Chapter 2

There is a gleeful nod from Ahmed as he abandons the luggage in the hall, as instructed, and scampers off. I drag the trunks inside and bolt the door. The first things I unpack are the diamond-studded collar and the tail.

“Nigella, darling. That was Ahmed with the luggage. Charming boy, really.” I look at Nigella who is now kneeling in front of the statue. She is completely nude, and looks absolutely radiant in the orange evening light reflecting off the alabaster Bastet. “Darling? Are you sure you wouldn’t like something to eat first?”

Nigella says nothing, simply licks her wrists and grooms her body, all while staring up at the face of Bastet. I have never seen her quite like this and I am inclined to perch myself on the edge of the bed and enjoy the show, as it were.

Nigella continues grooming herself, leaning so far back that she is now supine on the rug, with her back arched and her thighs spread in the direction of the statue of Bastet. She is purring. Her magnificent chest is flushed and heaving as she continues the grooming ritual that is normally reserved for the dark of the night. But I’m not one to complain, mind you.

Nigella is perhaps the finest example of the female specimen that I have ever set eyes upon, and as I mentioned previously there are many times when I am content to simply observe her actions with no desire to take part myself. This is certainly one of those times—she is absolutely fascinating this evening.

Nigella is arched with only her shoulder blades and her lovely backside in contact with the rug underneath her. Oh, and I suppose the back of her head as well, for her head is thrown back as far as I can imagine that it will go, and it exposes the graceful line of her neck quite nicely. Her knees, yes, her knees are pointing up at the ceiling above, and are spread quite obscenely at the moment. She has started in on grooming the area between her thighs, her mound as she calls it during those times when she’s being a human, and grooming this area often results in her knees being as wide apart as possible.

Her mound is, and always has been, completely devoid of hair. She once confessed that it’s not her doing, and that it has always been this way. I sometimes wonder if it’s part of her cat persona that enjoys the clean feeling of the smooth bare skin. I also often wonder if she takes care of the smoothing on those nights when I hear her up and bumping about, long after I am tucked under the covers. But I have never questioned it, I simply accept that this is the way my Nigella is, and thank my lucky stars that we found each other.

The volume of Nigella’s purring has increased, as has the speed of her grooming. One of her hands will fly over the area between her legs, but only for a few seconds before it is drawn back to her mouth to be slathered with her tongue again. During the tongue slathering, her other hand is busy grooming. It is a very efficient process, and as I have already stated, my Nigella is very thorough.

“Would you like your collar now, darling? I have it unpacked. Perhaps your tail?”

Again, Nigella turns her head toward the sound of my voice, but appears to look right through me. I decide to fetch the items anyway.

When I come back, Nigella arches her back more than I thought possible, and stretches her neck out toward me, as I fasten the collar on her. This movement is the only indication that she even senses my presence in the room.

“I’ll leave you to take care of the tail if that’s alright, darling.”

In the past, she has always emerged from the W.C. fully in character, and I’ve never been privy to the details of what goes on in there when she makes the transformation. But tonight is different. Tonight, she does it in full view of Bastet and me.

Nigella begins with an undulating of her hips, rising and falling from the rug beneath her as if she were in some sort of trance state. And then, in obvious catlike fashion, she starts licking. She’s licking the end of the tail that normally never sees the light of day—licking until it is wet and shining in the fading sunlight. And then her hand disappears, as does the end of the tail. After a brief contortion crosses her face, her hand is back in sight, and she is purring more than ever.

Nigella has rolled over and is on all fours now. She is crawling with her head low, as if stalking some unseen prey. Her movements are graceful, even more so than usual. Her heavy breasts sway as she makes her way over to the statue of Bastet, where she spends the next few minutes rubbing against it with her cheek, and then turning a circle to present her backside to the statue and shaking her tail. This maneuver is repeated several times while I watch in utter fascination.

“Nigella, darling, you’re beautiful.”

Once again, she turns toward the sound of my voice and stares openly. It may be a trick of the fading light, but I could swear that her eyes have changed. My Nigella has always had the most enchanting amber eyes that I have ever seen. Her irises still retain the warm amber color this evening, but there is something decidedly different about the pupils—they have become like vertical slits. Though, as I say, the sun has gotten quite low at this point in the evening and it may have all been a trick of the light.

By this time, Nigella is up on her hind legs. Yes, she is a human and I could simply say legs and still be perfectly clear in my meaning, but there was something about her feline transformation on this particular evening that has compelled me to use the word hind as a modifier. As Nigella rises up on her hind legs, she uses her hands to paw at the statue as if she were climbing it. But she isn’t exactly climbing so much as embracing.

Nigella has wrapped her hind legs around Bastet’s thigh and is sliding up and down over the smooth alabaster statue, while her forelegs, or arms I should say, encircle the goddess’s neck. Nigella’s head is thrust back as she presses her ample bosom against the stone of the statue. The purring is unimaginably loud at this point, and seems to be resonating in my very skull as this scene unfolds before me.

I am in awe. Nigella’s entire body shudders for a moment, and then she does the strangest thing yet—she climbs down off the statue and curls up onto the rug beneath it. Her eyes are closed and I could swear that she has fallen asleep.

“Nigella? Darling? Are you quite alright?”

I realize it is a bit late to be asking these questions, but as I have said, this is not the first time that my dear Nigella has taken on a feline persona. But I do believe it is the first time I have ever witnessed such a complete transformation. It was an exceedingly long journey for us, getting to Egypt and I decide that perhaps fatigue is the reason behind her rather unique behavior tonight.

She appears dead to the world, but I see that her chest is rising and falling, and I know that she is only asleep.

“Darling, I’m going to pop out and fetch us some dinner. You just rest. I’ll bring you something.”

On my way to the cafe, I run into Ahmed, the small boy of great strength, who delivered our luggage earlier. He asks how he can be of service, and I tell him of my desire for two dinners. When he asks if there is anything else I might require, I pause for a moment and then ask him for a bottle of milk and a bowl. “It’s for Missus Carruthers,” I explain. “It helps her to keep the germs down, you see.”

Ahmed nods and scampers off, while I go back to check on my dear Nigella.

She is still sleeping where I left her by the time I get back, and doesn’t even stir when Ahmed comes knocking on the door later with a room service cart and a wide smile. I see that he has brought the milk, as I had asked, and also makes no move to deliver the cart inside the room—no doubt still fearing the germs I had warned him about previously. I tip him well, of course.

“Nigella, darling,” I whisper. “Ahmed, the charming boy who delivered our luggage, has brought dinner.”

Not a sound other than a light snoring comes from my dearest as she lies on the rug, still curled up and resting her head on her front paws. Hands. Forgive me, I meant to say hands.

“If you would rather, there is also milk. I’ll put some in a bowl for you.”

Now, as I have mentioned earlier, it was a long journey that brought us to the Hotel Baba Ghanoush in Zagazig, and I am starting to feel the effects of the trip myself. So after consuming my dinner, I turn my attention to my poor exhausted Nigella. She still hasn’t moved. I think briefly of waking her in order to tuck her into bed, but then I decide it best not to disturb her too much. I cover her with a blanket and get myself ready to turn in for the night. Before I slip between the sheets, I pour the milk into the bowl and set it on the rug next her.

After such a long day, sleep takes me almost instantly. Though it is not long before I hear a clatter in the night. I spring upright at once and go to the door to investigate. It is still firmly bolted. As I move to check the window, I notice Nigella is no longer where I had left her prior to drifting off. She has moved, and is now curled up under the statue of Bastet. In the sliver of moonlight, a pale shadow of the statue is cast, and it gives the illusion that Bastet is lying beside my dear Nigella—at least in silhouette.