The ruins of Babylon (2007)

Dr. Christine "Christy" Quinn shifted uncomfortably on her knees, the desert heat pressing down on her like a suffocating blanket. She glanced down at herself, her white linen shirt practically translucent now, plastered to her skin like a second layer. She could see the outline of her bra—white lace because even in the middle of nowhere, she refused to let go of every shred of dignity—and the faint shadow of her nipples, hard from the cool breeze that occasionally cut through the oppressive heat. Her khakis clung to her thighs and ass, the fabric stretched tight over her curves. "I might as well be naked," she thought with a wry smirk. The desert wasn't concerned about modesty, and neither did the gods whose temple she was excavating.

She glimpsed Mo out of the corner of her eye, his gaze lingering a little too long on her backside. Again. He was always leering at her, his eyes darting away whenever she turned to face him. It was almost comical how predictable he was. Creepy, yes, but predictable. She sighed, brushing a strand of damp hair from her forehead. Mo was useful—he knew the area better than anyone else on the team—but his constant staring was wearing on her patience. She could feel his eyes on her now, burning hotter than the sun.n.

“Get a grip, Mo,” she muttered under her breath, though she knew he couldn’t hear her over the wind. “You’re not fooling anyone.”

She shifted again, this time deliberately turning her back to him, giving him a full view of her ass as she bent over the cuneiform shards. If he wanted to stare, she might as well give him something to look at. The thought made her smirk widen. Let him squirm. Her purpose wasn't to be his fantasy.

Her fingers traced the inscriptions again, the ancient symbols seeming to pulse under her touch. The ritual described in these fragments was unlike anything she’d ever encountered before. It spoke of union—of flesh and divinity, of pleasure and power. The words were explicit, almost erotic in their detail, and Christy couldn’t help but feel a shiver run down her spine as she read them. Was this what her predecessors had felt when they first discovered these texts? This heady mix of awe and desire?

She glanced back at Mo, who quickly looked away, pretending to be engrossed in his notes. “Creep,” she thought again, but there was no real venom in it. He was harmless—just another man who couldn’t handle a woman who knew what she wanted. And Christy wanted this. She wanted it more than anything.

Her notebook lay open beside her, its pages filled with sketches and translations that were starting to form a coherent picture. The ritual was complex, requiring not just knowledge but courage—a willingness to embrace the unknown, to surrender to forces greater than oneself. Christy’s heart raced at the thought. She had never been one to shy away from danger, but this… this was something else.

The wind picked up again, carrying with it the faint scent of incense and something else—something metallic, like blood. Christy frowned, scanning the horizon once more. Secrets filled the desert, and not all of them lay buried in the sand.

She turned back to the shards, her fingers trembling as she traced the symbols again. “I’m close,” she thought. “So close.”

And as the sun dipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the temple ruins, Christine Quinn prepared herself for what was to come—not just for Mo’s lecherous gaze or the oppressive heat of the desert, but for something far greater. Something that would shape everything.

“Let them stare,” she thought with a defiant grin. “I’m not here for them.”

The Sandstorm

The sun sunk low on the horizon, casting long, golden shadows across the ancient ruins. Christy stood slowly, brushing sand from her cargo pants and linen shirt with brisk strokes. Her hands glide over her breasts almost unconsciously as they sweep away grit; even through fabric and exhaustion, she feels a spark ignite low in her belly.

The thought crosses her mind: Later. Later tonight, when camp is quiet and the others are asleep, she’ll find a moment for herself. She’ll slip into her tent, the canvas walls thin but enough to muffle the sounds she might make. She’ll lie back on her cot, her fingers already itching to slide between her thighs. Her cunt is wet just thinking about it, the ache building as her clit throbs with anticipation.

She’ll tease herself first, circling that sensitive little nub until she’s trembling, until she can’t stand it anymore. Then she’ll push two fingers inside, fucking herself slow and deep, imagining it’s not her hand but something—or someone—else. The thought makes her bite her lip, her breath hitching as she imagines how good it will feel to cum, to let that tension finally break.

But she’s not ready to stop—not yet. She looks around and suddenly sees a shadow that doesn’t belong.

Another fragment. Buried just beneath the surface.

Her fingers trembled as they brush over the jagged edge of the clay tablet. The flickering light of her oil lamp dances across its surface, illuminating the cuneiform script carved with precision into the baked earth. Her breath catches in her throat as her eyes lock onto the name etched into the center of the fragment: Ishtar. The name of the goddess herself, bold and unyielding, surrounded by symbols that twist and coil like serpents.

“This… this can’t be,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the rustle of the desert wind. She traced the symbols with trembling fingers, her mind racing to piece together their meaning. The tablet feels warm under her touch, as if it’s alive, pulsing with a faint, otherworldly energy.

Her team’s voices drift from the camp behind her, but she barely hears them. The world narrows to the tablet and the secrets it holds. She flips through her journal, pages filled with notes and sketches, until she finds a passage that matches the symbols before her. Her pulse quickens.

“The ritual,” she mutters, her voice low and urgent. “It’s here. It’s real.”

The symbols form a pattern she recognizes—a sequence tied to offerings, to union, to power. Her chest tightens as she reads further, her lips moving silently as she deciphers the ancient script. The words speak of desire, of surrender, of a connection that transcends flesh and bone.

Her hands shook as she sets the tablet down and reaches for her brush, carefully clearing more sand from around it. The light from her lamp flickered, casting long shadows that seem to shift and writhe on ancient temple walls. She pauses, glancing up, but there’s nothing there—just the wind and the endless expanse of desert.

She turns back to the tablet, her focus razor-sharp. “This is proof,” she murmurs, her voice tinged with awe and something darker—something hungry.

The sound of footsteps pulls her from her thoughts. She looks up to see one of her team members approaching, his face etched with concern.

“Dr. Quinn? We’re about to pack up for the night. There's a storm forecasted. You coming?”

Christy hesitated, her gaze flicking back to the tablet. “Not yet,” she says finally, her voice firm. “There’s more here. I need to see this through.”

The man shifts uneasily, glancing at the shadows creeping across the ruins. “It’s getting late, and the wind is picking up. Maybe we should⁠—”

“Go ahead without me,” she interrupts, already turning back to the tablet. “I’ll catch up.”

He hesitated, but finally nods, retreating toward camp. Christy barely noticed his departure. Her world narrows once more to the tablet and its secrets. She picks up her brush again, her movements precise and deliberate as she uncovers more of the inscription.

The wind picks up, carrying with it a faint, almost melodic hum that seems to resonate through the ruins. Christy shivered, but doesn’t look up. Her heart pounds in her chest as she works, each stroke of her brush revealing more of the ancient script.

And then she saw it—a symbol she’s only ever seen in fragments before. It’s larger than the others, more intricate, with lines that spiral inward like a vortex. Her breath hitches as she recognizes it: the mark of Ishtar’s power.

Her fingers hover over the symbol, trembling slightly. She knows what this means—what it could mean for her work, for her life. For everything.

The wind now howls around her, but Christy doesn’t flinch. Her eyes remain locked on the tablet, on the symbol that seems to pulse with a life of its own.

“I’ve found you,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the roar of the wind.

The calling

Christy’s hand moved feverishly across the page of her journal, the charcoal stick smudging as she sketches the intricate symbol etched into the ancient tablet. The wind howls around her, whipping sand against her exposed skin like tiny lashes. Her crop top clings to her sweat-drenched body, and her cargo pants are heavy with the weight of the storm. She doesn’t care. She’s close—so close to deciphering the ritual that has consumed her for years.

The wind dies abruptly, leaving an oppressive silence in its wake. Christy paused, her breath ragged, and looks up. The desert stretches endlessly before her, the dunes frozen in time. Her camp is a distant speck on the horizon, barely visible through the haze. She’s alone.

And then she heard it.

Come.

The voice is faint, a whisper carried on a breeze that doesn’t exist. It’s soft, almost melodic, but there’s an edge to it—a hunger that sends a shiver down her spine. Christy froze, her heart pounding in her chest. She glances around, but there’s no one. Just the endless expanse of sand and stone.

Come.

This time, the voice is louder, more insistent. It’s not in her ears—it’s in her mind, a primal pull that coils low in her belly and spreads like wildfire through her veins. Her body responds before her mind can catch up; her nipples harden against the fabric of her top, and a slick heat pools between her thighs. She feels it—the call of something ancient, something divine.

She rose to her feet, clutching the tablet to her chest. Her journal slipped from her grasp and falls to the sand, forgotten. The air around her shifts, charged with an electric energy that makes her skin prickle. The hairs on her arms stand on end, and a faint hum vibrates through the ground beneath her boots—a sound so low it feels more like a tremor in her bones than something she hears.

Christy turns slowly, her breath catching in her throat. Where there was once nothing but endless desert, a structure now looms—massive and impossibly ancient. The temple rises from the sand as if it has always been there, its shadowed entrance framed by towering columns carved with figures locked in acts of worship and sexual ecstasy. The stone glows faintly in the moonlight, its surface shimmering as though coated in a thin layer of oil. It’s not just a building; it’s alive, pulsing with a rhythm that matches the frantic beat of her heart.

The columns are impossibly tall, their surfaces etched with intricate reliefs that seem to shift and writhe as she looks at them. Figures of men and women, gods and mortals, intertwine in scenes of devotion and debauchery—bodies arched in ecstasy, mouths open in silent cries of pleasure or pain.

Christy’s breath hitches as she steps closer, her eyes drawn to the carvings. They aren’t static; they move, pulsing with a life of their own, as though the stone itself is alive.

Her gaze lingered on one particularly vivid scene: a woman sprawled across an altar, her head thrown back in rapture as two men—one mortal, one divine—take her simultaneously. The man behind her grips her hips, his cock buried deep in her ass, while the god before her thrusts into her pussy with relentless force. The woman’s mouth is open in a silent scream, her hands clutching at the god’s thighs as though desperate to anchor herself to the pleasure coursing through her. Christy felt a flush of heat spread through her body, her nipples hardening against the fabric of her top and her pussy throbbing with need.

Another carving caught her eye—a man on his knees before another man, his mouth stretched wide around a thick cock. His hands grip the other man’s hips, pulling him deeper as he swallows him eagerly.

The detail is so explicit that Christy can almost hear the wet sounds of their coupling, the low groans of pleasure echoing in her mind. Her lips part instinctively, and she presses her thighs together to quell the ache building between them.

The walls seem to close in around her; the carvings growing more explicit with every step she takes. A group of women writhe together on a raised platform, their hands and mouths exploring each other’s bodies with abandon. One woman kneels between another’s legs, her tongue flicking over her clit as she moans into her wetness. Another woman straddles her partner’s face, grinding against her mouth as she reaches back to spread herself wider.

Christy’s heart pounded in her chest as she traced the carvings with trembling fingers. The stone felt warm beneath her touch, almost alive, and she can’t help but imagine what it would feel like to be one of those figures—lost in a sea of pleasure, surrendering to the power that binds them all together. Her pussy clenches at the thought, slick with arousal, and she presses a hand between her legs to ease the ache.

But it isn’t just the carvings that draw her in; it’s the presence she feels watching her—something ancient and powerful, coiled deep within the temple’s walls. Ishtar? The name echoes in her mind like a whisper, sending a shiver down her spine.

The goddess is here, Christy realizes with a thrill of fear and excitement. She can feel her gaze like a physical touch—hot and heavy against her skin—and it only makes her body burn hotter.

The air grows thicker with every step she takes, heavy with the scent of sex and sweat and something metallic—like blood or rusted iron. The whispers return, louder now—a chorus of voices that echo through the chamber like a hymn sung by invisible worshippers. They speak in a language she doesn’t understand, but their meaning is clear:

Come. Surrender.

Christy’s boots crunch against the sand as she crossed the threshold into darkness. Her lamp flickers weakly, casting erratic shadows on the walls.

Come to me.

The voice is inside her now, reverberating through every fiber of her being. Her cunt throbs with need, aching for something she can’t name. She presses a hand between her legs, biting back a moan as pleasure ripples through her. The temple hums around her, a low vibration that resonates in her bones and makes her knees weak.

She stumbled deeper into the labyrinthine halls, guided by an instinct she doesn’t understand. The walls press closer, their carvings growing more explicit—depictions of sacred rites that blur the line between worship and debauchery. Christy’s breath quickens as she traces one with trembling fingers: a woman on her knees, head thrown back in ecstasy as a god looms above her.

“Power,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “Through union. Through… offering.”

The clay tablet grew warm in her hands, its surface pulsing faintly, as though alive. She presses it against her chest, feeling its heat seep into her skin. Her body responds instinctively; she arches her back, letting out a soft moan as the sensation spreads through her like liquid fire.

The chamber ahead glowed faintly, illuminated by an otherworldly light that dances across the walls. Christy steps inside, her pulse racing as she takes in the scene before her: a massive altar carved from black stone, its surface slick with something dark and glistening. The air is thick with the scent of sweat and sex, and the walls seem to throb with a rhythm that matches the pounding of her heart.

She sets the tablet on the altar and steps back, her breath coming in shallow gasps. The voice is louder now—a chorus of whispers that coil around her like tendrils of smoke.

Surrender.

Christy shuddered as the word echoes through her mind. Her hands move of their own accord, pulling off her clothes until she stands naked before the altar. Her skin glistens with sweat in the dim light, and she feels exposed—vulnerable—in a way that makes her pussy ache with need.

She climbed onto the altar and lies back, spreading her legs wide. The stone is cool against her heated skin, sending a shiver through her body. She closes her eyes and lets out a soft moan as she trails a hand down her stomach to cup herself between her legs.

“I surrender,” she whispers.

The temple responded instantly; the whispers grew louder, more insistent, until they fill every corner of her mind. She feels it then—a presence pressing against her skin like a lover’s touch. Her hips buck involuntarily as pleasure crashes over her in waves.

And then everything goes dark.

Later

Mo stumbled through the ruins hours later, his flashlight cutting through the oppressive darkness. The storm had passed, leaving an eerie calm in its wake. He calls out for Christy again and again, his voice growing hoarse with desperation.

He finds her journal first, its pages fluttering in the faint breeze. He picked it up with trembling hands and flips through it quickly; pages filled with sketches of the temple’s carvings—figures entwined in ecstasy, their bodies merging with symbols of power and divinity.

“Dr. Quinn!” he shouts again as he looks around the patch of desert where Christy had been working earlier today—or was it yesterday? Time seemed meaningless here among these ancient stones.

But there’s no answer—just silence. Christy is gone and so is the tablet. And all that remains are whispers carried on desert winds… and secrets buried deep within Babylon’s ruins.

Mitchells' room (present day)

Mitchell Dewar’s dorm room reeked of cheap cologne and unwashed laundry. Sahara Quinn wrinkled her nose as she stepped inside, her cargo pants slung low on her hips and her white crop top clinging to her skin. The room was a mess—clothes strewn across the floor, empty beer bottles cluttering the desk, and a faint smell of weed lingering in the air. On his bed, Mitchell lay sprawled, his tailored blazer discarded on a chair, his signature smirk plastered on his face.

“You’re late,” he said, his tone dripping with arrogance.

“I’m right on time,” Sahara replied dryly, glancing at her watch. She had exactly twenty minutes before her presentation, and this wouldn’t take long.

Mitchell chuckled and sat up, running a hand through his perfectly tousled hair. “You know,” he said, his voice dropping to a low purr, “most women would kill for a chance to be with me.”

“Most women have terrible taste,” Sahara shot back without missing a beat.

He laughed again, clearly amused by her indifference. “Come here,” he said, patting the bed beside him.

Sahara rolled her eyes but obliged, stepping closer. She didn’t sit down. Instead, she dropped to her knees in front of him, her movements deliberate and unhurried. Mitchell’s smirk widened as he leaned back against the headboard, clearly enjoying the view.

“You know,” he said, his tone smug, “you could at least pretend to enjoy it.”

“I could,” Sahara replied, her voice flat. “But where’s the fun in that?”

She reached for his belt, unbuckling it with practiced ease. Mitchell groaned softly as she freed him from his pants, his hands gripping the edge of the bed. Sahara didn’t waste time—she took him into her mouth without hesitation, her movements efficient but not particularly gentle.

Mitchell groaned again, louder this time, and Sahara resisted the urge to roll her eyes. He was predictable—eager, clumsy, and entirely too pleased with himself. She focused on the task at hand, her mind already drifting to the presentation she had to give in less than twenty minutes.

It didn’t take long. Mitchell’s breath hitched, and his hands tightened on the edge of the bed as he came, his body shuddering with release. Sahara pulled away almost immediately, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand before standing up.

“Done?” she asked, arching an eyebrow.

Mitchell looked up at her, his chest heaving and his face flushed. “You’re… incredible,” he panted, clearly trying to recover some semblance of dignity.

“Yeah, yeah,” Sahara muttered, stepping around him to grab a tissue from the desk. She wiped herself off quickly before tossing the tissue into a nearby trash can. “Gotta go. I have a presentation to give.”

Mitchell blinked, clearly taken aback by her abrupt dismissal, but he didn’t argue. He sat up slowly, adjusting his pants and running a hand through his hair in a vain attempt to look composed. “You know,” he said as she turned to leave, his voice tinged with a mix of arrogance and desperation, “we could go for round two. I’m just getting started.”

Sahara paused at the door, her hand resting on the handle. She turned back to him, her lips curling into a smirk that was equal parts mocking and amused. “Round two?” she repeated, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “Mitchell, you’ve never been ready for round two. Don’t embarrass yourself.”

His face flushed, a mix of irritation and humiliation flickering across his features. “That’s not—I mean, I could⁠—”

She didn’t wait for him to continue. Instead, she grabbed her bag and strode out of the room, slamming the door behind her. The hallway was quiet as she made her way toward the lecture hall, her mind already shifting gears. She had worked too hard on this paper to let anything—or anyone—distract her.

The Presentation

The lecture hall filled quickly as Sahara began setting up her slides. Students and faculty poured in, their chatter filling the room with a low hum of anticipation. Sahara stood at the podium, her stack of notes in front of her and a laser pointer in hand. Her demeanor had shifted entirely—gone was the sharp-tongued woman who had just sent Mitchell packing; in her place stood a confident scholar ready to defend her work.

The title slide appeared on the screen behind her: “Erotic Rituals in Ancient Mesopotamia: A Reexamination of Ishtar’s Temple.” A murmur rippled through the audience as they read it.

Sahara cleared her throat and began. “People have long dismissed the temple of Ishtar,” she said, her voice steady and commanding, “as a site of mere sexual indulgence—a brothel masquerading as a place of worship.” But my research suggests that this interpretation is not only reductive but incorrect.”

A few audible gasps and murmurs broke out in the audience. Sahara ignored them and clicked to the next slide, which showed an intricate carving of Ishtar surrounded by worshippers. “These rituals,” she continued, “were not about pleasure. They were about power.”

A hand shot up in the front row. It was Dr. Margaret Hargrove, a senior archaeologist known for her rigid adherence to traditional interpretations. “Ms. Quinn,” she interrupted, her tone sharp, “are you seriously suggesting that these so-called ‘rituals’ were anything more than glorified prostitution?”

Sahara met her gaze without flinching. “I’m suggesting that they were a form of sacred communion,” she replied coolly. “Ishtar was not just a goddess of love; she was also a goddess of war and fertility. Her temples were places where mortal desires intersected with divine will. The rituals performed there were acts of devotion—and conduits for accessing divine power.”

Another voice chimed in—this time from the back of the room. “This is absurd,” scoffed Professor Jameson, a wiry man with a perpetual scowl. “You’re romanticizing what was clearly a commercial enterprise.”

Sahara clicked to the next slide, which displayed excerpts from ancient cuneiform texts. “These texts,” she said, her voice rising slightly, “describe sexual acts as offerings to Ishtar, each one designed to unlock a different aspect of the goddess’s power. They speak of ecstasy not as an end in itself but to connect with the divine.”

“Ecstasy?” someone muttered derisively.

“Yes, ecstasy,” Sahara shot back, her tone cutting through the room like a blade. “The kind that comes from surrendering oneself to something greater.”

The room erupted into a cacophony of voices.

“This is conjecture at best!” Dr. Hargrove snapped.

“You’re projecting modern sensibilities onto ancient practices!” Professor Jameson added.

Sahara held up a hand, silencing them—at least temporarily. She clicked to the next slide, which showed a diagram of Ishtar’s temple alongside modern interpretations of its layout. “Let’s look at the evidence,” she said firmly. “The temple’s architecture alone suggests something far more complex than a brothel. The arrangement of the chambers mirrors the cycles of nature—birth, death, and rebirth—reflecting the duality of Ishtar herself.

“Duality?” someone sneered.

“Yes,” Sahara said, her voice steady despite the growing tension in the room. “Ishtar was both creator and destroyer, lover and warrior. The rituals performed in her honor harnessed these dual forces—not for personal gratification but for spiritual transformation.”

Another hand shot up—this time from a young graduate student who looked both nervous and intrigued. “But how do you reconcile that with the fact that many of these rituals involved… well, sex?”

Sahara smiled faintly. “Because sex,” she said, “is one of the most powerful forces in human experience. It can create life, forge connections, and even destroy relationships. In Ishtar’s temple, it was a tool—a means of channeling divine energy.”

The room erupted again, this time with louder protests.

“You’re trivializing sacred practices!” Dr. Hargrove shouted.

“You’re overcomplicating what was clearly a transactional system!” Professor Jameson added.

Sahara took a deep breath, her patience wearing thin but her composure intact. “I’m not trivializing anything,” she said firmly. “I’m challenging us to think beyond our preconceptions—to see these rituals not as relics of a primitive past but as expressions of a profound understanding of human nature.”

As she spoke, Sahara couldn’t help but notice Dr. Elias Kane sitting in the front row. He was impossible to miss—his silver-streaked hair and piercing blue eyes made him stand out even in a room full of academics. He watched her with an intensity that made her skin prickle, his expression unreadable.

When she finished her presentation, there was no applause—only silence punctuated by muttered criticisms and heated whispers. Sahara allowed herself a small smile as she stepped away from the podium.

Reflections

Sahara’s dorm room was small but meticulously organized, a stark contrast to Mitchell’s chaotic space. Books on Mesopotamian mythology and archaeology lined the shelves, their spines cracked from frequent use. A framed photo of her parents sat on her desk—her mother, Dr. Christine Quinn, with her infectious smile, and her father, stoic and reserved, standing beside her. Sahara stared at the photo for a long moment before sinking onto her bed.

Her presentation had gone… well, as well as it could have, given the circumstances. The backlash from the faculty wasn’t unexpected—she had known they would resist her interpretation of Ishtar’s temple. But the hostility in the room had been sharper than she’d expected. Dr. Hargrove’s scathing remarks still echoed in her mind, as did Professor Jameson’s dismissive scoff. Even the graduate students had seemed skeptical, their questions laced with thinly veiled condescension.

And then there was Elias Kane.

Sahara clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms. His presence had been unnerving—not just because of their history, but because of the way he had watched her. Like he knew something she didn’t.

She shook off the thought and leaned back against the pillows; her gaze drifting back to the photo on her desk. Her mother’s face stared back at her, warm and alive, frozen in time. Sahara had been seven when Christy disappeared—too young to fully understand what had happened, but old enough to feel the void her absence left behind.

Her father Thomas had never been the same after that. A renowned architect with a reputation for precision and discipline, he had thrown himself into his work, leaving little room for grief—or for Sahara. She remembered sitting at the kitchen table, watching him sketch blueprints late into the night, his face etched with a pain he never spoke of. When she tried to ask about her mother, he would change the subject or retreat into silence.

It wasn’t until Sahara was older that she began piecing together the fragments of her mother’s life. Christy Quinn had been a brilliant archaeologist, unafraid to challenge conventional wisdom and pursue controversial theories.

Her work on Mesopotamian mythology had been groundbreaking but polarizing, earning her both admiration and scorn within the academic community. And then there was the supposed temple of Ishtar—the dig site that had consumed her final months.

Sahara still remembered the first time she had read her mother’s journal. She had found it tucked away in a box of old belongings after her father passed away—a leather-bound notebook filled with sketches, translations of cuneiform texts, and personal reflections. The entries were cryptic but compelling, hinting at a ritual tied to Ishtar that required sexual acts as offerings to the goddess. Christy wrote about Ishtar's duality—love and war, creation and destruction—and how these forces mirrored the rituals performed in her temple.

But there were also warnings. Christy had described strange occurrences at the dig site—visions, voices, a growing sense of unease. In one entry, she wrote: “The closer I get to understanding this ritual, the more I feel its power. It’s as if Ishtar herself is watching me.”

The final entry was dated just days before Christy disappeared. “I think I’ve found it—the key to unlocking Ishtar’s power. But I fear what it will cost me.”

Sahara closed her eyes, exhaling slowly. Her mother’s disappearance had shaped everything about her—her career, her relationships, even her sexuality. She had spent years trying to understand what had happened to Christy, chasing leads and piecing together fragments of information. But the truth remained elusive, buried beneath layers of myth and memory.

Sahara sat up abruptly, reaching for the photocopy Elias had given her after the presentation. The cuneiform tablet matched the inscriptions from her mother’s journal almost exactly—a detail that couldn’t be a coincidence. What did Elias know about Christy's work? And why was he giving this to her now?

She didn’t trust him—not after what had happened between them during her undergraduate years—but she couldn’t ignore this lead either. If Elias had information about Ishtar’s temple, she needed to find out what it was.

Sahara set the photocopy aside and reached for her laptop, opening a folder filled with scanned images from her mother’s journal. She would start with the cuneiform texts—translating them line by line if she had to. Whatever it took to uncover the truth.

As she worked, a faint smile played on her lips. Her mother had always said that archaeology was more than just digging up artifacts—it was about uncovering stories. And Sahara was determined to uncover hers.

The photocopy

Sahara's desk lamp bathed her dorm room in a soft glow, the only light in the otherwise dark space. Before her lay printed pages from her mother's journal, each covered in Christy's meticulous handwriting and sketches of ancient carvings. Sahara had been working for hours, her laptop open to a digital archive of cuneiform texts, her fingers flying across the keyboard as she cross-referenced symbols and translations.

The photocopy Elias had given her lay to one side, its lines of text matching those in her mother’s journal almost exactly. It was a breakthrough—one that confirmed her suspicions about the temple of Ishtar and its connection to the ritual Christy had been investigating. But it also raised more questions than it answered. What had her mother discovered? And what had it cost her?

Sahara leaned back in her chair, rubbing her temples as she tried to piece it all together. The journal entries were cryptic, filled with references to “the duality of Ishtar” and “the power of surrender.” One passage in particular stood out:

“The ritual is not for the faint of heart. It demands total submission—body and soul. Only then can one glimpse the divine.”

Total submission. The phrase sent a shiver down Sahara’s spine, though she couldn’t tell if it was from excitement or apprehension. The idea of surrendering control never attracted her—in bed, in life, or even in her research. But this was different. This wasn’t just about pleasure or power; it was about something deeper, something sacred.

A Late-Night Visit

Sahara's phone buzzed on the desk, pulling her from her thoughts. She glanced at the screen and saw a text from Chantal.

Girlfriend! I’ve been out partying and saw your light on. Working through the night again? You want me to come up to your room for a glass of wine?

Sahara smiled faintly and typed a quick reply: Sure. Bring the wine.

A few minutes later, there was a soft knock at the door. Sahara opened it to find Chantal standing there, a bottle of red wine in one hand and a mischievous grin on her face. Stunning as ever, her dark skin shone under the hallway's glow, her curves highlighted by a dress that hugged her body.

“Hey, workaholic,” Chantal said, stepping inside and closing the door behind her. “You know, most people sleep at this hour.”

“Most people aren’t trying to solve ancient mysteries,” Sahara replied dryly.

Chantal laughed—a rich, melodic sound that filled the room. “Fair enough,” she said, setting the wine on the desk and grabbing two glasses from the shelf. “But even geniuses need to unwind.”

Sahara sank back into her chair as Chantal poured the wine, her movements graceful and unhurried. She handed Sahara a glass and perched on the edge of the desk, her eyes sparkling with amusement.

“So,” Chantal said, taking a sip of her wine, “what’s got you so worked up this time?”

Sahara sighed and gestured to the mess of papers on her desk. “Just trying to figure out what my mother was working on before she disappeared.”

Chantal’s expression softened. “Still no luck?”

“Not yet,” Sahara admitted. “But I’m getting closer.”

Chantal nodded sympathetically before setting her glass down and standing up. “You know what you need?” she said, stepping behind Sahara’s chair.

“What?” Sahara asked, though she already had an idea.

“A back rub,” Chantal replied with a grin. “You’re so tense you could crack a walnut.”

Sahara laughed despite herself. “Fine,” she said, standing up and pulling off her crop top. She tossed it onto the bed and sat back down, her bare back exposed to the cool air.

Chantal’s hands were warm and firm as they began kneading the knots in Sahara’s shoulders. She worked in silence for a few minutes, her touch easing the tension from Sahara’s muscles.

“Better?” Chantal asked softly.

“Much,” Sahara murmured, leaning into the touch.

Chantal chuckled, her hands drifting lower down Sahara’s back. “You know,” she said playfully, “I could give you a happy ending.”

Sahara raised an eyebrow but didn’t protest as Chantal’s hands moved to her hips, pulling her gently toward the edge of the chair. She stood up slowly, letting Chantal guide her to the bed.

“Lie down,” Chantal said softly.

Sahara obeyed, stretching out on the bed as Chantal climbed on top of her. She kissed Sahara deeply before moving lower, her lips trailing down Sahara’s neck and across her chest. Her hands roamed freely—caressing, teasing—until they reached the waistband of Sahara’s cargo pants.

“You sure about this?” Chantal asked, pausing for a moment.

Sahara nodded, her breath already coming faster. “Yes.”

Chantal smiled and slid Sahara’s pants off slowly before moving between her legs. Her tongue was warm and insistent as it found its target—flicking lightly at first before diving deeper into Sahara’s folds until she gasped aloud.

Sahara arched her back as Chantal’s tongue flicked lightly at first, teasing her in a way that made her toes curl. But then Chantal dove deeper, her tongue exploring Sahara’s folds with a skill that left her gasping aloud. Sahara’s hands gripped the sheets, her breath hitching as waves of pleasure built.

“God, Chantal,” Sahara murmured, her voice trembling. “You’re too good at this.”

Chantal lifted her head just enough to smirk up at Sahara, her lips glistening. “You say that every time,” she teased, her voice low and playful. “You’d think you’d be used to it by now.”

Sahara laughed breathlessly, her hips lifting instinctively toward Chantal’s mouth. “Maybe I just like seeing you do it.”

Chantal chuckled, the sound vibrating against Sahara’s skin in a way that made her shiver. “Oh, I know you do,” she said before diving back in, her tongue circling Sahara’s clit with deliberate precision.

Sahara moaned softly, her mind drifting as the pleasure intensified. This is what I needed, she thought, her fingers tangling in Chantal’s curls. Not just the release—though God knows that’s amazing—but this. The warmth. The laughter. The way she knows exactly what I need without me having to say a word.

Chantal’s fingers joined her tongue, sliding inside Sahara with ease. She curled them just so, hitting that spot that made Sahara’s vision blur. “Fuck,” Sahara gasped, her hips bucking against Chantal’s hand. “Right there—don’t stop.”

“I wasn’t planning on it,” Chantal replied, her voice muffled but still teasing. She added a second finger, stretching Sahara in the most delicious way. “You’re so wet,” she murmured, pulling back slightly to look up at Sahara. “You always are for me.”

Sahara groaned, half in pleasure and half in exasperation. “Are you seriously going to talk now?”

Chantal grinned, her fingers still moving rhythmically inside Sahara. “What? You don’t like my commentary?”

“I’d like it more if you shut up and kept going,” Sahara shot back, though there was no real bite to her words.

Chantal laughed—a rich, throaty sound that sent another wave of heat through Sahara—before obliging. She leaned back in, her tongue working in tandem with her fingers as she brought Sahara closer and closer to the edge.

Sahara’s mind was a haze of sensation now—the slick heat of Chantal’s tongue, the steady pressure of her fingers, the way her free hand gripped Sahara’s thigh to keep her in place. It was overwhelming in the best way, like being caught in a storm she never wanted to end.

This is what I love about her, Sahara thought hazily as pleasure coiled tighter and tighter inside her. She knows how to make me laugh even when I’m falling apart.

“You close?” Chantal asked, pulling back just enough to speak.

Sahara nodded frantically, her breath coming in shallow gasps. “So close,” she managed to say. “Don’t stop—please.”

Chantal didn’t respond with words, but the way she doubled down on her efforts was answer enough. Her tongue circled Sahara’s clit faster now, her fingers curling just right as she pushed Sahara over the edge.

The orgasm hit her like a tidal wave, washing over her in relentless waves that left her trembling and breathless. She cried out softly, her back arching off the bed as pleasure consumed her entirely.

When it finally subsided, Sahara collapsed back onto the bed, her chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath. Chantal didn’t pull away immediately. Instead, she lingered, her fingers still buried deep inside Sahara as she watched her come undone. The sight of Sahara trembling beneath her, her thighs slick with arousal and her chest rising and falling with ragged breaths, was intoxicating. Chantal’s own body responded, a rush of heat pooling between her legs as she felt Sahara’s climax ripple around her fingers.

“You’re so fucking wet,” Chantal murmured, her voice low and husky as she slowly withdrew her fingers. She held them up, glistening with Sahara’s juices, and smirked. “Look at this. You’re dripping.”

Sahara groaned, still trying to catch her breath, but her eyes flicked open to meet Chantal’s. “You're such a show-off,” she muttered, though there was no real annoyance in her tone.

Chantal laughed, a rich, throaty sound that sent a shiver through Sahara’s spent body. “Can you blame me?” she asked, leaning down to kiss Sahara softly before bringing her fingers to her own mouth. She licked them clean with deliberate slowness, her eyes never leaving Sahara’s. “You taste amazing.”

Sahara’s cheeks flushed, but she couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at her lips. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you love it,” Chantal shot back, grinning as she straddled Sahara’s hips. She leaned down, pressing a kiss to Sahara’s neck before nipping lightly at the sensitive skin.

“Good?” she asked, though the answer was obvious.

Sahara laughed weakly, reaching out to swat at Chantal’s arm. “You know it was.”

Chantal grinned and leaned down to kiss Sahara softly. “Anytime, girlfriend.”

The library

The soft rustle of pages filled the quiet corner of the library as Sahara bent over the ancient text, her fingers tracing the faded cuneiform inscriptions. The morning light filtered through the tall windows, casting a golden glow over the dusty bookshelves and quiet aisles.

This early, the Ancient Mesopotamian mythology section was nearly empty, save for a few scattered academics absorbed in their own research. Sahara liked the solitude; it allowed her to focus without distraction.

She was so engrossed in her work that she didn’t notice the figure approaching until his shadow fell across the table. Startled, she looked up to find Elias Kane standing there, his silver-streaked hair catching the sunlight. His tailored suit, a stark contrast to her casual cargo pants and loose curls, showed he was impeccably dressed, as always. His piercing blue eyes held hers, and for a moment, neither of them spoke.

“Elias,” Sahara said finally, her tone guarded. She leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest. “What are you doing here?”

He raised an eyebrow, his lips curving into the faintest hint of a smile. “I could ask you the same thing. You’re here rather early for someone who was up late last night.”

Sahara’s eyes narrowed. “And how would you know what I was doing last night?”

Elias ignored the question, his gaze drifting to the open journal on the table. “Your mother’s work,” he whispered, almost to himself. “She was onto something extraordinary, wasn’t she?”

Sahara’s stomach tightened. She snapped the journal shut, pulling it closer to her. “What do you want, Elias?”

He straightened, his expression unreadable. “I want to help you.”

Sahara let out a short, humorless laugh. “Help me? You?”

“Yes,” he replied simply. “I know what you’re working on. I know what you’re looking for.”

Sahara’s fingers clenched around the edge of the table. “And how do you know that?”

Elias ignored the question, his gaze lingering on the journal. “Your mother disappeared before see could see her project through. But you can.”

Sahara leaned forward, her voice low and sharp. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying,” Elias replied, stepping closer, “that I can fund an expedition. Provide you with everything you need—equipment, personnel, access to restricted sites.”

Sahara stared at him, trying to read the expression in his eyes. Elias Kane possessed many qualities—brilliance, manipulation, infuriating charm—but he wasn't known for generosity.

“And what do you get out of it?” she asked finally.

Elias smiled again, but there was something darker in his expression—something that made her skin prickle.

“I get answers,” he said simply. “And so do you.”

The way he said it wasn’t just about the expedition or the research. His words carried a heavier weight of something more personal, more intimate. His eyes lingered on hers a moment too long, and Sahara felt a flicker of heat rise in her chest—anger, yes, but something else too. Something she thought she’d buried long ago.

“Answers,” she repeated, her voice steady but laced with suspicion. “Is that all you want?”

Elias tilted his head slightly, his smile deepening. “You know me better than that, Sahara.”

She did. And that was the problem. Their past wasn't merely professional; he had been her mentor, her confidant, her lover—and then he had been nothing at all.

“You think I don’t see it?” he continued, his voice dropping to a murmur. “The way you throw yourself into your work, the way you push people away. You’re chasing more than just your mother’s legacy. You’re chasing something to fill the void she left—and the one I left, too.”

Sahara’s breath hitched, but she refused to let him see how his words cut through her defenses. “Don’t flatter yourself,” she shot back. “You were never that important.”

Elias chuckled softly, but there was no humor in it. “If that were true, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

They stood there in silence, the air between them thick with tension—old wounds and unspoken desires simmering just beneath the surface. Sahara knew better than to trust him—knew that his offer came with strings attached—but she also knew that this might be her only chance to uncover the truth about her mother’s disappearance.

“Fine,” she said finally, her voice steady despite the knot of unease in her stomach. “But we do this my way.”

Elias inclined his head slightly, a gesture that might have been agreement or mockery—it was hard to tell with him.

“Of course,” he said smoothly.

Sahara turned back to the table, gathering up the scattered pages of her research and tucking them into her bag. As she worked, she could feel Elias watching her, his gaze heavy and unrelenting.

“I’ll need a team,” she said without looking up.

“Take your pick,” Elias replied. “But leave in three days.”

Sahara paused, her fingers tightening around the strap of her bag. Three days wasn’t much time to prepare—or to back out.

“Fine,” she said again, though it felt like signing a deal with the devil.

Elias stepped closer again, his presence looming over her like a shadow. “You won’t regret this,” he said softly.

Sahara turned to face him, meeting his gaze with a defiant stare. “We’ll see.”

For a moment, neither of them moved—the air between them charged with unresolved tension and unspoken words. Then Elias turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing through the empty library. Sahara sank back into her chair, her mind racing. She had just agreed to work with the one man she’d sworn to avoid, and now there was no turning back.

As she sat there, her thoughts drifted to their past—the late nights spent poring over ancient texts in his office, the way his hand had brushed against hers when they reached for the same book, the heat of his breath on her neck as he whispered something low and intimate in her ear. She shook her head sharply, trying to dispel the memories, but they clung to her like cobwebs.

Elias wasn’t just after answers about her mother’s work; he was after her. And Sahara wasn’t sure which prospect scared her more—unearthing the secrets of an ancient goddess or confronting the unresolved feelings she still harbored for him.

The journal in her bag felt heavier now, as if it carried not just her mother’s legacy, but also the weight of what lay ahead. Sahara took a deep breath and stood up, slinging the bag over her shoulder.

Three days.

She had three days to prepare for an expedition that would take her deep into the heart of Babylon—and deep into the tangled web of emotions she thought she had left behind.

As she walked out of the library and into the bright morning light, Sahara couldn’t shake the feeling that this journey would transform everything—not just for her mother’s memory, but for herself as well.

And Elias Kane would be at the center of it all.

The release

Mitchell’s hands grip Sahara’s hips tightly, his fingers digging into her skin as he fucks her from behind, his cock slamming into her with a rhythm that’s more desperate than controlled. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, mingling with his ragged breaths and the occasional sharp gasp she can’t quite suppress. Her body arches, her ass pressed against him as he drives into her, each thrust sending a jolt of raw, primal energy through her. The room is dim, the faint glow of a bedside lamp casting shadows that dance across their bodies, their movements raw and unrefined.

Sahara’s nails claw at the sheets, her knuckles white as she braces herself against the force of his thrusts. She can feel the heat of him inside her, the way his cock stretches her, filling her. Her cunt clenches around him, wet and eager, as if her body is trying to pull him deeper, to claim every inch of him. Mitchell groans, his grip tightening on her hips, his pace faltering for a moment before he regains control, slamming into her with renewed urgency.

The air is thick with the scent of sweat and sex, the metallic tang of arousal mingling with the faint musk of their bodies. Sahara’s breath hitches as he hits a spot deep inside her, a small spark of pleasure igniting in her core. She bites her lip to stifle a moan, but it escapes anyway, a low, guttural sound that only spurs him on.

His hands slide up her back, fingers tracing the curve of her spine before tangling in her hair, pulling her head back slightly. The sting of it sends a shiver through her, her body responding with a fresh wave of wetness that slicks his cock as he fucks her harder.

Mitchell’s voice is rough, almost a growl, as he mutters something incoherent, his words lost in the haze of their shared need. Sahara can feel the tension building in him, the way his thrusts become more erratic, more urgent. She knows he’s close.

“Fuck, Sahara,” Mitchell groans, his voice strained, his breath hot against her back. “You’re so fucking tight.”

She doesn’t respond, her nails clawing at the bedsheets as she bites back the moan rising in her throat. This isn’t about him. It’s about the storm inside her, the anger and frustration that’s been building for days, coiled tight in her chest. Mitchell is just a means to an end, a convenient outlet for the rage that threatens to consume her. His arrogance, his pathetic need to prove himself—it all fuels her, turning their coupling into something primal, something almost feral.

His hands move to her breasts, squeezing roughly, his touch more possessive than pleasurable. “You like that, don’t you?” he growls, his voice thick with false bravado. “You love being my little slut.” His fingers pinch her nipples hard, the sharp sting making her gasp, though not in the way he assumes. She doesn’t correct him, doesn’t tell him that his clumsy attempts at dominance only highlight his inadequacy.

Instead, she arches her back, letting him think he’s in control, her lips curling into a faint smirk as she bites back the words she knows would cut him to the core. His ego is so fragile, so easily bruised, and she finds a perverse satisfaction in letting him believe he’s the one holding the reins. But the truth is, she’s already miles ahead of him, her mind elsewhere, her body merely a vessel for the storm raging inside her.

Sahara rolls her eyes, her lips curling into a sneer she knows he can’t see. Let him think what he wants. Her mind flashes to Elias—his smug smile, his piercing gaze, the way he always seems to know exactly how to push her buttons. The memory sends a fresh wave of anger coursing through her, and she meets Mitchell’s thrusts with equal force, driving him closer to the edge.

“Can I… can I fuck your ass?” Mitchell gasps, his voice trembling with a mix of desperation and arousal.

For a moment, Sahara hesitates, her body tensing beneath him. But then she exhales sharply, her lips curling into a smirk. “Fine,” she says, her voice detached.

Mitchell doesn’t need to be told twice. He pulls out of her, his cock slick with her wetness, and positions himself at her asshole. He spits into his hand, rubbing the saliva over his shaft before pressing the tip against her tight entrance. Sahara grits her teeth, her body stiffening as he pushes inside, the stretch sharp and unforgiving. But she doesn’t stop him. She lets him take what he wants, her nails digging into the sheets as he begins to move, his thrusts slow and tentative at first, then growing more confident as he feels her body yield to him.

“Damn, Sahara,” he groans, his hands gripping her hips as he fucks her ass with a rhythm that’s almost reverent. “This is amazing.”

She doesn’t respond, her jaw clenched as she endures the intrusion. This isn’t about pleasure—it’s about control. About proving to herself that she can take whatever he dishes out and still walk away unscathed. Her mind drifts again, this time to the mission ahead, to the weight of what’s at stake. Mitchell’s grunts and groans fade into the background, his presence almost inconsequential as she focuses on the task at hand. But then, something shifts. Sahara’s lips curl into a wicked smirk as an idea takes hold. She’s done letting him dictate the pace. If he wants to fuck her, he’ll do it on her terms.

With a sharp movement, she pushes him off her, his cock slipping out of her ass with a wet pop. Mitchell stares up at her, confusion and arousal warring on his face as she climbs on top of him, straddling his hips. Her hand wraps around his cock, still slick with spit and her own wetness, and she guides him back to her asshole, pressing the tip against her tight entrance.

“You want to fuck me?” she says, her voice low and commanding. “Then let me show you how it’s done.”

She sinks down onto him slowly, her body stretching to accommodate his cock. Mitchell groans, his hands gripping her thighs as she takes him deeper, inch by inch, until he’s fully sheathed inside her. Sahara exhales sharply, her head tilting back as she adjusts to the sensation, the stretch both painful and exhilarating. But she doesn’t stop. She moves, her hips rolling in a slow, deliberate rhythm that has Mitchell cursing beneath her.

“Fuck, Sahara,” he gasps, his hands sliding up to her waist as she rides him. “You’re… you’re incredible.”

She doesn’t respond, her focus entirely on the way his cock fills her, the way she can control every thrust, every gasp, every moan that escapes his lips. She likes this—being in control, setting the pace, prolonging his pleasure until he’s begging for release. Her hands rest on his chest, her nails digging into his skin as she picks up speed, her hips slamming down onto him with a force that drives the air from his lungs.

Sahara's eyes gleam with a predatory satisfaction as she watches Mitchell squirm beneath her, his control unraveling with each deliberate roll of her hips. She relishes the power she holds over him, the way his usually confident demeanor dissolves into raw need.

“You like that?” she taunts, her voice dripping with mockery. “You like being my little plaything?” Her words hang in the air, a challenge, as she grinds against him, her clit rubbing against his pelvis with each movement, sending jolts of pleasure through her own body.

Mitchell's response is a strangled groan, his hands moving to grip her hips, his fingers bruising in their intensity. He's close to the edge, she can tell, and she's not ready to let him fall just yet. Sahara slows her rhythm, drawing out the exquisite torment. Her gaze locked onto his as she takes him to the brink and pulls back, again and again, until the line between agony and ecstasy blurs for them both.

Mitchell nods frantically, his eyes wide with a mix of awe and desperation. “Yes,” he chokes out, his hands gripping her hips as she rides him harder, faster. “Fuck, yes.”

Sahara smirks, her movements becoming more deliberate, more punishing. She can feel him trembling beneath her, his cock throbbing inside her as he teeters on the edge. But she’s not ready to let him come yet. She slows her pace, drawing out each thrust until he’s writhing beneath her, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

“Please,” he begs, his voice breaking. “Sahara, please.”

She leans forward, her lips brushing against his ear as she whispers, “Not yet.”

Her words send a shiver through him, his body trembling with the effort to hold back. But Sahara doesn’t let up. She continues to ride him, her movements slow and deliberate, each thrust driving him closer to the edge, only to pull him back at the last second. She can feel the tension building in his body, the way his muscles tighten beneath her, and she knows he’s close.

Finally, when she’s had her fill, Sahara picks up the pace again, her hips slamming down onto Mitchell with a force that leaves him gasping. Her movements are deliberate, punishing, each thrust driving him deeper into her ass, the stretch and burn a sharp contrast to the slick heat of her own arousal.

Mitchell’s hands tighten on her hips, his fingers digging into her skin as his body tenses, his breath hitching in his throat. She can feel him trembling beneath her, his cock throbbing inside her as he teeters on the edge.

“Fuck, Sahara,” he chokes out, his voice breaking as his hips jerk upward, his body arching as he comes. His cock pulses inside her, hot and thick, and she feels the first spurt of his cum filling her ass, the sensation warm and wet as it spills deep inside her. She rides him through it, her movements slowing but not stopping, drawing out every drop as he spills himself with a strangled cry. His cum coats her insides, the slick warmth spreading as she grinds down onto him, milking him for every ounce of pleasure he has to give.

Mitchell collapses beneath her, his body trembling, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Sahara stays seated on him for a moment longer, her hands resting on his chest as she feels his cock twitch weakly inside her, the last remnants of his release dripping from her ass.

She smirks, her lips curling into a satisfied smile as she climbs off him, his cum leaking down her thighs as she grabs his designer shirt to clean herself up. Mitchell lies on the bed, his chest heaving, his eyes glazed with a mix of exhaustion and awe.

“That was…” he starts, but Sahara cuts him off with a sharp look.

“Don’t,” she says, pulling on her clothes with practiced ease. “You were just convenient.”

Mitchell’s face flushes with anger, but he doesn’t argue. He knows better than to push her when she’s in this mood.

As Sahara steps out into the hallway, the weight of her mission settles over her once again. Three days. She has three days to prepare for an expedition that could change everything—or destroy her. The thought is overwhelming, but there’s no time to dwell on it. She needs to focus.

Layla Hassan

Sahara stood outside Dr. Layla Hassan’s office, her hand hovering over the doorknob. Her chest rises and falls as she takes a deep breath, the scent of old books and polished wood seeping through the crack beneath the door. The memory flashed unbidden—her father’s back, glistening with sweat, his muscles taut and straining as he thrust into Layla. The rhythmic slap of flesh meeting flesh echoed in the quiet house, a sound Sahara didn’t have words for at the time. She knew only what she’d learned in school: penis and vagina. But now, older and wiser, she would call it what it was—his cock pistoning into Layla’s slick pussy with a primal urgency that made her stomach twist.

Sahara remembered Layla’s caramel thighs wrapped tightly around her father's hips, her nails digging into his shoulders as she arched against him. Her moans were muffled by the pillow beneath her head but unmistakable—low and desperate, a sound that sent an unfamiliar heat through Sahara's young body even as it unsettled her. She had been too young to fully understand what she was witnessing, but old enough to feel a confusing mix of curiosity and discomfort curling low in her belly.

It wasn’t betrayal, not really. Her father Thomas had been alone for years after her mother’s disappearance, and Layla had been kind to him—and to Sahara. But the memory still lingered, a quiet ghost in the back of her mind, coloring every interaction with the woman she was now asking for help.

Sahara knocked twice, sharp and deliberate, before pushing the door open. The office was exactly as she remembers it—a labyrinth of bookshelves crammed with ancient texts, artifacts scattered across every available surface, and the faint scent of incense lingering in the air. Layla sat at her desk, her dark eyes lifting from the papers in front of her. When she sees Sahara, a warm smile spreads across her face.

“Sahara,” Layla says, her voice smooth and rich. “It’s been too long. Come in.”

Sahara steps inside, closing the door behind her with a soft click. She forces herself to meet Layla’s gaze, though it feels like staring into the sun—intense and blinding. “I need your help,” she says, cutting straight to the point. No small talk. No pleasantries.

Layla leans back in her chair, her expression shifting from surprise to curiosity. “With what?”

“The Temple of Ishtar,” Sahara replies, her voice steady despite the storm raging inside her. “I’m leading an expedition. I want you on my team.”

Layla’s eyebrows arch, and for a moment, she says nothing. Her fingers absently trace the spine of an ancient text on her desk—a weathered volume on Mesopotamian rituals. “The Temple of Ishtar,” she repeats slowly. “That’s… ambitious. There’s no evidence it even exists.”

“There’s no evidence because no one’s looked hard enough,” Sahara counters, her tone sharper than she intends. She takes a step closer, her boots echoing against the wooden floor. “My mother believed it was real. She disappeared trying to prove it.”

Layla’s expression softens at the mention of Sahara’s mother. She rises from her chair and walks around the desk, leaning against it with her arms crossed over her chest. The movement draws Sahara’s attention to the curve of Layla’s body—the way her blouse clings to her figure, the subtle sway of her hips.

“Your mother was brilliant,” Layla murmurs, her voice low and tinged with a mix of admiration and challenge. “But even she couldn’t uncover it. What makes you think you can?”

Sahara doesn’t flinch. She leans forward, her lips curling into a sly smile as she meets Layla’s gaze head-on. “Because I know she found it—before she vanished. And I will find it again.”

Layla arches an eyebrow, her eyes narrowing with skepticism. “And how, exactly, is that possible?”

Sahara’s smile deepens, her voice dropping to a husky whisper. “Because I have you.” Her hand brushes against Layla’s, the contact electric, charged with unspoken promises and shared secrets. “And together, we’ll finish what she started.”

For a long moment, Layla says nothing. Her dark eyes searched Sahara’s face as if trying to decipher some hidden meaning in her words. Then she sighs and pushes off the desk, standing tall again.

“It’s dangerous,” Layla says finally. “The temple—if it exists—is bound to rituals forbidden for a reason.” People have died chasing those secrets.”

“I know,” Sahara replies softly. “But I also know you’ve spent your career studying those rituals. You understand them in a way no one else does.”

Layla’s lips curve into a faint smile, though there’s no humor in it. “Flattery won’t get you everywhere, Sahara.”

“It’s not flattery,” Sahara counters, her voice firm. “It’s the truth. You’re the best at what you do. And I need you.”

Layla hesitates, her expression unreadable. Then she nods slowly, as if coming to a decision she can’t quite articulate.

“Alright,” she says finally. “But if we’re doing this, we do it my way. No shortcuts, no reckless risks.”

Sahara feels a surge of relief—and something else. Layla’s presence is calming, grounding, and despite everything that has passed between them, Sahara finds herself drawn to her in a way she can’t quite explain.

“Thank you,” Sahara says quietly.

Layla's agreement

Sahara hesitated, her hand still resting on the strap of her bag. Now that she had Layla’s agreement, the weight of Elias’s involvement settled heavily in her stomach. “There’s something else,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Layla raised an eyebrow, her gaze sharp and inquisitive. “What is it?”

Sahara pulled the photocopy from her bag, the brittle paper crinkling in the quiet office. She handed it to Layla, watching her expression as she scanned the cuneiform text. Layla’s dark eyes widened slightly, her breath catching in her throat.

“Where did you get this?” Layla asked.

“Elias Kane,” Sahara replied, the name tasting like ash in her mouth. “He came to me after the presentation. Gave me this.”

Layla’s gaze snapped up to meet Sahara’s, her expression a mixture of surprise and suspicion. “Elias?” she repeated, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes. “Why would he have this?”

“I don’t know,” Sahara admitted, running a hand through her hair in frustration. “He said he wants to help. Offered to fund the expedition, provide equipment, access to restricted sites.”

Layla set the photocopy down on the desk, her fingers drumming lightly against the surface. “And you accepted?”

Sahara nodded, her gaze dropping to the floor. “I had little choice. This”—she gestured to the photocopy—“matches inscriptions from my mother’s journal. It’s proof she was onto something real, something tangible. And Elias… he knows things. Things about the temple, about the ritual. Things he won’t share unless I agree to his terms.”

Layla sighed, her expression a mix of concern and understanding. “Sahara, Elias is dangerous. He’s brilliant, yes, but he’s also manipulative. As you well know. You need to be careful.”

Sahara met Layla’s gaze, her expression hardening. “I know that. Believe me, I know that. But this is my chance to find out what happened to my mother. I can’t let anything—or anyone—stand in my way.”

“And what about Elias’s involvement?” Layla asked, her voice laced with a hint of apprehension. “Will he be joining the expedition?”

Sahara nodded, the knot in her stomach tightening. “He insisted. Said he wants to see it through.”

Layla studied Sahara for a long moment, her gaze piercing and intense. “This… complicates everything,” she said finally. Her voice was soft, but there was an edge to it—a steeliness that made Sahara’s breath catch.

“I wish it was easier,” Sahara replied quietly. She ran a hand across the back of her neck, the weight of the past—and the uncertainty of the future—pressing down on her like a physical burden. The photocopy lying on the desk between them seemed to pulse with a life of its own, a tangible link to her mother’s lost legacy and the secrets she was determined to uncover.

“We need to be careful,” Layla said, breaking the silence. Her gaze met Sahara’s, and in that moment, Sahara saw not just concern in Layla's eyes, but a steely resolve that mirrored her own. And also something else. Almost motherly love.

Mo

Layla's gaze softened, her voice dropping to a near whisper. "There's someone else we need," she said, a faraway look in her eyes. "Someone who was there, with your mother, all those years ago.”

Sahara's breath hitched. "You mean...Mo?" she asked, the name barely a whisper on her lips. It had been years since she'd even thought about the man who had accompanied her mother on that fateful expedition. He had been a shadowy figure in her childhood memories, always just on the periphery of her mother's vibrant life. After Christy disappeared, Mo had vanished too, leaving Sahara with more questions than answers.

Layla nodded, her expression a mix of sadness and determination. "He was Christy's closest confidante, Sahara. Her right hand. He knows the terrain, the local customs… and he might be the only one who truly understands what she was searching for."

Sahara leaned forward, her mind racing. "But where is he? No one's heard from him since..." Her voice trailed off, the unspoken question hanging heavy in the air.

"I have an idea," Layla said, a cryptic glint in her eye. "But it won't be easy. He's off the grid, Sahara. Deep off the grid. Disappeared almost as completely as your mother."

A shiver ran down Sahara's spine, a mixture of excitement and trepidation. This was it. This was the missing piece she had been searching for. Finding Mo could be the key to unlocking the mystery of her mother's disappearance, and finally understanding the secrets of the Temple of Ishtar. "Then we find him," Sahara said, her voice firm, her gaze resolute. "Whatever it takes."

Hakkâri, Turkey

Nestled beneath the jagged peaks of the Zagros Mountains, Hakkâri is a city of stark contrasts. Ancient stone streets wind through pockets of modern poverty, while Kurdish graffiti clings defiantly to crumbling walls like whispers of resistance. The Ibrahim Khalil Border Crossing—the nearest official gateway from Turkey into Iraq—lies nearly 170 miles away by road. Locals take a shorter path: through dangerous mountain passes Iraq was only 25 miles away.

To Mo, Hakkâri was home.

Once a guide on archaeological digs, Mo had turned his expertise into a different venture entirely. He now used his knowledge of ancient sites to run a smuggling operation, trafficking Mesopotamian relics that commanded high prices on the black market. The work paid well enough—sufficient for food and women. And tonight, Mo was spending.

The brothel

The air in the brothel was thick with the scent of sweat, cheap perfume, and the faint tang of urine. The flickering light of a single bulb cast long shadows on the cracked walls, illuminating the scene in a sickly yellow glow. Mo sat on a stained mattress, his large belly spilling over his waistband as he grunted with exertion. His hands gripped the hips of a young woman, her small frame trembling as he thrust into her with brutal force. She turned her face away, her expression unreadable, but her body betrayed her discomfort—her ribs visible beneath her pale skin, her small breasts barely filling his hands.

Beside him, another girl lay on her back, her legs spread wide. She was just as thin and underfed as the first, her body bearing the marks of poverty and neglect. Her eyes were closed, her lips parted in a silent gasp as Mo’s tongue probed her cunt. The wet, rhythmic sound of his slurping echoed through the room, blending with the raw, unrelenting friction of his cock plunging into a barely slick pussy.