Alice in Wonderland: The Homecoming Parade
The apartment in Bahrain’s Seef district was quiet at 9:17 p.m., the kind of quiet that comes after a long day of surgery—the scalpels laid down, the sutures tied—and the low, persistent hum of the air-conditioner struggling against the Gulf heat that seeped through the walls like an unwelcome guest. Alice had just showered, the steam still lingering in the bathroom, her long black hair damp and clinging to the small of her back beneath a thin cotton nightdress that translucent in the lamplight, outlining the curves of her body, nipples dark shadows through the fabric. She was twenty-eight now, senior resident in anaesthesia, engaged to a man in Virginia who sent spreadsheets instead of kisses, his emails clinical dissections of their future. Her mother, Amna, fifty-four and still elegant in a silk housecoat that whispered with every movement, sat in the lounge with Alice’s younger sister, Sara, twenty-two, legs tucked under her, scrolling through Instagram on her phone, the screen’s glow illuminating her face. The doorbell rang once, polite but firm, cutting through the hush like a scalpel.
Amna rose without hurry, smoothing her housecoat. “They’re here,” she said, not to Sara, not to Alice—just to the air, a statement of fact. Sara didn’t look up, but her thumb paused mid-scroll, hovering over a photo.
The first man stepped inside: Khalid, broad-shouldered, late thirties, a pharmaceutical rep who had once brought Alice’s department samples of propofol in shiny boxes, his smile then as now laced with intent. He wore a crisp thobe, the fabric starched, oud heavy on his wrists, the scent filling the entryway. Amna greeted him with the same smile she used for dinner guests, warm and hospitable, took his hand in both of hers, and led him past the lounge toward Alice’s bedroom, her slippers soft on the tile. Sara offered a small nod, eyes flicking up briefly, then down again, a flicker of something—knowledge, perhaps—crossing her features.
The bedroom door closed with a soft click, the sound muffled by the carpet. Inside, Alice stood by the window, moonlight striping the carpet in silver bars, her silhouette ethereal. Khalid didn’t speak. He didn’t need to; the air between them crackled. He crossed the room in three strides, cupped her face in large, callused hands, and kissed her—slow, deliberate, tongue invading her mouth, tasting of mint and raw want. Her nightdress slipped from one shoulder under his touch; his hands followed, tracing the slope of her breast, thumb brushing the nipple until it peaked hard, a gasp escaping her into his mouth, the sound carrying through the thin walls.
In the lounge, the television played a Turkish drama on low volume, the actors’ voices a distant murmur. Amna poured tea into delicate bone-china cups, the clink of porcelain loud in the hush, steam curling like incense. Sara accepted a plate of sheer khurma, the syrupy sweetness cloying, offered it to the next man waiting by the door—Imran, lean and mid-thirties, a radiographer with kind eyes and a wedding ring he never wore at work, spinning it absentmindedly now. He thanked Sara softly, voice polite, took a piece with sticky fingers, and followed Amna down the hall, his footsteps measured.
Inside the bedroom, Khalid had Alice on her back amidst the rumpled sheets, nightdress rucked to her waist, thighs spread wide, knees bent to her chest. He entered her in one smooth, powerful thrust, her gasp muffled against his shoulder as he buried himself to the hilt, the stretch familiar yet always overwhelming. The headboard tapped the wall in a steady rhythm—thump, thump, thump—like a heartbeat accelerating, the bedframe creaking under his weight. Alice’s fingers clawed at his back, nails leaving half-moons through the thobe’s cotton, her hips rising to meet each plunge, the wet slap of their joining echoing. When he came, it was with a low groan that vibrated through her, hips jerking erratically, spilling deep inside her in hot, pulsing waves that overflowed, soaking the sheets. He kissed her forehead, almost tender, a contrast to the brutality, then withdrew slowly, tucking himself away with a satisfied sigh. The door opened and closed again, the click final.
Back in the lounge, Imran sat on the sofa, tea untouched, steam fading. Amna asked about his mother’s health, her voice steady, conversational; Sara laughed at something on her phone, the sound forced but covering the silence. The headboard’s rhythm had stopped, but the silence felt heavier now, expectant, the air thick with unspoken awareness.
The third man was Faisal—the same Faisal from the hospital conference room, beard trimmed sharp, eyes unreadable pools of dark intent. He greeted Amna with a murmured Assalamu alaikum, accepted a glass of rooh afza, the red syrup vivid, and followed her down the hall, his hand brushing Amna’s briefly in thanks. Sara watched him go, then glanced at her mother, a silent exchange passing between them. Amna’s face was calm, composed, the same face she wore at parent-teacher meetings or family weddings.
In the bedroom, Alice was on her knees now, nightdress discarded in a heap, hair a dark spill down her spine like a raven’s wing. Faisal stood behind her, one hand fisted in that hair, pulling her head back to arch her spine, the other guiding himself into her ass, the head breaching the tight ring with a pop. She whimpered—pain and pleasure braided tight, the burn intense—but pushed back against him, greedy for more, her body accommodating with practiced ease. The slap of skin on skin was sharp, unmistakable, his balls swinging to hit her slick pussy with each thrust. On the other side of the wall, Sara turned the television volume up one notch, the drama’s soundtrack swelling to mask the sounds.
The fourth was Tariq, Faisal’s old partner in crime, smiling like he’d won a bet, his eyes gleaming with mischief. He brought a small bottle of lube from his pocket, set it on the nightstand without ceremony, the cap clicking open. Alice was on her back again, legs over his shoulders, ankles by his ears, the position exposing her completely. He fucked her slow and deep, each thrust deliberate, grinding against her clit, the bed creaking in protest, springs groaning. Her moans climbed—higher, broken, raw, echoing down the hall like a siren. Amna refilled teacups in the lounge, the pot trembling slightly in her hand, asked the next man—Omar, a quiet accountant with gentle hands and a soft voice—whether he preferred cardamom or plain, her smile unwavering.
By the fifth—Hamza, the medical rep from Lahore, Rolex glinting under the bedside lamp—Alice’s voice was hoarse, throat raw from previous cries. He took her against the dresser, her palms flat on the mirror, fogging the glass with every panting breath, her breasts pressed against the cool surface. The mirror rattled with each impact; a perfume bottle toppled, rolled, clinked to the floor, shattering in a spray of glass and scent. In the lounge, Sara offered dates from a crystal bowl, her smile polite, eyes bright with something unreadable—curiosity, perhaps, or envy.
The sixth was Zain, the photographer, Leica left in the car, his hands free to explore. He laid Alice on her stomach, entered her from behind in one smooth glide, one hand over her mouth to muffle the sounds, fingers pressing into her cheeks. Not that it helped—the walls were thin, the apartment small, every grunt and slap carrying. His thrusts were steady, relentless, hips snapping forward; the headboard resumed its tattoo against the wall. Amna asked after Zain’s gallery show, her tone light; Sara complimented his Instagram aesthetic, scrolling through his feed as if nothing happened.
The seventh—Bilal, logistics, Cuban cigars leaving a faint smoke trail—was rougher, his stocky frame dominating. He flipped Alice onto her stomach, pulled her hips up sharply, and took her hard from behind, the slap of flesh loud enough to drown the television, his hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise. She came with a cry that cracked mid-note, body shaking violently, walls clenching around him. Bilal followed, groaning into her hair, collapsing atop her for a moment, his weight pinning her, before rolling away with a satisfied grunt.
The eighth was Faraz, tech-bro, crypto quotes forgotten in the heat. He made her ride him on the bed, hands on her hips, guiding her up and down his length with bruising force until her thighs trembled from the effort, muscles burning. Her breasts bounced with each movement, heavy and slick with sweat; he caught them, pinching nipples until she yelped. When she came again, it was with her head thrown back, mouth open in a silent scream, body convulsing. Faraz flipped her over roughly, finished on her stomach, the warmth spreading across her lower back in sticky pools.
The ninth—Raheel, a colleague from paediatrics, soft-spoken with kind eyes—entered to find Alice half-dozing, limbs loose and heavy, sheets tangled and stained. He was gentle, almost reverent, kissing her eyelids tenderly, her throat with soft sucks, entering her slowly as if memorizing the feel of her swollen, well-used pussy. She wrapped her legs around him, urging him deeper with her heels, their rhythm quiet but intimate, the bed still creaking, the headboard tapping a softer beat. In the lounge, Amna served the last of the sheer khurma, the plate nearly empty; Sara scrolled, thumb moving slower now, her breath shallow.
The tenth was Omair, the farmhouse host, beard groomed, eyes sharp as knives. He found Alice on her back, legs spread wide, body glistening with sweat and the spend of nine men, her pussy red and puffy, ass tender. He didn’t rush. He kissed her mouth deeply, tongue tangling with hers; her breasts, sucking marks into the soft flesh; the soft curve of her belly, nipping gently. Then he slid into her with a sigh, the fit slick and easy from the lubrication of others. She was swollen, sensitive, every thrust a spark that built quickly; he took his time, angling to hit her G-spot, building her up again until she came with a broken sob, clinging to him, nails raking his back. He followed, buried deep, pulsing inside her in long, drawn-out waves.
When he left, the apartment fell silent, the air heavy with the aftermath.
Amna and Sara sat in the lounge, television flickering with forgotten drama, tea cold and untouched. The men had gone—one by one, polite goodnights murmured at the door, promises to call about work, about dinner, about nothing that mattered. Alice emerged twenty minutes later, showered for the second time that night, hair braided wet, wearing a fresh nightdress that hid the marks. She poured herself water from the kitchen filter, drank it standing at the counter, the glass cool in her trembling hand. Her thighs trembled still; between them, the slow seep of ten men mingled, warm and undeniable, a river of evidence.
Amna looked up from her seat, eyes soft. “You should eat something,” she said, voice gentle, pushing the plate of dates forward.
Alice nodded, took a date, the sweetness bursting on her tongue. Sara met her eyes, held them for a long moment—recognition, shared secret—then looked away, cheeks flushing.
Later, in her room, Alice lay on fresh sheets Amna had changed while she showered, the ceiling fan turning slow circles above. Her body ached—jaw from deep-throating, thighs from being spread and pounded, the tender stretch of her ass a pulsing reminder—but the ache was sweet, familiar, a badge of her hunger. She touched herself lightly, fingers slipping through the slickness that still leaked, circling her clit until she came again, quietly, teeth sunk into her pillow to muffle the gasp, body arching off the bed.
In the lounge, Amna turned off the television, the screen going black. Sara closed her phone, the room plunging into shadow. The apartment settled into the hush of midnight, the Gulf outside vast and indifferent, waves crashing faintly in the distance. Some doors, once opened, became the only way through, and Amna poured the tea, Sara offered the sweets, knowing the parade would come again.