Mirage

Disclaimer: All characters involved in this story are over the age of 18 years old. No jinn were harmed during the writing of this story.

Special thanks to des67 and Carmilla234, who edited this for me.

Markos sat on his haunches, resting for a few precious moments before spreading out the old, ornate red-and-gold Afghan rugs he carried with him across the sand beneath his feet. He had been traversing a traditional Tuareg trade route from the salt mines of Taoudenni south to bustling Timbuktu for the past several days, and he was spent.

An anthropology undergrad from Harvard, Markos had been bouncing across the Sahara dunes in an old, beaten-up beige Jeep trying to keep pace with a Tuareg caravan he had been studying. The caravan had been laboriously traversing the trade route via camel hauling newly mined slabs of salt from the ancient Taoudenni mines.

Markos had kept a respectful distance as he traversed the desert alongside the caravan, staying just close enough to interact and trade with the Tuareg caravanners occasionally but far enough away that he would not interrupt their work. Crawling along in his Jeep, Markos kept the camels at the tail end of the caravan in view as much as he could while trudging through the treacherous Sahara dunes.

When the caravan had suddenly stopped and set up their tents, Markos understood that one of the caravanners had likely spotted a large sandstorm on the way. He quickly hopped out of the Jeep, then heaved his small yet spacious Tuareg-style tent out from the back of the vehicle and managed to get it set up before the winds picked up.

Having spread out the carpets he was using as a makeshift tent floor, Markos slathered more sunscreen on his sweaty skin before slipping out of the tent to double-check its moorings.

A tall, thin, jade-eyed, muscular young man from Louisiana, Markos' innate athleticism and outdoorsmanship helped him survive in harsh environments like the Sahara. His skin tanned in the desert sun nicely, and his shaggy blond hair matched the color of the sand dunes surrounding him.

Once Markos was certain the tent moorings were secure and that his Jeep was still in good working order, he set up camp and began to unroll his tattered old brown sleeping bag.

The winds began to howl as the sun set lower and lower, forcing Markos to close his tent. The remains of his dinner were stashed in a Ziploc bag near his extra-large backpack, and he was curled up atop his sleeping bag with a textbook on Nigerien Tuareg culture, fed but frustrated.

He struggled to read his text by lamplight to no avail; the winds buffeted his tent just enough to distract him. Irritated, Markos closed his book and shut off his battery-operated lamp, checked to make certain his tent was closed as tight as it could be, then slipped out of his white tee shirt, khaki cargo pants, and black Army boots and decided to sleep earlier than he'd planned.

Markos clamped his eyelids shut as the angry desert winds raged and whipped about his tent, trying to force himself to sleep.

Sleep wouldn't come though. He was lonely and he was horny. At twenty-four years old, Markos' sex drive was always in overdrive. Unfortunately, he was also incredibly shy around women, ever since he was a scrawny young nerd back in junior high. While growing more muscular and handsome as he aged, his shyness never dissipated, and he had trouble even talking to the gorgeous young women that populated the Harvard hallways. He had even more problems with the stunning Tuareg women at Timbuktu due to the cultural barriers between them, and the salt mining crew he had been tailing had no women among them.

As the winds outside screamed and battered his tent, Markos imagined several beautiful, curvaceous co-eds. He wished he was snuggling with one of them in his sleeping bag that cold desert night. Increasingly frustrated and aroused, Markos tossed and turned, struggling to find that magic sleeping position that would allow him to shut off his hyperactive thoughts and doze off.

As he re-positioned himself again, half in-and-out of sleep, Markos' hand hit a noticeable lump in the rugs beneath his sleeping bag. Wondering how he hadn't noticed the lump when spreading the carpets out earlier and worried about scorpions, Markos moved his sleeping bag and checked under the rugs.

Brushing away the small mound of sand that caused the lump in his rugs to form, Markos' hand clamped around a ring-shaped object.

Markos quickly turned his lamp on and examined the object. The lamplight gleamed off a rustic old bronze ring. The ring didn't bear any markings or gems and didn't appear to be anything special; it was just a simple bronze band of indeterminate age that looked as battered and sand blasted as his Jeep outside. Some caravanner had likely lost it in the dunes ages ago.

He sat and stared at the ring for some time before trying it on. The ring felt larger when he first picked it up, but when he slipped it onto his right-hand ring finger it fit rather snugly, like it was made for his finger.

Bored, half-asleep, and still incredibly sexually frustrated, Markos shut off his light and laid back down, shrugging off the mystery of the ring in favor of the more erotic fantasies that nearly lulled him to sleep earlier. Within moments Markos was finally asleep, his fingers instinctively rubbing against the ring he now wore.

Markos was soon awakened by the realization that it had grown startlingly still outside. The winds had all but vanished, except for the slightest of breeze outside...

And someone else was in the tent with him.

Before he could rise from the sleeping bag or put the lamp on to confront whoever had entered the tent while he was asleep, the other person cracked open the entrance to the tent, allowing the moon to peek inside.

Glittering moonlight shone off her glistening skin, outlining her sensuous curves. The sight caught Markos' breath in his throat, and he lay transfixed.

She wore the long black bemuz outer garment common to Tuareg women, though she wore it like a hooded cloak that seemed to flow around her in the breeze like angels' wings. Beneath the bemuz she wore a short black afer as a tight-fitting skirt around thick, shapely hips, a dress adorned with intricate Arabesques that appeared to glow in the moonlight. Her feet were shod with the traditional red leather irazagan sandals worn by the Tuareg people.

Her hair was jet black, and the lower portion of her face was covered with a sheer black tusawart veil that barely obscured her soft, exotic North African features. Scandalously for a Tuareg, her lithe arms, shoulders, midriff, and ample decolletage were all exposed. Her massive, perfectly formed breasts were barely contained by a skimpy black bikini top and a small black-and-indigo vest adorned in the same Arabesques as her skirt.

At first, Markos thought her skin had been stained blue; the indigo dyes used by the Tuareg in their garments occasionally tend to stain their skin a deep blue color, giving them the nickname "blue people". As Markos stared, however, he realized that her skin simply was blue, so blue that it glowed bright indigo in the moonlight.

She was covered in thin, sinuous, serpentine Tuareg tattoos and opulent golden jewelry that glistened in the light, from the elaborate Tcherot talisman she wore around her neck to the many bejeweled rings around her fingers. Heavy glowing golden bracelets covered her forearms; these were decorated with elegant ancient Arabic and Berber symbols so interwoven that Markos had difficulty making out the individual words written on them. The only words he could make out were the Arabic words for "bound", "bidden", "conjure", and "servant".

"You called for me, Master?" she asked, smiling coquettishly and staring at him with large, dazzling blue eyes.

Markos could say nothing, do nothing but breathe and stare.

She smiled. "All is well, Master," she said, holding her hand out to him in a placating manner as she strode from the tent opening toward him. "You need not fear me. I belong to you now."

"You... What?" he asked incredulously.

"I belong to you," she purred, kneeling at the foot of his sleeping bag. "You wear my ring, Master. You may summon me or command me at your pleasure."

Markos sat up, then brought out his hand from under his pillow and stared at the simple bronze ring he wore... and a thought began to form, a thought his logical mind dismissed as utter nonsense while his imagination continued to entertain it.

Islamic and pre-Islamic literature were filled with various spiritual beings, many of whom could be bound to magical talismans or amulets by sorcerers and summoned at will. Could this ravishing woman before him be...?

"Are you... are you a jinn?" he finally dared ask.

She giggled.

"I prefer jinni, though you may call me whatever you desire, Master. I am here to please you."

She moved forward on her hands and knees, leaning over him, her exquisite face mere inches from his.

Markos lay back nervously as she leaned over him, still barely able to form sentences in the presence of this voluptuous, ethereal beauty before him.

"Surely, you have some command to give me," she said with a mocking pout. "You did summon me, after all."

"I... didn't mean to..." he stammered, nervously fidgeting with the ring on his finger.

"You summoned me by mistake?" she gasped, feigning shock. "Surely, there's something you want of me, Master," she said with a mischievous wink.

She began to straddle him playfully, then paused suddenly and let out a tiny yelp of surprise. She moved down from his hips and cautiously peeled back the front flap of his sleeping bag.

Though he may have been anxious and fearful around her, his thick, bulky eight-inch member -- one of the few aspects of his appearance Markos was truly proud of, though he had never had the chance to show it to a member of the opposite sex -- stood proud, erect, and unafraid, threatening to burst through his underwear.

"So, this is why you summoned me," she purred softly in awe, slipping the underwear off his engorged member before leaning down to better appreciate it.

She leaned close to his body and stared at it, her eyes gazing at its length from its base to its tip. Markos dared not breathe the entire time, lest he interrupt the supernatural being leaning dangerously close to a very vulnerable part of his anatomy.

She breathed on his cock teasingly, her breath ruffling his sandy blond pubic hair. She eyed him with satisfaction as his entire body shivered with pleasure.

"My poor, poor master," she whispered. "Is this a new experience for you? Has no woman touched your glorious manhood before?"

Markos shook his head.

"...And you want me to touch it? To caress it? To have it inside me?" she asked again with feigned shock, her fingertips playfully dancing around the base of his shaft. "But Master! Such a thing between you and I is makruh in Sharia! Sex between a human and a jinni is highly disapproved of!"

She sighed heavily in mock sorrow, her breath blowing over the tip of his member, sending more shockwaves of desire throughout his body. "It is simply not to be done, master."

"I am no Muslim," Markos stammered, his sex drive momentarily overriding his good sense. "I do not follow Sharia."

"My brave master," she giggled, her full bosom heaving as she chuckled. Markos stared at her bosom's every motion, transfixed by her large blue breasts. Though he had little experience with such matters, he had digested copious amounts of pornography in his youth, and he estimated her cup size to be in the double-F range, if not larger.

His cock grew harder as he stared. Suddenly, he realized how rude he was being, tore his eyes from her bosom and returned his gaze to her intense blue eyes.

She laughed. "Makruh is still makruh, Master," she said, "and it would take much to make me disregard what is makruh, a direct command from you at least... but I think there may be ways around such prohibitions."

She crawled forward slowly, teasingly, until the bottom of her scant bikini tip rested atop Markos' throbbing, waiting member. Without removing her top, she inched the tip of his penis in between her thick, soft breasts, her smile growing wider at his every gasp.

"Are you enjoying this, Master?" she asked, her lips like a Cheshire grin.

Markos only nodded, still panting, his sex drive having completely taken over his brain and momentarily short-circuited his ability to speak. Beads of precum oozed from the tip of his penis as she held him in place between her breasts.

Smiling contentedly at his every reaction, she bobbed up and down very slowly, his cock moving in between her breasts, her sweat lubricating him as she rubbed his dick with her tremendous bosom.

His breath came in short, ragged pants and moans, and his hips instinctively bucking into her as Markos ached to fuck her breasts faster. She gently held his hips in place, squeezed her breasts together tighter with her arms, then bobbed up and down on his cock at a quicker pace, moving faster and faster in pace with his quickening breathing.

All the while she uttered short, lusty, animalistic grunts as she ministered to his cock, her eyes burning with lust like small blue suns.

Eventually, his bucking turned to full body shuddering and his balls tightened. Using one of her hands to hold her breasts together, she playfully licked the head of his cock as it poked out from between her breasts, and his hot, sticky cum exploded all over her dazzling face and chest, covering her cheeks, chin, neck, and breasts in his seed. Tiny, naughty globules of pearl white semen stood out scandalously against the black fabric of her bikini top and stained the otherwise pristine gold of her Tcherot necklace like a sacrilege.

She laughed heartily as his breathing slowed and he lay back, nearly spent.

"You needed that release, didn't you, Master?" she asked, planting her elbows on the carpet next to his legs and resting her cum-soaked chin on her hands.

"As you said," he panted, still regaining his breath, "no woman has ever... ever done that, or anything, with me before."

"A shame," she purred, staring at his member. "I am tremendously pleased and honored to be your first. You have a truly magnificent cock, Master."

She began stroking his penis slowly, gently grazing his skin with her long fingernails, arousing his cock again by keeping the blood flowing through it.

"I could show you how to use it properly if you desire. I could make women bow to service you and make you the envy of all other men. All you have to do... is command me."

She stroked her thumb along the underside of his shaft, beginning from the base of his dick and gliding very slowly up to his glans. His whole body shook with ecstasy, and a tiny bead of cum escaped the slit at the tip of his penis. She leaned in to kiss the tip of his cock, then the wind picked up outside.

Instead of kissing it, she clamped around the head of his penis, and sucked furiously until she had drained him of every drop of cum his balls could muster.

The wind outside blew harder, the opening to the tent blew closed, and the light was gone. So was she, though he could still hear her laugh in the howling winds outside as they buffeted the tent again.

Markos lay there the entire night, trying to doze off but unable to sleep as his thoughts wavered between lust and panic. Finally, the panic quieted, and sleep overtook him.

Markos rose with the sun the following morning, still shaken by his experiences the previous night. As soon as the winds died down, he packed his tent into his battered beige Jeep as quickly as he was able.

Though he knew his feelings were irrational, Markos didn't want to stay in the area any longer than necessary.

Still rubbing the sleep out of his eyes when he climbed into his Jeep, Markos half wondered if last night's events were just a dream.

The sun gleamed off the bronze band around his right ring finger.

He slipped the ring off and stared at it for a long time, then wound his arm back behind him in preparation to throw the ring as far into the desert as he could.

He stopped before throwing the ring away, suddenly feeling very foolish. The ring was real; that didn't mean the jinn was real. Why throw an interesting souvenir away because of a silly sex dream?

And if what had happened to him was real...

Markos slipped the ring into one of the pockets of his khaki cargo pants, buckled his safety belt, then shifted the Jeep into gear and headed toward Timbuktu. The Tuareg caravan had already packed up their gear and were on the move again, and he needed to catch up.