I said, "I'm happy," and turned to kiss him and he pushed me back onto the sofa cushions.
There, he liked to have sex with me, and the tv continued to play and the city glimmered in the window. He was becoming more adept at it, and more confident and more aware of my body's reaction. He led me to a shuddering climax with his fingers, murmured into my ear about our future, children, our life together. It was with his name on my lips and my body responded with delight and my soul with demands.
The night of the party had come when destiny weighed down. Zeeshan was nervous, his hands slightly shaking, he was checking his tie in the mirror for the tenth time. "This is important," he said, not to me but to himself. "If the Sheikh likes me, if he remembers me... it could mean we can get a bigger apartment, it could mean that I could get promoted, it could mean that we could think about... we could think about starting a family."
In a mirror behind him I stood, wearing the dress that he had selected: emerald green, silk, modestly cut but still clinging to the curves. My hair fell down, my waves were dark, over my shoulders. I made my face nice and pretty, the face of a good wife.
"You are absolutely beautiful," he said turning to kiss my cheek. "Perfect. You're perfect."
The hotel was a palace of crystal and marble, with chandeliers that glittered and danced in the light. In a dance of power and perfume, men in pristine white kanduras and women in glittering evening gowns danced. There was a lot of oud and money in the air. He led me about the room, his hand at the back of my waist, introducing me to colleagues, bosses, to a host of men whose names I could no longer recall after hearing them a few times.
I smiled at him and nodded to the part of the devoted and charming wife, but there was that restlessness in my chest, a trapped-animal feeling that had been constant with me since I first met him. And then I felt it. Eyes. Not the simple, respectful look of a man towards a beautiful woman. All this was weight, heat, a concentrated focus of attention, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. It was as though someone was reaching out and touching me from across the room.
I turned my head just a little, looked over the rim of my champagne glass and looked them in the eye. The Sheikhs. They were all gathered around in a roped-off area, above the ground level, a group of men in the finest white robes, their faces all from various textures of weathered and wise to young and sharp, all wearing the black agal--head coverings--that surrounded their heads. They were the ones who controlled this city, the real masters of it, and they looked on the crowd, as lions look on a watering hole.
However, one pair of eyes looked into mine. He was younger than them--let's say about thirty years, his face lean and aristocratic, his beard cut into the shape and length of a razor-sharp sword.
His eyes were dark, almost black; his eyes burned with intelligence--striking intelligence; his eyes had a hunger that is irrefutable.
He wasn't glazing over my eyes. He was reading me, he was seeing through the emerald dress, and the proper posture, to the woman underneath, who had been touched by many men, who knew the language of desire, who wanted something her husband could never give her.
I should have turned my head away. I should've looked down, tightened Zeeshan's arm, acted the role of the subservient wife. But I was hungry. I was hungry for complexity, for risk, for excitement that Zeeshan, with his sincere and tender copulation, his plans and his good intentions, could not give me.
I wanted to be alive again, wanted, dangerous, powerful, that woman I was when I was in Goa.
I held his gaze. It was just a second or maybe three, but an eternity of communication.
I noticed his raised eyebrow, but it was barely there. The corner of his mouth moved, sort of like a nod, just an acknowledgement.
He had no doubt that I was with Zeeshan, my husband.
The flush was creeping up my neck, no matter the heat, and my heart was pounding against my ribs, as I turned back to Zeeshan.
"Are you alright?" asked Zeeshan, noticing me. "You look flushed."
"Oh, it's warm in here," I said breathlessly. "And the champagne..."
"Let me get you some water," he said in concern. "Wait here."
He walked away into the mass, I no longer had anyone around to shield me, to protect me, to cover me, I was completely alone although only for a while.
I felt the Sheikh's gaze on me throughout the evening, as we walked through this crowd and that gaze was with me. I didn't turn around to look at him. I didn't need to. I was aware that he was watching and that knowledge made me drunk.
Every time Zeeshan touched me I thought of those other eyes seeing it, cataloguing it, knowing that this husband's touch will not suffice. I couldn't stop shaking at the end of the night. Not from fear. From anticipation.
This was no boisterous drive home. Zeeshan was over the moon, talking about the contacts he had made, the business cards he collected, the impression he felt he has made on the Sheikh's associates.
He did not see the unspoken word; he did not see my gaze that went out the window at the passing towers of light.
He was keen to party in the apartment. He poured more champagne, turned on some music and pulled me into his arms and led me to dance in the living room. He said that with a smile in his eyes, "We did it. I could sense it, I could feel that they liked me, they liked us, we are going to do well here Zeenat, we are going to have everything."
He kissed me and his hands travelled all over my body, confident of his actions that he had acquired over the past few weeks. He took my dress down and let it drop to the floor, picking me up and placing me on the couch. "You're so beautiful," he said, about to fuck me.
"I want to tell you how much I love you." I wrapped my legs around him, my hands in his hair, I made the sounds he needed to hear. But I knew that my eyes were open and looking at the ceiling and thinking of black eyes in a crowded room and a gaze that had pierced me and a hunger that was equal to mine.
Zeeshan's arms were around me and he came with a cry, whispers of love, promises, dreams. I held him and looked into the blackness, and I knew that something had started tonight that couldn't be ended.
I knew that I was lost and had no idea that this would become a reality.
Three days later the flowers came. Expensive as any white orchid, which carried only a gold emblem--a falcon--and a telephone number. No name. No message. Just the number.
I knew who they were from because I had heard them before.
I was in the kitchen and holding the card in my shivering hand as Zeeshan took a shower in the adjacent room, singing an out-of-tune tune and joyous, unaware of my state.
I didn't call. Not yet. But I didn't toss the card out, either.
I put it in the lining of my purse, a possibility seed I'd carefully planted, waiting for my next move in a game I'd played already decided upon.
It was a talisman or sin over my hip that I had in my purse and took with me wherever I went. Three days. Then four. A week. I didn't call but I didn't throw it away, either. When Zeeshan was not around, I would trace my fingers over the embossed falcon, my nail over the sharp edges of the gold leaf, feeling the texture of expensive paper, a world beyond my husband's middle-class aspirations.
Of course, Zeeshan saw my distraction. He was attentive like a man who believes that he is losing something, but doesn't know what.
One evening, while sitting on the balcony with my hand on my leg, watching the sun pour into the Gulf, he said, "You're quiet lately."
"No," I said, though it was a feeble word, leaning into his touch even though it was not my choice. "Just thinking."
"About what?" he enquired softly.
Approximately about black eyes in a large crowd. The gaze that took me down, without taking a single thread off! About the flowers which came to me without a name, that I had discarded after I had memorized the number, after writing it on a scrap of paper and taped under my jewellery box.
I lied, saying that it was about home.
Smiled, relieved, he slid his hand up my thigh, "Once I get this promotion, then we will go back to India together, I will make everybody see the beauty of my wife and how successful we have become."
He gave me a kiss on my neck, his lips finding the place that made me shiver all over.
He whispered, "Come to bed."
I allowed him to lead me in, to take my clothes off like he had done these past few weeks, to lie me back on these white sheets that I had never been on before, that felt strange to me even. He had a rhythm he used when he loved me that I knew--a slow build, a crescendo, a gentle fall. Now he knew how to push his fingers against my clit in a tight, strong circle and get me off. He knew that he would have to wait until I reached the end of my clenching, until I was ready to let out my release. I was there, holding him in my arms, his name on my lips, my body holding his form, and my eyes closed, behind my lids.
The next morning, while Zeeshan was showering, I was standing in front of the mirror wearing something sexy he'd bought me, cream coloured silk.
As I was brushing my hair and counting the strokes I heard a phone ring. Not my mobile. The landline. The number with which Zeeshan's colleagues had only.
I picked up the phone, thinking that it must be his boss, or maybe a wrong number.
"Zeenat." The voice was velvet and smoke, accented but clear. I recognized right away. My hand clenched on the brush, my knuckles went white.
"Who is this?" I asked, but I knew.
"You didn't call," he said. "I thought to myself, "Maybe you've lost the number. Or maybe you're just... thinking about your options."
He paused, his voice muffled, closer, like it was in my ear. "Come dressed - less modestly than the green dress - Suite 4501, today, 4 o'clock."
"And Zeenat?" I couldn't breathe. "Yes?"
"Be sure not to let me wait again."
The line went dead.
The shower stopped. There was a humming noise I heard in the bathroom, it was Zeeshan.
I pretended normal until Zeeshan left the apartment,
In afternoon after taking a long shower, I went to the closet. I took out a dress, it was burgundy, silk, a neckline that dips down to a level that I hadn't seen before since I arrived in Dubai.
My hands were shaking, and I was putting on my make-up, darkening my eyes, reddening my lips. I would have been a woman going to commit an adultery. I came across a picture of myself.
At 03:30, I told the guard that I was going to the spa. Hired a taxi to get to the Address.
The elevator went up to the 45th floor silently. I could feel my heart racing towards the numbers climbing upwards.
The doors opened into a long, carpeted hall at the end of which was the suite. I walked slow and steady, careful and taking my time for every step.
I knocked. The door opened.
He stood there, wearing a white thawb - a traditional ankle-length, long-sleeved robe commonly worn by men in the Arab, which made his complexion look darker, his eyes look deeper.
He didn't smile. "Welcome," he said softly.
I went inside the door. The door opened and closed behind me and I entered the next chapter.
The suite was large, with all the windows floor to ceiling and marble floors, furniture, everything was unused. Its view was breathtaking--the Gulf below, the Palm clearly visible in the distance, the city sparkling in the afternoon sun. I can't even remember seeing it. I was standing, hands behind my head, head turned like I was looking at a rare specimen, at the man who was standing and watching me.
He commanded, "Remove your shoes."
Now, it wasn't a request.
I removed my heels, now standing on the cool marble, feeling shorter, more vulnerable, the gap in height greater.
"Your abaya too."
I wore the black robe over my dress, a compromise with modesty that was a sham. I took it off, and underneath was a burgundy silk.
I think his eyes walked down my body slowly and appraising, observing my neckline, the way the fabric hugged my hips, the bare arm.
He approached me and said, "Better. But there was still too much fabric."
He had come out to me, his hand still close but not touching my shoulder. "May I?"
I nodded, not believing that I would have the words.
His fingers were at my back, and I felt the zipper move as he slowly pulled it down.
The dress was unzipped, falling a little off my shoulders. He didn't take it off altogether, simply so it hung open at the back showing my spine and the top of my panties.
"You were thinking of me," he said.
"Yes," I whispered.
I was feeling a hotness in my pussies and it was a traitorous heat that made my knees weak.
He retreated, to a bar cart stocked with crystal decanters. He gave me two glasses of dark, brown fluid--whiskey, I assumed--one of which he extended to me. "Drink."
I accepted the glass as my fingers touched his, I took it. The electric touch, the spark, running up the arm, into my chest.
Over the rim of his glass he asked, "Why did you come?"
"Well, because you asked," I replied.
"Liar." He smiled and it changed his face from handsome to devastating. "You came here because you're hungry. You're a dutiful wife, you're a good girl, you're being killed by the inches you've been living by, you looked at me across the room, you saw someone who knows what you are."
My heart raced. He stepped so near I could smell him oud, sandalwood, and the darker, darker, manlier, dangerous smell of his lips.
He made contact, his hand reaching out and dipping into the line of my jaw, my neck, dipping lower, against my collarbone.
"I saw you Zeenat, I saw you watching me when your husband was talking about shipping contracts, I see the way you stand like a queen, but pretending to be a servant."
He brought his hand down, to the edge of my dress at my breast. He whispered, "I want to see more!"
I should have been able to recall Zeeshan's face, how he loved and how sincere he was, his dreams of our future.
But when Sheikh Rashid's thumb played with my nipple from over the silk, my head dropped, my body curved into his touch and I gasped, my body responded without thinking.
"Please," I gasped, not knowing what the heck I was asking for.
"Please what?" He breathed into my ear, his breath tickling me, making me shiver.
"Please stop? Or please continue?"
So, I said, "Continue," sobbing, despising myself, loving the feel of his hands, the danger he could cause me and his power over me, like cologne.
He pulled back quickly, and my dress fell even more on my shoulders, I was swaying.
He went to the window with his back turned to me and his shoulders tensed up. "I want to make you aware of what you're getting into, Zeenat. This is not love, this is an arrangement between two people who understand power. I can offer you things your husband will never be able to offer you, experiences, access, pleasure you have never experienced before, but I require discretion, absolute discretion, and when I call, you come. Do you understand?"
I was there standing with my dress half off my body, my body aching from the unfulfilled desires and I knew that they were asking me to swap out one cage for another. This cage, though, was made of peril, of excitement of the forbidden, of the promise being fulfilled of being seen.
"I knew what you mean," I said. He turned around to me with his eyes looking like they were ready to eat me.
"Well, that's good, come here."
I walked over to him, my feet on the marble silent. Into his hands, I placed my face, his thumbs touching my lips.
"What is your husband's name?"
"Zeeshan," I whispered.
Sheikh: "Say it again."
Me: "Zeeshan."
Sheikh: "Now tell me who owns you right now."
"You," I breathed.
He kissed me then and it was not like Zeeshan's kisses. No asking or reluctance. My knees bent, my face held still as his mouth took my lips and his tongue, taste me, and his hands held me still as he took what he wanted.
I surrendered to his mouth, my hands reaching up to his shoulders, his muscle beneath the white cloth.
He broke the kiss, but trailed his mouth down my neck, nibbling on my pulse, and finally, finally, pushing my dress off of my shoulders, and letting it fall to the floor.
I stood before him in my wedding ring and my lingerie, and he moved back and looked at me and his gaze flew over every inch of me.
He said, "Turn around."
I spun, showing him my bare back. Only ass covered with lace panty.
I heard his footsteps coming up behind me, and I knew he was around the corner. He traced the laces around my hips with his thumbs in my panty and his hands on my hips.
"You are gorgeous," he said in a thick voice, "you're beautiful. More than I ever imagined."
His hands glided around to my belly, pulling me back against him. His arousal was pressing into my lower back, and I gasped arching into him. One hand lifted up to touch my breast, and began to work through the lace, while the other hand went lower, underneath the waistband of my panties.
He said, "Wet." His fingers found me in my core, they stroked lightly, teased.
"Zeenat, how long it is since you have been happy? Or, somebody took the time to find out what you need?"
I couldn't answer.
His fingers were circling my clit, not too hard, not too soft, making me go into that rhythm that was already taking me to the edge. I had been with guys that know my body so well, but this was not like them. It was a man who sought pleasure as an accomplishment, a game he planned to win. Then he stopped his fingers, and said, "Answer me.
"Months," I gasped.
And then he continued on his way, his fingers sliding down into my body, finding the place that caused me to see stars.
He was inside with his finger in my cunt, his thumb on my clit and I felt like I had surrendered in a way that I never had to surrender with Zeeshan or even Danish.
"I'm going to make you come now," he said, his voice not so loud, but measured, calm, clinical, as his breathing increased rapidly against my neck. "And you'll scream my name - not his."
I tried out the sound of "Rashid".
Sheikh: "Again."
Me: "Rashid, please."
He started to squeeze and squeeze even harder, his fingers moving faster and faster, and his other hand squeezing my nipple so hard that it was painful and the pain heightened the pleasure so much that I was panting, my forehead pressed against the cool glass, my body shaking.
"Now," he commanded. I came with a cry of half-scream half-sob, my body convulsing around his fingers, my vision whiting out.
He lifted me up and held his arm around my waist, his fingers working on me through the tremors, prolonging my enjoyment until I was limp, drooped down at his height, my tears rolling down my face.
Then he turned me around and brushed his lips against mine once more, but this time his kiss was lighter, his fingers wet with my arousal, tracing my lips before he kissed them.
He whispered, "Good girl," he said, in a low voice. "Very good."
I clung to him shivering and my mind had no idea of bliss or horror. I just betrayed my husband in the most basic manner. I allowed another man to touch, command and bring me to orgasm with the ring Zeeshan had put on my finger. And I wanted more.
"Now I have to go," I whispered, reality crashing back in. "Zeeshan would be returning soon."
Rashid stepped back, his expression closing off, becoming unreadable.
"Of course. The good wife."
He assisted me in putting me on with shivering fingers, and handed me my dress with his hooded eyes.
Sheikh Rashid: When I call, you'll come back, next time it won't be so... restrained.