In memory of Tura Satana (1938 – 2011)
star of
Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill!
It has been two years since Tsovinar had lost her husband to a Kurdish raiding party and the day her lover was murdered she found herself kneeling on the earthen floor of her hut, a harvest of apricots around her knees, Hayk's cock throbbing in her hands. The eighteen year old lay on his back, his cock erect and pulsing in the warm afternoon air. She had positioned herself between his legs and paused only momentarily from placing soft kisses against its velvet head to gaze up the long, mountainous slope that was Hayk's rock hard body and into his lust-fueled eyes. Younger flesh. Younger guns. It was nice to have someone so open to her advances.
Hayk's balls lay heavily in her hand. In Armenian the term is
"amorji."
Much nicer, Tsovinar thought, than the sterile English
"testicles."
Hayk's were big enough so she couldn't get the whole thing in her mouth at one go. But she had found, with a little experimenting, that if she simply sucked one of the swollen hen-eggs into her mouth at a time the lad would still shiver all over and the shaft of his cock would strain against its flesh imprisonment, as if it meant to rip itself right out from the crotch of the young man and punch a hole in the thatching of her roof.
Tsovinar spent a long time amusing herself with her lover's
amorji.
As the old saying goes, pleasure is found in the liquor of others and Hayk had a John Barleycorn the older woman loved getting drunk on. She could taste just the beginnings of it, that sweet clear teardrop, as she swirled her tongue around the head of his cock. A diet of apricots and teenage cum had left her feeling invincible.
Maybe that was the problem. Too much fucking makes anyone cocky. Even a thirty-eight year old Armenian widow. Tsovinar and her young buck. Nothing lasts forever, especially in 1914 Ottoman Turkey.
But what can anyone know of the future? Especially when you are about to make your lover cum?
When she was ready Tsovinar licked her way up his shaft once again, covering the head with her entire mouth and – gag reflexes be damned – drove it down her throat as far as possible. Hayk quivered. She placed a hand on his belly and could feel tectonic plates shifting deep within, magma bubbling to the surface. She pulled her head back so her lips released the tip but after a moment to wipe the slobber from her chin when right back down. Tongue, lips and tonsils: she massaged his cock with all three. Hayk was moaning, saying how grateful he was, how this made him feel, how she was the the best cock sucker in all of Anatolia.
"I'm probably the only cock sucker in Anatolia," Tsovinar thought. Oral sex was unheard of in turn-of-the-century Turkey, both by its Muslim majority and Christian minority. But the older woman had gone to school in Paris, where Kama Sutra foreplay was an art that was taught often and everywhere she had gone.
As if to reward her for her hard work, the young man began gasping and making tiny bull-snorts through his nostrils: "I'm close, I'm close, I'm so close--"
Tsovinar pulled back as she opened her mouth and stuck out her tongue. Hayk grabbed his cock in both hands and worked it furiously while he exploded, molten lava coating her tongue, her chin and across his belly. She smiled as she ran a finger in one of the hot, gummy pools that lay near his naval, placed the finger in Hayk's mouth and grinned as he swallowed it.
The two lay still for a while, the older woman's cheek still pressed against his knee, watching her young buck's cock slowly deflate. Glancing up she saw that his face was irresponsible and happy the way all eighteen year old faces are when they are filled with wonder and desire after a particularly toe curling orgasm. Tsovinar, in turn, was glowing by this attention, the way anyone in love is entertained and delighted after giving someone so much pleasure.
Through the long sunny day Tsovinar had parried his love-talk skillfully, enjoying herself, as she had been doing since she first laid eyes on him the year before, high up in the Anti-Taurus Mountains. So they had relished the lazy morning and afternoon as they passed in each others' arms, but twice lately she had glanced across the low tree-tops of her garden, down the trail to where the mountains descended into the hazy plain far below.
"I think I must go back now," said the young man, not wanting to leave or even move. This was the only thing that irritated Tsovinar about taking a young lover. Older men roll over and sleep. This young man would suddenly need to "get home," as if that post-coital buzz confirmed in him that sex with someone who looked, more or less, like his mother's lost twin, was somehow problematic. She knew that wasn't the only reason he constantly tried to slip, first his hand and then his cock, up her skirt, but the first time he cried out
"Mama-jan"
as he exploded deep inside her made her cum even more. Moments like that made her regret she never had had a child of her own.
"Oh?" she said, watching in amusement as the cum in his pubes began to dry into library paste. "Well, if you think it is so late."
Tsovinar rolled onto her back, scattering apricots. Her yellow handkerchief had come untied and strands of her black hair had fallen loose. The round fruit was heaped thick and she idly played with two plump apricots, rolling them across her palm, comparing them in her mind to the boy fruit she had just spent her time sucking on.
"It is not too late, precisely ... not too," he began wistfully.
"No, it is not," Tsovinar agreed, consulting what sky she could see from floor of her hut. "We still have three hours before the sun goes down."
He brightened and propped himself up on his elbows. The afternoon was heavy and warm and after such a strenuous endeavor the idea of getting dressed seemed a bit silly.
"But after the sun goes down it is so very dark on the trail back to the town," he observed, as if no one had ever thought of this before.
"I could never believe you are afraid of the dark."
"Of course I fear nothing, Tsovinar-jan," he quickly said. "It is only there are so many holes one might fall into."
"Shat lav!"
Tsovinar laughed,
"Very good."
Suddenly she felt like teasing him. "Do you know, Hayk-jan, I think that mustache of yours will be beautiful in a five or six years. And you have a good figure for someone who does so little work."
The delightful thing about Hayk was that he took everything so seriously.
"What? I am much stronger than last year," he began. "My arm--"
"Yes, I can see. I am not sure I shall let you fuck me any more. You didn't offer to when you met me this morning – and then they will gossip in the town that poor Tsovinar the Widow can't even get beautiful boys to throw her skirts over her hips and mount her like a ram on an ewe in rutting season."
"But," the other began, "we just did."
"No, you came like a fountain but my swamp is still dry. Look, it took so long to make you cum that my apricots are still not sorted out."
Hayk rolled on top of her and Tsovinar could feel his cock beginning to swell again at the prospects of riding her once more.
Tsovinar laughed and looked up at the broad shoulders and wild hair that blocked out the sky and filled her with joy. She had yet to open her legs but with a finger she traced one of his hairless nipples.
"Oh no, Hayk-jan. If you got me on my back I would end up with fruit pulp in my hair. If you want to stay with me, then please help me. Go bring me some fresh water. The barrel is almost empty."
"Water?"
The tip of his cock rested against Tsovinar's closed girl-lips. Despite her claim to owning a dry swamp Hayk found her very wet and giving off an amazing heat. If only she opened her legs a little, he knew, with a slight push, he could easily sheath his entire eight and a half inches deep inside her.
Hayk gazed ardently down at her upturned face. A riot of teenage hormones and emotions was flooding through him. Part of him wanted to throw her legs over his shoulders, grab her hips and rudely fuck away until she was screaming in wanton pleasure. But another part held this in check: that she did look so much like his mother – the same hourglass shape hips, the same heavy breasts with blood-brown nipples, the same streak of silver running through her mane of black – that he readily agreed to do whatever it was she asked. Get water? He would get water.
Especially if she followed through on what she hinted at earlier that day. She was going to open the dark secrets of her ass up to him. Perhaps. If he behaved.
"Very well, then," said he finally, rolling off her and looking about for his trousers. "If you like this better, finish the apricots and I'll go for the water," but he paused when he saw her look over his shoulder and did not move and asked, "why do you look down the trail so often?"
"Because Anahit said there had been reports that the Kurds have been attacking farms on the other side of our mountain," she replied, softly.
"What? You have been thinking of Kurds at a time like this?" Hayk was a lovely boy and a great fuck but he tended to be a bit of a drama queen when he felt like it. Especially if he felt his beloved wasn't paying full attention to him. "Your sister told you that?"
"Yes." Tsovinar shaded her eyes and looked where the foothills separated, giving a view of the distant dry lands. Many rivers and streams, crooked and straight, came out of the mountains, but they all ceased before they reached the desert. Beyond, far to the south, were the empty dunes and hills of the wasteland called Der ez Zor. That was a world without even a sparkle of a mirage to refresh one's thirst, nor a hint of a lie of rain to dampen the baked, cheating dirt. She stared for a moment at the terrible distance and then grabbed the young man in her athletic arms and kissed his broad back over and over until he giggled. She liked boys with a bit of the fey in them.
"Why would they come up here for?" demanded Hayk, half dressed, looking for a boot.
"The Kurds? Raiding. Ever since the army stopped interfering with them they have become bolder and bolder."
Hayk considered this as he leaned against the water-barrel to force his foot into the bunglesome boot.
Tsovinar could feel him watching her naked body as she stood and began looking for own clothes, her silver crescent ear-rings swinging with the slight tilting of her head. His fingers, forgotten and unguided by his thoughts, rubbed at the ever-growing bulge in the front of his trousers as she bent down, her great plum-shaped cheeks spreading open, the dim bud of her ass momentarily visible. She could hear him humming as she dressed herself, a popular folk tune no doubt taught to him by his own mother years and years ago, a song by the famous troubadour Sayat Nova. Tsovinar hummed along, inattentively, busy with her skirt:
"Fools, like fire and heat,
scorch everything and burn;
but love, like water sweet,
a desert into a garden turns ..."
After a while he put stopped and asked: "have they been seen up here recently?"
"Not recently. We still have soldiers in the barracks in the town. Not everyone has been sent off to war."
"I heard a man in the village Havmets say the Young Turks are losing the war against Russia and England," Hayk began.
"That would be a pity," Tsovinar replied automatically, ignoring all questions of politics and Young Turks. "Hayk, aren't you going to get my water for me?"
