A Birthday Burnoose by Bonnie Rutledge ************************************************ You waft the night air away from your nose as yet another smelly camel tromps past. you ponder. It would be. The comp tickets had arrived from a business called "Fly By Night Tours" a couple days before. Not being completely stupid, you called the Better Business Bureau to check on their reputation, and the helpful agent on the phone had sworn "Fly By Night" that they were a trustworthy organization. "Humph!" you sneer quietly. "What does he know? He's not in Morocco getting spit on by camels while waiting for a ride to his mystery hotel!" Two Muslims brush past you then, their black robes melting into the night. You feel a sensation like a mosquito bite on your arm, then, suddenly, dizziness overcomes you. is your final conscious thought. When you wake up, you are sprawled over a dozen enomously plump silk pillows. Looking around, your surroundings appear to be a richly furnished tent of some sort. You stand groggily, noticing that the beautiful rug strewn over the floor feels like velvet to your bare toes. That's not the only article of your clothing that has changed. Your outfit now seems to consist of nothing but a collection of large chiffon scarves, and they aren't even *heavy* chiffon! Hearing a movement at the tent door (flap - whatever you call 'em), you raise a startled face to examine the tall figure who approaches you. Because of his height and broad shoulders, you assume it is a man. He is covered from head to toe in black with scarlet trimmings. His only visible feature is the eyes. Eyes like the sky on a cloudless day. The eyes of Nunkies. You let out a surprised gasp, and your mind kicks into high gear. He raises one hand in a smooth motion to his headdress, releasing the material shielding his face from your view. Oh, joy!!! Now you get to drool over his entire face, not just his baby blues. He pulls off the entire burnoose next: now you can delight over his buzzcut, and he can raise a sardonic eyebrow your way. "Welcome to Morocco, my dear," you hear him say silkily. Watching the movement of his lips as he speaks puts you into a hypnotic trance. "I apologize for any *difficulties* in your journey, but it *is* almost sunrise on your birthday. I didn't want to miss it." "Mmmmmm," is your initial response, but after mentally slapping yourself, you regain the power to form understandable syllables. "So you brought me here, like Mohammud and the mountain?" "Something like that," Nunkies replies. You intend to express how thrilled you are with his company, but capacity for speech fails you as he unbuckles the belt securing his black robe into place. As he slings it over a nearby table, you pant over what he wore underneath: Black silk sultan-like pants with a sleeveless buttonless vest fashioned out of bloodred silk embroidered with a rosebud motif. Drooling does not begin to cover your reaction as you gaze at his exposed chest. Nunkies observes your fit of lust and allows a secretive smile as he takes your place sprawling on the decadent pallet of pillows. "So Happy Birthday. And yet, as my personal assistant personally demonstrated for me recently, why should we elect one day out of the entire year to celebrate the joys and pleasures of life? Why not delight in every day throughout eternity?" You gulp. "Are you saying...?" "My personal assisitant is also always telling me that it is better to give than to recieve," LaCroix mused with a mock frown, "especially whene she wants something. Perhaps I should ignore her advice." You shake your head. "Oh, no! I agree with her completely! It *is* better to give than to recieve!" "Really?" "Mmm-hmmm," you insist. "And to prove it, why don't I give *you* something for my birthday?" "That's an interesting concept. What did you have in mind?" "Wellllll, considering my wardrobe," you suggest naughtily, "how about a 'Dance of the Seven Veils'?" LaCroix's eyes become hot at the thought. "Very interesting." {{Stuff happens. Time passes. You're a very good dancer!}} "Oh, dear!" you moan half-heartedly, wiggling to a halt after dropping the last piece of chiffon. "I only have five veils!" LaCroix stands, his eyes now golden. "Allow me to be of service." He slides his arms out of the vest, then lets it fall to join the other segments of fabric on the floor. "Six," he murmurs hotly. "My, my, my," you sigh. "Seven." ************************************************************************** The end! Have Birthday, Senara! :D