The following tale is part of the series "A Most Unusual Day." Each of the parts stands independently, although together they tell a broader story. I hope you will enjoy this one and elect to read the others as well.
My day had begun in unusual fashion. My loving but unadventurous wife of 15 years had wakened me with an unsolicited handjob. It was the first time she had done that. Ever. It was a great handjob, and a great way to wake up, but I was feeling confused.
Several days earlier we had had a frank conversation about our sex lives, the first such talk of our marriage, and realized that neither of us was satisfied. We had made a plan to be more open and communicative when it came to sex, and had made an explicit plan to share our previously overlooked desires and fantasies and see if we could make up for lost time by making them come true. But still, I was confused. Did she think this was my fantasy? Was it hers?
I had a series of conflicting emotions. Happy that she had taken the initiative to introduce this wonderful treat into my life. Curious about her motives. Melancholy that I had missed out on this for so long until now. And above all, disoriented by the sheer surprise and intensity of it all. But I didn't have time to reconcile these feelings, because the controlled chaos that is our morning routine began with the frenzied precision of an aircraft carrier leaving port, and I was consumed in the wake.
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A little while later I was standing at the counter of my mechanic's jumbled shop. He was shouting in Farsi. Nothing much unusual about that, here in the suburbs of greater "Irangeles." That was pretty much his usual condition. But this time he was shouting at a customer. A woman. A genuine Persian Princess, California-style.
I saw a blaze of rhinestone-encrusted Chanel sunglasses flash by as she whirled away from the counter with a pout and an odd "thumbs up" gesture that had to have been some sort of insult. She made an unusual contrast with the grubby shop in her skintight Versace pants and jacket. Her fingers glittered with the dowry of a true Mesopotamian princess from the days of Hammurabi (or perhaps modern Saudi Arabia). On the fourth finger of her left hand glittered a massive stone.
She dropped in the inflatable blue promotional "Goodyear" chair by the wall with a huff and, not surprisingly, I heard the angry click of her cell-phone opening.
Simon gestured me towards the counter with an annoyed look on his face. "Sorry. So sorry." he said with a shrug.
"Not a problem" I replied calmly. "She looks like a piece of work." I intoned, with a raised eyebrow.
"My uncle's wife." He explained conspiratorially. "I have to fix her car for free and she's angry that she has to wait 10 minutes for me to free up someone to drive her home. Of course, if she were really in a hurry, she lives less than a mile away...
"So," he continued, "I gotta be honest with you, it's gonna be a little while before I can get to your car. You wanna bring it back tomorrow instead?"
"Sure" I answered, grateful for his honesty, so rare and unusual among his profession. "No problem."
I turned and headed for the door where I found the Princess hurling one last guttural insult into the maw of her cell phone as she slammed it shut.
Some bizarre hand of fate grabbed me and stopped me in my tracks, squeezed my diaphragm and seemingly forced me to blurt out a tentative question. "Excuse me. Could I give you a lift somewhere?"
She gave me a piercing stare, taking me in from head to toe. I wasn't going to be featured on the cover of 'Los Angeles' Magazine any time soon, but apparently my Bloomingdales house-brand suit was well-tailored enough to pass her inspection. She looked in my eyes and then slowly turned to glare at Simon, who I now realized was her nephew, even though he had to be at least 15 years her senior.
Her nostrils flared as she stared him down. "That would be very NICE." She said coolly. She turned with a flourish of her 350 dollar coiffure and stalked for the door, as if she knew where she was heading.
About three minutes later, we were idling in front of the gates of a massive white mansion. The towering white columns which were visible through the wrought-iron bars made the house resemble something from another ancient Mediterranean culture. Not a word had been spoken.
"Here, use this" she said abruptly, handing me a small plastic card which I waved in front of the box on the side of the driveway. The imposing portal slowly swung open.
"Please come inside" she said firmly, when I stopped in front of the huge front door. "I'd like to thank you with a cup of coffee."
This was certainly one of the most unusual experiences ever to befall a pasty Caucasian lad with thinning hair in the inexorable grip of middle age such as myself, so I turned the key to silence the motor. As I was still feeling the warm glow of my morning handjob, my motives were less lascivious than they might have been some other time. Mostly I was curious about this exquisite creature and what she could possibly want with me.
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I looked around as I followed her into the house. It was hard to tear my eyes away from her sashaying ass as we navigated the stairs to the door, but an enormous pair of marble lions vied for my attention. They lost. She had an incredible ass. Flaring hips tapering into mile-long legs, with just the right amount of curvature to create that hypnotizing shimmy with every step. The smooth surface presented by the skin-tight fabric suggested that she was wearing nothing underneath. My thoughts turned to the possibility of finding out that answer first-hand. Lust had once again entered the picture. Where was this unusual and unexpected invitation leading?
A life-sized alabaster statue of a naked woman thrust her breasts at us as soon as we entered the house. What seemed to be acres of glittering black and gold-trimmed furniture floated on a sea of white shag carpet.
We entered a kitchen the size of my house and soon she was thrusting two rigid nipples covered in painted-on Juicy Couture T-shirt plus a small cup of ink-black coffee into my general direction. When she spooned two teaspoons of sugar into her cup, I did the same before sipping the pungent brew.
She took off her semi-frosted glasses, allowing me to see her whole face for the first time. She wore enough beauty products to outfit a touring production of Aida, but the lavender eye shadow and glittery powder did nothing to hide her incredible beauty.
"I am Aliyah." She stated simply. "Thank you for helping me. Simon can be such an ass sometimes." She tossed her mane again and rolled her head in a stretching motion. This had the effect of thrusting her chest out, straining the buttons of her Versace top and leaving her looking somewhat like a clothed version of the statue in the foyer.
Straightening her neck, she fixed me with a purposeful stare and wet her lips to speak. "I feel dirty from being in that place. Would you like to take a shower with me?"
Now this was beyond unusual. My brain was suddenly overloaded with the firing of a million synapses at once. A thousand questions jostled for attention. "Could this be happening? Why me? Was she just trying to piss off her husband, who would then have me killed by some thugs and dropped in a desolate canyon somewhere? Was my wife somehow testing me? Rewarding me? Should I vocalize any of the questions and risk breaking whatever spell we were under?"
While I wrestled with my thoughts, Aliyah put down her cup and walked out of the kitchen to the enormous sweeping staircase that led upstairs.
"Come with me." It was somewhere between a command and a request.
'I'd like to do exactly that.' I thought to myself, watching her curves undulate smoothly away from me. The distinct possibility that I was being seduced by this walking wet dream produced a sort of euphoria in me that overrode my better judgment, as well as my surging feelings of guilt. My cock, still sore from the prior activities, came to life with a throb. Twice in less than three hours – could I do that? It seemed that I might find out, as I arose from the table and followed her, my body seemingly moving at its own accord.
I was not so enraptured as to ignore a good enabling rationalization. While perhaps it had not been an explicit fantasy of mine to be seduced by a gorgeous Persian femme fatale, this was clearly a once-in-a-lifetime kind of experience and hopefully, if it came to that, Jennifer would accept it that way. While it wasn't a very good excuse, it was sufficient to allow me to leave my guilt behind as I followed Aliyah towards the stairs. Undoubtedly I could retrieve it on my way out...
Aliyah's tight ass swayed in exaggerated fashion as she sashayed up the sweeping spiral staircase. 'I've seen this a dozen times in porn videos,' I thought, 'and now I'm living it!'
I had another moment of doubt as I watched her impossibly perfect ass sway inches from my face. No panty lines there to mar the smooth magnificence of those taut orbs – and no way this could possibly be happening – could it? No matter. I was going to play this hand a little while longer. I could feel the saliva literally pooling in my mouth as I imagined running my tongue between those shimmering cheeks in front of me. Any doubts about my ability to perform vanished instantly.
When I crested the top of the stairs, I looked around for Aliyah. I was confronted by a long curving hallway, with more plush white carpet and "museum-quality" walls fading into the distance like some kind of De Chirico painting. Light poured out of one doorway and I moved towards it.