At 26, my blue-gray-green eyes, 1.80m frame, size 37 feet, firm pear-shaped 90C breasts, and long blonde hair cascading to my lightly rounded ass turn heads. Yet naivety clings to me like silk sheets. This morning, post a teasing call from Alex reminding me of my Swiss clients, I dressed to seduce: short plaid skirt, lace panties matching crisscross stockings, black push-up bra under a gray tailored jacket, sky-high heels boosting my confidence. Before leaving my penthouse, I grabbed two old silk pillows for a discreet charity drop at what looked like an abandoned building on my route—a hidden elite enclave, they say, for the powerful seeking forbidden thrills.
Sun warms my skin as I approach the corrugated iron wall, slipping through the narrow VIP passage littered with designer debris, heels clicking on cracked marble. A black boy with a Michael Jackson afro smiles from the steps. I ascend to a terrace with city penthouse views masked by vines. Inside, raw concrete yields to a labyrinth of corridors lit by Himalayan salt lamps. Men in lavish djellabas line straw chairs, heads bowed like in a private salon. Eyes lift, stunned by my BCBG allure, pillows clutched as shields.
The Privilege
A solemn voice calls: ‘Come.’ I part African patchwork drapes into a boudoir of gilded panels evoking humanity’s cradle. Persian rugs sink under my heels. A massive ebony colossus, 2 meters tall in orange sarong and black-gold kufi, lounges on embroidered poufs, his crystal salt candle casting rose-orange glows. ‘I awaited you,’ he intones. The boy urges prostration before the ‘prophet.’ Incense swirls, luring me. I kneel on my pillows, his gaze devouring my cleavage.
‘Alice, seek your destiny?’ Mistaken identity, but curiosity wins. ‘Yes,’ I whisper. ‘Prepare her, Abdourakhane.’ Behind a slatted paravent, I strip: heels off for balance, jacket slides away revealing breasts. ‘Nude beneath the trabea,’ the ephebe insists. Bra drops, stockings rolled into pockets, panties shed. The tiny white crinoline barely covers, exposing my smooth sex as I emerge, hands clutching fabric, ass cheeks curving bare.
The Excess
He offers a leaden bowl of bissap, its acrid tang metallic on my tongue. Engravings emerge: a bent woman flanked by men, monkeys in lewd poses. Panic rises as Abdourakhane sheds his djellaba for a loincloth. Narguile hose to my lips, smoke fills lungs. Hair pins removed, blonde waves veil my ass. Dizziness spins me forward.
The Privilege fades into haze. Atmosphere crackles.
