Praising and Pampering Priscilla

## Old Cairo City is a Confusing Place

Known for its faith-filled ferocity and archaic ways, the only thing that's changed is one faith-filled symbol for another. One old way of operating for one still forward but behind the rest. The golden idols are replaced by neon apparitions. And the most pious once reached to the heavens but now scour for safety in the depths of the Earth.

It is here, in the most advanced and safe tunnels in the country of Egypt, we find the most faith-filled. The most pious.

The most ancient ways of operating are a far cry from its neon city skyline baked in dust at the surface.

And it's in these depths where we find Priscilla wanting to reach for the heavens of the neon light.

---

## She Waits on Her Husband Muhammad

The Greco-Roman white of their modern Islamic home in the tubes beneath the city is among the most pristine homes in the country. Priscilla wears a white niqab adorned in gold threads of jewelry, standing in the kitchen overseeing their personal chefs.

Stress stirs in her body as the pots and food are prepared for his arrival. The kitchen steams and makes her hot under her clothing as the Hamam Mahshi is prepared and the basbousa is put into the ovens.

*Tonight*, she thinks, *I will talk and ask him about it tonight.*

Despite the heat in the kitchen making her sweaty and uncomfortable, nothing stops the wetness that builds in her femininity. Titillating imagery from her secret porn collection rouses her in mind.

It's a scene she's watched over and over again dozens of times. A woman is bathed like a queen, massaged like a goddess, and dressed like a high class hooker. She is then strapped to a pedestal and used by a group of people like a whore. The two-dimensional video was a special digital delivery from her offline porn dealer, Nailah. Ever since their first exchange at the women's farmers market in the upper tubes, she cannot get the image out of her mind.

Especially how they pampered her before the scene.

*Like a queen, a goddess, then a hooker*, she thinks.

---

## Muhammad Finishes Without Letting Her Talk

Later that night at dinner, he talks about his work at the quantum chip factory on level seventeen.

He chews the fried pigeon meat as he drones on about the importance of his meeting that took place at noon.

Then how he believes the Quizatch match will end up in the space games that evening.

And how much he is looking forward to watching it on the holosphere with his friends later over drinks.

He pats his heavy napkin on the corners of his mouth as he finishes and puts his flatware down.

As the servants leave the long tubed dining room bathed in soft taupe lighting to get the basbousa, Priscilla leans forward at the edge of her padded chair. Even the sensation of the edge of the seat across the bottom of her lap makes her think of the fantasies in her head that swirl and threaten to burst forward over the table.

"*Habibi*, I was wondering if you might stay in tonight instead of going to watch the game," Priscilla asks.

Her husband lets out a chuckle and a slight cough of food. He doesn't look at her, but instead at the plate of dessert set in front of him.

"Come now, I always go to watch the games on Fridays. You know this. It cannot be skipped. Routine is important to me."

Priscilla reaches out a hand to grip his, letting her fingers interlace hers with his gold rings. She starts to trace it up his arm under his pristine white sleeve, sensually teasing with her fingertips to help get her message across. But Muhammad uses his other hand to start checking his phone, coordinating with his friends for the evening as he chews the basbousa.

"*Habibi*, if you stay in, I can make it more entertaining for us than the game can ever be," she says, smiling with her eyes.

Muhammad puts his phone down but continues to take another basbousa and chews it, speaking with it in his mouth.

"What is it? What do you want?" he asks.

Priscilla hesitates for a moment, feeling all of her courage leading up to this point. She remembers what she rehearsed in her head, knowing that she will have to ease his traditional head into it.

"I want to do different things in bed with you beyond what we normally do."

Muhammad scoffs and takes a drink of water.

"Is that what this is about? Come now Priscilla. You know your place and I know mine. We do not do anything against *Allah* and the Quran."

He picks up his phone again. Priscilla tries her next approach.

"Please Muhammad. It's just between wife and husband in the sheets. Besides, it would be fun to explore, you know? I dote and pamper you all the time. And... Well, I want you to dote on me in the bedroom."

"That is enough," Muhammad says standing up. "This is not an appropriate discussion at all. We will not do *haram* activities in the bedroom. No. Your place as my wife is to dote on me. That is your role. We cannot reverse it."

Muhammad walks away from the table, leaving Priscilla sitting by herself, smelling the last of the basbousa on the plate. She feels frustration, both with her husband and the growing drive within her to explore her kinkiest desires. Thoughts of a collar around her neck, being blindfolded and gagged while being used by her husband swell inside of her as she starts to grip the tablecloth into a ball in her hand. Priscilla wants to scream at him for sticking to traditional values and to fuck her for *her* pleasure.

But just as she rises for her second attempt to speak with him and let loose her anger, she hears the tube door open and close.

*He left without even saying goodbye...again* she thinks.

She feels no more important to her husband than the servants who prepared his meal this evening.

And then, the anger and frustration finally converges in her mind.

*I need to do this for me*, she thinks.

The plan that comes forth snaps into her mind without much trouble.

---

## The Women's Market is Crowded

Niqabs and jalibayas of all colors mix among the tables of the Turkish-style tube hall. The tables and stalls are glowing with old natural light. The smell of chicken and spices are in the air as Priscilla weaves her way through the multitude of wives on their errands for their homes.

But her errand today is not for her home.

Or for her husband.

It's just for her.

She finds the usual stall towards the end of the faux stone tube. Erected at one of the junctions that crosses into clothing and other fine jewelry, Priscilla finds Nailah's little alcove. It's a purple silk tent, set up to feel like a traveling gypsy, with various tourist items and other sweets and stones in a similar style. On the outside of the tent, Priscilla feels a sense of hope as she sees the neon sign that signals Nailah's service.

*Palm Readings.*

Her heart rises in her chest as she sees the new neon color of green. She knows that the colors have meaning about her inventory. Priscilla has a hope that she has something beyond just offline data sticks of porn.

Priscilla parts the tent entrance and goes inside. The little shop is empty.

The white-skinned Nailah comes out of the back of the palm reading room and smiles at her.

---

## Nailah Has Her Palm

And they both have their niqabs on, hiding the voice scramblers that they wear over their mouths as they speak.

"I got a new shipment today. New clips from the Northern States. Very sexy clips of the ones you bought last time," Nailah says as she traces a finger into Priscilla's palm.

The touch across her hand makes the feelings of her fantasy rise into her body. But here, she doesn't feel the fear of her husband. No preparation of words is needed, and there is no need for her to be perfect in front of such a friend.

"Nailah, I want something beyond just data clips," she says.

"I was wondering when you might ask. What are you looking for?" asks Nailah, turning to the cabinet on the wall of the little cove. "You want toys? I can get you some of those."

"That clip you gave me last time really... Changed me. It changed how I want to be pleasured and... Well, my husband won't."

"That makes sense," Nailah says, rummaging through drawers, "Most Arab men on the levels you live barely touch their wives with their small cocks. Can't get off in missionary position much anyways. Ask them to find your G-spot and you might as well ask them to find water in the Sahara," she says. Priscilla sees her start to bring out some long black boxes with ornate patterns on them. "I have vibrators and glassware. Which ones would you like?"

"I want something more than just a toy. I need..." Priscilla stops as her eyes glaze over and her fantasy comes into her mind.

Nailah turns and sees her look.

"Ah!" she says. She puts the boxes back into the cabinet and opens a thin drawer.

She places a card on the table.

An old business card with a QR code.

Priscilla's retinal HUD scans it, triggering encrypted orange letters that appear in her sight that pop against the purple table cloth.

She reads:

*"We are the mediators. For those living under our oppressive regime, what stays constant is our humanity. This cannot be oppressed. Neither can our desires. And whatever your desire might be, we can help arrange it in the safety and most satisfying way possible. Come in person to our office to discuss and get a quote."*

"I can do more than read palms, sweetie. It's all over your face," Nailah says. "I know what you are seeking. This man can help you find it."

Prscilla looks up and reaches out to Nailah's hand.

They grip each other in comradery.

Priscilla feels a new found confidence from her friend, as if energy is passing through their palms. Her desires, her fantasy, now live within her.

Priscilla decides then and there.

*If my husband cannot give me what I want, I will find it through this mediator.*

---

## Zamalek is Frightening to Her

But Prsicilla braves the ashy neon streets, walking in her darkest niqab she owns. Even with her full black clothes and an opaque mask to filter out the toxic ash of the air, she knows she sticks out like a sore thumb.

As she turns down a street lined with pink neon Arabic signs, she passes groups of men with blue neon implants in their necks.

A store peddling defensive weapons.

Then a pair of women with highlights in their hair and northwestern clothing of latex and leather.

Street vendors in plastic cooking bubbles peddling kebabs and shawarma.

Shops with English sayings that translate into "Adult holographics."

Then a group of young Egyptian boys playing with acrobat drones.

All while old school taxis and delivery drones weave about the street beside and above her. She feels overwhelmed, but determined. The will within her to finally have her own pleasure satisfied drives her into the unknown of dust and flashing lights.

When Priscilla finds the indistinct door with the coded handle in between two empty shops, she feels herself pause. The Quran sessions and prayer groups that she attends tell her that everything she is doing is wrong. Infidelity is punishable by being sent to hell for eternity. At minimum, she knows how *forbidden* such an act is. Everything about her faith and her faithfulness to her husband tells her what she is doing is wrong.

But her body and her mind tell her something else.

She punches in the code and walks through the door.

---

## The Mediators Office is On The Third Level

And Priscilla is fascinated by ancient tech that fills the office from floor to ceiling around the crowded desk of the mediator sitting in front of her.

Typewriters with rust and broken keys.

Flatscreen monitors burnt out from years of use.

Hardware computers in boxes that have fans.

Keyboards with missing keys.

And in the center of it all, piled high with rare paper, sits the round old man with silver hair. He pushes over a crystal glass with hot red tea and a sharp leaf of mint. She lets it steam in front of her, looking over the old man as he cradles the glass in his worn hands, blowing it cool before slurping a sip.

"Based on your niqab, I'm guessing you are from the finest tubes in the deepest levels of the spire, no?" says Omar, the mediator.

All Priscilla can do is done, feeling her nerve being tested against the horniness that rages in her mind and in between her legs. She questions herself and how this man with this ancient tech can coordinate what she desires. But she remembers the feeling of trust in Nailah.

"Yes. I've never been above the fifties before, much less on ground zero to see the ash fall from the air. It is very... jarring."

"Very brave of you. I also take you for a faith-filled woman. Old traditional Islam, yes?"

She nods, feeling shame fighting her urges under her niqab.The fear of her husband finding out starts to make her want to run. But she remembers sitting at that table, feeling abandoned by him while he goes out to the bar to watch some game with his friends.

If, in fact, that is where he really is going.

She brings her gloved hands up to her mask and flicks the opaqueness to go clear, showing her face for the first time.

Omar gives her a friendly smile and nods back to her.

"Thank you for trusting me, I know what this means to show your face," he says.

Prsicilla comes to the edge of her seat and places her hand on the desk.

"I do this at great risk to my safety and my life. I don't think you can know how much meaning this actually has for a woman like me," she says.

"Quite right, madam. You are risking a great deal to be here. And for that, I thank you. More so than just a thanks, but a guarantee that you can trust me with what you desire most. Now, what can I do for you to help assuage your fear and make your risk worthwhile?" he asks.

Priscilla reaches into the pockets inside of her niqab and finds the secret zipper.

And places the data stick on the table.

---

## Priscilla Books The Hotel Suite

Just as the instructions that the mediator told her to do. She looks out on the seventieth level high up in the Five Seasons Hotel overlooking the Nile. Although terrified of heights and being so high above the ground for the first time, Priscilla stands right next to the window with a hand on the glass, feeling her adrenaline run as she looks down through the smog. The streets below can barely be seen, but the fear she sees in her reflection of the glass is very clear.

It adds to her anticipation for what is about to come.

And in the glass, she looks upon her lingerie and jewelry that graces her partially naked body.

She turns into the suite and over to the spacious private bar. Neon pink and purple bathe the satin furniture scattered through the small living room. She looks across to the entrance next to her room, the spacious bathroom, and the double doors leading to a larger conference room. Her heart beats in her chest as she sees the alarm in her retinal HUD flash when she sits in the high top chair.

Her Guide will be arriving any moment.

There's a click at the door as it unlocks.

And Priscilla feels a dump of adrenaline rush through her unlike she's ever felt. The sensation heightens her arousal that merges with the instructions of the mediator in her head. But she cannot help but let the fear take her as the door starts to open.

Only her husband has seen her this bare before.

And not even he has seen her wear lingerie.

No one has seen her beautiful long dark hair down like it is.

Or the heavy purple makeup on her eyes.

No one has seen her like this before.

And she knows that her Guide, the chiseled man with the dark hair walking through the door, will be the first.

But not the only one for this evening.

He closes the door as she stands as still as a statue, not taking her eyes off of him as he leans against the door, locking it.

They stare at each other for a while.

As the fear starts to take her, wanting her to end the whole scene before it starts, the man steps forward with his hands out and smiles.

"My name is Arndt," he says. His accent is German and his voice is deep. "And it is my understanding that this is your very first time doing anything with the mediator. Yes?" he asks.

She nods nervously, unable to fathom the moment she's been dreaming and fantasizing about, now starting and taking place in front of her.

As he steps further into the room and closer to her, the neon light highlights his twelve o'clock shadow. His eyes are blue and deep. His hands are strong as he reaches out to her, palm up, to take her hand.

She reaches out, putting her manicured fingers across his fingers and into his palm. She tries to read the sensation that shocks into her, feeling the landscape of a new man's skin for the first time. She doubts herself, feeling guilt about her husband. About her desires. And about her revealing her darkest wants.

But what he says next settles her mind completely.

"I'm here to pamper you like a queen," he says, bringing her hand to his lips. He begins to kiss it lightly.

"And then touch you like a goddess."

He kisses more, tracing up her hand.

"Then dress you like the finest hooker."

Electricity runs through Priscilla's hand all the way into her chest.

"And then, most importantly, I'm here to keep you safe. So you may enjoy your time without worrying about what is to come afterward. Only pleasure for you, my goddess."

He pulls her up for her to stand.

And Priscilla melts into his arms, leaning against his strong chest, and feels the embrace of a sensual strong man for the first time.

---

## He Draws a Bath

And he keeps the lights low for her when she steps into the bathroom to the tub in the middle of the proclin room. The low purple black light makes the bubbles in the bath dance in between the steam. Naked in the partial dark, she feels the thrill of knowing that Arndt is there, watching her, as she steps into the tub.

The water is perfect.

She slips down into the tub, feeling the soft parts of the tub fit her body like a glove.

Her hair is in a bun and rests perfectly on the towel he prepared for her.

And whatever chills of fear that permeated her skin start to wash away as the heat fills her body.

Then, she feels his presence slowly come to her side.

And she looks upon her guide Arndt, who reaches into the bath and takes her hand.

He starts with a soft bar of soap, rubbing down her skin on her arm.

Priscilla takes a deep breath in as he begins to trace it over her arm, then comes up to her shoulders, bathing her as he laps water softly on her skin.

Then, a new sensation as his strong hands slide down her chest and over her large breasts, cupping them.

Even this touch is enough to send herself wetter than the water she sits in. Her breath is closer to a moan as he continues to caress her body with the soap, rubbing her gently as he moves down. Soon, she's lost in the relaxation of his touch, bringing her finely shaved and shaped legs up, scrubbing her leg and foot. His thumbs and fingers find groves in her skin that send goosebumps into her, only to be padded by the hot water.

Soon, whatever worry she had about her husband, about her experience to come, is less worry.

And more about pleasure.

---

## He Dries Her With The Softest Towels

As she stands dripping wet and naked, he slides the fabric of the glowing blue towel across her skin, ensuring that every part of her is dry.

She feels the sensation of the towel across her neck.

Then down her back.

Across her front on her breasts and stomach.

Down her legs.

She comes up on her toes as he focuses on drying her ass, bringing the towel through her legs like a snake, drying her pussy.

As the towel slips across her labia, she feels parts of it touch her clit. A feeling that only she has ever focused on and touched.