Zainab Habiba

[This is a Jack Grierson story. It is related to many of my other stories about Jack. All characters are totally fictitious and bear no relation to any person, living or dead.]

* * *

My name is Zainab Habiba bin Khalifa al Makhtoom al Sura. The al Suras are desert tribal chieftains, but the main branch of the family migrated to the capital many generations ago and is now worth billions with interests in oil, banking, and global real estate. My father's branch of the family are distant cousins and oversaw the old fiefdom, managing the associated camel breeding station and tending to the subsistence goat herding operation. We lived in the old, decaying family mansion built over a century ago by a remote desert oasis. There were always camels and horses in the courtyard. Goats and chickens freely wandered in and out of the house.

My father administered the fief and dispensed local justice as the representative of his rich and powerful cousins. I was the youngest member of our household that included my mother, her three co-wives, and my many half-siblings. My mother's mother had been a blonde, blue-eyed slave from the North and she had passed on her height, light eyes, and pale skin to my mother. It was because of my Northern blood that I was taller and paler than any of my female half-siblings and had light brown hazel eyes.

Our wealthy relatives subsidized our family and I was sent to a very select and restrictive girls' finishing school in Switzerland. It mainly catered to wealthy, conservative families. I joined one of my half-sisters there, Salima Banu, who was the youngest daughter of my father's 3rd wife. She was only a few months older than me and the two of us had been inseparable ever since we could remember. She was my best friend as well as my half-sister.

We all wore abayas and hijabs, observed all our religious rituals, and adhered to our food restrictions. It was like a continuation of my life at home in the desert, except that it was colder, our teachers were European, and we had carefully chaperoned outings to learn to ski, hike, and climb -- all in our conservative clothing. I never met a man throughout all my years at school.

I graduated with high honors at eighteen and returned home. My father was very pleased with how well I had done at school. He decided to reward me by taking me on a two-week vacation to Istanbul. This was a surprise for he had never been particularly close to me and his relationship with my mother was dutiful rather than loving. He slept with her once a week, but that was all she saw of him.

"Istanbul is a city with so much history," he said to me. "We will tour all the famous sites there. This will be your last trip as my daughter for you will be married as soon as we get back."

"Why, Father?"

"It is time for you to settle down. You are running wild here, riding camels and horses, surfing sand dunes and climbing date palms, speaking Badawi instead of the civilized language of the capital. You're becoming a bad influence on your half-sister, Salima Banu. Her mother has been complaining to me that you take her out camel riding in the desert in the middle of the night."

"It was her idea to go out in the night, ..."

"Enough! You are a silly tomboy, you need a husband to turn you into a respectable woman."

"Will Salima Banu be married as well?"

"Soon. We are still looking for a match for her. You have been lucky, my kinsman, Walid al Sura has asked for you."

"Walid al Sura!" I said in dismay. "He's almost fifty, Father!"

"Yes, but his fourth wife died recently and he thinks you'll be a perfect replacement. It will be a good life for you, in the palatial al Sura mansion in the capital. Your husband will cover you with silk, gold, and jewels. Maids and servants will wait on you hand and foot."

"But he has a twenty-five-year-old son!"

"What's that got to do with it, Zainab Habiba? Has your mother been putting ideas in your head? I should never have impregnated her, there's too much Russian blood in her. And now in you as well."

I belatedly remembered that my father was more than twenty years older than my mother -- she was just thirty-four and he was nearly sixty. But Walid al Sura was almost thirty years older than me! I felt like crying, but I knew it was no use. My fate was sealed.

* * *

Father and I were in the First Class Lounge at the international airport. Father had decided to take no chances with the long drive to the city, so we were many hours too early for our flight. He sat on a sofa with his clamshell headphones, watching the Egyptian soap operas to which he was addicted. I wandered around the lounge, drinking sparkling water and nibbling on munchies. I finally settled in a seat around the corner from my father, idly people-watching.

I particularly watched the tall, good-looking man with salt-and-pepper hair who sat next to me. He was working on his laptop and I peered over his shoulder at this screen. He scrolled through tables of data, making rapid notes on an iPad as he did so. He seemed engrossed in what he was doing, so I was shocked when he addressed me.

"Sneaking a look at my figures?" he asked, his tone light and humorous. "Should I worry that you're planning to horn in on my deal?"

"Oh ...," I replied flustered. "I wasn't ... I mean ... I don't know anything ..."

"It's okay, I'm just ribbing you. I'm just going over the figures for the local airline. One of my companies is bidding to do some MRO work for them, I had meetings with them all day yesterday." He glanced at me and took in my hazel eyes and pale skin. "You have a beautiful face. Do you have a hard body under that pink abaya? Are you a hot babe?"

I laughed. Talking to this good-looking stranger, I felt bold and adventurous.

"I work out for over an hour every day. What do you think?"

"What do you work out on?"

"I have a Peloton bike. And free weights."

"Excellent," he said. "Cardio as well as musculoskeletal strength. You work out in those clothes?"

"Of course not. In private, or in the women's chambers, I can wear whatever I want. I work out in a sports bra and tights."

"Then you must have a hard body," he said. His eyes ranged over me. "I'm imagining you wearing nothing but your pink hijab. It's making me hard."

I blushed bright red and giggled. I knew nothing about men, so I wasn't quite sure what he meant by being 'hard'.

"I used to play like that with my half-sister, Salima Banu. When we were younger and first started wearing hijabs."

"Well, you wear the hijab well, you've tied it exquisitely. How old are you, my beauty? What's your name?"

"I'm eighteen, I just graduated from high school. My name is Zainab Habiba."

"A pretty name to go with your lovely face." He kept staring at me till I colored deep red again. "You're traveling alone?"

"Of course not! My father is right over there." I pointed to him. "He's watching his favorite show."

"He looks like your grandfather."

"My mother is his youngest wife."

He reached over and put a hand on my thigh. I'd never been touched by a man before and tried to push it away in a panic. But he held me fast.

"What are you wearing under that abaya?" he asked in a low tone.

"I can't say ... Omigod!"

His hand moved up my thigh, his fingers gripping, caressing, stimulating. I felt like an electric current was passing up my thigh and into my crotch. My breathing grew shallow and I felt like my throat was growing tight.

"I can't feel any clothing. Just stockings ... or pantyhose."

"Stockings," I said faintly. "And garters."

"Naughty girl," he whispered. "No skirt?"

"It's hot where we live," I whispered back. "My abaya is very modest, it covers all of me."

"Blouse?"

His hand was nearly at my crotch now and I couldn't form words, so I just shook my head.

"Just a bra?"

I nodded.

"How are your nipples in this air conditioning? Stiff and hard?"

"Yes they are .... Omigod, please stop!"

"Stop what?"

"What you're doing? Someone will see."

"We have all our clothes on. And my hand is concealed in the folds of your abaya. No one can see."

"My father is right there."

"He's happy watching his show. And you're excited. Aren't you?"

I nodded.

"Then why should I stop?"

"I don't know ... it's not right. I'm betrothed. I'm going to be married in a few weeks."

"Someone you love?"

I didn't reply and his hand advanced aggressively. He pushed it between my legs, cupping my crotch. My abaya was thin, my panties were thinner and they offered little protection against his forceful fingers. He found my pussy lips through its minimal shield and probed. I gasped, then put a hand over my mouth to stifle a moan.

"Someone you love?" he asked again.

I was beyond words and just shook my head.

"An old man?"

I nodded.

"Who has wives already?"

I nodded again.

"How many?"

"Uhhh ... three, ..." I managed to stammer.

"Fourth and youngest wife. Are his children older than you?"

"Omigod!" I exhaled sharply as he kept stimulating my pussy. "... Yes ... yes ... but please stop!"

"Keep saying 'yes', Zainab Habiba. You have beads of sweat on your forehead. You're more excited than you've ever been. More than when you touch yourself."

He made a slight, but critical move and his fingers found my clit. He was right, I did touch myself now and then in my bath. But it had never felt like this! His skillful pressure on my clit drove me wild and I began to cum, the first powerful orgasm of my life. I doubled over his hand, and buried my face in my hands and my hands in my lap. I tried to stifle my mewing and moaning as my body shook and juddered. My mind was full of just one thing, my physical release. I was dimly aware that we were surrounded by dozens of people, some just yards away. But there was no way I could stop my orgasm.

As the waves of my climax washed over me, I just lay there, doubled over with my face in my lap. I slowly realized that his hand was still there, that his fingers were still pressing on my pussy lips and clit.

"Please," I whispered. "Please let me go."

"You came. Very hard. And I haven't even fucked you."

"Don't talk like that! Your hand is between my legs, please take it out."

"I can make you cum again. Don't you want me to?"

"No!" I whispered sharply. "No!"

"You're sure?"

"Yes!"

"Okay. I'll stop for now. But only if you give me your panties."

"You must be joking."

"No, I'm not."

His fingers pressed on my pussy lips and manipulated my clit again. I kept my face in my hands and managed to stifle my moan.

"Give me your panties, or I'll make you cum again."

"Please don't! Please!"

"Learn to enjoy your body, Zainab Habiba. I can teach you."

"All right! All right! I'll give you my panties."

He slowly withdrew his hand and whispered, "I can start again, you know."

I tried to get up to go to the ladies, but he put a hand on my thigh and held me down.

"No, take them off right here."

"Please, sir!"

"Jack," he said. "My name is Jack."

"Please, Jack!"

"Take them off. You can use your abaya like a tent. No one will see."

I slowly raised my butt from the seat and reached under the hem of the long garment. I quickly reached up and snagged the waistband with a finger and pulled it down my thighs. Once I sat down again, I could easily pull my panties down my legs and off my ankles. I handed the tiny wisp of pink silk and lace to Jack. He took it, put it to his nose, and inhaled deeply.

"Pink thong panties," he said. "Very sexy. Your smell is very sweet. They're soaking wet, which shows how hard you came. Didn't it feel good?"

"Yes," I conceded. "Very good."

"Then why don't you want to do it again?"

"It's not right."

"Is it right to marry a man who's nearly fifty? With children older than you? You want to do that?"

"I don't think it's right and I don't want to marry him. But I have no choice."

"Zainab Habiba," he said, very seriously. "You've had the only orgasm you will ever have in your life. Unless you let me fuck you."

"How can you even talk like that?" I gasped.

"You want to live your whole life without feeling what you just felt ever again?"

I didn't respond right away. I looked over at Father. He was still engrossed with his iPad screen and wasn't looking at me at all. I looked at my phone -- we still had almost three hours till our flight to Istanbul.

"I want to cum again," whispered. "But please don't ... you know ... "

"Don't what, Zainab Habiba?"

"I don't know how men do it with women," I admitted, shamefaced. "We're not supposed to know. My half-sister, Salima Banu, and I, talk about it all the time, we ask our mothers, but they won't tell us. 'Get married and you'll find out', they all say."

"I can teach you," he said. His voice was gentle.

"I'm afraid."

"Of course you are. But you deserve a man who will give you pleasure, not one who will simply use you to satisfy himself."

"Please don't humiliate me."

"I would never do that, Zainab Habiba. You are a princess."

"I'm not a princess," I said, laughing. "I'm a girl from a remote desert oasis who grew up with camels and goats."

"You're a princess to me," he whispered.

He stood up and went around the back of our seats. He dropped a pen and expostulated, "Ah, shit!" He got down on his stomach, slid into the crawlspace beneath the couch, and disappeared from view.

A moment later, I felt his head between my ankles, under my abaya. His lips were on my calves, and his tongue traced a line up my stockings, higher, higher, to the backs of my knees, then to my stocking tops and garters. A moment later, his tongue met the bare skin of my inner thighs. He lingered here, tracing wet trails of saliva that created tingling sensations. Imperceptibly his tongue joined now by his fingers got closer to my bare pussy. I was breathing hard now, panting, almost like I was running on a treadmill.

"My God, my God, Omigod!" I whispered, over and over in Badawi.

His lips kissed my nether lips, the fat lips of my vulva, and I moaned deep in my throat. His tongue traced the complete circumference of my pussy, slowly, slowly. I moaned again and put a hand over my mouth to choke it off.

Nonetheless, a European man sitting a few yards away rose and came over with a concerned expression on his face.

"Are you all right, miss?" he asked.

"I'm ... I'm ... I'm fine," I managed to mumble. "Just choking on something that went down the wrong pipe."

"Oh, I see. You look like you're having difficulty breathing, so I thought I'd make sure you're okay."

".... Thank ... you," I managed. " ... Very ... kind ..."

He left but kept looking over at me after he sat down again. I bent over to make my spasms less obvious and to further conceal Jack's head between my legs under my abaya.

He pushed his tongue into my pussy, accompanied a moment later by a finger. Then a second finger. I was completely virginal, no one had ever pushed anything into me before. I immediately began to cum again, much harder than before. I tried to stiffen myself, but could not stop my hips from twisting on the couch. My upper body quivered as he worked his fingers in and out of me, faster and faster, all the while licking and sucking. With my face down in my lap, I could hear and feel the wet squelches of my wet pussy on his fingers, tongue, and lips.

He began to suck on my clit. I was still cumming, but now I could feel even harder contractions coming from deep inside me, radiating outward along the walls of my vagina. My thighs threshed, holding his head tightly in a fleshy embrace. I wanted to cry out, give voice to my surging climax that rolled on and on -- but instead, I put both my hands on my mouth and held as tight as I could, choking myself. I managed to keep my sounds to low mewing.

"Are you all right, Zainab Habiba?" It was Father, standing right in front of me. "I looked over and saw you twisting on the couch."

Jack, the ruthless bastard, kept sucking my clit and working his fingers in and out of my pussy. It was all so new to me, I just couldn't stop cumming.

"Ah, my God! My God!" I said, in Badawi. "I pray to God!"

"Yes, pray to God," Father replied in Badawi, pleased. "It is good to pray at all times."

"Oh, Lord!" I continued loudly in Badawi, relieved to discharge the pressure of my continuing orgasms with exhalations of sound. "My God, Omigod! Omigod!!"

"Good girl," said Father, in the same language. He patted my head through my hijab, not noticing the beads of sweat that ran down my forehead and dripped off my nose.

He returned to his seat, put on his clamshell headphones again, and resumed watching his show. Finally, Jack slowed his ministrations to a stop. He gave my pussy a final kiss with his tongue darting in and spearing my vaginal walls. Then he levered himself back, holding my ankles over the straps of my high heel shoes.

I took a small kerchief from my Gucci handbag and wiped my sweaty face. Jack came back around the couch, and sat by me again, licking his lips. He put the two fingers that had been deep inside me into his mouth and sucked them clean.

"Your womanly fluids are sweet, Zainab Habiba," he whispered to me. "And I love your bare pussy, so pink and white."

"My half-sister Salima Banu helped me remove my pubic hair," I whispered back. "And I helped with hers."

"You have traces of soft pale blonde down there, Zainab Habiba. I wonder about the hair on your head!"

"I'm a modest woman, Jack. I always cover my hair with my hijab."

"My balls are fit to explode, Zainab Habiba. I felt your tits on the back of my head when you bent over me. I've got to fuck you now."

"I thought you just did?"

"That was just foreplay, babe. I need to get my cock in that tight, virgin pussy of yours."

"I don't understand."

"Just leave it to me. See that semi-circular couch over there? The one with all the pillows on it?"

"The one facing Father?"

"Yes, about ten yards away from him. It has a walled partition around the back, so it's not in plain sight for most of the lounge. I'm going to go and surround myself with cushions. Come over and sit on my lap and spread your abaya so you conceal me completely from view."

"I'll try," I said nervously.

A few moments later, Jack had done what he said he would do. I could see that sitting on his lap, I would be ringed by the cushions and it would be hard to see him. I stood up and took a few unsteady steps. I was still woozy in the afterglow of my powerful orgasms. I wasn't sure I could handle more, especially if they were even stronger as Jack promised.

I came to the couch and as I began to sit down, Jack took the rear hem of my abaya and held it up. As I sat down on his lap, I felt the cool air conditioning on my bare buttocks. I gasped again, for he had pulled down his pants and I was skin-to-skin with him. His hands held my buttocks and he guided me to sit down.

I felt a bulbous head at my pussy lips, not sure what it was, and hesitated. But Jack pulled me down insistently and pushed his cockhead into me. He was so thick and I was so tight, that it would not go in, even though I was sopping wet.

"You're a tight bitch, Zainab Habiba!" he whispered harshly. "I'm going to have to use force to enter you, to tame you."

He arched his back and I put both my hands on my mouth to gag myself, for it literally felt like he was tearing me apart. It hurt like crazy, but he kept pushing, harder and harder. His cock was going deeper into me, far deeper than his fingers had been, probing and stretching my virgin pussy. I felt like there was a hot bar of steel in me and my virgin's hymen gave way with a small spurt of blood. When I finally sat down with all of him in me, I felt like his cockhead was at the base of my throat.

"You're so tight," he said in a low tone. "And you've had me hard for a while. I'm not going to last long."