A View of the Pyramids
The evening air in Giza was warm and carried the faint, dusty scent of the desert. From the open-air terrace of the restaurant, the Great Pyramids were silhouetted against a deep orange and purple sunset, immense and eternal. Eva’s heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat that had nothing to do with the ancient wonders before her.
This was the moment. After many years of texts, voice notes, and video calls, she was about to meet Ahmed. Her Dominant. Her Sir.
She saw him before he saw her. He was exactly as he’d described: masculine, with a confident posture, wearing a dark linen shirt that contrasted with the warm stone of the terrace. He was standing by the reservation desk, not fidgeting, simply existing with a calm authority that made the bustling waiters seem to move around him like water around a stone.
She approached, her heels clicking softly. He turned, and his eyes—the intense, dark eyes she knew so well from the screen—found hers. He didn't smile immediately. He first let his gaze travel over her, from her nervous eyes down to the simple black dress she’d chosen to please him, and back up. It was a slow, appraising look that made her skin flush. It was his look. The one he used when he was taking ownership.
"Eva," he said, his voice a low, warm baritone that was even more resonant in person. He didn't ask if it was her. He knew.
"Ahmed," she breathed, her own voice barely a whisper.
He didn't extend a hand for a shake. Instead, he stepped forward, into her space, and placed a firm, guiding hand on the small of her back. The contact was electric, a jolt of pure sensation that solidified the reality of him. "Our table is waiting," he said, his tone leaving no room for doubt. It was a statement, not a suggestion. He guided her through the terrace, his hand a steady, warm pressure that both supported and directed her.
He pulled out her chair for her, a gentlemanly act, but as she sat, he leaned in, his lips close to her ear. His scent, sandalwood and clean cotton, enveloped her. "Breathe, my Eva. You are safe with me." The command and the reassurance, delivered in a single, intimate whisper, set the tone for the evening.
A waiter appeared instantly. Ahmed didn't look at the wine list. "We will both have water" he stated calmly. Then he turned to Eva. "Unless my Eva has a different preference?" The question was a formality, a public courtesy. The way he said "my Eva" made it clear the decision was already made, and she was happy to relinquish it.
"No, Sir. That sounds perfect," she said, the honorific slipping out naturally in the privacy of their bubble.
He smiled, a slow, approving curve of his lips. "Good."
When the menus came, he held his, and she hers. But he was the one who spoke. "The lamb is supposed to be exceptional here. Tender, and perfectly spiced. I think you would enjoy that." He looked at her over the top of his menu, his eyes holding hers. "Or the sea bass, if you prefer something lighter."
It wasn't a question of what she wanted, but a choice between the options he had pre-selected for her. "The lamb, please," she said, feeling a thrill at surrendering the choice.
"Excellent." He closed his menu, and she followed suit. When the waiter returned, Ahmed ordered for both of them, his voice clear and assured.
Throughout the appetizer, he controlled the conversation. He asked thoughtful, probing questions, but he also let silences stretch, his gaze resting on her until she felt compelled to fill them, revealing more of herself than she intended. At one point, she slumped slightly, overwhelmed by his intensity.
He reached across the table, not to touch her hand, but to gently tap the back of her wrist. "Posture, Eva," he murmured, his voice soft but firm. "A submissive of mine carries herself with pride." The correction was immediate, and she straightened up, a flush of warmth spreading through her at his attention to her demeanor.
When the water was poured, he picked up his glass, swirled it, and took the first sip. He held her gaze as he did so, a silent command. Only then did she take her first sip. It was a tiny, invisible protocol, but it screamed of their dynamic.
As the main course arrived, the pyramids were now bathed in the light of a spectacular sound and light show. Eva was captivated. "It's breathtaking," she whispered.
"It is," Ahmed agreed, but he wasn't looking at the pyramids. He was looking at her. He placed his hand on the table, palm up, a silent invitation. Without hesitation, she placed her hand in his. His fingers closed around hers, not in a romantic clasp, but in a firm, enveloping grip. It was a claim.
"How does it feel," he asked, his thumb stroking her knuckles, "to finally be here, after all this time? Not at the pyramids. Here. With me."
"It feels... real," she said, her voice trembling with emotion. "It feels like I'm home."
His grip tightened almost imperceptibly. "You are home, Eva. You are where you belong." He leaned forward again, his voice dropping. "And later, when we are in private, I am going to spend a very long time reacquainting myself with every inch of my property. But for now, you will finish this exquisite food, and you will tell me everything that is in your heart."
The promise was a bolt of lightning, a clear delineation of the night's structure: the public seduction of control and care, leading to the private consummation of their power exchange.
Eva felt a profound sense of peace settle over her. The anxiety was gone, replaced by a deep, thrumming anticipation. Under the watchful eyes of the ancient pyramids, under the firm, guiding hand of her Dominant, she was completely, and willingly, his.
This was the moment. After many years of texts, voice notes, and video calls, she was about to meet Ahmed. Her Dominant. Her Sir.
She saw him before he saw her. He was exactly as he’d described: masculine, with a confident posture, wearing a dark linen shirt that contrasted with the warm stone of the terrace. He was standing by the reservation desk, not fidgeting, simply existing with a calm authority that made the bustling waiters seem to move around him like water around a stone.
She approached, her heels clicking softly. He turned, and his eyes—the intense, dark eyes she knew so well from the screen—found hers. He didn't smile immediately. He first let his gaze travel over her, from her nervous eyes down to the simple black dress she’d chosen to please him, and back up. It was a slow, appraising look that made her skin flush. It was his look. The one he used when he was taking ownership.
"Eva," he said, his voice a low, warm baritone that was even more resonant in person. He didn't ask if it was her. He knew.
"Ahmed," she breathed, her own voice barely a whisper.
He didn't extend a hand for a shake. Instead, he stepped forward, into her space, and placed a firm, guiding hand on the small of her back. The contact was electric, a jolt of pure sensation that solidified the reality of him. "Our table is waiting," he said, his tone leaving no room for doubt. It was a statement, not a suggestion. He guided her through the terrace, his hand a steady, warm pressure that both supported and directed her.
He pulled out her chair for her, a gentlemanly act, but as she sat, he leaned in, his lips close to her ear. His scent, sandalwood and clean cotton, enveloped her. "Breathe, my Eva. You are safe with me." The command and the reassurance, delivered in a single, intimate whisper, set the tone for the evening.
A waiter appeared instantly. Ahmed didn't look at the wine list. "We will both have water" he stated calmly. Then he turned to Eva. "Unless my Eva has a different preference?" The question was a formality, a public courtesy. The way he said "my Eva" made it clear the decision was already made, and she was happy to relinquish it.
"No, Sir. That sounds perfect," she said, the honorific slipping out naturally in the privacy of their bubble.
He smiled, a slow, approving curve of his lips. "Good."
When the menus came, he held his, and she hers. But he was the one who spoke. "The lamb is supposed to be exceptional here. Tender, and perfectly spiced. I think you would enjoy that." He looked at her over the top of his menu, his eyes holding hers. "Or the sea bass, if you prefer something lighter."
It wasn't a question of what she wanted, but a choice between the options he had pre-selected for her. "The lamb, please," she said, feeling a thrill at surrendering the choice.
"Excellent." He closed his menu, and she followed suit. When the waiter returned, Ahmed ordered for both of them, his voice clear and assured.
Throughout the appetizer, he controlled the conversation. He asked thoughtful, probing questions, but he also let silences stretch, his gaze resting on her until she felt compelled to fill them, revealing more of herself than she intended. At one point, she slumped slightly, overwhelmed by his intensity.
He reached across the table, not to touch her hand, but to gently tap the back of her wrist. "Posture, Eva," he murmured, his voice soft but firm. "A submissive of mine carries herself with pride." The correction was immediate, and she straightened up, a flush of warmth spreading through her at his attention to her demeanor.
When the water was poured, he picked up his glass, swirled it, and took the first sip. He held her gaze as he did so, a silent command. Only then did she take her first sip. It was a tiny, invisible protocol, but it screamed of their dynamic.
As the main course arrived, the pyramids were now bathed in the light of a spectacular sound and light show. Eva was captivated. "It's breathtaking," she whispered.
"It is," Ahmed agreed, but he wasn't looking at the pyramids. He was looking at her. He placed his hand on the table, palm up, a silent invitation. Without hesitation, she placed her hand in his. His fingers closed around hers, not in a romantic clasp, but in a firm, enveloping grip. It was a claim.
"How does it feel," he asked, his thumb stroking her knuckles, "to finally be here, after all this time? Not at the pyramids. Here. With me."
"It feels... real," she said, her voice trembling with emotion. "It feels like I'm home."
His grip tightened almost imperceptibly. "You are home, Eva. You are where you belong." He leaned forward again, his voice dropping. "And later, when we are in private, I am going to spend a very long time reacquainting myself with every inch of my property. But for now, you will finish this exquisite food, and you will tell me everything that is in your heart."
The promise was a bolt of lightning, a clear delineation of the night's structure: the public seduction of control and care, leading to the private consummation of their power exchange.
Eva felt a profound sense of peace settle over her. The anxiety was gone, replaced by a deep, thrumming anticipation. Under the watchful eyes of the ancient pyramids, under the firm, guiding hand of her Dominant, she was completely, and willingly, his.
31-35, F
