The Black Dick

Finally, my eyes begin to adjust. I pull out my Bic lighter and find a candle to light. The old safe, about four feet high, is under a few stinky rugs. I pull them down. The dust rises and makes me cough. I think to myself that a white guy is better fitted for this mission. Asthma is a typical Black affliction. I wonder how the hell 'ass-ma' is spelled, but I figure I better get this job done whether I'm coughing or not. Naturally, I didn't bring my inhaler with me to this tea party.

Finally, I get the directions to open the safe spread out on a work table and start to turn the safe dial, but my list of directions consists of numbers and turns. They don't tell me whether to start the spin left or right.

I keep trying the numbers from both directions. Finally, I hear a click, and the dial stops turning. I twist it back a quarter turn, the dial blocks. With effort, I twist the handle to the left. Who knows how rusty it is inside after all these years of disuse?

"Oh good," the door opens. I push the lit candle into the dark void. There is nothing in there, but two Havana cigar boxes at the bottom and a yellowed nude picture of Mamie Van Doren tapped to the inside of the safe door. The image is soiled with what looks like someone was beating off while ogling Van Doren's tits.

I bend over to grab one of the cigar boxes. The box is heavy as hell, but I lift it from the bottom and open it. There are five gold bars in one box. I grab the other cigar box. Inside are six ingots. One of the ingots is suspiciously light. I don't give a fuck, I came for ten, and I'll leave with eleven. I slip the gold kilo ingots inside my multi-pocketed travel vest.

The old man wasn't lying! I put the empty boxes back in the safe and push the heavy door closed. Although most of the paint on the safe is crackled off, I can see the safe is one of those old-fashioned black and gilt safes. Mo had a safe like that in his garage. He'd explained that these safes were designed so a safe robber could not pour nitro glycerine into the door grooves.

I gently close the old safe door twisting the handle to lock the safe. I spin the dial that squeaks as it stops, walk back to the entrance door, and open it. Outdoors the sun is breaking through the clouds. Closing and locking the heavy door, I run back to the taxi. Thanks to Allah, the cabbie is still waiting there, listening to rock and roll on his car's tape player.

"I can't get enough of this Little Richard guy," he says. "You get a year in prison if you get caught with this stuff."

"Yeah, Little Richard was the Bossman back in the day. Ok, Ruffe, for our next stop..."

I tell the cabbie to take me to the Republic Swiss Bank. He knows where it is, not far from the center of the city. It takes about ten minutes. The weather is dry and warm.

Ruffe parks near the cab in some shade near the corner and points the way to the bank. It's a modern building. I walk into the glass entry hall. A woman whose face and body are covered with white silk robes takes my name and taps her i-phone to announce my presence. She speaks English with a Swiss accent and calls for a manager.

A slender wisp of a man with a thin mustache, wearing a white linen robe with blue piping, comes out. He asks what I want. I hand him a card with my account number, he nods, hands it back, and tells me to follow him.

He stops across the room, where he types a passcode into a wall computer pad, and a door slides open. We enter into a small private elevator that zips us up three floors. The door opens into an office.

"Have a seat Mr. Hamer." We sit down. What do you require?

I tell him,

"I want to deposit ten kilos of gold ingots and transfer the credit to my account in Como, Italy, near the Italian border."

(Dear Reader, you must be wondering what I did with the eleventh ingot, I'll get to that later on.)

Uncle Mo was the one who said,

"Although there are Federal rules against them, you need a Swiss Bank Account as much as you need a rubber in a whore house."

I take the ten bars out of my vest and place them on the table.

Mr. Kesar, the bank officer, carefully notes the serial numbers on the bars, hands me a transfer receipt, and asks,

"Is there anything else I anything can help you with?"

I say, "No, but thank you very much."

All goes nicely--"Thank you. for a visit," he says. I pocket the receipt and have a duplicate emailed to my address on the dark web.

He accompanies me down to the lobby. I feel light-footed with the heavy gold bars out of my vest pockets.

"Mission accomplished," I murmur, as Georgie Bushie once said, but I'm hoping it's for real.

I walk out of the lobby into the searing sun, putting my hand to my forehead to shield my eyes. The welcomed sight of Ruffe and his cab put a smile on my face. He's moved the taxi to the other side of the street to keep in the shade.

He waves at me. I run up, swing the door open, and jump in.

"All done, My Man, take me to the Espena hotel." I hand Ruffe a card with the address, 'Behroud Sq, Saadat abad Tehran 14557 Iran.'

"I know where that is," Ruffe says, "no problem."

It takes about fifteen minutes. Ruffe is happy when I pay him double what he asks. He wants me to come home with him for a good Persian Dinner.

"Maybe next time, I'm exhausted. Give me your cell number so I can call you again."

"No problem," says Ruffe, handing me a smartly engraved business card.

"Nice card."

"Yeah, my cousin is an excellent printer. He's settled here for the last fifteen years. He was arrested for counterfeit printing of Euro bills in Europe. When he got out on bail, he fled the country."

"Must be very talented, but probably not a good idea to exchange money for him."

Ruffe laughs.

The hotel Espena is a five star, is one of the finest in Teheran. It has a busy restaurant and a snack and candy bar. I buy some dates stuffed with almonds swimming in honey and eat a few for instant energy. I'm tired from the trip and lay down on the bed, figuring I'll be up and ready in an hour, but I sleep on long past the dinner hour. When I wake up, I eat a collection of chips and peanuts I collected on the airplane.

I fall back asleep, and when I wake again, I can't believe it is early morning. It's 6:30 am Teheran time. I plan to visit the dining room for my first meal in the city. I have a light breakfast. An omelet, toast, marmalade. No fucken bacon insight. The waiter brings me an excellent smooth espresso coffee with natural cream on the side, smooth as a white girl's tit. I order another coffe and savor its rich flavor. I sign the bill, take the chocolate candy on the tray, pop it into my mouth, and instantly the candy covers the coffee taste.

A newscaster is busy talking on the television in the restaurant. I don't understand what she is saying, but something about her face reminds me of Daisy Butler, the vice principal's daughter, the first white girl who opened up her pussy to me. I linger in dreamland as my mind drifts off for a few moments, thinking of how we used to fuck under the bleachers behind the school. My dick starts to swell. I wait till it deflates before getting up.

I go back to my room and rest up. The TV is playing marshal music and gibberish, but what the fuck? Despite two coffees, I fall asleep somewhere in the middle of a Taliban execution scene. When I wake up, it's mid-afternoon. I take a hot shower and shampoo. I picked up a few bug bites that I ascribe to airport fleas or spiders in Uncle Farzad's workroom. I'm beginning to feel hungry. I've set my heart on the buffet spread I saw pictures of on the internet, so I head downstairs.

The restaurant is busy, and I have to wait a while. When they let me in, they hand me a large plate and point at the buffet.

Typical Iranian main dishes seem to be a mixture of rice with meat, veggies, and nuts. Herbs are mixed with fruits. I enjoyed the apricots and raisins. The rice is flavored with saffron, lime, cinnamon, with green parsley.

I'm going back for seconds of the barbecued lamb, and there is some dude behind me who starts a conversation thinking I'm a Saudi. He is of medium height, has a short brown beard that grows from ear to ear. His teeth are a little crooked but very white. When I explain I'm American, he introduces himself as Faud and says in a clipped English accent,

"Lots of Saudis are dark. The men usually have at least one African wife, among the four they possess," he says, "the blacker the berry, the better the pussy," he says.

I agree. Most black women have a much stronger sex drive than white women, especially those over thirty. It's not unusual to be fucking a twenty-five-year-old daughter and find her mom climbing into the other side of the bed for her share of dick.

Faud tells me he is a Persian Armenian selling Chinese directional navigation electronics to the Iranian military.

"Sound like fun."

"It's no fun, but I make a few million on every trip. If you have any relatives in the military, I can use various components. But let's not spoil our dinner with talk of business. Let me ask you," Faud says with a wink and a grin as he twists his beard,

"Have you gotten laid in Teheran?"

"I don't think they allow stuff like that?"

"My dear man, are you fucking crazy? There are at last count over ten thousand female sex workers in the city. There are more whores than you can throw a rubber dick at, and if you did, they'd all come a-running."

"Who and where are they?"

"Many are clerks and married women and single students or young widows. The average cost to have sex with them is less than $15, and if you want an encounter with a truly exceptional specimen, it could cost as much as $150. At the bottom of the scum dump, you can get fucked for only one dollar.

"Can you imagine," said Faud, "Here in one of the capitals of the Muslim Holy World, you can fuck a beautiful young woman for peanuts."

The next thing I know, we have finished eating, and Faud has his arm around me.

"First, we go up to my hotel room, and I'll give you a robe; otherwise, the whores will know immediately that you are a foreigner. Then I will take you on an erotic tour of old Persia."

We make a quick detour to his room, and he dresses me in a long white robe. We go back to the lobby. Faud calls for a car and tells the driver our destination. The driver nods knowingly and drives us about ten minutes away.

"We have arrived. Come, we get out here. This place is like a little hotel brothel, but you may find some good-looking whores hanging out here."

And Faud adds to my education,

"I should mention this. There is an odd requirement under Muslim law here in Iran. Two adults who want to fuck must be married. The Iranian way around this impasse is known as the practice of 'sigheh.'"

Sigheh allows a man to marry a woman for a pre-determined period, an hour or a day, or whatever is agreed. During this time, they may have intimate relations. When they finish, they separate without any consequences. While sigheh is justified in religious, moral terms, the reality is, sigheh is a legal loophole to permit prostitution."

"I'm amazed."

Faud continues, "religious scholars defend the practice saying that it keeps sexual relations within the sacred bonds of marriage, albeit a time frame as short as a quickie. It permits married men to have sex with other women. It enables single traveling men and those whose wives have long-term illnesses to partake legally in sexual dalliances with an assortment of other women. In short, if you want to get fucked in Iran, you are best to practice sigheh."

"And what do the girls say to their families?"

"Virgin girls must obtain permission from their father to marry permanently or temporarily, but according to the Civil Code, any nonvirgin female can obtain permission to become a sigheh wife, even with a foreigner. All they must do is identify their husband-to-be by name on a signed document and offer relationship details."

'So it looks like I'm going to get married, albeit for a very short time. How does that work.?"

Faud looks around and says, "I think I know the best place for us." We end up in some bordello named Za Za's Place. He knocks and shouts something in Farsi. They know Faud and open the thick wooden door. In we go in. An older woman offers us tea while Faud disappears behind a curtained entrance to find two girls for us. He tells me when he returns that I should pick the one I like.

He comes back holding the hand of a mature woman who says she is only twenty years old. Faud tells her to disrobe. She drops her robe to reveal she has enormous breasts and a medium-sized ass. Her pubic hair makes her look more like a bear than a human.

When I look down and unwittingly make a face, she says in broken English,

"Wat you tink, you fagot who don't lick hairy pussy? Let me see your dickey bird, you black Taliban."

"I'm not a Taliban, and I think your pubic hair is very nice. It is so long you might consider weaving it into braids." I smile at her.

She reaches out and grabs my package.

"Cum on, big boy--Fucky me. I likey a big dickey bird. I give you my ass tuck for same price. Very clean ass tuck."

I turn to Faud, " What else they got here?"

The big gal frowns and starts to cry and tear up. The hairy woman must be desperate to put a meal on the table.

"I cut my price. I need food for my child. Please fuck me, Mister Black Prince!"

This sudden wailing broke my heart.

"Ok, Faud, I'll fuck her. Tell her it's ok."

She seems to catch my drift, and suddenly, she is smiling and wiggling around.

"I suck your gourd good." She says. "My name Emma." She takes my hand, leading me to a small room curtained off and strips naked. Her tits are enormous and hang down like two milk sacks.

I hear Faud talking in Farsi. I imagine he has picked a girl for himself.

Emma starts undressing me. She helps me off with my robe and jockstrap and kneels in front of me. I'm thinking I'd prefer her mouth to her hairy pussy. God, only know what is living in that nest?

She spits on her hand and starts jerking me off. Not the most hygienic maneuver. Non the less my cock swells up as she passes it into her hot mouth. I can see she is missing a few teeth with her mouth wide open, so I close my eyes. I'm wondering if I'd be better off butt fucking her when Faud parts the curtain.

"Hey Mike, if you prefer this girl, take a look. If you do, I'll fuck Emma." He's standing there with a pretty good-looking gal. Definitely not a road hog.

"What goes, man?" The pretty girl is smiling at me as if she knows me.

"Her name is Sara. I have an idea she is more your type."

Then Faud leans in close to me, "I prefer hairy ugly girls. They remind me of my mother."

"Ok, Bro, go for Mom.

I'm standing there with my cock in Emma's mouth, but no one seems to mind. Faud says something to Emma, and she stops sucking and steps back. Faud reaches out for her. She smiles and says, "Goodbye," as they both leave the room hand in hand.

I'm left with Sara, she is stunning, she's younger, and she speaks English.

"How old are you?"

Sara takes out a California license with her picture and says she was born on June 3, 2003, so she is over 18.

"I asked your friend to bring me to you. I used to live in Glendale, California. I had a big black boyfriend back home, but my Dad wanted me to have a proper Muslim upbringing and marry an Iranian. But the guy he had in mind took me to a doctor. When the doc said I wasn't a virgin, all bets were off. So here I am, getting married every night and playing the whore."

"Not a good result."

She hands me a clipboard and tells me to sign so we can be man and wife for this one night. I don't argue. I mark the document. Since I don't read Farsi, I have no idea what I am signing, but Sara is quite attractive, fully shaved, has no missing teeth, and likes big black cock. I'm a little embarrassed and apologize that she saw me with my dick in Emma's mouth, but she doesn't seem to care.

"That's what we are doing here. Sucking cock and getting fucked, no biggie."

She disappears for a minute and comes back in with a warm bath towel,

"Lie on the pile of rugs," she puts a pillow behind my head and sets to work washing Emma's saliva off my dick, which has begun to soften and is less impressive. She can tell from my expression that I am troubled by my lost erection.

"I'll get you hard again," she says confidently. And she does. Just looking at her, the old pecker jumps up and is ready for fun. She positions herself on all fours, saying, "It's easier to get your big prick inside me like this."

"Do I need a condom?"

"No need, I'm clean, and we are all on the pill."

She rubs some lube on my penis to facilitate entry.

I kneel and put my arms around her waist. She was right--no hymen insight. We go at it like two chimpanzees. I prolong the act until she is gasping for air and making strange animal noises. The moment has arrived. I pull her tight to me, stuffing my dick as deep as it will go-- and blow my wad.

Our coming together resulted in an awesome fuck. How nice of Faud to switch girls. Sara has a tight vag and nice titties and is good-looking. When I pull my dick out, she is on me in a flash, sucking off any sperm still on my dick. This ain't no paid whore sex. Sara is like a lady in love.

"I made believe you were the black boyfriend I had back in America. I hope you didn't mind."

"No, sweet cakes, it was beautiful."

We wash up in the small bathroom. Sara insists on washing my cock for me.

"I got to take a piss."

"Come."

She turns me in the direction of the toilet and says,

"I hold your cock for you."

She seems to enjoy having my dick in her hand as I piss for a long time. The toilet water is filled with spermy suds. When my last spurt arrives, she says,

"That was fun, wiping me off with a damp towel.

We make small talk until Faud come back in and says,

"say Goodbye. We are getting out of here."

I kiss Sara on the cheek, and we leave.

I palm Sara a hundred American even though Faud has paid for everything.

"I want to take you to another place; we are not done yet,"

says Faud.

"Brother, I'm in good shape."

"No, we got one more stop," he insists.

Faud whispers, "Let's get a recharge drink, and in an hour, we can do it all over again."

"You thinking Viagra?"

"No, we have some special pick-me-up unknown in the west. Faud has the owner mixes a double coffee with a few aromatic liquors in a small coffee bar for each of us. It's not half bad.

"Ok, Mikey, you know the first fuck of the day is never the best?"

"Is it? I don't know. That Sara was very hot. How was yours?"

"Emma was so hot from sucking your dick she came three times before I filled up her hairy pussy."

Faud continues, "I think some of her pubes are still stuck to me, but it was a real Iranian fuck fest. I'll be back for her. I like a hairy pussy. It's old-style but very clingy, if you know what I mean."

"Sara was cool, nice modern girl, shaved bush."

"Yes, next time, I'll go back and try Sara as well, but I want to take you tonight to an old-fashioned bordello where they parade the girls for you, and you get to pick your favorite."

I don't know what was in that elixir, but I'm imagining my dick is starting to growl. "Maybe you are right. I'm beginning to feel very horny again, my friend."

"See, I told you. Now we go to a secret high-class bordello."

Faud calls a limo, and minutes later, we are rushing across town. The traffic is light, and a full moon lights the way. We arrive at a reasonably large mansion. A security guard at the barred entrance is toting a submachine gun. Faud talks to him and passes him a handful of paper money. The guard talks in a walky-talky device and gets approval. He opens the heavy door, and we are greeted by a smartly dressed middle-aged woman who ushers us into a reception area.