Vixens - Pastels

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?"

End