Furnished RoomChapter 3
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Furnished RoomChapter 7 free porn video
In Afghanistan there were virtually no Anglo women to satisfy his needs. Chuck tried sex with an Afghani prostitute but he was the kind of man to whom such sex didn’t appeal. He craved a woman who would share his bed, someone soft and feminine ... someone with whom he could snuggle and get comfortable enough to do the kinds of things he had been enjoying with Sarafina Cortez.
Within six weeks on the job he met a woman who worked as an interpreter for his employer, Applegate Engineering. After seeing so many women entirely covered by burqas (the long garment that shrouded the entire body with a mesh opening at the eyes) he was surprised by the elegant woman who wore a black business suit and the customary hijab (head scarf). He learned that the woman was the widow of a prominent businessman in Kabul who, it was rumored, had been murdered by the Taliban for views that were considered friendly to the West. He understood that having attended the Sorbonne in Paris the woman was highly educated and quite sophisticated.
She had the figure of a ballet dancer, willowy from her ankles to her shoulders. Her neck was long and graceful, her breasts, from what Chuck could see were petite. She had long black hair which she did in a French braid. Her skin was dark olive, her lips dark (almost purple) and her eye sparkled like black diamonds. One day he had the opportunity to sit with Aziza Khan in the company cafeteria. They had a pleasant conversation. But when he asked her to have lunch with him again she thanked him saying, “It is not appropriate for Afghani women to be alone with a non-Muslim man.” As she spoke though her sparkling eyes told him how much she would like to be with him. At least he would have liked to think so.
He asked a couple of his colleagues what they knew of Aziza. They told him not to waste his time, that a number of men had approached her with the same results. One said, “The women here are all afraid that the Taliban is coming back. They’re afraid to be seen with a Christian—an infidel—any non-Muslim for that matter.”
Each time Chuck and Aziza passed, whether in the cafeteria or in one of the corridors, the woman’s eyes seemed to be saying the same thing. Like Sarafina’s, Aziza’s striking eyes sent exotic messages. He was almost positive that this woman wanted to be with him. But how could he be sure? And if he really knew that she did, how could he make it happen without putting her danger?
One morning on his way to work he saw a woman wearing a black burqa going in the front door of the Applegate complex. Even though the woman was completely shrouded she walked in the fluid way he had become to know as Aziza’s walk. Quickening his step to catch up with her he said, “Looks like it’s going to be a nice day today.”
The woman’s muffled voice came through the mesh in the garment. “Yes it will be, Inshallah (the Muslim expression for God willing).” The muting effect of the fabric made it impossible to recognize the voice but there was no question in his mind that the sparkling eyes beyond the mesh were those of Aziza. The expression in those eyes reminded him of the seductive invitations Sarafina Cortez had given him before he finally approached her at the Brown Plaza Hotel in Denver.
Normal means of developing a relationship with Aziza Khan were not working. As with Sarafina he knew he had to take another bold step. Upon reaching his desk he wrote on a piece of notepaper that bore his name, Charles Moore, Civil Engineer, “Do your eyes lie, Aziza, when they look at me in the way they do? I invite you to knock on my door tonight at 8:00 pm, suite 929, at the Goloban Hotel.” He folded the note, put it into an envelope and wrote the name AZIZA. Later that day when Aziza was out of her cubicle he dropped it on her desk.
Applegate Engineering employees occupied the top floor of the Goloban Hotel in downtown Kabul. When he arrived in Kabul there was just one suite left, a one bedroom. It was the kind of suite Americans find at Comfort Suites in the U.S. As circumstances had it only three Applegate employees had a suite of their own; Chuck Moore was one of them.
The domestic staff at the Goloban was made up mostly of widows, all who wore black burqas to work. A few, while working in the hotel removed their burqas. These women always wore black dresses and black headscarves. Most though worked in their burqas. There were two reasons: First: There was an underlying fear that given the past turmoil in the region, if the Taliban came back into power, those women not wearing burqas could be beaten and even killed. Second: Having become accustomed to the anonymity provided by the all-encompassing burqa most women preferred walking through the streets as totally anonymous beings. Many wore stylish clothes beneath their burqas but waited until they were either at work or home to show off their stylish wear. Others just wore undergarments. Some wore nothing.
It was 8:12 when Chuck heard the gentle knock on his door. Smiling at his clear judgment and good fortune he went to the door, opened it and saw what looked like an apparition. It was a woman in a black burqa, a chambermaid bringing fresh white towels. But unlike any other burqa-clad chamber maid that Chuck had seen at the Goloban the woman’s eyes beyond the mesh sparkled as she held out the towels to him. He took them, pressed the towels to his chest with his left hand and extended his right. As she took his hand the muffled words came through the mesh, “My eyes never lie, Mr. Charles Moore, Civil Engineer.”
In Muslim Afghanistan if a woman has an affair her husband has the right to kill her. If an unmarried woman has sex and is discovered her father has the same right. Were the father deceased the woman’s oldest brother could do the same. If a woman’s husband dies and the husband has living brothers, the oldest is obligated to marry the brother’s widow, creating a plural marriage. During the time of the Taliban prostitution was punishable by death. If any unmarried woman were to be discovered by the Taliban to be having illicit sex she would most likely be judged immoral and executed, usually being stoned to death. Even though the U.S. helped defeat the Taliban the religious laws remained much the same. Most women lived in fear of the penalties of illicit sex. Some though, suffering the pangs of sexual need and fulfilled these needs while hoping that the less restrictive powers in existence would look upon them more kindly than the current regime in power.
Prior to the U.S. involvement in Afghanistan Aziza’s deceased husband, Akram Khan, because of his pro-western sympathies had been executed by the Taliban. In the post-Taliban period however there was no penalty for a widow having sex with another man, assuming she had no living male relatives. But the rule existed only for Muslim men, not infidels. Aziza had no living relatives. Since the religious gap between east and west was so great though, cohabitation with a Christian (an infidel) was still fraught with repugnant consequences.
Thrilled that he had read the woman’s eyes accurately Chuck led Aziza through the door and closed it. Once she was in the room though he didn’t quite know how to deal with the burqa-clad woman.
“Would you like to sit down?” he asked, offering her a chair.
“Thank you Mr. Charles Moore, Civil Engineer,” she answered, using his proper name and title.
The only people who called him Charles were his mother and Sarafina Cortez. “Most people call me Chuck.”
“In our culture, Mr. Moore it is disrespectful to call a person by other than by his given name. I’ll refer to you as Charles,” she said definitively.
“May I offer you a drink?” he asked.
“Muslim’s don’t drink alcohol,” came her muffled reply, “At least those who are true to the faith.”
“Tea perhaps?”
Aziza answered, “It is good to drink tea while getting to know someone. But I can’t drink tea while I’m wearing my burqa. Nor can I remove it until I know you much better. It wouldn’t be proper.” Disappointed by her answer Chuck sat down on the sofa. The woman sat at the opposite end.
Becoming uncomfortable Chuck cleared his throat and asked, “Would you mind telling me some something about yourself Aziza?”
“I am a widow,” she said. “Akram, my husband, was murdered by the Taliban.” She offered no further information.
Waiting a long while for her to continue he finally cleared his throat and asked, “What was his offense?”
“He liked Americans.”
Incredulous he asked, “Just because he liked Americans?”
“For the Taliban that is enough. Taliban feel like they need to explain.”
Chuck feared that if the evening were to continue like the conversation it might end in disappointment. He knew he had to turn it around. “Look Aziza,” he said, “If we can’t talk with one another why did you come?”
“My eyes were not lying,” she said.
Great, he thought, the woman talks in riddles. “Aziza,” he continued, “If I see in your eyes that you want to be with me, I mean with me, shouldn’t we share ourselves more intimately?” She nodded. He knew it was he who needed to share first. Clearing his throat again he began. “I’m a married man. I married my wife because she was pregnant. I thought the child was mine but later found out she wasn’t. In fact I later found out that my wife had been impregnated by her father.”
“In my country,” Aziza interjected, “incest is not uncommon.”
Maybe I’m getting somewhere he thought. “I haven’t loved, nor have I made love to my wife since I found out. Her daughter is now seventeen years old. I’ve been having an affair with another woman. I may even be in love with her.”
“And you still live with your wife?”
“Yes,” he answered.
“In Afghanistan a husband could kill his wife for having sex with another man. He could also demand that her father take her back for having given him damaged goods. If her father took her back he could kill his daughter.” She chuckled. “And Charles you could have been killed by your wife-to-be’s father for violating his daughter, even though he had already violated her.” She laughed again, “It’s a strange world, isn’t it?”
With that she told of how she met her husband, how he and she were chosen for one another at birth. “Did you love him?” Chuck asked.
“Very much,” she answered. “He was very kind. He treated me like a princess. He took me to Paris and London when he did business there. Most Afghani men leave their wives behind, Akram always included me. He insisted that I learn French and English. Akram said it might save my life someday.”
Chuck asked, “Are you in danger now?” She looked at him through the mesh in her burqa and chucked softly. He wished he could see more than her eyes. It was like talking with an invisible person, eerie.
“I am only in danger from the Taliban if they come back into power. I hope to leave Afghanistan before that happens, Inshallah.” (Another silence) “Since I am a widow without family I am not spoken for. That is why I can be here alone with you.” There was a long silence. “If I had a father living, or a brother; they would be within their rights to kill me.” (More silence) “But there are still religious extremists who could take it upon themselves to kill me just for being and immoral woman.” Taking a deep breath and letting it out she said, “That it doesn’t happen, Inshallah.”
Trying to penetrate beyond the mesh Chuck said, “But we haven’t done anything.”
The muffled words came through the mesh, “I am alone with a Christian... an Infidel. That itself is a crime.” Trying to make sense of body language Chuck studied her shrouded frame. All he could see were her imprisoned, yet sparkling eyes. The words wafted through the mesh, “You were very bold, Charles Moore, Civil Engineer, to give me your note.” She clasped her hands almost like she was in prayer. “I too have been hoping for someone with whom I could fill my needs. You have seen in my eyes that I desire to be with you. I have seen in yours that you are kind.”
Though relieved that the cards were on the table he had no idea how to proceed with this strange specter. Aziza solved the dilemma by saying.” May I ask a favor of you before we precede Charles Moore, Civil Engineer?” He nodded. “I have no running water where I live. May I shower in yours bathroom?”
Standing up he responded, “Of course.” He offered his hand which she took and led her to the bathroom door. In the doorway she bowed at the waist, touched her head with her hand, then her heart and then her lips before going inside and closing the door behind her.
She had been in the bathroom for a long time. Had he been in his house in Denver he would have been concerned that the hot water would run out. When the water stopped he imagined the willowy woman drying her naked body. He wondered if she had used his razor to shave her legs and under her arms. Or do Afghani women do that? The scream of his hair dryer interrupted his thoughts.
As the door opened he expected to see the mysterious woman covered by her black burqa. He had been wondering how he would go about uncovering her if he indeed had the opportunity. Will she want me to do that? Or is she merely using me for the shower? When she came through the door her naked body moved toward him in a sensuous bearing. His eyes didn’t know where to start first.
She was tall and lean, about 5’7”. The luxuriant black hair of her head tapered out like a pharaoh’s headdress, framing her smooth, angular face. Between her sparkling black eyes was a prominent, but not large, rounded Arabic nose which led to full, pouty, purple lips. The whites of her eyes set in her shadowy face contrasted with her black hair and irises, making her look like a work of Egyptian art. Her neck, like that of a graceful swan, led to her shoulders which, not broad, they matched the width of her gracefully curving hips. Around her neck was a necklace of large amber beds, her only adornment. Her body was olive toned, slightly darker than Sarafina’s.
Like Sarafina’s, Aziza’s nipples and lips were dark, almost purple. Her breasts were small—probably B cups—but perfectly formed ski-jumps that curved to large nipples. Her breasts below her nipples curved in artfully rounded arcs to her torso. Her areolas, slightly lighter than her nipples, were a ½” border that elongated into a ¾” oval at the top and bottom. Her well-formed abs were almost six packs, sinuously corrugating to her flat, tight abdomen. In the middle of her flowing hips was an abundant, untrimmed black bush. She had the legs of a ballet dancer, long and flowing, with well-developed thighs that were broken by attractive knees which warped into muscled calves and tapered to thoroughbred-like ankles and delicate feet. Flashing a brilliant smile with her perfectly white teeth the exquisite nude said, “The burqa is a perfect way to walk the city to shroud my nakedness.” Demurely lowering her eyes she continued, “In my country Mr. Charles Moore it is the duty of a woman to please her man.“
Standing barefooted in his tan cargo shorts and blue polo shirt Chuck puzzled at how quickly this woman considered him Aziza’s “man.” His cock was quickly confirming his new designation. In a flowing balletic movement the graceful Afghani woman dropped to her knees. She looked up into her “man’s” eyes, placed the flat of her right palm against his groin and asked, “Shall I serve you, Charles Moore?”
The moment she had walked toward him from the bathroom his eyes had darted from purple nippled breasts to her rich black pubic hair. Her “Scheherazade” eyes flirted as she felt his hardness and said, “I feel your readiness.” In a flowing movement her fingers deftly undid his belt and manipulated the button through its eye. Fluidly working down his zipper Aziza coyly looked up and asked, “Are you ready to be pleased, my master?”
Barely able to keep his knees from shaking Chuck looked down at the beautiful kneeling figure and nodded a smiling approval. Sliding his Bermudas over his hips she dropped them to the floor then tugged at his boxers. The waistband caught his stiff cock making it go slap up against his belly. Stepping out of the crumpled garments around his ankles he kicked them aside.
Riveting Chuck’s eyes Aziza pointed finger and coyly hooked and waggled it, beckoning him to flex his knees so her mouth could reach. When he complied she stretched higher, dragging her breasts on the back of his neck and taking hold of the hem of his polo shirt, pulled it up and over his back and arms. As he stood upright Aziza sat back on her heels, admiring his rigid erection and cooing, “Your uzoo (cock) is magnificent, my prince.” She grasped it with her right hand. With her left she cupped and hefted his loosely hanging balls. As her fingers closed on his bag she tested the fullness of its contents. “You’re goliyan (testicles) are like plump olives,” she whispered. “They are almost bursting with your fertile seed my Charles.”
Having never been worshipped in such a way Chuck felt self-conscious. The beautiful Afghan woman’s inflating words were making him feel like such a man. Electric currents flowed through his body as he watched the exotic, olive-toned naked woman’s right hand fondle his veiny penis. Her left arm extended between his legs which hid her hand from his view. The woman’s cooing adoration turned him on so totally that in denying his urge to come he felt like he would have a cramp the cheeks of his butt together.
Aziza opened her hand and pressed Charles’ hardness against her cheek. “Uzoo, uzoo,” she purred, “uzoo, uzoo, uzoo.” As the palm of her hand came to the purplish bull-nose of his head she milked a dribble of crystal clear precum that left a glistening smear on her dusky cheek. “Ooh,” she purred, “Your manly essence thrills Aziza so.”
As if compelled to talk the same as she he said, “Aziza is exciting Charles as well.”
As she closed her hand on his cock, pulling the skin tightly back, the side of her fist buried itself in the abundance of Charles’ bush. She could have been milking a goat: tightening her pinky finger then closing all of her fingers in series which caused a crystal string to ooze. She caught it in the hollow of her left hand. Eager to please him she looked up hungry eyes, her nostrils flaring as she parted her sensuous lips and asked, “Does Aziza please my Charles?”
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