Dubai Tales 02: Faith , Charity

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Note: like all the other ‘Dubai Tales’ – published, or yet-to-be-published, alike – this story is effectively true, but with enough detail changed so that no one involved can be identified, except p-e-r-h-a-p-s by themselves. . . . . .

Driving the Cayman up the ramp and out of the climate controlled cool of the ‘Executive Staff’ carpark at Dubai International Airport I flinched in anticipation of the wall of heat I was about to hit. But my windows were down and the tiny optional extra sunroof (‘the most expensive letterbox in the world’ the expat Malaysian salesman joked as he relieved be of a substantial slice of my earnings) was staying open and the aircon ‘off’ – all my life I had wanted a Porsche and now I had one I was going to damn well use it!

In fact life wasn’t bad at all. I had the car. I had a well paid job I loved, maintaining complex air traffic control systems. I had a luxury apartment, all bills paid by my employer, with a maid who cooked and a swimming pool (OK the swimming pool was shared). I even had a sexy girlfriend now – thanks to the confidence that Céleste, THE woman, had given me. Well, confidence and the kudos of taking down the scumbag husband with one punch – only I knew what a fluke it was, but thanks to that fluke for the first time in my life I had acquired a nickname at work – ‘Juan’ (as in Juan Punch). All in all, pretty good going for a geek, even a geek with a Porsche, a luxury apartment and a swimming pool.

OK, OK, the girlfriend was, just like the swimming pool, shared. Shared with her husband for sure, and I am reasonably certain with several of the other contractors. But since these were younger, beefier, less geeky and more – much, much more – self confident than me, that was a little bit of an ego boost in a way.

Apart from not being 100% (or even, if the truth be told, 25%) mine, Faith was – or so I thought at the time – in every other respect, perfect. A little older than me, late 30s. Very lean and rangy, almost bony. Tall. Small breasts that disappeared as she arched backwards as I slid into her. Elegant but not classy, very, very tanned, with a face that had undoubtedly seen too much sun in its time – but the little leathery lines and wrinkles that radiated out from her invariably lipsticked mouth as it closed around my erect penis were an incredible turn on. Her noisy prolonged climaxes, and the way her eyeballs almost swivelled until only white showed when she orgasmed, showed I was doing something right.

I knew that Charity, my maid – “Mrs Charity” as I called her, since she refused to call my anything other than “Mr Rupert” – disapproved. So much so that I now only had Faith round (and had Faith) on Mrs C’s day off. This seemed to suit Faith – presumably allowing her more time to pursue ‘other interests’ (that’s a euphemism for the more well endowed of her husband’s workmates) – and it certainly suited me: avoiding the frosty next morning glances of my maid as she banged my grapefruit and yogurt on to the breakfast counter had become a primary objective.

Yesterday had been Mrs C’s day off so I was pretty shagged out as I piloted the Porsche homebound. It was about 43c, so the breeze flowing through the car was distinctly uncomfortable. But I knew an air conditioned underground parking space, a shower, a swim, another shower, and one of Mrs C’s fabulous home cooked summery Kenyan dishes awaited me.

I parked the car, noticing that it was more dusty than gleaming, but a call to the Indonesian brothers to whom I entrusted its cleaning would soon fix that. The first shower was great. The pool felt cold after the heat of the journey and the shower, but adana escort I felt refreshed after ten lengths. The second shower was good – I arched back and watched the most expensive water in the World, produced from seawater in the desert, sheeting from my penis, which stirred and raised slightly as if remembering how it had skewered another man’s wife on my apartment’s living room floor the night before. So far so good.

But as I wandered into the kitchen I knew that something was wrong. Mrs C was clearly upset and instead of her chatting endlessly about her brothers, sisters, nieces and nephews back home in Nairobi as she chopped and prepared exotic ingredients into dishes of complete brilliance, there was stony silence as she tossed a few tomatoes and some lettuce leaves into the salad washer.

People aren’t exactly my strongpoint – give me complex electronics any day – but I thought I’d give it a try. I had always liked Mrs C – her cheerfulness and care for me kept me sane and healthy in this supremely unnatural life in Dubai. She had been widowed more than ten years ago when her husband had died on a construction site here back in the boom years. She had come to send the body home to his family, had to get a job to pay off the loan for the airfare, and had been here ever since. She worked hard and I knew that every penny she earned went back to Kenya to fund her nephews and nieces’ education. Sometimes, especially when I lay alone between the crisp clean sheets she had put on my bed I even fancied her: she was mid-30 something, quite short, verging on plump, but she had flawless black skin and an energy for life that I envied. And a fabulous, fabulous, rounded bum. I know that some of my workmates at the airport did sleep with their maids, but I strongly disapproved as I wondered how ‘consenting’ these women truly were given their desperation to keep their jobs, send money home, and feed their families.

“Everything alright, Mrs C?” I asked, genuinely concerned. There was no direct rely, she didn’t even look at me, but I heard a loud tearful sniff.

This was too much coming from someone for whom I genuinely cared. I stepped forward, firmly took the miscellaneous and slightly sad salad items from her hands and led her into the living room. She reluctantly sat down and I sat with her and said “OK Mrs C – tell me what’s wrong. We’re friends right?”

She started sobbing. “That woman has been here. She no good for you. She no good.”

“That woman? You mean my friend Faith?” I asked, really just for something to say, as I was out of my depth here..

“Yes her. I clean this morning and find underwear under sofa. This sofa.”

I had a mental image of the night before, sliding Faith’s expensive apricot coloured knickers down her long tanned legs, then flicking them aside before I turned her over and fucked her (and fuck her I did – Faith was the first woman I had ever fucked rather than made love to. But since we both evidently enjoyed it so much, I don’t feel too bad). Damn! I knew she routinely kept a clean pair in her Gucci handbag identical to those she was wearing – she must have slipped those on when we were done.

“I’m sorry to have upset you Mrs C – this is your home as well as mine – but it shouldn’t be a problem, me having a girlfriend, should it?”

“I am sorry too Mr Rupert, but that woman no good. You should have good woman!”

I felt a tiny flare of anger as Charity’s innocent statement resurrected memories of teenage, and much, much, more recent, humiliations and rejections – I would love a good woman, but had spent most of my adult eskişehir escort years without any sort of woman whatsoever. I was surrounded by workmates who could effortlessly find, date, fuck, dump, fuck again, marry, divorce, the sort of beautiful woman who would never look twice at me, then start over. Whilst I sat at home watching Star Wars boxsets until I could recite the script word-for-word.

“Where would I find a good woman who actually wanted me” I snapped in bitterness.

Charity looked me in the eyes. “How about me?” she blurted out.

I was dumbfounded. I reached out and stroked her short dark hair, and with my thumb brushed a tear from her cheek.

The next impulse was irresistible – I leaned forward and kissed a tear from her other cheek. For a moment there was saltiness on my tongue but then the caress of her breath as Charity lifted her face, so her luscious full lips were just millimetres from my mouth. Somehow I did what I thought was the ‘right thing’, and turned by head away to make this a hug, not an embrace.

For ten minutes we sat motionless, feeling each others’ warmth. I was still stunned with shock and surprise, and seriously didn’t know what to do next. Then, although I felt my penis stir – and knew that Charity could feel it too – it was emotion that took over, not lust.

“Come to bed”. I took both her hands in mine and led her into the bedroom. I drew her to me and she rested her head in my chest, her arms around my waist, mine around her shoulders. I breathed through her hair, savouring the scent of her. Again we were motionless, feeling each others’ warmth, then my fingers found the zip of her cheap maid’s dress and gently eased it down. As I pulled it back to pass over the curves of her bum I realised just how fabulous a body I now held.

She steeped out and back, and the black and white nylon dress lay in a heap. I had been wrong all these months – she was petite, not plump. The shapeless synthetic fabric maid’s outfit, stretched from voluptuous breasts to her superbly full bottom had hidden the tiny waist between.

She wore a mismatched red bra and beige knickers. She reached behind her shoulder blades and undid the bra. The most magnificent breasts I have ever seen tumbled free, large and firm, with proud points capped by large nipples the colour of dark chocolate. A small gold crucifix on a chain nestled between them.

Instead of Faith’s rangy sinews, the woman before me was all curves.

She sat on the edge of the bed and I knelt on the floor, between her legs. I reached out and gently took hold of the cheap panties. She raised her perfectly curved bum and I slid the underwear down and off. She opened her legs slightly, revealing the entrance to her vagina, a deep ruby red flower with dark petals. Her skin was flawless, and completely smooth.

I looked up and she smiled at my unanswered question. “If I hadn’t shaved you’d have been scratched” she explained.

“But how did you know I was going to kiss you?” I blurted.

“I have been smooth for nine months, waiting for you” she replied, confirming my own blindness and stupidity.

I plunged my tongue into her. She moaned and my mouth was instantly soaked by her juices. I flicked and worked my tongue around her clitoris and labia. She was so wet my eyes soon stung from the saltiness.

I lifted my head and she slid down onto the floor beside me. She turned and, kneeling on the floor, rested her breasts on the bed. That perfect hemisphere of a bum curved up towards me. I moved forward and guided the bulbous head of my penis towards sakarya escort the crimson flower of her vagina. I penetrated her by about half an inch, with a tiny audible plop. Even thoroughly soaked with her juices, her body yearning for mine, she was so very, very, tight. I supposed my erection was the first shaft to enter her body since her husband had died.

I rocked backward and forward, each time my cock entering her, opening her, just a little further. It was a lovely, subtle sensation. Still most of my seven inches was outside Charity’s perfect, tight, body – I felt the air conditioned air of the apartment cooling it, numbing it. I could do this for ever.

And each time the bulbous head of my penis stimulated her clitoris further. Suddenly, she orgasmed – and I hadn’t even yet fully entered her. Her body shuddered and bucked back into mine. Her vagina shuddered and bucked back onto my cock. All of it.

On impulse I slid out of her. I bent forward and gently pulled apart the dome of her bum with my thumbs, then flicked my tongue over the pitch black of her anus. Charity gasped with pleasure and a little sheen of perspiration bloomed across her lower back. Now I knew. I penetrated her with my tongue, savouring the saltiness and spice of her body. It was the greatest moment of my life – and from Charity’s shrieked “Yes, yes, YES!!” perhaps hers as well. I kept it going for about 15 minutes until the muscles of my neck ached and lines of sweat ran down Charity’s flawless skin.

Mrs C – as I couldn’t help thinking of her as – turned around and gently but firmly guided me onto my back.

“Now I show you what a good woman can do” she smiled, and straddled me. I watched spellbound as she guided my cock into her and lowered herself. “Ssshh, be still my love, be still” she whispered. And she started to rise and fall, sliding up and down on my erect penis.

Those magnificent breasts shone with sweat only inches from my face. The nipples were now the size of my thumbs, dark and matt against the rest of her glistening body. As I leant forward to take one in my mouth I looked down and watched the black lips of her vagina wrapped around my white penis – each stroke they trailed upwards as if they didn’t want to relinquish their hold on my shaft. .

I more than filled my mouth with a nipple, soft and yielding compared with the firm curves of the rest of her body. Suddenly I climaxed. I felt my penis pumping semen, fighting gravity and fighting for space in her still tight vagina. Charity slumped down onto me.

I think we slept as we were, on the floor.

We couldn’t make love for a few days after that, as Charity was a little sore, rather like virgins on honeymoon (back in the days when there were such things. Virgins that is, not honeymoons). But she insisted on my cock and then my semen filling her mouth at least twice a day as she did unbelievable things to it with a tiny pink tongue.

Anyway, there were plans to make – Mrs C (as I still called her sometimes, usually when we were entwined and giggling) moving out of the servant’s accommodation and into my – correction our – apartment (with some circumspection – the local authorities turned a blind eye to most things, but it was wise not to stuff an atheist and a Christian who were not married, ahem ‘enjoying’ each other down their throats). There was me taking over paying for Mrs C’s nephews’ and nieces’ education back in Nairobi – nickel and dime out of what I earned.

And, of course, me putting a ring on Mrs C’s finger, although I felt a pang of guilt over putting paid to my friend and colleague Mohammed’s mum’s unsubtle efforts to marry me off to one of their various impoverished distant cousins in Lebanon.

Fair to say that as is typically the case with the best laid plans of mice and men, things didn’t quite work out that way. But that’s another story. Or three. Maybe even four.


Coming soon: Dubai Tales 3 – Love Boat . . . . .

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