Colleen's Tale, pt. 1

It was a dirty little secret that filled her with both guilt and wild excitement. She had what she had to admit was an real addiction. Not to drugs or alcohol or shopping, but to something else. Something vastly more shameful. but a thing she would never give up. For Colleen was addicted to being fucked, and most especially by big thick cocks, in particular Arab ones. The tall blonde in her 40s walked down the concourse of JFK airport, high heels clicking, a first class boarding pass on Emirates Airways in her well-manicured hand. The small leather briefcase bounced against her curvy hips as they swayed under her silk slacks. She smiled at she thought of the week ahead, and a naughty shiver ran through her body.

Behind her strolled a Middle Eastern man in a well-tailored Hardy Aimes suit, cut to acommodate his broad shoulders and chest. Aged 50, with a dark cruel face, he admired the well-shaped rump of the blonde a few yards ahead of him. He’d seen her in the lounge and had spent some time looking at her long shapely legs and her face framed by a mass of girls. He could see the hint of a thong showing at the top of her slacks, black, clearly pulled up tight. Even as he walked, his member began to thicken as he considered his plan, and had anyone looked at his worsted wool trousers they would have seen a thickening tube under the fabric, bulbous head clearly outlined.

A cute dark-haired flight attendant smiled warmly at Colleen and guided her to 1A, a spacious leather window seat at the very front of the plane. She accepted a glass of champagne and glanced out at the tarmac as she waited for the annoucements to conclude, her mind wandering. She thought of her children being taken care of by the nanny in her New York apartment, and also, inevtiably, of her boyfriend, Steven. Steven was nearly ten years older than her, a nice looking man, kind and thoughtful, and modestly successful in his field. She knew he loved her, and her kids adored him. Several times he’d even raised the topic of marriage, but she’d always avoided committing, raising objections abou their travel schedules and hectic work lives. But while she’d never said it to Steven, she knew the real reason very well. It was a dirty little secret that filled her with both guilt and wild excitement. She had what she had to admit was an real addiction. Not to drugs or alcohol or shopping, but to something else. Something vastly more shameful. but a thing she would never give up. For Colleen was addicted to being fucked, and most especially by big thick cocks, in particular Arab ones.

It was a taste she’d aquired years ago as an exchange student in Egypt. The warm climate, fascinating culture, and delicious food all thrilled and seduced her, and in the ‘90s, a young fresh American blonde in her 20s attracted a lot of attention from local men. Like other Western women before her, it did not take long for Colleen to discover that Arab men were quite different from their American counterparts. First of all, they could be very firm with women, even a bit brutal at times, and she loved this; being commanded, even controlled, somehow allowed her to justify doing what she craved. A sharp slap on her round bottom or an order to drop to her knees made her feel naughty and slutty, and terribly, terribly good. And when they took off their clothes, it was instantly obvious that to a man they were all extremely well endowed, their meaty cocks nestled in curly black hair, heavy balls dangling below. She was a very popular girl in Cairo that year, and even many years later lying in bed, she often thought back to those days when she masturbated, invariably sliding a lifelike brown dildo in and out of her gushing slit, aroused by the sight of the thick veiny toy as it parted her lips.

Finally the plane taxied and rose into the air, and sipping her champagne she glanced over at the occupant of seat 1B. He was an Arab, that much was clear, with a dark complexion and hawk-like nose. And judging by the Rolex on his strong wrist and the quality of his suit, he had serious money, and Colleen liked men with money. He looked at her and smiled, raising his glass in a toast, and said his name, “Omar”. She gave a throaty laugh and smiled back, and they clinked their glasses, openly flirting. Whatever thoughts she’d had of work, her children, or even Steven, seemed to have mysteriously vanished, as this strong sexual man talked to her, ordering both of them more flutes of champagne. They spoke of his work in the Royal Court of Bahrain, and of her career helping new immigrants adapt to life in the U.S. Colleen was an idealistic woman and absolutely passionate that America needed new blood and that the addition of Arabs and African men — for she always thought of them as men — could only make ours a better country. That she might have ulterior motives for wanting more virile males in the gene pool was something she suspected, but certainly never articulated.

The hours passed swifly as they dined together on the lobster salad and more wine served by the pretty young flight attendant, and Colleen felt flushed and happy. Finally, when the lights dimmed, she excused herself and reclined her seat until it was a full flat-bed, and pulled up the partition that separated her from her new friend, Omar. He had greatly aroused her, she had to admit, and she pulled her iPad from her briefcase and quickly opened it to the pictures she’d downloaded in anticipation of the trip.

They were from one of her favorite websites with the naughty name of “Haram Whores” and they featured pretty white women, both young and mature, being used in countless inventive ways by men who looked Middle Eastern. Some were clearly staged, but many seemed to be amateurs, and fascinatingly all the women looked genuinely satisfied. Some were clearly excited, others grinning happily, and more than a few in the stages of ecstasy. Her eyes gleamed as she scrolled through pic after pic, finally settling on one of her favorites, a gif of a late middle-aged woman who bore a striking resemblence to Hilary Clinton! She sat in a black swivel chair at a large mahogany desk, the American and Executive Branch flags on either side. Smiling like a Cheshire cat, her blouse was open and bra pulled down, and she held for inspection her large slightly sagging breasts. Standing over her were two Arab men, both dressed in the tradiitonal thobe gown of the Gulf states, each holding his swollen cock. One had just shot a large thick deposit of semen on the woman’s left breast, while the other was still stroking, his hand pumping madly.

Replaying the gif over and over, Colleen could see the creamy seed spurt out from the immense brown cock and arc in the air on its way to the large freckled breast. His rock-hard member curved like a scimitar sword and Colleen couldn’t draw her eyes away. There was something so wonderful about the older woman’s total submission; after all, didn’t Islam literally mean “submission”? Colleen’s fingers slid down the front of her slacks and into her thong, her smoothly shaved pussy already moist with secretions. In a lovely daze of lust, she imagined herself being fucked by these powerful men, and her clit throbbed achingly. Somehow in the corner of her mind she felt she could see someone watching her, someone who was as excited as her, and she realized that in her fantasy Steven was there, stroking his hard white cock, and watching Colleen as she greedily abandonded herself to the Arabs. She took measure of his penis, a nice 7 inches with a large purple plum-like head already oozing precum, but she had to admit it was no match for the Arabs, who were longer, thicker, and much more dominant. She moaned quietly and wriggled in her seat, as her fingers touched her swollen clit, and thought how wonderful the world would have been if Hilary had been elected President…mmm….

(more to cum!)