Fatima Pt. 03: Masoumeh

This is the final part of my Fatima trilogy, featuring the Iranian woman Masoumeh, who was introduced in Part 1. It is a true story, which I have adjusted only to fit a more linear timeframe. I have kept it in this section, because it was really all about the women - even if I do play my part...

14

When Masoumeh got in touch with Fatima to tell her that she and her husband Karim would be coming over to England for a few days after Easter, she immediately shared the news with Hunter. The fact that they weren't looking for a place to stay was made clear from the outset by the Iranian woman telling them that they would be staying in their 'usual suite' at the Dorchester. Hunter thought that was a nice touch, while Fatima was rather more ambivalent about what she thought bordered on the unnecessarily boastful.

While neither of them mentioned it, each was privately wondering whether Karim was the sort of person who would be up for a little 'experimentation.' From what they had seen of his wife, neither Hunter nor Fatima harboured much doubt that she would love to play away from home. The only question was whether her tastes would encompass Fatima in addition to Hunter. Hunter was convinced they would, while Fatima couldn't get past the barrier created by the Sunni and Shi'ite divide.

In the event, the way things panned out surpassed the wildest dreams of all of them, always excepting Karim, who had to curtail his stay in the British capital to travel back to Paris. As soon as Fatima learned from Masoumeh that she would be on her own for her last night in England, she talked with Hunter and they decided that this would never do. A couple of phone calls later and the beautiful Iranian was in a taxi on her way to the leafy suburb where Hunter and Fatima lived.

She arrived, together with a suitcase that Hunter thought was more befitting of a three-month sojourn than a three-day stay, at around seven o'clock in the evening, having spent the day stocking up with items from Harrod's and Fortnum and Mason's. Ever the gentleman, Hunter was on hand to help her with her baggage. Fatima came out from the kitchen, where she was preparing dinner, and the two women greeted one another with kisses that landed squarely on the cheeks, much to Hunter's delight. He could only see the warmth of the embrace as a harbinger of the intimacy to follow.

Fatima showed Masoumeh to her room and asked her if she would like to freshen up before dinner. The Iranian woman said she hoped she wouldn't be putting them out if she had a shower before dinner and Fatima told her to take her time. Dinner was a very simple affair and it could be served whenever she was ready. Part of Fatima wanted to linger in the room and watch while her guest undressed, but the sensible part of her, understanding that a gratification deferred was a gratification doubled, left the room.

However, instead of returning to the kitchen, she walked along the corridor to her own room, lay down on the bed and got straight to violently frigging herself. She had no concerns that Hunter would walk in, as he had clearly settled down in the sitting room, from where she could hear the strains of Ella Fitzgerald coming from the speakers.

Unzipping her skirt, she loosened it without pulling it down and slipped her hand under her panties. She couldn't believe how wet she already was. She wanted to come quickly; yet she also wanted to prolong the pleasure. It was a difficult balancing act to pull off, and one she was never going to accomplish. The thought of the buxom older woman soaping up her breasts was almost enough to send her over the edge. And when images of the older woman moving her hands to her pussy flashed across Fatima's mind, she was powerless to prevent a tremendous orgasm sweeping through her body.

Meanwhile, just a few doors down, Masoumeh had backed herself up against the tiles of the shower cubicle, engaged in an act of surrender of her own. Her quandary was of a different order to Fatima's. She was battling against two enemies: one was sitting downstairs, probably sipping an aperitif, possibly dealing with the burgeoning erection that her presence in the house had brought on. The other was she knew not where (perhaps in the kitchen, perhaps in the sitting room providing succour to her husband, perhaps in her bedroom, relieving herself of the tension that threatened to disable her).

The Iranian woman spread her legs wide and let her slender index finger penetrate her box, watching the water as it ricocheted off her thighs. Leaving her finger to do its work, she moved her other hand to her clitoris, massaging the nub until it stood tall like an almond. Uttering words in her native tongue, she rubbed it with a ferocity she couldn't remember using since she was a student. Notoriously resistant to achieving orgasm in normal circumstances, she could only marvel at how quickly she was able to bring herself off. It was the double whammy of Fatima's tongue lapping her pussy and Hunter's cock shafting her asshole that had done the damage.

Fatima slipped downstairs, so she would be around when Masoumeh made her appearance. She cuddled up to Hunter on the sofa and listened with him to one of his favourite songs, 'Someone to watch over me.' They were both feeling very languid, almost lethargic, but they understood that could all change after dinner. Or perhaps during dinner. Or even before dinner.

They had each been secretly wondering what their guest would choose to wear. That decision would clearly play an important part in the direction the evening would take. In the event, they were wowed by her choice. A light blue tunic-style shirt nipped in at the waist and adorned by a decorative cord belt accompanied washed blue turn-up jeans with a bold floral pattern embroidered into one leg below the knee. On her head she wore a grey hijab in a turban style, below which hung a pair of pearl earrings. But the pièce de resistance was undoubtedly the shoes: light blue heeled pumps with three ankle straps in a mixture of pastel shades, studded with white beads.

Hunter took it all in like a schoolboy, doing his best to cover his embarrassment by fiddling with his fingers and looking past her into the middle distance and then at the bookcase. Fatima was, outwardly, at any rate, far calmer, complimenting her on the ensemble and asking her whether she had bought the shoes in Paris. Masoumeh told her that they were actually Iranian and had been brought to her by a friend who had been visiting Europe.

She went on to comment on Fatima's appearance, telling her how lucky she was to have a figure that allowed her to wear clothes with such easy elegance. Fatima wasn't quite sure how to take the observation, but was pleased at any rate that her simple cream blouse and tan skirt outfit met with their guest's seeming approval.

Over dinner the conversation was lively, ranging from the exhibitions Masoumeh had been to in London (she seemed to know at least one of the owners or curators, or whatever you might call them) to the politics of the Middle East. Masoumeh was vehemently anti-Turkish for reasons that neither Hunter nor even Fatima was able to fathom, such was the speed with which she narrated a series of interlinked stories, where it quickly became impossible to follow the thread.

After railing against some aspect or other of the country's perceived historical or contemporary failings, she would unfailingly add, 'It is just their way!', as if they had little choice in the matter. The third time she said this, Hunter decided it was time to pounce, time, if possible, to change the focus of the conversation.

His parents had a copy of the Persian classic Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyam, and, though he had never read it, many was the time that, as a child, he had flicked through the pages to look at the illustrations, which depicted impossibly shapely young women in various states of undress. He would never forget one particular beauty, garbed in nothing more than a pair of hot pants and chunky gold jewellery round neck, wrists and ankles. How could he forget her, when she was the very first image to which he had successfully masturbated?

The change of subject proved something of a masterstroke. Once again, Masoumeh was in her element, but this time the subject matter was far more promising.

'The Rubáiyát harks back to a time of peace and beauty when all that mattered were the simple things of life,' she said. 'Its author was a brilliant man: mathematician, astronomer, poet, philosopher. Unfortunately, the first English translation was made by a man who understood Persian well enough but who for reasons best known to himself chose not to make a translation in any real sense but to use the verses as a basis upon which to build his own work, a work which reflects English Victorian values rather than the cultural flowering of eleventh century Persia.'

This debunking of Edward Fitzgerald's translation wasn't going to be enough to stop Hunter from quoting some lines from it. After all, besides Kipling's 'If' and Browning's 'How they brought the good news from Ghent to Aix', this was the only poem Hunter could recite. Part of it, anyway.

'The Moving Finger writes,' he intoned theatrically, ensuring he had the full attention of the two women. 'And, having writ, moves on.'

Pausing for effect, he looked at each woman in turn before continuing.

'Nor all thy Piety nor Wit shall lure it back to cancel half a Line, nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.'

'Bravo!' they applauded in unison.

The ice (he felt sure) had been broken. Now was the time to move back to the sitting room and let things take their natural course.

15

Hunter set aside his chivalrous instincts on this occasion, leading the way so as to ensure as best he could that the women took their seats beside each other on the sofa. Fatima did the rest, by taking a position in the middle of the settee, so that, whichever side of her the Iranian woman sat, it would be next to her. Masoumeh played her part perfectly, placing herself between her hostess and her host, who remained standing in front of his armchair until their guest had seated herself.

'A digestif, anyone?' Hunter asked, knowing that Fatima would be up for a Chartreuse to help loosen her up and wondering if Masoumeh would follow suit.

Before Fatima had a chance to speak, Masoumeh enquired of Hunter if he mightn't have a Calvados.

'Excellent choice,' he replied, turning to his wife and receiving as he expected an order for the green herbal liqueur.

Having poured generous portions for the women, he handed the glasses round before helping himself to a double brandy, with water but no ice, as he liked it.

'I first tried it on a visit to friends in Normandy,' Masoumeh told her hosts.

Warming to her task, she regaled her audience with stories of her visits to the cathedrals of Rouen and Coutances, as well as to the timber church of Sainte-Catherine at Honfleur.

'It looks like an upside-down ship,' she enthused. 'You see, it was built by shipbuilders in the 15th century in the days before Le Havre became the dominant port in the region. To make it even more special, it's separated from its wooden belfry, which is in a different street.'

'I remember coming across a similar sort of thing when I was on holiday with my first wife and our daughter in Cornwall. It was at a place called Talland, not far along the coast from the place where we were staying - a charming fishing village called Polperro. But there the church tower was plonked right next to the main body of the church. Most unusual!'

'Maybe it belonged to an earlier building?' suggested Masoumeh.

'You're probably right,' said Hunter, who'd never thought about the matter till now. 'You've probably forgotten more about churches than I will ever know.'

The three of them laughed. An ever surer sign that they were loosening up was provided by Masoumeh, who moved her hand in an unhurried way the short distance to Fatima's knee. She placed it in such a way that the palm lay on the fabric of her skirt, while her fingers made contact with the skin just below her kneecap. While Hunter looked on mesmerised, Masoumeh shifted her position on the sofa the better to exert her control over her prey.

Husband and wife each stiffened, but while the effect on Hunter was localised, instant and emphatic, the effect on Fatima was creeping and insidious, as if she had been injected with venom by unseen fangs. She tried to speak (to say something, anything), but the words were stillborn in her mouth, as if the poison had seeped into her vocal chords and disabled them.

Smiling the smile of one who knows that she is the master of all she surveys, Masoumeh afforded herself an unhurried glance at Hunter. His eyes locked onto hers as if they were her vassals. Her look told him more eloquently than any words could that she wasn't asking his permission to seduce his wife, but that she was granting him the privilege of being present in the room to bear witness to the pleasure that she was about to bring her.

Hunter wanted to nod, but found he was unable to. No more could he have nodded to the king of England if he had deigned to speak to him on a visit to his town. He suddenly became aware of the awkward position into which his penis had got itself. It was snagged up inside his boxer briefs, having somehow managed to slip through the opening for the fly. And still it seemed to be growing. Not wanting to let Masoumeh see the discomfort he was feeling, he opted to remain sitting as he was, cross-legged, until such time as her undivided attention was elsewhere. He knew that unlikely to be long.

Having readjusted her position on the settee, Masoumeh was in a position to make a two-pronged attack on her helpless foe. Already Fatima had let herself sink into the back cushion, her arms be her sides, limp and useless. Masoumeh had the whole field to play with. She considered her options for a minute, her fingers subtly increasing the pressure on Fatima's knee.

She could both see and hear the effect she was having on the younger woman. Her breathing was coming awkwardly, causing her lungs to work overtime and her chest to heave. Masoumeh's eyes were drawn like magnets to Fatima's breasts. She knew they were hers for the taking (God! she knew her whole body was hers for the taking), but she knew she would gain nothing by going for the quick kill.

'Those breasts can wait,' Masoumeh told herself, like someone leaving the strawberry on the pavlova until their final bite.

She toyed with the idea of undoing a button on Fatima's blouse and planting a kiss on her neck, but she wanted it to be all about touch for the time being. So, she ran her fingers through the girl's jet black hair, remembering a time when her own tresses had been lustrous like this, without a fleck of grey. Fatima opened her eyes and looked at her seductress, willing her to explore her further, to probe her softly and sensitively in ways only a woman could do. And then to launch a blitzkrieg on her, to knock all her defences flat, and, finally, to annihilate her.

Masoumeh found Fatima's ear and rubbed the lobe gently between finger and thumb. Leaning across her body a little, she moved her hand to the other side of her face and sought out her other ear. She let her chest come close to Fatima's heaving bosom, the thought suddenly coming to her as to which of the two of them possessed the larger pair of breasts. She knew full well that this was something that she would be able to find out later.

Her arousal growing with every minute that the Iranian woman spent alternately touching her and teasing her, Fatima pushed up so that her breasts might mash against the other woman's. Sensing the sudden movement, Masoumeh just as quickly straightened herself so that no contact might take place. Not at the younger girl's volition, at any rate.

The problem for Masoumeh was that her own levels of desire were now practically shooting through the roof. There was only so much more of the close presence of this sensual specimen of womanhood that she could take before she had to, well, take her. Possessed of a sudden urge to rip her blouse off, she contented herself with placing her hand on her cheek and moving in (very slowly and deliberately) to kiss her.

No sooner had their lips met than Fatima started to devour her tormentor. Masoumeh let the girl have her way - as she told herself, because she felt compassion for her after all she had been going through, but, more truly, because she was unable to help herself. Unable to keep up the levels of restraint that had characterised her lovemaking thus far, the older woman placed her hand on Fatima's breast and kneaded it with unmistakable passion.

Fatima signalled her surrender by uncrossing her legs and easing them apart, inviting Masoumeh's hand to free itself of its shackles and make a foray to a place where it might be more usefully employed. No more than seven or eight feet away, Hunter was utterly oblivious of his discomfort as he watched the drama unfold before him. Instinctively, he moved to the edge of his chair, at which point, knowing that neither woman had their focus on him, and that in all probability they were no longer even aware of his presence in the room, he drew in his breath, tucked his hands into his trousers and rearranged himself until he felt more comfortable. The dull ache in his loins, however, only served to remind him that he wouldn't be truly comfortable until he had driven his boner deep inside Masoumeh's tight pussy.

A whimper from Fatima brought Hunter back to the here and now. At first, he couldn't tell if her reaction had been in response to something specific that Masoumeh had done or if it was just a venting of the pressure that had been building up over the last five minutes or so. He looked at her mouth, from which the noise had come, but that had been once more locked in an embrace with her lover. He noticed too that a couple of buttons had come undone on her blouse and that the older woman was even now sliding her hand in towards her breast - whether over or under the fabric of her bra, he couldn't tell.

But it was when he turned his attention to the Iranian woman's other hand that Hunter saw the cause of his wife's vocalisations. For this had made its way up Fatima's inner thigh and must have been approaching her most vulnerable area. The realisation that Fatima was being assaulted on all fronts was more than her husband could take. He hastily undid the button on his trousers, urgently unzipped his fly and yanked his penis out from its confinement. Scooping up the precum that was oozing from its head, he swallowed it greedily, contenting himself for the moment with merely imagining the act of plunging his pulsing pole inside the tight pussy of his wife's tormentor.

Still operating at her own steady pace, Masoumeh continued her inexorable march over Fatima's body, working towards the conquest which had become an inevitability. Undoing a couple more of the buttons of the Pakistani woman's blouse, she pushed one cup of her bra aside and dropped her mouth to the engorged nipple.

'No!' Fatima breathed, but everyone in the room knew she meant just the opposite.

'Please! No!' she added tremulously, but Masoumeh's fingers merely responded to her disingenuousness by dropping into her sodden box.

'Please! Not...not there!' she breathed, her energy draining away from her, so that she could scarcely finish the sentence.

As if she were taking her words at face value, the older woman moved a finger to her bulbous clitoris and began to massage it tenderly - the palm of her hand now flat against Fatima's swollen outer lips. With distinctly less tenderness, Hunter began to rub his rampant manhood, his eyes closed, his legs wide apart, his chinos now bunched up round his ankles. His only thought was of Masoumeh's ass, naked before him, raised in invitation, waiting for his column to impale her. Somehow he managed to delay his ejaculation, not out of any consideration for what the others might think if he gave into his desire, but only because he wanted this ecstasy to last for ever.