I first met Mohammad when I was a girl. He was 15 years older than me. I was 16 and he was the senior mechanic in my Dad's garage in Tel Aviv.
I remember watching his body, as he would sweat under the boiling Middle Eastern sun. He would put down his wrench, peel off his shirt, and then grab a Cola, which he would drink in the yard. I would finger myself and cum all over my pants at the site of Mohammad pressing the cold, chilled bottle again his chest, forehead and lips. God, he was beautiful and even then I knew I wanted him, and would have him one day.
It was a particularly dreary day a few years later, in downtown Tel Aviv and very, very quiet. The mood was somber because of all the fighting and nobody really wanted to party while so many young people were being killed. But cars still broke down and Dad's garage was as busy as could be.
Mohammad was the senior mechanic and had never taken a course on how fix anything in h is entire life. "He was a natural," Dad would say, about Mohammad's skill in the garage.
I would watch this 6-foot Adonis at work and understood what Dad had meant. Every car was different to Mohammad, "like a women," he would say. "Every breast feels different and every pussy tastes different. In a car, the prrh of the engine is never the same, and the drive is always individual."
When Mohammad would start working on the Saabs, he would dance with delight at their complexity and the engineers who had obviously attempted to stump the mechanic with its problems. Man, when he was fixing a Mercedes limo (of which Israel has many), he would yell in Arabic, "I love this woman!" Everyone would watch Mohammad conduct his repairs to the gearbox like he was leading a symphony. He was Zubin Mehta and the Israeli Philharmonic, and his wand was a flathead screwdriver.
I swear when he worked on the American cars he would cum. I saw Mohammad as he would adjust a belt on a 69' Ford Mustang. His hips would sway like Elvis. Every now and then he would reach down between his legs, with the flat side of a hammer and masturbate himself. His cock must have been 10 inches because that mechanic's uniform shot forward like an F-16 Eagle doing its vertical takeoff.
I was sitting behind Dad's desk and peering through the one way mirror (ya, he was worried about his employees. War sucks). I wanted Mohammad to entertain me and he must have known I was there, because he complied.
Slowly he pulled off the upper part of the uniform and his chest, arms and stomach rippled like the egg bread on Shabbat. Man, Mohammad exuded an inspiring physical character unlike I had ever encountered. Man, Woman, Arab, Jew, American, Swedish. I have been with all of them in the army but never met anyone like this man.
(I remember laughing when I had seen the advertisement for the underwear man in the United States. They found this boy, who was cocky and had bad muscle development. I laughed because my Mohammad would put that little wiener to shame).
My Arab Sheikh kept on dancing to the hmmm of the engine. He lowered his pant to the level of his cock and then teasingly, pulled them up again. I was dying. My pussy was so wet and I started fingering myself. Somehow I locked the door to Daddy's office and didn't answer when a couple of the other junior mechanics tried to get in for something.
Mohammad finally lowered the khakis and revealed that tool I had been waiting to see for a long time now. He was wearing funky boxer shorts, and his cock was pushing against the material like it was an escapee from a refugee camp. It was huge and I wondered how he didn't fall into unconsciousness when he got an erection. God gave the giraffes protection in their neck, so they wouldn't get fatal blood flow upon lowering their necks; what had he done for Mohammad.
His pants came off and the other mechanics – Jews, Muslims and Christians – were cheering the senior guy on. His legs were the kind you see in magazines. They were long, muscular and very hairy. So masculine. I felt on the verge of coming. Even his feet were magnificent, as they danced around the floor protected by the standard Israeli sandal. I wanted to get down on the oil greasy floor and suck the hell out of those toes.
He was making me hotter than ever and I just loved to watch him. One of the mechanics turned up the song on the radio and it was Stevy Ray Vaughn playing a guitar lick that mimicked an orgasm.
The music was blaring, the mechanics are yelling and dancing and the Mercedes Engine hummed along in its proper German way. As I was about to explode all over my hand and Daddy's desk, Mohammad yanked out his big Arab pipe and set about stroking it to the rhythm of all the noise. And the music played on, and Mohammad's cock was as big as camel's cock – dessert huge! (Deutoronomy)
I couldn't believe what I was seeing. It was surreal and a really good time. I couldn't help thinking through all the craziness – why couldn't we all get along like this. A good Israeli-Arab orgy just might clean things up. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. What a waste.
Suddenly he stopped, as did the mechanics and the music. The Mercedes played on.
Everyone turned to the one-way mirror and slowly, but most deliberately began to move toward it. I shuttered, and felt my cunt swell up as I fingered myself with four of my digits. They closer they came toward me, the more my muscles contracted. My pussy dripped my juices all over the office. I was soaked.
I could hear them playing with the lock and I reached around and stuck a finger up my derriere…. then two, then three and four. The door was locked but it was jiggling The gate hinges had become dislodged and I watched as this old wooden gate fell away as it should have years ago.
In walked the pack, lead by Mohammad – the virile soldier. He smiled at me a full set off teeth and licked his lips. His eyes were sparkling.
