In my room I laid out all of the sets of lingerie I had brought, still trying to imagine what I wanted to be wearing for whatever the night held in store. After pawing through my pile of satin and lace and weighing my choices I settled on a sexy red number.
The top was a harness bralette. The cups were sheer and would both hold my breast forms in place as well as show the dark areolae and nipples through the fabric. The harness ran straight up from the middle of the cups to a choker that would fit around my neck, giving me a “servant” sort of look without being super obvious.
The bottom, in addition to having a matching G-string panty, was a high-waisted garter skirt that looked very girdle-like. The sheer front was trimmed with three lines of ribbon in a bisected “V” that ran from the bottom edge all the way to the waist. The back had a keyhole detail at the waist and the four garters were centered on the front and back of each leg.
I selected a pair of black seamed stockings and placed it all inside a small travel bag along with my heels and makeup bag.
Hoping tonight’s activities were going where I wanted them to, I skipped eating and instead used the time of ‘Isha to prepare my sissy hole for a night of anal fun. I slid my favorite buttplug — the Thin Tool by Doc Johnson — into my ass. I knew that the five-inch penis-shaped plug would ensure I was more than ready when the time came.
Almost as soon as the final intonations of the evening prayer had ended, I was in the elevator on my way to the lobby. I stepped outside to hail a cab but before I could even raise my hand a green taxi pulled up.
“Mr. Wilson?” the driver asked. I nodded assent. I opened the door and hopped in. My stomach was in knots as I handed the card — hand-written side up — to the driver. He grunted and handed the card back to me.
“Haroun sent you?” I asked.
“Yes, yes. Haroun. We go now.”
We raced through the streets, the city coming back to its bustling normalcy after prayer time. We traveled in a series of confusing twists and turns. As he drove, he repeatedly glanced in his rearview mirrors and seemed to be constantly looking over his shoulder. If he had stopped and dumped me out I would have been completely screwed. I had no idea where we were or even what direction my hotel was in.
We ended up in a maze of what appeared to be warehouses. The driver certainly knew exactly where the directions were taking us and pulled up in front of one of the many nondescript beige buildings. A few men stood around by a doorway smoking cigarettes.
I looked at the meter and handed the driver 150 riyal — about $40.00. “Thank you,” I said. I had barely stepped out of the taxi, bag in hand before the driver sped away. What was going on here that made him so nervous?
Assuming I was in the right place, I walked toward the group of men. One of them stepped away from the others and approached me. My stomach started doing flips until I realized it was Haroun.
“Stacey?” he asked me, nodding toward my bag.
“Yes,” I said. His face broadened in a wide smile. “Haroun, what is all this?”
“This way,” he said. “You go here.” He took my elbow and ushered me around to the side of the building. He indicated a side door. “Meet you inside.” He turned and quickly walked back toward the front of the building.
I had a hundred questions, none of which was going to get answered.
Above the door was a hand-lettered sign. I recognized it as the wording used to differentiate women’s bathrooms from men’s; “nahif” I had heard it pronounced. I opened the door and stepped inside. My sense of smell was assaulted by a combination of heavy perfumes and burning incense. The sounds of dance music seemed to echo from all sides.
What appeared to be a hallway covered in heavy damask fabric was dimly lit by a series of single-bulb fixtures spaced too far apart. I saw two women in long hijabs — or head scarves — running down the passage. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light I could have sworn that they were naked except for the long scarves that covered most of their torso.
There was a matronly woman just inside the door. She was dressed in flowing black robes, a head scarf, and veil. Only her eyes, eyebrows, and forehead were visible. As soon as she saw me she hissed, “Mutakhanith,” and immediately pulled and pushed me through a gap in the curtains on the left.
Through the curtain, I realized that it was not a hallway, per se, but just hanging fabric that formed a series of “rooms” and other spaces. Inside, I saw three figures. Two were in various stages of dress and it was immediately apparent that they were Arab men who were wearing lingerie. One of them was just finishing up fitting a hijab. It was the same long style I had seen on the other two women and covered the upper torso, giving onlookers a teasing view of what sexy secrets were beneath it. The second person was still pulling on a pair of stockings and trying to connect them to his garter belt.
The first one finished with the hijab and moved for the exit but was stopped by the third person. She was wearing a hijab with no veil but barked something in Arabic. He stepped over to her and she fitted a tight veil across his face, leaving only his forehead and eyes visible. I could see from the side the string of his bikini panties. He was also wearing stay-up stockings and a pair of low sandals. Once the veil was fitted, she grunted her approval and he dashed out the entrance.