? He would not let me touch him, but he will kiss me. He will touch me, explore my skin. He asks permission before pushing the boundaries.
I am confused and frightened, but my desires are sweeping me away.
I want him to touch me. Everywhere. His hand on my bu**ocks felt wonderful. It was exciting, thrilling. There? My womanhood? I cannot use the vulgar terms. I do not know why. It makes me uncomfortable, as if to use the vulgar slang terms for body parts would make me even more dirty, even more the whore. I do what I must to survive, but in my most secret heart, I am still a little girl, innocent and pure. I am not, in reality, but I want to be. I wish I could be. My actions reflect a primal, blood-deep need to survive, but in my soul, in my dreams, I am a good girl, a woman who does not give in to lust. If not for war, I would have been married, and birthed children. I would have gone to mosque to worship, instead of working in one…instead of—of f**king in one. The curse word floats through my mind like a spreading stain.
He is still waiting. Watching me patiently. He must see the war within me written on my face. If he can read my trepidation and my doubts, then he can read the book of my features well. To read a person’s expressions on their face is to know their soul.
I can read him, too. He wants me to want this, but he will not rush me, or force me, or do anything unless I want it. I move my leg so it presses against his, and I feel his arousal, thick and hard behind his pants.
I think I understand his game. He will let me touch him because he thinks, correctly, that I am doing what I believe he wants, expects. So instead he shows me what I want. He knows what I want, even though I do not. How strange.
His hand is on my thigh, his eyes search mine, and my heart pounds drum-loud. I put my hand on his and, without taking my eyes from his, inch our fingers slowly, slowly upward, closer to my privates.
I swallow hard and breathe deeply. His eyebrows lift and his hand slows. He knows I am afraid. I shake my head and close my eyes. My thighs are pressed tightly together, instinctual protection. I cannot speak, cannot form words, so I tell him to continue by forcing my legs to relax.
His fingers are tracing circles on the top of my leg, skating up my thigh muscle to my hip bone, to the bunched fabric of my skirt. Now he slides his flattened palm over the hollow where hip meets core, and I tremble, with both anticipation and fear. What will his hand on me feel like? In me? I cannot begin to guess.
Down to the inside of my leg now, my thighs still touching each other, pressed close, and his fingers slide between them to move down. I need to touch him. Perhaps that will provide me with the courage to let him go further. I put my hand on his back, feeling the broad, hard muscle ridged beneath my palm. More contact, more heat. I slide my hand under his shirt so I’m touching hot skin, bare flesh.
His lips meet mine, and now need shoots through me. More. Yes.
I arch my back and lift my face to deepen the kiss, and now my tongue darts into his mouth to taste him, explore him. His hand drifts down to my knee and applies gentle pressure outward. I move my leg aside an inch, and then two. His lips close on the kiss, and he pulls back slightly to watch my face as he moves his hand up the crevice between my legs, rough calluses brushing soft skin. He does not stop this time, and his index finger makes first contact with my privates. I flinch, and he pauses, the side of his finger against my core. My thighs are crushed together, and I force them apart again, drawing in courage with a deep breath.
My thighs are far enough apart now that he is able to turn his hand so his palm cups the mound of sensitive flesh. My breath is coming in short, panicked gasps. Heat is billowing through my body, centered on my core. He moves so slowly, like a creeping sand dune. His middle finger traces up the crease of my womanhood, not parting the lips, only touching. I lick my lips and grip his shoulder, turn my face to press against the column of his arm.
I feel shame rising in my throat like gorge. How can I be letting this happen? I should not. I should stop this. But I do not want to. His touch feels good. His middle finger tracing the crease once more sends lightning shooting through me. I slide my legs farther apart, nod my head against his arm.
He hesitates, though. He nudges my forehead with his lips, pushing my face away from his arm so I am forced to look at him.
“Do not feel shameful,” he says in mangled Arabic. “You want this? I will make you feel nicely, if you want me.”
His words are confused, but I know what he means.