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You could hear the woman’s strident voice all the way down the corridors of the fifth floor.
“Stop it, you bastard! I told you, I don’t do that shit!”
This was followed by the sound of a slap and a man’s voice, though his was softly spoken, impossible for Julianne to hear. She put her head against the wall, even as she heard her parents moving about in the other room.
‘Dammit, be quiet!’ she willed them. This was too exciting! That man, Fareikh, was clearly trying to do something to one of the whores he routinely brought back to his apartment, and it sounded like she wanted nothing to do with it. Julianne looked around the room for a glass, as she had seen used, but there was nothing in her bedroom that could help her hear better. Just then her mother knocked on her door.
“Julie? Honey, are you done with the invitations yet? It’s almost dinnertime.”
Julianne sighed. “Yes, mother,” she called, “I sent them out an hour ago.” She hesitated, then added, “Jeeze!”
Her mother insisted on a holiday party every year around this time. Grace Beechler had been doing it since Julie was nine or ten. Only now, she delegated to Julie the task of sending out the invites to her list of friends.
‘Thank god for email,’ Julie thought. She and her father both put up with this part of it, but dreaded the actual night. It would be all of her mother’s co-workers and some of their boyfriends and husbands, most of them wishing they were somewhere else. ‘Still, tradition and all that,’ Julie mused with a grim smile.
She heard what sounded like furniture being shoved around from down the hall, and left her bedroom for the kitchen, where she grabbed a glass from the dish drainer and scooted back into her room. Her door locked again, she put the glass to the wall and her ear against the glass bottom.
‘Fuck!’ The glass did nothing to enhance whatever was going on in Fareikh’s apartment. The few muffled sounds were impossible to hear clearly. Then, the woman’s voice erupted with a wail.
“Oh my god!”
Julie slapped the glass back against the wall. ‘What the fuck is that freak doing?’ she wondered.
The sound stopped as quickly as it had begun. Julianne imagined his hand around the whore’s throat as he… what was he doing? Her smooth slick thighs moved against each other without her even thinking about it, capturing her little bud in a tight grip. She only became aware of her arousal as her hand slid under the hem of her knit top and across her belly, headed downward.
At eighteen, masturbation wasn’t new to Julie. She could feel her clit swelling even now, and knew it would be enveloped in dampness when her fingers contacted it. Still, the almost-electric shock when she did, surprised her. She moaned softly, tracing two fingers around it before sliding further down into the tiny V of her thong panties. They were damp at the bottom, as they always seemed to be. Julianne sighed, letting one finger slip into her moist opening. Her labia parted easily, greedily allowing her probing finger inside. She shivered, stroked her inner lips a couple of times, and pulled her hand free.
‘That’s all I need,’ she thought, ‘to get myself all worked up, then have to go out and face my folks at the dinner table!’
“Julie! Dinner!” her mother called, as if sensing the correct moment.
‘She does that,’ Julie thought, and smiled. Her mom was perfect in so many ways. ‘If only throwing a party was one of them,’ she thought ruefully. She set the glass down carefully on her bedside table and left her room.
Later that night, she slipped her pajama bottoms off and lay naked from the waist down, pushing the sheet down so she could finish what she’d begun earlier. The whole time at dinner, as her mother prattled on about the coming weekend and her father grunted noncommittally, her mind had been conjuring up thoughts of the hairy middle-Easterner down the hall. She wondered what he looked like naked; what his cock was like. She’d seen videos of uncircumcised men, and was convinced he would be too, as that seemed to be the custom among their people. His lifestyle intrigued her, to be honest. She knew he was a programmer and that he spent a lot of his time working from home. She also knew about the hookers.
‘That man must be insatiable!’ she thought, as her fingers once again found her dripping crack, and slid smoothly inside. With one finger wet from the fluids she was drooling, she moved that hand up under her pajama top and rubbed it all around her tight left nipple.
“Oooohhhmmm,” she softly groaned. She had to be quiet, she knew, but it was getting impossible; her need was overpowering. Julianne Beechler’s teenage body was producing massive amounts of oxytocin and estrogen, as it always did just before she ovulated. She didn’t rationalize all this out; she just knew her horniness was off the charts. It certainly didn’t help when she could hear their fifth-floor neighbor having loud sex with women, right down the hall! Once again, she set her mind to eryaman eve gelen escort imagining Fareikh, and what his body must look like.
“He’s a big hairy bastard,” she muttered to herself, and the finger that remained inside her curled upward, lightly scratching the ceiling of her tight hole. This was enough to make her moan again, and she clenched her thighs tightly around her hand, as if restricting her movements was the same as muting her voice. “Ohhhh, fuck! I bet he’s covered in hair, like a fuckin’ animal.” Her voice trembled when she spoke those words, and she flashed briefly on the video of the horses mating she’d seen on youtube. It hadn’t lasted long, but the image of the stallion’s impossibly long penis stabbing at the mare’s vagina had stayed with her. She imagined her finger as the horse’s cock, then as Fareikh’s. In her mind, it came at her out of a growth of thick black hair, sinking into her with the same fury the stallion had displayed. Two fingers now mirrored the movement she imagined.
“Ohhhhh, fucking yesssss!” she spat, as the first pulse of a rapidly approaching climax made her flex her legs, raising her hips off the bed. “Nnnnngggghhhh” was all she could manage as her pelvic floor muscles tightened in anticipation of the impending orgasm, and her fingertips danced briskly over her throbbing clitoris.
Julie abandoned her breast and grabbed the pillow from under her head with that hand, and slammed it down over her face as she fantasized the man thrusting deeply into her; just in time, as she almost screamed at the vision she had. Her lower body thrust upwards three or four times and she groaned loudly into the pillow, literally displacing her hand from her vagina as she came.
At last her writhing ceased, and she collapsed back onto her now-wet bed. Her bare ass felt the clamminess of the sheet below her, but she didn’t care. ‘Fuck me, that one was huge!’ she said to herself. She knew she must be grinning, ear to ear. Kevin, her last boyfriend, had never been able to do that for her, with his clumsy fingers and over-eager fumbling, even after she’d taken the time to show him how to please her. He only seemed to want her mouth on his penis. ‘For about thirty seconds,’ she giggled to herself, ‘then he’s done for!’ Julie had heard Fareikh go on for more than an hour with his trollops. Again, she briefly imagined the middle-Easterner before taking a deep breath and reaching for tissues, to mop the juices from her thighs.
Julie was a pretty girl, with wavy blonde hair that cascaded down to mid-back. She’d only had one boyfriend, but they’d had sex numerous times, and she considered herself pretty good at giving head. Her excessive wetness often bothered her, but she could never ask her mother about it. She imagined her proper mother saying, “Good girls don’t leak” or something similarly embarrassing, so she took extra care to do her own laundry. As an only child, her folks thought it was very mature of the teenager, and often complimented her on taking such initiative. For Julianne Beechler, it was a question of emotional survival.
Friday afternoon. Julie had just gotten back from her class at the community college, and wasn’t paying attention as she bounded up the stairs towards her apartment. She never took the elevator; that thing looked like a certain death-trap! Suddenly her face was right up against a pair of denim-clad legs.
“Ogod! Sorry,” she said, backing down a step and looking up at the person she’d nearly face-slammed into. It was Fareikh, grinning lewdly down at her!
“Not at all, young lady,” he said, his English as impeccable as she’d noted in the past. He added, “Anytime, in fact.”
Julianne blushed furiously. She looked down from his face; then realized that, at her elevation, she was staring directly at his crotch. Nor did she fail to notice the sizable lump in those fresh denim jeans.
“I… I…well,” she stammered, desperately trying to cover her embarrassment, “I mean, sorry about that. I should have been looking where I was going.”
He ignored her comment, instead closing the distance between them and extending a large dark hand. “I am Fareikh,” he said in his proper English, “and you are Julianna, correct?”
She tried to recover. “Uh, it’s Julianne,” she corrected him. “But everyone just calls me Julie.” She took his hand awkwardly, noting how warm and large it was. It swallowed her tiny hand up! He held onto hers for the longest time, looking down at her. Still a step above her, he towered over her. She wondered if he was going to let her hand go. When at last he did, she was trembling.
“Hello then, Miss Julie. I am happy to finally meet you.” He grinned down at her, then added, “any time you would like to run into me, I would find that pleasant.”
‘Oh my god!’ Julie knew her face must have turned crimson. She nervously dodged around the man and raced up the stairs even faster, but taking care now to look where she was going. At the bala escort door to her apartment at last, she found it was locked. She quickly unlocked it and called out, trying to put the embarrassing feeling behind her.
Silence. A quick check of the kitchen counter showed a note, telling Julie that her mother had gone to the butcher’s for steak for tomorrow night’s party.
Julie wondered how long ago her mother had left, as there was no time given on her note. She felt nervous and took a deep breath, realizing that she was shuddering slightly, still. That man, Fareikh, had left her feeling embarrassed and…frankly, insanely horny. She remembered a couple of nights before; the strained voice of that whore, not the first or last one she’d heard. She felt herself dampen at the images that brought.
“You little slut,” she chided herself aloud, knowing she was alone. Turning to look at the front door, she made a decision. She hurried to her room.
Her climax was no less spectacular than that of a few nights ago. Again, she moaned into her pillow, wishing it was someone’s shoulder. Maybe, his — the Muslim? Shocked at her own imagination, she sat upright quickly.
‘God, he’s like, forty,’ she told herself. He was not only older than her by more than two decades, he was tall — at least six feet — and lean, and hairy. ‘And I bet he’s got a big dick,’ she imagined, even as she rebuked herself for even thinking these things. She cleaned up her bed as best she could and went to the bathroom to clean herself. Her mother was standing there when she came out, surprising her.
“Got everything,” Grace announced, grinning. “This is going to be the best party ever!”
Julianne smiled and nodded. ‘Not as good as the one I just had,’ she thought. Together, they began to dice onions and carrots for tomorrow’s stew, and Julie got the air fryer out for the potato wedges her dad loved so much.
‘Tomorrow just might turn out to be okay,’ Julie told herself.
Saturday evening, guests began to arrive. There were five couples, two single women and one nerdy-looking man, whom Grace introduced to Julie as her newest associate. Gerald was balding, wore glasses with thick lenses, and seemed to stare at Julie as if he were studying her. Fortunately, Clay, Julie’s father, steered him into the den with the other men, where they had a college football game on the TV. After the steaks and sides were served, Julie ate quickly and slipped out the door, her ears ringing with ‘adult’ conversation.
“Jeeze, this is even more boring than last year,” she moaned to no one in particular. She walked to the elevator and listened as it wheezed to the floor beneath her, its cables and pulleys clanking dangerously. She began to descend the stairs, alert to her mother figuring out she had escaped and calling her name, but things remained quiet. At the third floor she met Mr. Cobb. ‘Probably on his way from that Chinese woman’s place,’ she thought with a barely subdued grin.
“Hi, sweetie,” he said, and fell in step beside her. “Where ya goin’ all dressed up?”
Julie was wearing the dress her mother had approved, with low heels and a lot more eye makeup than she normally wore. Grace had commented on it, but as her guests arrived, her mother had other things to think about, and so the issue of Julie’s eyes was dismissed. She felt sexy, and now Mr. Cobb seemed to appreciate her, too.
“Uhm, nowhere special,” she sighed. “Mom’s having her annual b-o-r-i-n-g holiday party. I just had to get away for a while.”
Brady Cobb grinned. “Yeah, I saw them earlier filling the elevator, getting ready to head up your way,” he said. “I had to tell them to go up in shifts, as the elevator doesn’t like more than two people at a time.”
“Right? I don’t think I’ve ridden it since we first moved in,” she laughed. “I was afraid they’d find us down there, wherever that thing calls home, with all of our furniture and our rotting bodies!”
Brady laughed loudly. “Probably not a bad choice,” he agreed. “I only take it when my knee is acting up.” He hesitated at the second floor, waiting for her to go past him in the narrow stairwell, so he could turn toward his apartment. “Hey,” he said, “you look nice. If you hang around the lobby you’ll give this place a little touch of class, but watch out for the punks out there.”
“Thanks,” Julie said. “I’m not planning on going out anyway. It is a jungle out there, isn’t it?”
Brady mock-shuddered. “They only come out at night,” he joked somberly, causing Julie to laugh. He watched her descend the steps, her little ass swaying with each step in those heels.
Twenty minutes later, who should come through the front door but Fareikh, dressed in a track suit and running shoes. His face was glistening and his shirt was stained with sweat. He saw Julie and smiled.
“Hello, Miss Julie,” he greeted her, his eyes running up and down over her. “Are you waiting for your date?”
‘He looks good in etimesgut escort sweat,’ Julie thought impishly, as she shook her head.
“No, I’m afraid not,” she said. “Just getting some air.” She moved aside as he began to walk past her, unconsciously inhaling. He stopped before her.
“There is no longer any air on the fifth floor?” he asked, then grinned.
As before, his nearness confused Julianne. Her senses swam in his aroma as his eyes roved over her, and when he grinned she noticed the way his eyes crinkled at the edges. She tried to guess how old he actually was.
“I…” There it was again; her tongue getting tangled at the most inopportune time. “No,” she suddenly said, and broke into laughter. “I mean, yeah, there’s air. It’s just…”
He leaned toward her, stopping her from thinking again. She suddenly was hearing the woman’s voice she had heard earlier this week. She had sounded angry, but after the smacking sound, she’d gone quiet. Fareikh’s voice assumed the same soft, yet commanding tone tonight, as he said to Julie, “Walk up with me, then. I would like to show you something.”
He extended his hand again, and Julie took it without answering; she wasn’t sure why. As they mounted the steps to the fifth floor, she told herself she’d say goodnight to Fareikh and return to her own apartment. Her mother would be missing her by now, she felt sure.
His grip on her hand was soft; entirely appropriate, but she felt that if she tried to pull away, it would tighten. For some reason, this excited her. He was, after all, of a different culture. ‘His people,’ she thought, ‘don’t act the way we do.’
‘Wait a minute,’ she told herself, ‘what am I thinking? His people? What the fuck does that mean? Is that some kind of racist bullshit? I’m better than that.’
Her inner dialogue was interrupted when he pulled her onto the fifth floor landing and away from her end of the hallway.
“Oh,” she said, surprised they were already there.
Fareikh glanced at her. “Is this okay, Miss Julie? That you are coming here?” he asked as he unlocked the door.
Julianne hesitated, but only for a moment. “Uhm, sure. Just for a minute, okay? I… you know. I have to get back soon.”
His apartment was much classier than theirs, with their worn carpet and thrift-store furniture. Fareikh’s floor was polished wood, which gleamed. There were throw rugs of woven tapestry in each room, and the curtains that shrouded each window before her were thick and lush-looking. Julie’s first thought was that he must make a lot of money.
“Oh my gosh,” she breathed. “This place is gorgeous.” It was as if she was walking onto a movie set; so different from the claustrophobic feel of their apartment, yet she knew the square footage must be roughly the same.
Fareikh shut the door behind her and softly turned the deadbolt. “It pleases me that you like it,” he said formally, placing a hand on the small of her back. He pushed her gently towards a large futon, urging her to sit. She did, still looking around in wonder. He slipped into the kitchen and pulled two glasses from the rack.
“This is wine from Tajikistan,” Fareikh told her as he poured, “produced in a valley by members of my family. It is…” He brought her a glass with a small serving of an amber liquid. “…sweet, as you shall see, and very rare. Are you allowed to drink?”
Julianne took the glass and swirled the liquid around, as she’d seen wine connoisseurs on television do, then sipped carefully.
“Of course,” she lied. The drinking age was twenty-one, but she’d had sips of her parents’ wine before. This was much stronger, but delicious.
“So, is that where you’re from?” she asked.
“Yes,” Fareikh answered, sitting next to her on the futon sofa, “from a small province named Sughd. It is very beautiful.”
“This is good. You must be very proud. Tell me about your home,” Julie said, settling back into the cushions, and Fareikh’s arm, as she sipped. She sat spellbound as Fareikh told her about the history of his native country, and about escaping Russian rule.
“They were not good. They bankrupted us,” he said suddenly, his eyes flashing as he looked down at her. “And their women are ugly.” He smirked, and Julie laughed.
“Well, we’ve got our share of those,” she quipped, unsure of exactly what he meant by that. She swallowed the last of the sweet drink and handed the glass to Fareikh, preparing to leave.
He took it and set it on the floor, still staring at her. “But you are beautiful,” he told her, his eyes never leaving hers.
Julianne began to feel nervous. The alcohol in the drink had hit her, and her toes were tingling. “Thanks,” she said, “but I’d better be going.”
Fareikh gripped her upper arm with his free hand. “But I have not shown you yet,” he said in a voice tense with unseen meaning. He leaned into her suddenly and kissed her. Julie felt herself being pressed back into the futon cushion. His mouth covered hers, his tongue probing at her lips. She parted them slightly to take in air, and sucked in the sweet breath of this handsome older man. Relenting briefly, she kissed him back, caught up in the eroticism of the moment. His tongue swiped across her lips and she opened her mouth, inviting him in.
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