The Ghostface from Club Spirit

The sun sets over the horizon of Old Cairo City with minarets holding a silent vigil. A city once shrouded with devotion no longer sings songs of prayer, but instead is split open to the loud decay of its sin.

The city is on Ramadan time, shifting the pulse of the city to the nighttime hours. The streets are crowded with neon lights and cars bumper to bumper. They blare Arabic music that melds together into a low chaos. Jezebel weaves through the taxi's and the rest of the galabayas. Low flying shipping drones buzz overhead, avoiding each other and fighting for lanes like bees fighting over a dead flower. An advertisement drone scans Jezebel and gets a glimpse of her white skin beneath her brown hijab. It populates an ad for skin care products. She walks through the projection onto the sidewalk and past several food vendors for shawarma.

Jezebel is seeking a special treat that no street vendor can provide.

As with all underground sexual activity in an oppressed country, the taboo clubs are never broadcasted on the neural nets or even on the old internets. She holds the name of the club and its location in her head. She repeats it to herself as she heads in between two apartment buildings off of the main boulevard.

Club Spirit. Beneath the Graveyard of Angels.

As told during an illegal party with her friend Thea, she's assured that such talk is always legitimate among the pluggers. They show their implants and the colors on their necks and skulls at the party as a sign of faith to the rest. And they have more information offline than they do in their heads.

The discussion with the Arab with the purple and blue implants stuck out in her mind. Through the smoke of shisha, Jezebel revealed her fantasy and what she seeks. The plugger took out the pipe from his mouth and let the smoke billow around his face to hide his lips.

"You seek the mediator," he says.

He puffs more smoke and blows down between them on the low chairs and broken table. The smoke hides his hands as he passes a card with the QR code. Thea says to look at it later, to remember the information when it comes up, as it only does it once.

And now, walking among a crowded passageway between two rising apartment buildings she recalls the instructions to find the mediator.

For Ramadan, the mediator will be holding open consults at Club Spirit. Find the entrance under the Graveyard of the Angels. Its keepers stand guard before a bed of purple lotus. Accept the shot to the mouth, and speak no more about within.

The walkway is wide with untended beds of flowers. Some shops show white neon light flickering as she walks past. Kids play together in the dark. Jezebel passes them looking into the flower beds, moving deeper into the complex of apartments and away from the crowds.

One shop at the next block is all neon purple. The flower bed in front of it looks out of place. It's filled with water, like a small pond. Within are lily pads and small purple lotus flowers. She looks up at the shop.

It's a shop for knock off genie souvenirs for tourists.

She steps inside the shop. It's crowded with wooden ornaments, cheap plastic toys, noisy spinners, and tacky music. She goes deeper into the shop and finds the owner at his desk in the back. He wears a touristy looking genie costume of a genie. When he sees her, he opens his arms and gives a big fake laugh.

"How are you my friend," he says in English. "What can I get for you? What are you looking for?" he asks.

"The keeper who guards the graveyard of the angels," she says.

Jezebel removes her facemask and takes off her hijab. The man's fake persona fades immediately.

He puts up a finger, then quickly heads to the back and returns with a crystal shot glass and a clear bottle. He pours it and hands it to her. Jezebel can smell the expensive vodka and it reminds her of Boulder City.

She drinks it and puts the shot glass back on the table. She goes to say more, but the Arab shop owner puts a finger to his lips and motions her to the back.

The shelves are close together and packed with odd scarves and products stacked to the ceiling. He leads her around a corner to an additional room, also packed with products. In the middle there is a chair and a carpet.

"I assume you have your entry fee," he asks.

Jezebel fishes the card with the QR code and shows it to him. He takes it, then pulls back the carpet to reveal a faded green steel door with a latch. He pulls it open.

There's a smell of marijuana and beer that comes up. A heavy thud of music pulses deep below.

"Thank you my angel," she says in Arabic. The man smiles and holds out his hand to help her climb down the ladder into the club below.

#

The stairwell is narrow with stone steps smoothed and worn over. She gripped tight as she descended down a spiraling staircase. The further she descends, the louder the music becomes. The smell of standing water combined with weed and alcohol gives off an aroma of an ancient past.

She walks into an ancient Cistern with modern angel statues as pillars. The arches and stone walls are close in. There's a small dance floor filled with people dressed in black latex BDSM garments and women in lingerie with white angel wings. A bar is along the wall with groups of people sipping ginger beer and cocktails. Couches and chairs line the outer levels with perfect views of the dancefloor.

Jezebel lets her red hair down out of her bun. She removes her galabaya to reveal a short red skirt with knee high leather boots. Several people take notice of her as she walks down. Some HUD heads have special glass visors to mask themselves. Others are pluggers that show special neon colors on their necks and in their eyes. The rest are BDSM wearers who's eye contacts shine with red and white flashes. She scans the eyes of these patrons as they look at her, while she looks for the mediator.

Look for a large man with white hair and a generous waistline. He looks as if he could be your long lost uncle, she hears her friend Thea's voice in her head. And it doesn't take long to find the plain clothes man sitting in the corner with a shisha pipe and tea.

She walks across the platforms to him.

"I hear you're a man who deals in trust," Jezebel says to him.

The man takes a long drag of the pipe, nods, and offers her a seat. Jezebel scoots into the booth of plush leather as he lets the smoke curl over the glass table. He leans in so she can hear him over the music. He introduces himself as Omar. They exchange greetings and small talk at first. After the waiter leaves with her order, he leans in closer. She smells of sour-apple candy and smoke.

"What kind of deal are you looking for my friend Jezebel," asks Omar.

"The darkest kind," she says.

"Ah," he says, setting down his pipe. "Another one. Are you a friend of Thea?"

Jezebel nods and feels herself getting wet as she recalls Thea's story. The satisfaction of safety combined with her darkest desire of being captured stuck with her for weeks. She even touched herself to it several times before her own desire for such an encounter grew.

Now, she has the same itch that needs to be scratched.

"She told me that you can make sure I'm safe for these... Encounters," she says.

"That's correct. I have many resources. And many of them have safety in mind, just as I do. Tell me about what you desire. Your wish is my command... For a price of course," he says smiling. The smoke curls up around him as Jezebel recounts her fantasy.

When she finishes, Omar looks up from his notes and then across the dancefloor to the other side of the room.

"Ah, my friend Jezebel. You are in luck. The ghost you seek is haunting here this evening."

#

Jezebel stands at the bar feeling the vodka fighting her nervousness. She takes another shot and tries not to look over to the booth of the Mediator. But she can't help herself.

The HUD Head sits in the booth with Omar. He's tall with a square set of shoulders that lean against the table as he speaks with Omar. Wearing a black suit with a black shirt and tie, he melts into the darkness of the club despite the dancing lights. The neon underlay of his clothing pulses between red and blue light under his suit jacket.

Then suddenly, he turns toward Jezebel. His overlay turns to a ghostface. It's a skull of white that moves like smoldering smoke. It smiles. And it makes Jezebel get so wet she has to catch her breath.

Her retina HUD flashes a call. It's from Omar.

"Are you ready?" she sees in orange text from him.

"Yes. I want to do this," she texts back.

"So does he. Here are your instructions."

#

Jezebel has the instructions seared in her brain the moment that Omar feeds them to her. But she records the notes and has the text pop up on her retina hud as she steps out of a taxi down Al Matar street. It's jammed with celebration and neon lights.

'Take a taxi to Al Amtar and Bashtel and start walking north east. At any time you wish, take a left on any street. Feel free to give your hunter a chase to work for his... capture.'

Jezebel feels her skin tingle beneath her hijab as she looks around. There are throngs of people walking arm in arm, going in and out of shops, and weaving through traffic. She looks to see if her Ghostface hunter is around, but she only sees a few HUD heads. She starts her walk north east.

The boulevard is lined with everyday shops for the locals. Erahabs HUD store is filled with people trying on new faceplates. Jahadas footwear is filled with teens arguing over price of the latest Nikes with auto laces. Women come out of a store, linked arm in arm wearing black niqabs, all black eyes shifting over the eastern style clothing of last decade. Delivery drones wizz overhead and add to the buzz of the city street.

Jezebel weaves through the people, finding herself walking at an increasingly brisk pace. She starts to sweat and feels a nervous fear rising with her excitement. It's been more than a year since she's felt the wanted touch of a man. Much more, feeling wanted to the point that someone would go out of their way for her. But here, in the Old City of Cairo, such advances are only in the form of harassment by creepy old men.

Which are exactly the kind of men that she is about to pass sitting outside a tea house garage.

The Arab men in off colored galabayas and dirty sandals see her and begin to whistle. One gets up and stands in front of her.

"Welcome to Egypt. You visiting?" the ruffian old man asks her. She goes to pass but he puts a lazy arm out.

"I live here. I'm not a tourist," she says in Arabic. But the man continues to speak in English.

"Oh, your Arabic is very good. Where from? New York?" he says.

The rest of the men get up and surround her, cutting off her exit. Jezebel tries to push past their arms, but all they do is make attempts to grab her breasts. She recoils and pushes them off.

"Come have tea. Sit," one says.

"I'm not thirsty. I have somewhere I have to be," she says in Arabic.

"Right here!" says a younger man in the group referencing their tea table. He grabs her ass. She swats it. They all laugh at her.

But Jezebel's blood drains from her face as she sees the tall Ghostface hunter marching toward her. He strides forward like a man hungry with purpose, knowing that his prize is within his sights.

She takes a hot glass of tea off of the table nearest to her and throws it in the ruffian's face. He shouts in pain, and then she pushes him, making him land straight on his back.

The rest of the crew shouts and goes to restrain her. But she avoids their grasps and jumps over the man, then breaks into a run.

The commotion she causes makes the sound of the surrounding city rise with Arabic curse words and shouts. She's panting, adrenaline running, and now feeling frantic. She looks over her left shoulder as she turns up one of the streets to try and get a glimpse of her hunter.

And among the movement and chaos of all of the people, only one figure stands firm and unmoving.

The man with the Ghostface swirls with a sinister smile.

A cold shrill of goosebumps climbs up her body as she brings her walk pace down to a brisk walk, heading north towards sets of apartment blocks with little alleys every twenty feet. The instructions of Omar populate her eyes, detecting her turn. The words are orange and glow against the dark dirty street.

'Keep your chase going until you hit El-Qudse El Shareef street. Your hunter will most likely catch up with you. He will taunt you and try to scare you. A delight for both of you, it seems.'

The shops change to street vendors. The smell of kebabs on heaters and salted peppers waft into her face as she walks down the dirty street. As the crowd becomes sparse as she walks, Jezebel looks over her shoulder.

An advertisement drone puts forth a vacation getaway to Sharm El-Sheik, showing blue waves and a beach.

Then the Ghostface in the dark suit marches through it, unwavering, with his hands in his pockets. The advertisement goes dark and leaves his face shining out in the dark. There's an intent in his walk. It makes Jezebel squirm and stammer over herself, almost losing her footing and crashing into a few people. She takes a left into a row of low shops to try and lose him.

In a women's clothing shop, she steps through the isles of clear shelving and bright white lights. Women take garments and hold them up to mirrors set around the store. Jezebel tucks behind one of the shelves at the end of the store, feeling her heart thud in her chest. She tries to breathe, but it does nothing to calm her down. The adrenaline from the chase reeves her up.

I've got to get to El Shareff, she says to herself.

As she prepares to exit the store, she freezes as she sees Ghostface walk by the store. She figures she can double back and fly up another ally to try and lose him. She exits and looks to her left, but doesn't see him.

She rounds into the ally, continuing to seek out the direction he went, only to run into someone.

Jezebel feels a firm gloved hand take her wrist and her vision is bathed in a white glow. She looks up to see Ghostface towering over her. The skull face smiles then lets out an electronic evil laugh.

"If I catch you again, I'm going to fuck you," he says in a garbled voice.

She gives a sharp scream at his words as she stammers back, fighting off the Ghostface trying to hold her. He gropes her and she feels an excitement as his gloved hand fondles her chest. His strength is apparent and overpowering.

"Oh a little fight in you. I like that," he says. He takes her by the writs and continues to laugh as she fights.

Eventually she slaps his hands away, stumbling back the direction she came and feeling more wet at the prospect of his power later.

As she runs up the street, she continues to hear the electronic laughter coming from his HUD.

'When you cannot go further north and reach El Shareff, head north west. Your hunter will time his capture so that he takes you right outside his place.'

The case leaves Jezebel feeling hot, bothered, and full of adrenaline. By the time she reaches El Shareff, she almost forgets which way she's supposed to turn. A panic starts to rise within her, feeling that her stalker is somehow close and can now be around any corner she might pass.

She is very well beyond the party streets, now finding herself walking among dark houses with very few street lights. The occasional corporate drone and trash cleaning robot litter the sidewalk, and she steps over the rubbish and gravel as she constantly looks around. As she walks, less people walk by. Less cars drive by. And the street becomes quiet. All she can hear is her heart beating in her chest and her boots clicking along the sidewalk.

And then she hears the laugh of the Ghostface.

Jezebel's startled scream echoes against the homes and mixes with the ghostly evil laugh. She looks among the crumbling buildings and the steel doors of the apartment buildings. But she sees no one.

Out of the corner of her eye, she see's movement.

She whips around to see the last motion of a dark figure receding into an open lobby of a broken entryway. She backs up, unsure as to if it might be him. She turns and continues to walk up, feeling the adrenaline pooling into her sex drive and making her engine rev.

But the fear and doubt suddenly start to grip her mind. The orange flash of text is in her head, but she brings up Omars instructions anyway.

'The bartender will hand you a security ring. This will broadcast your location to me and my security detail at all times. So long as it is on your finger, you are signaling to us that you are in play. But the moment it comes off, the scene is over. Your stalker will know this, and he has vowed to follow it. However, the disadvantage that you have is...

Your location is being broadcasted to him to make it easy for him to hunt you.'

She feels the ring on her index finger.

Keep going, she says to herself.

She walks a little further and feels tired from her adrenaline rushes. She stops by a wall with a steel door leading into the back of a large apartment building. She bends over, her lungs burn from running and takes long gulps of air. Her feet hurt from being in boots and she tries to lean on the wall to give them some reprieve. And now worn with the chase and the concoction of natural chemicals in her system, she feels all but worn out, almost unable to continue running.

Her logic connects to her predicament.

This is exactly what he's trying to do. Make me weak and unable to resist him.

And her stalling costs her the chase.

#

'As per your request, he will be rough. The hard limit list you have given is clear and he has acknowledged this. You will find this man to be very powerful. And when he catches you outside of his home, he intends to use all force to take you inside.'

The steel door to the large apartment bangs open with a kick. Jezebel startles and screams, stammering her feet as she turns.

The Ghostface is on her in less than two strides.

"Got you, you little brat," he says.

He engulfs her in a bear hug strong enough to be a vice. She tries to smack him and scream. But a black gloved hand grabs her by the neck and forces her against the wall. She yelped, then looked at Ghostface as he brought his glass HUD close to her face. His following words made her entire body vibrate with anticipation and excitement.

"I told you that if I caught you, I'm going to fuck you," he says.

Jezebel feels her strength leaving her as she turns her toward the wall and grabs her by the hair. He lifts up her galbaya and exposes her skirt. She yelps as he pulls it up over her waist with a quick motion, exposing her bare ass in a pretty pink thong.

The Ghostface spanks her, making her yelp out in pain and pleasure. He goes in again several times, making her ass start to warm red in the cold night. He keeps pressure on her head against the wall, and Jezebel moans more with each strike on her cheeks.

The Ghostface comes close to her, the bright glow of the face next to hers.

"Now, are you going to be a good girl for your new Daddy?" he asks her.

"Yes!" she yells, feeling her ass reddening to the point that she could barely take it. She feels ready to do anything for her Ghostface captor.

She stopped struggling. He turned her around, pressing her into his body. He smelled of smoke and leather.

"That's a good girl," he says.

Jezebel's knees go weak at the maddeningly delightful prospect of her capture and ready to be used. He picks her up with ease and walks her into the steel door, slamming it shut.

Jezebel is more wet than she's ever been in her life.

#

His apartment is dark, save for his HUD giving a soft white glow. He throws her on the couch and Jezebel shakes with anticipation. He looms over her, his skull face still smoldering, looking at her cower in fear. He folds his arms.