Vixens - Pastels

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."

Part III

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?"

"Aha...I think...so."

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."

Part IV

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.