Even for this business, the whole thing started out creepy.
But to Eileen, it’s part of the routine, ya know, so she asks the usual questions. Well, they’re more statements than questions.
“Naturally all you girls swallow, don’t you?”
Everybody hesitates, well, nearly everybody, promptin’ a frown. But then everybody nods and Eileen’s face brightens.
“And I take for granted you’re open to anal?” A couple of girls shift a little in their seats after hearin’ that one, but otherwise the room’s pretty mum and I think to myself, open to anal; please! Like any of us could be in this business if she’s not “open to anal”! Catchin’ Eileen’s attention, I nod agreeably.
I’ve worked two different agencies up to now and unlike these other…ladies, I definitely fall into the experienced category. Anyway it’s not as if she doesn’t know me. Like any efficient madam, Eileen tracks the New York girls cuz we all end up at her door eventually. Everybody wants to work for Vixens.
So I been hired – by a woman – and I look at her wonderin’ how’s it gonna be? If nothin’ else, it should make for a less hostile work environment, right?
She already knows I got fired from my last job, the one at Ambrosia. Those guys are all sexist! And they don’t pay on time. Shit, when a girl needs her money, she needs her money. And they let me go just cuz I didn’t tell `em when I took off with that couple for a week in Montego Bay!
That’s the main reason for my call to Eileen. She’s always lookin’ for fresh faces and guess what? I get an interview! Holy shit!
So now, here I am, all ears, listenen’ to her, “Do this & don’t you dare do that” speech, which I hate!
Anyhow, there’s a few other girls present too, mostly soccer moms from Long Island whose husbands are laid off from Wall Street. Ya gotta’ make the mortgage payment somehow, right? Oh, and throw in a few college kids – and suddenly my mind wanders back to the day I started. I was no brainiac, but these new girls are too far out for mere words. I can tell none of `em, not one, ever sucked cock for cash.
You can see it by how they act, noddin’ and smilin’ like a bunch a dumbbells at some PTA meetin’. I feel like sayin’, “Come on. Get real! This ain’t Madison Avenue!”
But I keep quiet, cuz overall – somethin’ I won’t admit of course — the prospect of workin’ Vixens is classy. And Eileen? I think she’s okay because havin’ been a workin’ girl herself, she understands what the life does to ya. And unlike men, who use girls to death, especially us classy broads – of which, in my humble opinion, I am one – she should be more understandin’.
So, after makin’ clear her position on the crucial issues of the day, Eileen dismisses the group, casually looks over at me and says, “I have a date ready for you, Etta — we’ll start you tonight.”
“Really?” I purr a little, cuz I’m impressed. “You move fast, Eileen. I didn’t think you’d get to me till the weekend; figured you’d check out my references or somethin’.”
So guess what? She looks right back at me and goes, “We already know all about you, Etta. You’re one of the best but have a reputation as a big mouth”!
“Oh really?” I’m thinkin’, “Well fuck you, bitch!” But I’m polite so I say, “Okay Eileen, I’ll try ‘n better myself,” which she smiles back at me for in that sly way of hers.”So,” I continue, “talk ta me `bout this guy?”
Well surprise, surprise, she doesn’t offer very much, leavin’ me wonderin’. I mean, on day one, I shouldn’t be wonderin’ if ya get my drift. But I do find out she’s got some Arab guy lined up at the Bryant Park on 40th. He’s an envoy or emissary or somethin’ diplomatic like that.
Now, I got nothin’ against Arabs mind ya, as long as ya do ’em when they’re alone. In group situations, like the time last year over at the Gramercy Park? Things can get…slightly unusual.
Anyway, Eileen reveals she sent a girl over to do this same guy last year, but this time he wants, you know a doll with bush. And since I been unemployed lately, I’m not about shavin’ – or waxin’, God forbid – so I’m more “ready for things”.
Anyway, she talks about this Mid-East honcho who insists on natural bush cuz their women don’t shave and supposedly because I’m already lush in that exclusive area, I get the assignment. Plus, supposedly, all the other girls are busy. And supposedly, he’s a big tipper.Well supposedly shit!
Here’s the thing: every girl’s into big tippers cuz that’s where the money is; it’s just, what do I have to do to get it, right? And I’m wonderin’, if he tips so special, why’s the new girl gettin’ him?
There’s somethin’ bonkers here but I’m on the spot and can’t just say, “Fuck it, I think I’ll pass up the assignment.”
Instead, I show interest by askin’, “What’s his thing?” Ya know, like what am I walkin’ into here?
So she goes, “He expects a redhead, but otherwise…” Then there’s this pause and she looks at me kinda sideways, tryin’ to get a better view of my new cut. “That’s a nice style, Etta.” Bein’ modest, but still offerin’ a little profile, I curl the hair over my right ear and look slightly, ya know, away from her.
Half expectin’ her to ask who does my hair, which as everybody knows ya can only get at Tricia’s, she instead opens her drawer and pulls out a pastel emblazoned silk hijab!
“You’ll need to cover your hair, so wear this tonight,” she says, like it’s an order or somethin’. And before I can object to that little stipulation, she goes, “And about that other girl, the one we sent last time? I can’t remember her name but, well, you should know something: she never got to the having sex with him stage.”
No sex? Makes no sense, right? There’s somethin’ strange about this whole thing, but I act normal and nod like a good girl.
I’ll find out soon enough because they, meanin’ the other girls, will talk eventually. But because the Arab’s scheduled for tonight, I’ll never get my answer before I’m on my back, alone with some fanatical believer in Sharia Law!
So I’m thinkin’ the worst. I mean what the fuck? Are we talkin’ gang bang? I hate them things and went through one just last summer at that bondage scene where I had to – well anyway, I’m thinkin’, not this girl hon! No way I’m doin’ that a third time.
Bottom line? She’s holdin’ all the cards. So I’m forced to be nice and I grab the hijab and walk out of her office, right past that newbie — the blonde. Boy is she in for it!
She practically screams, “sweet little college girl”. Yeah, she’s pretty, but she’ll faint the first time some guy creams her face. I’ve seen a lot of ’em the last couple a years; girls who do namby-pamby classes all day like queen shit, get bored with the spic n’ span campus scene and start doin’ nights in the city; girls who think they can get by on their perky tits which, on campus, keeps the boys from the island kissin’ their asses in exchange for a little head. And those braces! Is she kiddin’?
Are they really gonna throw this kid to the wolves? Slut won’t last a week. I stomp past her without sayin’ hello.
10:00 p.m. – Bryant Park Hotel, Manhattan
No outfit has a ton of work for redheads, so for once I follow directions and dress like a real lady; demure skirt, Stu Weitzman pumps, the works! And because the hijab gives me an Arab look, like Miss Jordanian IBM, I march past hotel security like nothin’. Actually, I don’t look too bad — overall, I mean – and the hijab thing’s sorta sweet.
So get this, I exit the elevator at the 7th floor, glance up and down the hallway, just to be sure ’bout things and guess what? There’s these mean-lookin’ guys standin’ outside a door!
I step outta the elevator and all at once, they reach into their jackets, except for the guy with the AK-47, who just points it straight at me! The other guys just stare like they’re gonna’ shoot me.
I’m scared shitless and think, fuck! This Arab has body guards up the ying yang and I’m gonna end up searched or killed or — or worse!
So I start prayin’, “Please Jesus, don’t make that be his room, please! I’ll do anythin’.” Which of course, it ends up bein’.
And these guards lock their eyes on me as I walk up the hall actin’ like I’m Miss Casual Slut and they’re lookin’ at me with blank stares and real black mustaches. I mean it; these guys don’t seem friendly in the way American girls are accustomed to.
But I’m a pro, so I take a deep breath, walk right up to the door and low and behold, they fuckin’ bow! I’m petrified and they bow! Then one says – in perfect English – “The Sheik awaits your arrival with anticipation, Miss Etta.”
They know my name! Wow! So then the other one goes, “You can enter after we search you.” I look down my nose at him and do my lazy eye routine, you know, the one tiltin’ my head slightly.
“Oh really?” I say it in a certain way, ya know, gettin’ a little snooty. Then I point at the door, sayin,’ “Remember somethin’ bud, the guy in that room is the one who called me!”
“I am sorry miss, but we have our orders,” he says back in a very military way which is sorta hot, actually.
I glance at my watch like I don’t have time for this, which I really don’t. See, it’s already past ten and I’m supposed ta be in there already, so – like, whatever happened to a woman’s right to make her own decisions?
Droppin’ my briefcase, I roll my eyes ceilingwards, raise my arms as if to say, “All right you sick fuck, search me,” and I let them pat me down. And just like you’d expect from soldiers – Marines are my favorite – these two enjoy doin’ it more than they should; you know, professionally I mean.
In fact, they’re all smiles and talk back and forth in some language I don’t understand a word of, and then fuck, the ultimate worst thing happens: one guard points at my briefcase!
“OH NOOOOO,” I warn, grabbin’ it up from the floor and holdin’ it tight to my boobs for protection.
Then one of `em looks at me and in a tone of voice that’s overly demandin’, says, “The briefcase must be inspected, Miss, or you can’t go in.”
So I’m thinkin’ in a more-than-slightly–taken-aback way, “I won’t be allowed in? Then your highfalutin’ fuckin boss won’t be allowed ‘in’ neither!”
By then my mind is racin’ fast, and I know this ain’t gonna be pretty but seriously, what else can I do? If I leave, it’s over at Vixens, so shit. Plus, I’m the one on the clock, which is tickin’ at high-speed, so naturally the girl’s the one, like usual, who has to give in, just like a girl always hasta’ give in and I hate that!
“All right, open it,” I sigh, addin’ an iota of resignation.
Projectin’ some attitude, I lean with my shoulder against the wall as he pops the clips. Meanwhile the other guy eyes me like he’s Mr. Hard-On and I roll my eyes and look away disinterested, even though he’s a little cute. But this isn’t exactly the time or place!
Crouchin’ down, Guard Dog #1 opens my case, which is my private property, and I think, what is this, China? Of course, everythin’ falls out – nipple clamps, two dildos, which aren’t even that big, slippery stuff, cock rings, rubbers; the works. I mean fuck, I don’t know what sheiks are into, so I show up with a little bit of everything and some stuff a girl just needs on hand, right?
Satisfied there’s no H-bombs, he closes the case and hands it back while his partner opens the door for me. Meanwhile, I give him one of my killer dirty looks.
The suite is gorgeous. One glance and I take in at least six rooms. Big money. And standin’ just inside is a little man, maybe 5’4″, wearin’ a black terry cloth robe, handsome in an Arab sorta way.
Takin’ my hand in his, he shakes it energetically, the way foreign people do, and I suddenly feel like I’m the First Lady, which I don’t mind since some of these guys are assholes in the way they treat a lady, especially when it comes to Brooklyn girls which is like, totally discrimination, but it goes on even in the city and don’t let anyone tell ya different!
“I only speak English,” I exhale, lookin’ down into the blackest eyes I ever seen.
“Yes, Etta, I also do speak English too. I am Jabir and how do you do?”
Well, I’m completely impressed. “I’m fine…I think,” I say, glarin’ over at the two guards, now cautiously backin’ out the door like they’re innocent of violatin’ my Constitutional Rights and all the while sayin’ somethin’ in Arabic or Algerian, while quietly closin’ the door behind `em.
One nice thing, their big-ass smiles disappear when they have to face this Jabir or whatever his name is.
Anyway, I’m finally in and here’s this little guy who’s comin’ across kinda nice, really.
“So Jabir,” I say, ya know, tryin’ to make conversation. “What brings ya to New York?”
Walkin’ past him, I glance around the lavish suite, while removin’ my jacket so he can get a sense of my big boobs, of which I get numerous compliments. I wander over to the window to take in the view all the while knowin’ he’s watchin’ the view as I move here and there, you know, gettin a sense of things.
“Want me to give you a bath?” I ask brightly.
Smilin’ broadly, he responds with an energetic, “Yes, yes, a bath by you would be a very nice thing.”
“I meant with me, Jabir,” which gets him even more animated and he shakes his head up and down, “yes.”
“Good,” I say sweetly, and unbuttonin’ my blouse, I head for the bathroom. “Just give me a minute, you handsome thing.” It’s a good idea to get tricks into a bath; you never know how clean they are and since I’m used to doin’ more than one guy a night, it obviously isn’t a bad idea for me neither.
It’s a good start, especially with the particulars of this whole gig still bein’ some huge secret. And I keep thinkin `bout what Eileen said when I left this mornin’. He didn’t fuck that last girl. What’s that about?
One thing’s for sure, it likely means the guy didn’t like somethin’, so she doesn’t get sent back, see? But not likin’ a girl usually means a guy won’t call the service neither, which he does anyway, so here I am, which is peculiar in a plus size!
But there’s always the thought that he just likes new pussy or…who the fuck knows what else. Anyway, I have to find out and maybe soakin’ in the tub will loosen things up, which brings a question to my mind: do I take a bath with or without the hijab? Fuck! I decide to leave it on.
After dumpin’ a packet of bubble bath into the steamy water I return to the livin’ room where he carefully watches my approach.
By now, I’ve taken off my blouse and bra, givin’ him a chance to get a close-up of my boobies, which I apply added bounce to. With one eye on the time, I suggest, “Jabir, why don’t you get rid of that robe, honey?”
He’s a reserved character, and it’s like I haveta prod him every inch of the way. Otherwise, so far, he’s satisfied to watch me prance topless – which is all right, if in the end all I have to do is prance topless, which doesn’t seem likely given the price of all this, but then there’s still the question of that other Vixens girl, the one from before, the one who never did it with him.
Since he can see all the knockers he wants at the local tittie bar, I’m presumin’ there’s more to this – the question is what? Noddin’ in a courteous manner, he unties his belt and the robe slips to the floor.
He’s well-built, with lots of body hair. His uncut dick – which I like – looks average and is standin’ at half-staff; like he’s afraid to show his full intentions. And a girl has to watch size; somethin’ I do since after that butt thing in L.A., meanin’ I couldn’t sit for a whole week! That one, it turns out, was a deep freak – which I admit is somethin’ I’m into.
Anyway, I’ll take care of firmin’ things up with Jabir when the time comes but my point bein’ if he wants tush, size ain’t an issue. For now, I just need him clean so employin’ my classiest bashful smile I go, “I’m gonna get all undressed for you, hon, is that okay?”
“Yes, this is very okay…may I watch, S’il vous plaît?” I like how he asks permission. And he speaks Italian! I’m so impressed! “However…Etta, you will also wear your hijab, non?”
So now I’m all bubbles and perks and feelin’ a little Arab, so I go, “Of course I will, sweetie. And of course you can watch. I want you to.” Rotatin’ slowly, I thrust my ass out a smidge, let my skirt drop and wink at him. Bein’ a girl from Vixens and bein’ it’s a new suit, I fold it neatly and lay it over the couch. Nice touch, right? I’m big time gettin’ into this refined stuff.
Then I walk over to him while thinkin’, god, he’s so short, but his fingers show experience as he runs ’em from my shoulders, down to my waist, leavin’ some electric currents along my spine and I kick off my heels, bringin’ me down a notch. Shit, I’m still taller than him. Shit!
He takes hold of my boobs, which feels good, and his fingers pinch my big nipples, and guess what? They perk up for him.
So I’m basically naked except for my hijab of course, and reach down to cup his balls. They’re nice; hefty even. I roll one gently, and starin’ straight at him, I grab the other. His eyes seize up and I think, can we please get on with this? What exactly do you want from me?
Anyways, my point bein’, it’s just good business to get at balls early and brainless wives forget they’re there, which is a big fuckin’ mistake. Besides, once you have ’em you can get things flowin’ and establish a certain, you know, trust, cuz if a man allows a girl he’s never met to handle ’em; he’s surrenderin’ some power. It’s just the way it works and it has since, shit, since a hundred years ago!
One thing I’ll say, the guy knows how to touch a lady. Nobody’s gonna tell me Arab men don’t care how their women feel, not after today. I mean look, I’m a call girl so if Jabir wants, he can twist his finger up my ass like a cork screw and I’m gonna swoon and say “more,” right?
But he’s not that way. Instead, he lowers my sexy hijab and carefully rubs my scalp, which is to die for, and he takes his time doin’ it, which not so many American boys ever do and let’s face it, girls love to have their heads massaged, even by Arabs, so I’m lovin’ it!
He runs his fingers like a comb through my long curls, slowly floatin’ down to my ears, to the back of my neck, to my shoulders. It feels real good!”You’re so beautiful, Etta, and I delight in your red hair,” he repeats over and over.
Well, I’m glada’ that, I repeat to myself over and over.”Etta knows you do sweetie, that’s why she’s here.”
Takin’ his hands in mine, I get romantic and start kissin’ his fingers, suckin’ `em into my mouth, like miniature pacifiers, eventually addin’, “And what else does Jabir want Etta to do?”
I’m pushin’ things, see, cuz I haveta find out what he’s into. I know Eileen is a stickler for time which is gonna be my biggest bitch about workin’ Vixens, so I gotta get him goin’ or I’m like literally screwed!
So steppin’ back, he looks me in the eye, and leans away as if he’s tryin’ to see my crotch. Now I haveta be careful with this cuz my ruby hair is completely soaked, half because of the way he’s been touchin’ me; well maybe not half, but mostly because I’m not a nice girl and have a little secret. See, earlier this evenin’, I did sort of a sub-call, you know, on the quiet.
Everyone knows girls take a little work on the side for extra money. We all do some freelancin’ and it’s not like there’s some rule against it!
Here’s how it went down: On my way to visit this very nice diplomatic type, I make a “quick stop” a couple blocks from here, where I meet up with the famous artist, Alan Wagner, a sexy item I done it with before, a few times actually.
He likes me a lot and always wants the same thing, and frankly, in this business a little consistency is a sought-after commodity!
Anyway, whenever I go there, we sit and gaze at each other – without smilin’. That’s it. We just stare, until, at just the right moment, I stand up and lean over his pool table.
In addition to bein’ an artist, he’s a plain and simple pool hustler and you should see some of the shots he makes. I mean, this guy always finds the corner pocket!
So anyway, I don’t wear panties with him — never – because they’d only get pulled off and I’d forget ’em and have to go back, which, by the way, I even did once with my bestest garter belt.
So cuz I’m wet for him, Alan easily slips his cock into me and after a few dozen or so strokes, he comes. It’s totally weird cuz we fuck in complete silence. He doesn’t do nothin’ strange and the only negative, which isn’t really a negative, is he hates condoms, which I don’t care about cuz of two completely valid reasons: One, he slips me an extra hundred cuz I say “cum anyplace you want,” and B), he only has sex with me. So there’s not the usual…dangers.
And how do I know he only does it with me? Simple. He told me! And for an artist, Alan is very honest.
He finishes with his dick pushed deep in my belly, all the while drownin’ his sentiments in a crystal tumbler of J&B — neat! That naturally takes a few minutes cuz he stays hard a long time, which is a real compliment to a girl and frankly, is a quality I admire cuz I hate it when the guy pulls out right after. It’s so rude!
Eventually he softens up and leaves me. But guess what? Guess what he wants next? He has me hop up on his table with my feet held high and sits on a stool, watchin’ as his sticky sperm oozes out of my kitten, tricklin’ down to my tight little butt hole.
Then, starin’ right at my snatch, he downs the rest of his drink! He pays cash. I get a goodnight kiss, and that’s it. I mean, that’s my definition of neat!
He’s the kinda’ guy to do if a girl has another call the same night cuz nothin’ – well not totally nothin’ – but hardly nothin’, gets messed up. Plus, he wants ta paint my portrait someday, cuz he says I’m pretty. Isn’t that sweet?
But just to be on the safe side – I’m talkin’ about the mess now — before leavin’ his apartment? I do a little trick and pop in a tampon, which I remove when I arrive at the Arab assignment. I do it by liftin’ my skirt while facin’ the back of the elevator just in case the door opens unexpectedly, givin’ some legitimate patron, poor thing, a coronary thrombosis!
Bottom line is, I’m totally oozin’ by the time I reach this Jabir person and don’t want him thinkin’ one of two things, right? A) He’s been sent a girl at a bad time of the month, or B) he’s with a girl who just fucked somebody else twenty minutes before and arrives with cum runnin’ out and down her thighs like she’s tryin’ to outperform Niagara Falls!
Nice thing is, I can tell Jabir’s thinkin’ I’m completely turned on by what he’s doin’, which, like I say, is about almost sorta half true.
Anyway, my new Arab friend runs his hands down my body, droppin’ to his knees in the process, until his eyes are totally glued “there”; you know, right at my burnin’ bush.
Now, it’s a well known scientific fact that men are turned on by pussy and in Arab countries the opportunity for this kind of up close scrutinizin’ is probably slightly rare, and just try – try – and find a redhead in the desert, right? I mean, I don’t think so!
“Why don’t we have our bath?” I finally suggest, lookin’ down at him affectionately as can be and addin’ a couple of sexy blinks free of charge.He slowly looks up and finds my face, but I swear, he’s in a trance and doesn’t truly see me!
Instead, he’s mesmerized, his eyes returnin’ to my poutin’ crotch of scarlet exquisiteness. So, I say in an aphrodisiacal way, “You like that, baby? You like girls with red bush? We’re special, ya know. Wanna taste her? Wanna suck her?”
All the while, I’m tryin’ to pull him back up which I eventually accomplish and guess what? He puts his arm around my neck, gives me a deep and very nice kiss, I mean a real affectionate one, while his hand moves over my belly, circlin’ around my navel, then finally to my slit where he inserts a handful of fingers, pulls back, raises `em to his nose, breathes deeply and then puts `em to mine.
“Yeeees,” I inhale, “That’s nice, isn’t it? Want more? Does that American pussy smell good to ya, baby?” Of course I feel like askin’, “Doesn’t ALAN WAGNER smell good to ya, baby?”
So guess what? He reinserts his fingers, and murmurs, “Your koos is so wet,” which, if koos is pussy, he’s right! “I very much like this,” he adds.
So, I’m with this super sweet, super quiet and super agreeable Arab guy who I know comes from a place where girls don’t just do it for money — and if they do, their burquas get ripped to shreds as they’re stoned in the streets – and I’m here with a fresh cream pie gettin’ compliments on my feminine wetness! Shit, I haveta get us into that bath!
“Come on Jabir,” I say hurriedly, “The tub’s ready so let’s unwind.” To which I add a nice wink.
By now it’s almost eleven and back at Vixens they’re expectin’ to hear from me, but I haven’t got this guy past first base. Shit. I speed dial my phone.
Terry Robertson picks up. She’s the night watch person – girl, whatever. She works late, till all the girls call in. I’d hate that job.
“Vixens, Terry speaking.”
“Terry, it’s Etta.”
“Who?” She acts like she doesn’t remember me, the lyin’ shit!
“ETTA! ETTA PLACE!”
“Oh, it’s you…”
“Yeah, it’s me. Listen, I’m with Jabir. We’re gonna need more time. That all right?” I’m so polite, I even surprise myself.
But on her end, she sounds a little perturbed, and she’s probably thinkin’ if this is the start of a trend she might decide not to like me so much, which I already suspect is the case since none of `em do anyway, me not bein’ what they might distinguish as their version of elegant and all that.
So she hesitates, but eventually offers a dismal sigh. “It’ll have to do for now, Etta,” she says prissily. “But in the future I don’t expect you to wait until the end of an hour to make these decisions. You have to give me a little time to adjust the evening’s schedule in case you’re needed elsewhere.”
“I truly hear ya,” I say back earnestly. I’m not bein’ sincere in the least, mind you, but figure it’s better to be accommodatin’ if I’m gonna stay off this girl’s shit-list, at least until I acquire some job security which translates into guys askin’ for me a second time. “It won’t happen again,” I add courteously, thinkin’ “BITCH.”
Then, like she doesn’t even trust me, she says, “Let me talk with Mr. Abadi.” The nerve!
Standin’ naked as a newborn with a real nice hard-on, Jabir takes the phone.
“Yes, it is very all right.” He says pleasantly. “Yes, we are enjoying our visit together so much so we lost track of time…Yes, I wish an additional hour with her…Yes, I will be happy to pay any extra…she is very good company and I cherish her already…good bye.” What a cool guy!
“Great!” I gush, still wonderin’ what the fuck I’m here for. “Now Jabir, let’s relax and do the things you like.”
Jabir, as it turns out, is a bundle of surprises. Men, after all, have agendas – which normally involve insertin’ things, and since, I’m the designated insertee, he’s gotta broach the subject of what he wants eventually.
“Etta, let us circumvent our bath.” His suggestion shows a definite change of direction. “Instead, you lie down here,” he proposes, pointin’ ominously to a coffee table with a heavy glass top.
I shrug my shoulders, sayin’, “All right Jabir, but give me a minute to shut off the water so the place don’t flood.”
I grab my briefcase and rush to the bathroom. God, there are bubbles spillin’ onto the floor, so I drop a couple of towels to sop up the mess.
The bathroom visit is more a put-on than anything. See, totally fearin’ he’ll discover what he really slid his fingers into – twice – I pour some lube onto my hand, squat, and slip it up my you know what.
There. Slippery is slippery. He’ll never know the difference! Then I walk back into the livin’ room, still carryin’ the lube to divert his attention. He smiles. Phew!
I know I just dodged a bullet, maybe literally, especially with his strike team right outside the door. And by the way, I’m still, ya know, pissed at those guys for treatin’ me like I’m some kinda loose woman.
I approach Jabir who places his hands on my arms and firmly nudges me backwards toward the coffee table. The glass is cold against my rear end as I sit down, and it only gets colder as I recline.
It’s hard and uncomfortable as shit, so I point to a pillow on the couch, only to have him wave a stern finger at me. Apparently, to Arabs, uncomfortable is a good thing.
And this table I’m on! It’s too short for me to stretch out my full length, so my heels rest awkwardly on the floor, and he leans over, puts his hands on my ankles, draws `em up, then pushes my thighs back against my boobs! I grab both feet to steady myself, look up at him and say, “Now what, you bad boy?”
Puttin’ his fingers to his lips, he gives me a slight “shush,” then ups and leaves the room! So here I am, splayed, lubed, alone, and thinkin’, “What’s with this guy?”
When he returns, he’s carryin’ a dressy-lookin’ wooden box. Thinkin’ it might be some torture device used in harems, I frantically scan the label. It reads, “DERWENT PASTEL PENCILS – 90 COUNT.”
He eyes me as I size up the carton, and holds up a handful of pretty colored sticks for my inspection.
“They are lovely, are they not?” His excitement jumps out at me and everythin’ suddenly makes sense.
Raisin’ myself up, I shout, “Holy shit!”
“Listen very particularly Miss Etta,” he interrupts nervously. I know he can tell I’m kinda scared, like who wouldn’t be? “I wish these to be placed into your perfect womanhood.”
“Ahhh…you want to…what? I DON’T fuckin’ think so!” “Wait, wait!” he begs, his voice filled with panic.
I real carefully recline back and ask cautiously – cuz I haveta know – “Um, Jabir…how many?”
Totally showin’ relief, he answers, “First, is it all right for me to proceed with this scientific exercise? We can begin with only ten…no, twelve…no, fifteen.”
I give him a “maybe I might do it,” kinda nod and he gives me a “that’s wonderful” kinda’ nod.
“The final number,” he assures, “will depend on how many you can provide accommodation to. Is this objective clear to you?”
Continuin’ on, Jabir outlines his plan in more detail. “Then, after you relax, because I can see I have made you a tiny bit anxious, I will introduce one or maybe two pastels each time – but will place them only in the middle of the bouquet so your perfect femininity will flourish barely a small amount each time. Is this acceptable, Miss Place?”
Of course this guy’s nuts so instinct tells me to get outa here fast, but then I warm to the idea for reasons I’ll explain, and think if he does it carefully, it might be okay. Besides, it shouldn’t be any worse than that character who insisted I do the Diet Coke can.
After all, some guys like insertions. They’re really aliens, you know, like in them old movies; measurin’ human specifications to see how much homo sapiens’ bodies can take.
Now we’re talkin’ price, so I throw in a preemptive kinda complaint, sayin’, “It’s gonna hurt”.
“But only a very little Etta, because, as I addressed with you earlier, this method will stretch you with care by adding one – or even two – at a time; this fervent promise I make to you. And you should know, sweet woman, I even do it with one of my very own wives in Saudi Arabia.” With this, he gives me the cutest smile.
“That’s very reassurin’,” I whisper, complete with maybe a hint of sarcasm which I don’t think he catches.
“My wife, she is very especial to me because she allows that I do this and it sets her apart from my other wives, the remainder of whom, it is my misfortune, frown upon the practice.”
He looks slightly away when he unveils this little reality, then continues. “To me, you will be very especial too. And you can tell me to stop whenever you wish as I consider men and women equal in all things involving love, in accordance with the teachings of the Prophet.” With this, his face brightens with religious zeal.
“I can’t help it Jabir, and I know it’s none of my business, but I have to ask…Ahh, how many wives do you have?”
“Just four,” he responds unenthusiastically. “They are all very beautiful and have given me seventeen children; nine are sons.”
By now he’s grinnin’ like a little kid at the circus, while my mind’s already workin’ in computational mode, so I back off some, cuz it hits me, what’s the big deal about a few pastels? Maybe an inch? Two inches? Not for nothin’, but that’s pretty insignificant in my world! And there’s the money to think about…or at least there’s gonna to be.
So I compute right in my head – without a calculator, cuz I was good at arithmetic in school – and lookin’ up at him I say, “I’ll do it, but if I tell ya stop I expect ya to stop – S-T-O-P! Do you understand me?” He nods compliantly.
“Yes, surely, of course,” he answers distractedly while caressin’ my cunt hair with the backs of his fingers. It feels real good, but I lay the law down anyway. “And I want to be paid extra.”
I can tell he’s not listenin’, and make another decision. “Jabir, I need to know, PAY ATTENTION PLEASE! I need to know how many of these here pastels your wife – what did you say her name was?”
“My wife, of course, yes, she is Shatha, a most perfect woman.”
“Yeah, I’m sure. Like, how many does Shatha manage when she does it for you? I mean, I want to know the exact number you expect me to do!”
“Sixty,” he answers like it’s nothin’. “She insists on sixty. And…and I give her very singular presents for this and I will give you incomparable gifts also.”
“Gifts? Um, what kinda gifts?” I’m more interested now.
“To you I will supply…ten dollars…no…twelve dollars, for each pastel you are accepting of.”
“Twenty,” I snap, figurin’ what the fuck? I’ll be sore for days and might only be available for blowjobs – no regular work, I mean. With some quick multiplication, I figure I can maybe get $1200 bucks additional – which is like, holy fuckin’ shit! “Twenty!” I give him a reinforcin’ glare.
So guess what? He agrees! It’s been a while since I bartered this way; at least a month, but I haven’t lost my touch! Then I think, I should demand twenty-five!
But instead I switch gears, thinkin’ I might get scratched or somethin’, so I chime, “And you hafta put `em in a condom,” a suggestion about which he wavers, before reluctantly concedin’ the point.
“Of course, of course, I will do exactly that such thing,” he mutters, barely hiding his disappointment.
“And I still get the twenty bucks — each!”
“All right, yes,” he adds cryptically but counters with, “Yes, twenty dollars. But only fifteen dollars if you permit fewer than sixty.”
Just wantin’ to get on with it, I give him a little sigh of agreement. “Yes, all right!” Such a negotiator! Usually men are too embarrassed to get this involved in details, but Arabs are used to havin’ their way with women and this guy’s somethin’ else!
Cautionin’ him once more, I reinforce the rule. “Just remember; stop if I say stop.” Then noddin’ my head, I raise my legs a little higher and rest my heels on the backs of my thighs, thinkin’, “Lady, you gotta be fuckin’ nuts.”
Once I’m on my back again with my pussy exposed, just like at my box-doctor appointment, and as spread-eagled as a girl can get, he returns his attention to my downy “womanhood”.
By now, the whole thing’s become personal and I’m sorry, but no Arab girl’s gonna outdo an American! I’m gonna trounce sixty, but I don’t tell him that.
Liftin’ my head slightly, I watch as he gets the long-anticipated project underway but the funny thing is, after the price gets firmed up, it’s like he forgets the rest of me’s even here.
Frankly, I watch in wonder at this change of focus, as I go from bein’ a naked woman, my body open for his pleasure, to just, well, a cunt, prepared for the pastel version of the Mongol Horde invasion!
Since he pays almost no further attention to me, I’m free to think great thoughts and conjure what has to be a sure-fire image of Jabir’s poor wife – well, one of `em anyway – waist down naked, face veiled of course, lyin’ on her back in the tent of Abdul Bedouin, GYN, if they even have GYNs over there, with camels outside instead of cars and everything.
Her feet, poor thing, are bound in stirrups on the examination table, while she’s bein’ punctured by every color of the rainbow!
Disregardin’ all that, I motion with my hand for him to go ahead anyway, so he opens the drawer of the coffee table I’m on and produces a condom. It’s unwrapped! Holy shit. Just where’s that been?
In my most demandin’ voice, I wail at him: “Wait a fuckin’ minute! We’ll use mine, thank you.” Pullin’ myself up, I grab one from my case and breakin’ the foil wrapper, invert it, placin’ the lubrication on the inside.
“Good. A highly scientific practice,” Jabir admits, as he inserts what looks like about ten pencils – tips pointin’ out, thank Allah – into the condom.
Then, reachin’ for my bottle of slippery stuff, he pours some into his palms and rubs it onto the exterior of the inflated rubber, which he slips into my jittery womanhood. Surprisingly, it goes in easily so I relax.
The guy’s a real expert, and pushes the weird object into me until – boom – it encounters my cervical stop sign.
Holdin’ it deeply in place with the palm of his right hand, he awkwardly crawls around to the end of the table where my head’s restin’ uncomfortably, my lovely hijab cascadin’ to the floor below. Fuck, I could use that pillow!
Lookin over, I catch a glimpse, right near my face, of his fully engorged penis standin’ at perfect attention, a drop of precum ready to shake loose at the tip. As I reach for it, he gently pushes my hand aside! Well excuse me!
Eileen was right; he isn’t into, well, anythin’ “normal,” and I wonder if they even teach Arab boys those things between their legs have miscellaneous uses.
“Just lie still, please. Don’t move,” he says firmly. And then returnin’ to the space between my widely splayed thighs, he continues with, whatever the fuck you call this!
Touchin’ my clit for him, I ask coyly, “Do you want me to do this?”
Without so much as a look, he nods, while mechanically insertin’ the next pastel, a pink one – I know cuz he holds it up to show me – into his bloomin’ pencil box.
The guy’s a strange one and isn’t stupid because by magnifyin’ me gradually, I’m gettin’ a feelin’ of fullness a girl gets, rather than pain. Of course, as I have no fuckin’ idea how many sticks are in there, the perception’s subject to change.
Anyway, I’m definitely gettin’ the hang of it and I finally — finally – understand why he didn’t fuck that last girl! It’s all right there in his refusal to probe me with anythin’ except the foreign objects of his enthrallment and it seems to me to be some crusade to hold to a “you can only touch one of your multitude of wives” Middle Eastern rule ‘a thumb.
And by now, I admire him a little more than I thought at first due to his unwaverin’ discipline; the stamina that foils a man’s natural instinct to pop in a sexy woman – especially one he’s bought. Bein’ unlawful, without bein’ unlawful is what it is. It may be a silly question, but how strange is that?
By now, of course, I’m soaked, slippery and what ya might call ready, which means if I so much as cough, the condom’s gonna launch outa me like a rocket and poke out his eye, promptin’ an international incident or somethin’!
In fact, especially as the pack grows; he has to hold it in me with his palm, and when my tormented pussy rejects the imposition, he spreads my vaginal lips apart with one hand and firmly reinserts his bag of colorized tricks with the other.
Finally though, it’s all too much and I lose it. “Hey you! Jabir!” I storm. “You better hold on to those suckers! IN is IN and I can handle IN, but this poppin’ out stuff hurts! Ya see?”
Again, he nods disinterestedly. Imagine? D-i-s-i-n-t-e-r-e-s-t-e-d-l-y!
And there’s the strangest regularity to his actions; I mean, it’s really engrossin’. The guy has to be a scientist or somethin’, ’cause after every time he slips in a pastel, he pauses, searches my face for approval, then continues on, repeatin’ in a hushed kinda whisper, “Mahbil, Mahbil.”
Once it’s in, he cautiously selects another pretty stick — okay, sometimes maybe he grabs two or three or even four – and carefully scrutinizes their colors, which at times he rejects for reasons unknown. Only after what looks like respectable thought, he makes his final decision and pushes `em into the…the pack, which is basically me!
At other times, like a little kid, he makes it a game. He’ll hold a pastel up where I can see it, and searchin’ me for me for approval or my blessin’, since otherwise they all look the same, he waits for agreement, which I don’t always give him, ‘cuz sometimes I shake my head “no” and make like a frown, as if to say, “I don’t like that one,” after which he carefully replaces it back in the box and selects another.
This goes on for a half hour and since I’m really not doin’ nothin’, I think about that other girl; the one he saw last time. It’s good Eileen didn’t say her name, cuz one phone call and I might `a missed out on – a bundle!
But the eventual problem is pretty predictable, cuz after a while, my kitty’s hurtin’; not a deep hurt, but a stretched hurt; a “first fuck” sorta hurt or maybe like the one a girl gets after her butt’s punctured by that really big cock she sorta, kinda wanted and kinda didn’t. The one main difference bein’, – and I might add, luckily for me – all this pastel stuff is happenin’ bit by bit, slip by slip, tip by tip! At least, that’s my thought.
I must of taken about twenty when finally, I speak up regardin’ my rights. “Jabir, hon, are we almost finished here? It hurts!”
Ignorin’ my question, he instead asks excitedly, “Miss Place, would you like to view your exquisite beauty?”
Raisin’ my head, I think, you gotta be fuckin’ kiddin! But what I say is different, due to my deeply ingrained professionalism. “Sure…I’d…love to!”
A look of delight crosses his friendly face, and leavin’ him to his unique brand of ecstasy, my mind wanders back to the “per pastel” cash arrangement he promised. So I ask, just figurin’ as how I’d double check my multiplication. “Jabir, um…how many have you…you know, how many have you stuck in down there?”
Now, even more excitedly, he reaches over like he’s waited all night for this moment and openin’ the drawer of the end table he pulls out a large hand mirror.
“Look Etta, look!” he implores, sky-high with schoolboyish happiness. Alignin’ the mirror so I can see the mass of sharpened tips projectin’ from my scandalously packed vagina, I let out a gasp.”HOLY SHIT!”
I imagined it was a respectable parcel — but the sight of it, I mean, I didn’t expect to see nothin’ like this!
Still grinnin’ and holdin’ the mirror at just the right angle, he does an audit, countin’ like a little kid. “Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen…he counts on…and on, abruptly stoppin’ – at sixty-three! SIXTY FUCKIN’-THREE!
And you’d think he’d be happy, but instead, he scowls a little more than slightly, like he’s disappointed as shit. “Damn,” I think, “he’s distressed, and I beat Shatha by three?”
“What’s the matter?” I ask soothingly, actin’ like I’m in the dark.
“Etta, I must say this because you can see my obvious disappointment and you are a very nice American girl but I am compelled to tell you that the previous American girl accommodated…” Pausin’ so as not to startle me, he murmurs, “Seventy-two.”
His face falls with dejection and much as I hate to admit it, my heart melts, leavin’ me feelin’ like I’m a complete failure as a woman!
Fortunately, motherin’ is my specialty, so I go, “Jabir honey, girls come in all different sizes, ya know?” It doesn’t seem to impress him much, so I feel stupid for bein’ so nice.
Then it strikes me, what the fuck? We’re doin “piece work” here, I mean, “per pencil,” so maybe it’s time to broaden my horizons. After all, a girl should always try and better herself, right? Besides, at this stage, protestin’ a measly few pastels seems pointless.
“Listen,” I hear myself say – and with real tears in my eyes – “Jabir sweetie, I can do more for you.” Then, feignin’ eagerness I tell him, “Do seventy-three…I…I really mean it!”
“In truth? You are all right with more? With seventy-three?” His face brightens again and the Jabir I’ve come to admire, settles back into the task at hand.
“Yes definitely, you lovely, considerate man,” I offer, thinkin’ since uncomfortable as I am, it isn’t as bad as I expected, so I’d just as soon get the money.
Jabir gentles another pastel, then another and another, pressin’ each one into the naughty bundle before pausin’ to do a careful re-count. After reachin’ the stupefyin’ number of seventy-three, I draw the line and just, ya know, expound like, “Okay, stop, I’m done!”
“I will cease now,” he concedes, but lookin’ at me a little forlornly, he raises an eyebrow and shakes his head addin’, “I wish I could pleasure you now miss, but I am only allowed ejaculation in Muslim women. Our law is very strict.”
“Oh…I understand,” I say sympathetically, thinkin, “phew!”
Jabir sits on the floor again, starin’ at my pastel-poppin’ portal. “I want to show you something, Etta,” he murmurs.
“Okay, but make it quick cuz I’m gonna bust!”
“Hold your packet in place,” he instructs, positionin’ my hand over my…fullness. Then, as he opens the laptop I’d spotted on the couch when I first walked in, he swirls the screen around to face me, then taps the mouse, instructin’, “Watch please.”
Placin’ the computer on a table which elevates the screen high enough for me to comfortably view, I watch the “Greatest Show on Earth,” as Jabir draws himself up to a sittin’ position next to me like we’re two teenagers at the movies.
After a minute, full screen shots appear and one after another, after another, after another, they scroll across the monitor.
Cunts! Each stretched to the limit! Each bristlin’ with pastels! And guess what? Only one’s shaved, and I tilt my head to study it, wonderin’ if it’s that girl with the braces. Blondes, brunettes…maybe, two dozen total. And I can see all he lacks is a bona fide, genuine, Ettable redhead – me!
The whole thing takes less than a few minutes and all that’s missin’ is the popcorn! It totally reminds me of my girlfriend Allison, who does “popcorn & porn” nights with that so-called boyfriend of hers, which is a story for another day, but I promise to tell ya.
“I wonder how this would look in 3-D?” I ask, tryin’ to show my digital well-versedness.
But he’s not interested in 3-D. Instead, he whispers in a kinky way, “So Etta, I have one more favor to ask of you tonight.” One more favor? This Arab always wants one more favor!
I give him my sternest look, complete with lazy eye. “Let me guess, you want a digital photo of my…womanhood?”
“Yes, yes, this is very much on my mind!” I knew it, I just knew it! “I wish to possess one, only one photograph for my compendium; something very exceptional to remember you by as tonight has been special due to your highly professional commitment to please me. Is this perfectly all right?”
He is so friggin’ courteous! Like, what can I say, right? Glancin’ back at the computer screen’s procession of stretched-out kittens I go, “Jabir, let’s pretend, for the sake of discussion, I say yes. How much more will ya give me?”