The word should have hurt me! Rather, it helped me to become free. I was a whore. I was a traitor. I was a girl willing to do anything for the craziest, filthiest of reasons.
I touched myself, fingers working on my clit, dipping and swirling in the manner that I had memorized before. I looked down at the restaurant below, and pictured Zeeshan sitting there, laughing at a joke, talking about business, and his wife standing in a nude state three floors up, preparing to be fucked up by his boss's son. It was a terrible, tasty and destructive picture.
"Please," I moaned, my fingers moved faster, my body heated, although the glass was cool. Rushing to be in me, "Please, I need you inside me."
"Not yet," he said, watching me, stroking himself as I did. "Put yourself first, Zeenat. Come for me."
I came with a scream, my whole body shaking, my head on the glass. The orgasm was precise and intense and more than I'd found out before--more than the exposure and the danger, more than the sheer wrongness of what I was doing.
I could hardly recover before Rashid had his hands on my hips and was standing me up. He thrust me against the glass and entered my cunt with his body pressed on my body. I could still see the restaurant below and my breast was pressed down on the glass and my face was turned to the side.
"Look at him," Rashid said, his voice harsh, his thrusts hard and deep.
The more he pushed, the more intense and brutal it became, the more the sound of our bodies together filled the room.
The pleasure building again, which is impossible, too soon, too intense.
Me: "O God, Rashid, please."
He wrapped his fingers around my clit and started to rub, went in rhythm with his thrusts.
"Come," he commanded. "Come now, make the city hear the name of you who betray it."
I came, with a shout that I smothered in my own arm, my body clamping him, my eyes going white. He followed right after, his hips swaying, his seed hot inside me, marking me, claiming me, his teeth biting into my shoulder, keeping his own from escaping. Breathed hard, bodies pressed together, the city glittering below, we stayed there, pressed against the glass.
I could see the restaurant still, the blue lights glowing. But Zeeshan was still there. Still trusting.
Even as I gave myself to another, still mine, in a way. Rashid backed off slowly, I was left dry, used, his fluids dripping down my leg.
He walked to bar and made two drinks; he came back and gave me one. I swallowed it with a trembling hand, and was still naked and leaning against the window, regardless of who looked.
Again, he said, "You love this."
"Yeah. I love it," I confirmed with the whiskey burning my throat and grounding me. "I need it."
He was dark eyed and said, "Good. Next week it will be even worse, I'm having a gala on my estate, your husband will be there and you will be there as my secret, hiding in plain sight, in service to me, while he watches."
My heart was beating so fast that I didn't know what to do, and then it stopped. The danger was growing and growing. A public event. His estate. Zeeshan also in the room. And me--what? A server? A hidden guest? A plaything in his house, as my husband drinks his wine?
"Yes," I whispered, before I could think better of it. "Yes, I'll do it."
He smiled, and the dark, dangerous smile that first hooked me. "I know you will. You'd do anything for this feeling wouldn't you?"
I gazed out at the city, at the restaurant where my husband was probably getting a slice of cake, and I guess probably thinking of me, and I guess probably planning our future. And I knew that Rashid was right. I would dare to do anything. I would lose all of my possessions. To experience this on the alive.
"Anything," I repeated, the word a vow, a curse, a confession.
The week before the gala was a masterclass in compartmentalization. I went through the day with Zeeshan like a ghost in his own house, helping him with his suits, his excitement as he prepared, nodding his head approvingly as he practiced his elevator pitch with Sheikh Al-Rashid's top advisors.
One morning, while I was on the bed, Zeeshan played with his tie in the mirror, saying, "the Sheikh's son would be there. He's supposed to be brilliant. Ruthless. If I could just get him to remember my name."
I smiled, no worries, a pounding heart. I'm sure you will make a mark, dear one.
I got the package the following night while Zeeshan was sleeping. Only a heavy black garment bag of silk with no note. There, on the inside, was a dress, not the host's gown, but the uniform of a server. Simple and fitted, high mandarin collar with side slits. And below a mask. The sort of black domino mask that would obscure my identity, but show enough. It was quite obvious that I would not be visible.
Giving my husband water to drink with another man's prints on my flesh.
It was now the day of the gala. Zeeshan left early. I said I'd be spending the evening with a friend from the spa and that was a lie that felt like silk on my tongue, smooth and luxurious.
I took my time preparing myself ritualistically. I washed my body and the fragrance of Zeeshan's morning kiss had come off. I was getting myself ready for another man.
I didn't wear anything under the uniform, no underwear, no bra, only my nakedness covered with thin black silk.
The mask, which covered my eyes, made me more than just Zeeshan Parveen's wife. A phantom. A plaything.
Sheikh's estate was in the desert outside the city, and a vast expanse of white stone and green gardens, green fountains, green marble paths.
The black car, Rashid sent for me, took me through the city lights and into the darkness of the desert - my hands clutched tightly, trembling not with fear but with anticipation.
I walked through the service entrance, as directed. A woman in severe suit extracted my coat, regarded me with wise eyes and gave me a silver tray. "Circulate Champagne; do NOT speak unless spoken to. The son of the Sheikh has marked you; when he signals, you go to him. Understand?"
My throat was clenched; I nodded my head.
It was a cathedral of light and crystal in the ballroom. Three hundred guests, jewels glittering with light, voices a roar of commerce and power glittered beneath chandeliers as big as cars.
There, across the room, near the bar, with a glass of scotch in his hand, was my husband.
Zeeshan looked handsome in the tuxedo, his hair well-coiffed, his face full of excitement and nervousness.
He was addressing an older crowd of men, laughing too loud and too much to please them.
I felt my heart twist with something that could be love or pity--now, I never could distinguish.
I went into the crowd of people, my face hidden behind a mask, my identity hidden behind a uniform. I was invisible. A servant. A ghost. "Champagne?" I said, in a low voice, with a neutral accent, I offered.
A hand brushed my thigh as I went by, and it said, possessive and deliberate. As I looked, I didn't have to look to see whose fingers were tracing on my skirt, up to where my bare skin was exposed. Rashid whispered in my ear, "Not yet. Circulate. Let me watch you. Let me see you serve these men."
I walked around the room, offering them drinks, and my heart was pounding.
I passed by Zeeshan, close enough to smell the cologne on his clothes, and close enough to hear him say my name when he said to a colleague, "My wife is at home tonight, unfortunately. She doesn't enjoy these corporate events."
I roamed around for an hour, feeling my feet begin to cramp, and my tray start to become lighter as glasses were removed.
I saw Rashid in the corner, saw him gliding past Zeeshan in the room like a shark past minnows, saw the men who were making Zeeshan nervous bow down before him.
Then came the signal; it was a gesture towards the hallway.
I lowered my tray and took off my heels as my heart hammered in my ears. Hallway lined with doors: Study, Library, Conservatory. I passed them by but he was sure to find me and that was his role in the game.
A hand, out of a dark doorway, that's tugging me inside. A closet. Small and dark and smelly of old books and cedar. Rashid pressed me against the wall, his body hard against my skin, his lips on my neck in the dark. "Your husband is drinking his third scotch," he whispered, his hands in my skirt.
"Please", I gasped, the prospect of a risk too overwhelming, and the nearness to discovery making me dizzy.
"Quiet," he said, his thumb on my clit. "One sound and I stop, and you don't want me to stop do you? You want to be fucked in my closet, while your husband is networking 3 rooms away."
I bit my lip, my hands on his shoulders, feeling the expensive fabric of his suit.
In one swift movement, using the other hand, he extricated himself from the position, stood me up, and thrust his hard dick into my cunt with one hard slap that knocked the air out of my lungs. He was like he knew how to move and his fingers were in my mouth to stop my noises, his hips pushing me so strongly, that it was very quick and rushed.
Ee were in his house surrounded by guests, including my husband, and he was taking me against the wall like I was his.
He said to me, "Look at me! Check me out while I'm fucking your pussy."
In the dark, I opened my eyes, and I saw the outline of his face, and the gleam in his eyes. He was right. I was his whole in this moment, in this closet; my husband not far away. It was a complete betrayal! It was a risk it was all the time. He came with a grunt that he buried in my shoulder, his teeth sinking in my skin, marking me again. I followed, seconds later, my orgasm exploding through me like a fist, my body vibrating around him.
We remained there, joined, our breathing heavy, the chants from the party filtering through the door - laughter, glasses clinking, my husband's voice going by in the hallway and saying something about shipping routes.
I was terrified, thrilled and frozen, impossibly, impossibly, impossibly. Rashid knew it: the constriction in my body, the sharp intake of breath. I can feel his finger moving back to my clit, circling, giving me give another peak, while my on the other side of the door.
Fear and delight were indistinguishable, I whispered, "Rashid."
"Come," he called, softly, his finger moving quickly. "Come while he's outside. Come knowing he could be here anytime and see his wife stuffed full of my cock, her uniform around her waist, her mask askew."
The footsteps stopped. There was a shadow at the door, perhaps someone standing there, reading his or her phone. Maybe Zeeshan. Maybe a stranger. My snorting gasps drowned out by his hand as it pressed into my mouth, shook my body with its insistence and threat, the wrongness of it, as he came.
The footfalls continued to walk on. We parted slowly as we changed clothes, smoothed hair.
Rashid unlocked the door and looked out, then he looked at me. "Back to the party, give your husband a drink, and then look him in the eyes."
My body was vibrating, my mind was broken, I nodded.
I discovered my tray and filled it with champagne, then returned to the ballroom. Bright lights and loud noises. I was on drugs of danger and betrayal.
Then there was Zeeshan, who was alone now, looking tired and at his watch. I stepped close to him, and my heart began to beat so loudly I knew he could hear it.
"Champagne, sir?" I offered, my voice in a low tone, my eyes concealed behind the mask. He studied my face, my figure, he studied me. He recognized for a moment, confusion, a question, lingered on his lips.
There was a moment between us, a fine taut thread that could snap at any moment. Zeeshan's brown, familiar, confused eyes held mine for what seemed like forever. The question was shaping on his lips, the recognition warring with what his senses were telling him. He was married to a modest and proper wife, who was waiting for him at home. It couldn't be her, this woman with the mask, this server with the puffed lips, and the hair showing under her cap.
"Is it possible that I know you?" he asked, voice uncertain, still holding the champagne flute that I gave him.
My heart stopped. Then raced. The danger - the delicious, suicidal danger - reached its peak in that moment, and I noticed a dampness between my legs, a physical reaction to the danger that was nothing but obscene.
"I don't believe so sir," I replied, lowering my voice, accenting it with a touch of my accent. Unless otherwise stated, don't go to the service entrance if you haven't visited it before. The double meaning struck like a rock in still waters between us. A flush, maybe of embarrassment, climbed the length of Zeeshan's neck, adding to his confusion. He let his fingers drop away, touching mine one final time with an electric charge of his unknowing betrayal of himself.
He mumbled, retreating. "Oh, it's my mistake, you resemble to someone I know."
I bent my head and went on; my tray balanced on my shaking legs. The mask covered my smile, the crazy laugh of a woman who just looked into her husband's eyes as another man's seed dries on her thighs.
I danced around for another hour, serving the drinks, while trying not to be seen by Zeeshan, but being hyper-aware of his nearness. Whenever he laughed, I heard him. I followed his movements wherever he went.
And Rashid--Rashid looked at me, eyes dark with knowledge, fingers grazing his lips from time to time, only I understood what he was doing there.
The next one was a text message to my burner phone in my garter: "Library. Now. He's coming."
The message was mysterious, fear-inducing and alluring. I was taken off to the library, a room at the far end of the estate from the main party, of leather and mahogany. The door was slightly open and the room was dark, only lit by the lights from the windows in the town.
I entered. Rashid was there standing by the fireplace, in his full-dress uniform, clad like a Prince in his own Castle.
He ordered, "Lock it." I tried to turn the key in the lock, but my hands were shaking. I whispered into his ear, "He saw me." "My husband Zeeshan. He looked at me. He almost--"
"I know," Rashid interrupted, stepping close, his hand finding my throat, not squeezing, just holding, claiming.
"I have seen. I watched him see something in you."
Rashid's thumb ran down my jaw. "He's coming here. Mr. Khan recommended he go have a look at the Sheikh's collection of first editions; he'll be at this door in 5 minutes maybe less."
I was frightened and aroused at once in a heady mix of terror and excitement. "I can't, Rashid, he'll know, I can't."
"Quiet," he snapped, his hand tightening around my throat. "Don't tell me what I have to do, and right now, you're giving me three minutes before he arrives."
He pushed me back against the desk, his hands lifting up my skirt and his fingers making contact with me wet, ready, desperate. "Three minutes," he said, his voice a whip-crack.
As his finger fucks me, I scream out, while listening for his footsteps. He says, "make yourself scream, make yourself come; you might walk right in to your husband as soon as you leave this room."
He was rough with his fingers, curling and thrusting until I blotted out the world; his thumb pounding my clit with unrelenting force.
My hips jittered; my eyes were on the door as I gripped the edge of the desk.
"Two minutes," he said calmly, his fingers working even faster. "Now he is walking down the hall way, I can hear the sound of his shoes. Can you?"
I listened and I felt more and more pleasure in my soul, more and more terror and arousal. Yes--footsteps. Heavy, familiar. Zeeshan's gait. Getting closer. "Ohh," I nearly choked, my body seizing up, the orgasm rising too fast to be possible, "Rashid."
One minute," he said, as he worked his fingers through me. "He's at the door. Right now. Outside. Listening perhaps. Wondering if he should knock. Come, Zeenat. Come for him."
I came with a scream that I buried in my own arm, my body convulsing, my vision whiting out. As I was at my best Rashid put his hand over my mouth and I was silenced and I heard it--the doorknob rattling. Locked. Thank God.
"Hello?" The sound of Zeeshan's voice, muffled through the dense wood. "Is anybody else in there?"
Rashid didn't remove his hand from my mouth. Using his other hand, he adjusted himself as he picked up a book off the desk, opening it casually.
"One moment," he said, his voice in perfect control, the voice of a host, a superior, a man who'd every right to be in his own library.
I stood still, my skirt still around my waist, my body still bracing itself to the orgasm, my husband's voice still shaking through the door that stood between us, inches of wood.
The handle shook once again. "Sheikh Rashid? Is that you? It's Zeeshan from the shipping department and I was told that I could see the first editions..."
"Ah, Mr. Zeeshan," Rashid replied, his eyes dark and pitiless, holding mine. "Of course, I'm just finishing up some... private business. Just give me two minutes and the room will be yours."
Zeeshan: "Of course, Your Highness, I'm sorry you got interrupted."
Rashid: "I hope your wife is well"
It was a sharp and cutting question. I was cold inside as well as on the outside, while my cheeks burned.
Zeeshan: "She's fine, thank you; at home tonight, unfortunately, she doesn't enjoy these events."
"Now I'm on edge," Rashid said, his fingers still in me, moving slowly. "Two minutes Mr. Zeeshan."
We heard footsteps going away. Slowly he pulled his hand back, his fingers to his lips, his eyes not taking their eyes off me. He whispered, "Get dressed. Go out of the terrace door, circle around and go back to the service door. And Zeenat--"
Me: "Yes?"
Rashid: "My office tomorrow. 2 PM he'll be in a meeting with my dad. You'll come under the guise of delivering documents, and you'll remain until you're done with me."
I went around the estate and back into the kitchen, grabbed my coat and was in the car before I could think and before I could breathe. It was a quick drive to the house. I took a bath to get rid of the evidence, scrubbed my skin till it was pink.
Later Zeeshan arrived. I asked him, "How was the gala?"
He lowered his head, and furrowed his brow. "It was strange, I must say--there was a server there, a woman in a mask--she looked... she reminded me of you... exactly like you..."
I poured myself some water, steady hands by sheer force of will. "It's likely that it's a coincidence, many women look like each other."
"Yes," he said, but he didn't sound convinced.
Zeeshan: "And Sheikh Rashid--he asked you about you. He asked if you are enjoying Dubai?"
My blood ran cold. "What did you say to him?"
Zeeshan: "That you were at home; that you were happy,"
He put his cup of tea aside; his gaze locked on mine. "Zeenat--are you happy? Truly?"
I walked up to him, sat on his lap and kissed his cheek. "Yes, of course darling, I have everything I need."
I took him to bed that night and made love to him that night with such ferocity, that he was astonished, riding him while closes eyes, I picture someone else's hands on my throat, someone else's orders on my ear. When Zeeshan came inside me, he was crying, holding me tight, saying love and thanks.
Then I lay awake all night, staring at the ceiling, thinking about the hours till tomorrow at 2 PM. It was my affair and it was eating me alive. And it was my letting it.
Morning came, and the time was just right. Zeeshan got up early, picked his fanciest tie, the one I bought him for his birthday, the one he thought brought him luck. At the door he kissed me and cupped my cheek in his hand, soft and trusting; tender as sandpaper to my conscience. "Wish me luck," he said, his eyes full of brightness. "A big meeting with the Sheikh's father today; could be a directorship if it goes well."