An Israeli-Palestinian Orgy for Peace

I first met Mohammad when I was a girl. He was 15 years older than me. I was 16 and he was the senior mechanic in my Dad's garage in Tel Aviv.

I remember watching his body, as he would sweat under the boiling Middle Eastern sun. He would put down his wrench, peel off his shirt, and then grab a Cola, which he would drink in the yard. I would finger myself and cum all over my pants at the site of Mohammad pressing the cold, chilled bottle again his chest, forehead and lips. God, he was beautiful and even then I knew I wanted him, and would have him one day.

It was a particularly dreary day a few years later, in downtown Tel Aviv and very, very quiet. The mood was somber because of all the fighting and nobody really wanted to party while so many young people were being killed. But cars still broke down and Dad's garage was as busy as could be.

Mohammad was the senior mechanic and had never taken a course on how fix anything in h is entire life. "He was a natural," Dad would say, about Mohammad's skill in the garage.

I would watch this 6-foot Adonis at work and understood what Dad had meant. Every car was different to Mohammad, "like a women," he would say. "Every breast feels different and every pussy tastes different. In a car, the prrh of the engine is never the same, and the drive is always individual."

When Mohammad would start working on the Saabs, he would dance with delight at their complexity and the engineers who had obviously attempted to stump the mechanic with its problems. Man, when he was fixing a Mercedes limo (of which Israel has many), he would yell in Arabic, "I love this woman!" Everyone would watch Mohammad conduct his repairs to the gearbox like he was leading a symphony. He was Zubin Mehta and the Israeli Philharmonic, and his wand was a flathead screwdriver.

I swear when he worked on the American cars he would cum. I saw Mohammad as he would adjust a belt on a 69' Ford Mustang. His hips would sway like Elvis. Every now and then he would reach down between his legs, with the flat side of a hammer and masturbate himself. His cock must have been 10 inches because that mechanic's uniform shot forward like an F-16 Eagle doing its vertical takeoff.

I was sitting behind Dad's desk and peering through the one way mirror (ya, he was worried about his employees. War sucks). I wanted Mohammad to entertain me and he must have known I was there, because he complied.

Slowly he pulled off the upper part of the uniform and his chest, arms and stomach rippled like the egg bread on Shabbat. Man, Mohammad exuded an inspiring physical character unlike I had ever encountered. Man, Woman, Arab, Jew, American, Swedish. I have been with all of them in the army but never met anyone like this man.

(I remember laughing when I had seen the advertisement for the underwear man in the United States. They found this boy, who was cocky and had bad muscle development. I laughed because my Mohammad would put that little wiener to shame).

My Arab Sheikh kept on dancing to the hmmm of the engine. He lowered his pant to the level of his cock and then teasingly, pulled them up again. I was dying. My pussy was so wet and I started fingering myself. Somehow I locked the door to Daddy's office and didn't answer when a couple of the other junior mechanics tried to get in for something.

Mohammad finally lowered the khakis and revealed that tool I had been waiting to see for a long time now. He was wearing funky boxer shorts, and his cock was pushing against the material like it was an escapee from a refugee camp. It was huge and I wondered how he didn't fall into unconsciousness when he got an erection. God gave the giraffes protection in their neck, so they wouldn't get fatal blood flow upon lowering their necks; what had he done for Mohammad.

His pants came off and the other mechanics – Jews, Muslims and Christians – were cheering the senior guy on. His legs were the kind you see in magazines. They were long, muscular and very hairy. So masculine. I felt on the verge of coming. Even his feet were magnificent, as they danced around the floor protected by the standard Israeli sandal. I wanted to get down on the oil greasy floor and suck the hell out of those toes.

He was making me hotter than ever and I just loved to watch him. One of the mechanics turned up the song on the radio and it was Stevy Ray Vaughn playing a guitar lick that mimicked an orgasm.

The music was blaring, the mechanics are yelling and dancing and the Mercedes Engine hummed along in its proper German way. As I was about to explode all over my hand and Daddy's desk, Mohammad yanked out his big Arab pipe and set about stroking it to the rhythm of all the noise. And the music played on, and Mohammad's cock was as big as camel's cock – dessert huge! (Deutoronomy)

I couldn't believe what I was seeing. It was surreal and a really good time. I couldn't help thinking through all the craziness – why couldn't we all get along like this. A good Israeli-Arab orgy just might clean things up. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. What a waste.
Suddenly he stopped, as did the mechanics and the music. The Mercedes played on.

Everyone turned to the one-way mirror and slowly, but most deliberately began to move toward it. I shuttered, and felt my cunt swell up as I fingered myself with four of my digits. They closer they came toward me, the more my muscles contracted. My pussy dripped my juices all over the office. I was soaked.

I could hear them playing with the lock and I reached around and stuck a finger up my derriere…. then two, then three and four. The door was locked but it was jiggling The gate hinges had become dislodged and I watched as this old wooden gate fell away as it should have years ago.

In walked the pack, lead by Mohammad – the virile soldier. He smiled at me a full set off teeth and licked his lips. His eyes were sparkling.

The team picked me up and carried me over their heads toward the Mercedes. I was an empress being carried to my virgin night with my Emperor. They lowered me onto the back seat of this exquisite car and one by one, removed a piece of clothing from my acutely horny body.

My eyes were closed; I was crying from joy. I felt body ease its way up on mine. The smell of his sex was overwhelming and it reached down to my cunt. I was fucking his pheromones; every whiff made me twitch. I felt the hair on his legs and the warmth of his skin and reached up to squeeze his Arm (especially his biceps, which were so incredibly sexy. I remember thinking I want to masturbate on them one day).

His cock touched my clit and the others had to hold me down so that I didn't rock this man off me and destroy this moment of peace. Mohammad was singing in my ear, an Arab wedding night song. It was so cool, I wondered why we didn't have Hebrew songs to serenade our lovers with – I don't mean the new stuff - but old traditional woman-to-woman stuff. I loved their poetry and its funky metaphors about love and the dessert, and breasts and the pyramids.

He was putting his huge cock inside of me and I arched my back to meet it; 2 inches, 3 inches, 4 inches, five inches. "Oh yes, my darling," I can taste you inside of me", Mohammad said.

His sweat was mixing with mine and the music started to blare again. It was a mixture of acid, rock and roll and head music. The world was spinning as I felt his eighth inch touch my womb. He pushed more and I was a woman with nine inches of Arab cock in my Jewish-Israeli cunt. I was in heaven and finally, with warning, the tenth inch of this god was all the way up inside of me. I was his and he was mine and the crowds were cheering.

"Fuck me, Mohammad, Fuck me. Oh, god fuck me. Yes, yes there yes yes shit ya…..mmmh, god I'm so wet. Fuck me. Make love to me…MMMMH. Ya, faster, ya, ya, mmh god I love you, fuck me," I was yelling like a madwoman. Faster he went. Harder he pushed. Deeper into my cunt he went. Faster. Faster. Harder.

I could feel other hands on my boobs and tongues sucking my toes. I was engulfed in sex and my body had evolved into another entity. It's every nerve ending was filled with the excitement of an impending orgasm.

I held Mohammad's cantaloupe-like ass in my hands as he did pushups on me. Ever part of him was filling me up and I tried to kiss him. His beauty, inside and out, overwhelmed me and I trusted him with my very soul. His cheekbones were high. Where were his parent's born? His nose was straight and proportioned exactly to his wet-green eyes. I loved his little ponytail. Ladies, come to Israel. This man was perfect!

I found his butt whole and stuck my finger inside of it. One. Two. Three. He was out of control and fucking me like a madman. His cock would push inside of me, and then exit, well almost and boom! One more time harder than the one before. He was terrorizing me. I couldn't defend myself. I loved it.

I was on the verge of cumming and I was certain Mohammad was as well. "Fuck me," I yelled. "Love me. I love you, " He shouted back and began to let go. My hips were bucking pushing my pussy up against his cock, over and over. I was grinding this man, pushing my pubes against his. Feeling that sort of sexiness when my pubis bone touches his. My lips touch his scrotum. My clit strikes the base of his cock – home base. God, we're in sync with each other's movements. What a team. We were born for this very moment; it's holiness, its love, and its intimacy. Abraham and Ishmael. Brothers. Lovers. Friends!

Spurts and spurts of cum were firing inside of me, hitting me on my inner walls, lips and tubes. Mohammad's cum was boiling hot like the waters of the Negev. I began to cum again; my lips held him tightly like an ass would, and he continued to penetrate my cunt like a wild dog.

I was yelling at the top of my lungs as my orgasm built and built – as my entire groin sucked in this taste of joy, the perfection of an orgasm. I was full and cumming over and over. Mohammad was matching my every contracting, every push and pull.

He kept cumming and the crowds were cheering louder than ever. I could feel cum hitting my face from all sides, and landing on my legs and feet. I could feel tongues licking it off and the music kept blaring.

Oh god, I wondered if we would every stop. I had waited for this moment. And it was better than ever. Mohammad lay on top of me, wasted. I kissed him all over and told him I loved him. He kissed me back and held me in his big arms. He was the most exciting man I had ever met. Probably few in the world would ever equal his perfection. And he was a fucking mechanic. Isn't that wild.

The crowds went back to their duties and the garage reopened for business. Mohammad stood up and listened to a radio report. They were closing the borders and he had to go. I started to cry. "When will I see you again, my love," I asked.

"I will see you soon. Nothing will separate us. I love you and will never stop loving you," Mohammad yelled back. And with that, he was gone.

I've heard different things. Some say he was a spy or a terrorist and was in jail. Others gossiped that Mohammad was a family and the closed borders were just an excuse to leave me. I don't know what the truth is, but I do know one thing.

If I ever need a fantasy to get myself off with, all I do is go back to that day in the garage, and I cum quicker than a Rabbi says, "Please rise for the Torah reading."

You know I believe we will one day meet again to share Turkish coffee and couscous. I know this to be true, because one day Israelis and Arabs will have to make love, hold an orgy, get all the shit out, because the other way is so damn sad.

I hope that's the way we go...cause, Mohammad was so damn hot!!