Chapter 11: The Desert Yes

The Sahara stretched endless before us, a sea of golden dunes rippling under a relentless Moroccan sun, the air shimmering with heat as Coco and I swayed atop our camels. The trek had started at dawn—me in a loose shirt and shorts, her in a flowing skirt and tank, her silver-threaded mane tucked under a scarf—our guides leading us through the sands, the camels’ lurching gait rocking us against their humps, their coarse hair chafing my thighs. The desert was silent but alive—wind whispering over crests, the occasional grunt of our beasts, Coco’s laugh cutting through as she gripped the saddle, her tanned skin glowing with sweat.

“Fuck, Ginger, this beats Rio’s chaos,” she said, grinning, and I nodded, my freckled face burning, the vastness sinking into my bones.

We arrived at a Bedouin encampment as dusk bled orange across the sky—tents of woven wool clustered around a fire pit, the camels snorting as handlers led them away to a makeshift corral, their silhouettes fading into the sands. The camp buzzed with life—rugs spread over the ground, lanterns flickering, the scent of cumin and roasted lamb wafting from a clay oven.

Dinner came with belly dancers—lithe women in silk, hips shimmying to a oud’s wail, coins jingling on their skirts, bare midriffs glistening. Coco leaned close, her breath hot on my ear. “Think they’d fuck as good as they dance?” she teased, sipping mint tea, her eyes glinting over the rim.

I smirked, tearing flatbread, the firelight dancing on her tawny skin. “Not as good as you. Bet their pussies don’t drip like yours.”

She laughed, low and dirty, her hand brushing my thigh under the table. “Keep talking, big guy—I’d ride you harder than that camel,” she purred, nodding at a dancer’s swaying ass. “Maybe let ‘em watch.”

“Saucy minx,” I growled, my cock twitching. “I’d bend you over right here—show ‘em how it’s done.”

The dancers twirled, oblivious, but her grin widened, her fingers grazing my bulge. “Save it for the tent,” she whispered. “Gonna make you sweat more than this desert.”

Dinner faded, the fire dimming, and we slipped to our tent—a low, canvas dome with a thick rug floor, a mattress piled with blankets, lanterns casting a golden haze. Coco kicked off her sandals, skirt swishing, and pulled her vapor pen from her bag.

“Hit?” she offered.

I shook my head, watching her take a deep drag. The mist curled from her lips, her body softening—languid, like molten bronze, her shoulders slumping, eyes half-lidded.

“Fuck, this feels good,” she murmured, voice slow, husky, a lazy smile spreading. She stretched, tank riding up, her nipples poking through, and I saw it—horny as hell, her breath quickening, her gaze locking on me, eager, needy.

“Ginger,” she drawled, crawling closer, “I’m so fucking wet—want you bad.”

I groaned, shedding my shirt, the desert heat clinging to my freckled skin. “You’re killing me,” I said, pulling her onto the mattress, her skirt hiked—no panties, her pussy a pink, glistening jewel framed by that soft, curly triangle, already dripping onto the blankets.

She yanked my shorts down, my cock springing free—thick, veined, red bush wild—and straddled me, rubbing her slick slit against me, teasing, marking.

“Unh unh,” she gasped, languid but desperate, her vapor-high making her grind slow, sinuous.