Chapter 3: Assembling the Team

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.

Mo’s face was slick with sweat, his thick mustache damp as he alternated between fucking one girl and licking the other. His breath came in ragged gasps, his eyes glazed with lust as he reveled in the power he held over them. These girls were nothing to him—just bodies to be used, tools for his pleasure. They were the daughters of a shepherd, driven to this life by desperation and poverty.

“Fuck,” he groaned, his voice rough and guttural. “You’re tight, little whore. Just like your sister.”