(Again, I originally published this story under the name of NewForester, but I now write under the name of Rockycoveboy. I hope you enjoy the story second time around.)
*****
Rabat, the capital of Morocco, situated on the north-western coast of Africa. Its teeming streets, its hot climate, miles and miles of sand, and Atlantic waters, making it a wonderful holiday destination. But Jennifer and Arthur Hudson were here on business, not a holiday. They had flown in that afternoon from Barcelona, were staying at the British Embassy and had an appointment for dinner with the Moroccan Interior Minister the following evening. Hudson was trying to get a foot-hold in the country by offering to finance the building of a complex of holiday apartments and bungalows for the Arabic country and, through the British Embassy, he had managed to get as far as dinner with the Minister. It was a start. His business in Spain had really taken off, and many of the new bungalows and apartments in Barcelona had already been sold there, and if he could get the contract to build a village of holiday homes in Morocco, he would really be able to get a footing in that Continent.
The flight from Barcelona had been only an hour, just a quick hop across the Med., and the two of them then had dinner with the British Ambassador in the evening, before a night-cap and a good night's sleep. Jennifer was exhausted and wanted a good sleep so that she could possibly explore the buzzing street markets, in the surrounding towns, during her free morning the following day, while Hudson discussed his plans with senior people at the Embassy.
Jennifer had been brought to Morocco by Hudson because, not only was she the wife of Hudson's main building contractor, but he knew that if anyone could 'smooth' the way to him getting the OK for his ventures, then Jennifer could. Previous wonderful experiences with Jennifer had shown that she could be submissive and obedient, and could be manipulated quite easily into erotic situations, and Hudson was aware that if he asked her, she would engage all the necessary dignitaries in polite and 'interesting' conversation, and also dress in suitable clothes in order to keep that attention lingering. She was in her early 40s, smart, intelligent and definitely aware of her own feminine charms. In conversation over dinner with the British Ambassador, she was told that the finest and most colourful markets were in Casablanca, only about 45 minutes drive away, and she was offered a driver to take her there if she so wished. 'Wonderful,' thanked Jennifer.
'The earlier you go, the cooler it is, and the more there is on view.'
'That would be wonderful. Would 8o'clock be alright?'
At eight sharp the next morning, Jennifer got into the rear of the Embassy car, and began the bumpy ride to Casablanca along the dusty road. She had showered, had coffee and toast, and slipped on some very brief clothes for her trip to the market. She'd had a good sleep in a wonderfully cool room, and was now fresh and invigorated. She thought she'd look good, even for a walk round the Casablancan street markets, and judging by the looks from the young driver in his rear view mirror, she had more than succeeded. Flip-flops were the order of the day, but she had put on very brief, black, silky shorts and a thin, pink, strappy vest, bra-less, and felt comfortable and relaxed. She chatted easily with the driver, who couldn't take his eyes off her legs and this, in turn, caused Jennifer's nipples to stiffen and prod her little vest to accentuate them. They reached Casablanca, and she was dropped off at about 8.45 and the driver said he'd pick her up about 12.30 at the same spot. He had friends in Casablanca who he would see for coffee, but he was kind enough to point Jennifer in the right direction for all the little markets and the maze of streets where all the bargains could be found.
Soon she was in her element, had found the bazaars, and was enjoying herself tinkering with the displays of every conceivable item one could wish for. Food in abundance was all over the place, fresh fish from the sea, vegetables from the fields and endless fruit, as well as traditional Arab wares such as carpets and rugs, cushions, nick-nacks and clothes. Jennifer was loving every minute and was glad she had made the effort to come. She stopped at one particularly huge stall, with its awning to keep the sun off, and marveled at the array of goods. The cheerful Arab behind the stall, in his fez and white robe, busied himself selling fruit and veg to the throng of people milling about, and Jennifer jostled gently with the crowd to inspect all the delicious Mediterranean fruits.
As she picked up a fresh orange, she suddenly felt a hand on her bottom. Not only did she feel it, but it was caressing the flimsy material of her shorts. She tried to ignore it and smacked her hand round, as if swatting a fly. Briefly it stopped, but she thought she could feel the hand again as she picked up a huge slice of water-melon, dieing to take a mouth watering munch.
There was no question -Jennifer could feel the rough, masculine hand again. The body was up very close to her back and the hand was toying with the hem of her shorts, also touching the skin of the cheek of her bottom. She looked round to see the smiling Arab, fez on his head and dressed only in a white, cotton robe from head to foot. The man behind the stall was now talking to her, extolling the virtues of his fruit and veg, carpets and other wares, smiling non-stop, and other people were milling about the market, all trying to get bargains or food for the day ahead.