In Search of Tamar Ch. 5

Miriam sat up in a squatting position and screamed “Sheket!” (Shut Up!). Obviously, my Miriam had never asserted herself because Tammy seemed to be at a loss for words for, what I assumed, was the first time in her life. Miriam had one hand on her knees and with the other she gestured angrily in a stabbing manner at Tammy. She spoke in very fluent and earthy Hebrew, the gist of which I understood had to do with Tammy’s manners, morals and personal hygiene. Finally, Miriam pointed one of her long, thin fingers in the direction of the living room sofa, indicating where she should take her tuches (ass, adding Yiddish to her Amharic and Hebrew) and leave us in peace. Tammy meekly obeyed. Miriam’s face took on a sly smile.

Miriam didn’t gloat at all at her triumph. She simply rolled on her side, pushing her ass into my lap, and fell asleep. Miriam slept the sleep of an Olympic Champion. I fell asleep soon afterwards, but not before I pondered what had happened in the last few minutes. Miriam had grown into a confident woman in less than a night. Tammy Fink had picked absolutely the wrong moment to call Miriam aCushi.

The next morning, I guess Miriam got up before me and showered. I only realized she was up when she brought me somecafé botz the morning. Groggily, I peeled some sticky sheets from my thigh and sat up to drink the coffee. Miriam seemingly ignored me, dropped her bathrobe on the floor and went about dressing in her running gear without a trace of shyness. Now she proudly displayed her naked femininity, her small hard tits and lush black bush, for my benefit. Miriam didn’t hide any of her goodies from my stares. She walked about the bedroom with her head held high as if she were the Queen of Sheba reincarnated. In one night, Miriam had grown up from a scared village girl into a mature, sexual being. It took some effort for me to keep my eyes open and admire the beauty of an African woman. Her lush bush and pert little tits disappeared too quickly from my view as she donned her track suit.

“Ohevi, (my love)I go now to work. I run to work so I stay in shape. You drink and then you go, no wake up Tamar Fink. I sad I no see you again. You go Jerusalem, find Tamar Ya’akov. You say to Tamar, ‘Miriam still love you.’”

Miriam lightly touched my cheek with the back of her bony fingers and kissed me on the lips. Tears of love and sadness welled up in her eyes. Miriam couldn’t contain herself and threw her arms around me and squeezed me with surprising strength. Finally, she kneeled, kissing on the tip of my dick as if she were worshipping it. Miriam left walking backwards out of the room as if she wanted her final look at me to last as long as possible.

I drank my coffee without the slightest enthusiasm or taste as I went over the past night’s events. True, Miriam had given me a remarkable fuck on her first try at real sex. The problem was that she had fallen in love with me as I had fallen in love with her. That wasn’t the way things were supposed to work on this trip. I was supposed to find Tamar and bring her to Canada with me and not get entangled on the way. Most of the women I had encountered in Israel had understood this. I guess Miriam sensed this as well, despite her youth and immaturity. With her parting words, she gave me up and sent me off to Tamar.

I got dressed without showering. I hoped that I didn’t smell too bad. Tammy was right. The room was a bit gamy from last night’s fucking. Not only could I smell spunk and cunt from the bedsheets but there was a distinct odour of stale sweat. No, it wasn’t stale locker room sweat. It was red hot man and woman sweat.

I carried my sandals in my hand so I wouldn’t wake Tammy in the living room. There was little chance of that happening. Tammy was snoring on the couch, a 1/3 empty bottle of 777 Brandy beside her. She was as biff naked as if she were doing her show at the Club Gomorrah. Her legs were parted displaying her inner pussy lips poking out of her shaved clam. I guess that the spreads must be de rigeur for a peeler at the Club Gomorrah. No class, I thought. Despite growing up in a primitive African village, Miriam Kessim had infinitely more class than the big city girl.