In Search Of Tamar Ch 2

I got off the bus at the hot, dusty town of Be'er Sheva and checked my luggage in a locker. There was one taxi standing outside the bus station. I asked the middle-aged, bald driver:

"Do you speak English and how many years have you been driving taxi?"

"Yes and 25 years. Why is this important?"

"I need someone who knows Be'er Sheva well to help me find someone. Do you know where the Ya'akov family lives and can you take me there now?"

The taxi driver introduced himself as Ronin and offered me a Time cigarette. Taxi drivers are the same all over the world – compulsive talkers. It must be the captive audience. Ronin discussed the state of the shekel, how the

haredim

(ultra-orthodox Jews) were taking away everybody's idea of a fun time and gave me a short history of Be'er Sheva from Avraham to the Likud Party. Ronin had the time to expound on all these topics because the Ya'akovs' home was a large villa on the outskirts of the town. I went up to the gate but nobody answered the intercom. I went back dejectedly to the taxi and told Ronin:

"Nobody's there."

"You didn't ask me if anyone was home. Yishai Ya'akov only lives there when the Knesset isn't sitting or he isn't cooking up some deal in the back rooms. I've only seen him come back to Be'er Sheva at

Pesach

and

Yom Kippur

. Oh, also he throws a great party at

Purim

. So, tell me, what do you want with one of our politicians?"

As if I could have gotten a word in edgewise when Ronin was talking and wagging his finger. Ronin looked like a decent guy, even if he talked too much, so I decided to take him into my confidence. I explained that I was looking for Tamar Ya'akov because I had met her five years ago and had fallen in love with her in three short weeks. I explained that her father had taken her away from me when she dropped me off at the airport. The last place she had been stationed during her army service was here in Be'er Sheva. Ronin just shook his head.

"Do you know that Yishai Ya'akov would turn you over to Shin Bet for another interrogation if he'd been in that house and you came looking for his daughter? You have to carry out your search in a more indirect, Israeli fashion. I suggest that you try some of Tamar's friends who might know where she would be now. Most of her school friends left Be'er Sheva after their army service but Delilah Toledano still lives here. Why don't you find out if Delilah knows anything?"

Ronin began a lecture on another subject, of which he was the greatest expert: how there were no opportunities for young people in Be'er Sheva. We drove to another villa in the same expensive neighbourhood. He let me out and closed the taxi's door.

"I can tell Delilah's at home because the gate is open. I'll leave you here for a couple of hours. It's my lunch break and I take

ha'atzorim

(siesta) after lunch. We'll settle up the fare when I pick you up. Have a nice chat with Delilah."

A woman opened the door in response to my knocking. It wasn't just a woman but a very beautiful woman. I judged that she was, indeed, in her mid-twenties, the same age as Tamar. She had the black hair, brown eyes and olive skin of a

Mizrachi

(Eastern) Jew. Her black hair was expensively coifed, I could tell even though I know nothing about hair styling. Most men don't know their hair styles except they know what they like. Well, maybe Mr. Bruce at the Whitehorse Beauty Salon knows hair styles but I'm clueless.

The woman was petite, slim but well built in the chest, as are most Israeli women. I could make out her protruding tits, even though she was wearing a rather shapeless caftan. Damn, these Israeli women must sport the biggest tits on earth. I stopped ogling the woman and got down to business.

"Do you speak English and are you Delilah Toledano?" I asked.

"Yes and yes. Who are you and how may I help you?"

"My name is Chris. I'm from Canada and I'm a friend of Tamar Ya'akov. I'm told that you went to school with Tamar and that you were still friends when she was posted here in Be'er Sheva. Can you help me find Tamar? I haven't seen her for five years."

"Yes, Chris. Tamar talked a lot about you when she was posted in Be'er Sheva. Please come inside, I'll put on the

finjan

and we'll talk about Tamar over coffee."

I sat down in the living room and surveyed Delilah's house while she performed the coffee ritual in the kitchen. The house was cool from the

masgan

(air conditioning) despite the midday plus 30 degree temperature outside. The Italian marble tile floor was barely visible beneath the oriental carpets scattered around. The walls were decorated with Arab brasswork. I had the distinct impression that I had stumbled into the pasha's harem. What wasn't covered by hammered brass was covered by expensive oil paintings bearing the names of European artists. The TV, sound system and other electronics were likewise imported. Nothing was Israeli-made; it all spoke of money and lots of it.

Delilah finally came in bearing a silver tray with a coffee set and two small ceramic cups. I detected a slight rattle of the coffee set. Were Delilah's hands betraying nervousness? She sat down beside me, making sure that her thigh was jammed hard against mine. She poured a tiny cup for each of us, indicating that there was more sugar if I needed it. I took a sip and braced myself for the onslaught of bitter coffee mixed with enough sugar to make a small cake. The coffee was so sweet that it made my teeth ache and so strong that my ears buzzed. At least I was at full alert for any clues Delilah might give me to Tamar's whereabouts.

"I really can't tell you much that can help you. When Tamar came back to Be'er Sheva, she finished her army service as a lowly guard at Avraham's Well. I only spoke to her a couple of times because her family kept her on a tight leash. Mr. Ya'akov thought that I was a little too unreligious for his little girl. OK, I was kind of wild when I was in high school but that's no reason to hate me. I never put up with my parents interfering in my life the way Tamar's parents did in hers. I suppose that's why she left Be'er Sheva, to get out from under her father's thumb. I wouldn't go to Eilat to help that fat cow, Sarah, run her tour company. I mean, there's no money in the travel business and everyone knows that Sarah is a little bit slow and no fun."

"Excuse me, who is Sarah?"

"Sarah Liebowitz, Chris. I apologize. Be'er Sheva is such a small place that I assume an outsider knows everybody here the same way we do. Sarah Liebowitz is the only Ashkenazi who hung out with us Mizrachis in the

gymnasium

(high school). I never thought Sarah fit in with us, and it wasn't just because her parents were Russian. She was so fat and awkward and my friends were all so good-looking, like Tamar. Tamar seemed to see something in Sarah, although I don't know what. Tamar was the one who always stood up for Sarah and insisted that she be part of our clique. No wonder, when Sarah needed help with her business, Tamar was the only one who responded. I really don't know what happened down in Eilat because I lost touch with them both. I know this hasn't been very helpful to you, Chris."

"It's been more helpful than you can imagine, Delilah. I learned things about Tamar from you that I never knew before. That's just like her, to try and love the unlovable and help the helpless."

"Well, Tamar is really in love with you. She told me all about how you met just by accident. Tamar thinks you are the sweetest, kindest man in the world. She said that what you lacked in intelligence you more than made up with your, how do you say it in English, physical attributes. Now, why don't you tell me about your night in Haifa?"

I had all the information I needed and some that I didn't. Apparently every woman in Israel had the impression I wasn't too bright. I wanted to go because Delilah was getting into an area I didn't want to discuss. On the other hand, I would insult Delilah greatly by leaving. Things move at their own pace in the Middle East and the coffee ceremony had to run its course before I could leave.

So, I tried steering the conversation to some innocuous small talk with my hostess about life in Israel compared to that in Canada, hoping that the opportunity would come for a face-saving opportunity to leave. Delilah always kept returning to how I met Tamar and the details surrounding our short-lived affair. I wasn't any match for this manipulative woman. I told her everything in detail. When I finished with the story about our separation at the airport, Delilah put her manicured hand on mine and said:

"It must have been heartbreaking for you both, to find love and to lose it in such a short space of time."

Well, you know how it is. Her hand on my hand, a word of sympathy and I'm a slave to any woman. We put our arms around each other and Delilah began her process of comforting my broken heart with an open-mouthed kiss. The tips of our tongues played around each other and then I thrust my tongue as deep into her mouth as I could. Delilah thrust back and wouldn't stop until I broke away for air.

We both rested our heads on each other's shoulder. I breathed in a subtle whiff of expensive French perfume. I already knew Delilah had money but I didn't know why she would wear such expensive perfume in the middle of the day. Certainly it wasn't for my benefit, since I hadn't told Delilah that I would be visiting. The milkman on this route must be one lucky guy, I figured.

I didn't have the opportunity to ponder for long the meaning of Delilah's perfume. Delilah was unbuttoning my shirt, which I was wearing Israeli-style with no tie and one button open. She was running her hand admiringly over my chest hairs. I slid my hand up along her outer thigh and past her hips. Delilah didn't wear panties underneath her caftan. I managed to one-hand the brassiere hooks open. The speed with which the ends parted indicated that the brassiere cups were carrying one heavy load. And they were. I brought my hand around to discover what I had just liberated from the bra. The Song of Songs describes an Israeli woman's breasts as

rimonim

(pomegranates) but I had my left hand on a plump, luscious

avatiach

(watermelon).

Delilah sighed as I massaged her breast, working my way underneath her capacious brassiere until I had her nipple between my thumb and forefinger. I massaged her erect nipple gently to increasing volume from Delilah. Her concentration was remarkable because while I was scouting tit territory, Delilah undid my belt and zipper and was exploring my jockey shorts.

"So, it's not true that all the

shaigetz

(Gentile boys) wear boxer shorts. And what a remarkable

zain

you have. Tamar hinted about its size but I never expected anything like this. I thought that she was just trying to make me jealous, the same way she humiliated me by correcting my English in front of all my friends."

Probably, I should have defended Tamar but I had sex on my mind. I slowly moved my hand down Delilah's waist, and paused on her hip. I think that her tits constituted the only soft tissue on her body. Delilah was solid and muscular, probably the result or regular workouts. She had kept in shape from her Army days. I went for Delilah's crotch and she eagerly parted her legs. Her bush was drenched. Actually, her bush was trimmed and combed. Did her hairdresser style Delilah's bush as well as her head?

Delilah began breathing faster in response to my massaging her wet mound. I parted her pussy lips and slowly ran my finger up her slit to just below her clitoris. While I was playing with Delilah's parts, she was slowly massaging my dick. She wasn't rough with it as so many young women are. This woman apparently knew her dick.

"Please, give me some of that big

zain

of yours," Delilah panted.

A foreigner should always be courteous when travelling, especially in a politically troubled area. Not wanting to disappoint my hostess, I removed my clothes. Delilah took off her caftan and her brassiere. I looked at the couch. That kind of material is absolutely impossible to remove the pecker tracks. Wouldn't that be something for her husband to discover when he got home? I looked around and there was too much brasswork and paintings hanging on the wall for a wall job. Then I spotted it - a beautiful antique walnut table in the dining area. There was just a small budvase with a fresh rose in it. There was plenty of room on the table for a fornication.

I lifted Delilah easily and carried her over to the table. Her workouts were effective in keeping the weight off her. I placed her on the table and she lay flat on her back. I got between her legs. Delilah lifted her ass slightly and brought up her legs for the lay. I bent down and put her slim but muscular thighs on my shoulder. Then I parted Delilah's pussy lips with one hand and ran my tongue up her slit. There was something odd about Delilah's taste. I finally put my finger, or rather my tongue, on exactly what it was. Delilah used flavoured douche! Watermelon, I believe it was. She was expecting a tongue job today.

I continued running my tongue up and down right up to her clit. Delilah moaned more and more as I kept tickling her slit from the cunt to just below her clit. When I judged that the moans had reached the critical stage, I ran my tongue gently over the top of her clit. Delilah gave a scream of surprise, shuddered and said "Don't stop." I held on to her thighs and kept sliding my tongue over her erect clit until she stopped convulsing with pleasure.

I stood up, grabbed my dick and pushed it into her cunt. It slid in so easily that I knew it wasn't because Delilah was so well lubricated. She really wasn't very tight. That surprised me because the petite women I had the pleasure of fucking weren't built for big dick. I usually had to fight to get it in. This time, it was like sliding a knife through butter. Delilah was one fucked-out woman. I was all the way in when Delilah pinned me in the back with her tiny feet.

"OK, pound that pussy. Fuck me hard baby. Really give it to me."

I started pounding and pounding Delilah on the table for what seemed like an eternity. The woman just couldn't seem to come. I wondered whether my dick was losing its magic when Delilah said:

"Hit me. I want to be fist fucked."

I'm ashamed to admit it but I took Delilah up on her offer. Maybe it was because she bad-mouthed Tamar to my face. Maybe it was because I was beginning to despise this spoiled rich kid and the way she had seduced me. I laid a wallop on the side of her head. She screamed half in pain and half in delight. Delilah came immediately and kept coming and coming in waves of orgasms. Obviously, my punch hit the right button for her. Despite the disgust with this woman and the disgust with myself that welled up inside me, I came when Delilah started thrashing and bucking on the table as her orgasms subsided.

I pulled out my dick, letting a steady stream of assorted liquids flow on to the table. Delilah lay panting on her back. I heard a horn honking outside.

"I have to get going now, Delilah. That's my taxi outside."

"Please, can't you stay with me tonight? Mossi won't be back until the weekend. I'll make you a great cous-cous and we can drink some French wine I've been saving for a romantic occasion. I'll light candles all around the bed…"

Mossi. I had heard that name once before in the course of a very unpleasant encounter with the gentleman. Plus, Delilah was a Moroccan, as I could tell from her style of cuisine. It could mean only one thing.

"Is your married name Bar-Lévi?"

"Of course. Didn't you know that I married Mossi after he dumped your Tamar? Tamar finished her army service and left town long before Mossi got out of jail. I suspect that really she wanted to avoid any confrontation with Mossi. We Moroccans don't take insult very easily. Personally, I wouldn't mind at all if Mossi carved up Tamar Ya'akov. It was always an insult to me the way she was more popular in high school than I, Delilah Toledano, was. And the way she got such good marks, she was always raising the curve for those of us who wanted to have a good time. Now I've got both her ex-boyfriend and her present boyfriend. Do you know what Tamar did to mess up my life in our last year of high school? Well, she…."

This was getting nasty. I had to interrupt Delilah before she got on my case. "Uh, you mentioned that Mossi won't be home tonight. How can you be so sure that we'll be enjoying your cous-cous without Mossi's fine company?"

"When Mossi got out of jail, my father pulled a few strings and healed his ego by getting him a middle-management job in government. I, of course, mended his broken heart by my expertise in bed. Mossi was so grateful to both his benefactors that he married me and works day and night in my father's department. Mossi spends all week working in Jerusalem and he's only here on the weekend. You could spend three days with me and I'm sure that you'll want to after I'm finished with you tonight."

"Uh, I'm sure as well, Delilah. Can you excuse me for a minute? I owe the taxi driver some money. I'll be back right away."

As I headed out to the taxi, my survival instinct kicked in. Delilah wasn't a friend of Tamar. Delilah was Tamar's worst enemy and I had to get out of this place. I ordered Ronin to smoke his tires and get me on a bus to Eilat.

"You never told me that Delilah's married name was Delilah Bar-Lévi."

"You never asked."

"But don't you see the mess I'm in now? First I fucked Mossi's girlfriend and now I've fucked his wife. If he ever finds out I'm in Israel and what I've did on his dining room table, I'm dead meat."

"I know you think it's a remarkable accomplishment for a

goy

on a short visit to Israel to fuck the richest woman in Be'er Sheva. But relax. Everyone, except for Mossi, knows Delilah is the bicycle of Be'er Sheva. If Mossi ever tried to take out his revenge on every man who poked his

zain

in Delilah, he would have to kill almost man in Be'er Sheva, from her personal trainer to the mayor, before he ever got around to you. I think the

alte zaken

man (junk dealer) and I are the only men who haven't had a ride. We're beneath Delilah's social standing. And don't feel sorry for Mossi because he has Delilah for his wife. Every time the man's been in my taxi, he's frosted me on a tip."

Ronin started a long discourse about how he could tell a man's character from the type of tip they gave. Do you know that Israeli scientists had just proven that stinginess was associated with bad character and a host of personality disorders? We arrived at the bus station. I was just in time to get my luggage and get on the bus to Eilat. For helping me to escape from Delilah and to make sure I got me a good character reference if anyone asked, I gave Ronin a good tip.

I sat on the shady side of the bus and let the

masgan

flow over my face. I needed to cool off. I was angry with Delilah for fooling me into thinking she was Tamar's friend. I was angry with myself for hitting a woman. I have never hit a woman in anger, never mind in the throes of passion. Delilah had to be the worst lay of my life. Israel was an amazing country. Despite its small size, it had provided me the best and the worst fucks of my life.

In conclusion, I don't regret that I didn't go back to

bet Bar-Lévi

for a wild evening of cous-cous, candlelight and cunt. After all, women who work out that much tend to be lousy cooks. Besides, I wouldn't have any appetite wondering how many guys Delilah fucked on the surface where my plate was sitting. If she asked me to hit her again when we were fucking, likely I think I might kill her, I was starting to dislike her that much. I decided to take a nap and hoped that I would find out more about Tamar in Eilat.