Fatima Pt. 02: Hermione

This story is a follow-up to Jade. I have divided it into three parts: Genevieve (which you may find in 'Loving Wives'), Hermione and Masoumeh. The first two parts are fictional, but only in the sense that they didn't actually happen. That they might have happened (or that my wife and I wished for them to happen) is a different matter entirely. The third part did indeed come to pass - and not that long ago. Not exactly in the timeframe I have given it, since the story form enabled me to compress what happened over a longer period of time into a single evening to enhance the dramatic effect. I hope you enjoy it all as much as my wife and I did...

10

Hunter and Fatima did see Masoumeh a couple of times around the hotel before they flew back to England. In the event, it was the Iranian woman who asked whether the other couple were on Facebook, as she would be coming to England in the spring and thought it would be nice if they were able to meet up.

Fatima had to suppress a laugh - the idea that she, all of 26, would be using such an old person's site amused her greatly - but she recovered in time to say that neither she nor Hunter were on Facebook but perhaps they could keep in touch via WhatsApp. The women shared their numbers and set up a group of two, Hunter neither asking nor being asked to be included.

'Mission accomplished!' he said, as they made their way to the coffee shop, where they had arranged to meet an elderly couple they knew from the UK, who had arrived at the hotel only the previous evening.

It has to be said that returning to grey, damp England was a bit of a comedown after the sunshine and excitement of the Côte d'Azur. To make matters worse, Fatima had been nominated by her company to attend a pharmaceutical conference in the less than salubrious surroundings of Hull, a port city of nondescript appearance and dubious attractions on the north-east coast. The keynote speaker was an American who was attempting to revolutionise the industry through the use of natural products, who had been given the nickname Organic Otis by the wags in her office.

She'd attended a similar event a couple of years before, but on that occasion she was part of a three-person delegation. A slowdown in the economy and a reduced budget meant that on this occasion she would be attending the three-day event on her own. To put it mildly, she wasn't looking forward to the experience.

Hunter was full of positivity as always, telling her on the drive to the railway station that it was a good opportunity for networking. Buoyed at least a little by his enthusiasm, she kissed him in the station car park, telling him to drive off rather than wait around. She couldn't abide long, tearful goodbyes.

When she got to her hotel, which was part of the conference centre set-up and nothing to write home about, she had an hour or so in which to shower and change and get herself ready for the opening night welcoming dinner. She was put on a table on which she was the only woman, and had to fend off advances from the men, who got progressively more inebriated as the evening wore on. Making her excuses, she left as soon as the dessert was cleared away, citing the need to make some calls to the States. In the event, the only call she made was to Hunter, who had his work cut out raising her spirits.

After an hour or so on the phone, she felt a lot better and read herself to sleep. The following morning, she went along to a couple of seminars, neither of which was worth the admission fee, making an effort to talk with some of the other delegates during the mid-morning break. Rather than take lunch in the dining room, she asked the concierge for a decent vegetarian place nearby, and was fortunate that there was one only twenty minutes away by foot.

Skipping the early afternoon sessions, she arrived back in time for the plenary forum, at which T. Otis Parker III was scheduled to speak. His presentation exceeded her expectations, putting her in a much better mood. That evening, buses had been laid on to take the conferencegoers to a choice of two local restaurants, but Fatima cried off at the last moment, telling organisers that she had been invited to a working dinner with one of her company's key clients.

She ordered a taxi and took herself off to a local French restaurant, in the hope that the ambience would transport her back to the wonderful days with Hunter in Antibes. The place was quite full, especially for a Wednesday evening, Fatima thought, even if it was by no means a big place. Asking for a table for one, she was shown to a nice spot in the rear part of the restaurant.

As she went past another table for two, she met the eye of an older blonde woman, who was also dining alone. Fatima returned her 'Good evening' and took her seat at the table behind the one occupied by the blonde. She chose to sit facing the entrance, so that she would be facing the woman, who had seated herself with her back to the main dining area.

Within a minute they made eye contact again. This time the woman got up, walked over to Fatima's table and suggested that she join her. She seemed to take it for granted that she was on her own and wanted the company. Fatima pondered for a moment, as if genuinely thinking the proposal over, before moving tables.

They introduced themselves. The woman was called Hermione (like in Harry Potter, Fatima thought). She must have been in her mid- to late-thirties. Like Fatima, she wore a wedding ring. Close up, Fatima could notice the freckles on her face. They weren't too widespread and they weren't blotchy. Together with the dimples in her cheeks, they somehow enhanced her already attractive features.

The woman had not been long in the restaurant and was drinking some sort of cocktail. She called the waiter over and asked Fatima what she would like to drink. She had a mineral water, as she typically did, receiving that look with which she had become familiar over the years, as people asked themselves if she was a Muslim. For her part, Fatima had a hunch that her fellow diner was also attending a conference at the nearby centre. After all, otherwise, what on earth could have brought her to a benighted place like Hull?

Her hunch turned out to be correct, Hermione telling her that she was attending a psychiatric conference, which wound up on the following day. Fatima couldn't help thinking of the Fawlty Towers episode in which Basil becomes paranoid that he's being observed and analysed by a married couple, both of whom are doctors - one a psychiatrist. The show was a particular favourite of Hunter's, and they had watched it together not long before their wedding.

'What are you thinking?' Hermione asked - a smile creasing her face.

'Oh, nothing really,' replied Fatima. 'It's just that Hunter (that's my husband) is a great fan of Fawlty Towers, so he made me watch them, and I remember one where one of the guests, a psychiatrist, turns to his wife at the end of the show and says, "There's enough material there for an entire conference!"'

'Ah, yes, of course, I know it well. But I have to say not many people your age have seen it. It's usually portly middle-aged gentlemen and frumpy matrons!'

Fatima decided to take that as a compliment. She was dying to know if this interesting woman was staying at the same hotel as she was. Her mind began flying to all kinds of places - notably the other woman's bedroom. She would have to tell Hunter in advance, she knew that. That was their arrangement. She felt confident that he wouldn't be putting himself in the way of any temptation while she was away, but there was always the threat of that Iranian woman. She could tell that she was just waiting to get her claws into Hunter. Still, no one in their right mind would come to England in the depths of winter. Take this evening - it was wet and windy and miserable.

Fatima got the opportunity to contact Hunter sooner than she thought when Hermione received a call and, mouthing 'Husband!', went to the little bar area of the restaurant to take it there. Fatima saw that she was wearing a stylish knee-length red flared skirt under her black turtleneck sweater and a pair of black leather boots. By contrast, Fatima felt a little underdressed in her denim jacket, white blouse, blue jeans and trainers.

Fatima wasn't sure if Hermione didn't want her to listen in or if she thought it was bad form to take a call at the table. On balance, she reckoned probably the latter. She took the chance to message Hunter about her news, receiving a response by return: a winking emoji.

Now she had the green light, she felt not only more comfortable about the situation, but also more attractive. In honour of the change in her fortunes, she opened another button on her blouse. It was still very discreet by British standards, but she felt sure that Hermione would notice - and get the message. How she responded would determine how the rest of the evening would pan out.

'Nothing serious, I hope?' Fatima said when Hermione returned.

'Just Kobe getting himself into mischief again,' the older woman replied.

Fatima assumed that Hermione was referring to her son, but in the event it was something else entirely. She shouldn't have been surprised, given all the years she had spent in the UK.

'Our dog,' Hermione expanded, seeing the uncertain look on Fatima's face. 'Well, one of them. A Jack Russell - always finding new ways of injuring himself.'

Fatima asked her more about her dogs, even though she could take them or leave them, in truth. English people had such an obsession about the animals, which someone from the subcontinent found bizarre. But then many of her adopted countrymen had dysfunctional families and were alienated from their parents and siblings, or divorced. They could do with the company of a living thing that didn't answer back or contradict them, she reckoned.

When Hermione got into her stride, telling her about the different breeds she owned and the different temperaments they had, Fatima began to think that she'd misread the situation. Confirmation that she hadn't came after a few minutes, when suddenly she felt a hand on her knee. Something like a bolt of electricity shot through her body. She made no effort to remove the hand, dealing with the excitement she felt by taking a sip of water from her glass.

'I'm staying at the hotel at the conference centre,' said Hermione - it was an invitation rather than a mere statement.

'Me too,' replied Fatima, unable to think of something more original to say.

'Makes sense if we take a taxi, then,' said the psychiatrist, squeezing Fatima's knee before removing her hand and using it to beckon the waiter over.

Hermione engaged Fatima in conversation all the way to their destination, as if what she had planned for the rest of the evening (who knew, the whole night, perhaps?) was the most natural thing in the world. She talked freely about her husband and her dogs, then suddenly asked Fatima if she had any children.

'I'm not really the motherly type,' she answered as casually as she could.

'That's what I always felt,' the doctor replied. 'At least until the first popped along. Then I suppose the maternal instinct kicked in.'

'How many do you have?' Fatima asked, constantly caught out by this woman's conversational shifts.

'Just the two,' she replied, taking Fatima's hand in hers as if she were a proxy. 'A boy and a girl. Seven and five.'

Fatima wanted to say that it clearly hadn't cramped her style but decided a murmur (of what - approval, congratulations?) was more in order.

As they were drawing up to their hotel, Hermione told Fatima she'd no doubt be wanting to go to her room to freshen up. They discovered they had rooms on the same floor, and Hermione told Fatima to come over when she was ready. She had that look on her face which said she would be slipping into something more comfortable.

Fatima got out of her nondescript clothes and jumped in the shower, where she always did some of her best thinking. She decided to wear her recently acquired white silk cover-up, with gold and silver floral patterns and kimono-style sleeves. Under it, she would wear her sexiest bra and panty set - a metallic fake leather halter bra with matching tie-string panties. If that didn't get the blonde's juices flowing, Fatima thought, then nothing would.

She put her glass strap-on and a couple of other bits and pieces in her clutch bag, slipped into a pair of low-heeled white sandals and, dismissing the idea of wearing a coat or jacket (the idea of being caught in the corridor wearing her bedroom outfit turned her on no end), made her way the short distance to Hermione's room. A single knock on the door was all that would be needed to get the older woman running, she knew.

As it turned out, she was wrong. She ended up waiting in the corridor for nearly a minute, listening out for the sound of the lift doors opening, in case she had to make a dash for her room. It wouldn't do for any of the douchebags who had been trying their best lines on her to find her in such a compromising position in such exotic clothing. Finally, after several rings of the doorbell, the door opened and Fatima could understand the reason for the hiatus. Hermione had been in the middle of changing. She had got as far as taking her sweater off; a black bra drew Fatima's attention to the hefty payload which it carried.

'I'm terribly sorry; I was in the bathroom and the water was running. I hope you haven't been waiting long.'

'Just long enough for a liftload of delegates to check me out as they headed for the room they'd chosen for their drunken evening of male bonding,' Fatima replied with a laugh.

'Oh my god!' said Hermione. 'You're joking, aren't you?'

'Sure. Otherwise I'd have invited the good-looking ones in.'

'Well, then, come on in and make yourself at home. I'll be with you in a moment.'

11

Hermione turned to go back to the bathroom, but Fatima was too quick for her, taking her by the arm and spinning her round. In one easy movement, she had whipped off the bra and before the older woman knew what had hit her, had latched onto one of her fat nipples.

'God!' the woman sighed. 'You don't mess about, do you?'

Being of the firm opinion that actions speak louder than words, Fatima sucked on the chewy nub, even as her spare hand moved to the other boob and began to tweak the chunky nipple. The thought of those two kids suckling at these teats made her even hornier. She rolled the cylinder around in her mouth. It reminded her of a tiny drum - the kind a toy soldier on top of a Christmas cake might be playing. She decided to take the drum off the soldier and play with it herself.

Whatever tune Fatima might have been playing, the mother-of-two was clearly enjoying it. 'Oh, fuck, yes!' was her verdict, the exclamation puncturing the steady stream of moans that were being emitted. Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined that this Asian girl would be so fucking good. And such a sexual predator!

Fatima was very much on the edge too. She thought of the dildo lying in its harness in her bag and her mind went into overdrive. She found the zip at the back of Hermione's skirt, undid it and tugged the garment down. She didn't even bother to look at the panties the woman was wearing before she yanked them off with both hands, her mouth still attached to her breast, her tongue still beating the taut surface of her nipple.

She ran her hand through a luxuriant growth of soft pubic hair and found Hermione's fleshy cunt lips - still working blind. Hermione instinctively, if all but imperceptibly, braced herself for the violation she longed for. Fatima was of half a mind to make her wait, as the woman had made her wait outside her door, but she was too far along for playing games or settling scores. She isolated her middle finger and pushed it inside the walls of the awaiting vulva.

She had imagined the woman would be dry, like a cow that has given too much milk for too long. How wrong could she be! Her cunt was sodden with her juices, so much so that Fatima realised that the reason she had been so slow to change was that she had been frigging herself to images of the Pakistani girl. This wasn't something she was in a mood to let the woman get away with.

'You were masturbating when I knocked on your door, weren't you?' she whispered into her ear.

'Yes!' Hermione replied, her breathing coming short because of the effect of Fatima's finger in her pussy.

'Do you always prey on younger women?' Fatima asked, her finger now working the woman's pussy as fast and as powerfully as she imagined it was being worked when she was pleasuring herself.

'No, of course not!'

Fatima eased up and made as if to withdraw her finger from her soaking core.

'Yes!' the woman answered in a half-strangulated tone.

Fatima rewarded her by adding another finger to the mix and establishing a rhythm that would soon bring her to orgasm - unless interrupted.

'Oh my god!' groaned Hermione - now desperate for release.

'Have you ever fucked your patients?' Fatima asked.

'No, of course not,' Hermione replied, in a voice that would have indicated she was totally in possession of herself to the uninitiated.

'After you stopped seeing them. Did you fuck them then?'

'I don't think that's any of your business,' Hermione answered, appearing to have regained the initiative in the interaction.

Fatima responded by easing her fingers out of the doctor's tight twat, making a plop as she did so.

'Just one,' the flustered doctor replied.

Still Fatima kept her fingers from the older woman's drenched box.

'Okay, two,' she corrected herself.

'Tell me about them,' Fatima continued, throwing the woman a bone by applying a finger to her clit.

'Is that really necessary?' said Hermione, squirming against Fatima's finger in order to increase the intensity of the contact, the intensity of her feelings.

'Your choice,' Fatima answered her flatly, her finger stationary on the swollen nub.

'One was an academic, from Taiwan. Taiwanese American actually. She taught Gender Studies. She said she had severe depression and anxiety issues. She talked about committing suicide. I felt I wasn't helping her so she started to see another psychiatrist. Then she called me one day and said she was feeling suicidal. She wanted me to go to her flat. It was in a high-rise building. She said she was standing on the balcony while she was talking to me. It was quite late - maybe 9.30pm. I had to make invent a story for my husband. I told him I was needed at the local hospital for an emergency situation that had arisen. He didn't suspect anything. Such things happened from time to time.

I packed an overnight bag (more to fit my story than because I intended to stay with this ex patient) and headed over there. She met me at her door wearing just a short white robe. Nothing fancy - the sort of thing you find in any hotel wardrobe, only much shorter. I immediately sensed that she wasn't wearing anything underneath. I went in and tried to be professional, tried to get her to sit down, but she insisted on going to the bedroom. She ushered me in ahead of her and then I heard the door being locked. Of course, I could have unlocked it - it was just a push button lock - but I felt a shiver go down my spine when I heard it. She wanted to see if I would play along with her, if I would walk into her trap, if I would enter her spider's web with my eyes wide open.'

'And you did?'

'And I did. In our sessions she had talked about how her family and society frowned on same-sex relationships, even if she would never talk about specific lovers - or anybody, in fact, in a romantic way. Then she began to change the way she dressed at the sessions. At first, she wore clothes that made her appear quite shapeless, but over time that changed. It was summer and she would wear skirts that didn't reach the knee and tight fitting blouses that accentuated her breasts. She must have been wearing push-up bras. Once she caught me looking at her and told me she knew I wasn't satisfied in my marriage. I'd never even told her I was married. I realised she'd probably been checking me out, maybe even hired a private investigator.