Lion Head Mesa fist & jaw

If there was ever a moment to make Zaahira question her attraction to men at all, this would be it.
The young fellahin's words become static as every nerve of the pantheress's body is sparked alight with touch. Gentle, preening lips, the warmth of a woman's mouth; oh, dear, this was becoming embarrassing.
Helplessly weakened and imcredibly still, she murmurs hums in response to her answers. They are vague, automatic, serviceable, and she knows this. She would not press further.
She's asked if there's anything else to do, and all Zaahira can manage is a shake of her head no and a sheepish mumble of You may bring the wine, now, if you please? Her typical hardened expression of composure is replaced with blown pupils and a flatness to her ears. Silently, she prays to every possible God of Akashingo that Khusobek would refrain from commenting.