Carstairs Of ArabiaChapter 13: I’m Something Of An Esobe Myself free porn video

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When Asim and I came home, it was as if nothing had ever happened. I examined the lock, but that was only because my instructors had told me it’s a good habit to see if you can spot the scratches most lock-pickers leave. This guy was good: there were no scratches at all.

I also reviewed the footage from my spy-cam, but learned nothing more. I also had no idea what prince Omar had been doing in other parts of the house, because I only had enough gear to monitor my own room. By the looks of it, he hadn’t even found, much less touched my other two suitcases. And even though they contained a bit more than socks and ties, it’s not as if I had brought an Uzi with me. I did have a black outfit and a balaclava with me, plus a knuckle duster (brass knuckles to you), a very nasty umbrella, an even nastier pen and some other assorted toys, but they were all cleverly hidden in plain sight. I reported Omar’s visit to both the Brits and the Americans, but that was the end of it for the time being.

K-T had followed Abdul the pimp home, so I now knew where he lived. But frankly, I had no idea what use that information was. It would be nice to discover his home was a brothel and call the cops on him, but the images K-T showed me were of an fairly generic small villa. Besides, I might get some prostitutes in trouble. And that was assuming the Saudi police didn’t already know what he was up to, but simply looked the other way for some reason. If random people in the street can point at you and know what kind of illegal stuff you’re up to, you’re probably not that worried about the fuzz. A little demon whispered in my ear I had Abdul followed just so I’d know where to find a brothel and go there myself for some release, but I told the demon what I’d do to his testicles if he ever spoke to me again and it’s been nice and quiet ever since.

I caught myself whistling one day. I don’t often do that, but it’s a pretty good indicator of a good mood. I thought about it during yet another shopping run and realised that life here in Riyadh was actually agreeing with me. The heat was a nuisance, but little more than that.

I often woke up around eight, which is about an hour and a half later than back home. Then I’d have an hour and a half to myself, which I’d spend on grooming my beard and having a nice breakfast whilst listening to some Radio 4 comedy on the iPlayer. Asim was hardly ever up before ten and his breakfast took only ten minutes to prepare. I wasn’t in charge of anyone or anything, I didn’t have to change diapers or wash frilly knickers, didn’t have to argue with programmers or compile progress reports, didn’t even have to mop the floors. I kept my own room and the kitchen tidy, but the rest was done by the elves dispatched by the palace. Asim was away more often than not, leaving me plenty of time to do a bit of reading or watch some Netflix. Then I cooked whatever I felt like and Asim was always grateful, if he was there at all. Credit the man for not being a fussy eater. No, if I’m honest I was enjoying the peace and quiet. I’m a family man through and through, but ever since Kate had come to find me life had been topsy-turvy and right now I found myself reading books and having a swim whenever I fancied, just like I would do on vacation! My family was fine without me, I was sure of that. And so I wasn’t in a particular hurry, I’m ashamed to say. Ashamed in hindsight. At the time, I rather enjoyed it...

The biggest problem was actually my libido. I’d actually forgotten I had one! Most of last year was spent either fatigued, recovering from injuries, working or having terrible adventures. On those rare occasions I found myself with a hard-on and the inclination to do something with it, there was no shortage of takers. Sex is a bit like money, I find: it’s not an issue if you know your balance is high enough. I occasionally belong to the one percent but I keep buying Euroshopper shower gel: I know I can afford the good stuff should I want it, but this will do.

But now I was stuck in a desert and sometimes didn’t speak to a woman for days. My own girls were out of the picture and I will admit there were a few early mornings where I turned on the VPN on my laptop, turned Safari to private browsing and had a look at the latest Pornhub had to offer. Sadly, I found I wasn’t all that interested. There’s a girl out there called Alexis Crystal. I noticed her because she looks like a young Monique and even though I hardly ever miss my late ex-wife, I did have my first sexual experiences with her. Alexis, who was born in the Czech Republic, got her start in porn doing really cheap and somewhat nasty stuff: she got herself fucked inside a car, by sticking her bottom out of the window and giving a group of lads the chance to ride her, she did some pee fetish vids, she got herself tied up on someone’s lawn with her head in a box that was buried in the sand, she had sex in public parks and alongside rail tracks and then she suddenly got a better agent. (I never met the girl, but I pieced it together based on the dates of all the clips I found of her, and her appearance.) She moves to the UK and suddenly she’s doing glamour shoots for Private, 3D-videos and even gets speaking parts (FakeAgent, FakeTaxi). Then she shows up doing work for American companies, as evidenced by the Californian houses she is now getting fucked in. The girl has a commendable work ethic: she’ll do anything, from lesbian to MMF. But as I was tracking her career over the course of a few browsing sessions, I suddenly realised that this is not how porn is supposed to work. You’re not meant to track someone through her work, you’re supposed to type in a few words, skip the dialogue and the kissing and then crack one off. It’s just that I didn’t really care. I’d give it one or two tugs, lose interest and find myself either back on Wired.com or tracking down Alexis’ first videos, from when she was still a cheap hooker in Prague and looked so much like the girl I first kissed, underneath a lamp post in Leiden.

Now, I have never been able to seduce a woman. Not a clue how that works. I’ve been very fortunate of late, but that just kinda happened to me. But even if I wasn’t stuck in one of the most misogynistic countries in the world, and was inclined to cheat on my wife, I would have had no idea how to go about getting my needs seen to. Go to a bar? I wouldn’t want a girl who hangs around in bars. At least, not the type who would consider coming home with the likes of me. Besides, Mel is very lenient but only up to a point: I am not supposed to actively go and look for pussy.

So that was all well and good, but I found myself easily distracted. A weird sensation.

A few days after the car lovers’ meet-up, on the last day of July so about two weeks since I had arrived in Riyadh, I decided to check out Rasul street, where I could supposedly hire a lock-up. I still can’t believe I’m saying this about a fucking CAR, but K-T clearly wasn’t too pleased about having to roam the mean streets of Riyadh at night and relying mostly on her ability to charge via thermal energy. That gave her just enough juice for a daily shopping trip and to run her A.I., but even then her reserves dwindled by one or two percent every day. When I knew Asim would be gone for a while I’d sneak her in as some sort of clandestine hooker and connect her to a wall socket. But that didn’t really do the trick either: she would cool down in the garage and the 220 volt 16 amp charge was only enough for a few kilowatt hours per session. Still, ‘every little helps’, as ASDA always says.

Friday, July 31st, 2015. Asim’s house.

Today I was dressed like a sane person: jeans and a blue button-down shirt, plus a blank, dark blue baseball cap. If I showed up in a suit, which I would usually wear when Asim was around, I would probably not do well in any kind of negotiation.

Rasul street was a dusty but asphalted road, in an area with many car-related businesses: tyre fitters, small garages, lube shops, Toyota parts and upholstery services. Those usually look grimy enough back home, but here the heat took it to another dimension altogether. I had to brace myself before I could bring myself to get out there.

Pakistani ruled here, often dressed in long, brown tunics (called Shalwar Kameez), or just plain old overalls. Nobody wore safety boots. Whites were not unwelcome: expats would come here for a service, a new mirror or a pair of tyres. People spoke English to some extent, and mostly smiled. A young boy who for some reason wasn’t in school followed me as I got out of K-T and began to walk down the street, trying to make sense of the place and looking for any kind of lock-ups or ‘for rent’ signs.

“Salaam!” he said, after about one hundred metres.

“Salaam.”

He wore a white dishdasha, or at least one that had once been white, and a red and white head-dress, folded in a way I would not be able to emulate if I had a week to practice. Basically, he’d made a hat with a brim out of a square cloth.

“You okay, boss?”

Not really, as it was at least forty degrees Celsius and there was no shade here. The King would never visit Rasul street, so there was no median with manicured trees. Instead, the street and sidewalks were covered with dried oil slicks and right now we were standing next to a building that was under construction, which in the Arab world means that white, plywood walls are in place to fence off the site. It keeps the dust out, I suppose. And graffiti isn’t really a problem over there, so those white walls are quite safe.

“I am looking for a place to store my car.”

“Aston Martin,” he said, approvingly. When I first spotted him I assumed he was about seven or eight, but I readjusted my estimate: twelve. Maybe thirteen. I’m used to Dutch children, raised on a litre of milk per day.

“Yes, that one. So it needs to be safe.”

“Okay. You come. Come!”

I had very little to lose. He ducked into an alleyway between two grey, concrete buildings nobody had ever bothered to paint. A dirty, one-eyed cat caught my eye and, me being a sentimental Westerner, broke my heart. It ran off. My guide ignored him and expertly weaved between AC-puddles, formed by leaky window units. Puddles didn’t last long here, but consistent dripping and high temperatures had fostered some very interesting and disgusting micro-biomes I didn’t want to have to scrape off my shoes. I wasn’t particularly worried about being assaulted: this was just what Riyadh looked like outside the major public areas and malls. Someone needs to do some actual work to keep things going and this was where part of it was done.

“Here, boss!”

He pointed out a row of garage doors, ten or so in a row, all with flakey beige paint. There was a sign above one of them, but it was in Arabic. At the end of the street stood a building that was purpose-built to be a garage: huge, grey sliding door, office on top. It had a ‘for sale’ sign hanging from the office windows.

“You want rent?” asked the boy.

“Who do I talk to about that?”

“You wait!” he said, and ran off. He RAN! In this heat!

“Okay. FIVE MINUTES! It’s like an oven here!”

“OKAYOKAY!” he yelled over his shoulder. Two minutes later he came back with a traditionally dressed Saudi male in tow. I had a banknote ready, which I gave to the boy after the Saudi had confirmed he owned the garages. The lad seemed pleasantly surprised: he had only tried to be helpful, without expecting anything in return.

“Want to see?” asked the Saudi, nodding to the row of boxes.

“Yes, please.”

“Where your car?”

I sighed. K-T just came rolling around the corner, like a dog who had decided to ignore the ‘stay!’ command to see what his owner was up to. I didn’t think it was a good idea to point out my self-driving sports car, so I said:

“Nearby. Can we get out of the sun before I collapse?”

“Sure, sure! You want water?”

“No, I just need to be in the shade.”

“So, what do you think?”

There wasn’t much to see. It was an empty space, made from cinder blocks and fitted with a garage door. It was quite deep, so you could place some storage racks in the back. There was a large fluorescent lamp on the ceiling and it was hot as hell in here. K-T might like that; having her own, personal oven. But I’d have to fit it with an automatic door opener, because I sure as hell wasn’t interested in ever setting foot in here.

“No electricity?”

“No. Sorry. Only this lamp. Why you need? You cannot fix cars here. Not allowed. Only store car.”

“I see. But I want an automatic door opener.”

“Is him,” said the man, chuckling, and pointed to the boy. He was still here, because ‘I will leave you it, then’ is not really a concept in the Arabic world. They like to stick their noses in.

“Isn’t he supposed to be in school? Anyway, thanks for your time but I’m looking for something with electricity. Preferably with a three-phase power line and a remote controlled door.”

“For how many car?”

“Just one. That one.”

The boy did a classic double take: K-T now stood parked on the opposite side of the road. I’d seen her slinking her way towards us. She obviously wanted to see the inside of this box.

“Boss? Your car?!”

“Yeah.”

“But ... You park! Other side!”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yes! I saw!”

“Well, it IS very warm here. Why don’t you go school? I’m sure they have air-conditioning there.”

The man told the kid to bugger off in Arabic, which he did (in Arabic). He passed K-T and pressed his face to the glass, to see if there was a driver inside. I turned my attention back to the Saudi.

“It’s an electric car, you see. I want to charge it.”

“Electric?!” he asked, stunned.

“Yes. Fully electric.”

“Here? Petrol is almost free!”

“I’ve noticed the charging infrastructure isn’t quite what I would like it to be. That’s why I need storage and ideally three-phase current.”

“Three-phase is only for garage and workshop, my friend. For heavy machinery. I have it here, in that building. It is mine.”

He pointed at the garage at the end of the street.

“That’s a bit much, perhaps.”

“How long you need for to rent?”

“Uhm ... Couple of months. Maybe a year.”

As we spoke he ushered me out of the lock-up, closed the door and started to walk towards the building.

“This I am trying to sell for a year now. It’s too big for local business. It is too ... not good for brand dealership. Out of the way. Looks bad. But is good building. Come see!”

“Look, I’m not BUYING a garage.”

“No, you rent! When I sell, you go. If I sell. But if you pay for three months, you can rent. I don’t want to rent to Pakistani. Then I can never sell. They make the place look bad. Messy. And I have to make it cheap, or they can’t afford. And then I have to make others cheap, too.”

Apparently this guy owned half the block. I saw his problem.

“Okay, let’s have a look.”

It was perfect. The building didn’t look like much on the outside, but on the inside it was clean, and relatively cool. The main facade contained a sliding door made from grey plastic panels, rendered opaque by a decade of dust storms and air pollution. It was about four metres high. Next to the sliding door was a regular door, that led to a small reception area consisting of a painted desk and two chairs. Behind the sliding door was a workshop with three stations, one of which was fitted with a hydraulic car lift the owner assured me was still operational and safe. A winch on a rail ran across the workshop floor, to hoist engines in and out of their chassis. In the back was a blue metal staircase, which led to an office that was essentially a white, rectangular box, resting on a blue, metal framework that also supported the winch. That’s probably where the mechanics would have lunch, with some extra space for small parts. Everything was empty and not exactly sterile but certainly swept clean not too dusty. I had absolutely no use for it, but I did get that greedy sensation that comes from viewing large, empty rooms. Part of your brain goes: ‘I could put all sorts of stuff here!’ and won’t shut up.

“You like? Air-conditioning is good. Is off now, and it’s not warm. Is smaller unit in office.”

“Can we have a look at the electrics?”

“Sure! Oh, the door has remote. I have it in my desk.”

Fifteen minutes later we were in Mohammed’s office, at the other end of the street. I signed a lease, which he had typed on a laptop. It was ten lines in his own, slightly limited English and clear as day: I’d rent the garage for 1,500 SAR per month, all in. I’d leave without argument as soon as he asked me to in case he managed to sell it and I’d get a partial refund. My car was not insured for anything and I would pay three months in advance. Now that’s the sort of contract I like to sign: fair and clear. Four hundred dollars per month was quite steep, given that he only asked ninety for the lock-ups, but it wasn’t coming out of my own pocket so I honestly didn’t care.

Later that day I came back with a wad of cash. Mohammed gave me a single key and the remote control. Half an hour later I was back and gave him back the key and four cylinder locks.

“What this?”

“These are your locks. I changed them all.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ll be keeping my very expensive sports car in there, that’s why. There’s no telling who might also have a key to that place. I’ve also changed the frequency to open the door, by the way. And I’ve installed a silent alarm. You can keep that when I leave.”

“Okay. But it is really safe. You know what happens to thieves here, yes?”

He mimed chopping off his hand.

“You STILL do that?”

“Oh yes.”

“Good. But if anyone sets foot in there without my permission, I will be chopping off considerably more than just a hand. Spread the word, if you would.”

“Well? What do you think?” I asked K-T, as soon as the automatic door had lowered behind us.

“Can I charge here?”

“Yes! 400 Volt, 25 Amps. Will that do?”

“Yes. I shall be able to charge from empty in two hours and thirty minutes. Please connect me.”

“Hang on, do you take a four pin plug?”

I had found a cable that ran from a heavy duty wall connector. It was long enough to reach the middle bay. At the end was a red connector with five metal pins.

“Yes. I have an adapter. But I will not be able to disconnect myself. I can operate the door, but I cannot disconnect from that type of plug.”

“I’ve been thinking about that. I may be able to rig something up, but I’ll need to find the right parts and it will take me a few hours. For now, I’ll hook you up.”

“What will you do in the meantime?”

“Paperwork. Filing reports, reading instructions and dossiers. I usually don’t get around to all that when I’m home. It’s not exactly bed time reading, either. Listen, can you set up a Wi-Fi network for me? I’ll go and work in the office upstairs.”

“Yes. Network operational. You have seven messages.”

K-T now had a roof over her head, and I had a place to stash some stuff, but she still couldn’t charge without my presence. After all, she needed to be plugged in. I had a chat about it with Miles and he agreed to send me a new part: an inductive charger, to be fitted under the car. All I had to do was to arrange for a metal frame so I could mount the other coil at the right height. And so I spent a decidedly miserable afternoon in a hotter than hell welding shop recommended by Mohammed, where two surly Pakistani men who seemed to think welding glasses were for pussies, recreated something I had carefully drawn on the finest paper napkin Dunkin’ Donuts could provide. The language barrier was such that they hadn’t picked up on the fact I was going to give them 200 SAR each as soon as their manager’s back was turned, so they just thought it was extra work for them. It took almost two hours, but I’m sure they could have done it in twenty minutes. I’ve never given someone a fifty dollar tip AND wished terminal flatulence upon them and their descendants for the next ten generations to their non-comprehending but suddenly smiling faces. It was a weird experience. I blame the heat.

K-T dropped me off at home. Asim was already there. In fact, he saw me coming in through the outer gate, on foot.

“Why did you not take the car?”

“I took a taxi.”

“Why?!”

“Because of very poor judgement on my part,” I snapped. “Now if you don’t mind I’d like to take a shower before I get dinner started.”

“Sure. There’s a package for you. Kitchen.”

For a second I thought Miles had worked some kind of magic, so I went to the kitchen and found a white pastry box. Inside was a large profiterole, glazed with chocolate. It was filled with cream. And by that I actually mean there used to be cream inside, but now there wasn’t: it was splattered all over the inside of the box. Someone had smashed this thing with their bare hands...

“Your Royal Highness?” I asked Asim, who was chatting to people on his phone.

“Yes?”

“Did you open this box?”

“No. Is from palace. Driver said it was for you.”

“Right. I only ask because...”

I leaned over and showed him the contents.

“Wow. Maybe ... driver sat on it?”

“If he did, he put it in a brand new box. And then he smeared cream on the inside.”

Asim shrugged.

“It was one of the regular drivers. They never break stuff. Maybe someone in the palace did this. Just call them, they will send new one. Have them send two. I like those.”

“Very good, Your Royal Highness.”

During the shower I needed to wash the grime, the heat and the shockingly racist thoughts about Pakistani welders away, I considered the pastry conundrum. Palace drivers are generally very careful. They’re at the bottom of the food chain, so wilfully destroying packages or messing with food is going to get them in trouble. Besides, I hadn’t ordered this. There was only one explanation and before I was going to get some more pastry delivered, I was going to have to eat a large helping of humble pie.

I texted Anaïs after dinner. Asim had gone out to meet with some friends.

‘Bonjour. Is this a good time to call you?’

The answer came five seconds later.

‘Pourquoi?’

I took that as a yes and dialled her number. She didn’t pick up, so after ten rings I disconnected. She was probably working. But then I got another text:

‘Lâcheur’

I had to Google that. It’s French for ‘quitter’. And so I called again. She answered after fifteen rings.

“Qu’est-ce que tu veux?”

“Anaïs? It’s Reginald. I’m calling to apologize.”

“Pfft. For what?”

“Because you sent me that wonderful pastry the other week and I never did thank you properly. I did not mean to ignore you and I would like to make it up to you.”

“Tsss. Now? Suddenly? What you need, Anglais? Your prince, he wants pâtisserie? They have at the mall. It is all sugar and colorant.”

Although you can get practically anything you want in Saudi Arabia, she did have a point: supermarkets had a very limited selection of pastries. If you wanted a boxed factory made cake with the Power Rangers or characters from Frozen on it, you were golden. But anything more than a Swiss roll was beyond the scope of the bakeries that suppled Riyadh’s supermarkets and it was all a bit bland. She would obviously have noticed that, but it’s not exactly fair to expect Parisian standards to be upheld all across the globe.

“I’m not calling to order cake, Anaïs. I just want to know how you are doing,” I cooed. Oh, I’ve learned a thing or two about dealing with erratic women in the past few years!

“How I am doing? I am in prison, Anglais! I live in a kitchen in a ... sous-sol. I sleep in a room with three girls. I have to pretend to pray five times a day, even at four in the morning! I cannot go swimming, I cannot go shopping ... It is terrible!”

“I’m very sorry to hear that.”

Well, I was. There just wasn’t much I could do about it. Presumably she knew all this when she signed up.

“Don’t you get time off?”

“ZIS IS MY TIME OFF-UH!”

“Oh. But you can’t go anywhere?”

“Non. Not without a mahram. I can’t even take a taxi. All I can do is visit a mosque, under supervision. What have you done today, Anglais?”

“Me? Uhm ... I did some shopping. I rented a garage. And I spent two hours in an oven.”

“Huh? Oven? Four?”

“Yes. Well, it felt like it. I needed to have something welded, for my car.”

“Ah, K-T! How is she?”

“What ... What do you mean, how is she?! It’s a car!”

“Ah non! She’s very nice! Tu es cruel.”

“She’s an iPad on wheels!”

“Men ... You are all the same. Women, we are just toys to you. Why you call, Anglais? Are you bored?”

“I called because I found a murdered cream puff waiting for me when I got home! It’s like CSI Rue Montorgueil in here. I just sent the cream to the lab: they’re putting a rush on it to determine the fat contents. We’re interviewing a rum baba who was found hanging around the crime scene. Detective Stohrer is canvassing every bakery in the area.”

“Stohrer,” she giggled. That’s a famous pastry store. I knew I’d cracked her bad mood, or maybe just her act.

“Have you been, Anglais? To Rue Montorgueil?”

It’s a street lined with very good restaurants, bakeries, cheese shops, produce stands: you name it. But like many things in Paris, it’s a little overrated and in dire need of a bucket of soap. Monet depicted it on a sunny day, and all the houses are flying French flags. In reality it’s deader than Walkmans when the sun is still out and the only thing lining it are waiters desperately trying to lure you into their tourist traps.

“Yes. It’s near Les Halles.”

“I live near zere. Or I used to, but now I rent my apartment to a student. So I cannot even go back,” she sighed.

I felt sorry for her. I was far from home as well, but I had a bedroom to myself and the run of the city. And I didn’t have to fake prayer more than once a day, because whenever Asim and I had dinner together, he would pointedly wait to take a bite until I had folded my hands and mumbled: ‘Dear Lord, for what we are about to receive we are truly grateful, Amen.’ Which is a line I picked up from Little House on the Prairie, so excuse me if this is the prayer equivalent of wearing a tie dye shirt. Presumably these days it’s more like: ‘Yo God, we about to Instagram this shit! Bless you! Like and subscribe.’ But I couldn’t be sure. I know very few people who pray before a meal and they usually don’t do it out loud.

“Look, I’ll see if I can take you shopping in the near future. But right now my employer is in the country and he comes and goes when he pleases. We had a close call last time.”

“I don’t want to go shopping,” she pouted. “I want to swim and get out of this hot city.”

“Uhmm ... What do you think the Saudi countryside is like? Verdant hills? Babbling brooks? The city actually has air conditioning. Maybe I can take you out for dinner?”

“No, you can’t. We are not married.”

“Surely they don’t check that in restaurants? If we both dress like Westerners, I’m pretty sure they’ll leave us alone.”

“They do check. We can book a family room, but the Mutawa sometimes do random inspections. Sometimes they are tipped off by other guests.”

She had a point. All restaurants in Saudi are segregated by gender. Anything from the classiest hotel restaurant down to Starbucks has two entrances: one for single men and all-male groups, one marked ‘families only’ for married couples and families. Larger restaurants have private dining rooms, but if they only have booths or cubicles those may have curtains around them so women can take off their face veils. Oddly, male wait staff can then stick their heads between the curtains to take orders and bring the food, but that seems to be acceptable nowadays. It was a problem for a while, in the eyes of the Commission for the Promotion of Virtue and the Prevention of Vice at least, so they came up with this elegant solution: ban women from all restaurants.

Some restaurateurs complied, citing stories of truly reprehensible, inexcusable behaviour demonstrated by female guests in the past. Some women would come in alone and speak aloud! In an audible voice! They would order food and just sit there, plain as day, eating it! Only the filthiest, mentally unstable whore would do such a thing, I think you’ll agree.

Luckily the Commission for yadayada has no shortage of informants, because it’s not as if the Saudi population feels repressed by these rules: they are very happy to tell on each other! If there’s one thing guaranteed to bring pure delight to a muslim’s heart, it is the chance to rat out a fellow muslim for breaking the rules. It’s like a House Republican who secretly gets to hunt down a black kid in the woods: pure joy.

The problem, you see, is that running a restaurant is actual work. It is therefore done by foreigners, because Saudis DO NOT WORK. And these foreigners have no idea how a woman should behave in public, so they let them get away with murder. Or worse: talking out loud.

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It was about ten minutes to showtime. I’d be at the mosque in three minutes or so, although K-T would drop me off at the mall entrance and then proceed to another destination. We were making good time, because although some traffic kept moving, many cars just pulled to the side of the road wherever there was space near a mosque. Sometimes cars were abandoned in the middle of the road, blocking each other in. The police never made a fuss: after all, everyone was supposed to be praying. Men...

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Carstairs of ArabiaChapter 4 Ask Me No Questions

Still Monday July 7th, 2015. A government building somewhere in London. (smiled.oddly.hosts) I was made to sit alone in a room for about ten minutes, so ordered by a man who clearly had no intention of getting me a cup of tea. And I did ask, twice. He was a bit shorter than me, but also a bit wider. Instead of a suit he wore something that was supposed to give him a military look but made me think of a fisherman: a brown shirt, brown carpenter pants, army boots. He was ginger, but his hair...

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Carstairs of ArabiaChapter 9 In Which our Hero has Lots of Dates

“Crank up the A.C, sweetheart. Let me get some water ... Oooaaahhh...” “Sweetheart? Again?” “Yes. I suddenly cared for you in the wilderness, in the land of great drought. And especially for that bag with bottled water. Let’s get a move on. You drive.” “Destination?” “The most expensive hotel in Al Hofuf. Unless you can find one with a charger?” “I cannot execute that search. We will reach Al Hofuf in two hours.” “Okay. Then I’ll do a search and you drive. Stop at the next empty rest...

2 years ago
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Carstairs of ArabiaChapter 14 In Which our Hero Sings for his Supper

If you’re anything like me (but maybe you got lucky and you’re not) you’ll know this feeling: there will be something on the news that makes you explode with rage. Say, some idiot gets behind the wheel, drunk as a skunk, kills three people who were just standing at a bus shelter minding their own Instagram and then he sues the bus company for placing the shelter near a pub. That sort of thing. Or a Belgian man locks up some girls in his basement and starves a couple of them to death before he...

3 years ago
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Carstairs of ArabiaChapter 19 Cooling Down in Riyadh

They waited until her heart stopped pumping blood, which took about twenty seconds or so. Then the pressure got too low, and the trickle stopped. Two men dressed more like medics than soldiers came out of the main building with a stretcher. They wore gloves and aprons. Hurriedly they placed the body on the stretcher. The executioner helpfully placed the bag with the head above the neck, but only after he was done wiping down the blade and carefully sliding it back into its sheath. The Imam...

2 years ago
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Carstairs of ArabiaChapter 20 Unexpected Benefit of Some Religious Instruction

There were also some messages. One was from Mr. Constable, the MI6 officer at the embassy. He told me they had analysed the recording, but that I’d have to come to the embassy to read the transcript. By appointment. But not on Thursdays. Another message was a transcript of a text message from Asim, which contained an invitation to join him on his next visit to Dubai. It seemed he was in the mood to catch a movie, and Dubai had cinemas. Well, two. The third message consisted of a somewhat...

3 years ago
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Carstairs of ArabiaChapter 25 I had a Cunning Plan

Sunday, 30/8/2015. Saudi Royal palace. My day started slowly, with breakfast being served without any extra items. I called on Anaïs with an eye on a cheeky kiss or a bit of a fondle, but was told by a rather indignant Malaysian chef who caught me looking around in her kitchen that she had been seconded to another palace for the next few days, to help prepare for yet another banquet. He then demanded to know how I knew her and what my business was with her, but I just told him I was acting...

1 year ago
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Carstairs of ArabiaChapter 3 There is an I in MI6

I was met by Kelly in the hallway. “Hi,” she said, leaning in for a kiss. A chaste one, on the cheek. More than enough for me, thanks. Although admittedly I’d have been disappointed with less than that. “Hello, gorgeous. I think you might have come at an awkward...” “Oh, I know. I was summoned. Caroline has been here all afternoon. She even had a lie down, because of a headache. Mel and Kate know everything.” It was ominously quiet on the other side of the door that led to the living...

3 years ago
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Carstairs of ArabiaChapter 5 My name is Carstairs Reginald Carstairs

Caroline summoned me to my office on Friday. My ticket for travelling the next Monday had just been arranged. I was actually discussing something with Daphne, which always takes a while, but Alice, her secretary, was quite clear: I was to report to the fourth flour at once. “Sorry about that, but I think you got the gist of it. Winston will certainly be able to flesh out the code. It will give you a chance to hang out together.” “I still want to know why you’re leaving,” said Daphne, trying...

1 year ago
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Carstairs of ArabiaChapter 12 The Stein Way

As meetings go, I’ve had worse. I had no particular reason to doubt John Stein, but you never know what Americans are really up to. The Saudi government is only one of many undemocratic regimes they support to the hilt. They’re also not particularly interested in bringing people to justice. Generally all they need is a set of coordinates, a license plate number or the exact time their target will be driving past a hospital or day care centre. I was fairly sure a couple of terrorist attacks in...

3 years ago
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Carstairs of ArabiaChapter 21 The Ugliest Laptop Ever Made

I woke up at nine, which was fine except a bit too late to attend the buffet in the main building. Never mind: I called the kitchen again and ordered breakfast. It would take a while to reach me, but as long as I didn’t order any hot items that was fine. Yoghurt, a bun and some jam would do me. I selected a suit and showed up just in time for my daily session with Alexandra. Technically this was the start of a new week, although neither I nor Alexandra got any days off. It was crunch time...

3 years ago
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Carstairs of ArabiaChapter 22 Say it Donrsquot Spray It

I went over the call with Kate in my head, slightly upset at the fact I had broken off our conversation just to get out of the heat. Maybe it hadn’t been the heat so much as the fact I didn’t want to be reminded of how much I missed her. That girl isn’t just catnip to me: she’s oxygen. And every time we were apart, there was nothing for it but for me to practice holding my breath. I also worried about the fact people had started to miss me, all over sodding Doctor Who! It’s the shittiest...

2 years ago
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Carstairs of ArabiaChapter 23 The Beginning of the End

Tuesday, August 25th, 2015. My garage. Total.hilltop.digital. It was about one a.m. when the door to the garage opened and K-T rolled in. I had called ahead, to let Anaïs know that I was fine and on my way. “How are you doing?” “I am drinking water and eating uh ... Maltezers. Very poor chocolate.” “Yes, it’s English chocolate. Could be worse, though.” “Hershey...” she shuddered. “Exactly. I’ll be there in about twenty minutes. Can you hang on?” “I can go nowhere else, Anglais. It is...

2 years ago
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Carstairs of ArabiaChapter 24 Mosque Not Get Caught

Friday, August 28th, 2015. Royal palace, guest annex. The next morning I called Asim and offered to cook for him, so I’d be able to intercept any packages that might be delivered to his house. He was glad to have me and I took delivery of five boxes while he was out. I made us roast duck (honey roasted, with creamed cauliflower) and an old-fashioned trifle and then I stole one of his outfits: guthra, igal, thobe and sandals. Two thobes, actually, just to be sure. He only had fourteen left, I...

3 years ago
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Carstairs of ArabiaChapter 28 All Out of Gum and Ass to Kick

Darkness had come and gone. Musa and I had worked all through the night. When I had answers to all the questions I could think of, and had copied the contents of the SD-cards to my laptop to make space on one of them, I had written a script for him to read. It was based on what he had told me, but we still went through it line by line. By that time he was struggling to stay conscious. The wounds on his wrists in particular hurt terribly, so much in fact that I had to cut him loose and bandage...

4 years ago
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Carstairs of ArabiaChapter 11 My French connection

I like to think I’m a decent man. I don’t leer at women, not even when I’m absolutely sure they’re not watching. I don’t turn around to check out ‘cabooses’, I don’t call women ‘darling’ unless I know them very well indeed and by and large you can trust me with your daughter. Unless she’s REALLY insistent and/or has grown legs and breast that make Marilyn Monroe look like a coat hanger. But even then I try really, really hard to ignore that. But being in a country where women were nothing...

4 years ago
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Carstairs of ArabiaChapter 15 In Which our Hero Comes out of the Closet

Right. How to get to deck four, and more specifically into Omar’s private quarters? Doors wouldn’t be a problem: only the guest rooms had those card readers. Deck four was for family only. No, my problem was with the guards. One had already denied me access once. But there was that lift near the pantry, so that’s where I was now headed. I passed the Sayada lounge, where two guards eyed me as if I was going to take out my dick then and there and burst into the room, turned a corner and found a...

4 years ago
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Carstairs of ArabiaChapter 16 And Now the End Is Near

I had to put my jacket back on in the hallway, so quickly was I ejected from the kitchen. Two phones really weighed it down, but if the Professor had recorded the meeting, I was sure my spymasters would want me to hang on to it. The pen had served its purpose, so that went into the water as soon as possible. And then I felt really odd for a minute. A man was dead right now, because of me. He was hardly the first, but it was different from all the other deaths I have caused. I planned this,...

2 years ago
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Carstairs of ArabiaChapter 27 It Only Hurts When I Laugh

As soon as the rolling door had shut behind me, I began to undress. The plastic segments that allowed in some sunlight were so badly scuffed nobody would be able to see inside. Not unless they pressed their face up against them, anyway. My suit was in tatters. I wasn’t even sure why I wasn’t wearing my slacks and button down shirt. It’s think it may just be that wearing a suit seemed suitable for the occasion. If you’re going to commit mass murder, you should at the very least dress for it,...

1 year ago
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Sam Cat SomethingNew

Sam was out on a run for free cheeseburgers from Inside Out, and the k*ds they were going to babysit later on in the day hadn't arrived yet, so Cat was bouncing on her bed playing with one of her yoyos. She had a red lollipop, to match her hair, in one hand and the green yoyo, to not match the lollipop, in the other. With her hair tied up in two ponytails, one on either side of her head, she could have passed for a twelve year old if it wasn’t for the noticeable lumps on her chest. She swung...

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Fortysomething

Fortysomething By Melissa Tawn It was Alice Carter's birthday: fortysomething. She sat in her favorite easy chair, a drink in hand, and thought back on her life. Birthdays are the time one takes stock. She had been born Alan, a boy, though inside she knew, that she was really a girl. At one point she tried to explain this to her parents, tried to get them to understand, but they were unable to do so. This was in the days before the internet and the local library was...

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Wayne the Twentysomething Warlock

Episode 1: Wayne's Tale, Part I Wayne strolled across campus, bundled up in a warm winter coat. The wind whipped at his face and he pulled his shoulders up to try to block it. The scarf he wore helped some, but only the parts of his face which it covered. Snow crunched under his feet and he glanced up. The little suburban street was covered in snow, but occasionally a car would try and get through anyways making a few sets of gouges in the inches of fresh powder. Everything looked...

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40SomethingMag

40 Something Mag! What makes a MILF? Beauty is obviously part of the equation. Everybody loves an older woman who’s taken care of herself, aging like a fine wine instead of getting all old and haggard. I think attitude is a major component of a truly fuckable MILF. The broads at 40SomethingMag, for example, all have this eager enthusiasm for dirty sex that gets my blood pumping as soon as I hit the landing page.40SomethingMag.com has been around for a good long time, pumping out cougar-fuck...

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1 year ago
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I offer tea and you want something

“Please,” I begged again, “make me yours.” We retraced our steps down the High Street, stopping to look in the shop windows and steal a kiss in the darker doorways. Despite taking over two hours to eat a bowl of delicious pasta, drink a bottle of wine and a cup of excellent coffee it was still only 9:30 when we returned to his flat. We agreed it was probably too early to go to bed so cuddled up on the sofa and he told me about Naples, the Venus with the Perfect Bum sculpture in the art gallery...

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3 years ago
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E099 Somethings new

A week later, Donald gets to delve into his shopping fetish.  He spends time every day previewing the new fashions of the seasons on different websites.  Then moving to his favorite shopping sites to choose items he wants to include in his cart for consideration.  He works his way through his different classifications of clothes: the lingerie, the outfits, the apparel.  The only thing he has not yet shopped for is the suits for his and Emma’s special nights.  But that will come.Emma is being so...

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Somethings Just Happen PT1

Let me start by telling something about myself. my name is maikel, i just turned 18 a few weeks ago, am about 1,90m long, have short blond hair and weigh about 70 kilo's. Now let's go to the story. I just had gotten my driving-licence and whas bragging about it against a friend of mine who whas a bit down because her parents couldn't find a babysitter for her younger sister so that meant she had to stay at home and watch her. So i offert that i could babysit her i had nothing better to...

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E098 Somethings old

After their trip to Massachusetts when they got back home, Donald notices a new plumpness to Emma.  They had been indulging in a lot of good food.  He knows he needs to get her back into a regular exercise routine to get rid of the ten or so pounds she must have put on.A couple of morning after their return, after their morning routine and shower, Donald made Emma step on the scale in the bathroom.  It was an old-time doctor’s scale where weight moves across the two bars to gauge your...

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E100 Somethings borrowed

During the fall, Donald’s obsession with Emma’s feet and toes seem to grow.  Often when they sit on the couch reading or watching a show, he will have her lean against the pillow at one end of the couch, with her feet on his lap.  Totally content, Donald massages her feet for hours.  From time to time, lifting one to suck on each toe and lick her soles.  He finds himself spending more and more of this time with her big toes in his mouth, sucking contently as he runs his tongue between her nail...

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There Are Somethings You Cant Cover Up With Lipstick And Mascara

Penny greeted me with a hug and a kiss on my cheek, at her front door, “So happy that you could make this year’s party, Gil. It's been too long since we've seen each other.” Penny and her partner, Courtney, host a party every Labor Day weekend. The party doubles as a meet and greet for people that are into kink, experienced and novice alike. The last four parties they invited me to, I was not able to attend. We do keep in touch through emails and texts, and meet for lunch a few times a year. I...

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BSC04 Educating KatrinaChapter 13 Somethings Just Take Time

This new male freedom was being fully appreciated and experienced by everyone for nearly five months unabated. Katrina really thought she had single handedly changed the whole culture of BSC then ... for some inexplicable reason things began to change. Katrina started noticing not so many erections were swinging about along the walkways and in the classrooms of BSC. There didn’t seem to be as many naked males using the outdoor showers anymore. Swimming costumes began to appear again on the...

3 years ago
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E101 Somethings blue

Similarly, Donald knows that Emma likes the anal sex, her longing for plug up in her seems to be a regular thing now.  So like Emma with her strapon for Donald happening every several weeks, more regularly, Emma will enter the bathroom to see the enema bag set out for her.Each times delight runs through her knowing what this is going to lead to.Sometimes Donald will come in to help her.  Then it would be at least three bagfuls filling her abdomen so completely that Emma feels like she will soon...

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Somethingsmeant to be

It was a Saturday morning, Kai was still asleep in his bed. The sun rays faintly came in through the gaps in the curtains. It was going to be a lazy day as the snow had freshly fallen the previous night, the snowstorm had wiped through the whole town in a matter of hours. The whole house was silent except the few noises coming in from the TV room where Kiyara laid on the sofa, half asleep but still going strong. She had recently moved back into her family house after her breakup and was usually...

Incest
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Too Hot To Handle 8211 Part 2 Somethings Are There That Start But Never End

Hi guys this is Raj here well I am back and thanks for all the feedbacks and yes in case if any girls or women in Chennai are interested in having some fun Pls do get in touch to and other readers please give your feedbacks as they are quite valuable. Now let me not waste time and get started. Well we woke up soon the next morning as we had a flight to catch at 6:15 am to Goa. Riya first got up as when I woke up I was I removed the bed cover and found I was nude below it. I must accept that I...

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Loosening Up Book 5 Major EventsChapter 5 Somethings Brewing

Although Nancy stopped work at the end of the following week because of her VERY pregnant situation, she continued to monitor the storms in the Atlantic and Gulf, and talk to Dave about the utility’s resource deployments during hurricane season. She watched hurricane Jerrod come ashore in Texas, but it rapidly deteriorated into a tropical depression, so did little damage other than local flooding. She couldn’t let go, and Dave kept telling her to relax, enjoy the time off, and prepare to be a...

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The Ostler and the Lady Chapter Three Somethings Coming

Standing at the back door of Brandling Manor, Jack Wetherly could not recall a time when he had felt so uneasy. He had just been told by the stuffy butler, Vincent, that Sir Oswald Brandling was demanding to see him. Jack could only see this as the beginning of the end of his ostler career at the manor.Worse, and without doubt, the main reason for this meeting, was his relationship with Becky, the orphaned niece of Sir Oswald. After all they had shared, although frowned upon by society, Jack...

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Public Myself

Growing up in a small rural village in Southern India, life was fairly simple. As with most of rural India, the activities of our womenfolk were restricted to home chores and tending to the cows and goats. We were never allowed to leave the house after sunset and our movements were closely watched by the village elders. Even though I was eighteen, men and women never mingled outside the four walls of their homes. The men, on the other hand enjoyed the sort of freedom us women could never dream...

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Touching Myself

I sighed, closed my laptop, and turned off the light. It was 1:57am and I had to be at work at 8am - story of my life. I was restless with worry about impressing my boss at my new job, but staying up late and getting five hours of sleep was probably not the way to do it.I was in a state of too much stress, not enough down time, and practically a zero in my sex life. Every 23-year-old's dream, I thought to myself. I fell asleep with this sarcasm on my mind.I awoke in the night and glanced at the...

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What I think about when I masturbate Part 5 Ashamed of Myself

It is a Wednesday afternoon, and I've come home from college. Unusually, that day my parents were not around the farm – Dad was out with friends at an agricultural show in Hampshire, and Mum was running our stall at one of the farmers markets. After I walk inside, I change my clothes, ready to take one of the horses out for a ride. In addition to the farm, we also run a livery business, providing stabling and equestrian facilities for a number of customers. This is Mum’s business really but, as...

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Is Greg Cheating Finding Out For Myself

'So, here we are again, Greg, we're lying here watching a movie again on a Friday night, but every night, around this time, you seem to need to head out. The movie is almost over now, so what's gonna happen now? You're cuddling with me, and I know you love me, but you still have me wondering.'"Oh, that was some movie, Dahlia," he moaned, arching his back and stretching out.I peeked at the clock again. 'Yes, and you're about to leave, aren't you?'"I'm sorry, babe, but I have some...

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My Daughter Myself

My Daughter, Myself By Heather St. Claire Prologue: The Proposal It's a gorgeous late spring day in the Pacific Northwest. A young couple is enjoying a picnic lunch together under a shade tree at a city park. They've spread out a blanket underneath a shade tree and have brought with them a basket full of sandwiches, fresh fruit, cold soda, and assorted other goodies. An old woman (she's going to be 87 next month, and figures she's earned the right to think of herself that way)...

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The day I got to fuck myself

I had just come back from work, and I knew I was going to have the next day off, so I decided to relax. I came home, fixed myself a quick meal, watched some of the game on the T.V, and sat there on my sofa. I felt very lonely, having just come out of a relationship with the woman I thought to be the love of my life. I say there wondering about how it all when wrong, and I ended up thinking to myself, "You know what, it wasn't my fault. I did everything right, and she still chose that...

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I Missed Myself

I Missed Myself By Nom de Plume As soon as Dr. Griffin returned to the examination room, I knew that the news wasn't good. I could tell by the way he avoided my eyes as he studied his clipboard and fidgeted with his pen that something was wrong, terribly wrong with me. The ache in my groin that I had been ignoring for so long was indication enough, and as the doctor cleared his throat, I tried to prepare myself for the worst. "The test results are positive for testicular...

4 years ago
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I missed myself

As soon as Dr. Griffin returned to the examination room, I knew that the news wasn’t good. I could tell by the way he avoided my eyes as he studied his clipboard and fidgeted with his pen that something was wrong, terribly wrong with me. The ache in my groin that I had been ignoring for so long was indication enough, and as the doctor cleared his throat, I tried to prepare myself for the worst. “The test results are positive for testicular cancer,” he said abruptly. “Unfortunately, the cancer...

BDSM
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My Sex Diary Part 1 Exploring Myself

Okay. This is going to be quite a personal series. I'm going to tell you things I've never told to anyone. Why? Because I think it's hot knowing that complete strangers are aware of things not even people closest to me know about, knowing that many of you will touch yourselves, masturbate, and even cum while thinking about me - well I hope you will. Have I got your attention? Now this series (unlike other stories I might write, and most of those that I'm currently working on) is mostly truth....

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Shall I Serve You Myself

It was just another normal day in the cheese aisle when I first noticed her. Customers came and went as normal buying all manner of chilled foods. The queue at the deli ebbed and flowed as people clamoured for cheese, cold meats and fresh pizzas. It was my job to manage the staff and ensure all the shelves were fully stocked. In hindsight I didn't pay too much attention the first time, but after four days of seeing her visit my aisles I knew every curve of her body! On day one she bought milk...

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Song of Myself

I was excited! More excited than I could ever remember having been in my whole life. After more than fifty years of existing in a life of pleasing my husband, family, relatives, friends and keeping up a facade of an ordinary working woman and mother, I was about to burst out, to shed my old life as a snake sheds its skin. This night I was about to do something that I could never have imagined, and I was buzzing with anticipation.Let me explain. A couple of years ago my life had reached a low...

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I Thought I had the Day to Myself

Finally, I thought. I have the house all to myself. My wife and I normally work the same schedule, so it leaves me very little time in the house alone. Every once in a while, she'll go out shopping or to get her nails done, but today she was going to work and I had the day off for vacation. She woke me at 8 in the morning to tell me goodbye and--since I consider myself to be a good, caring husband--I got up and saw her out the door. I even watched as she drove away until her car...

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Exposing Myself

This is a true account of a recent experience of mine that I wanted to share with you all, especially as it was inspired by my experiences here on Lush.   Recently I’ve become quite excited at the thought of exposing myself in public. Chats with some of you and hearing about your experiences, and writing stories which include elements of public nudity and exhibitionism, have got me quite excited, and made me realise how much I’d like to take it a bit further for real. One of my old boyfriends...

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My Widowed Daughter and Myself

My name is Diwakaran, a 53 year old widower, living near Cochin, in the state of Kerala, in India. I was leading a decent middle class life, until my wife expired last year. This is my real life story. Though I am totally ashamed of myself and my actions, I have only written this, to make other widowers like me, aware of the dangers of loneliness and also the dangers of staying alone with their daughters, during such times of loneliness in life ............My wife and I have only one daughter....

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surprising myself

Surprising myself By SG [email protected]: From there to here I couldn’t help but feel dirty walking out of the office of the motel and on this rare occasion I’m not referring to what was going through my mind. Tess had driven us to one of the nastiest motels in town. It’s the kind of place where hourly rentals are more common than nightly. My pussy tingled thinking of what naughty bondage scenario Tess had chosen for me. My name is Pennie and I’m 26. I have blue eye, long dark hair...

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My Son And Myself

My husband left me years ago and, at the time this story begins, I was 31 years old. I'd been feeling horny for most of this particular day but I still hadn't done anything to satisfy my arousal before my teenage son came home after school.At 14 years old, Mark quite small and he was'nt very muscular, and he had short dark hair and was extremely well endowed for a young boy. Yes, I confess I'd seen him in the shower a many times and, although his cock was flaccid, it was impressive. Another...

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A Great night in by myself

I love dressing up in women's cloths they feel so smooth and sexy against my skin. A backless pinstripe lycra dress shows off my shoulders and back stretched tight over my peachy round buttocks. A little pair of white lace boxers underneath just visible as the skirt rides my thighs when I admire myself in the mirror. I then peel down my knickers a little and run my hands over my bare ass. Next I lube up a finger and slide it between my cheeks, teasing my tight little hole. One finger...

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Pleasuring Myself

I am the proud owner of several anal toys and dildos. My two favorites are an 8 inch dildo with a lot of texture and a much thicker man o’war. At 8” in length and 1.5” in diameter the smaller of the two is usually left in the toy box to be used when I don’t have time to play but need something in me for a few hard, fast minutes. The man o’war is almost 10 inches with 8.2 insertable inches and a 2” diameter. This is the only toy in my arsenal that can satisfy my greedy colon 90% of the...

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