I didn't want to speak, so I nodded.
He gripped my arm at the door and pulled me back for one last kiss - a hard, claiming kiss of lips that took my breath away.
"Remember," he said to my mouth. "When you're here, you are mine."
My legs were like water again and I was still buzzing with the aftertaste of fun as I walked back to the elevator.
My fingers traced my lips where he had kissed me, my wedding ring felt as heavy as lead and I stared out my window at the passing city in the taxi home.
When I got home, Zeeshan was already home, worried, looking at his watch.
Relief was all over his face as he pulled me into his embrace.
Zeeshan: "You're late. I was worried."
I said, "Traffic," sounding like if it was the truth.
He kissed me, his lips soft and familiar, and I kissed him back, I felt like a monster, I felt like a queen.
That night, he lovingly touched me, observing my tenderness, my stillness. He held me close and said, "Are you alright? You seem different." I curled myself up into his chest; I listened to his heart beating, regular and steady, and I said, "just tired."
But, while he was sleeping, I was awake, looking at the ceiling, under the covers with my hand--where Rashid had touched me, how he had commanded me to take his pleasure, I knew it would never be the same. The affair had started.
The next days were a class in deceit, and I realized that deception was my forte, and not in any particular aspect of it, but because I enjoyed it. I had enjoyed the sound of my heart pounding in my chest whenever Zeeshan asked me about my day and I would spin all sorts of stories about spa baths and shopping sprees which never actually happened.
I enjoyed the precision of deleting text messages, showering before my husband gets home to get rid of another man's scent, having two sets of lingerie - the white and cream ones that Zeeshan bought and the black and red ones I bought for Rashid. It was a risk and I was addicting to a drug.
Rashid phoned three days after our initial meeting. I was in the kitchen and was about to make dinner for Zeeshan--some fancy recipe I had found from the internet to keep up the show of a loving wife--I'd just switched on my phone and a number I didn't know came up.
"One hour, the cinema, black dress, no underwear: Marina Mall." I could not respond before he hung up. No greeting. No question. Just command.
The familiar rush was on my veins as I was standing at the stove stirring a burning sauce.
I was excited, not afraid, my hands shook. I was going to be meeting my lover in a public place, among hundreds of people, and my husband would be in an office 10 kms away.
I was dizzy with the risk of it. I switched off the gas burner. I put on the black dress, a wrap dress, which I could remove and open easily. I took my undies off as directed, the soft feel of silk on my legs, exposing my body.
Each action of my own, every contact with my skin, was a reminder of what I was doing, of the line I was crossing.
It was quite a crowd, the mall was packed, and a cathedral of consumerism, filled with families, tourists, teenagers on dates.
My heart beat in my ears, I walked through the throng, I was looking for Rashid's security detail, his white robes, his black agal that would clearly identify him as royalty. He was standing near the entrance of the cinema - guarded by two bodyguards who stood a respectful distance away.
He didn't turn around to look at me as I walked up to him. He was reading his cell phone. But when he passed by, his hand went out and grabbed my wrist, his thumb against my pulse point.
"Follow," he murmured, not looking up.
I went with him to the picture house. He had bodyguards that remained standing outside and positioned at the door.
We sat alone in the darkened theatre, in a private screening, I realized, empty seats, dimming lights.
This hit me like a physical blow--we were in public, but we were entirely alone, there was a door in front of us and no one knew.
As the door snapped shut, Rashid looked me in the eye, his eyes dark in the dim light. "Lock it!" he ordered. I went to the door, locked it, turning the key turned in the lock.
As I turned around, he was seated in one of the velvet theatre seats with white cloths over his legs, as though he was on a throne.
Rashid: "Come here."
I pushed my way down the aisle, feeling all the air that brushed past my bare skin under my dress, my heels clicking on the carpet. I arrived at him and he was not standing. He looked up at me, his eyes scanning my face and then down, all the way down to where the dress stopped and my legs started.
He whispered, "Show me."
I knew what his desire was. It could be locked but anybody could knock, could demand entry, could hear. I was aware that the bodyguards knew I was in here. The employees of the cinema knew. But here I was, going to expose myself in a public area!
I untied the dress. It opened up, exposing my bare skin to the cold air conditioning, my breasts, my thighs, my sex, my nakedness, to his ravenous eyes.
"Beautiful," he whispered. "Touch yourself."
"Here?" I took a breath, though I was already beginning to move because he said so or because there was danger or because I was getting aroused.
Rashid: "Here now, where anybody could find you, where your husband could stroll inside and discover his precious wife with her fingers in her cunt, prepared for another man."
The words were coarse and shocking, a test I was put on. But the danger, the tempting and frightening danger, gave me a wetter.
I touched myself, my fingers finding my clit, they circled as he observed, his eyes heavy-lidded, his hand moving under his robes and stroking himself.
Rashid: Look at the door. Think about who may walk through. Think about what they'll see. You, naked and wet, mine.
My fingers worked more quickly, my eyes fixed on the door, all my senses sharpened by the dangers. I thought that Zeeshan would walk in, his face breaking when he saw me, his honest wife, open and panting for his boss's son.
I should have been horrified by the image. Rather, it made me completely explode. I came running, legs tremulous, crying but barely able to suppress my cries with my body.
His robe was open, and Rashid stood, his dark thick dick demanding.
He spun me around, bent over the back of the theatre seat, my hands holding the headrest. He told me to be quiet, and he was aligned his dick at my pussy entrance.
Rashid: "One sound and I stop. And you don't want me to stop, do you? You want to be fucked here, here, in this public place where you drip."
He had one hard thrust and filled me, he stretched me and I was filled. I bit my lip to not cry out and cause myself to bleed. He started to push, his hands digging into my hips, his tempo quick, harsh, for claiming, for marking, for possessing.
"You're fucking a sheikh's cock in a public cinema," he breathed into my ear. "Your husband is trying to make an impression on my father-his boss, and his wife is getting fucked by his boss's son. Risk, Zeenat; risk of losing everything; that's what makes you clutch around me, isn't it?"
I couldn't answer. I can only nod, my forehead against the leather seat as my body shook to his thrusts. He was right. The danger was all consuming. The fact that at any moment, the door could rattle and a phone could ring and Zeeshan could appear in some manner, made the sex more than just physical, more than just pleasant, it was also sharp and dangerous and vital. There was a grunt in his voice, his hips moved in a jerk, his seed was hot within me. He did pull out right away, I bent over the seat, naked, used and his fluids running down my thigh.
He adjusted his robe, and went back to the image of being a respectable royal, "Clean yourself up," he said.
I put my clothes on with the shaking of my hands, I still could feel my body buzzing, my mind buzzing around with endorphins and adrenaline. He put his hand to my throat, his thumb running across my lip I've been kissed, and stopped me at the door.
He said, gazing into my eyes, "The risk, the danger, you would do it even if you didn't enjoy it as much, wouldn't you? For the sheer fun of it. For the fun of betrayal."
I didn't hesitate to say, "Yes," the truth freeing. "I love it."
He smiled, "Good. Next time you will risk it more."
He did what he said. He fulfilled his promise. He sent me an address in the following week. Not a hotel. Not a private suite. A restaurant. Popular, public restaurant in the heart of financial district. Zeeshan's district. Table 12. 1 PM. Wear a skirt. No panties. Sit with your back to the room.
That day, Zeeshan was scheduled to have lunch meeting. He couldn't have been at the restaurant--he checked his schedule, I remembered his schedule, I knew his schedule better than he knew it.
The odds were almost off-the-walls. I was in a cream-coloured short skirt and a navy blue silk blouse looking respectable like the Businessman's wife.
I walked into the restaurant, and underneath was naked, my sex already wet with anticipation.
In the middle of the room, there was a table labelled Table 12. Already there was Rashid, dressed in a well-cut suit, not in the traditional robes but like any other wealthy businessman.
As I came toward him, he did not raise his eyes. I sat across from him, my back to the room as told, my heart pounding so loud I could hear it from across the room.
I was shivering at the thought of this utmost risk. His hand was under the table and he found my knee. He pushed my skirt up, slowly and as he went up, he traced my inner thigh, climbed further and he found my wetness, my readiness.
He mused, "Wet already. The risk made you feel good, knowing that anybody could see my hand under the table. Anybody could see my hand underneath the table while your husband's colleagues were eating their lunch and I was fingerling his wife."
Slow and purposeful, his finger slipped into me, right in the middle of the restaurant. I took my mask off and my eyes fixed on the menu, but my breath caught. Under the white tablecloth, his thumb started circling my clit as he began to move his finger, curling it to where my vision blurred.
Softly he said, "Don't come," and pointed to a waiter, ordering for both of us without asking me.
Rashid: "Not yet, hold it, feel the risk, feel how exposed you are!"
I chewed my cheek and held the menu tight, it was indented. His finger was fast and sure and hard. I was able to see over his shoulder, a group of men in suits walking into the restaurant. Zeeshan's colleagues. One of them I knew, Mr. Khan, his immediate boss. They were sitting three tables from us.
Gasping, panic and arousal melded in my voice, I gasped, "Rashid!"
"Still," he pointed with his finger. "Quiet. They can't see. But if we make a sound, there might be a chance that they might look over."
They might question why Zeeshan's wife is flushed, her eyes are glazed, why she's gripping the table.
He was right. I put on a face of calm, while at the same time his finger pushed me towards the edge. The waiter delivered our orders and put down the plates asking if we wanted anything. Gently he responded, his hand never lifting from beneath the table, his finger dancing, dancing inside me in a rhythm that made me want to scream out.
I said in a quiet voice, "Please" but I wasn't certain whether it was a request for him to stop, or to end me. "Come," he said, eyes dark and pitiless, looking at me. "Now," when they're looking.
I peeked around his shoulder. Mr. Khan was looking around the room, his eyes darting over our table. As he did so, Rashid pressed his thumb into my clit, his finger curling in me, and I came so hard I was going to scream, my whole-body tensing, my teeth grinding, and my cum dripping on floor.
Mr Khan's gaze swept over me, said nothing, don't know whether he recognized me or not. I sat in a slumped position in my chair, shivering and the skirt still hiked up around my hips.
Rashid's hand moved smoothly, pressed to his lips, tasting me, while his eyes fixed on mine.
He whispered, "good girl. Now have your lunch, be ready to go, as you have a husband to come home to."
I was eating the food, I was moving my body, my mind was racing but I wasn't tasting anything. The risk had been as he had said -- and more. I had just come to orgasm inside a public restaurant with my husband's colleagues, while a sheikh was fingered me under the table. And I wanted more.
That evening Zeeshan arrived home early, having enjoyed a lunch meeting. I was swept into a hug and kissed my cheek, he said, "We closed the deal." It is a contract the Sheikh's son himself signed and the promotion is on the books.
My heart raced, and I smiled, as if Rashid was touching me, his touch lingering on my skin. "That's wonderful, darling."
"We should celebrate," Zeeshan said, with hands that were as familiar as they were eager to caress me in celebration.
He took me into the room where he took off my clothes with the same care that he always exhibited and he laid me down on the white sheets. He loved me gently, slowly, he talked to me about our children, our future, our life together.
Then, as he entered me, his face above mine, full of love and trust, I felt the horrible delight of the danger that I was taking. I was unfaithful to this good man in the simplest manner, endangering his job, his reputation, his heart, everything for some adrenalin of risk.
My name was already on his lips, and my body quivered to his touch while my mind embraced my own sin. The danger was my aphrodisiac. The danger was my drug. And I wasn't even halfway done!
There was no other way for the escalation to take place. As with all addictions, tolerance develops - what once made my heart feel like it was in a race with the wind, now became mundane, and I required more intensity of danger to get the same high. This I knew about myself, and Rashid knew about me. He was a lover of danger, a prince, a connoisseur of risk.
Two weeks later, he sent me a text to make my blood run cold and hot at the same time: "Burj Al Arab. Royal Suite. Tonight. 8 PM. Zeeshan has a dinner meeting. And tell him you're going to a friend. Wear the red dress. The one that makes you look like sin itself."
The Burj Al Arab. It is the most famous hotel in Dubai, recognisable from anywhere and a representation of excess and luxury in the shape of a sail. About being there with royalty, Zeeshan told me that one thing he was worried about this morning was that he was having a dinner meeting there that same night.
The danger was unutterable. It was suicidal. It was perfect.
I kissed Zeeshan goodbye at the door to our apartment, smoothing his collar, smelling his cologne, the safe familiar, scent of the man I am destroying. I said, "Good luck tonight, my voice steady, my hands trembling. "You'll do wonderfully." My love, thank you," he said kissing my forehead.
It took me more than an hour to prepare.
One red dress I had purchased secretly, never worn for Zeeshan - red crimson silk with a plunging neckline that ended just below the navel and was fastened with just a single piece of fabric. Beneath these I was nude, in nothing but a garter belt, and stockings, with the clasps rubbing against my thighs every motion, reminding me of my nakedness, my availability, my betrayal.
The Burj Al Arab was a golden sword that stood out against the night sky. Rashid had told me in a subsequent text to take a separate entrance, the staff entrance. There was a man in uniform who met me, whose eyes were deliberately neutral, who led me through the service corridors, past kitchens and laundry rooms, down a private elevator, and where I was required (with key card and fingerprint) to enter.
The Royal Suite was on the whole 25th floor. I walked out of the doors to enter a realm of gold and scarlet, marble and silk and opulence beyond our dreams.
Rashid remained by the window, clad in an amber-coloured thawb and holding a drinking cup in his hand. He didn't turn when I came in but I could see him in the glass, I could see the way he changed his posture, he was alert, he was predatory.
He ordered to lock the door. I did. The voice was last, final. "Come here."
I walked across the room, my heels sinking in carpet, so thick it was like walking on clouds. I approached him, and he turned his face to me, his eyes sweeping my face and down to the red silk and down to the skin that was on bare legs and down to the place where the dress was cut off and my legs were on display.
He didn't touch me, he murmured "Beautiful."
He asked, "Do you know where is your husband right now?"
My throat was dry; I shook my head.
Rashid: "He is three floors down in the Al Muntaha restaurant, drinking with my father's advisors and celebrating his future, his promotion thinking his faithful wife is at home."
Rashid came closer, his hand lifted, tracing the outline of the dress which wrapped around my breast. "His faithful wife, in red silk and nothing more, waiting to be fucked by the boss who's holding his job."
The words were meant to hurt, to stir my emotions, to remind me of the dynamics of power. I was not just putting my marriage at risk, I was putting Zeeshan's life, his dreams, and all he'd worked for at risk. Knowing that Rashid could kill me and us in a word... that he had that power over us, over me... he made my knees weak.
"Please," I whispered.
"Please what?" He took my chin into his hands and pushed my head up, his eyes boring into mine.
"Please fuck me" I gasped. "All the way. All the way, please."
He grinned, grimly, his dark face. That's right, tonight we're putting you to the test.
He took me to the bedroom; a cavernous room lined with gold and crimson with a six-person bed. But he didn't take me to the bed. He came to the window and pushed me against the cool glass, my front to the window and my back to him.
"Here," he said, his hands on my shoulders, his angular face turned to the view, "Look. See the restaurant." I looked. I could see the light of the Al Muntaha restaurant three floors down there, and the building's unique design, even from this vantage point. If I could see them, they could see us, if the lights were just, if they looked up, if they had binoculars.
Rashid whispered into my ear, "He's there," and his hands moved to the single clasp that was holding my dress together. It fell down and gathered over my heels, and I was wearing nothing but stockings and heels and my body was bare against the glass, exposed to the night, the city, to anyone who had the time to look up and see a woman nude in the Royal Suite.
I gasped, "Rashid," the cold glass pressing my nipples like ice and exposing me made me dizzy. "Someone might see."
"That's the point," he said his hands exploring my body, seizing every inch, and his fingers biting into my shoulder. "The risk. The possibility. Your body against the glass as your husband dips into his soup, his binoculars in hand, and his wife's breasts against the glass, another man's hands on her, and how much she loves it."
He was right. I did love it. But terror and arousal were the same; twin serpents coiled in my belly. My palms were against the glass, my back arched, I was open to the night, to him, to the possibility of discovery.
Rashid took a step back and was in awe of what he saw - me, naked, vulnerable, on display against the most famous skyline in the world. He stripped off his thawb, and showed his body, thin, muscled, with scars on it, from a hard and fast life. He was great, strong, awesome.
He moved to a chair, sitting there, his arousal was visible, his dick was thick and dark.
Rashid: "Think about Zeeshan, look at the restaurant, while you touch yourself, make yourself ready for me. He's down there, trusting you, loving you, while you stand naked in another man's suite, fingering yourself like a whore."