Somali Spinster part 1

A pleasant transfer of cold entered me as I pushed the glass doors. Moments later the air conditioned room completely submerged me in the chill of winter.  

'Hello, Zahra,' the receptionist greeted. 'Are you here for your appointment?' 

Why else would I be here? I thought to myself but smiled an indulgent smile.  

'Yes, Hannah. I'm running a little late. Should I just go through?' 

'Yeah, go for it,' Hannah said with the pep of youth and genuine good nature Australia is known for. 'She's expecting you anyway.' 

The office to which I was heading was on the third floor of this rather large building. I glanced at the lift, saw the number on my scales, then started towards the staircase. 

In between the first and second floors I realised that I had made a mistake, that my thirty year old body wasn't able to handle this type of exertion any more; I turned, making for the sanctuary of the first floor. 

The corridor was deserted, thankfully. Having pressed the lift button I thought about the assignment that my therapist had given me, ruminating on the ease with which I killed my mother.

A man approached me from around the corner. I couldn't help but look at him as he stopped next to me. He smiled and said good afternoon. A blond man in a suit, a visitor perhaps. I nodded to him, smiling back, but not really at him, but beyond him, around him, anywhere but him….

I excused myself and turned back to the stairs. Just before the door closed, separating the floor from the stairs, I heard the incredulous snort of a person offended. Embarrassed, sorry, but knowing I did the right thing I went up the stairs instead of taking a lift with that man.

Who knows what might have happened? He could have attacked me, pulled my hijab off or even worse. The thought of that man, his nice smile, my offensiveness, my inviolability, all were soon waved away by the stairs which were exacting their toll. These stairs really were not made for a thirty year old Somali woman.  

Knocking on the door, being bid to enter, the familiar smell and comfort of leather upholstery suffused through me and I began to relax.  

'Zahra -' 

'Sorry I am late, Jane. I was reading something and I got caught up.' 

I wondered again if a black woman could blush and hope to God that they can't. 

'Oh yeah? What were you reading ?' 

'Just some nonsense, really,' I said evasively and quickly added, to change to subject: 'I completed the assignment.' 

'You killed the image of your mother ?' Jane asked, her levantine eyes mirroring her calm and expectant body language. Her hands were slightly touching each other on her crossed knee. 

'I killed the image of my mother,' I repeated, for some reason glancing at her fingers. The green veins of age were starting to make an appearance. 

'Was it difficult?' 

'Surprisingly easy.' 

'And how did you do it?' 

'With hate and resentment.' 

'Good.' 

I couldn't shake the role of an accused at judgement and spoke forcefully as if a lifeless executioner was before me and I was trying to break the chains that bound me. 

'Tell me more of how you did it.' 

'I hated her disdain, and resented her distance. I hated her sneer and resented her spite. I created fantasies to juxtapose them with memories. For every slap I created a kiss. For every act of violence I created an act of love. Instead of blame in its place I raised understanding.' 

'And then?' 

'The mother that I had, in its place I raised the mother that I wished.' 

'And then?' 

'I killed the mother that I wished I had.' 

'And you feel?' 

'Released from the sorrow that the wish lodged within my soul.' 

'Do you hate and resent your mother?' 

'No. I hate what she could never have been, resent what I declared should have been mine by birthright but never was.' 

'Good, Zahra. That's one down and one to go. In the coming week I want you to kill your father.' 

'Ambush or duel?' I asked myself on my way home. I was sceptical at first of her choice of words but killings give closure, if anything, and the peace and release is undeniable.

I felt the smile widening on my lips and tried hard as I could to bring it back to stern disinterest. I didn't want anyone to misinterpret things. But it was harder than I thought to wipe the smile off my face so I looked down to mitigate the amiability I gave off.

Once I got to the car I gave a sigh of relief. 'Now it's on to a few hours of touching people,' came in my head ironically. The relief turned to disgust and a pressing need to get the idea of touch involving me out of my system.

Shuffling through the bag I found what I needed quickly. Which shall it be? I decided to stick to the sequence and turned my phone on. What better way to get this creeping feeling of touch away from me than to read about touch involving others?

I put on the cloak of observation, invoked the spirit of detachment, for when things have to do with others, it has nothing to do with you. So I continued where I last left off... 

'Older ladies have fascinated me since my early youth, perhaps because I never was in close contact with too many. There is something about the flaccidness of their aged bodies that has a strong appeal; sex appeal, the promise of enveloping softness being the height of attractiveness.  

There was one woman who I worked with, an electrical engineer, who had caught my eye. An Algerian woman, forty plus named Imani. Not particularly attractive but aged, giving off vibes of loneliness.  

We had arranged to meet up for a protest, a pro Palestinian protest. My own personal views didn't tend to be pro Palestinian persée but that isn't going to win you any favours from an Arab woman, and favours was what I was after with this Arab woman.  

I arrived at Central London before her, near Piccadilly Circus, and waited in the gloomy London weather; waited with the shadow of semi dry pussy around my cock; a feeling not good enough to get me hard, and not bad enough to make me soft, an evil feeling.  

There were several other protesters around with flags and effigies. I thought about doing the same thing, bringing a flag of some size, but decided it was too much, and stuck with a checkered scarf synonymous with the Palestinian struggle instead. It shows sentiment with little effort and ostentatiousness; a perfect gesture for the situation.  

The wind was rising, and as I tightened the scarf, I saw Imani cut through the crowd coming towards me. She had made an effort too and shared the same thought that this was a date rather than a sharing of political expression: she had waxed her moustache. I was pleased by the gesture but never really cared about that, though she had a strong amount of facial hair. I kissed her hello, a continental hello, and felt the stubbles on her face.  

'Nice,' she said, with her French accent, pulling my scarf.  

'Viva Palestina!'

She smiled.  

'Just like that,' I said to myself. 'Girls love justice.' 

'Shall we go?' I said to her, looking once more at the sallow, formerly pearl, skin of my love interest.  

I was a little uncomfortable walking with her as she had come to our date with a decolleté, her sagging breasts exposed inappropriately for the protest and the weather but eventually I brushed it off. She was clearly very eager for this date to go well and frankly so was I. But I changed my mind about her outfit when we got to Trafalgar Square where the protest was being held. I forgot that there would be Arab men there and plenty of them and as soon as we were noticed, the leers began.  

'There are a lot of Algerians around,' she said, smiling.  

'How do you know ?' 

'I know my people.' 

'Are you talking about the -' 

'They love Palestine.' 

'I see, of course they do,' I said, grateful that she had cut me off. She talked like a nationalist and would certainly have been offended if I had finished my sentence. I can't tell you how many times other people's rudeness has saved me!  

'I hope we'll get some good speeches today. The last time I went to a pro Palestinian rally... it wasn't all that.' 

'You went to other rallies before?' she asked, her eyes sparkling.  

'Yeah, many,' I replied, lying through my teeth. That was the first time I had ever been to a rally; and it will be the last time if she gives it up. 

The protest wasn't too bad. There speeches from politicians, famous journalists and Palestinians themselves. I myself was only concerned with the buttering of the bread so to speak, saying things like 1947 borders, lamenting European arrogance, swinging my scarf around at emotional intervals, and it did the trick. Towards the end, I asked if she wanted to grab a coffee. She said she would love that, and suggested her place. 

'Do you live nearby?' I asked, surprised and delighted. 

'Yes, ten minute walk. In Marleybone.'

Lonely elderly woman, I am here for you.  

Her house was in a nice little residential area in central London where they had a little square park in front of a curved complex of apartments. The apartment itself was a modern place with a fake fireplace, an open kitchen and pristine and comfortable looking white furniture.  

'Take your shoes and your coat off. This apartment gets hot,' she said as she went to the kitchen to make coffee.  

I obeyed her acquired wisdom and took my dark coat and expensive boots off. By the time I had followed her to the kitchen, Frank Sinatra was playing, and I slowed slightly. 'What is going on here?' I asked myself. 

Worriedly, I added, 'what will happen?'  In front of me she asked: 

'What coffee do you like?' 

'I like -' 

She put her arms around me and pushed me to the sofa. Baby blue eyes, is this what you do to Algerian women? Oh lonely woman! I am here for you… 

We started kissing and I noticed a desire to vomit. She didn't know how to kiss and instead of softly playing with my tongue she tried to cut off my tonsils.

I broke away, pretending I wanted to take my clothes off when I was revolted by her inexperience. She also was taking her clothes off and I saw that she was wearing granny underpants.  

'Really?' I can't help but say.  

'I don't like how thongs feel,' she said apologetically. 

'But there are others,' I said, frowning. 'Whatever, it's coming off anyway.' 

She had a marvellous body for her age. A flat stomach, a juicy hanging ass, and the saggy discoloured tities I love so much. 

'I'm so happy you never had any kids, baby,' I said, unable to calculate my words. But no matter, I was in there !

She gave a cute shrug, a very French upwards movement of the shoulders.  

I started playing with her breasts, which had almost completely lost their mass and I pressed my hands against them, with her brown nipples in between my fingers. I saw her trying to go for a kiss but dodged down to eat some pussy. She didn't mind, shivering while standing up. It had a strong metallic taste, as well as the strong pussy smell. I pulled back and looked down.

'This is like tropical rain,' I said to myself. The shadow of semi dry pussy had turned into the shadow of super wet pussy and I became as hard as I had ever been. 

'Baby,' I said looking up. 'I've never seen a pussy so wet.' 

'It's because I want you so bad.' 

'I forbid you to speak to me in English. Speak to me in French.' 

'What about in Arabic?' 

'Hell nah baby. Are you crazy? The Arabic language has no sex appeal. French is the sexiest language on the planet. And that's the mood we're in now.' 

She flinched slightly at the perceived insult, but I put my mouth on her pussy again. The nationalism that was threatening to rear its head got slayed by the sexual arousal she couldn't resist. She started talking in French.

'Lay down, baby,' I told her. 

She laid down and I traced the length of her pussy with my cock, saw her gagging for me to put it in, grabbing my cock. But as she touched my dick, I started going soft. I was so stunned that I didn't immediately react.

Her hands were so calloused I froze in shock and started to experience pain as she rubbed it trying to get me hard again. She was whining, almost crying seeing her attempts fail. 

'You don't want me? Of course you don't. I am an old woman. What can I do for you.'

I came to my senses. 

'Baby, get up and give me some head.' 

'What?' she asked confusedly, pushing herself up. 

'I mean suck my dick,' replied, directly, staring at her, frightened that she was playing dumb before she would refuse. 

'Sorry,' she said embarrassedly, with a breaking voice. 'I'm not really that familiar with English love talk.' 

'Love talk?' I repeated to myself, and grinned stupidly. 

She did as instructed, sitting up, her saggy tities swinging, putting her mouth on it. I started getting up again.  

'Watch your teeth. Make your mouth smaller. Good baby. Now get off and lay back.' 

She tried to grab my cock again not knowing how calloused her hands were and I slapped her hand away before she could do any damage, making manoeuvres like a racecar driver until I finally put it in.

There's nothing better than a loosened pussy that allows you to glide your cock in and out with minimal resistance. She was very loud and her screams were threatening to make me come but she had a nice cellulite ass and I wanted to see how she looked from the back. So we changed positions.

I saw that she had a long streak of hair coming from the middle of her back all the way down to her crack which had a thick mass of dark hair. She was an Arab alright! Why didn't she wax her ass crack if she waxed her face and pussy? It made no sense.  

'What are you doing?' she said, turning her head around, her face flushed, her tone accusatory.  

I didn't answer, put my dick in and watched her gasp...' 

Closing my eyes, putting my phone down, I experienced a touchless orgasm, from imagination to body, letting it course through me, tensing and then relaxing me. When it passed I breathed a sigh of contentment and I regained my previous pleasant mood for the time being...