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Five years after Ahmed and I started meeting in Paris, when I arrived the concierge informed me that there was a woman waiting in my suite.

When the bellhop opened my door, standing there was a beautiful African woman. She was perhaps fifty. "Hello, you must be Wanda Miles." She had tears in her eyes.

"I am, and you are?"

"This probably comes as a shock to you. My name is Safia, Ahmed's wife. Ahmed and I were married for thirty-five years. This past year he passed away." She was crying openly now, and so was I.

I was crying for my lost love, not because I'd felt betrayed. We'd never promised each other anything; anything except two weeks of great fucking; two weeks of playing his licorice stick and two weeks of eating my pussy. Nothing beyond that. Ahmed never disappointed.

I didn't know how much of any of this Safia knew, and I wasn't about to tell her.

After we finished crying, I invited her to dinner. "Of course, Safia, you will stay in my suite."

I didn't know her financial situation; if she wanted her own room, I ...

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