The Emir had decided to see how the lower orders amused themselves, and to put the fear of Allah into the booze salesman."We will go into the brothel together," he said to the Rifleman, "What is the protocol of such a visit?" Well, Master. You go in and the girls are paraded. You take your choice, and pay the attendant. When you have finished you leave." Fine. Let's do it."They walked to the brothel, only some few yards from the gatehouse and entered, leaving the bodyguard just outside. The attendant greeted them with bored indifference; evidently the news that the Emir was visiting the barracks had not reached him. When they were seated, the girls were brought in for their approval. The women were dressed in a variety of costumes, most of which were dirty, and many of which had obviously been torn and repaired many times. The Emir assumed, rightly, that this was an occupational hazard of working in a low-class brothel. One of the women was, underneath the dirt, apparently a white. It had been awhile since Sarah had gone out. She was glad she did. He was standing by the speakers when she noticed him. Tall, blonde, hard to miss. Their eyes connected. Electric. The power that surged was electric. They flirted. They danced. Flirted more. Danced closer. The dance floor was packed. Shoulder to shoulder. No one noticed. Sarah wore a skirt. Short. Easy to get under. He wore jeans. Zipper and button. Easy to undo. His hands slid to her back, pulling her closer to him. Her breasts pushed against his chest. She could feel his heart beating, feel the heat radiating from within, feel the passion as his lips captured hers. Gently, he nibbled her lips till she parted them. His tongue ventured forth, searching her mouth for her tongue. The journey had begun. His hands moved to Sarah’s arse, pulling her to his semi-conscious cock. Sarah’s hands moved down his back, her nails leaving a visible trail where they had been. Cupping his butt in her hands, Sarah began to massage his.
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