Loading...Steamy bath water robbed their bodies of all urgencies. Paz Duarte nestled against Ian Abercrombie. He formed a bulky cushion between her and the tub. His lap the plinth which erased their height disparity. When she didn’t slump Paz could turn and level her hazel eyes with his.
When she straightened up, Paz’ ass pushed his waist, allowing her to play with his dick much as if that flesh were her own appendage. In Paz’ curious hands she made it a quite responsive toy.
Paz had bound her shoulder-length auburn hair in a scrunchie, leaving her neck and lobes vulnerable to his lips. Abercrombie’s heavily muscled arms coiled loosely around her midriff; his wide chest almost a winged chair for Paz’ back. Sometimes when she shifted her shoulder blades tugged whole swaths of his chest hair.
Hot water, bath aromatics mixing with her own scent, stirred him nearly as much as their contact. Of course the bath oil was some flowery concoction marketed to women. For his sole use Abercrombie would’ve found such a bouquet off-putting. She was the ingredient which lent the sweet smelling stuff its persuasive lure.
During the evening, Paz remarked how he sniffed, nipped and pawed her like an animal. She admitted finding strange favor in his feral attentions. A feeling their watery languor prevented her from explaining.
They lazed in her tub. After once or twice at his place Paz declared “no more!” She felt his residence too masculine and would never be at ease there.
Since this was her cauldron, Paz had set out candles. The unscented kind thankfully. These ochre flickers complemented the wine, light and fruity on the tongue, as well as the chamber music playing on the CD player.
Abercrombie forgave her the wine, but the aural needed more careful selection. Her compositions were too tidy. He thought now the right time for bass-heavy/falsetto-reaching 1970s soul tunes.
Or as he said to perplex her, “the songs you were conceived to.”
No go. Paz’ place. Her picks.
Theirs was a celebratory loll. Six months of permanent residence. Hers.
Having arrived as a child, becoming American in ways perceptible and instinctive, then routinely jumping backwards through procedural hoops, some little men in nameless offices relented and let the facts match the paperwork. At least that’s how it seemed to Abercrombie, who admittedly had something of an emotional investment in Paz. Considerable as her own frustrations were, his exceeded hers.
If his predecessors hadn’t started killing Indians in the 1600s, Abercrombie saw himself as one bad immigrant. Patience and education aside, American entitlement failed preparing him for the process behind gaining what he received by birth.
The most confounding part about Paz’ acceptance into the fold was who enabled it. The director of the school where she taught art, Monsieur Ghisalbert. Without his facilitation she still would’ve been rolling sixes, if not a candidate for administrative deportation.
Yet M. Ghisalbert knew people who had means. Right words in the right ears, proper papers shuffled, and back scratching abounded. Last but not least, Paz originated from Spain, not Mexico.
Naturally there was a fee. Sex was part of the bargain. The naïve might’ve regarded such an exchange as exploitive. Paz, though, knew it the cost of business. She behaved accordingly.
M. Ghisalbert’s depravations should’ve angered a man other than Abercrombie. However, “the victim” herself refused embracing her victimization. Since Paz saw nothing wrong, why should he? Despite nearly being twice her age, she showed far more understanding of this way of the world.
Besides, her telling him how lousy a lay M. Ghisalbert was greatly mollified any unjust outrage.
Well-endowed as she acknowledged M. Ghisalbert, his foreplay and love-making bordered on rude. He left Paz sore, never satisfied. His detachment disappointed her and surprised Abercrombie.
M. Ghisalbert was Abercrombie’s senior by 10-12 years. The younger man assumed her gentleman would look upon any time bouncing on Paz as a joyous confirmation of continued vitality. Instead, having met M. Ghisalbert Abercrombie realized the Frenchman merely saw such sweet favors as his due.
Ramrod-straight, lean, balding, M. Ghisalbert saw the world though gimlet eyes. His manner was relentlessly imperious. Abercrombie comprehended how he might frighten timid women and intimidate weak men.
“His balls hang lower than yours,” Paz once told Abercrombie.
“Now there’s a sight,” he replied. “Another guy’s apple bag.”
Apparently it was a privilege of M. Ghisalbert’s to acquire young female protégés. Take them under his harshly protective and coldly instructive iron wing. He’d mentor them in ruthlessness, they’d pay through compliance. Never the stupid nor naïve because such novices always failed the interviews. Prospective candidates needed to show they possessed maturity and discretion as well as elan.
Yet even as cool a customer as M. Ghisalbert must’ve paused upon first evaluating Paz Duarte. While life had steeled her core, she retained a sultry exterior. The fine-bone figure, perky breasts, eyes a man could swim in, and a pliant, though not servile, attitude probably made a hard case like him double-clutch.
Better, Paz had scant innocence to left to steal. “Innocence” in the American sense. By the time M. Ghisalbert crossed her path, she’d even lost her youthful intense adult gaze. Why absorb when the lesson’s already been learned?
Once she gained residency Paz didn’t know how matters might conclude between administrator and teacher. No longer beholden would he become spiteful? No. He soothed and released her in a very civil manner.
After one last unforgiving fuck, their post-coital chat (these always less frosty than the run-ups and acts themselves) had the tenor of a successful exit interview. He didn’t grade with warmth but did skitter around gratitude. Paz thought his esteem of her increased when she offered simple thanks for efforts towards legalizing her status.
She knew he preferred his women distant. An overt emotional display surely would’ve questioned his judgment. Since then the two never behaved as if Paz gritted her teeth while M. Ghisalbert vengefully rammed her sweet ass.
“Pain like memory fades,” Paz said. She often cited this to Abercrombie. After that refrain, when possible, she tried snuggling closer as if his stolidity mitigated both aspects.
Unsavory as well as ultimately rewarding as her exchanges with M. Ghisalbert had been, Paz professed no shame. The pair hadn’t even entered any kind of agreement. M. Ghisalbert implied; Paz inferred.
Deep into their sexual comfort, or after Paz took Abercrombie into her trust, he told her about another woman he knew who also placed propriety in its correct context then used her wiles and tools to advance. Marianne Witmershaus. Although their circumstances were night and day, they shared similar aspirations: higher rungs on the ladder.
Despite initially excising snippets or whole swaths of Marianne’s rise, the German nonetheless intrigued Paz. She found favor in another woman knowing her travails. It wasn’t the sort of information one imposed on family or friends. Guiltless sexuality unnerved many people. Their squeamishness could force painful personal reevaluations.
Marianne lacked no compunction about opening herself to Paz. Did she reciprocate to make it easier for the younger woman? Or did Abercrombie just present a same-sex sounding board upon which she might unburden herself? Who knew or cared?
Moreover, how he and Marianne relayed items captivated Paz. The two actually still posted letters! She found this mode “wonderfully archaic!”
“E-mail is too bloodless for our sort of frankness,” Abercrombie explained.
Their correspondence styles suited the different personalities. Using confident cursive, Marianne wrote hers out on expensive stationary. Some perfume always wafted off the creamy pages from envelopes he suspected she sealed with kisses.
So chained to keyboard and printer, Abercrombie’s penmanship had through disuse degenerated into its own secret code. His letters to Germany carried the charm of dunning notices.
Regardless of how they were conveyed, their words disclosed exacting honesty. Only traitors could’ve divulged more of themselves.
Abercrombie was fond of saying, “There are no secrets between us. Just things we haven’t gotten around to telling yet.”
The concept behind such extreme openness interested and frightened Paz. She asked what he had betrayed about her to Marianne. His smile was involuntary, not guilty. Either more clever than he suspected or by youthful naivety Paz intended acquiring Marianne’s level of intimacy. He reflected on their differences.
Abercrombie and Marianne had reached this point after shared experiences shaded and shaped their mutual judgments.
On the other hand, Paz elevated promiscuity and exploited the recent phenomena of forfeiting one’s anonymity on social networking portals. While utterly unburdening himself to any trawling stranger would make him wary, Paz and her generation discounted the dangers. Apparently she assumed Abercrombie also beguiled by the new technology.
That was some jump! All the way around.
Abercrombie declined confessing how he and Marianne had acquired a familiarity far greater than just by sleeping together. They’d done “things.” Of course having endured as much as she, Paz might’ve rightly taken offense at his condescension. It was a relativism she wouldn’t see, if ever, for some years and many mishaps yet.
Instead Abercrombie shifted focus. He decided informing Paz what he’d recently shared with Marianne about her. The woman in his lap started. She turned around, roiling water, fake fury vying with honest curiosity shot across her face.
“Me!?”
“Yes, you, silly rabbit.”
“Like?”
“Only the good stuff.”
Somewhat pacified Paz settled back into Abercrombie’s chest.
“What do you really tell her about us?” Paz asked.
“Bathtub bashfulness, Paz? No. I don’t mail Marianne blow-by-blows every time we fuck. Anyway, I’m sure she’d get tired quick of me generalizing the extreme desire we create.”
Paz twisted her head and their eyes met. Skepticism ruffled her wide thin lips. She accepted his facetiousness as flattery then rested her head aside his. Abercrombie continued.
“So I tell her the outlandish stuff. Your knives for instance.”
Her loud laughter frothed water, shook them both and shot off walls. Abercrombie imagined that had also been Marianne’s reaction. She too luxuriated in baths. Daily. Alone, though, because her tub was really the only place she could decompress.
Marianne relayed she waited to soak before reading any of his letters. She required her water temperature just-so, the proper amount of fragrance added, an indulgent vintage within easy reach, a joint or two to further round off that particular afternoon. Somehow he always imagined the waterline slicing across her nipples instead of lapping her breasts.
When he inquired, Marianne confirmed, “Naturally.”
“The knives” were an ultimate bequeath from mother to daughter. One inherited during the Duartes’ Vera Cruz into El Norte migration. Senora Elena Duarte Herrero, Paz’ mother, made the coyotes aware of those blades and her readiness to defend.
Looking down from his comfortable perch, Abercrombie considered the mother’s precautions unnecessary. Those coyotes then were nowhere near as cutthroat as the current guides. A change Abercrombie ascribed to improved border vigilance, more nihilism, less value of lives and those same northward routes being crowded by drug couriers.
Today, a Duarte Herrero scrambling through Mexico towing her young daughter needed brandishing a gun, not a knife.
Abercrombie lacked deep comprehension of psychology. Especially women’s psychology. He adhered to Hemingway’s dictum: action is character.
Yet even Abercrombie realized the blades stocking her apartment and art studio drawers signified handy deterrence. Somewhere in the still closely-held uncertainty of the girl’s trek, the woman kept that past at bay by projecting capable defense.
Mere possession ought have sufficed. However, Paz extended that projection.
She and Abercrombie maintained one solid non-exclusive relationship. Meaning, much like a man Paz guiltlessly sampled other partners. Some she even tarried with as lovers for awhile. Nevertheless several prompted the doubtlessly eons-old female lament: “Why did I ever fuck that guy?”
Prospective partners’ sexual ignorance or their dysfunction failed troubling her. Instructing or nurturing willing men in satisfying techniques promoted her own fulfillment. It also allowed these eager students to eventually spread joy-inducing practices on down the line.
Although voicing a preference for “substantial men,” Paz was young. Often the handsome and superficial muscle boys answered their own yearnings. Exclusively. Only during coitus could she determine worthiness or deceit.
Paz’ misjudgments bothered her. Immensely. Men, as she told Abercrombie, lacked any discerning mechanism. For men almost any woman who presented herself sexually sufficed.
Surprising neither, he agreed immediately.
Since women bore greater risks and consequences, they ideally required more convincing. Far more. Despite her criteria, every woman sometimes made regrettable choices.
Paz’ knives fixed such instances.
Occasionally she suffered the public charmer who became churlish in private. Paz demanded foreplay. Lots. It was her right, his privilege.
While she preferred partners who fucked her hard, she didn’t like playing rough. Accidental bruises proved fervor. Ones inflicted purposely not only hurt worse, but also revealed an insecure man. Ah, the worst kind.
Those times she endured caveman treatment, Paz resorted to the knife. Never failed. The guy was always too engrossed in ripping her apart to notice she wasn’t flailing but reaching for the nearest drawer.
Handle grasped, Paz fought all urges concerning plunging the blade in his back. Once he’d chugged through his climax, self-sated ecstasy inevitably heaving him off her onto his back, Paz rummaged among his crotch until she seized scrotum. Loose skin gathered in her fist, now bulbous testicles sizzled atop her curled fingers.
Male vanity being constant, these partners deluded themselves in believing their exertions, exhaustive as they were, had created an insatiable bed monkey. That though he’d exceeded human endurance, she wanted more!
Indeed. She did. His blitz-fast terror the moment he felt flat cold steel lain against his hot nuts.
“Their absolute stillness doesn’t surprise me any more,” Paz said. “From frantic thrashing to marble. Instantly. They already imagine the edge has drawn blood.”
The prone men posed the usual questions. Actually they whimpered them. Her answers rested behind coy smiles. Having seen that dimply grin, Abercrombie knew their horror. It easily let her “victim” agonize over his imminent higher-octave future.
She cruelly chastised thoroughly. Her every word became Scripture. Contrition was quick. And heartfelt. Paz never doubted the penitent’s sincerity. Nonetheless after absolving the convert, she had him collect his clothes then regain his dignity and wits in the hallway.
Paz could only guess what late-arriving neighbors thought. Somehow coming upon gorgeous, shaken, unclothed men frantically dressing outside her door never led to neighborly chat.
“And those dopes, they never realized the sharp edge faced away,” Paz spat.
“Trust me,” Abercrombie said, “knife against nuts leaves zero room for rational thinking. A butter knife would’ve produced the same jolt.”
Paz snorted. “Hardly!”
She slid hands beneath the water and played with his balls. Afterwards Paz clutched Abercrombie’s growing tool. Once rigid, she drew forward, his erection parallel against her hairless slit, and rubbed. He peered over her shoulder. The murky scene: a rider sitting too close to the pommel. Paz glanced back at him, contemplation making her face cute.
“What’s it like walking around with all this junk between your legs?” she asked.
Abercrombie didn’t seriously consider her question. Instead, he palmed her small breasts, massaging their stippling crowns. Through direct gentle contact she released his pole and encouraged his affections.
“What’s it like sporting these pieces of sweater meat?” he responded. “Pretty normal, huh?”
Her hands covered his and pressed. She spoke in dreamy tones.
“Tell me something about her. About Marianne.”
Abercrombie assembled his impressions. Definitely nothing incriminating would pass his lips. He breathed deeply.
“She married a Turk.”
Ahmet Olgun, Marianne’s husband, was an ethnic Turk. While German born, few of his “countrymen” recognized him as a citizen. Indeed the Federal Republic itself only allowed Olgun to occupy its passport after he’d petitioned the state.
Marianne met him in Cologne. The Witmershaus women had forsaken Hamburg for the Rhine river city once the Pole’s remittances started. (The Pole had been a revered naturalized American philanthropist/former opportunist whose handsome, though immorally acquired, wealth derived from the chaotic aftermath of immediate post-war Central Europe. With Abercrombie’s assistance, Marianne forced the old profiteer to knuckle under and fork over a chunk. In perpetuity.) The appearance of so much sudden money would’ve prompted uncomfortable questions. The kind both Witmershauses wished to avoid honestly answering.
In Cologne, the newcomers owned clean slates and clearer consciousnesses.
In Olgun Marianne found a man who was transparently ardent, needy and grasping. Unlike the clientele she formerly entertained, who regarded her as a flesh-and-blood trifle, or the men who controlled those establishments who treated her as exploitable meat, and Abercrombie who ultimately respected her, Olgun would be hers to adore or abuse as she wished. He was more than willing. However, Marianne reached that conclusion after infatuation insisted upon marriage which produced a daughter.
Before all that Ahmet Olgun was simply an exotic craving. Domesticated, yet exotic nonetheless.
The younger, newly-flush Marianne loved Olgun’s olive complexion, the soulful eyes below long eyelashes, and full sensual lips. His slim build permitted her to dominate him if she wished. At least up to a point. He was still a man. While not physically imposing, Olgun retained a male’s core strength. To overcome his advantage she would needed to have gained 50 kilos.
Olgun became the only other man she willingly wanted to support financially. How appropriate then Olgun expressed no shame in drawing off her. Such power thrilled Marianne.
Full acceptance of Western values enabled Olgun’s acquiescence. Better than secular, Olgun practiced his Islam disinterestedly. His parents migrated to West Germany from Anatolian Turkey. As Olgun saw during occasional childhood visits there, they left nothing but sheep, goats, dust and ignorance. Therefore, impure and immodest as she was, Marianne Witmershaus permitted his effortless entry into ease and pleasure.
If Olgun ever loved Marianne at all it stemmed from the advantages she offered him.
“Sounds like real love,” Paz scoffed.
“Plenty and lack of worry have mutated our understanding of that word,” Abercrombie said. “We’re talking about people, cultures, who’ve been up against it a lot more recently than us.”
“He’s an accessory, she’s his ATM. That’s not a relationship. That’s a good deal on both sides,” Paz said.
Abercrombie laughed. “Whatever you call it, it worked. At least for awhile.”
Years into the Olgun-Witmershaus marriage (Marianne kept her name. Germans generally scorned Turks or Turkish surnames.), he discovered blondes. Germany being overrun by that species, Olgun couldn’t help but be aware of them eventually.
By then a man of means, given long leash by his frau, Olgun sampled. From these nips he succumbed to addiction.
Unlike an American counterpart, rage did not cripple Marianne. She knew men. She knew expecting fidelity futile. Rather than act complacently, though, she was confused.
Olgun had dismissed redheads or brunettes like his wife. The man now fixated on blondes. Most galling about this they were Dolly Buster blondes. Even to delusional sex fiends the pneumatic Czech porn star must’ve appeared abjectly fake. A transsexual’s idea of the perfect woman perhaps?
“Why even care?” Paz asked.
“He’s still her husband,” Abercrombie replied. “He is hers. I guess she can’t be completely detached.”
Nurtured as Olgun’s weakness was, Marianne, more inventive than Abercrombie suspected, called upon scorned-woman’s innovation. At first, her solution seemed more Rube Goldberg — perverse Rube Goldberg — than practical. But once Abercrombie got his mind around Marianne’s diversion, his male rationality approved her exercise.
“And mind you,” Abercrombie told Paz, “it had nothing to do with knives.”
“Too bad. A knife would’ve cut right through the problem.”
One afternoon recent weeks ago, Marianne banished the Olgun’s daughter into her mother’s care. Untroubled by gainful employment, Olgun’s lived a clockwork existence. He arrived home expecting nothing more than desultory words from his frau. An involved recount of his daughter’s school day, maybe. Dinner, then televised Bundesliga or Serie A football before falling asleep. Marianne devised something else.
Their home’s quiet should’ve tipped off Olgun. Living room furniture had been rearranged, vacating the center. Plumped pillows circled a low table. Atop this sat a hookah. The contraption had been a wedding gift from one of her in-laws. Its sincerity baffled Marianne. She hoped it the Turkish equivalent of the American honeymoon deck of cards gag gift. Elaborate as the device was, the Olguns quickly found a use.
When the right friends visited, and the hashish especially potent, hosts and guests elevated themselves among common smoke clouds.
This time though Olgun entered a dormant house with Marianne its only other apparent occupant. Rather than her usual Western garb she wore a kaftan.
She commanded Olgun to disrobe. “Why” might’ve been on his tongue but he complied docilely. Maybe from guilt or certainly knowing she could deny him blonde access.
Seeing him naked in daylight again excited Marianne. During their courtship into early marriage, they exulted in their fresh vigorous bodies. Concealed behind privacy their eyes feasted on the other’s skins. Lips and fingers were encouraged to explore and provide enjoyment. She wondered when happy tension became disposable pastimes.
Marianne appraised Olgun. Years had passed since she last viewed him so clearly, so hungrily. Now when he did his duty it usually occurred at night, under cover, one or the other swimming through an alcohol or narcotic haze. They fucked much like animals. Compulsively rather than through any higher reward.
Despite the years, the comforts of life, Olgun hadn’t gotten sloppy. A German man in the same situation would’ve been on his way to one big beer and sausage gut.
In bed the careless weight would constrict such a man’s movement while making him sweat during summer; in winter she’d find his fat clammy to her touch. At least that’s how Marianne remembered clients from her long ago hostess nights.
Now 40, Olgun showed few traces of excess. Glutton as he could’ve been, the Turk was fated to remain thin. Dark skin hid all but the most obvious blemishes. Hair on his head still plentiful and black, the only gray odd filings sprouting among his five o’clock shadow. The black thatch covering Olgun’s chest and belly dove into an impenetrable forest. From there emerged the penis that once drove her as well as balls she loved kissing and tickling.
Marianne clapped her hands.
Another woman entered the living room. Or one assumed it a woman. She wore an abaya, niqab included, which, except for an eye slot, blotted her humanity. Kohl rimmed her wide black eyes. Henna swirls decorated her cinnamon hands and bare feet. Rings bound fingers and toes, bracelets thickened her wrists. Carmine painted nails complemented the henna designs.
Abercrombie doubted Paz knew what the mystery woman’s numerous bindings symbolized. It couldn’t have been any plainer to Olgun. He instinctively covered his manhood then just as quickly let his hands drop. Abercrombie realized Olgun must’ve wondered whether Marianne tempted or mocked him.
For awhile she did neither.
While the guest and Olgun stood stock still, Marianne padded to the hookah. She lit it, already having stuffed the bowl. After a few tugs off the pipe, smoke from hash oil stirred in apple scented tobacco wafted through the room. She arranged a pillow pile then settled cross-legged among them. Comfortable, Marianne summoned the sirrah.
Their guest sat beside Marianne. She offered the pipe. The sirrah lifted her veil, exposing the lower half of her face. Pomegranate lips emerged then wrapped around the stem. Unlike Marianne’s greedy pulls, the sirrah toked moderately. She exhaled a plume the width of her ripe lips.
The two women passed the pipe between them until they occupied a low-clinging haze. Controlled wisps started escaping Marianne’s mouth. The guest pulled these through her own lips, held them momentarily, then freed whatever remained for Marianne to recapture. They took turns initiating this ethereal shuttle.
Before giddiness became stupor, Marianne stopped their peculiar exchange. The sirrah laid the pipe aside. Marianne leaned across, clasped the other’s cheeks, and melded her thin lips against the sirrah’s. She surprised Marianne by showing no reluctance. Her fervor equaled Marianne’s. In fact it seemed she struggled not to surpass her hostess’ desire.
After an interlude, Marianne pulled back. She ran hands along the sirrah’s black formlessness. Her touch left nebulous signs of the femininity beneath. Survey done, Marianne ordered the sirrah to stand. Both bodies jostled smoke.
Marianne fingered the abaya’s hem. As the women rose the garment crept above knees, waist, shoulders until eyes feasted on the nakedness beneath. Marianne maneuvered black over the niqab where she let folds darken numerous pillows.
The sirrah stood before them firm, brown and supple. Large nipples splashed across prominent round breasts. Marianne’s white hands ran along the other woman’s contours. She lavished particular attention on her hard belly, high hard ass, and the untamed briar mingling between sturdy thighs. The guest stirred when Marianne poked fingers into that pelt.
Inspection finished, inspiration measured, the hostess pulled off her kaftan. Its heavier material slapped across pillows.
Abercrombie wondered how Olgun viewed those contrasting complexions. Fast approaching 40 herself, Marianne’s exercise routine only staved off certain physical indignities. As he well knew, not much sagged yet. The little which did might only have been truly discernable by Abercrombie. After all, he known her at the apex of 19.
Over 18 years she’d matured from fresh and sensual into ripe and alluring. Her skin was still smooth. Sight and feel of her tits continued to please his fingers and tongue. Under the loupe, though, magnified through unforgiving light, the formerly cool face began hardening into a mask. Her hands also verged on their betrayals.
Nonetheless, the hostess’ excellent posture kept her back straight and launched her chest. Upon finding a man who interested her, Marianne retained more than enough verve to attract him without coming off as a clingy embarrassment or randy caricature.
Also remembered from her recent summer visit, Marianne could still fuck like a fiend. A greedy one, not the desperate kind.
Paz asked if she “fucked like a fiend.”
“You’re getting there,” Abercrombie said.
“Good. I need goals.”
Marianne had drawn the sirrah back down on the cushions. There they kissed, cuddled and caressed another. The guest’s veil proved no impediment against lust.
All this time Marianne snuck peeks at Olgun. A hangdog expression dragged his face while his erection demonstrated quivering resiliency. She decided his suffering should be increased.
Marianne and their guest shifted into positions where both could orally satisfy the other. Of course the sirrah lay on her back, legs open, Marianne’s head towards Olgun.
On first impression the woman’s pubic tangle looked impassable. Marianne’s tongue just dampened it. She used fingers to blaze a narrow way into pink.
Her task much easier, the sirrah showed adeptness that quickly sent Marianne elsewhere. She battled against a liquefying warmth that urged surrender. Rather, Marianne buried her face into the sirrah’s thighs.
The hostess’ skills paled against her guest’s. She minced and picked where the other swirled in virtuosity. Marianne thought it good the other maintained her veil because the hostess dripped well on the way to gushing.
Marianne moaned unmistakably. The sirrah followed her lead. Obviously far more for show than effect. The hostess was grateful. More so when poor tortured Olgun issued his own pitiable plea.
Reluctantly Marianne disengaged. The sirrah was so immersed in the hostess’ sex, her tongue needed to slither free.
Surfacing, Marianne looked back at the sirrah. Eyes framed behind her niqab slot told nothing.
Now focusing on Olgun, his wife signaled him to have his way with their guest. His bolt reminded her of a sprinter hearing the starters pistol. Or, as Abercrombie had said, of a starving dog seeing a pork chop.
Olgun tried removing the sirrah’s veil while he piled into her. Plowing the poor woman wasn’t enough. He wanted to see who he jarred. Unfortunately for him, during the women’s negotiations both assumed his curiosity would exceed mere joy in the moment. They agreed that during his presence she’d stay veiled throughout.
Paz asked Abercrombie to describe the woman’s face.
“Marianne didn’t tell me. Yeah. As if I’m gonna run into her.”
If this reluctance frustrated Olgun it didn’t long deter him. Unlike his wife’s mouth, his cock honed in on the sirrah’s gash. His fat dick ground hair as it stuffed her obscured snatch.
Marianne sat back momentarily. His quaking ass looked as smooth as the first time she claimed it hers. She watched him mindlessly pummel the poor woman. Were it possible, Olgun might’ve gotten short running starts before each thrust. She remembered when he often fucked her with the same recklessness. His wife tamped down the feeling that he somehow should still be so attentive.
She reached across her husband’s arched back and grabbed her kaftan. From a pocket she withdrew a large pearl attached to a long fine gold chain.
Olgun’s balls barely tightened during his screwing anymore. Scrotal looseness let them swing and bounce. It wasn’t a malady but simply another aging signpost. At least that’s how Abercrombie saw and accepted his condition. Olgun had possibly yet to notice. Not that any woman other than his wife would tell him.
From behind Marianne widened Olgun’s legs. She slipped a big noose of chain around his shaking distended ball sac. Should he have been aware of this, Olgun likely discounted it being far too involved in that pussy.
Marianne wrapped the chain until its slack diminished. Then she yanked.
“That’s how you get a fully loaded freight train to stop on a dime,” Abercrombie said.
On one hand, all of Olgun’s senses must’ve been immediately redirected. On the other, perhaps he found himself concentrating on the worst visions of hell. Either way nuts lassoed as they were he ceased in mid-stroke.
He asked a most pertinent question.
Paz anticipated Marianne’s answer. “Woman’s prerogative?”
“If you read that in a woman’s magazine, you gotta stop reading those magazines,” Abercrombie said. “No. Not that.”
Marianne told Olgun he could polish off the sirrah. However, there’d be an occasional hitch. She jostled the chain tugging his balls. It’d be a random inconvenience. Always on his down stroke.
His wife made him understand she wasn’t forbidding him anything. Just that this particular climax would be arduously achieved. But she gave him an option.
Should Olgun pull out, spill his seed on the woman’s belly, Marianne wouldn’t amuse herself. Otherwise should he obey a man’s incredibly powerful natural urge, one she completely understood and also frequently yielded to, he’d be subject to her caprice. “This is strange, Ian. Why did she do it?”
“Typical woman reason,” Abercrombie said. “The one she gave Ahmet was: ‘blondes shouldn’t have all the fun.’ Can you imagine? Ahmet probably got way existential if he asked himself, ‘Are you shittin’ me!?'”
Paz asked the resolution.
“Remember when you wondered what it’s like walking around with manly weight between my legs?”
She nodded. “For you men it’s normal.”
“Except after some appreciable discomfort is applied. Marianne wrote me Ahmet learned to walk gingerly. Bow-legged like an old cowboy. She taught him a hard lesson in a new kind of tenderness.”
Paz laughed. “Ouch! Now the important part. Marianne still have that chain? You know, for next time.”
“No,” Abercrombie said. “Seems it was payment all the way around. That and some cash covered the woman’s fee.”