But when the city women adopted the sirwal with certain refinements, the Bedawins sneered at them. Instead of wearing loose pantalets, the city girls wore them skin-tight. The Bedawins' contempt sprang from their recognition of the fact that the city girls preferred them this way because the material constantly rubbed against their most sensitive parts and often enabled them to achieve satisfaction without a male partner. Indeed, as Teska told me this, I realized that I had often seen women wearing sirwals crouching in the street in broad daylight, their thighs straining against the tight silken material, expressions of ecstasy washing over their faces.
Teska didn't have to tell me that Muslim women rarely wore anything under these garments. I'd appreciated that for myself. And I'd seen very young girls getting their kicks by pulling their miknas, tight panties worn with a shirt, up and down repeatedly from the waist so that the material seemed swallowed up between their legs.
But, when we'd gone back to the hotel room, Teska did show me one innovation which she claimed was common to such sex-hungry Druze girls as herself. She took my pocket-knife and cut a small hole at exactly the spot where the legs of the garment joined. "The Bedawins are right," she told me. "A man is better. And a Druze girl is always ready for him.”
Now, as Teska bounced up and down in front of me with more zeal than the gentle trot of the horse demanded, I realized that she was making the most of the tightness of her sirwal. Each time she came down, her now-burning cheeks pounded against my inner thighs. I felt my excitement growing—-and so, soon, did she.
She looked over her shoulder at me mischievously and pushed backward as she came down with a particularly violent motion. I felt myself grasped as her muscles contracted and pulled me up with her. My robe was streaming out behind me now, but the material of the Arab pantaloons I wore beneath it got in the way and I was quickly lost to Teska's clutch. She turned again and the look she shot me was feverish and hot.
“Have you ever read A Night in a Moorish Harem"? she asked me6 .
“Yes," I told her. It was a piece of authentic erotica famous throughout the East. It had been written some centuries back by an Englishman named Lord George Herbert. It was much valued in the field of sexology for its authenticity. Still, Teska's question seemed odd—-particularly coming when it did. I puzzled over it for a moment, and then realized she must have been referring to an incident in the book. Immediately, I remembered the incident and tapped her on the shoulder. “I understand,” I told her.
Quickly, she swung her legs around so that she was riding sidesaddle. I pulled open my pantaloons so that I wouldn't be hampered. Then Teska swung all the way around with her face toward mine. She put her arms tightly around my neck and settled her thighs atop my own and gripping my hips.
I slowed the horse down and dropped the reins. He cantered slowly, his motion perfectly suited to our purpose and making very little effort at all necessary on our part. I kissed Teska and then pushed her halter down around her waist so that I might caress her breasts.
I kissed their ruby tips and she squirmed against me tightly. On fire now, she rose high and then settled herself atop me. The gentle undulation of the horse seemed all that was necessary. Soon, like a gush of hot flame, our passion melted and mingled.
Nevertheless, we remained in that position for some time, letting the ride itself re-ignite desire. When it did, I fastened my mouth to Teska's breast and her nails dug flesh-furrows in my neck. It lasted longer this time, and at its peak, I rose up in the stirrups, carrying Teska with me so that no part of her touched either saddle or horse. Indeed, all that held her was the grip of her thighs around my hips and the inspired strength of the stake upon which she was impaled. We stayed that way for one long, exploding moment, and then it was over.
She sat sidesaddle again and I drew my robe around the two of us so that she might doze against my chest, A pleasant interlude, I reflected, but we had to get to where we were going. I dug my heels into the stallion's flanks and urged him to gallop again. As he picked up speed, I pondered the best course of action when we reached our destination, I reviewed what Teska had told me back in the hotel room before we left Damascus, I thought over the swift decision which had led us to this wild ride . . .
After we'd made love that afternoon I contacted Potemchenko, I d quizzed Teska about the harim of Sheikh Tayed el Atassi. “Are all the girls in the harem from Damascus?" I asked her.
“No. They're from all over."
“But they're all Syrian girls, are they?"
“But no. The houris come from many places, The sheikh demands variety. Only five or six of the girls are from Arab countries. As for the rest—well, one was an Indian, there was a Somali maiden, even an English girl. Oh yes, and one from the Chinese mainland."
From Red China, hey?" I filed that away for future consideration. “What about a Russian girl? Was there a Russian girl there?"
"I don't remem—- Oh, wait. Yes, there was. But she wasn't a houri. She didn't live in the harim with the rest of us."
“Tell me about her, Teska. Everything you can remember. It could be very important to me."
“All right. She just seemed to turn up one day a short time after I joined the harim. It was odd, her appearing so suddenly like that. I mean, there had been no caravans the day before. Indeed, it had been many days since anybody at all had stopped at the oasis. Yet there she was. All by herself like a sleepwalker."
“Like a sleepwalker?“ I asked her. “What do you mean? And just how was she kept isolated from the rest of you?"
“You see, Steve, she ate with us and sometimes bathed with us, but the rest of the time she was kept locked up in a room by herself. There was always a guard standing in front of her door, and always a guard with her when she was with us. Often this guard was Abdul-you re-member, the giant eunuch I told you about, the one who lured me to the harim. Anyway, when she was with us, she never spoke. She ate slowly and very little. When she bathed, as when she walked, her movements were slow, as if she was in a daze."
“Could she have been drugged?" I asked.
“Not only could have been, Steve. She was. You see, I became curious and asked Abdul about her. He didn't tell me much. But he did mention that she was Russian and that every morning and every evening the harim physician gave her a hypodermic. He also told me that I was only curious because I was new to the harim. According to Abdul, it wasn’t unusual for girls to be kept there drugged for a few days before being sent on to one of the many brothels the sheikh controls."
“Think carefully, Teska. Did you ever see anyone except a palace guard with this girl?"
"No."
"Did you ever see a stranger around the harem at all? An Egyptian, perhaps?"
"No Egyptians visited there while I was there."
So, if this girl was Anna Kirkov, Mustafa Ben-Narouz was not with her. He must have just deposited her at the harem and left it to the sheikh to smuggle her on her way to Red China. Do you know if this Russian girl is still at the harem?" I asked Teska.