Archive of Our Own

Somewhere in the Drâa Valley, southeast of Marrakech, summer, 1968.

A partnership between U.N.C.L.E. enforcement agents is a rather singular experience. Some people, even among those who work for the organization, think that all agents have partners. This is a misconception, no doubt rooted in the fact that those enforcement agents that work alone often lose heart and retire early, or don’t survive to retire at all. Our boss, Alexander Waverly, preferred his agents to be free of any emotional ties, at least during the years we operated in the field. But even he recognized the need for a dependable backup, if not for companionship, and so he accepted the practice as a necessary evil.

 Now, I know there are others in law enforcement who also work similarly in long-established teams. Police, for example. I’ve spoken to a number of New York’s Finest who have told me how important their partners were and how they so completely relied upon one another.

But policemen have families, if not wives and children. They have neighborhoods. They have homes.

Although we shouldered the same duty to serve and protect as policemen, U.N.C.L.E. agents’ lives are actually more akin to those of war correspondents and globetrotting journalists. You never know where you’ll be next Tuesday, and an apartment is really just a place to store your luggage in-between trips.

Together, partners share great triumphs and great hardships, not to mention food, first aid, ammunition, sometimes clothing, and usually accommodations. You often end up in the same bed. Or the same tent. Or curled up on the same mountain ledge.

The world was our beat, and sometimes, the job took us to some fairly exotic neighborhoods. As it did that summer in 1968, when we spent a memorable night at the kasbah of a Moroccan warlord named Omar bin Saleh Saleem.

By that time, I had been partners with Napoleon Solo for nearly nine years, and I thought I knew everything about him, as he did about me. Nine years is a long time to live and work so close to someone, especially under such unusual conditions. An enforcement agent’s job is a combination of continuous training, bureaucratic paperwork, and mind-numbing travel, occasionally interrupted by an hour or two of the most intense and extreme stress that a human being might possibly endure. 

So, it’s not surprising that slowly, eventually, I learned to recognize all his signals, whether he consciously sent them or not. I knew from the way he drank his coffee in the morning how well his night had gone before.  I knew whether he’d slept or didn’t sleep; whether he’d slept soundly or had nightmares. I knew how he ate and what he ate, and what he would eat but didn’t necessarily prefer. I knew what made him laugh and what made him angry.  I could tell just by the subtle variations in the tone of his voice, whether he was happy or depressed, optimistic or worried, hungry or tired or ill. And he knew the same things about me.

Now, of course, it was vital to our survival that we had such a connection. There were often situations in which we did not have time to discuss alternatives or plan a mutual strategy, when we were forced to make a split second, do-or-die decision based on the exchange of a vague expression or gesture. Sometimes we simply relied upon our best intuitive guess. Under such circumstances, knowing what we knew about each other served us well and kept us alive.

Still, this was more information than any human being should reasonably have about another who is not his child or his spouse. For our own psychic comfort, there had to be a line over which we would not cross, and we drew that line around our personal relationships with others, particularly in the area of romance and sex.

Traveling all the time, one meets a great many people in this business, and by extension, a lot of them are women. Contrary to those spy movies you’ve probably seen and that popular Mr. Kiss-Kiss Bang-Bang image, one doesn’t necessarily sleep with all of them.  Not even Napoleon did.  Though he tried.

All right. The truth is, my partner did have a lot of sex, but he was unusual. Perhaps notorious would be a more accurate word. Women just seemed to come to him like flies to sugar. They came when he wasn’t even pursuing them. They came when his mind was otherwise engaged and he wasn’t even aware of their interest. They came. And came. And came. And over the years, apparently, so did he.

Was I bothered or disturbed or annoyed? Not usually. It was just the way things were. However, because we lived and worked in such close physical and emotional proximity, inevitably, there were awkward moments. A stolen kiss noticed here, a tryst going on over there. Upstairs. In the next room. Down the hall. On the other end of the communicator.

It was impossible to completely avoid walking in at the wrong time, and sometimes I did just that. Indeed, the first time I laid eyes on Napoleon, he was in bed with a female informant. In the beginning, I felt embarrassed and uncomfortable. Eventually, when it happened, I just quickly retreated or discreetly looked the other way and continued on about my business. And no, he never similarly stumbled upon me. Perhaps I was more careful. Or less lucky in love.

To his credit, despite his many, many liaisons, Napoleon was no braggart. We discussed sex in only the most general of terms. He never told me exactly what he did in all those beds with all those women, nor did I ask. Or even wonder.

All right. Maybe I wondered once or twice, but I never, ever broached the subject. It didn’t seem decent to do so. I don’t know how it was for mixed gender partnerships, like April Dancer and Mark Slate, or how it might have been if one or both of us had been homosexual. I only know that despite the fact we were practically wired together, tapped directly into each other’s nervous systems, we kept that part of our lives respectfully and strictly private.

That is, until that night in southeastern Morocco, in the kasbah of Omar bin Saleh Saleem, when the mental barricade we’d built so carefully between us, by necessity and for reasons that will become all too clear, had to be breached. It wasn’t for long, a mere seven or eight hours or so, but those hours profoundly affected my life for all the years to come.

It began innocently enough, as the more bizarre experiences in our professional lives so often did. Waverly had sent us to the northwest coast of Africa to investigate signs of Thrush activity. This was the late 60s, remember, and it had not been so long since the French had surrendered their vice-like grip on the region and retreated.  There’d been a bloodless coup in Algeria in ’65, and that country was still in some turmoil.  Morocco under King Hassan was a bit more stable, but an effort to install a parliamentary democracy had collapsed in ’63.  Both countries were dictatorships riddled with corruption in high places. Self-styled revolutionaries were rife. And the prize in all of this was the Western — once French-controlled — Sahara and all the oil beneath its sands. Corruption, incendiary politics, and the promise of great wealth and power: it was just the sort of situation that would attract the interest of Thrush, and of course, it did.

Napoleon and I had picked up leads in Marrakech and followed the trail, along roads prowled by thieves, and mountain passes almost too treacherous to cross, all the way south to the Drâa Valley. Situated between the Atlas Mountains and the Algerian border, it was one of the most isolated and dangerous places on the face of this planet.

It was a long, hard way from the capital city, Rabat, and the official arm of the government, such as it was, did not quite extend to here. What law there was, was determined by tribal chieftains, who lived with their rich and powerful clans in kasbahs, or fortified castles, surrounded by villages or ksour. Made of red mud brick taken from the local earth, these castles were massive and formidable and were built in such a way that they seemed to jut organically from the dusty slopes of the mountains themselves. Inside though, surprisingly, they were very comfortable and quite beautiful, with elaborately decorated walls and wooden-beam ceilings.

We’d come to talk to Saleem because he was the power in this particular valley and, while we were there, ended up foiling an assassination attempt on him by two of his subordinates. Saleem was not entirely convinced that the threat of Thrush was real — indeed, he doubted such a group existed— but he was enormously grateful to us for saving his life. And since he was not the sort of man who was accustomed to being in another’s debt, he was intent upon settling that debt and making it go away.

So, the night after the attempt was foiled, soon after the traitors were beheaded without too much fuss, he invited Napoleon and me to share with him an opulent feast. We saw more food at that meal than we’d seen in the entire previous week. It began with a really fine harira, the traditional Moroccan soup, simmering and flavorful with rice, parsley, chunks of lamb and dates. There were also bowls of vegetables — garlic eggplant, tomatoes cooked in honey, marinated carrots, lentils, onions — and piles of bread to scoop up the seasoned salads. The main course was a whole, slow-roasted lamb, so tender the meat just fell off the bone, accompanied by mounds of wonderful fluffy couscous. This was followed by pastilla, a rich pie made of the lightest pastry and stuffed with chicken, eggs, almonds and saffron and dusted with cinnamon. And even after all that, there was still the tangine, lamb with raisins and sweet onions cooked inside an earthen pot. After some seven courses, we finally ended with the traditional cornes de gazelle, honey soaked croissants stuffed with nuts and cinnamon.

All through the meal there’d been plenty of wine as well, although Saleem, as a good Muslim, did not himself imbibe. By the time the sugary mint tea and dark sweet coffee came around, Napoleon and I were feeling drowsy and satiated and somewhat off our guard. As a servant girl carefully poured my partner some coffee, he smiled at her and asked in French her name. Nervously, the girl shot a furtive look at Saleem, who repeated Napoleon’s question in the local dialect and motioned for her to answer.

“Sakeena,” she whispered.

“That’s very pretty,” Napoleon replied appreciatively, “as are you.”

“Do you think so?” Saleem asked good-naturedly. He was a big, coarse man, but not really a bad sort, if you could overlook the gunrunning, the opium smuggling, and the fact that he carried a pistol and a long, wicked knife strapped to his belt. He could speak French and some halting English, which he did now. “So: I give her to you. You may have her for the night.”

This caught us both by surprise. The girl was no more than fifteen, if she was that. On the other hand, we had no wish to offend our host. Everyone around Saleem was absolutely terrified of him and with good reason. He was extremely proud, with a bad temper, and we’d seen first-hand what could happen to those who crossed him. The severed heads in the courtyard were still fresh in our minds. To make matters worse, we’d been relieved of our Specials for reasons of “security.”

“Ah — ” My partner didn’t know what to say.

“Please: take her,” Saleem urged. “She is a slave. You have traveled far, and you are weary. She will bring you much pleasure.”

“I have no doubt she will, but  —” Napoleon hesitated, groping for a suitable way to decline the offer that wouldn’t get anyone killed “— it would be a shame to pick so lovely a fruit before its time.”

We didn’t know what his reaction would be, but Saleem let out a hearty laugh. “Oh, so you like your women ripe! That is good. Allah rewards he who is patient—.”

Napoleon smiled, suppressing any hint of relief. He cocked an eyebrow at me, and mouthed a silent whew.

“— and my orchard is very full.” With that, Saleem clapped his beefy hands and shouted out an order. Within seconds, two more young women appeared swathed in long caftans, their faces partially obscured by veils. Even under the robes, one could see they were taller and fuller-figured than the servant girl, that they were also attractive and even resembled one another. They bowed, jingling with hidden jewelry as they did so.

“Here. One for each of you.” He nodded in my direction.

“Oh, I couldn’t,” I blurted out before I could stop myself.

“What is it, fair one? You wish a boy instead?”

“No, no,” Solo said quickly, before there were any misunderstandings. I’d been too taken aback to answer. The situation was already rapidly slipping out of our control. “He likes girls. We both love girls.”

Satisfied, Saleem tried to be encouraging. “Don’t worry. They are very clean. No diseases. Do you wish to see?”

“Ah — no, no, that’s all right,” Napoleon said as the hems of the caftans began to rise. “We believe you.”

“But as you said,” I interjected, “we have come far, and we are both very tired.” I added an extravagant yawn for effect.

“All the more reason to take these two to bed. They are pleasure slaves. They will do what you tell them to do and give much comfort. If they do not, you may beat them.”

Obviously, Saleem was not going to take “no” for an answer. Napoleon swallowed down whatever arguments might have been going through his head and tipped his chin, adding simply, “Thank you. May, ah, Allah return your hospitality to you. You have been a more than generous host.”

Pleased with the compliment, Saleem smiled broadly and then shouted an order again, switching back to Arabic, and the two women in the kaftans hurried off. “They await you,” he said.

We both nodded, feigning gratitude. With dinner over, we rose from our places and retrieved our bush jackets, while Saleem instructed the serving girl, “Show them to their quarters.” Turning to us, he bowed and said, “Ila yhennik” : Allah grant you a good evening.

***

Did he say pleasure slaves?” I asked in English as the servant girl, with a lighted torch in hand, led us down the corridors. Every so often, tucked in corners and around passageways, we caught a glimpse of heavily armed guards. The kasbah was cool, even chilly. Though it was high summer, in this particular region the heat dissipated and the temperature dropped as soon as the sun went down.    

“He did indeed,” Napoleon confirmed, looking inscrutable. I couldn’t tell whether he was pleased at the prospect or not. I know I wasn’t.

“How do you get us into these situations?” I asked, exasperated.

 “Me? What did I do?”

 “You just had to compliment that girl.”

 Napoleon shrugged. “She was attractive, and she looked like she was having a bad day.”

 “She’s a slave, Napoleon. Every day’s a bad day.”

“That’s rather callous coming from a socialist like you,” he said, teasing. Obviously, he wasn’t taking the situation as seriously as I was. “I thought you’d have more sympathy for the working classes.”

“They aren’t workers. To him, they’re property.”

“Well, not to me. And I’m certainly not going to treat a girl like a stick of furniture.”

“It might have been better for us if you had,” I observed sullenly.

My partner shrugged again. “Sometimes, you have to roll with the punches.”

“Napoleon, I’m not taking advantage of some poor peasant girl he’s bought and turned into a sex slave.”

“So? I don’t intend to, either. What’s the big deal? We each take one of the girls to our room, tuck her into a couch or something, give her a fond kiss on the cheek, and everyone benefits from a good night’s sleep.” Just as he said this, we arrived at our quarters. The servant girl held her torch high and pointed to a door. It was then I realized we were going to be sharing a room. One room.

“There’d better be a couple of couches,” I said.

There weren’t. And there wasn’t a bed either. Instead, the floor was covered by several large carpets and filled with embroidered pillows of various shapes and sizes. In a recess set into one wall, a small fire burned. The only other light came from four oil lamps mounted on wrought iron stands and positioned strategically around the room. The spicy smell of incense permeated the air.

“I feel like I’m in the Playboy mansion,” I sighed.

Napoleon shook his head. “The mansion is more garish.”

I turned to look at him. “How do you know?”

“I was there once. On security detail.”

“When?”

He offered me the grin of a Cheshire cat. “When you were in Prague last spring.”

I rolled my eyes, but before I could say anything else, he pointed to the floor in front of him. “And the Playboy bunnies aren’t likely to do that.”

I turned back in the direction of his pointing finger and sucked in a breath. In the center of the room, the two young women we’d seen earlier were kneeling before us. Their kaftans and veils no longer in evidence, they were entirely naked except for several pounds of gold jewelry interspersed with more serious signs of their bonded state. In addition to a pair of large ornamental earrings, each wore several heavy necklaces, some studded with jewels, draped over their breasts and a series of solid golden bracelets on each wrist and ankle.  As I looked closer, I realized that some of the bracelets were actually locked cuffs and that each woman also wore a sort of chastity belt. That is, there was a solid looking t-chain with one strand that wrapped horizontally around the waist, while another dropped vertically from the belly down between the legs.

And that wasn’t all. Both women were pierced, with a tiny ring in each nipple and another larger ring decorating their smoothly plucked mounds, through which the t-chains were threaded. This last detail was visible because the women were arched before us, their heads back, their thighs spread impossibly wide, their hands cupped to push their breasts upward in offering and supplication. I must admit, both of the women were extremely beautiful and it made me ache just to look at them positioned that way. Their long black hair flowed down their backs and their skin glowed bronze in the haze of the burnished light.

“Oh my,” my partner murmured under his breath. Sometimes, Napoleon has a knack for understatement. 

“We have to get out of here,” I said.

Suddenly, the room’s wooden door slammed shut behind us with a definitive thump.

“Think it’s locked?” I asked after a moment.

“With all those guards out there, does it matter?”

No, it didn’t. Clearly, we were in for the night. Napoleon took a deep breath. “Well,” he said, “I don’t think I’m up on the etiquette of addressing, umm, pleasure slaves.”

“Don’t look at me,” I said and took a step backward, clearly leaving the honors to him. After all, he’d gotten us into this mess.

Napoleon hesitated and cleared his throat. “Ah — ladies? Could you come here for a moment?” Realizing they probably did not speak English, he repeated the request in French.

His words drew an instant reaction from one of the women, who motioned to her companion and hurriedly translated the request that, despite my partner’s hesitancy, they obviously took as a command. Chains tinkling like soft music, they scampered across the carpet and ended up kneeling forward in front of us, their backs bowed, their rounded posteriors high, their foreheads touching the floor.

Napoleon swept a hand through his hair and sighed. “This is going to be more difficult than I imagined.” He reached down and touched his fingertips to one of the women’s shoulders. “Ma cherie, s’il vous plait,” he said sticking with French. “Why don’t you just stand up so we can talk?” I tried to do the same to the one in front of me, but she seemed confused and more than a little afraid.

“Oh non, mon seigneur et maitre,” Napoleon’s charge responded. She spoke in a mix of guttural, unsophisticated French and broken English.  “No, no stand. Please, I beg you, just tell us what you desire.”

“Well, right now, I desire you to stand up,” Napoleon said shortly. He was trying to be gentle, but he was tired, and the late hour and strangeness of the situation was beginning to try his patience. At last, the woman relented. So she wouldn’t get away from him again, Napoleon held on to her wrists. Though his grip was tight, the tone of his words was more soothing.

“What’s your name?”

“Tamanni, mon seigneur et maitre.” She indicated her companion who was rising reluctantly in front of me. “And this is my sister, Tahir.”

I saw a twinkle appear in Napoleon’s eye, and I knew just what he was thinking. Sisters. To make love to sisters at the same time was every man’s fantasy. If it had been twins, it would have been perfect.

“How old are you?” he asked, coaxing her along.

“Eighteen. Tahir is one year older.”

He turned to me. “Well, at least they’re both past the age of consent.”

That changed nothing. “Whose consent — and for what?” I asked disgusted. It was like being in the middle of an x-rated movie. She was even calling Napoleon her lord and master. If the women hadn’t seemed in such deadly earnest, it might have been comic.

Napoleon frowned at me. “Need I remind you that we’ve patronized that whorehouse in Casablanca and you’ve never complained?”

“The prostitutes there aren’t slaves. They’re not trading sex for survival.”

“Oh no?” Napoleon said. “Have you ever talked to one there?”

Not at length, of course, but knowing Napoleon, he probably had, and learned the life story of everyone who worked there. And he was right: we’d just been to the place on a previous trip to Morocco, when three of the women there smeared him with honey and ruined his suit.

But that’s a tale for another time, and I digress.

He eyed me meaningfully, and I conceded the point. “But I still don’t want to have sex like this tonight. I mean, we’re in the same room.”

“I thought people in the Soviet Union were used to living cheek to jowl.”

Annoyed, I replied, “That’s why we have the decency to make love quickly, under blankets, and in the dark.”

“No wonder Russians drink so much vodka.”

I knew Arabic and even a few words of the local dialect, so I said to Tahir, who was watching me with expectant eyes, “Sorry, no, thank you. You can go.”

To which she burst into tears.

“Now look what you’ve done,” Napoleon scolded me. I didn’t know what to say. I thought the women would be happy to be released. Napoleon turned to Tamanni.

“Why is your sister crying?”

“Because ... you must allow us to please you. If we do not, great Saleem, Allah reward and protect him, will beat us very hard. Then he will send us back to our family. We are not virgins. We are worthless. No bride price. Our father will kill us.”

Napoleon and I listened with rising apprehension. “I don’t think she’s exaggerating,” he said switching to English to talk to me. I agreed. She sounded more frightened of her father than of us.

“Please,” Tamanni pleaded in French. Tahir echoed the word. It was one of the few French words she knew. Then she took my hand and kissed it.

That did it. It was a scenario tailor-made for my partner: he could sleep with two women and save their lives at the same time. His mind was immediately made up, but I still resisted.

“Couldn’t we just go to sleep and pretend we didn’t?” I asked. It seemed obvious.

Tamanni shook her head. She circled her fingertip toward the room. “The walls have eyes and ears.”

“Oh good grief,” I muttered as I searched the dark recesses of the ceiling and floor for telltale signs. Did the barbaric bastard actually get a surveillance camera and bugs from one of those arms merchants he traded with?

But Napoleon was unperturbed. “So he’s a control freak? So what? We knew that already. Don’t think about it.” He looked at Tamanni. “How do we do this?”

“First, we take your clothes. Then we wash you.” I noticed that her voice seemed bolder now somehow. Evidently, she’d come to realize that she was dealing with men who were quite different from her worst expectations. I was glad to see that at least some of her obsequiousness was a sham.

Napoleon smiled. “Okay. Sounds good to me,” he said, and he was right. We hadn’t had a bath or shower in days, and both of us needed a shave badly. When he finally released her wrist, Tamanni gave him a small key. He looked at it, perplexed.

“It probably unlocks their bonds,” I guessed, nudging him. There had to be some way of releasing that chain between their legs.

“Ohhhh,” Solo said, understanding. But as he reached for Tamanni’s wrist cuff, searching for the lock, she shrank back, alarmed. “Non. Not yet. Not until you are ready ... to open us ... to use us.”

“Are you sure?”

She was adamant and so was Tahir. “It is forbidden.”

“All right,” Napoleon said, “we don’t want to get you in trouble.” He looked at me for confirmation, and I merely shrugged in agreement. Then he dropped the key into his trousers pocket.

***

So we were going to do this after all. The two women took our hands and drew us back into the center of the room. With their spirits lifting, I noticed Tahir whispering to Tamanni and the latter hushing her in return. Napoleon noticed it too. We exchanged glances and said nothing.

This had been a long, hard trip, and we were dressed for rough country: khaki shirts and pants, bush jackets and boots. When Napoleon began to open his shirt, Tamanni stopped his hand.“Please, mon seigneur et maitre. I beg you. Be still.” She glanced at me. “Mon seigneur, you also.”

Obligingly, we both stood, our hands at our sides, as the women circled, inspecting how our clothes went together. Then carefully, methodically, they began to undress us, one garment at a time. And as they undid a button or eased away a sleeve, their hands glided along our bodies, touching, stroking, fondling, caressing. I felt Tahir’s jeweled breasts brush against my back, my ribs, my chest. It was like a slow strip tease with a light sensual massage thrown in for good measure, and it was quite wonderful.

Beside us, Napoleon was receiving exactly the same treatment from Tamanni, so I turned slightly to give them privacy. Frankly, I didn’t want to watch my partner becoming aroused. More to the point, I didn’t want him watching me.

But Napoleon always has the need to talk, and predictably, as Tamanni undressed him, he struck up a conversation.

“Who else have you done this for?” he asked softly.

“Other men, other guests of the great Saleem, may Allah reward and protect him.”

Gunrunners, I thought, and opium traders and God knew what else.

“How long has Saleem owned you?”

“Four years.”

A long time to be servicing the scum of the earth. I knew Napoleon was thinking the same thing.

“Will there be an end?”

“Only when we grow old and too ugly to please,” she said, trying to disguise the sadness in her voice.

“But I heard your sister say something about a contract, an agreement,” I ventured, speaking up. Tahir was in front of me, unbuckling my belt. The women exchanged glances as they did before. This time, Napoleon would not let it slide by.

“What is it?” he demanded. As Tamanni unzipped his fly, he grasped her hands again to stall her. She hesitated, not wanting to tell him. But Tahir, who was smaller and more slender and though older, usually the retiring one, cocked her chin, urging her sister to explain. Finally, Tamanni said, “If a man enjoys great pleasure with us but denies the release of his seed —” She didn’t know quite how to say it. Napoleon supplied the words.

“He gets excited but he doesn’t come.”

Tamanni nodded. “— delaying until the cock crows, great Saleem, may Allah protect him, will give us fifty pieces of silver and set us free.”

“Each?” I asked, arching an eyebrow. Tamanni nodded again. I looked at Napoleon. “A sort of escape clause. But why would he allow for such a thing?”

“Because it is not possible,” she replied. Before she could stop it, a tear escaped from the corner of her eye and ran down her cheek.

“Or just not likely,” Napoleon said. He paused. “Until now.”

I’d guessed that was coming. My partner could never resist a challenge.

“You would do this? For us? Why?” Tamanni asked, her eyes growing wide. Napoleon reached for her cheek and brushed the moisture away with his thumb.

“Because that’s what we do ... rescue people.”

I almost gagged at that one, but Tahir was staring at me so hopefully, I merely nodded when Tamanni translated for her.

“We will give you much, much pleasure in return,” Tamanni promised. Napoleon chuckled.

“Ah — that may be a little counter-productive, actually.” He looked my way. “So? Are you game?”

I checked my watch. It was a little before nine p.m., local time. I estimated we wouldn’t hear a cockcrow until at least after four a.m. “I’ll try,” I said, but to Tahir, not to him. In response, she threw her arms around me and kissed me full on the lips.

“Trying won’t be good enough,” he said.

My trousers were unzipped and the fly undone, and I could feel Tahir’s soft belly pressed against my crotch. Indeed, don’t I know it! I thought.

****

So now the night truly began in earnest. The women were clearly delighted with our offer — maybe overwhelmed might be a better word — and they were determined to pull out all the stops and make it worth our while. Which, as Napoleon so sagely pointed out, wasn’t necessarily going to make it easy for us.

As she brought down my trousers and lowered my underwear, I felt Tahir’s fingers wrap around my erection to fondle it. Her lips came next, and then her tongue, and then her mouth, and I closed my eyes and groaned aloud.

“Easy boy,” I heard Napoleon chuckle. “You’d better de-center.”

“What does that mean?” I said in English, reserving French for the women.

“Stop thinking about your dick.”

“Oh, and you’re not thinking about yours?” I couldn’t imagine he had anything else on his mind. At that moment, Tamanni was burrowed into his crotch, her arms locked around the tops of his thighs. Tahir’s technique was less aggressive and far more gentle than her sister’s, a fact for which I was deeply grateful.

But even Tahir’s delicate ministrations eventually got to be too much, and soon I had to ease her back and coax her to continue with my undressing.  I dropped back into a pile of pillows, not far from Napoleon, and allowed Tahir to pull off my boots and relieve me of the rest of my clothes.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” I sighed aloud, watching the delicious dance of gold chains and female flesh before me. But Napoleon didn’t seem to hear me.

“Hey,” he said. “You have to see this. Come over here.”

I couldn’t imagine what he wanted to show me. “Bozhe moy, do we have to make this into an orgy?”

The notion didn’t seem to bother him. “Bring her over too.”

I really didn’t want to. I would have preferred if we each could have taken one lovely companion and retreated into our own corner, but I’m nothing if not practical. If there’s a strategy or weapon that might help me complete a mission, I won’t pass it up. So, Tahir and I inched up beside them, as close as I was comfortable with. Napoleon was on his back with Tamanni kneeling beside him. I tried not to notice that he was as aroused as I was.

“You want to know how to stop it cold?” He didn’t wait for my answer. “Tamanni, show him your little trick.”

As I watched, Tamanni began to fondle my partner, stimulating him.

“Napoleon, please — I really don’t want to see this.”

“Shhh...Shut up,” he said closing his eyes. “Just watch.”

As I did, Tamanni brought up her right hand and positioned three fingers— her index, her middle finger, and her thumb — around the top of his shaft, just under the head. She looked like she was gripping a shot glass. Meanwhile, her other hand continued to stroke, encouraging his erection to grow almost impossibly hard.

Uh-oh, I thought. So much for rescuing damsels in distress. I don’t care how much determination he has. If she keeps this up, it’s going to be a short night.

But then suddenly, her fingers snapped like a trap and she gave him a sharp, hard squeeze. Napoleon let out a soft groan, but he didn’t look like he was in pain.

“Do you see?” he asked brightly, as if he’d just solved the last clue to the New York Times crossword puzzle, and, despite my reluctance, I did. The sudden squeeze at just the right time, at just the right spot, was enough to short circuit the nerves and pinch off the plumbing. His erection receded.

“Isn’t that painful?” I asked.

“Not really. It’s just a little uncomfortable.” He looked at Tamanni with newfound respect. “Where did you learn that?”

“Here.” She chewed her lip. “Saleem, may Allah protect him, he is ... too quick.”

That prompted a laugh from Napoleon. “Oh, really?” The image of the formidable chieftain being troubled by premature ejaculation was an irony too good to be true, and I laughed too, in spite of myself.

“Did you ever try that with any other guests?” Napoleon asked.

“One. He did not like it. He beat me with his belt.”

“Well, there’s no chance of that here tonight.”

“Oh, but you must beat us if we displease you,” Tamanni added innocently. “It is customary.”

Napoleon threw his arm around her and drew her to him. “There’s no chance of that either.”

“I guess we’re going to have to endure a lot of squeezing like that all night,” I said. I looked at Tahir. She seemed to have learned as much as I did from the demonstration.

“There may be another solution. Maybe it’s time to improvise.” As Napoleon spoke, he was inspecting Tamanni’s bracelets looking for one that might open and was the right size. When he found it, he popped it from her wrist, reached down between his thighs, and snapped it on at the base of his privates.

“Oh, now that looks painful,” I said, but Napoleon only shrugged.

“Oldest trick in the book. Why do you think they invented cock rings in the first place?”

To tell the truth, I hadn’t ever considered the matter. There’d never been a need. “I think I’ll pass on that one,” I said. He shrugged, a suit-yourself gesture.

“And now, if you’re finished with the Sex 101 lecture, if you don’t mind, we’ll move over there.” I took Tahir and retreated to our own nest of pillows some distance away. Napoleon watched us for a moment, amused. Then he turned his full attention to Tamanni and left me, at least for the moment, to my own devices.

As I relaxed and settled back, Tahir retrieved a clay basin of water and a piece of soft, clean cloth.

“I wash you?” she asked in French, and I nodded. The water felt cool at first, but feeling the leisurely stroke of her hands and the intermittent rub of her naked body against mine, I warmed up soon enough. She began with my face and my extremities and then worked her way steadily inward, and though she wasn’t washing anything that was particularly private — at least not yet — the act had an intensity to it, an intimacy that conjured up childhood and made one feel vulnerable. It wasn’t uncomfortable —indeed it was soothing — but it was definitely odd.

When Tahir was somewhere around my ribs, on a whim, I craned my head back, and stole a peek at Napoleon. He, too, was on his back and Tamanni was cat-washing him as well. And as she maneuvered around and over him, I watched him lay himself open to her in a way that would never have occurred to me. His defenses, both physical and emotional, were completely down, or at least they appeared to be. It was reminiscent of the way a dog will roll on its back and expose its belly to you. When Tamanni motioned for Napoleon to turn on his stomach, he did, bringing up his legs, raising his rear, offering her whatever part of his body she asked for. I had never seen him that way, that vulnerable, even under interrogation, and it was deeply disquieting. I felt more like a voyeur than I had at any time previously that night, and I had to look away.

Soon, Tahir was invading my own intimate spaces, and I allowed it to some degree, but not the way I’d seen Napoleon do it. I couldn’t; it just wasn’t in me. And that’s the difference between us, I thought as Tahir finished with my erection cradled between her long, graceful hands. And that’s why they all want to go to bed with him. He gives them more than orgasms; he gives them himself in a way few men can or do. Where does such a thing come from? Is it innate? Could it be learned, as we learned not to duck or flinch when they shot live ammunition at us in Survival School? I didn’t know, and I was never to ask him. I was too embarrassed. But the image stayed in my head and I resolved that, if I ever fell in love again, truly fell in love, I would try very hard, at least in bed, to open myself up in the same way.

  “Now I’ll wash you,” I heard Napoleon tell Tamanni, but once more, she demurred. “You cannot serve me. I wash myself.” And because he must have been disappointed, I heard her add, “While you watch.”

Tahir seemed to like the idea as well, and when she looked to me for permission, I motioned to her to start. This, as it turned out, was even worse torture than having her hands on me. While her caresses had been soothing, watching drops of water dribble along every curve and pink crevice of her slender form was enough to make me ache with need. More than once the temptation to relieve it was almost too great, and something even more tantalizing was still to come. When she finished, she leaned into me, her skin cool and moist while mine was fairly on fire, and whispered “I kiss you.” I might not have agreed so easily if I’d realized that she meant to mouth every part of my body from head to toe. The only conciliation was hearing the sounds from the other end of the room and knowing that Tamanni was following Tahir’s lead but adding quite a few flourishes of her own. It’s a wonder that Napoleon didn’t get a heart attack right then and there.

***

By the time Tahir was through, it was after midnight and, enjoyable or not, I was desperate for a break. “Wine? Is there any wine?” I asked in Arabic, and the word was the same in her own dialect, so she understood. I pivoted on my elbow and saw that Napoleon was also taking a much-needed time out. Tamanni was off to the corner, helping Tahir with a large pitcher, and my partner was lying on his back with his eyes closed. Modesty had long since gone out the window. I got up and tugged over a large cushion to sprawl next to him.

“I’m just dozing,” he said when he heard me draw close.

“Really? I thought you were dead.” That earned a snuffled laugh. He dragged himself into a sitting position and drew up a knee, but not before I noted a glint of gold between his thighs that told me he was still wearing the ring bracelet. Sometimes fortitude and masochism are hard to tell apart.

The women returned with the pitcher and poured us two cups. The wine was a local red, spicy but not too sweet, and I drained the cup and asked for more.

“You’re going to get drunk,” Solo warned.

“I’m counting on it. Maybe it will take the edge off.” We still had at least four hours to go before dawn.

“On second thought, that’s not a bad idea,” Napoleon agreed. As Tamanni refilled his cup, he asked, “When Saleem releases you, will you go back to the village?”

I noticed he said “when” not “if.” Since we’d come this far, failure was no longer an option.

“Not to this village,” Tamanni said, kneeling back on her haunches. “Our village is south, another half day.”

“Then how did you get here?” I asked, curious myself. I repeated the question in Arabic, for the sake of Tahir, who was leaning against me.

“There is war. Saleem wins. Our father is a leader. He must be ransomed.”

“And so he sold his two daughters into bondage,” I observed sourly. “How charming.”

“Or maybe Saleem demanded it,” Napoleon said, considering. “What better way to screw your enemy than to screw his virgin daughters?”

I shook my head. “Barbaric. That’s why I prefer to live in the West.”

Tentatively, Tamanni asked, “What is America like?”

“Well, there are no slaves,” Napoleon said. “Everyone is free. It’s the law.”

“Women too?”

“Women too. They can marry or not marry; earn money and keep the money they earn; vote, even become leaders. They determine their own lives.”

“That must be formidable,” Tamanni replied. She said it so sadly, so wistfully, that I was relieved when Napoleon changed the subject. He stretched out a finger and dragged it down the vertical chain that ran from her waist, past her belly, and disappeared between her thighs.

“Do you wear this all the time?”

Tamanni nodded. “Except for a little time each morning. Also, when it is unlocked to use me.”

“Does it hurt?”

She shook her head no, but an odd, almost guilty expression crossed her face. Napoleon’s finger continued its journey downward, and obediently, Tamanni spread her legs wider so he could touch her more intimately. He plucked at the chain and noted Tamanni’s reaction as the links pressed against her.

“I’ll bet sometimes it even feels good,” he guessed slyly. A deep blush spread across her cheeks in response. “Good women do not feel such things,” she replied, lowering her eyes.

“Mmmmm.... but sometimes you do, don’t you?” All during the conversation, we’d been sipping the wine, and it must have been fairly high proof because I was starting to get a buzz.

“Does it ever make you climax?” Napoleon asked, studying the way the golden links rubbed against her bare, rosy flesh.

To this question, Tamanni had no response and instead, appeared puzzled.

“Climax? You know, do you come?” He repeated the word and several variations, both polite and vulgar, in English, French and Arabic. She still didn’t understand.

“It is not possible,” she said finally, in confusion. “Only men have seed.”

“Well, yeah, but —”

And then it began to dawn on him. He arched an eyebrow. “Don’t you ever touch yourself? Down there, I mean?”

Tamanni pulled back, scandalized. “It is forbidden.” She looked to Tahir and translated.

“Napoleon, let it go,” I said, noting Tahir’s rising apprehensiveness. But my partner, who was feeling the effects of the wine too, wouldn’t give up. Like a dog worrying a bone, he pursued the line of questioning.

“Haven’t any men ever given you pleasure?”

“Sometimes,” she admitted, hesitating, “when they use me, it feels good.”

“Really good?” 

She looked at her sister, genuinely at a loss. Tahir stared back, wide-eyed.

“Hasn’t any man ever kissed you there?” Napoleon continued. “Kissed you very hard?” He tapped the bottom of the chain. “Pressed his mouth there, or touched it with his tongue?”

Tamanni looked at him blankly, as if the very idea were unthinkable. Tahir said something and Tamanni nodded and translated, grateful for an answer: “Women are unclean.”

“Oh brother,” Napoleon said, “I don’t believe this. No one’s ever told them.”

“Some cultures fear the female orgasm,” I observed calmly. I didn’t add that there were tribal peoples elsewhere on the continent that performed clitorectomies on their daughters when they reached puberty. At least these women hadn’t been similarly mutilated, just kept ignorant.

“Now, that’s real slavery,” Napoleon said irritably. To Tamanni he said, “I can see I’m going to have to teach you how this is supposed to work.” He stood up, searching the shadows of the room. “Where’re my pants?”

As he stalked across the carpet, Tamanni misinterpreted his anger. “I have displeased you,” she said plaintively. If he hadn’t been a little hazy with wine, her words might have registered.

I felt Tahir squeeze my hand, her face growing pale with alarm. “No,” she said to me in Arabic, pleading with me to do something, to intervene. But of course, there was nothing to stop really. I knew he was retrieving the key.

“Don’t worry,” I whispered back to her. “It’ll be all right. You’ll see.” She narrowed her eyes.

“Napoleon, maybe you should forget this —” I said.

But I knew he wouldn’t. Earlier, he’d been emotionally open with Tamanni. Now, she was going to experience the other side of the coin. Napoleon can be enormously stubborn and determined when he perceives what he considers an injustice. The fact that these women had been servicing hard men for four years with not a moment of pleasure for themselves appalled him. It didn’t help that he was also a little drunk.

He returned with his trousers in hand, the belt still in the loops. At first, Tamanni thought he was going to use the belt on her. But when she saw him dig into the pocket and produce the key, she further misinterpreted his intent.

“No,” I heard her sob. “Do as you promise, I beg you, mon seigneur et maitre. Please, no key! Leave the chain in place. Beat me instead.”

And with that, she crouched, assuming a supplicant position, head down, arms outstretched and hands flat on the carpet, offering him her back and bottom.

This whole misunderstanding happened more quickly than it sounds in the telling. Napoleon’s eyebrows rose, and he looked over to me for an explanation.

“She thinks you’re angry with her and you’re not going to wait until dawn,” I told him in English. I have to admit, watching Napoleon get himself in and out of a jam like this has always amused me. Beside me, however, Tahir sat rigid, clutching my hand.

“Oh, Christ,” he sighed. Still holding the key, he tossed away his trousers. Then he looked down at Tamanni’s naked, quivering body and had an idea.

Again, I tried to draw Tahir away to the other side of the room, but she wouldn’t budge. The loyalty between the two sisters was truly admirable. No doubt, it had contributed to their survival under these harsh conditions.

As we watched, Napoleon knelt down behind Tamanni and laid a hand at the base of her spine where the chains were locked together. She trembled under his touch.

“Higher,” he said, and she considered it a command and arched her back so her bottom was raised higher.

“Wider,” he said, and she spread her legs as wide apart as she could.

“Now she really thinks you’re going to hit her,” I commented casually. He just chuckled and said, “Furthest thing from my mind.”

As he inserted the key, the lock opened, and the vertical chain dropped free, the end trailing along the carpet. Tamanni’s body hitched, but before she could even let out a sob, Napoleon pressed his mouth to her bottom while he reached between her legs to pet the pink nether lips that were now gorgeously exposed.

Tamanni’s response was immediate and intense. “What are you doing?” she cried. She started to wriggle away, but Napoleon steadied her with one hand while he continued to stroke her gently with the other, his index finger slipping through the ring she wore there.

“Shhhh.... I’m the master remember? Now it’s your turn to be still. Hands flat on the carpet.”

“But I must touch you —”

“No. I will touch you,” he replied, injecting a hint of firmness into his voice. “It gives me pleasure to do this, and that is your purpose. So, stay right where you are. Don’t move until I tell you to.”

She had no choice and so, perhaps for the first time in her life, she found herself accepting pleasure instead of giving it. At first I thought he was being unnecessarily cruel, forcing her to hold such a vulnerable position, but then I realized she would not have allowed herself to accept his caresses if he’d done it more simply and kindly. He was weaning her from one image of herself to another, and she was bound to resist, so in some sense, she almost had to be tricked into making the transition.

He stroked her for quite a long time, allowing her to become accustomed to his touch. I glanced at Tahir and she continued to watch, riveted, as if she were holding her breath to see what would come next.

Slowly, Tamanni relaxed into the rhythm as Napoleon’s fingers steadily, methodically, fondled her, and she began to mew deep in her throat.

“That’s right,” Napoleon said. “Easy now.”When she seemed comfortable with the sensation, he reached down and drew her up into a kneeling position. He was still behind her, and he leaned close to her ear and murmured, “Now, when I touch you, you will guide my hand.” He held out his right hand in front of her so she could see it and splayed his fingers. “Cover my hand with your own,” he instructed her and she did, her slender fingers mirroring his larger ones. Then, wrapping his left arm across her breasts, he pressed his right hand between her thighs with her own hand still covering his. Again slowly, he stroked and rubbed, petted and kneaded, varying the pressure, position, and intensity, searching for the right blend.

“Do you do that with all your bedmates?” I asked dryly. Though I wouldn’t admit it, I had to admire the technique. It was certainly better than the awkward, hit-or-miss groping that usually accompanies a first time in bed together.

“No, not usually, but it can be useful if she’s unsure of her own responses and if she trusts me. A woman can always show you what she likes better than you can guess. Saves a lot of time and fumbling around.” He nuzzled Tamanni’s neck, and her head lolled to one side, awash in the sensuality of the act.

“Every woman is different,” he went on in English, his voice soft and soothing. He was speaking to me, but the tone was for Tamanni, who didn’t know what he was saying and frankly, at the moment, didn’t seem to care. “Some respond to a firm, on-target touch. Some prefer it indirect. Some need it strong and intense. Some can’t tolerate too much pressure. Some women require a lot of creativity and attention, and then there are the ones who spark so quickly, all you need to do is hang on and enjoy the ride.”

Suddenly, Tamanni groaned as she forced his fingers deep and kept them there, circling a particular spot.

“Ah, there it is.” He whispered close to her ear again, “C’est bon?”

She nodded and bit her lip. Her eyes rolled back and closed, and he allowed her to set the pace, moving with her rhythm.

“They’re a wonder,” he continued, shaking his head, “put together as delicate and as complicated as clockwork. And Nature gave us the jeweler’s tools. Unfortunately, the way a lot of guys have sex, it’s like smashing a hammer into a Swiss watch.”

Tahir was now sitting between my legs, tucked against my body. I felt her cover my hand with her own and guide it between her own thighs. The t-chain was still there, but I soon found the ring and the soft flesh hidden behind it and gently stroked where I could. She was moist under my touch and grew even slicker as she watched her sister respond. With my free hand, I reached up and cupped her breasts, caressing the curves, fingering the rings that pierced the nipples. She made a small sound that I took for encouragement.

After a minute or two, Napoleon again leaned close to Tamanni’s ear and murmured, “I’m going to kiss you.” In response, she twisted a little, craned back her neck, allowing him to give her a deep, open mouth kiss that was almost obscene in its luxuriousness. When it was ended, he said, “Now, I am going to kiss you all over your body, as you did to me.”

She blinked as the meaning of his words began to seep into the erotic haze in her brain. “Noooo...”

“Oh yes. I’m going to kiss you everywhere —”

“ Mais non...”

“— everywhere, until you come.”

A little startled, she tried to squirm away, but with one arm locked around her breasts, his other hand still buried in her crotch, Napoleon had her trapped in an imprisoning embrace. His hand kept moving, massaging her; he never broke rhythm.

“It is not possible.”

“You’re wrong,” he said, smiling, “They lied to you. It is.”

The expression on her face said Tamanni was both horrified but also very intrigued. “But I must please you,” she protested though her opposition was definitely weakening.

“This does please me.”

As I watched him caress her, soothe her, listened to him coaxing her, as strange as this sounds, I was reminded of a ranch hand, a Native American, I met once when we worked in Oklahoma. They called him a “horse whisperer” and when I saw the way he introduced a skittish filly to the bridle, I understood the meaning of the term. In a way, Napoleon was doing the same thing here.

As he slowly drew his hand up, over her belly, Tamanni hitched a breath. “But I must serve you, or Saleem is angry.”

My partner seemed to have anticipated this, and, grasping both her small wrists in his fist, he reached down and found the tail of the unlocked chain. He threaded the chain, still attached to the one around her waist, through two of her bracelets, and knotted it, effectively immobilizing both her hands.

“See? Now Saleem can’t possibly object. You are still a slave; I’m still the master. You must submit; you have no choice.”

They exchanged conspiratorial smiles and she relaxed. What was happening was quite literally out of her hands now.

“All right?” he asked.  

“Oui.” The word escaped as breath through her teeth.

“Good. Then lie back.”

I knew what was coming, and again, this was far more intimacy then I could comfortably witness. I tried to move away, drawing Tahir with me. Obediently, she followed, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the sight of a man making love to her sister. Perhaps, from the sight of two people making love at all.

For despite the chains and the rings and the whole situation, that’s exactly what Napoleon was now proceeding to do. Still in my arms, Tahir turned from me and just stared, mesmerized by the image.

I must confess here that I shared her guilty fascination. Outside of the movies and an occasional fleeting glimpse at a house of prostitution, I’d never actually watched two people make love. And after all, this was my partner, Napoleon Solo, whose reputation I’d had to live with for so many years. I admit I was awfully curious. I’d learned quite a lot that night about patience and endurance already, and perhaps I thought I could learn more. I felt torn between my sense of what was simple common decency, and a prurient voyeurism that I suppose all human beings share. I am ashamed to tell you, the latter won out.

“Over half of all women can’t come with intercourse alone, did you know that?” Napoleon said, addressing me in English to let me know, not so subtly, that he was aware of my attention.

I didn’t know that, but I wasn’t surprised.

“I’m betting she’s one of them,” he said as he began to cover Tamanni’s neck with extravagant kisses. She was on her back now, her hands still helplessly joined just above her belly, but the rest of her writhed to allow him access to press his lips against her.

“Without the proper preparation, some of them don’t come at all. You know they can fake it, don’t you?”

I hadn’t really tried too hard to think about it, but yes, I suspected as much. There’d been a few occasions when it might have occurred. Not many, but a few.

“This is the only way I know to guarantee that doesn’t happen,” he said again as he traveled Tamanni’s body with his mouth. “I never met a woman who didn’t respond to oral stimulation.”

“Maybe they faked it,” I cracked, to which Napoleon just quirked a confident smile that said: Not a chance in hell. Then he spread Tamanni’s thighs apart and dipped his head between them, and the reason for that confidence became all too clear. Tamanni cried out and arched her back, bucking off the carpet at least a good six inches. Absorbed and occupied, he didn’t bother to talk to me again, and really, after that, what else was there to say?

For her part, Tahir was certainly impressed. I retreated, finally, to the other nest of pillows, and soon, Tahir joined me, just as her sister, somewhere behind us, let out a soft scream that trailed off into a long, thin, keening sigh. Tahir pressed the key into the palm of my hand. And then, finding some of the few Arabic words she knew, she looked into my eyes and said, “Please. Kiss me. The same.”

***

So, I did just as she requested; of course I did. I wasn’t naive. I’d been with enough women. I knew in general what they liked, though to be perfectly honest, I doubt I could match Napoleon’s technique. I couldn’t remember any woman ever levitating off the bed for me.

Still, Tahir seemed pleased and excited, and I kissed and licked and mouthed her in earnest. Though her responses did not quite match the intensity of her sister’s, she vibrated with the same yearning, the same longing, the same need. Tenderness was a novelty to these women. They’d experienced sex — too much, if the truth be told— but not intimacy.

So, it was no wonder that Tamanni, and Tahir in her own way, had responded to my partner so readily. For what Napoleon offered, what he always offered, was intimacy. Sometimes, it was merely the promise, and whether or not it was mostly an illusion was difficult to say. But when he did it, the people he did it to acted as if they could actually feel a palpable connection.

I’d seen it dozens, maybe hundreds, of times in our long career together. And it wasn’t just with women. While he talked with women, he listened to men. Enforcement agents would come back from tough missions, missions gone wrong in some horrible way, and he would take them to Vic’s, buy them a beer, and they would cry their guts out, confiding in him terrible secrets they wouldn’t dare tell the Old Man. It made him an effective Chief of Enforcement, as I’m sure Waverly was all too aware.

But through this intimacy, real or imagined, short-term or long, he seduced people. That’s what spies are supposed to do, of course, but for Napoleon, seduction wasn’t just a part of him. Like his love affair with risk, it defined his very core. He seduced everyone instinctively. Sometimes it was deliberate, but mostly he didn’t even think about it. He seduced our colleagues at Headquarters. He seduced the innocents we met, convincing them to risk their lives and help us on our missions. He seduced our enemies when he could. In retrospect, I suppose, in a sense, he even seduced me. I came to realize that the fact that we were so closely connected, that I could intuit him so well and vice versa, was no happenstance. He’d made himself accessible, and in the process, seduced me to return the favor.

And tonight, of course, he’d seduced Tamanni into discovering pleasure in a way she’d never even imagined. I couldn’t offer Tahir that. I was too reserved, too wary of breeching personal defenses, including my own. But I could offer care and warmth and, yes, even a bit of intimacy, however fleeting. Apparently, it was enough. When I suckled her, tugging on her nether lips, circling her smooth mound, and then stabbing her with my tongue, she climaxed, sweet and strong, groaning with deep satisfaction and a very touching hint of happy delight.

When finally I crawled next to her, she smiled and silently outlined my lips with her fingertips. Self-consciously, I returned her smile. I hoped she wouldn’t try to thank me, and she didn’t. Instead, she motioned to my crotch. Yes, giving her pleasure had intensified my own and now I was painfully hard, with no relief in sight. I shrugged and lay back. There was nothing to be done for at least another two hours. But Tahir took pity on me, and as I closed my eyes, she reached out and squeezed the tip of my erection as her sister had demonstrated earlier. The sudden nip caught me by surprise, and I swallowed a yelp. But once more, it’d done the trick, and I felt the ache in my groin ebb like the tide. Pleased, Tahir snapped off one of her bracelets and showed it to me. “Yes?” she asked in the local dialect. I still didn’t care for the idea, but I surrendered and spread my legs, allowing her to place it on me. The gold felt cool, the metal snug, but the pressure was not entirely unpleasant. It would have to suffice.

Tahir patted me, satisfied, and then reached down for the t-chain, brought it up and relocked it between her thighs. At first, I was confused, but then I understood the gesture. If I was forced to delay release, then she would, too. She said four words in the local dialect, and it took a second or two for me to translate: “Next time, with you.”

***

The night was far from over for any of us, though the room grew quieter as conversation died away. Tahir brought me more wine, and lying there, I wanted very much to talk with her. But she only knew about two-dozen words in French and most of them were vulgar, and I still couldn’t quite get the hang of the local dialect. I tried, but my pronunciation was off, and everything came out just a little bit wrong. Though she found my attempts enormously amusing, soon it was obvious that we were unprepared for an extended chat.

That was sad, too, because Tahir seemed such a good and gentle soul. Her name, which means pure and modest in Arabic, suited her very well. So, we settled for silent comfort, running our hands along each other’s body, enjoying the sensuous freedom of doing so. I fingered her jewelry and examined the many rings and bracelets, both decorative and confining. I was never interested in bondage or anything like that — I’ve had too many bad experiences with real sadists, thank you very much — but I have to admit there was something highly erotic about the image of the naked female form covered with gold chains. It made me want to sweep all the gold aside and kiss the sweet body underneath, and that’s exactly what I did. Apparently, Tahir felt the male form might benefit from some adornment too, because she took off one of her necklaces and playfully spread it across my chest.

“Beau,” she said pointing to me. I shook my head. No; perhaps once, I wanted to tell her, but years of wear and tear had left me bruised and scarred. She didn’t seem to mind. No doubt she’d seen even worse on some of the lowlifes who’d passed through this kasbah.

She pointed to my hair and said, “Très beau.” This made me laugh. Women from southern climes are always fascinated by the color of my hair and the paleness of my skin, even when I have a tan.  Sophie, Sulador’s daughter, had been similarly obsessed though not half as kind.

Toying with the necklace, Tahir dragged it along my stomach. When my erection began to revive, she swirled the necklace around it, loosely wrapping it like a candy cane. “Très, très beau,” she said, and that made me laugh again. I knew what she was feeling because I wanted to have intercourse badly, too. If only we’d met under different circumstances, it might have been nice to eat a quiet dinner together, and afterward, take a walk along a quiet boulevard or ride in a boat down a canal. She bent down and began to leave a line of kisses along the shaft, and though it was arousing, it also made me wistful and sad. I didn’t wish to be serviced; I yearned to free her from her bonds and really make love to her as an equal.

Tahir noticed my mood, so I lied and told her I was just tired. Always looking for an opportunity to please, she pantomimed that she would give me a massage. She seemed eager to do it, so I turned over on my stomach. She produced a little pot of oil — from where I don’t know — and got to work on my muscles.

Burying my chin into my forearms, I squinted through the dimness and peeked across the room. Napoleon was still making love to Tamanni. Since experiencing that first climax, she’d been absolutely insatiable, like a child who is introduced to ice cream and now must sample every flavor. He certainly had his hands full, and she was lucky it was he and not I, because he showed her far more patience than I might have.

I know I shouldn’t have watched them again, but I’d done so for most of the evening, and if there was any harm in it, the damage was already done. If he was aware of my interest, he didn’t care. Napoleon can perform anywhere, under any conditions. He can even make someone as perverse as Angelique happy. But he has a heart even more romantic than my own, and I wondered how he was managing to think past the tyranny, the inherent ugliness, that framed the situation. Clearly, he was, even turning the power imbalance to his advantage. I watched him guide Tamanni into positions I’d seen only as illustrations in Japanese pillow books. Saw him tease her until she mewed and clawed at him, desperate for satisfaction. But I also saw him cradle her tenderly, pieta-like, in his arms, as one of several climaxes spun out. And when she was satiated, I saw him wrap himself around her as if he had no spine.

She was inflamed but comforted as well, and over and over again I would hear her rasp, “Encore,” or cry out, “Ça fait du bien.” And though Tamanni still wore her chains — indeed, she was too afraid of Saleem to allow Napoleon to completely liberate her — ironically, he was serving her far more than she was serving him. Leave it to my partner to make the best out of an awkward situation. I have never been quite so adaptable.

For her part, Tahir was intent on the task at hand, giving the best massage I’ve ever had, before or since. Her talent was certainly being wasted here, and I flirted with the idea of telling her to move to New York where, as a professional masseuse, she could probably earn more than a decent living. Her strong, deft fingers found muscles I didn’t know I had and soon, I settled into a lazy contentment, my attention drifting, my body thoroughly relaxed.

The electric blue light that marks the transition between late night and early morning was just beginning to glow in the high windows overhead when Tahir tapped my shoulder and motioned to me to roll over on my back. Then she straddled me as she worked on my shoulders, and I could feel her brushing against me: her breasts and the strands of necklaces that covered them sweeping along my chest, the chain between her legs rubbing just below my belly, rhythmically and insistently. By the time her hands slid along my thigh muscles, I was aroused again, a deep excitement suffused through my whole being. She’d brought me along so slowly, I hadn’t even noticed, but now I was at the brink again, and the only thing that kept me from breaking my promise was the damn bracelet in my crotch that suddenly felt like the grip of an iron fist.

Her oiled fingers found my swollen erection and I gasped.

“Tahir,  s’il vous plait —” I could barely get the words out.

Her hands circled wider but it didn’t help. I was trapped at the peak of excitement and held there by that infernal bracelet with no escape because I dared not ask her to unsnap it. It was nearly unbearable, an agony so excruciatingly sweet I could feel my legs actually tremble. I’d never experienced anything like it before. I’d heard agents claim that there was a thin line between pain and pleasure and now I believed it.  Oldest trick in the book, Napoleon had called it. No, no trick, I thought. This was definitely torture. How Napoleon could have worn his all night and endured it while making love to Tamanni, I’ll never know, but it gave me new respect for his will power. 

“Don’t touch — there,” I told her. Even having her so close was intolerable, and if her fingertips found their target, I thought it would drive me absolutely insane. I heard her laugh faintly, as if she understood and could empathize, and perhaps she did. Perhaps, in the embrace of uncaring men, she and Tamanni had found themselves in the same place many times, their bodies primed against their will with no chance of release. Now I understood why Napoleon had been so angry and determined earlier. That’s real slavery he’d said, and it was.  No wonder Tamanni had cried out when he had brought her to a climax earlier, and then clung to him, begging for more. And no wonder Tahir had turned to me, demanding the same.

Fortunately, my misery was to be short-lived. As I lay there, trying to achieve some sort of control, down in the courtyard, a rooster crowed. It was like the cavalry arriving, and I exhaled a long, deep breath.  

“Finally,” I said to no one in particular. I looked over in Napoleon’s direction, and he glanced up from Tamanni’s embrace and smiled slyly, offering a discreet thumbs up.

“Thank you,” Tahir said, or at least, I think that’s what she said. She leaned over to kiss me and I didn’t have the heart to refuse, so I steeled myself and tried desperately not to notice where her body touched mine.    

She moved to relieve me of the bracelet, but I held up a hand and asked for a moment. I needed to take a couple of deep breaths first or I’d lose it for sure. Slowly, I brought myself down to a reasonable level, then reached deep between my legs and took the accursed ring off. Tahir smiled, handed me the key and turned around so I could unlock her. The t-chain contraption was the next thing to go. I tossed it into the corner after the ring. On a whim, I tried the key on her right cuff. It fit. The cuff opened. I inserted it in the left cuff and that fell away, too. Then I moved to her ankles and broke open the ring bracelets there, too.

“Non!” I heard Tamanni say in alarm, but Tahir calmly held up her hand and nodded to her sister. Yes, the gesture said, this is how it should be.

 I tossed the key to Napoleon, and while he went to work unlocking Tamanni, I turned back to Tahir and slowly, carefully, lifted away all the necklace chains that burdened her neck. Except for her earrings and the three small rings that pierced her and could not be easily removed, everything else was gone, tossed away into the pile. I ran the palm of my hand over her collarbone, across her breasts and down both arms, enjoying the fact that she was unencumbered and free. She smiled again and looked as if a weight had been lifted in more ways than one. Now we were just two people with two bodies, unrestrained.

I felt so strangely exhilarated I nearly laughed out loud. I leaned down and solemnly kissed her where the lower ring pierced her nether lips, an unspoken promise that in a few hours, I would make sure she was completely liberated. Then I opened my mouth and began to suckle her gently, tugging her to join me in my arousal. It didn’t take long. She put a hand on my shoulder and gave it a little push. I lay back again, inviting her to straddle me and she did, easing me into her.

I couldn’t believe the feeling, couldn’t remember when slipping inside a woman’s body ever felt so wonderfully good. For the first minute or so, I merely reveled in the sensation, to finally be able to do this, with someone I’d grown to care about.  Tahir undulated above me, rotating her pelvis so slowly, she was hardly moving at all. Her eyes were closed and she was stroking herself too, almost defiantly. The expression on her face told me she was feeling what I was: a certain exaltation. I heard Tamanni cry out again under Napoleon’s touch, but I didn’t look over because I didn’t really need too. I recognized the elation in her voice. It was as if we’d all shared in the same conspiracy, and were now enjoying a hard-won triumph. I’d never before considered sex as a kind of victory, but this time, I did, and a well-earned one at that.

Tahir rose, separating us, and rolled beside me on her back. Her arms stretched out, beckoning me to return, this time, on top of her. And I did, tucking into her embrace, slipping into her body, looking into her eyes. I felt her legs entwine around me and we began to move again, setting a slow, unhurried rhythm. The first gray light of morning was coming through the windows, and I could see her more clearly than I had all night. She was beautiful, more than beautiful: serene. I kissed her, long and deep, and her lips opened and accepted my tongue with a sigh. It was like she was drawing me into her, breathing me in.

It would have been nice to remain there, just like that, for a longer time, but after so many hours of delaying gratification, it just wasn’t possible. Soon, I was rocking against Tahir, and she was urging me to thrust harder and faster and deeper. She groaned and strained, urgently arching to meet me, clamping her thighs tight around me, but somehow, no matter what I did, it just didn’t seem to be enough.

“Tilt her,” Napoleon murmured softly from across the room. I blinked. I’d lost track of him for some time, and hearing his voice so suddenly out of nowhere came as a surprise. So, he was watching me, too, as I’d watched him.

“Tilt her up,” he said again and then went back to whatever he was doing. Tamanni, more aggressive than Tahir, was also more vocal, and I could hear her whimpers dissolving into agonized moans.

Tilt her. Hazily, I tried to conjure up an image. Hips. Pillows. I reached out for a small cushion and shoved it under Tahir, propping the base of her spine. When I began to thrust again, she made a sound deep in her chest that I hadn’t heard before. But it still wasn’t enough. She clawed at me desperately the way Tamanni had done to Napoleon earlier. Tilt her. For lack of a better idea, I pushed both hands under her hips and lifted her to me, tipping her off balance at what seemed like an uncomfortably sharp angle. But when I thrust again, I felt it inside her, something soft but resistant, and so did she. Her head fell back and she gasped. I could sense her clench and begin to pulsate inside. Her whole body stiffened as the climax took hold, forcing a squeal from her throat. I could feel her contract around me like an internal embrace, and I was so ready, it was more than enough to take me over the edge. But suddenly, after all we’d been through, I didn’t want to let myself go. I wanted to savor the moment, make it stretch out longer; remain right there at the pinnacle, with her surrounding me, so warm and impossibly sweet. But there was no resisting biology. The dam broke, and the orgasm slammed into me and roared through my entire being like a powerful, irresistible wave. I buried my head against her, just above her breast, and let it wash over me as I lay groaning and breathless like a drowning man. When I finally came up for air, I had only one clear, comprehensible thought: This time, she didn’t have to fake it.           

****

“That was a good suggestion,” I said. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Napoleon replied.

It was late morning, several hours later. We’d dressed but were not able to shave, so we just tried to clean up the best we could. Now, we were headed down a stone corridor of the kasbah, to meet with Saleem and no doubt, eat another huge meal. Napoleon was walking rather gingerly, as if he’d just ridden a camel clear across the Sahara, and though it amused me, I tried not to notice.

“Well, that was interesting,” he declared, another perfect understatement.

“And educational,” I added.

“Even inspiring.” 

“And I don’t want to be forced to do it again.”

“Mmmmm...at least not until we’ve had a good night’s sleep.”

“And you can walk straight again,” I said, unable to resist. Napoleon merely laughed.

When we reached the dining hall, we found Saleem, once more sitting at the head of a huge wooden table covered with dishes piled high with food: various fruits and pastries, pigeon eggs, almonds, and the ubiquitous couscous. But this time, he was not alone. A well-groomed, cocky-looking Western stranger sat to his left.

“Tom Simpson,” Napoleon said, as though he shouldn’t have been surprised.

“Who?” I murmured.

“Caused me grief in New Delhi, during the Thugee affair,” he explained sotto vocce. I’d been working elsewhere during that one, but I’d heard the story.

Apparently, Simpson hadn’t known we were there, and his tan face drained of color. He looked a lot fresher than we did, but he didn’t quite succeed in hiding his dismay. “Hello, Napoleon.”

“You know each other?” Saleem asked, startled.

“All too well,” my partner said, finding a seat on the opposite side of the table, directly across from Simpson. I slipped into a chair next to Napoleon. “This man is an agent for the organization called Thrush that we told you about yesterday.” 

And of course, the object of our search for Thrush activity, and the reason for our mission.

Saleem arched a bushy eyebrow. “He tells me he works for an oil company.”

“Consortium,” Simpson corrected him. “It’s an investment venture.”

“Of Thrush,” Napoleon repeated, hammering the point. Simpson annoyed him and seeing Simpson’s smartass expression, I could understand why.

Saleem fingered his beard thoughtfully. To Napoleon, he explained, “Mr. Simpson is offering me a partnership and a great deal of money if I let his people build a headquarters here.”

“A headquarters? Oh really?” Napoleon’s voice dripped with contempt. “You’ll never see that money. They’ll come in here like a plague of locusts and take over the valley, and if you don’t do what they want, they’ll kill you, kill your family, and wipe out the entire village. Even if you do what they want, they may murder you anyway.”

“A few years ago, they invaded the land of tribesmen like yourself in Saudi Arabia,” I added. “They made the people slaves and used them for their scientific experiments. I know: I was there.”

Saleem considered this for a moment, and then he turned to Simpson. “What say you to that?”

“Well, of course, they’re lying. The infidels want you to remain poor and powerless. They don’t want you to become rich and strong. It’s true that the aims of the organization I represent are more political than financial, but Allah be praised, our purpose is to offer opportunities to all the oppressed peoples throughout the world.”

Once more, Saleem considered carefully what he’d been told. “So, whom should I trust?” he pondered aloud. “It is a difficult question.” Then, out of the blue, he inquired of Napoleon and myself, “Did you enjoy your slaves?”

“To a point,” Napoleon replied, “but we tempered our pleasure.”

“We did as the women asked,” I added. Saleem could see this just by looking at our strained and weary faces and our eyes, red-rimmed and heavy-lidded from lack of sleep.

“Hmmm ... this is what I hear.”

Simpson offered a harsh laugh. “So, your girls told you the same sad story that mine told me, huh? And you fell for it?”

“Oh?” Saleem’s head swiveled with interest. “What story was that?”

Uh-oh, I thought. The chieftain’s mood had subtly shifted. Intimidated, Simpson backtracked a bit. “I don’t know if you’d call it a story. She wanted to play a sort of game.”

“And was this game enjoyable?”

Simpson harrumphed. “For maybe an hour or two. Then, frankly, it got a little irritating.”

“My slave did not please you?”

Simpson chuckled. “Oh, she pleased me all right. After we got things straightened out.”

“I hope you beat her for such insolence.”

“Umm ... actually, yeah, I did. A little.”

On the other side of the table, although Napoleon appeared murderously calm, I was certain he was going to leap across the table and rip the Thrushman’s throat out. Saleem grinned along with Simpson, a row of large, yellowed teeth gleaming from under his thick moustache. “Of course you did. A distinguished visitor like yourself should not be concerned with the misery of a mere slave girl.”

“Well, yeah,” Simpson agreed. “I mean, she was just a slave. That’s what she was for, right?”

“Indeed,” Saleem said, “that was exactly what she was for.”

And then, without warning, the chieftain pulled the pistol from his robes and shot Tom Simpson, blowing the back of his head off. As Napoleon and I stared, shocked and speechless, Simpson’s eyes bulged and then he keeled over sideways and fell off the chair to the floor.

Saleem summoned two guards and directed them to clean up the mess. While they did so, dragging the body away, the chieftain turned to us and said, “A man who has so little pity for the lowest and most helpless of Allah’s faithful cannot be trusted. It follows you must be telling me the truth.”

“Ah — yeah, we are,” Napoleon managed, finding his voice.

“So last night was a test?” I asked.

Saleem nodded. “Of a kind.”

“Then it’s not true that you’ll free them?” Napoleon said, dreading the answer. He didn’t want to hear it had all been in vain.

“Oh no. They spoke the truth. And they will receive their silver for a task well done.”

Saleem leaned closer to Napoleon and added seriously, “A word of advice: a warrior must not allow his heart to soften so for a woman. It is a weakness. Someday, it will be your downfall, friend.”

Then he leaned back in his chair, plucked a date from a nearby plate and popped it cheerfully into his mouth. “Still, I admire you both for your fortitude and self-discipline. Like crossing a desert drinking only camel piss, yes?”

Napoleon blinked and glanced at me. “I guess you could put it that way.”

Saleem offered us a big, hearty laugh. “Such men can be depended upon. Tell your chief he has my loyalty and my friendship.” He gestured to the spread before us. “Now eat. You both have earned it.”

***

We stayed one more night at the kasbah, and this time, no pleasure slaves were offered and no one disturbed our privacy. Saleem returned our weapons to us, and with our Specials tucked under our pillows, we collapsed on the carpets, and for a full blessed eight hours, slept like the dead.

The next morning, supplied with provisions, extra rifles and ammunition and two sturdy horses, we were led to the village gate. Tamanni was standing there, apparently waiting for us. She was well covered now, with a hooded robe and a small veil over the lower part of her face.

“Where is your sister?” I asked. She pointed up toward the hills. In the distance I saw two figures: one was sitting on a horse, dressed in the black, all-concealing haik that Moslem women wore in public, and the other was a man leading that horse. My heart sank. I realized we would not be permitted even to say goodbye.

“She is being escorted back to our village. Now, with the silver, she will be the richest person there. She will have her pick of husbands.”

Tamanni saw the sadness on my face. “Do not be concerned,” she said. “A young man from our childhood waits for her. She will be happy.”

I kept staring, willing Tahir to look back my way and after a moment, she did. The figure in black raised a hand, and I did the same.

“She said she hoped Allah would protect you and grant you contentment,” Tamanni added.

“I wish the same for her,” I said, as I watched the figures grow smaller in the distance.

“And what about you?” Napoleon asked Tamanni. Obviously, she had different plans.

“I go to America, where women are free to marry men like you.”

This made Napoleon chuckle. “Not all men are like us, ma cherie. I hope you won’t be disappointed.”

Tamanni sighed. “After the other night, it cannot be otherwise.” She almost sounded like she meant it. “So: may I come with you as far as Marrakech?”

“Sure,” Napoleon said, and gave her a boost into the saddle of one of the horses. But as he gathered up the reins and prepared to climb up behind her, I leaned in close and warned, “If we stop anywhere, we get separate rooms.”

***

We never saw either woman again. I don’t know if Tamanni ever made it to America. I heard that, for a time, she managed a café in Marrakech, and she was known to be headstrong and independent because she refused to dress traditionally or even wear a veil. No one would ever dominate or enslave her again. Of Tahir, I know nothing at all. I hope her sister was right and she ended up happy.

I always regretted the fact that after spending so many hours together so intimately, we never had a chance to say a proper farewell. But that was how it was for Napoleon and me in those days. We were like ancient mariners, roaming the far corners of the earth, with only our internal sextants to navigate by. Our job with U.N.C.L.E. was our fixed horizon, but the people changed positions like the stars. That is, except for one person. In those days, a partner was like Polaris, the North Star, the constant — watching over you, accompanying you on journeys, seeing you through storms and rough waters, guiding you home.

We never talked about that night again. We had no need. The barrier went back up between us and we continued our private social contract, secure in the knowledge that if circumstances demanded, we could — as we did that night — fashion another temporary escape clause.

We worked together for another year and it was a hard one at that. Things began to go wrong, for us and the world around us. By the end, I knew even more about what Napoleon hoped and feared and dreamed. And because we were captured and tortured together at Desesperación, I also knew how he sounded when he screamed.

Still, the knowledge I acquired that night about sex in general and my partner in particular remained with me. I had never imagined that either was quite so complicated as I discovered. So, I no longer teased Napoleon about his sex life, nor showed interest when anyone else did. I knew what his women knew: that he truly was good in bed and why. But it no longer mattered because from that day on, I knew I was, too.