This is the final part of my Fatima trilogy, featuring the Iranian woman Masoumeh, who was introduced in Part 1. It is a true story, which I have adjusted only to fit a more linear timeframe. I have kept it in this section, because it was really all about the women - even if I do play my part...
14
When Masoumeh got in touch with Fatima to tell her that she and her husband Karim would be coming over to England for a few days after Easter, she immediately shared the news with Hunter. The fact that they weren't looking for a place to stay was made clear from the outset by the Iranian woman telling them that they would be staying in their 'usual suite' at the Dorchester. Hunter thought that was a nice touch, while Fatima was rather more ambivalent about what she thought bordered on the unnecessarily boastful.
While neither of them mentioned it, each was privately wondering whether Karim was the sort of person who would be up for a little 'experimentation.' From what they had seen of his wife, neither Hunter nor Fatima harboured much doubt that she would love to play away from home. The only question was whether her tastes would encompass Fatima in addition to Hunter. Hunter was convinced they would, while Fatima couldn't get past the barrier created by the Sunni and Shi'ite divide.
In the event, the way things panned out surpassed the wildest dreams of all of them, always excepting Karim, who had to curtail his stay in the British capital to travel back to Paris. As soon as Fatima learned from Masoumeh that she would be on her own for her last night in England, she talked with Hunter and they decided that this would never do. A couple of phone calls later and the beautiful Iranian was in a taxi on her way to the leafy suburb where Hunter and Fatima lived.
She arrived, together with a suitcase that Hunter thought was more befitting of a three-month sojourn than a three-day stay, at around seven o'clock in the evening, having spent the day stocking up with items from Harrod's and Fortnum and Mason's. Ever the gentleman, Hunter was on hand to help her with her baggage. Fatima came out from the kitchen, where she was preparing dinner, and the two women greeted one another with kisses that landed squarely on the cheeks, much to Hunter's delight. He could only see the warmth of the embrace as a harbinger of the intimacy to follow.
Fatima showed Masoumeh to her room and asked her if she would like to freshen up before dinner. The Iranian woman said she hoped she wouldn't be putting them out if she had a shower before dinner and Fatima told her to take her time. Dinner was a very simple affair and it could be served whenever she was ready. Part of Fatima wanted to linger in the room and watch while her guest undressed, but the sensible part of her, understanding that a gratification deferred was a gratification doubled, left the room.
However, instead of returning to the kitchen, she walked along the corridor to her own room, lay down on the bed and got straight to violently frigging herself. She had no concerns that Hunter would walk in, as he had clearly settled down in the sitting room, from where she could hear the strains of Ella Fitzgerald coming from the speakers.
Unzipping her skirt, she loosened it without pulling it down and slipped her hand under her panties. She couldn't believe how wet she already was. She wanted to come quickly; yet she also wanted to prolong the pleasure. It was a difficult balancing act to pull off, and one she was never going to accomplish. The thought of the buxom older woman soaping up her breasts was almost enough to send her over the edge. And when images of the older woman moving her hands to her pussy flashed across Fatima's mind, she was powerless to prevent a tremendous orgasm sweeping through her body.
Meanwhile, just a few doors down, Masoumeh had backed herself up against the tiles of the shower cubicle, engaged in an act of surrender of her own. Her quandary was of a different order to Fatima's. She was battling against two enemies: one was sitting downstairs, probably sipping an aperitif, possibly dealing with the burgeoning erection that her presence in the house had brought on. The other was she knew not where (perhaps in the kitchen, perhaps in the sitting room providing succour to her husband, perhaps in her bedroom, relieving herself of the tension that threatened to disable her).
The Iranian woman spread her legs wide and let her slender index finger penetrate her box, watching the water as it ricocheted off her thighs. Leaving her finger to do its work, she moved her other hand to her clitoris, massaging the nub until it stood tall like an almond. Uttering words in her native tongue, she rubbed it with a ferocity she couldn't remember using since she was a student. Notoriously resistant to achieving orgasm in normal circumstances, she could only marvel at how quickly she was able to bring herself off. It was the double whammy of Fatima's tongue lapping her pussy and Hunter's cock shafting her asshole that had done the damage.
Fatima slipped downstairs, so she would be around when Masoumeh made her appearance. She cuddled up to Hunter on the sofa and listened with him to one of his favourite songs, 'Someone to watch over me.' They were both feeling very languid, almost lethargic, but they understood that could all change after dinner. Or perhaps during dinner. Or even
before
dinner.
They had each been secretly wondering what their guest would choose to wear. That decision would clearly play an important part in the direction the evening would take. In the event, they were wowed by her choice. A light blue tunic-style shirt nipped in at the waist and adorned by a decorative cord belt accompanied washed blue turn-up jeans with a bold floral pattern embroidered into one leg below the knee. On her head she wore a grey hijab in a turban style, below which hung a pair of pearl earrings. But the pièce de resistance was undoubtedly the shoes: light blue heeled pumps with three ankle straps in a mixture of pastel shades, studded with white beads.
Hunter took it all in like a schoolboy, doing his best to cover his embarrassment by fiddling with his fingers and looking past her into the middle distance and then at the bookcase. Fatima was, outwardly, at any rate, far calmer, complimenting her on the ensemble and asking her whether she had bought the shoes in Paris. Masoumeh told her that they were actually Iranian and had been brought to her by a friend who had been visiting Europe.
She went on to comment on Fatima's appearance, telling her how lucky she was to have a figure that allowed her to wear clothes with such easy elegance. Fatima wasn't quite sure how to take the observation, but was pleased at any rate that her simple cream blouse and tan skirt outfit met with their guest's seeming approval.
Over dinner the conversation was lively, ranging from the exhibitions Masoumeh had been to in London (she seemed to know at least one of the owners or curators, or whatever you might call them) to the politics of the Middle East. Masoumeh was vehemently anti-Turkish for reasons that neither Hunter nor even Fatima was able to fathom, such was the speed with which she narrated a series of interlinked stories, where it quickly became impossible to follow the thread.
After railing against some aspect or other of the country's perceived historical or contemporary failings, she would unfailingly add, 'It is just their way!', as if they had little choice in the matter. The third time she said this, Hunter decided it was time to pounce, time, if possible, to change the focus of the conversation.
His parents had a copy of the Persian classic
Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyam
, and, though he had never read it, many was the time that, as a child, he had flicked through the pages to look at the illustrations, which depicted impossibly shapely young women in various states of undress. He would never forget one particular beauty, garbed in nothing more than a pair of hot pants and chunky gold jewellery round neck, wrists and ankles. How could he forget her, when she was the very first image to which he had successfully masturbated?
