The very first time I questioned my faith was when I first laid eyes on Farah Ali. It was in that split second, when I looked across the sweaty, tepid air of my local gym, feasting my hungry, sex-deprived eyes on her curvaceous body, framed like a fertility idol, that I questioned how a loving, supreme being could ever be so cruel as to make someone so sexually perfect, only to place her out of my reach by making her bound to her marriage, her modesty and her religion.
That the arcs of her figure-eight curves could be seen even through her oversized grey, baggy hoodie, and her chubby cameltoe through her loose black leggings, both worn in extra sizes to avoid any slutty skin-hugging, made her all the more appealing and taboo. I spent many hours spying on her closely during my daily visits, watching the loose fabric of her lower half be devoured by her hungry bum cheeks, split with a lovely damp patch, while she pursued an imaginary destination on a treadmill, or lifted weights with her impressive arms, making her hijab darken with sweat.
I tried to make deductions about this mysterious woman, based on available knowledge to me. Her large, hefty tits, which swung like elongated cushions beneath her layers of cotton, suggested she was a mother. Her love of Kegel stretches and squats suggested that she had a man at home she either wanted to impress or a relationship she wanted to save. In any case, Farah was a Muslim— her purple headscarf informed me as much, and her wedding ring reiterated the sentiment, so as much as I would have left my fiancée Lucy at the drop of a hat (or even with the gentle gust of any wind blowing my way), I resigned this exotic stranger to the filthiest recess in my mind. That was, until the day she offered me a lift home.
Having spotted me standing in the pouring rain at the decrepit bus shelter by Farnborough estate, Farah serendipitously offered me a lift home. Soaking wet, dangerously nervous and startling hungry, I accepted, setting myself down on the creamy-white leather seat in her altogether pristine Mercedes SUV. Shivering to myself, I wondered how she recognised me in the low light of the evening. Her confidence aroused me, as did her perfume, which pierced the artificially warming air of the car like sharp tacks on cheap balloons.
“I’m so sorry— excuse me. It’s Ray, right, isn’t it? Or Ray… mond?” Farah asked after five minutes of silence, the radio mumbling in the background. Her voice was a lot more high-pitched than I imagined it in my head.
“It’s Jayson. Or Jayse. Either or, really.”
Farah grimaced awkwardly.
“I was miles off! Sorry. I know that I shouldn’t have been eavesdropping on your phone call earlier back at the reception, but I’ve seen you around the gym for a few months now. You always look so… determined. I— well, I guess I admire you really.” Farah patted her stomach. “Especially as I’m trying to lose this spare tyre.” At that moment, all I could imagine was the sexy bulk of her torso’s flesh, wobbling in rhythm to thrusts from a greedy cock, stabbing a greedier pussy, hopefully unwashed, hopefully hairy and if my imagination was anything to go by, almost certainly a juicy mess. I grinned ear to ear.
“Oh. Well, thank you… and you know, from what I’ve seen, from a distance anyway, your… gym-journey is going well. Not that you even need a gym.” I coughed awkwardly. “Sorry— you know my name, and I don’t even know yours. That’s pretty embarrassing.”
Farah chuckled, flirtatiously.
“Well, I’m Farah. But you can call me Faz.” She manoeuvred a T-junction, eyeing the collection of LED lights behind the steering wheel closely. “Just kidding. Nobody calls me Faz. Can you imagine?”
“Oh, I’m trying,” I retorted, not fully understanding what I’d said. Farah tutted.
“This bloody car. So my husband says that we can’t afford a third holiday this year. That the planned extension on the holiday home, that he himself promised, is out of the question. AND that my addiction to Jimmy Choos (if you can call thirty pairs an addiction) apparently needs to be curbed. Yet, that stingy bastard can’t even fill up a tank of petrol for a six-figure car that he bought on a complete whim. Go figure, right?”
“Sounds pretty unreasonable,” I said diplomatically, not knowing how to read the situation, yet taking her side. Farah nodded.
“What’s really unreasonable is being married to a man who can’t last more than thirty seconds, and who has a cock the size of a cornichon, yet expects a litter of children to appear, as if by magic.” I laughed aloud with a snort.
“Still, it’s true what they say though, right? It’s not all about size, surely?”
Farah turned to me. For the first time, I saw her face up close. Her ornate, decorated silk head scarf framed her oval, buttermilk-hued face like an impossible painting. She had slender thin brown lips, beneath a pair of large, yet delicate eyes and a prominent nose that suited her, in a strangely sexy way. A keen, light pink tongue teased her lips— a tongue that I imagined could work a cock to completion like a human lollipop fit to burst. I tried to control my thoughts and thinking of Lucy and my religious duties. I temporarily succeeded.
“Let me tell you Jayse. When you have a pussy as fat as mine, size always matters! A fat girl needs girth, you know?” My eyes bulged with sheer shock at the words that came out of her mouth. Before I had a chance to think of something witty to volley back with, or process the filth spilling from her seemingly chaste mouth, she began whacking the black steering wheel in frustration with her dainty palm.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she sighed, shaking her head. Suddenly, I felt the previously smooth ride of the SUV slowing down, “You— have—got—to—be—bloody—joking,” she said, breathing every word with a hiss.
Gradually, and carefully we slowed to a halt on the side of the narrow lightless lane, parking up by a copse of shadowy tall pine trees. The silence between us was as deafeningly eerie as the lightless road we were now marooned upon. After taking a handful of deep breaths, the driver composed herself.
“Bad news Jayse. This is— well, it’s very embarrassing, but it looks like I’ve run out of petrol. We’re stuck here.”
Strangely, I wasn’t panicked. It was kind of exciting in a way— an adventure that I didn’t ask for, with a woman I had a crush on, in the middle of nowhere. But also, Lucy would be waiting for me at home. Probably worried. Probably with a mind-numbingly boring anecdote from work to talk about. Almost certainly, not in the mood for intercourse. I tried to put her out of my head, thinking of an appropriate prayer for this bizarre occasion, while I watched Farah tapping out a text message on her impossibly large mobile phone. I opened my mouth to start on the growing list of questions generated by my horny mind, but she spoke first.
“Don’t worry. I’m just sending a text message to the AA. You can do everything via WhatsApp nowadays. It’s a bit too much, all this technology, but sometimes, it’s handy.”
“So, you’re trying for a baby?” I blurted out, covering my mouth instantly with embarrassment. Silence fell between the two of us. After thirty seconds, she raised her head.
“Sorry— yes, we are. I mean, it sounds more exciting than it is. Missionary in the dark, three times a day for one week a month isn’t exactly what every girl rubs herself to sleep over, in her teen years. Still, I suppose that’s more than some other sisters I know, get.”
Rubs herself to sleep over, I thought, glancing at her veil, stunned, my mind heavy with that delightfully taboo mental image. Who is this woman?
“Never mind Muslim sisters,” I quipped, “that’s more than some Christian brothers get.”
The small yellow light in the roof above dimmed to an inappropriately romantic low hue. Farah leered, and gifted me an amber-lit smile.
“Oh really?” she asked with genuine interest. “Lacking in that department, are you? Go on— spill the beans, Jayse. What does your sex life look like?”
My mind was totally blown that a woman who’d always seemed so innocent; so religiously observant was mining for sex details like a horned-up, sticky-wet housewife gossiping on the telephone. Even the way that she pronounced the word sex— a sultry phrasing tinged with her Middle-Eastern heritage, made my cock spring to life almost instantly. Feeling it rising with a thumping pulse, I opened my mouth.
“Well,” I began, looking down at her thigh, pensively, “Lucy and I— we get it on around—”
“Get it on?” Farah asked, bunny-rabbiting her fingers as visual speech marks, mockingly.
“Well, me and my lady, Lucy— we do the deed around once a month.”
Farah gasped. “No way! You’re kidding. You’ve got to be kidding? Once a literal month?”
“Once a literal month.”
Farah mulled up the revelation in her mind, with gentle sways of deliberation. She removed her grey hoodie unannounced, before turning off both the radio and the warm air wafting through the central vents of the behemothic car. I watched closely as her breasts were lifted in the tussle, before settling back down onto her stomach. She patted at her headscarf, as a car drove past us, cruising onwards into the shadows of hills and woodland.
“I see. And is it worth the wait? You know, the sex I mean. With lovely Lucy?”
I wondered to myself, with genuine intrigue if it was.
“Sometimes,” I replied, forlornly. “I mean— she’s very inventive, which makes it… fun?”
Farah nodded with a smirk, not noticing my carefully placed lie.
“Well, fun can be fun.”
“You’re right, it sure can.”
At that point, my balls began to ache, burdened with a growing backlog of semen, desperate to be released. My hands grew hungrier for her flesh, and the more I thought back to her at the gym, thighs spread while delicately attempting a bench press, or doing her enthusiastic post-workout stretches, my heart quickened passively at the fantasy of exploring her rolls, folds and bumps. She angled the rearview mirror, checking her makeup in the soft light.
“So, what are you working with? You know— size-wise?” She asked with a sense of hesitation, slowing towards the end of the sentence as if something was wrong. “I’m sorry,” she said, gazing back at her phone. “It’s none of my business. What must you think of me? Sweet little Muslim woman, asking all of these dirty questions! I just get carried away sometimes.”
Her slight accent caused my cock to throb against the tight fabric of my jeans. I felt myself panting; an involuntary reaction that I tried my best to control. My cock was engorged, fit to burst. In all honesty, as much as Lucy did usually gift me her pristinely waxed vagina in a monthly offering of slow and passionate lovemaking (complete with Vivaldi playing in the background and a bed full of rose petals that I would have to clean up afterwards of course), she’d skipped the last two months, on account of her seemingly well-timed migraines, leaving me to settle with two mediocre blowjobs, neither of which were completed. All I wanted to do was to reach out and land my large hand on her melon-sized left breast, forming it into a squeeze. Before I could register that fantasy, however, I felt a presence crawl over my thigh, landing on my pointed crotch. In one smooth motion, Farah unzipped me, freeing my cock with a gasp. Looking me dead in the eye, she grinned, nodding her layered head, eagerly.
“See, I told you I get carried away. Lucky Lucy!” She gripped my rock-hard penis like a freshly harvested root vegetable, straight from the warm earth. “I bet you must fill her up nicely?” I nodded in agreement, closing my eyes in pleasure, as she rubbed me, her ornate long nails clasped against my veiny shaft. Any moment now, I was going to go off and explode over her face and headscarf. I gritted my teeth to control myself.
“You can touch my tits if you like,” Farah said, her eyes fixed on her working hand, as she lifted her sweaty Balenciaga T-shirt, to reveal a pair of brown breasts, housed in a black, lace bra. I reached out and gripped her closest boob, squeezing it selfishly; a move that caused her to moan. As she lifted and cunningly worked her arm, a faint mist of her body odour escaped her armpit; a strong scent, laced with her obnoxious Arabic perfume, a combination which I would have happily bottled and wanked over for the rest of my life.
“We’re not cheating,” she reassured me, grinning as she spat into her hand, glossing my cock with sticky saliva. “It’s just two friends, helping one another out. Right?”
“R— right,” I exhaled, trying my best not to cum. I gripped the soft cushion of her breast tissue harder and harder, half-hoping that she would howl in pleasure-tinged agony, but instead, she welcomed it with repeated, frantic nods.
“Yes— yeah, like that. Harder. Want to feel what my husband left inside me? He left a hot… a hot—sticky—mess. Play with my messy, fertile pussy. Go on.”
Lifting the hem of her top, my hand crawled across the fleshy mound of her stomach, working its way further still past her waistband. Her knickers were soaked. Not just the gusset, which was now a cotton swamp of warm wet arousal (and the presence of something that I knew by its consistency to be the work of her husband), but the outer fabric too, dripping with sweat from her workout earlier. When my two fingers slid inside her, she began speaking in Arabic, stuttering her words as she rode my pointed digits.
“Mmm— feel what my pathetic husband left inside me with his limp gherkin dick, just this morning. A nice sticky— ugh, fuck. A nice sticky load of worthless cum. Doesn’t that feel good in my fat, sweaty pussy?”. I fingered Farah deeper, digging as far inside her cervix as I could, while precum began streaming slowly from the tip of my cock.
“You gonna go home and fuck Lucy, thinking about me? About how juicy and sticky I am?” Farah asked with a growl, before resorting to speaking hurriedly in Arabic, riding the waves of pleasure generated from fucking my fingers like a cock.
“Yes! Ugh— fuck. I’m gonna imagine your fat pussy, and fat tits, and fat belly and—”
Without warning, my vision went blurry, my ears ringing with deafening bells as my cock released a liquid missile of semen— four large spurts that landed on the dashboard, painted the overhead rearview mirror, with the final two spurts dousing the logo printed across her tits, before disappearing into the fabric. Quick as a flash, her face was in my crotch, mouthing my cock as it softened, draining the remnants with powerful sucks and licks, lapping up as much of the warm spunk as her eager tongue could take.
My heart racing, I turned to her, hoisted a breast from her bra, and suckling her nipple viciously, fingered her to completion, gushing over my fingers with two long, spurts of mysterious liquid that, once in the mouth, tasted like honeyed urine. Fingers sliding out of her, we both lay in our respective seats, gazing out into the silent, night-filled countryside. I wanted to go again, to revel in the challenge of making her squirt over and over, soaking her expensive underwear so much that they’d have to be binned. To suck her nipples, biting and gnawing at them, while giving her body the worship and attention it needed. We sat there for five minutes in silence, but the opportunity didn’t present itself.
Finally, adjusting her headscarf, she smiled at me, wiping the remains of my cum from the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand, narrowly avoiding her ring finger. Pressing the button to the car’s ignition, it roared obediently to life, and before I had the chance to exclaim in shock and confusion, she accelerated fiercely down the lane, rustling the bed of leaves that lined the modest country tarmac.
