Tales From Mist WorldChapter 14 A Rude Awakening and Departure
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Dubai Tales 01: Airport Departure free porn video
Octoposse
I liked Mohammed. Unlike many of the locals here in Dubai — and, to be fair, virtually all my fellow expats — he set out to do a good job rather than to ‘get rich quick’. Not that he, or rather his family, weren’t rich to start with. Very, very rich.
So, here he was, fresh faced holder of a first class degree in Electronic Engineering from an expensive university in California, back in his home town working as my assistant and mastering the detail of maintaining the one of the world’s most advanced Air Traffic Control systems. The academic, rule based, process driven side he picked up instantly, which left me trying to impart the art of inspired guesswork and intuition. Stick to the science and you could be a competent, even good, engineer. Leap to the art and you could either be great or fail utterly.
Apart from a flawless textbook understanding of electronics, California had foisted on Mohammed a craving for tall blonde women and a love of American coffee. Back in Dubai he sated his lust for the former with rather lovely but exceedingly expensive Russian prostitutes, and to deal with the latter we went upstairs once a day to the passenger Departure Lounge, home of Dubai’s best coffee shop. The staff recognised Mohammed and knew of his influential family so we well looked after. I indulged Mohammed’s taste for coffee, and took the break as an opportunity to review with him the practical lessons learned so far that day.
But not today. Today I was mesmerised by the woman at the next table. French. Had to be.
Sunglasses. Little black dress — only the French can carry off an lbd in the afternoon — accentuating, not covering, impossibly long improbably tanned limbs. Matching soft brown suede ankle boots and belt. I couldn’t see the handbag, resting on an empty seat at the café table, but I’d bet on soft brown suede too, classy. No point describing her features — you wouldn’t get the picture. The chin a little weak, the nose a little pointy, a hint of wrinkle on the long kissable Nicole Kidman neck. Pretty? Possibly borderline. Beautiful? Yeah. Only imperfections, and a few miles on the clock, can season definable prettiness into illogical beauty. Science and art, just like electronics really.
She was reading, ‘Le Premier Armour’ by — according to the name on the spine — one Santiago H Amigorena. Whether simple chance or contrived Coco Chanel genius, the unadorned cream cover of the inch thick paperback was the perfect finishing touch. I don’t know if ‘Le Premier Armour’ has any merit as literature, but making that woman in that café look even smarter, even sexier, than she would have been bookless should have earned old Santiago some sort of literary award. ‘Le Premier Armour’? ‘The First Love’? ‘The First Lover’? GCSE French was a long time ago.
God bless my wraparound prescription Oakleys. Red mirror lenses mean that I can study the tan and texture of her legs, right up to the small bruise high on the left thigh, without tattooing ‘SLEAZEY’ on my own forehead. And how much pleasure was in the making of the adorable dark haired child beside her, kneeling on a chair, colouring pencil in tiny fingers, tongue sticking out sideways in total concentration?
No point window shopping though. I’m a geek, and even a geek with a Porsche Cayman, wraparound Oakleys, a luxury apartment and a swimming pool is not going to ease his presence into a classically classy brunette’s. Nor indeed ease anything into a classically classy brunette.
Mohammed picked up on the source of my distraction and smiled at me. ‘My friend, if it is a beautiful woman you need, let me make a phone call for you!’ I smiled, probably a rather embarrassed smile, and quickly changed the subject back to modelling the time-domain approach to control systems.
And then I was distracted again. Raised voices. No, ONE voice, raised. There was a bloke now. Woman’s husband? Child’s father? One or the other would put him officially in the ‘lucky bastard’ category. Both would be more than any man deserved. Obvious to me but clearly not to him, as it is his voice that has caught my attention.
As effortlessly elegant as the woman is my new dark, tanned, unbleached linen suited, strong-featured, quintessentially Gallic, slightly jowly, five o’clock shadowed, croc shoed, watch strapped and belted, Serge Gainsbourg look-a-like figure of green-eyed monstrous hate. My hate, my jealousy — monsieur Great Tan doesn’t even know I exist. He’s too busy shouting at madame Sex-On-A-Stick.
I can see the spittle fly from his mouth, flashing through the dust glinting in the sharp edged bars of sunshine like shooting stars through the night sky. I can see veins, sinews, muscles, thorax twitching, throbbing, straining against the skin of his throat. His adam’s apple is dancing. He is standing over her, then half turning away, vacillating, before flicking back to shout some further grievance, some additional threat, some new perceived fault.
The child sits frozen, paralysed. She has been here before. Her sunglassed, tanned limbed mother smiles reassurance in the direction of our fellow customers. It is nervous and embarrassed and strained but it’s nonetheless unmistakeably intended to reassure. He has done it before. ‘Don’t worry — it’s fine. I’m fine. She’s fine. We’re fine’.
Unmistakeable but wasted in the sense of unnecessary. The other customers fix their designer coffee cups with interested stares. No one is going to say anything.
Her smile is wasted as there will be no eye contact. I alone in the café try, an exercise in futility to match hers thanks to the forgotten red lensed sunglasses, which hide the ‘are you REALLY fine?’ question in my eyes as perfectly as they had earlier screened my hopeful vigil for a glimpse of underwear between crossed thighs.
No one is going to say anything.
Monsieur Crocodile Shoes jabs an elegant finger and the sunglassed tanned limbed temporary love of my life flinches. I hazard a guess that only its immediacy prevents her fear of public humiliation from being completely conquered by her fear of the private hiding to follow.
No one is going to say anything. No one is going to do anything.
Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough.
No one else is going to say anything. No one else is going to do anything.
Enough.
My chair scrapes back, much more loudly than I had intended. And everything else falls silent. The bark of chair legs across tiles has caught Croc Shoes’s attention and even the fake ‘everything is normal’ conversations at the other tables are now unsustainable.
I am quite unused to confrontation. Violence is a stranger but even I am the beneficiary of millions of years of logical response to the hostile intentions of sabre toothed tigers and woolly rhinos. My pulse increases from a resting 58 per minute to a fighting/flying 147. I feel my finger tips moisten, cappuccino turn to cement in my stomach and, by an especially cruel twist of evolutionary physiology, adrenalin lop 60 points from my IQ just when some ability to reason and be reasonable would be particularly handy.
‘Monsieur, calmez-vous!’ is my best shot.
He says quite a lot. Quite fast. In French. The detail escapes me but I understand the general drift is that he doesn’t particularly want to calmez-vous. He throws a chair.
I throw a punch. For the first and — so far, touch wood, the last — time in my life. Talk about beginner’s luck! He goes down like a sack of potatoes (as we say in England, but since this is Dubai, let’s say ‘like a sack of dates’) clutching a nose that has exploded red all over the front of that beautiful linen suit.
The cops arrive. Now it is fair to say that the Dubai authorities do not lie awake worrying about Domestic Violence, but they are on the other hand very sensitive when it comes to the image of their airport and public buildings. Two Europeans apparently brawling over a woman
would normally be thrown straight in jail, with the one who is not the lady in question’s husband standing over the man who was and who in turn was clutching a broken nose would normally be given pretty short shrift.
Mohammed was way ahead of me on that issue, and virtually before Croc Shoes had hit the floor he had his cell phone out and was speed dialling that one of his many cousins who was a Lieutenant Colonel in the local Police. After a short but intense conversation he passed the phone to one of the cops who listened in silence and then returned it.
I got a nod, Mohammed got a salute, and Monsieur Crocodile Shoes got dragged away in handcuffs. That left the sunglassed, impossibly long and improbably tanned limbed woman and her adorable child standing alone, shaking visibly. I surprised myself.
‘Hello, I am Rupert. This is my friend Mohammed. We both work for the airport. Are you alright?’ I asked.
Somehow she smiled and it was the most beautiful thing I have seen in the World. ‘Céleste. And this is my daughter Charise’.
And then she started to cry. ‘Phillipe — my husband — he has our tickets, all our money, our cards, our passports . . . my God, where will we stay tonight?’
I sensed Mohammed opening his mouth to speak, but thought that if there was one moment in my life when I needed to butt in, it was now. I astonished myself this time.
‘I have an apartment’ I blurted, then, seeing her face, added quickly ‘You can have the keys. I’ll stay at Mohammed’s’. Mohammed lived in what counted as a palace, even here, with as many rooms as servants so I knew that it wouldn’t inconvenience his Mum. Anyway, she doted on me when I visited and kept trying to marry me off to various impoverished distant cousins in Lebanon so it would give her yet another chance.
Mohammed’s car and driver safely delivered Céleste and Charise to my apartment block whilst I followed in the Porsche. I asked the concierge to park for me whilst I unlocked the door to my apartment and the little girl ran in excitedly to explore. I stood on my own doorstep and held out my set of keys.
‘Fridge is full, plenty of milk, careful with the induction hob if you haven’t used one before, and help yourself to the DVDs — Charise can choose, I don’t have anything that isn’t suitable’. The times when not having any DVDs more violent than ‘The Railway Children’ or more sexually explicit than a boxed set of ‘Star Wars’ are few and far between but this was one of them.
Céleste smiled again, the gorgeous gorgeous little pointy nose wrinkling up a soupcon, as they say in France. And she took me by surprise: ‘Won’t you come in for a coffee?’. Ironic really, as it was my apartment, but I wasn’t complaining.
She made herself at home in the kitchen and by the time I had put clean sheets on the bed for the little one, had rustled up a perfect pale fluffy omelette. As we ate I answered wide-eyed questions from Charise about why I lived alone and had a swimming pool. By the time I got onto how secondary radar worked and aviation transponder interrogation modes the adorable child was asleep. Céleste carried her through to the bedroom whilst I popped the dishes in the machine and prepared to leave.
I looked up as Céleste carefully and silently shut the bedroom door behind her and joined me in the living room.
‘If you’re OK I’ll be off then?’ I asked.
Those beautiful dark eyes looked up at me and then she whispered ‘Don’t go. Hold me first.’
I looked disbelievingly at the petite chin, the adorable chin and the long kissable neck. I kissed it. Then I felt a luscious warmth as my love lifted her face and our lips met. My tongue tenderly penetrated her mouth, right now wanting this woman who wanted me. She took my hand and led me into the spare bedroom.
We kissed again, more urgently, and I reached up behind her and felt the top of her zip. That little black dress that had mesmerised me back in the airport Coffee Shop slipped silkily to the floor and I felt the heat of her body pressed against mine. I stepped back and clumsily pulled off my clothes all the time watching as Céleste slowly unclipped her lacy black bra and let it fall to the floor. Her body was lean, not young but honed and sinewy.
She smiled as she saw my bone hard seven inch penis spring free as I tugged my chinos and boxer shorts down together.
She licked her lips and dropped to her knees in front of me, ready to take me in her mouth, but I knew I would come in seconds, so instead I put my arms on her shoulders and guided her up and back until she lay on the bed her feet still on the floor. Now I knelt between her legs and the steadiness of my hands astonished me as I gently pulled the tiny black knickers down those impossibly long improbably tanned limbs. My eyes took in a concave tanned stomach, tiny pale stretch marks just making me lust for this woman more.
I rocked forward and gently caressed her clitoris with my nose. Céleste moaned softly and I savoured the rich warm aroma of her arousal. I started lapping with my tongue and I felt those fabulous legs I had first noticed in the airport coffee shop now, unbelievably, crossing in the small of my back.
I reached my arms up to Céleste’s breasts, but the angle was unnatural and I realised I couldn’t massage them with any sensitivity. I let my hands slide back and down tucked one in the small of her back to lift the lean lithe body towards my lapping tongue, whilst I used the other to press down on the base of her belly.
I licked harder now, developing a rhythm of a delicate circle with my tongue, then plunging it deeper into Céleste and letting my nose rub against her clitoris . . . a delicate circle with my tongue, then plunging it deeper . . . a delicate circle then . . .
‘Fuck me Rupeeert, fuck me now!’ I heard her gasp, her adorable French accent rasping with lust. But I knew that if I entered her with my penis I would come in seconds. Instead I penetrated her more deeply with my tongue. My face was wet and slippery now, the inside of my nostrils tingling with the spice of her juices.
I felt Céleste’s hands on the back of my head, pushing it deeper into her, the fingers writhing and the perfect painted nails digging into my scalp. She was more vocal now, her gasps matching the rhythm of my circling and probing tongue. With my left hand I pressed more firmly on the flat of her stomach and she gasped with ecstasy as the walls of her vagina pleasured each other. I clumsily tried to bring my right hand from the small of Céleste’s back to under her bottom and as I did so my thumb brushed against her anus, wet with her juices and my dribble.
Céleste came. Her legs spasmed and I felt her heels drumming against my kidneys. The painted nails of one hand grooving into my scalp. I looked up to see Céleste’s other hand stuffed in her own mouth to stop her screams waking the child in the next room. Instead a long shrill whine escaped from her throat, gradually subsiding as her legs stopped twitching.
Now I had brought my lover to orgasm, I could allow myself to come. I raised myself onto the bed and knelt beside her, my slender but beautifully shaped bone hard seven inch penis curving gracefully upwards. Céleste smiled. She raised herself onto one elbow, her mouth opened and I watched as her slips slid round the bulb of my cock. Tiny wrinkles radiated from the corners of her mouth as the warmth of her tongue caressed my penis. I moaned softly and Céleste’s head started to move up and down, the lips tight around my shaft. I flexed my hips and started to drive my penis deeper into her mouth, matching the rhythm of her bobbing head. I could see her eyes gleaming with renewed desire and then I came. Céleste swallowed greedily and I knew my semen was passing down that beautiful woman’s long kissable neck, the neck I had first noticed in the airport coffee shop.
My new lover, the fabulous sexy woman I wanted to be with for the rest of my
life rose from the bed and gathered up the little black dress, the soft brown suede belt, the lacy black bra, and the tiny black knickers from the floor. I stared at the perfect small breasts and the impossibly long improbably tanned legs, almost disbelieving that they had parted for my tongue.
Céleste smiled. ‘Mon Cherie, you should go now — your friend will be waiting. We will be fine.’ Never in my life did I ever less want to leave my own apartment, but I knew my lover was right about my friend, or at least my friend’s mother — the rules of hospitability around here would not allow them to go to bed until they had eaten with me and seen me comfortable. I dressed, but before I left I took Céleste’s hands in mine and slowly, carefully said:
‘Céleste. I love you.’ It was the first time I had used her name.
It was also the last.
I was back in the Cayman at nine the following morning. The apartment was empty, my keys left with the concierge. There was a note on the bed: ‘Thankyou. For everything’.
I never heard from Céleste again. The expectation that I would was gradually replaced by hope and then that in turn faded to despair. Mohammed’s cousin the Lieutenant Colonel of Police promised me he’d let me know if her passport was ever used to enter Dubai again. It never was. Mohammed’s mother increased her efforts to marry me off to one of her impoverished Lebanese relatives and made sure I didn’t starve myself. I thought that Céleste was the only time I would ever love, and that my life was over. I was wrong on both counts, but that’s another story. Or three.
FIN
Marisol
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