The Persian Girl

by Felix Baron

  As I anticipated, it was then that Zema made her appearance.

  ‘He’s ready for me,’ she announced. Her poncho sailed through the air.

  I lay back to await her pleasure. Zema knelt astride my hips, parted herself, took my shaft in her hand and sank on to me. Being fucked by Zema was like being masturbated between the palms of two buttery hands. Her cunny was capacious but muscular and mobile. I bucked up at her a few times. She flattened a hand on my chest and commanded me, ‘Be still!’

  Like a frigid wife, I lay back and allowed Zema to control the performance, even though it was against my nature. Her man-sized hands kneaded the flesh of my chest bruisingly. Her hips ground and rotated. Two breasts, each bigger than my head and black as fresh-poured tar, bobbled and swayed before me. Perhaps Zema noticed the way my eyes followed their gyrations because she grabbed me by the back of my neck and pulled me up to her bosom. My lips clamped on a rubbery nipple that very near filled my mouth. I suckled as hard as I could, drawing an appreciative grunt from the depths of her massive chest.

  She became frantic. Her loins rose up and thudded down. She leaned towards me, grinding her pubes on mine. Her skin slithered on me, oiled by her sweat.

  I managed to twist my head aside for long enough to blurt, ‘Fatima, help her to reach her joy!’

  Zema thrust her nipple back into my mouth. I could see nothing, for her great breast was pressed to my face, covering my eyes, but I felt a hand slide between Zema’s body and mine, down low, where my shaft entered the black beauty’s cunny. The hand seemed to seek, then find, and begin to rub.

  Some days later, in one of those gentle moments between erotic bouts, Fatima told me, ‘Zema a une queue pour un clito!’ I couldn’t agree that Zema had a cock for a clit because that would have meant that the cunnilingus I’d performed on her had been a kind of fellatio, but I saw her point.

  Between impaling herself on my cock and having her clit’s sheath worked by Fatima’s clever fingers, Zema reached her petite mort, scalded my balls with her juice and toppled sideways. The girls waited respectfully for her to recover and depart before returning to the game Zema had interrupted.

  Maria took the first long lascivious lick. She paused, frowned, and licked again.

  ‘What is it?’ Fatima asked her.

  ‘He has a different flavour now.’

  ‘Silly! Of course he has. He has the essence of Zema’s cunny on him. Do you like the taste of a woman?’

  ‘Oui!’

  ‘Then you shall have more.’ Fatima stood and lifted one foot on to a bench, spreading her thighs above both Maria and me. ‘Gamahauche ma p’tite chatte, Maria.’

  Maria licked her lips and looked at me. ‘But our poor poilu is in great need.’ She gripped my shaft and wagged it to demonstrate just how great my – the ‘stud’s’ – need was.

  ‘His need will keep,’ Fatima told her. ‘Waiting can be a pleasure. He can watch and wait while you pleasure me.’ She thrust her mound at Maria. ‘Katha ath nan, Maria – caress my cunny. Make me spend a thousand thousand times, and then a thousand times more.’

  Maria grinned at me. ‘Is possible?’

  I shrugged. ‘Try!’

  She knelt up to bring her face level with Fatima’s pubes. ‘You can see?’ she asked me.

  ‘Yes, thank you.’ I was really warming to the girl. Not only did she dote on performing fellatio, a quality that any man would find endearing, but she had a wicked sense of humour.

  The aristocratic young Spanish girl, making sure not to block my view, pressed a thumb on each side of Fatima’s cunny, parting its lips. ‘A pretty little almeja, no?’ she asked me.

  ‘A fine little clam, to be sure,’ I agreed.

  She pressed harder, enough to expose the shaft and head of Fatima’s clitoris. ‘And there’s the pipote I was looking for!’

  It’s only in southern Spain that ‘pipote’ – sunflower seed – is used as slang for clitoris. I consigned the implications to my memory. Someday it might be important for me to know where each participant in the plot came from.

  Maria had pursed her lips and was blowing gently on the bared head of Fatima’s clit. The Egyptian closed her eyes and bit her lower lip. Her hips moved subtly. The tip of Maria’s tongue flickered on the straining tid-bit for a second or two.

  ‘More,’ Fatima moaned.

  ‘Waiting can be a pleasure,’ Maria reminded her. Holding Fatima’s lips apart with the fingers of one hand, she extended the middle finger of her other hand and slid it slowly up inside her victim.

  ‘Yes!’ Fatima sighed.

  ‘I am going to make you very much wet,’ Maria threatened.

  I could see by the way her wrist moved that she was rotating the pad of her fingertip on the sensitive spot behind Fatima’s pubic bone. She must have been skilled at that caress, for Fatima’s knees quivered and moisture seeped down over Maria’s hand.

  Maria put her face close and inhaled. ‘So sweet!’ she exclaimed.

  Fatima groaned, ‘Sharmutta!’

  ‘Bitch, am I?’ Maria teased. ‘Te voy hacer la sopa!’

  The threat, to eat Fatima’s cunny, didn’t seem to intimidate the girl. She knotted a hand into Maria’s long black hair and dragged her head in close, into a cunny-to-mouth kiss.

  I, awkwardly, raised myself on one elbow.

  The feast began. Maria proved to be as enamoured of cunny as she was of cock. Her face burrowed between Fatima’s lower lips, spreading them wide and smearing them across her own cheeks. Her head shook, then nodded, then rotated. I could not see what her tongue was doing but I enjoyed using my imagination.

  Fatima spread her arms to grab two of the iron rings set in the wall. Her thighs strained wider apart. Her entire body quivered with delight, then tensed. A hard ripple ran down her belly. The tendons in her neck stood out.

  She cried, ‘I die!’ Her knees flexed, as if she were about to topple, but she recovered and straightened. ‘More!’ she demanded.

  Maria peeled her chemise off and returned to her succulent banquet. I managed to wrap my fingers around her slender ankle to give myself the illusion of participating in the amorous games. Fatima lifted her left foot from the floor, up on to the bench, in order to spread herself wider and give Maria easier access to the warm pink fruit between her thighs.

  Men can be very lustful. I’m living proof. Some women, however, those who have shed all modesty and have totally freed their inner lasciviousness, can enter states of ecstatic desire, of ferocious sexual hunger, that transforms them into ravening beasts.

  That day, I was privileged to watch as two lovely girls goaded themselves and each other along the intricate path that leads step by step from amorous play to mindless frenzy.

  Maria doted on love’s various liquid manifestations, be they male or female. Fatima was addicted to her own climaxes. Unlike some women, who swoon after a single orgasm and thereafter flinch from being touched, Fatima’s first burst of joy made her all the more eager for her second, and then third, and so on, each surpassing the others in intensity.

  Maria’s face burrowed into Fatima, slurping and lapping, withdrawing from time to time for the girl to suck in great gulps of air before returning to the fray. Fatima ran the gamut in expressing her glee. At one moment she’d be giggling; the next rapt in frowning concentration. She laughed. She cried. Obscenities tumbled from her sweet lips, intermingled with declarations of undying love for Maria. At a climax, she shouted, sobbed or moaned or sometimes screamed as if in agony. Strands of her hair were plastered across her face. Her entire body became coated in a thin sheen of perspiration. The odour of her sweat mingled with the scent of her cunny, deliciously thickening the air I breathed.

  Fatima was still writhing when Maria finally sunk back on her heels. ‘My tongue,’ she managed to fumble out. ‘Tired. Ache.’

  ‘Fingers!’ Fatima demanded. She looked like a runner three parts through a marathon, exhausted but determined to continue.

  ‘He must w
atch!’ Maria declared.

  ‘Yes!’ Fatima agreed, vehemently. The Egyptian stepped down from the bench on wobbling legs and set one knee to each side of my head.

  Maria knelt astride my chest, her knees tucked into my armpits. I looked up between two lovely bodies, one lean and lithe, the other plump and voluptuous. Their mouths met. Maria’s nipples brushed across Fatima’s breasts. Each reached down to seek and find the other’s cunny. Not four inches above my head, fingers worked into squelching folds of flesh; thumbs discovered clits and attacked them with more vigour than I, a gentle man, would have.

  My fingers curled but could reach nothing. I turned my face to the side, to lick the inside of Fatima’s thigh. Lifting myself, I was able to trail my tongue higher and reach skin that was seasoned by her seepage.

  One of them grunted. A light splattering dampened my face. Their hips jerked, grinding mound on mound, then slithered as they manoeuvred as best they could to press clitoris to clitoris. For twenty breaths, Maria humped upwards while Fatima held still. There was a gurgling cry and then it was Fatima’s turn to bump and grind while Maria braced.

  Their mounds parted, stretching liquid strands. It was Fatima’s hand that snaked down between their bodies. Fumbling, she managed to trap both of their clitorises between her finger and thumb at once. The two buttons of flesh were rolled on each other, inspiring another climax by one of them, though I knew not which.

  Their frenzy was not yet done. Without a word but each understanding the other’s intent, they halfway rose. Maria’s right foot lifted and nudged Fatima’s left thigh away from my face. Fatima’s right leg bent up as she planted her foot beside my chest. They sank down, Fatima astride Maria’s thigh, Maria straddling Fatima’s leg.

  Their hips moved as if they were riding at a trot that soon became a canter and then a furious gallop that led to them both being thrown with great screams of delight. I thought they were done but I underestimated the minxes. Maria, sprawled across my body, reached down to Fatima’s foot, dragged it up between her thighs and humped at its heel. From the confused movements beyond my head, I gathered that Fatima was likewise making vigorous love to some part of Maria’s foot. Curious, I twisted my head and craned my neck backwards but the tangle of lovely young limbs defeated me.

  Maria, rising to yet another orgasm, bounced her bottom up and down on my chest. I had no objection. She was light enough that I wasn’t discomforted. I’d have liked to have been granted better access to either girl’s body than occasionally managing to lick the dew from the skin of a thigh, though.

  At last, Maria sobbed, ‘Enough!’

  Fatima, moving with leaden limbs, heaved herself around and crawled wearily over both me and Maria. I think she intended to continue the erotic bout in some way but her fatigue overcame her. She slumped across Maria, who was sprawled supine across me, with my poor neglected cock trapped, stiff as an oak staff, between the small of her back and my belly. The girls slept. Sometime later, so did I.

  Fourteen

  FATIMA SAID, ‘HIS arma looks very uncomfortable. Do you think we should take care of it?’

  I opened my eyes. The girls, both still naked, sat opposite each other, the heels of their bare feet digging uncomfortably into my naked belly. My rigid cock, the subject of their discussion, was being toed idly while they debated whether or not to assuage its needs.

  ‘It’d rise again, in time to greet Zema,’ I offered.

  They trapped my shaft between the sole of Maria’s foot and the ball of Fatima’s and rolled it while they considered my remark.

  ‘She prefers you to be desperate,’ Fatima told me. ‘I think she’s afraid that her size could intimidate a man’s zib.’

  ‘My zib fears nothing,’ I assured her.

  ‘We are instructed to arouse you to the point of madness, every day, but not to let you spend until Zema is done with you.’

  ‘When will she arrive?’

  ‘When it suits her.’

  Zema did arrive, at that very moment, with Melku. They’d come to take me out for my daily ablutions, not for Zema to roger me. When I returned for a breakfast of tea and Gentleman’s Relish on crackers, I found the girls were clothed, after a fashion.

  ‘It will get colder,’ Maria explained. ‘We will need things to wear, to keep warm.’ She’d found a length of jade silk, perhaps a table covering by its fringe, and had fastened it under one armpit with a brooch and at her waist by her beads and cross. The silk was too narrow to overlap. A strip of skin an inch wide showed all the way down her right side. Her right leg was completely bare.

  Fatima had devised her garments from two squares of purple satin, each folded into a triangle, one knotted at her plump hip, the other supporting and tied between her ample breasts. I found the effect, something like two risen but unbaked cottage loaves nestling in a gay cloth, quite enchanting.

  The girls had strung a cord across the width of our carriage and hung it with sheets. Now they had a place of privacy. The rest of the morning and after our boiled mutton lunch, was spent with them giving me a scandalous fashion show. They posed and promenaded like filles de joie, in skirts that were slit at the front, up to their navels, veils that hid nothing, lengths of cloth that tied below their breasts but left those love-toys naked, and as many saucy modes as their prurient young minds could concoct.

  Fatima was covered in what I took to be a fisherman’s net and Maria was naked except for a gauze loincloth when Zema returned. This time she opted to kneel facing my feet, gripping my ankles, providing me with a rare view of her mighty buttocks flexing and quivering. I was pounded lustily for a good twenty minutes before she flooded my balls once more, rose groggily and tottered away without a word of thanks or so much as a backwards glance.

  The girls came and stood over me, looking down at my engorged shaft. ‘Shall we?’ Maria asked Fatima.

  ‘If one of you doesn’t do something, soon,’ I warned them, ‘I shall spend untouched.’

  Fatima fisted her hips. ‘Well, we can’t have that, can we!’

  Both dropped to their knees. Fatima took my cock in both hands. Maria positioned her parted lips ready to receive my liquid blessing. It didn’t take long, the first time.

  And so it was, for the following eight days and nights. The girls played games that aroused me. Zema arrived, mounted my cock or my face, and once my fist, halfway to my elbow, and took her pleasure. After she was sated, the girls and I played.

  The sun told me we were heading north by east. As time progressed, we needed more layers of bedclothes to keep the cold out at night. Our portions of mutton grew smaller until on the eighth day the lunch that was delivered was just black bread, olive oil and salt. I counted myself fortunate that both Maria’s hamper and Fatima’s hatbox were well provisioned. We lacked for little, although the fruit ran out.

  Mid-afternoon on the ninth day, our carriage came to a lurching halt. The girls knelt up on a bench to peer through the sacking wall.

  ‘Something’s amiss,’ Maria told me, ‘but I can’t see what.’

  An ox moaned piteously. Another took up its cry. Harnesses jingled. Men swore.

  Zema and Melku appeared at the back. ‘We have an entertainment,’ she announced. ‘You two,’ she told the girls, ‘will watch from in here.’

  I was untied and noosed and prodded at sword point again. I admit that my stomach chilled as four surly Tatars lashed me, spread-eagle, to the spokes of a wheel of our conveyance. People have been tied to wheels to serve as targets for arrow or spear; to be lashed; to be branded; to be broken with hammers or – worst of all, to my mind – to be left there while the wheel turned, carrying the victims round and round, crushing their hands and feet and battering their heads.

  But I was left, standing there, helpless. There was a commotion. An ox bellowed. The reason for our halt was revealed. One poor animal, pulled by a halter and the ring through its nose, limped, dragging one foreleg. It seemed the beast had stepped into a hole and had broken its leg. Th
e only thing to be done was to put it out of its misery. I hoped someone would put a bullet through its head, but that was not to be.

  Zema strode out, magnificently naked, swinging a gigantic kukri – the crooked blade of choice for Gurkha warriors. This particular weapon was both longer and heavier than any I had seen before.

  Two Tatars braced the beast’s head. Zema took a wide stance, swung high and brought the blade down on the nape of the ox’s neck, severing it cleanly. That was no mean feat, I allowed. Few men could wield a blade with that skill and strength.

  The ox knelt and then toppled. Tatars rushed forward with bowls and flashing knives. Steaming blood filled the bowls but also splattered in a wide circle. Within minutes, the ox was a tattered heap of raw bloody meat. Tatars drank deeply, some mixing arrack with the blood before quaffing. Steaks and joints and ragged ropes of giblets were tossed on to braziers, though some of the men couldn’t wait and gnawed the meat raw.

  A cheerful fellow offered me a bowl of blood, which I politely refused. His mate held a skin of arrack to my lips. That, I didn’t turn down.

  The Tatars began to sing and dance. I was impressed by the complexity and elegance of their steps. I’d witnessed Azerbaijani dancers perform similar steps before, but only female ones.

  It became an orgy, with Tatar mounting Tatar. Zema, still bare and drenched in blood, brought me a piece of the ox’s half-burned, half-raw liver. She held it to my mouth with one hand while the other caressed my member idly until I was done. She left me to disappear under a heaving mound of naked Tatars.

  My position was becoming uncomfortable. The way I was tied, my scrotum rested on the wheel’s iron hub, and the metal was chill. I looked about me, hoping to spot Zema and beg to be returned to the carriage. Instead, I saw Honey, skulking round the edge of the Bacchanalia. It occurred to me that she might hold a grudge. If she meant me harm, there was little I could do to defend myself. The thought softened my member until it lolled limp, partly resting on the wheel’s cold hub.