"Desert of Desire" by Madame Catarina
I had read them all — the books about pharaohs, gods, and pyramids. And now the time had finally come. I stood at the rail of one of those Nile steamers, my gaze fixed upon the desert that began just beyond the palm-fringed shore. My eyes could not tire of that splendour of sand and sun.
The ship docked at Luxor, at the southern end of the Nile. I gathered my luggage and ascended the broad hotel steps to the Old Winter Palace. “Good heavens,” I thought — Agatha Christie herself had sipped afternoon tea on this terrace while composing one of her most famous whodunits, Death on the Nile. And now I was here.
After checking in, I wanted to explore a little. A lightning bolt seemed to strike me the moment I saw the tall, slender figure of this almost goddess-like woman. Her jet-black hair gleamed like liquid latex in the fiery sun. She stood on the old hotel steps with several unusually large, almost antique-looking travel trunks, scanning the horizon through her sunglasses for a porter. And then one of the eager tip-hunters approached her.
I didn’t know why, but for some inexplicable reason I shot forward to reach this apparition before him. “May I assist you?” escaped my lips as if I were hearing someone else speak. Not yet 24 hours from my home city — where I loved to indulge my lusts and proclivities — and here I was, offering myself as a servant to a lady to carry her luggage.
“But of course,” came her reply in a voice as molten red as her lips, into my ear — yet my mind barely processed anything beyond the overwhelming presence before me. Without hesitation, I lifted all her luggage — surely enough for two porters — and, almost unnoticed, gestured for her to precede me. And my God, she did.
That image etched itself into my mind as though it were a map guiding the thirsty through the desert. She wore one of those tight, classic ensembles, sharply cinched at the waist, the skirt ending just above her knees. As my gaze travelled further down, I saw genuine seamed nylons and slender legs sheathed in black high heels. My sweat didn’t come from the weight of the luggage alone.
How could it be that thousands of kilometres from home I stumbled upon my absolute fetish dream?
My eyes were still locked on her retreating form when I realised that, beneath her already very snug outfit, she seemed to wear a corset. Yes — I could clearly see the lacing beneath the fabric. Around me, women in jeans dressed lightly in the heat; and then this woman.
What was she doing here? And why, of all people, me, did I have to carry her bags? But we were already at her hotel floor, standing before her door.
“Thank you,” she said, looking deep into my eyes. “You seem an exceedingly diligent servant. Perhaps I shall require your services again in due course. Give me your room number so I may summon you.”
I stammered something about Room 142, and stood, transfixed in the corridor even seconds after her door shut. “If I should require you again…” Those words — she would ‘require’ me! Hundreds of images raced through my mind, in which this mysterious woman became my Mistress and tormentor, and I her servant as though it were my life’s purpose.
Oh yes, as I stood there, I would do anything for her — and let her do anything to me — just to be near her.
When I regained some composure, I went to my room and attempted with cold water to retrieve my clear mind. It didn’t truly succeed. Yet I was coherent enough to dine in the restaurant that evening.
Back in my room, I lay on the bed and stared at the fan above me. I fought desperately not to think of my encounter with this woman, focusing instead on the morrow’s planned tour of the neighbouring mystic tombs. Then the telephone rang.
“I expect you tomorrow morning — promptly at 8 o’clock — outside my door. I am going on a desert excursion, and you may accompany me.” Click. She had hung up — simply hung up, without awaiting any reply.
My heart pounded, and I found myself imagining her face in white, almost translucent silk, backlit by the sun — her firm nipples like buds, her hips beckoning as I carried water after her.
Sleep was impossible. My mind and loins trembled. Was this a dream that seemed real? That I, of all people, would meet a woman who seemed to know exactly my deepest and most hidden passions? She must have recognised instantly that I would be powerless to resist her. But I gave up trying to unravel why this was happening.
I lay on my bed, dreaming of what would occur the next day.
I had perhaps slept only two hours, but when I stood before her door at the appointed hour, all my fantasies — which had left me restless with ardour — vanished. There she stood, in a close-fitting black blouse, riding breeches, and black leather boots up to her knees. She wore dark sunglasses and black leather gloves. Ashamed, recalling my white-silk fantasy, I looked to the floor.
“Ah, well, I expected nothing different,” she said quietly but with such command that I felt once again a servant. “He shall carry the provisions, and follow at least five steps behind me. I do not wish to be spoken to or touched by him. Further instructions shall be given if necessary once I have claimed him.”
What had happened overnight? Yesterday she had thanked me politely like a lady; today she spoke of me in the third person, as though I were not even present.
In front of the hotel, a jeep awaited — but without a driver. After I stowed her luggage and provisions in the rear, I took the wheel and drove in the direction of the desert beyond the city. She sat in the back, observing me unceasingly through her dark glasses. Could she read my thoughts? Guess how I felt, almost anxiously watching Luxor disappear in the rear-view?
She gave concise commands about which direction to steer. Around us lay boundless desert — the sun’s glare nearly blinding. At a low rocky outcrop, she ordered a halt.
I stopped the jeep, circled it, and opened her door. “Unload the luggage from the vehicle and open it. I want to verify that nothing has been forgotten. I should acquire a body slave for such purposes, to handle everything and spare me the tedious work when I intend to amuse myself with a slave-worm such as you.” Boom — her words struck my head like thunder.
The term “slave-worm” I knew only from my intimate visits to SM studios. But here I was a tourist — a proud, normal man accompanying a lady on her excursion. Or was I mistaken — and had my predisposition followed me all the way here to give me what I vainly sought at home?
Command after command rained upon me. I obeyed them obsessively — erecting her sunshade, placing provisions, handing water and food as though a slave in ancient Egypt must serve his pharaoh with the utmost humility.
Once everything was prepared, I still dared not utter a word. So I knelt in the hot desert sand a few paces from her. I was tense, even aroused, wondering what would come next. Could she be simply a solitary, domineering woman seeking male company? I would surely not disappoint her.
And while I fantasised about undressing this woman in the setting sun and giving her the hottest sex of her lonely life, her imperious voice awakened me. “The slave must undress!” I could hardly believe my ears. But her tone grew sterner — “I want to see him naked!”
What could it matter, I thought — after all, I had nothing to hide. No beer belly, always well shaved as I had learned among the professionals. So I rose and began to undress. My shirt slipped easily from my body, but as I bent to pull down my trousers, awkwardness crept in.
“What is he dawdling for?” I heard her call, “Surely he longs to know what it means to serve a true Mistress?”
A true Mistress? Of course — I had always wanted that and never found it. Would my search finally find its end here in the desert? How could she have divined this secret wish of mine? It was almost eerie that I had met her by chance.
Perhaps it was she who recognised my desire and deftly made use of it.
I now stood completely naked before her, attempting discreetly to shield my prowess with my hands.
“Turn around, worm!” she commanded. I heard a rustling, and before I knew it she had bound my eyes. “Now you may turn back, but I want your hands behind your head and your legs spread wide!” A mixture of shame, lust, and a slight fear of the unknown — and of what I could no longer see — rose within me.
Yet I obeyed. Minutes passed. It seemed she was inspecting me thoroughly, moving about me. Then I felt her leather glove between my thighs. Gripping firmly, she drew me down onto my knees.
She bent close, and I smelled her heavy perfume. In a diabolical whisper into my ear she asked, “Do you want to be my body-slave? To relinquish your self, to offer your body so that I can do with it whatever my imagination desires and satisfies?”
What words. She demanded my unconditional surrender. No taboos. I was to forfeit my rights as a free man.
Her hand upon my loins had already shown a palpable effect, slowly guiding my mind into that state of “Yes, Mistress, I will do anything for you.” What choice did I have? Perhaps this was my only chance to finally find what I had long sought — total submission! The prospect of fulfilling my deepest desire prompted a soft “Yes” from me.
Swish! — out of nowhere came a firm slap across my face.
“‘Yes, Mistress!’ I want to hear from you,” she snapped.
I answered as commanded. Within me, angel and devil wrestled — the devil craving satisfaction through this woman. Yes — she should control me, humiliate me, torment me, take what was hers… me.
She bound my hands and feet, fitted me with a collar, and — blind — dragged me on all fours. I noticed only that the sand under my hands gave way, and soon we were under the sunshade. There she removed my blindfold, settled on large soft cushions, and began to remove her boots and riding breeches.
I stared, hypnotised, at her legs — shapely thighs ending in a snug leather thong. “Ah — now the worm will give me pleasure. Start with my feet. It’s very hot in these tight boots. But what is a slave for? He will with his tongue cleanse them of dust and sweat. March! Do your work!”
As I diligently licked her beautiful feet — each elegant toe into my mouth to remove every grain of sand — I slowly embraced my situation and role as her slave. Had she not told me to bring her pleasure? So I worked dutifully from her feet to her calves to her thighs, ever closer to the small black leather triangle whose scent I could already imagine.
Only a few inches remained, and I pondered whether to slip aside her leather thong myself — or wait to be commanded — when a harsh kick to my shoulder sent me face down into the sand.
“That pleasure he may enjoy — once I have beaten and tormented him sufficiently for my satisfaction. Only then will he lick my lust anew. Everything must be earned — even water, which he will soon crave out here.”
How could I have dared think that this divine woman would recline upon her back and let me pleasure her? She was but one of many. Yet that was not what I wanted.
She seized my collar and dragged me back across the scorching sand. With her foot, she nudged me to turn; then she bound my hands behind my back. One kick later, I lay again beneath her and met her dark eyes — hungry for satisfaction upon my body. She donned her boots again, standing over me in her leather thong, and slowly removed her blouse.
“It might become a little warm…” she murmured.
I glimpsed her bosom — pressed firm within a leather bra — a dream unreachable like a mirage that lures the thirsty only to deceive.
From a large, old trunk she retrieved a bullwhip and cracked a few test strokes in the air. Each crack sounded dreadful. Returning toward me, she fetched a large gag. “We wouldn’t want to disturb tourists with our sightseeing,” she said with a cruel smile. My God — alone out here in the desert — only she wanted to humiliate me with the gag.
Then I remembered: nobody could hear us here anyway! And I — poor fool — lay bound and naked in the sand, at the mercy of this merciless demon. I barely knew her, nor how far she would go. Was she a deranged psychopath? The leather taste in my mouth intensified my fear. I was completely at her mercy — with no agreement.
Yet she had asked — and I had answered. Yes — I still wanted it. Everything else was irrelevant. Let her have her way.
The first strike of the bullwhip hit my chest like tearing flesh. Rolling, I tried to evade the next blow. But she did not care — laughing heartily as she lashed again and again, irrespective of whether I lay on my back or stomach.
Sand ground into my wounds, causing torturous pain. I whimpered into the gag for mercy, but her mocking reply — she did not know the word — instilled even greater fear. And yet it was precisely this fear — that she would continue — that fuelled my lust. I think she could see it, for she struck more wildly still.
I do not know how long I endured her brutal lashes, but eventually she ceased and ordered me to kneel on all fours. My muscles ached, but I staggered into the commanded position.
“Spread your legs, worm!” she ordered. Now she knelt behind me, her thighs warm against my battered body. Close as I was, her firm breasts brushed my back while I, humbled, waited to see what she would do next. But she first amused herself with my cock — playing with it, delighting in my slight moans through the gag.
Suddenly — a bolt of pain! Stars danced before my inner eye. She had thrust a seemingly enormous strap-on deeply into me without any tenderness. “Now I take full possession of your unworthy body, entering you deeply and taking what is mine. Your whimpers shall only arouse me further — your reluctance drive my blows harder.”
She had unwittingly broken one of my taboos. Until moments ago I had been a “virgin” in this domain. But pain and a muffled cry soon gave way to a rising lust. I became senseless — barely able to think — desiring only to be what she wanted and to feel what she did with me.
Her body-slave!
Exhausted, she suddenly stood behind me and kicked me. I fell, sweat-soaked and helpless, face down in the sand. My cock was still swollen, craving more — more of her.
“Now come, worm, and rid me of my wet lust. I want you to lick me clean and then you may taste my desire. This game with you has already driven me close to climax — so do not make me wait…”
She ripped the gag from my parched mouth, and I plunged my thirsty tongue between her legs.
It was not long before I too neared losing control and surrendered to lust, until she moaned wildly and drove her long fingernails into my chest like an animal. That pain diverted me from my own lust, focusing instead on my service to this woman. Then she cried out her pleasure into the desert, gifted by this cruel game with my body.
When she was done, she stepped away and leaned back, smoking a cigarette, watching me lie before her — my body bleeding, cock erect. She had taken what she wanted!
With a few cords, she bound my body into a bundle and blindfolded me again. I only realised that the leather gag now forced into my mouth was her thong — and it tasted divine, though I would have gladly accepted a bottle of water. The harsh game she had played exhausted me. The sun beat mercilessly on my naked body, making me drift into strange fantasies.
My mind, now spinning erratic thoughts about submission and domination, began to wander. Body-slave! I had done it — experienced and felt what it meant. But was this truly what I sought? Yes — it was!
Exhaustion overwhelmed me, and for a time I lost consciousness.
She must have returned the luggage to the jeep, for a slap on my face brought me semi-awake again. Bent over me, she looked directly into my face — her eyes like dark magnets, pulling me toward oblivion. Around her lips — in the sunlight — that same sly smile. “It has been my pleasure to claim you,” she said. “I wish you a few more pleasant days in Egypt.”
Then I saw her get into the jeep, start the engine, and drive away. I lay alone in the blazing heat — my wounds hurt more from the sand than I could ever have imagined. She had left me, used and discarded. I knew she would not return to rescue me. Yet I loved her.
So what else could I do but surrender to my fate?
I thought of the image of that woman dressed in white silk and laughed — painfully, yet crazed with lust. My passion had indeed become my undoing. Helpless, bound, still gripped by the aftermath, the leather gag robbed me of all moisture. I fantasised of water — water offered by a buxom blonde nurse in a crisp white jacket.
And then I realised that even now — in my final hour — those fantasies in my head, centred solely on the power of women who tormented me yet uplifted me, still held sway. And with that thought I closed my eyes…
When I opened them again, I saw the face of a plump, blonde nurse attempting to pour water into me. I lay in a hospital bed, and could only half-comprehend what near sacrifice my craving for submission had cost me.
Back in my hometown, I tried to forget the experience. It took some time, but eventually I returned to my work and, now and then, visited one of those professional SM studios.
One evening the telephone rang.
“Well then… has he learned enough to finally assume his role as my body-slave? I await you…!”