It was Monday morning, my cell phone ringing jolted me out of some badly needed sleep. It was Maureen. Jolene had another date for me and I should come by the office that afternoon to get briefed. I wondered when the time would come that they would just give me an address and a name. Instead I always got a briefing – like I was James Bond going on a special mission. By then I was starting to wonder how they handled the assignation of dates with the other ‘contractors’ – male and female.
When I walked into the reception at J&B, Maureen told me my hair looked great and gave me a special look. I leaned close so she’d be able to whisper to me and she did. “I don’t know yet when she’ll be gone this week. Be patient.” Then aloud: “Jolene’s on the phone. Have a seat Art. How about a cup of coffee?” Coming back from the break/copy room, she bent over to give me the coffee and I noticed that she’d undone another button on her blouse, thus showing me even more cleavage than before.
“You like what you see?” she asked.
I told her I’d probably like even more the stuff that I couldn’t see. We exchanged a few more sexually suggestive innuendos before Maureen noticed Jolene was off the phone and sent me in.
Jolene’s compliment was even more gushy than Maureen’s. Then typical of her, without catching a breath, she got down to business. “Tonight you’re entertaining Fatim. From the name and accent she’s Middle Eastern. This time, Art, I have no idea what she wants to do. I tried to get some idea but I had trouble understanding her. In the end the only thing that was clear is that you need to meet her in the lobby of the Four Seasons around 8 PM. Wear your khaki slacks and the blue blazer - and naturally shirt and tie. Middle Easterners, tend to be conservative and formal, both men and women.”
I thought it was pretty weird that I might end up on a date with an Arab woman and I let Jolene know I was skeptical. After all, the men in that part of the world tend to keep their women pretty well locked up – at home and when they’re travelling. I also wondered how I’d bring a woman with poor English around to asking for the extra time that brings me the big tips. “And if I make the indecent proposal, what then? Hell you never know, Fatim might turn out to be a female vice cop.”
Jolene somehow convinced me it’d all work out and pooh-poohed the danger: “Art, you need to stop being so mistrustful. A female vice cop masquerading as an Arab woman? Really now! You need to come back down to earth. The cops here in Baltimore have trouble pretending to be cops.”
After the adventures with Audrey during my last date at the Four Seasons, I had to agree with her judgment of the city’s finest. In the end I committed to the date just like Jolene knew I would right from the beginning. My final words of surrender were: “And how do I recognize Fatim? I mean there might be more than one of them in a burka.”
Jolene gave me the same hard schoolteacher look that she always gave me whenever I got cynical. “Fatim has black hair, 5-4, glittery silver necklace and bracelets, rings, blue dress and alligator handbag. She’ll look like money is no object and it won’t be.”
I still had lots of misgivings about this. Hell, depending on where you are in the Middle East, men go to all sorts of extremes to keep their women pure – cover the hair, cover the face, don’t let women use seat belts because the female form is too obvious, don’t let them drive, don’t let them go shopping alone, etc., etc. And now this Fatim, obviously from the Middle East and whose English is pretty shaky, is free enough to engage an escort. Question was, who was scheming and what were they scheming to do?
Only when I walked into the lobby of the Four Seasons was I able to get all the skepticism out of my mind. Maybe it was the memory of the afternoon in the Hyatt Regency with Marilyn. Maybe the luxury and energy-laden atmosphere of these luxury hotels somehow makes all the crap in the world go away?
As always Jolene’s description was accurate, or at least good enough so that I didn’t have any trouble finding Fatim. She invited me to have a drink with her in the Wit & Wisdom (a bar/restaurant inside the hotel). Over whiskey’s, she first explained that I shouldn’t be surprised that she used alcohol. After all what did I think the upper class drank when they partied – even in her deeply religious homeland.
It was pretty obvious that she wanted to talk so I let her do just that, interrupting with polite questions to give myself a rest from the effort of paying such close attention. It didn’t take me too long to get used to her accent but the real problem was her syntax. Fatim knew lots of English words but she had never lived in an English speaking country before and it seemed that her sentence structure came more or less in a direct translation from Arabic – so yeah, it was tedious and I wondered if we’d ever get around to talking about extra services and the tip it’d take for her to get them.
After hearing a whole lot about life back home, Fatim got into how much she liked living in Washington. She claimed that her husband was a big shot in their embassy and that gave her lots of pull to keep servants in line and as Jolene had predicted, money was definitely no problem.
At one point I interrupted with something like: “So you really like it in D.C.? And in Baltimore?”
That’s when she told me that her husband, Wasim, was on an official trip to various cities around the country. What followed came in smatters and she sometimes seemed to contradict herself so I had to interrupt pretty often just to get things straight. Her husband, Wasim, was in his mid-sixties - around 20 years older than her. From her tone of voice when she talked about Wasim and from his age, I gathered that their marriage bed wasn’t a real lively place.
I was having a hard time getting the names straight and the relationships. She began talking about her sisters Ketifa, Amina and Gul and I asked if they all had the same father or same mother or both. The answer turned out to be both yes and no. Amina and Ketifa had the same father and mother. Fatim and Gul had the same father but different mothers. The confusion came because in English we don’t have different words for sibling sisters and sister wives. Sister wives being women married to the same man. (Just like with the fundamentalist Mormons, I pity the poor sap who has to draw up a family tree.)
Then she told me something that really blew me away. Amina and Ketifa were her daughters! After her first husband, a friend of Wasim’s father, had been killed in a car wreck, Wasim’s father had ordered him to marry her and adopt the two young daughters, Amina and Ketifa. His first wife, Gul, hadn’t born him children and since she, Fatim, had two daughters, Wasim figured she must be fertile so he was pretty receptive to the marriage order – not that his father had given him much choice.
When she, like Gul, didn’t get pregnant from him, he accused her of holding back her eggs. Fatim and Gul were convinced that the problem was that Wasim’s semen didn’t have enough sperm cells, but of course, a woman in their culture doesn’t tell her husband that he’s only capable of shooting blanks. After some years of fucking Fatim as often as he could get his pecker up and servicing Gul only when he couldn’t avoid it, Wasim had given up and began to service his two wives only at the maximum intervals allowed in the Koran.
Fatim’s openness about these intimacies surprised me because popular knowledge has it that the laws and customs in the Middle Eastern countries are really prudish when it comes to the sexes and sex. On the other hand though, it turns out that the people aren’t necessarily all that prudish when it comes down to practical discussions. Maybe that comes from all the detailed instructions and prohibitions in the Koran.
I wanted to know how long that maximum interval for servicing a wife was. That set Fatim off on a long discourse, which I had trouble following. The best I could figure out was that the maximum allowable interval depends on the imam whom one asks and on whatever the husband thinks is right or what he can manage or wants to manage.
I’d always read that the Koran requires a man with more than one wife to treat all equally – sexually and otherwise. How could Wasim, a strong practicing Moslem, have favored Fatim with sex and ignored Gul? Maybe that requirement, like lots of stuff in all religions, is taken out of context. Or maybe Wasim or his imam found an exception to the rule? My skepticism about this date was starting to build up again.
I wondered how they ever kept track of the relationships – again it went through my mind that drawing up the family tree would be a great big nightmare. But my real curiosity was how they managed the marital sex. Did the wives make up a schedule? Or did Wasim arbitrarily say whom he wanted to bed with on any given night?
Fatim suddenly seemed tired of the discussion and got right down to business. “Talk long enough. Now you and me do.” Then she stuck her extended middle finger into a tube formed by curling the fingers of her other hand and worked it back and forth. “How much?”
Although Jolene had insisted that now with the Mitt Romney look, I could demand a higher ‘tip’, I told Fatim $600 and used my watch to indicate all night.
She hesitated as if thinking about it and surprised me with “We look too, okay?”
I couldn’t figure out what she meant and she must have picked up on my dumbfounded face because she went on. “You know, look!” And then she looked down at my crotch and then hers.
Somewhere I’d once read that the Koran forbids copulating couples from looking at each other’s genitals. Maybe that was true or at least practiced by some – like maybe Fatim’s husband Wasim? Then Fatim’s special night would include the two of us looking at each other’s genitals. I said “No problem.”
Fatim discreetly slid 6 hundred-dollar bills over to me and we left without finishing our whiskeys.
Walking to the lift we held hands like a couple in love and I could feel jealous eyes on us, Fatim was one striking woman and my new hairstyle completed the look of a couple with lots going for them.
We made out in the lift and after it landed on the 8th floor, we hurried to her room to get on with the fun. Inside we were immediately locked in a nearly violent embrace. Exchanging tongues as we kissed, the coppery taste told me she was nearly ready. She’d rub her belly against my erection, back off from the kiss, look at me and then give me a cute shy but knowing smile. Her left leg went up against my hip. I reached around to her back, ran my hand up under her blue dress and then inside her panties. My hand on her bare butt inflamed her more and she grabbed my shoulders and hopped up so her legs were around my waist. We were groin to groin and Fatim was really grinding away. Then she broke off the kiss and slid off my hips so she was standing. With no hesitation she lifted her dress and took off her panties. I got a glimpse of the dark pubic triangle before Fatim turned around and indicated I should unzip her dress. This I did, unclasping her bra at the same time. When she turned around I was facing a very good looking naked woman with dark hair, luscious red lips, olive skin, moderate size but firm tits and below, a beautiful patch of black pubic hair.
“Now you!” Meaning I should not remain dressed. She helped me off with my jacket, shirt and T-shirt and then my trousers. Hesitating, she backed off and looked at me standing in my boxer shorts, massive bulge in front. “Now I can look?” I nodded and she instantly had my shorts down. Again backing away she looked at my groin closely, like she’d never seen an erect penis before. I beckoned her closer and placed her hand on my dick. At first she just held it loosely in her hand and looked at it like she were studying it. Getting more adventurous, she took to stroking lightly. I could see her chest was heaving with excitement and her breath came in rushes. Again we kissed, our tongues intermingling. My hand went to her crotch and found the warm and moist slit. Massaging the labia made her even wetter. I started for the top of her slit to massage her clitoris but she stopped me and whispered “Not there.” That was a new one, what woman ever didn’t want her clitoris massaged?
Fatim leaned over a little and we flopped onto the bed. Her parted legs and raised knees told me that she wanted one thing and she wanted it without delay. There was sharp intake of her breath as the head of my penis went in between her labia. Entering her vagina brought forth a light squeal that she followed with an encouraging moan. She matched my slow measured strokes with her own thrusts and I was quickly in to the hilt, or more accurately to my newly trimmed groin. Predictably, things got more urgent in a hurry and we were both sweating as we seemed to be trying to see who could slam the other harder. Fatim announced her release with a squeal and loud panting – thank goodness before me. Afterwards we lay together, our sweat soaked bodies intertwined and Fatim’s rear end in the sticky pool formed by the product of our orgasms.
After we cooled down, Fatim indicated she wanted us to bath so I filled the tub, putting in some of the foamy bath soap. Fatim kneeled in the tub and I followed suit. (The client is always right unless, of course, they turn out to be unacceptably wrong.) Facing each other on our knees, her beautiful black pubic triangle was visible to me and my now slowly swelling dick to her. Fatim initiated the tub action by diligently washing me and of course she was rewarded with more swelling. I rewarded her with a good washing and thought maybe now she’d want her clitoris to get some attention. That wasn’t the case, in fact she backed off whenever I got close to the top of her lovely slit. I thought “well, what the hell, different strokes for different folks”, and let it go at that.
It became obvious that Fatim wanted to give me a hand job in the tub and I had no objections to that. It was then also pretty obvious that she wasn’t very experienced at giving hand jobs so I showed her how to use some bath gel as a lube and a few of the typical moves. She may have been inexperienced but even inexperienced hand jobbers have a natural instinct that makes them get worked up and speed up the pace as the male gets closer and closer to orgasm. Fatim was no exception and she squealed and couldn’t seem to catch her breath when I came, squirting all over her breasts and chin.
Back in bed after cleaning each other up for the second time that night, it was pretty obvious that my next erection wouldn’t be to soon. Fatim let me know that she wanted to talk so I made up my mind to be patient and try to understand at least some of what she wanted to say. After all, there’s worse ways to earn a living than conversing in bed with a good looking naked woman – even one with unusual pronunciation and strange syntax. Fortunately Fatim, being rather intelligent, had caught on to my problems understanding her and had begun accompany her sentences with sign language and actions.
First she spread her legs and using two fingers of one hand opened her slit. I’m not a gynecologist, but I could see right away that her pussy was not standard issue. Without waiting for my comment, she pointed at the top of her slit and then with two fingers made a snipping-like motion. I had just met my first circumcised woman! Indeed, the clitoris and clitoral hood were not there!
Fatim used sign language to indicate that the area where these organs had been was tender to the touch, which was why she stopped me from massaging her there. I was surprised that it hadn’t been painful when we were fucking groin to groin but I didn’t know how to phrase the question so she’d understand. I tried to look sad and I told her I was sorry. Surprisingly she answered “No, no sorry.” And she didn’t look sad – I guess she just accepted it as normal.
After that bit of show-and-tell, she made my dick the center of attention. After getting clued in on her circumcision, I didn’t have anything resembling a hard-on and my foreskin covered the head completely. She reached over with one hand and put it under my dick and allowed it to lie in the palm of her hand. After a bit of studying it and examining with her index finger, Fatim got more adventurous. Now using her thumb and forefinger, she worked my foreskin partly back. Looking up at me, she questioned “No circumcise?” What could I say but “No, no circumcise.”
I thought this might lead to some fun little sex game so I decided to stop being passive. Retracting my foreskin and holding it back, I asked “Is this how Wasim looks?” Fatim looked at me a little perplexed and I could almost hear the wheels in her brain turning and clicking as she tried to formulate and answer. Then finally she got it out “All Moslem men circumcised. Wasim too. But I never see Wasim.”
So they somehow remained covered up when they fucked – well actually that’s not too hard. Nor even unusual – some Christian sects promoted that custom as well. If you happen to sleep in a cold bedroom, you probably want to keep shirts on and do it under the covers anyway. But she claimed she’d never ever seen her husband’s dick!
Just to get back on the subject of anatomy, I offered “But you know Wasim is circumcised?”
Looking at me a little perplexed, she said it a matter of fact voice, “All Moslem men circumcised.”
All the while she was cradling my dick with one hand and fondling with the other. All this had the predictable result – namely that I started swelling up. Again in the same matter-of-fact voice, “Wasim not like that.”
So dear Wasim not only shot blanks, he had trouble getting it up, or at least he had trouble keeping it up. All I could say was “Oh.”
Still cradling my dick in one hand, she took the other hand away and used it to demonstrate. First a drooping finger represented Wasim’s soft dick. Then she slowly extended the finger to show Wasim getting hard, but let it drop pretty quickly to show that Wasim couldn’t keep it up.
Then she took my hand to her slit and said ever so mournfully, “Long time, no Wasim here.”
I was thinking of a guy with four wives, none of whom he could service. That got me curious and almost knowing the answer, I asked how it was with Wasim and Gul.
Fatim nearly jumped straight up as she took her hands away from my dick and exclaimed “Gul, oh shit, I forget Gul.”
Fatim went straight to the wardrobe and pulled out two robes. One she put on and the other she tossed to me. “Put on!” Both of us now robed, she led me to door that I hadn’t noticed before. Opening it, she said “Now you meet Gul.”
It was only then that I started becoming aware of the layout of where we were. Where Fatim and I had been was a bedroom in a large suite. Sitting on a great big couch in the living room was woman, perhaps a little older than Fatim and somewhat heavier, wearing a green dress, silver necklace, bracelets, rings – all complimenting her shiny black hair. So was this going to be a doubleheader for me or what?
Although Fatim was the younger of the two sister wives, she was clearly going to be the master of ceremonies. She led me over and sat me down to Gul’s right and then sat next to my right so that I was framed by two very handsome Middle Eastern women, one fashionably (and expensively) dressed, the other in a hotel robe. Immediately it was clear why Fatim was in charge, Gul spoke no English other than ‘hello’, ‘good bye’, ‘thank you’ and that sort of thing.
Fatim introduced us formally and then the two sister wives had a lively conversation, which although in Arabic, I could somehow tell that I was the subject of at least a part of what they talked about. From the giggles and motions, I was pretty sure they were going into some pretty graphic details. When they finished there was a moment of silence before Fatim turned to me and said that Gul had a hard time believing what she (Fatim) had told her.
All I could say was “Oh.”
“Ralph, open robe and show her.” Not waiting for my answer, she flipped open the front of my robe. I had lost the partial hard-on that I’d had when she suddenly remembered Gul in the next room, however, with two dark haired women gazing at my crotch, a record recovery was in progress. This set the two of them off on another round of rapid animated conversation, which they interrupted occasionally with pointing and touching to make a point.
After they had apparently reached some sort of agreement on how to proceed, Fatim turned to me, “Now you make Gul happy, same as you and me.”
Then it was clear who my next fuck would be, I was just a little at a loss as to how to proceed. Should I make out with Gul, feel her up and gradually get her clothes off or should I just strip her and fuck her. Fatim, clever woman, saw my hesitation and came to the rescue by taking my left hand and placing it on Gul’s knee – underneath her dress. So I was to play this smoothly and slowly, like if I were a teenager again. Except as a teenager, a female that I’d just fucked wasn’t going to sit there watching, in fact as a teenager, there weren’t very many females that I’d fucked at all.
My hand went from the top of her knee to the inside of knee and then while kissing and holding her head by the neck, I moved up to her silky smooth inner thighs. Her whimper and the coppery taste of her kisses told me that was a move in the right direction. I took my right hand from her neck and felt along the underside of her breasts. More positive response and I was massaging the breast and squeezing the nipples through her dress and bra. Her reactions told me I didn’t need to move slowly. As I reached around her upper body with both hands, obviously to unzip her dress, she leaned forward to make my way easier. (Boy that sure was unlike being a teenager when the girls used to practically glue themselves to the back of the car seat so you couldn’t get near the zipper.)
Gul was a little overweight and her breasts were correspondingly soft. Though larger than Fatim’s breasts, they were nothing compared to the bazookas that Maureen had. Her upper body now freely exposed, I dove for the nipples and treated both, equally I hope, to a round of kissing and sucking. This I felt she appreciated and warmed to, but when I came up to kiss her lips again, the look in her eyes and the way they shunted down to look at my now very erect penis told me that she wanted more than breast stimulation. It sure was time to see how she was doing in that department.
The fingers of my right hand quickly found her soft inner thighs and working up to the fork, as expected, damp panties. To my surprise though, there wasn’t the expected cushiony feel of pubic hair. Underneath and to both sides of a slit that was exuding liquid, just smooth silky skin, even softer than the thighs that I’d felt on the way there. Fatim said something in Arabic to which Gul offered a one word reply before looking at me almost apologetically and gently taking my hand away.
The two half sisters must have thought this out ahead of time because Fatim headed out of the room as if with a mission in mind, while Gul, without hesitation, stood up and removed her dress. Facing me, clad only in her panties, Gul raised her arms slightly and again gave me one of her characteristic looks of anticipation. I didn’t hesitate and in a jiffy a stark naked, slightly chubby Gul was standing and facing me. Her vulva was indeed absolutely free of hair. I got up and embracing her, let my dick graze along the naked slit. She was now so worked up that I could feel her moisture on my shaft.
I was so engrossed in standing there, kind of humping Gul’s naked crotch, that I only noticed that Fatim had returned when I heard her say something in Arabic. Gul broke off and I turned back towards the couch to see Fatim carefully spread out a large bath towel on the couch. When she was done she sat herself at one end and beckoned to Gul with a hand gesture as if to say “Okay, it’s ready for you, now lie down.” And lie down she did, head in Fatim’s lap and one leg elevated on the sofa back and the other draped slightly down from the seat. Again, she gave me that fetching anticipatory look.
Not one to disappoint her anticipation, I was on her in an instant, face to face and groin to groin. Kissing Gul, I felt what seemed to be too many hands stroking my head. The extra hand belonged to Fatim who was stroking my head as well as Gul’s. These two really took the sister wife thing to heart. How wrong I had been in thinking that in these Moslem polygamous households, threesomes and similar debauchery was a big no-no. I was in no big hurry to enter Gul, just the feeling of her warm and soft vulva against my shaft was already heaven. It went through my head that this must be what motivates the martyrs – hell, imagine having 72 women spoiling you!
Between pants and moans, Gul said something to Fatim and there ensued a quick exchange – in Arabic of course. I felt a slender female hand slide over my hip and on towards my groin, pushing up to encourage me to raise my hips. The same hand then grasped my shaft near the rim and I felt Gul’s moist warmth as that hand worked the head in to luxuriate in the folds of her labia. The hand worked me back and forth as if to make sure Gul’s entire slit was pleasured and her panting and gasping told me that indeed she was being pleasured. Then I felt the head being guided to that magic opening and a tug pointed me in the right direction before the hand slid away. Gul let out what I can only remember as guttural gasping squeal as I plunged in and began fucking her with slow strokes, measured to not put me all the way in her at once. Wanting to see the source of all the verbal response to my efforts, I backed away from our kissing embrace and was rewarded with the sight of Gul’s face – sweaty, eyes alternately open and closed, gasps and utterances coming out from between her rich red lips. How I would have loved to understand the words that escaped from her between the gasps and pants.
A quick verbal exchange between the two women and Fatim bent forward and engaged me in a deep kiss. At the same time I felt two hands on my ass cheeks pull me downwards and I plunged in deeper – all the way. Gul’s hips responded to my thrusts and we picked up the pace. Fatim backed her head out of the way so that Gul’s and my lips could engage. Soon our kissing got nearly as violent as the intercourse at our groins. Gul’s nails digging into my ass cheeks told me that her time had come. Then a guttural scream and her stiffened legs heralded a rush of warm fluid before her body relaxed and she fainted.
I must have gave Fatim a questioning look because she didn’t hesitate to explain: “Long time for Gul. Wasim have problem, I tell you already.” Again the drooping finger to represent Wasim’s dick that didn’t get hard or wouldn’t stay hard.
Gul awoke with a deep satisfied look on her face. I would have left my dick soak in her and try for a rerun but Fatim interrupted, “We go to bath together.” Fatim, still in charge of the proceedings, led us to the bathroom and ran in some more hot water. When we were all in the giant tub, Fatima said I should get up on my knees. That made it pretty obvious that the women had agreed that Gul should jack me off.
Trouble was, after three goes in the preceding few hours, I was still hanging. After a round of jabbering, Fatim held my dick by the shaft and with the other hand tugged my foreskin back. That brought on another round of jabbering and then Gul took over. Taking me by the shaft and tugging back, she kept the head free and her lips closed over it. The touch of her tongue was like CPR for my dick and as I started to respond, Gul interrupted and there was another round of jabber before she continued. To make a long story short, the two women managed a miracle and they got to enjoy the sight of me ejaculating.
With me lying deep in the tub, exhausted, Fatima and Gul carried on a very animated conversation. Finally stopping, they looked at me and after a short exchange, Gul laid back against the side of the tub and gave me a look of invitation, which I took to mean that she wanted some pretty specific attention. What they had in mind was pretty obvious when Fatim moved over and took Gul’s legs in her lap, thereby raising her groin almost to the surface. Gul’s spread legs made it clear what my next move should be. Careful to avoid the top of her slit, I gave Gul a really intense fingering and got her to faint the second time of the night.
After Gul came to, I moved to give Fatim the same but she brushed me off and got out of the tub. “Come out. We go sleep now.”
Lying between the two in the big oversized bed, I went to sleep wondering what games the three of us would be playing the next morning.
I woke up slowly - to the scent of fresh coffee and hot bread. Sunshine was streaming in to the room and turning my head, there was Gul, clad in a robe and sitting on the edge of the bed. Before I could even worry about having recovered enough to service her again, she led me out of bed and helped me on with a robe. Fatim was at the coffee table where a terrific room service breakfast had been laid out.
Ever since meeting Fatim the night before, lots and lots of questions had been nagging me. Now with the stimulating effect of the coffee and good food, the questions were again roiling through my head. Like how had they gotten away for a night of fun in this hotel? Was Wasim so busy trying to fuck Amina and Ketifa that he totally ignored Fatim and Gul?
Fatim must have read my mind because she offered up, “Wasim on business trip. Leave us here. Wasim in Los Angeles, Wasim in Chicago, Wasim in Dallas, Wasim here at Four Seasons in Baltimore.”
My mind was saying ‘what the fuck?’ but I figured she wouldn’t understand so I just asked what kind of business Wasim was in.
“Not real business. Wasim work at embassy, you remember, I tell you last night?”
I mumbled an assent and she continued. “Wasim have to bring money to Los Angeles, Chicago, many places.”
Her answers seemed to kick up more questions than I’d had before. Why had Wasim parked two of his wives at this hotel in Baltimore? Surely they must live in a hell of a lot of luxury in D.C. Why would he take cash to cities around the country? Hell, these people must know about banks.
I didn’t know how to phrase these questions in a way that Fatim would understand so I just asked if Amina and Ketifa were travelling with Wasim.
She gave me a look that said I must be stupid and then aloud she patiently explained: “Amina and Ketifa in Washington. Wasim and Gul and Fatim at Four Seasons in Baltimore.”
Slowly the cobwebs in my brain were getting swept out and thinking I’d misunderstood about Wasim being on a business trip, I asked if Wasim was coming to breakfast too.
Fatim gave me an incredulous look and in a slow patient voice replied, “Wasim have breakfast in Los Angeles, Chicago, I don’t know, somewhere.”
Now if I were a cop and she were a suspect whom I was questioning, about this time I’d be swinging the rubber hose. But I was a for-hire escort and she was a client who had paid me $600 for a night of fun. I may not be a genius but I’m not stupid enough to spoil things and lose out on a chance to make some more easy money.
So I bottled up my curiosity and just acknowledged her answer.
I’d expected that after breakfast, they would want some more fun and games but that was not the case. After I’d finished my last cup of coffee, Fatim handed me a couple folded bills and said something like “This for extra good night. Maybe again some time when Wasim in Baltimore?” Doing my best to avoid showing how puzzled I was, I took the money and thanked the two women.
Outside, I looked at the folded bills. The tip on top of the ‘tip’ added my take for the night up to $800! All for a night of fun. Except, well there was the frustration of trying to understand some of the stuff Fatim had said. Like where was Wasim actually? Then it occurred to me that Wasim might have been in a closet peeping. Shit, I’d heard of weirder stuff. There are men who really get it on watching there wives get fucked - by perfect strangers, by men of other races, by men with really big dicks or by good friends. So far in my escort work, nothing like that had come my way, but I knew that it was only a matter of time.
Back at my apartment on Tuesday morning, I dropped off for a few hours of sleep. Somehow, I never get enough sleep when I stay overnight with a client.
I needed exercise and decided to bike to a deli I’d seen in the shopping center where I’d gotten my hair done. Marvin stopped me on the way out to ask about my Mitt Romney hair styling. I’d already told him once that I did free lance acting so he bought my story about the style being needed for a video that I was to have a part in. I sure as hell didn’t want Marvin to know how much money I was taking in, leave alone how I was earning it.
Biking’s a great way to organize your thoughts – somehow the fresh air and exercise help me get the big picture and see things clearer. The stuff with Wasim and his four wives kept coming back. He was in Los Angeles and Chicago and in the Baltimore Four Seasons at the same time! Then the business with the money. Why the hell would he have to deliver cash to cities across the country. I’d read lots of articles about how their country financed mosque construction worldwide – including the US of course. Why couldn’t they just transfer the money or send a check?
Or did the money go to something other than mosque building or charity? I damn near ran into a parked car when that thought hit me. At the strip mall, my hands were shaking as I locked the bike to a no-parking signpost. And then it hit me. Wasim must have checked into the Four Seasons with both wives and then snuck out to go on his cash distribution travels. That’d give him an alibi if questions came up.
I made up my mind to not accept any more dates with Fatim and Gul. Should I report Wasim? To whom? How?
Over a pastrami sandwich and apple juice lunch, I calmed down somewhat and made up my mind. No more dates with Fatim and Gul, that was damn sure! Jolene could beg and cajole and patronize me for all she was worth. That settled, I got to thinking about the problem of reporting this shit. I might have been fucked over by law enforcement and the criminal justice system, but hell, lots of folks can get hurt when one of these fuckers sets off a bomb – even off-the-radar guys like me.
Then I mulled over the problem of how to tip off the law. If I used a phone, it might get tracked. Same for somehow using the internet or email. The safest would be a good old fashioned anonymous letter – typed and unsigned. Marvin had let me use his PC before and if that didn’t work, maybe I could use one at the J&B office. Look up where to send anonymous tips to and then type one that couldn’t be traced. Mail it without a return address. All pretty safe and simple.
Then my cell rang. Hearing Maureen’s voice gave me the beginnings of a bulge in my jeans but her message put a damper on that pretty quick. She was calling to tell me that I had a date Friday night with a woman named Kay and I needed to meet her at a TGI Friday out on the west end near Woodstock. Kay needed a male companion to take her to an informal party. No particular dress code. Maureen recommended nice jeans, polo shirt, light jacket. To my question about when Jolene might be having her next out-of-office meeting, Maureen assured me that she’d ring me without delay, I should just be sure to carry my cell and make sure it was charged.
After lunch I repeated the bike ride that Karen and I had made on Sunday. Lying in the grass on the hillock where I thought I’d get to fuck her, I roughed out an anonymous-tip letter in my head. Out there under a partly cloudy sky, birds singing and only the occasional car going by on the road below, my mental letter seemed pretty clear and I imagined Homeland Security tailing Wasim all over the country and then a whole bunch of arrests. I could even see the headlines: “FBI Raids Bust Nationwide Terror Ring”.
Back home, Marvin was only too glad to let me use his PC. Of course I couldn’t save the letter to his hard drive or he might see it – accidentally or on purpose – so I would have to compose the letter, print it and then delete it. It turned out that producing a credible text on the screen was a hell of a lot harder than producing one while lying on a country hillside. Trouble was that to make it really believable, I’d have to say how I came onto the information. Without that, the only thing I could write was that a diplomat named Wasim (I didn’t even know his family name.) was going around the country distributing money to terror cells. Whoever read that tip would either file it under islamophobic propaganda or throw it in the recycle basket. I finally gave up and after printing out a copy to make it look like I’d actually written a letter, told Marvin thanks.
Trouble was, what the hell should I do. Maybe I could get some more info if I went on another date with Fatim and Gul. They sure paid well and the fucking hadn’t been unpleasant – just the conversation was a little tedious. If I agreed to meet Fatim and Gul again, that would put off the confrontation with Jolene a week or two.
On Wednesday, I figured I could really use a workout so I biked out to the Patapsco River and followed it using various trails and secondary roads. I thought about calling Rhonda (whom I’d met in the coffee shop just before going to the hair stylist and getting my hair dyed and frosted), trouble was, I really expected to hear from Maureen and her big tits had priority, plain and simple.
Around two that afternoon I was having a late lunch in a cafe in Woodstock when my cell rang. My heart jumped. Could it be Maureen to let me know Jolene had a meeting somewhere? I just hoped it wouldn’t be too soon because I was several hours out from the J&B office.
It turned out to be Maureen and Jolene did have a meeting out of the office – fortunately the next day, Thursday morning at ten and afterwards Jolene was having lunch with the conferee. Perfect!
Back on my bike and heading back home, I was in high spirits. My miserable bail jumper life was really beginning to improve. Two ‘dates’ that week would earn me over 1200 bucks cash - tax free of course. Between dates I was getting plenty of healthy exercise and fresh outdoor air, not to mention the occasional recreational piece of tail. I got half a hard-on thinking about tomorrow’s tryst with Maureen. Where would we do it? In the kitchen/copy room, on the rug in Jolene’s office?
The next morning I biked past the strip mall where J&B had the office and looked for Jolene’s white Mercedes coupe. Sure enough, it was parked right in front of the office. I waited and after what seemed like around 10 minutes, Jolene strode out, got in the car and drove off hurriedly – all without interrupting her cell phone conversation.
I decided to wait another 10 minutes just in case she had forgotten something and returned. (No need for her to know about Maureen getting it on with one of her escorts.) My cell rang long before the 10 minutes were up. To my ‘yeah’ answer, a coy sexy voice asked: “You coming or not?” I felt blood rush to my crotch.
No sooner was I inside and Maureen had switched the phone over to ring on her cell, locked the entrance and turned the ‘OPEN/BE BACK SOON’ sign around.
She led me to the coffee break/kitchen room and put her cell on the little kitchen counter. “If it rings, I have to answer, no matter what we’re doing. Okay?”
What could I say? Turning to face me she unbuttoned her white blouse to reveal what must have been a D cup bra straining to contain its contents. I could only look on admiringly. We moved closer together and even before I started jostling her breasts, her hand was at my crotch and feeling my length through my jeans.
“Art, aren’t you going to take off your pants and show me that big hard thing of yours?”
“Maureen, you’ve already seen it, remember?” I was really intent on getting my hands on those big bazookas of hers. All the same, for me there’s something really erotic about standing naked in front of a woman, whether they’re undressed or not, ready to fuck or not.
In my fantasies I had daydreamed of having a long session with Maureen’s impressive tits before even thinking about what lie inside her panties. It hadn’t occurred to me that Maureen might have other fantasies. She took a few steps backward and was backed up against the table when she pulled her skirt up above her waist to show me, not a pair of panties, but instead the dark brown triangle of her pubis. She had already taken off her panties!
Dropping my jeans and shorts brought a sharp “Oooh!” from her. She sat bare assed on the table and spread her legs slightly. “Art if you don’t have any with you, there’s a pack of rubbers in my purse.”
I reached down to my jeans and got out the little plastic box that I’d started carrying after Jolene hired me. Maureen watched with keen interest as I took out one of the foil envelopes and worked its contents to one side before ripping it open along the dotted line. “Art, I’m glad you know what you’re doing. I don’t have much experience with rubbers. In high school a few guys used them and one time, it was ripped after the guy came and pulled out. Both of us really sweated out the days till I got my period. Jack and I, well we’ve never fucked with one. A few times when I messed up taking the pill, I just gave him head or hand jobs.”
Ever the patient mentor, I told her to pinch the reservoir while I unrolled the condom.
She lay back on the table and raised her knees. With her ass at the edge of the table, she was in perfect position to receive me. Stroking her slit with the head of my dick brought forth soft moans sort of like: “Ummh, ummh, ooh, ummh.” Things were really getting wet. Even through the rubber, I could feel it.
Wanting more, I started probing the entrance to her vagina but Maureen’s response to each probe was a shudder and grunting gasp so I kept sloshing around between her labia and rubbing her clit with the head of my dick. About the time I started wondering where this was really headed, she surprised me with: “Stop fiddling around, you know where to put it don’t you!”
Those words would have been enough but she must have thought I needed a stronger invitation because she grabbed her lower legs and pulled her knees close to her chest. My plunging thrust brought a loud gasp followed by a squeal. For Maureen, sex was not something done in silence.
The table wasn’t a real heavy affair and was sliding away in reaction to my thrusts so I had to grab her hips to get more resistance. In spite of my efforts at holding her and the table in place, a chair at the other end of the table got knocked over and the table didn’t stop sliding until it ran into the wall. Then with stable conditions, I really got to pumping away at her. Maureen responded as best she could with little hip oscillations.
Standing as I was, I was able to look down and enjoy the sight of myself plunging in and out. The wilder I put it to her, the wilder she moaned and squirmed. Then she stopped moaning and squirming and just froze. Looking down more closely, I saw clear viscous fluid flow out around my thrusting dick, over her thighs and onto the edge of the table before dripping to the floor. I exploded and hoped the reservoir of the condom was big enough.
Maureen resisted my pulling out and I would have rather stayed inside her and let it soak. The trouble with doing that is that the condom can slip off inside and make all the precautions be for nothing. It wasn’t easy but I managed to pull out before completely softening up. I got some paper towels and wiped both of us off. Maureen got off the table and helped me wipe it and the floor. She still had on her unbuttoned blouse and bra and her skirt was hanging down again. Having kicked away my jeans and shorts so I could get the towels and clean up, I was facing her naked while she was clothed.
It seemed like the most natural thing for me to take off her blouse and bra. I did that and sat her down in one of the chairs. Finally those wonderful generous breasts were mine. Using both hands I massaged them and squeezed her nipples while she played with my dick. Once I got hard, I moved closer and stood between her open thighs so my dick was right against her cleavage. She took the hint and got to massaging me with her tits. Then she took me into her mouth and got me all wet and smeary before putting me back down in the cleavage. Finally I got the tit fuck that I’d been daydreaming of!
As I thrust up and down between her breasts, the head of my dick would pop out towards her face. She couldn’t ignore this and started bobbing her head down to lap at my dick. The effect on me was dynamite. No sooner had I felt the storm rising and the first ropy shot was out – on her chin from where it dripped down onto her tits. Maureen tightened her tits against my dick and squealed. The second ejection did the same thing and then the cum just oozed out – down my dick before disappearing into her cleavage. Once my storm was over, we held each other tight, my soft dick still in her cleavage, and trembled with relief and pleasure.
Once we were cooled down, I backed away and got some paper towels to clean up with and Maureen got up. Only when I was wiping us off did I notice the puddle on the chair where Maureen had been sitting. When she noticed me staring at the puddle, she gave me one of her sweet coy smiles.
“Wow! Art, you really shot a load! Art I wish we could do it again but I can’t keep the office closed all afternoon.” Without another word, she got up and after running the water until it ran hot, got a dish cloth wet and wiped both of us really clean.
After wiping the chair where she’d been sitting, we both got dressed, shoved all the furniture back in place and went back out front.
As I was opening the door to leave, Maureen asked if I was looking forward to Jolene’s next out-of-office meeting.