Tuesday, 18 August 2015

The 73rd Virgin – Terrorists Whore

Do you know that voluptuous, round and full breasted, dark eyed girls like me will be fucked forever? Now you know. Can you imagine that? Having your pussy dripping wet and fluttering like a butterfly for eternity?

My pussy is appetizing – it puckers when it smells testosterone from a thousand miles, it’s so wet but tight enough, thanks to Kegel exercises, and it throbs like the beating of my heart. I have Googled what appetizing vaginas have over the others, and I made a startling discovery: it is for the 72 virgins, houri, who would be given to terrorists in heaven.

I have big, wide and beautiful/lovely/lustrous eyes, like pearls, just the way the Quran says in Surat Al-Wāqi`ah 56:22 – 23. I am tall, baby-faced (what the Hadith calls eternally young), fair complexion, voluptuous and full-breasted. My boobs are large, round and not inclined to hang. I am everything that the Quran and Hadith promises terrorists would get when they die for Allah except I am not a houri, chaste, pure, and non-menstruating.

The terrorists claim that each time they sleep with a houri they find her virgin, it exists in their fucked up radicalized minds? Besides, the penis of the terrorist never goes limp. The erection is eternal; the sensation that they feel each time they screw us their dark-eyed virgins is utterly delicious and out of this world and were anyone to experience it in this world they would faint. Each terrorist will marry seventy-two (sic) houris, besides the women he married on earth, and all will have appetizing vaginas. That’s according to one very old sex-maniacal geezer who is said to have died sometime in the Middle Ages, around 1500 CE. So, heaven is a bordello of sorts?

Armed with this truth, which is, sadly, known to very few, I have decided to join the terrorists wherever they are holed up and give it to them. It is a taste of heaven before they go to janna, right? and an honour for me to have had the privilege.

I have done my homework, I want to be fucked by the most notorious, unmerciful terrorists around. Al-Shabaab want to go to Alaska, perhaps they will get some American harlots there and have to deal with human rights and whatnot American sluts campaign for or against, so they are out of my to-do-list. Al-Qaeda, ever since Osama Bin Laden was killed by his brother, Obama, has gone soft; I can’t have terrorists going all soft on me when they are supposed to fuck me hard and rough before going out to kill more kafirs. Boko Haram in Nigeria all they know is to kidnap young innocent girls and gang-rape them. I can’t be part of a people that’s so cruel. Now I’m left with ISIS. The Islamic State in Iraq and Syria Islamists are focused, merciless and ruthless, and strategic. Now they are in the Levant. Soon they will be ISIW, Islamic State in Iraq and the World.

The media call me a jihad bride, ever since I joined ISIS. Well, I am a jihad whore. Whenever the brave mujahedeen go out to massacre the kafirs, they come back to our haven and find me waiting for them. In this life, I don’t get tired of being screwed by the terrorists because most of them have erectile dysfunction, or ejaculate on my thighs even before they can feel the puckering of my vulva, and when they go to heaven I will be just a by-the way. Can you imagine waiting in the line for 72 minutes, 72 hours, 72 days, 72 weeks, 72 months, or 72 years to have your share of the terrorist’s dick? That’s ludicrous. Before they go to janna and have their 72 houri for eternity and ignore me, I am their houri on earth. Those stupid bitches up there who think that they would be the first to be fucked by the mujahedeen are mistaken. I have already tasted them.

72 terrorists fuck me every day. Isn’t that janna, my janna? I am having my share now before I suicide-bomb myself because: a). I don’t believe in heaven and hell, b). the 72 houri story is a hoax, c). there are no virgins, there never was, and d). I can’t escape my destiny.

Well, I am the 73rd Virgin, the one who is not talked about, and perhaps will never be talked about.

Monday, 13 April 2015

Oral Night

When we decided to have tantric sex, we meant it. But just like New Year resolutions that are forgotten long before January ends and thrown out the window, he didn’t keep the rules of tantric sex on the third day which is time for penetration without fucking when the woman takes that dick she’s dying to feel tearing each part of her womanhood inside her pussy and just lies there until the man’s erection subsides.
Instead, he had me lying on my back and put my legs up over his well-toned shoulders. I arched my back and he grabbed my ankles with his hands. He then positioned himself between my legs. Being the gentleman he is, he offered me pillows beneath my arched back.
I felt him move his rock hard dick up and down my throbbing pussy. I knew where he had gotten that. AskMen.com. I had seen him reading an article about kunyaza, a Rwandan technique of preparing a woman to kunyara (squirt). He then pulled my libia majora apart and started licking the inside wall towards labia minora. From time to time he would kiss my elongated clit. Oral had never felt so good.
But he had more in store. I just had to let him do his thing. I was beginning to gyrate my hips and raise the pubic area to his hot mouth when he pushed me to go down on all fours, butt up. I wondered how tantric we were going to be if he was going to go doggy on me, but I was wrong. He was getting dirty doggy on me, his mouth doing all the work.
I moved my elevated ass back and forth rubbing my opened labia majora and ass cheeks in his face. I felt the nuts that held the gates to the damn dam start loosening and I knew I was going to squirt all over him, wash his face with my damn waters, but it didn’t happen. Just when the last nut was loosening, he pushed me to lie on my back with my legs straight out. Next, he helped me swing my legs up and over my head so that they were facing the opposite direction as though I was stretching out my back in yoga class.
He then positioned himself near my head and shoulders while kneeling down with one leg. I felt his finger slide into me and magically hit the G-spot. With my ass that high in the air I thought he would gently stimulate my anus at the same time, my fantasy, but he didn’t. He’s not an anal person. I was really enjoying it, though. Fuck tantric sex, I said. I did not even want him to penetrate me. I was having the ride of my life.
This man, this stud who makes my body twirl, is a man of many indiscretions, just the way a lover should be. Since I was enjoying the oral more than anything else, I pushed him away from me as I arched and grabbed the headboard, my body about to convulse. I did not want to orgasm, not yet.
When the mini-convulsions subsided, I pushed him down on the bed on his back and straddled his face. I could feel liquids dripping from my cunt, but I knew he wouldn’t mind drinking some or my drenching his face. I began by riding his face briefly, then gently rotated my hips/pelvis around his baby face until I looked in the opposite direction that I had started in making a whole 90-degree turn. I continued to rotate my hips/pelvis again until I was facing the direction I started in completing a 180-degree turn. I had never felt so much in control, controlling the speed, pressure and position his tongue was going inside me. For a moment I heard him gurgle as he guzzled fluids waterfalling from me.

It never stopped. For the whole night. I returned the favour on him. Isn’t it a two-way street? Over and over. When I was not on him, sucking his pre-cum from his small orifice he was on me, drenching on my liquids. Instead of having his erection die inside my pussy as dictated by tantric sex on the third day, it was an oral night. Aren’t rules there to be broken?

Sunday, 21 September 2014

Trail of Squirt

He sat comfortably on the chair in the corner of his home office. I had already put our son to bed and checked the camera to the screen in our bedroom was online.  He was working late, some book he was fast proofreading to beat a deadline, but when he saw me looking the way I was – nude, glistening from the massage oil I had applied on myself and some syrupy liquid dripping between my legs – he stopped what he was doing immediately.

With the grace of a deer I impaled myself on his erect phallus. I slipped in with ease, what he loves, and settled at the base of his penis. Just for effect, I looked him in the eyes, so I could see how his desire mounted and mine in his eyes. I felt his hand on my back, then on my ass. I returned the favour by caressing his chest. I leaned to kiss him, teasing him a bit so he won’t devour me like a fox.  

His hands on my buttocks, he drew my pelvis towards him and completely filled my open vulva. I felt him bulge inside me, and begin to twitch. I knew what was coming next, but the pre-orgasmic level made him stop and focus his attention on the crown. In that way he would guide the sexual energy upwards.

I too wanted to do that, guide the sexual energy along the spine towards the crown in order to avoid his early ejaculation and my banks from bursting. I am every woman’s fantasy – I squirt every time I have sex.

We seesawed, touched, caressed, kissed, nibbled and tugged at each other until it was not practicably possible. And then all the basic energy that we had sublimed into deep happiness and amid thudding of the body.
My body shuddered, legs too weak to support me, thighs doing a kind of a dance I was familiar with as I drained all my liquids on him like a waterfall.

“Enough of the foreplay, let’s get down to business,” he said as he carried me, leaving a trail of my dripping squirt on the floor, to the bedroom and laid me on the bed.

Wednesday, 13 August 2014

Gold Digger

When I return from the bathroom, I sit on his laps.
He seems lusty.
My hardened nipples push through the sheer negligee
A minaret and a spire that calls men to worship me.
When I left my pussy was pulsating, swollen and dripping wet.

He whispers quietly on my ear:
You smell nice. Your scent is sensual.
No, I want to say. It’s sexual.

Jamie, ten years my senior, talks dirtier:
I wanna feel that dripping wetness on my dick. My nipples brush his lips when
I move closer – my pudenda throbs for your cock, cough dough.
I move to the couch opposite him and I let out a moan.
He is more handsome than I can remember.
I press my open knees closed. Sit like a girl, my mother used to tell me.
I finger the hole between my legs, slick glistening when I remove and suck it.

From his couch he stares at me, eyes drooling.
My elongated clit caresses the leather and I tremble –
I open my legs like a well-oiled door,
Daring him to show me the dollar bills and

Give me what I wanted: DICK.