The Arab Marylin Monroe

Her name was Sabine. She looked like a punk version of Marilyn Monroe. Sabina's platinum blonde hair had dark roots -- the intentional kind. It was short, but long enough for a few sensual waves, which would fall upon her pretty face as she spoke to her friend.

I had seen her walk in and sit at a table near the windows. She was wearing a plaid shirt, baggy pants and army boots, but her makeup and manicure were perfect, and underneath the manly plaid were some devastating curves, from the looks of her cleavage. She was animated, pushing a curl away and stealing glances at me from across the café. It seemed they were talking about me. I smiled.

I was waiting for the Ithzak Perlman concert to start at L'Opera, and too soon, it was time to leave. I passed by her table on the way out, and, (compulsively, as I am normally not so brave, or gay), bent down and said 'You're gorgeous," to her in French -- "Vous etes ravissante." I got as close to her as I dared, murmuring into her lovely hair. She wore a light fragrance - some exotic, musky blend of vanilla, sandalwood and patchouli.

She looked up at me and smiled, a look of mischief playing in her almond eyes. I felt a twittering sensation in my lower belly -- arousal. She took my hand and opened it. Her pink fingernails had been filed to rounded points and definitely of the real variety, pressed a café napkin into my hand. My heart in my mouth, I hoped that I managed to smile back before bolting out.

Once out of her sight line, I opened the note. Meet me at midnight at La Pulpe, it read, in French. I sniffed it. It smelled like her -- good - really fucking yummy. That was about when I knew that my boyfriend was just not that important to me, and that maybe I was bisexual. At twenty five, I had no problem attracting boyfriends. So I was a bit surprised to be standing outside Parisian cafe in the midst of an unintentional lesbian encounter that was making me very excited, while my boyfriend sat alone in our hotel.

But how had I found myself in this predicament? It was his fault. He'd insisted on roundtrip flights from New York to Paris, in order to go to Switzerland. Paris flights were much cheaper, but the city reminded him of his ex girlfriend, the one that he was still in love with. It was also my favorite city on Earth. My insistence on spending a few days there had infuriated him. We'd negotiated the days to be spent in each place like divorce lawyers deciding child custody.

So it was Rob's fault. Rob refused to leave the hotel in Paris, except to eat.

A word on Rob. He liked to criticize me and lessen my self-esteem. He'd say things like, "Did you ever notice how your nose is slightly crooked from this angle?" 'You know, you really should let me do the thinking" "Have you gained weight?" Damn, I'm 5"11, and I'm lean, weighing in at 140, with my waist-long black hair probably an eighth of that weight. I could have been a model if the job didn't bore me -- I had had many offers, and even won contests in my teens, but the lifestyle didn't interest me. I preferred a job that required my brains, which, with an IQ of 155, I would certainly be wasting by being bored and looking pretty all day.

Yet Rob's criticisms were insidious, because at first I doubted why I should date this older, kinda frumpy guy and by the end he was controlling me. He had gotten the upper hand. Upper hand? What is the sound of one hand clapping? It's probably the sound of the other hand spanking a monkey back at the hotel room. Yes, I was angry.

When I booked the Ithzak Perlman tickets as a surprise for us, I was shocked to hear he didn't care. So I had gone to a cafe, to clear my head with my latest suspense novel until the concert. Sabina. Feeling a little dizzy, I walked on, and my feet took me of their own volition to the nearest kiosk, where I found a local magazine and charted my path from L'Opera to the lesbian nightclub called La Pulpe.

Ithzak Perlman gave a virtuoso performance, but all I could think about during the performance was the Arab version of Marilyn Monroe gone femme-pseudo-grunge. The possibilities were endless. I found myself touching myself, discreetly underneath the concert program, as I thought about her. Little did I know what a treat I was in for.

Bee-lining to La Pulp after the concert, I found Sabine at the bar, bought her a tequila shot, then several more. Before long, she kissed me, and broke me out of my first-time shell. We made out in every corner of the nightclub until four a.m., when they shut it down and streams of women poured out into the streets and back into their closets once again.

"I will meet you tomorrow at lunch," Sabine said, clutching the collar of my coat with both hands as we stood outside the private sanctuary of the club. We were trying not to make out in public, both pushing each other away and pulling each other in with our hands.

"Where should we meet?" I said, my hands around the small of her waist.

"Bistro Le Chat, metro Menilomant, near my house," she said.

"Near Pere Lachaise, yes, I know it." She stole a kiss, apparently pleased.

When I returned to the hotel, my boyfriend was asleep. I tried to be quiet, but woke him as I got under the blankets.

"Did you just get back?" he murmured, looking at the clock, and then me.

"Yeah."

"But it's five am."

"I met a girl," I said.

"What?" He was still murmuring, not fully awake.

"Nothing. Goodnight." I turned the light off and went to sleep, and Rob did not protest.

The next day, Rob wordlessly watched me dress for lunch with Sabina. I donned the new lingerie I'd bought just for him, which had never been worn. Not that we hadn't had an opportunity -- he just hadn't been interested, because he was still pouting about Paris. It was a baby blue lace thong, which highlighted my sweet ass. I can say that because, as much as I hate the objectification of women's bodies, my shapely behind has won prizes. We won't get into that but let's just say that I looked hot in those panties. I examined my round, taut, flawless cheeks in the mirror. Yep. I'd want a ride. Stupid man.

Touching the tips of my small nipples, I wondered if I should go braless or wear the matching lingerie bra. My breast are little and pert, A cup, and there's no real need for support. I decided on no bra, and reached for a white cotton top that would offer the most tantalizing glimpses of fabric clinging to bare breasts. Mmmm. I smiled at myself in the mirror.

"When are you coming back?" Rob asked when I'd finished dressing and had packed an overnight bag, just in case.

"When do we go to Switzerland?"

"Tuesday noon."

"OK, I'll see you by then at the latest," I said. Rob shook his head, but didn't try to stop me. I guess it just didn't bother him that much.

I met Sabine at Le Chat. She was even more gorgeous in the daylight. It was Friday, and she'd been to work already, as an executive assistant. Her hair still looked punky with its dark roots and curls, but it was coiffed. Her black, Egyptian-style eye liner, lipstick, brown business suit and heels were all impeccable. I felt underdressed in my jeans, jean jacket, and white cotton shirt.

We sat side by side with our backs to the sidewalk cafe as is the Parisian style, and our table in front of us, facing the strangers walking past. When we received our menus, Sabina focused on hers, holding it with one hand as she slid her other hand towards my crotch. I hoped it was well below eye-level.

She dragged her nails across the fabric of my jeans, sending up a wicked vibration. I tensed up and she scratched harder, making me gush. I looked over at her with nonchalance. She was smiling, doubtless aware of my condition. I wondered if she was going to go through with this in public. She glanced at me and winked.

Seemingly absorbed in the menu, Sabine crossed her legs under the table and swung them towards me. She then undid my jeans, and, pressing her cold, agile fingers into the hot, wet flesh of my labia, she managed to make me come in under a minute, in full public view, while I tried to focus on my menu with both hands. I'd never in my life done such a shameless, wonderful thing.

"I think I love you," I told her.

"Really. Well then, there's no need for French fare. Why not come to my house for some maghrébin," she said.

I couldn't think of any good reason to say 'no', so we set aside our menus and skipped off to her place, laughing all the way.

Sabine lived in a decent apartment in one of the poorer neighborhoods of Paris. Despite the age and condition of the apartment, her standard of living was so much more comfortable than mine back home -- it was a real crib. There was a couch, but there were also colorful cushions everywhere, as if the room was a cozy Beduin tent instead of a Paris apartment.

Sabine removed her jacket and shoes, and I did the same. We sat on cushions on the floor. Then she got up to put on some music. Sade's sultry voice filled the airwaves.

She returned from her errand with her starched oxford shirt completely unbuttoned. Her gorgeous titties, clad in black lace, peered out at me. Her flat belly was pierced. She dropped her pants onto the floor in a heap and stepped out of them like a panther, her smooth, olive-toned legs inviting me to appreciate her shapely calves and her pedicured feet, painted in the same flamingo shade as her fingernails. As she moved towards me, I caught another whiff of her strangely stirring perfume. Everything about her was a stirring invitation to sensual delight.

"Would you like a Porto?"

"A what?"

"Port wine-- sherry -- from Portugal."

"Yes, thanks. When do you have to be at work?"

"It's a Spanish law firm. We follow the siesta. I work from eight to noon, and go back at three-thirty to seven-thirty."

"Did you sleep at all last night?"

"Two hours, I'm exhausted. But ..."

Sabina turned to a 2x2' little niche built into the wall that served as a minibar to retrieve two glasses and a bottle. She bent down, her delicious breasts dangling like luscious fruits before my eyes. I could see her dark areolas through the lingerie. They were large, like black cherry moons, unlike my own small, pink ones. It took all the restraint I had not reach out like a cad and squeeze the goods. I had to remember to be patient.

She set two port glasses down on a low sofa table. They gleamed with spotless shine in the light of an afternoon sunbeam. Ah, vive la France. Who does that? Who polishes their port glasses?

Sabine uncorked the bottle, and poured two inches of the rich burgundy liquid into each glass.

I was struck for a moment. "Isn't this all kind of radical for an Muslim?" I asked.

I don't think she liked the question very much. Plunging her three middle fingers into her glass, she reached over and smeared my lips and face with the sherry. Laughing, she dipped and smeared again. The wine was dripping off her fingers and off my face, staining our clothes, my white cotton shirt and her white oxford, in deep maroon splotches. And I didn't care.

Sabine licked, and sucked on her fingers. As I watched her moist, pink lips suck, leaving waxy pink stains on her skin, I could feel the wetness saturating my thong. She proceeded to dribble some wine down her arm, and watched me watch her in open lust as her tongue darted in and out, licking and sucking the inside of her forearm as if it was another tender, sensitive place instead.

She moved into my lap and took the taste of the Port from my lips. Here lips were full, rich, moist, and so soft -- it was so unlike kissing a man. The very difference of it made my clitoris throb with anticipation. As she probed my mouth, she pressed her titties against mine. I could feel her nipples through the lace. I came undone and could resist them no longer. I unclasped her bra in the front and, filling my mouth with liquid, placed my mouth over her nipples and sucked the liquid down. Her heavy breasts filled my hands like binoculars as I sucked the port from each purple areola. I was ecstatically aroused.

And she liked it. Moaning, she reached down and felt my wetness through my jeans. I also reached down and confirmed that she was dripping with wetness, sweet Jesus. I cupped my hand at her crotch, just holding the nectar bounty of it. I stroked her lithe, clean shaven legs with both hands meeting at the hollows of her inner thighs. She moaned again. I wanted to kiss her there, in those soft hollows, but she was still straddling me. I reached my fingers underneath her black panties to touch her slippery sweet vulva. Oh! I had never been so turned on. She had no hair down there. It was all just soft, smooth, wet, hot treasure. It was like being with Marilyn Monroe, except, more delicious than the richest, sweetest chocolate truffle.

"Stand up," Sabine said, climbing off me. I was unused to taking commands, but obeyed her. I should have known then that she was a dominatrix, but since I didn't know what that was yet, I hadn't a clue.

"Take these off," she said, unbuttoning my jeans and unzipping the fly. I pushed the pants off, and removed my socks too. Now I was just in my powder blue thong and the white tshirt. Sabina lifted the shirt above me head, and then she stood back and smiled, admiring my lean body while twisting a strand of her platinum locks with her fingers.

"Turn around." I modeled my underwear for her.

"Hard to believe you're American," she said. "You take good care of yourself." Her bra still dangled open, with those luscious tits poking out.

"Yeah, well we're not all fat couch potatoes," I replied, approaching her. I was a good four or five inches taller. I liked that.

"Sit on the couch." I did so.

Sabine rolled off my thong. She did it with art, stroking my thighs and kissing me rolling them down just a little bit at a time, stroking the areas revealed, and then rolling the fabric down a little more. Finally she pulled off the thong entirely. I was nearly mad with the desire to throw her down and fuck her, even though I had no idea what that might look like between two girls. "We will need to give you a haircut," she said. She left the room and came back with a grooming kit, which included scissors and a trimmer. She removed the scissors and snipped them in the air a few times, smiling wickedly.

Shit, I thought. "Maybe I can do it," I said, covering my privates with my hands.

"Trust comes first. Trust before sex. Don't you trust me?" She smiled up at me, winking her lashes coquettishly.

"Your eye makeup is always perfect," I said, stalling. "How do you do that?"

"It's a tattoo," she said, and gently grasped the curls of my pussy in her left hand as she began to snip with the right. "I see you shave your bikini line, but you don't trim yourself?"

"Yeah. It just grows too fast to keep up."

"You should wax it. Makes it so soft, smooth like a baby's skin." She touched herself and then licked her finger. "Mmmm. You like mine?" She dropped her black panties and straddled me on the couch on her knees, bringing her dark pussy to my face level, and guiding my right hand to the glistening folds of her labia. The folds of her pubic skin were dark, almost black, and her clitoris protruded from between those smooth and shining lips, purplish pink and erect, like the pistil of a flower. I could see that tongue trembling as my fingers touched it, ever so gently. I wiped her crease in one stroke with my three middle fingers, and she groaned. I brought my fingers to my lips and tasted her.

It was the first time I'd ever tasted a woman, and I was afraid I wouldn't like it but oh, oh, I liked it so very much, for it tasted like sweet, heavy, nothing. I groaned from the pleasure of eating the nectar of her watery, tasteless juices. I wiped again, with three fingers, and took more, like honey from the pot, sucking greedily on my fingers, with her dark almond eyes locked on mine. God, I wanted her. She pulled away.

"Today we shave only. I will be gentle, darling." She caressed my face with her hand and resumed her task.

I let her. I didn't think she'd hurt me. The blade of the trimmer came within millimeters of my clit, and I shivered a little. She was gentle. Cooing to me, she pushed aside the folds of my vulva and shaved me clean.

"Good. Now let's wash up." Taking me by the hand, she led me through her apartment to the white-tiled bathroom, which featured an old fashioned tub with a clear plastic curtain, all impeccably clean. The tub's showerhead was European-style, removable from its stand for handheld aim. She turned on the cold and hot faucets on either side of the spout and sprinkled bubble bath powder into the tub. 'Get in."

Already naked, I stepped into the tub and sat. Kneeling beside me, her beautiful tits leading the way, Sabine proceeded to shift the water to the showerhead. "Just relax," she said, spraying the warm water over my shoulders and breasts, down my flat belly, and to the area that she'd just shaved, which was now filling up with bubbles. "Here, let's make sure we get all the hair," she said, rubbing me and pushing against my clit, now engorged with desire for her.

"Come in here," I said. "I'm dying to touch you."

Sabine removed her open bra and dropped it onto the floor as she stepped into the tub, smiling. Her feet and legs squeaked against the enamel sides as she climbed in. "Come and touch me then," she said, dropping into the other side of the large clawfoot tub. The water and soapy bubbles smelling faintly of lavender rose to reflect her delicious mass, as soon as I could reach her, I possessed her mouth with mine. I kissed her like she had the oxygen that I was dying for -- that I needed in order to breathe. Her mouth was fresh and sweet, and still tasted of sherry.

My hands closed around her sleek breasts then clasped around her back as I brought her in closer, our wet tits now pressed and sliding against each others, her large ones dwarfing mine, swamping them in a soft sea of lovely curves, hers olive-toned skin against my fairer kind. I brought my legs outside and around her back, as she had done with me.

Now we were crotch to crotch. Oh the sweet joy of it. Could she feel what I felt? Sabine moaned and I pushed myself harder against her. I could feel that little tongue, hard between her lips, pushing against my lips, and my clit growing as well, straining against its limits as if to burst as I pushed even harder against her under water.

"Mon dieu," she said. "What are you doing to me."

"I have no clue," I said. "You are inspiring me in every moment."

I brought the tips of my pink nipples even to touch the tips of her purple ones. They grew immediately erect. Ah, she likes that, I thought, rubbing our nubs against each other more quickly. Our mouths locked again, our tongues searching each other, exploring gums, lips, the surfaces of each other's teeth, occasionally earlobes and inner ear, punctuated by moans. The underwater suction created as our nether lips met, kissed, and parted, added to the sensual ecstasy.

"Come, to bed," she said, rising out of the water and taking me by the hand. She led me, running naked through the house, dripping water everywhere, to her bedroom, where she threw me down on the bed. It was a huge bed, soft and high, with tons of pillows. Parting me legs, she climbed in between them and peered up at me, her magnetic eyes like those of an Egyptian queen. Watching me, she parted her lips and licked me in one long swipe with her tongue. God!

She smiled, reached down, and touched herself, first with a finger, then two, and then she plunged three fingers into herself. She kissed, and then licked the insides of my legs, and then my thighs, and then, moving her hands underneath me, began to do something -- god knows what it was. With her tongue, she licked and teased my throbbing clitoris, sucking down the juices, slurping them and loving it, while another finger, or was it two? Plunged into my vagina in a rhythmic thrust. I thought I would explode when she added the slipper thumb to my anus. Gushing, I came harder than I'd ever come in my whole life. I think I screamed.