Muslim visitor

Muslim visitor Muslim visitor

Status: In Progress

Genre: Erotica

Details

Status: In Progress

Genre: Erotica

Summary

An village girl makes love to a Muslim visitor in her village in the wild west of Ireland. What was he doing there?

Summary

An village girl makes love to a Muslim visitor in her village in the wild west of Ireland. What was he doing there?

Content

Submitted: January 30, 2017

A A A | A A A

Content

Submitted: January 30, 2017

A A A

A A A


The Muslim

As Siobhan approaches, a weak light glows from within her aunt’s old stone cottage in the middle of a vast grey-green landscape. Freezing sleet sweeps down the mighty brown mountain ahead and the young woman wraps her coat more tightly around her and bends her woollen beanie into it.

She knocks hard on the old wooden door that eventually creaks open.

“Hello,” she shouts to be heard above the gale. “My aunt asked me to bring some food for you.”

“Oh please come in,” says the man, opening the door just wide enough to let her in. “Some weather!”

The warmth of the room cradles the girl’s face like hands gloved in soft wool. Fire in the peat burner reflects in the man’s large eyes that are as luminously dark as his hair and beard. 

“We were afraid you would not be able to go to the village shop in this weather, so I brought some bread and black pudding,” she says.  “Do you like black pudding?”

 “I love it even, if it’s not halal,” says the man with a shy smile.

“Ha …lal?,” asks Siobhan.

“Prepared in the Muslim way.”

“I t’ink the blood sausage was all aunty had handy anyway,” she says, smiling.

 “It’s so kind of her. Please thank her very much. And thank you, for coming out in this weather,” the visitor says.

Siobhan wonders how this foreigner can speak English so well.

 “I bought some Guinness yesterday, my favourite drink now, even though Prophet Mohammad would send me to hell for drinking it.

“Will you have a glass with me? I’ll fry the black pudding straight away for us to eat with the bread. Please stay,” he says.

“I am Hussain.”

 “I’m Siobhan. Eh, I wasn’t planning to eat your food, but it sounds good. Must say I am hungry. And I never refuse a Guinness."

The peat fire in the grate burns quietly, infusing the kitchen with a warming aroma. She watches as the man cooks and serves her.

 “Looks like you will have to wait for the squall to blow away, if it ever will,” said Hussain.

Siobhan has never been up close to anyone this good to look at, so she sits back to give herself space. Normally shy with men, she is hooked fast by this stranger’s absorbing and wise gaze.

Their hands touch accidentally on the table top but the two keep holding hands for a while. Then they eat quietly.

Hussain now takes Siobhan’s hand and leads her to the fireplace where they sit on the old sofa placed at an angle close to it.

Siobhan amazes herself by automatically snuggling up very close to the stranger, resting her cheek on his hard muscular arm and chest. They gaze at the glowing peat in the fire.

Hussain’s strong hand slips up easily under the favourite thick jumper her aunt had knitted for Siobhan. She never wears bras so his warm hand now cradle and gently squeeze at its leisure first one full soft breast then the other.

Siobhan arches her back to push out her breasts further to intensify her melting pleasure. She nibbles at the man’s mouth then embraces and kisses him roughly.

The lovers then stand facing each other on the thick woolen rug and quietly undress.

Fire light glows on Hussain’s steely dark skin that contrasts with the blooming whiteness of Siobhan. As the man stands over her, Siobhan lies down on the soft rug, parts her thighs and waits.

Over the cottage roof the wind wails with passion screeching as young bodies wrestle on the floor. Shona has never felt anything of this intensity and very soon her deprived body is shaking so hard with pleasure and her hands clutch the man’s waist and buttocks. Tears seep from her closed eyes.

 Her tough country thighs enfold Hussain’s pushing pelvis and absorb his vigorous trusting. She wraps her whole body tightly around her man as he finally lets out a long growl before collapsing on her with his full weight of hard muscles.

After a while Hussain gets up and easily scoops Shona up with his arms, carrying her up the creaking wooden stairs to the bedroom. With a chuckle he gently drops this big bundle of bare white flesh to bounce gently on the bed.

The shah surveys his new intake to the harem. Then he deftly flips Sioban over so that her ample bottom is displayed as an unexpected and very vulnerable invitation. Then the Saracen warrior quickly falls on top her, this time aiming his weapon to impale her from behind.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” yells the Irish harlem slave, as she is stabbed.

 “And Mohammad,” adds Hussain with a muffled laugh.

The ancient bed creaks and bangs loudly against the wall. Siobhan has never felt such pure sensuality and soon her long loud scream rises to join the buffeting gale on the slate roof.

It’s early when Siobhan wakes. After yet another tender and intense fucking in the morning darkness, her soldier is now a spent force, peacefully asleep next to her.

It’s cold but Siobahn likes to remains naked. Through the window she sees that the storm has completely blown away and pale luminous light glows on placid Ballinskellig Bay.

Further out on the grey sea the two lonely pyramids of the Skelligs float in on the waves from history.

Siobhan steps downstairs and restarts the peat fire. She searches for more peat bricks in the storeroom at the back.

Hussain has laid out his work table there, where his big backpack stands on the floor. Bits of electric wire, tapes and pliers cover the table top along with thin blocks of what look like children's plasticine.

The partially-open dark backpack reveals the shiny black steel solidity of a revolver.

Siobhan closes the door and carries the basket of peat to feed the fire in the living room.

 Now dressed in an old dressing gown she found in the bedroom cupboard, Siobhan fries more black pudding and eggs for her man. Hussain hugs her hard after coming downstairs from the bedroom.

Then he finds a small mat that he spreads in a corner of the lounge room. Standing to face in a particular direction, the man open his palms in surrender then kneels to touch his forehead on the ground in prayer.

Siobhan watches him, fascinated.

 “What are you doing in these parts, my love,” asks Siobhan over breakfast.

 “Just enjoying quiet time before I need to go to London.”

 “Will you ... come back?,” she asks feebly.

 “I sure would now, come what may. I need to see you again,” he says and clasps both of Siobhan's hands on the tabletop.

There is loud knocking on the door. The lovers look at each other.

Hussain sits calmly as Siobhan walks to the door to open it.

 “Top of the mornin’ to you Siobhan,” says one of the two police garda from the village loudly. The second garda has a rifle slung over his shoulder. The sergeant speaks in Gaelic then changes to English to greet Hussain.

 “Hello there, Sir. Do you have some ID to show me?,” he says. “We have been ordered to check on all visitors around here. Apparently there is suspected terrorist activity in Dublin and London.

“Er, sure, I’ll get it,” says Hussain and walks easily to the storeroom.

The policemen avoid glancing directly at Siobhan in her loose dressing gown. They also stay politely at the door.

Should she alert these garda about what she saw in the storeroom, reflects Siobhan? But that thought is quickly discarded.

She braces herself on hearing Hussain’s returning footsteps.

Looming suddenly in the door way, Hussain reaches into the right pocket of his jacket. He slowly brings out his passport to give to the police sergeant.

Satisfied, the garda both salute and take their leave.

Another ardent night passes for the lovers and morning dawns in a cotton wool of thick cold fog. In the sharp mist Siobhan hugs her man, kissing him hard before he slips into his black rental car.

“Take good care.” she says. “And come back.”

“As fast as I can,” says the Muslim quietly. “And I mean that.”

The Muslim warrior drives eastward on the narrow winding road through the mountainous landscape of Siobhan’s home, on the wild western edge of Ireland.

 

 

 


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