A Date With Tamar Ch. 1

Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

As the airplane landed in Lod, I vowed to myself that I would never patronize a Gentile travel agent, if I ever got the opportunity to travel to Israel again. I thought that landing in Israel on Friday would give me a wild weekend in Tel Aviv before my expense account kicked in. I had a series of tours set up by my magazine for the article I was supposed to write. My Israeli companion, after learning that this was my first trip to his country, started to disabuse me of my notions about the wild weekend.

“My friend, the ultra-religious have determined that, on Shabat in my country, everything but everything which might give a man pleasure shuts down. There are no movies, nightclubs or restaurants open, except for hotels and a few street vendors. Even if they were open, the buses don’t run and you can’t get from here to there. Even those of us who haven’t been to a shul since our bar mitzvah are reduced to shtumpfing the wife for recreation instead of taking the mistress to a club.”

I asked “Did I hear you just say that there are no buses running? How am I going to get to my hotel? I don’t have much money for this weekend. My expense account doesn’t start until Monday.”

My friend was getting wound up now. “Relax. There are still taxis and as long as you don’t pay in shekels, your ride to your hotel will be almost painless to your budget. By the way, don’t even think of converting your hard currency to shekels. Israel is right now going through a period of hyperinflation and the prices in shekels jump every hour. If you want your money to disappear and not have any fun at the same time, just convert it at the airport to shekels.”

“Well, how do I buy anything without local money?”

My friend warmed up to the subject. “Israelis despise their own shekel so much that they will do almost anything to get hold of a dollar or mark. The taxi driver will take you directly to the hotel and will even act polite if you negotiate a fixed price in dollars for the trip. The hooker will perform the most amazing acrobatics on your hard putz and then do the most amazing mental calculations on your hard currency. The foreigner is king in the Israel of today and we poor Israelis are just schmucks.”

The pilot came on and announced, in English and Hebrew, that we would shortly be landing at Lod airport. I strapped on my seat belt and contemplated the bleak weekend my friend had outlined. As the airplane landed, suddenly everyone clapped and a few bars of “Havenu Shalom Aleichem” came over the sound system. “Happens every time”, my companion said. As we entered the immigration hall, my friend said goodbye. “I probably will be long gone by the time you get through passport control. My line for Israeli citizens will be much shorter than yours. Most Israelis lack the hard currency to travel these days.”

I handed my passport to an unsmiling clerk. Why did passport clerks look so sour the world over? Do they have a school for customs and immigration clerks in an obscure third-world country? Do they all have annoying rectal itch? As I was pondering this question, having received Immigration’s stamp of approval, I found my luggage on the conveyor. Maybe the weekend would be dull but at least my luggage had arrived without damage. I found a taxi outside and, as my friend had predicted, the price in dollars was quite reasonable.

I came down the stairs, wondering how I was going to eat on Friday evening if everything was closed, as my friend had predicted. Fortunately, the hotel restaurant seemed to be open and I tried to see what I could afford on the menu. As I was looking over the hotel offerings, I couldn’t help but notice a young woman in an army uniform having an angry conversation on the telephone. I don’t know much Hebrew, having spent my life in Sunday school rather than shul, so I didn’t quite know what was her problem. I kept hearing her say over and over again “Ben Zonah”, which I assumed was the person at the other end of the conversation.

As I was deciding what I might eat, the soldier slammed down the telephone, turned to me and said “Ma sha’ah?” I was face to face with the world’s most beautiful soldier. She was short like most Israeli women, about 5′ 3″, deep brown eyes, dark-skinned with black hair in a roll. She was so beautiful that my first thought was that I might even like being attacked by a platoon of soldiers like her.

I interrupted this momentary fantasy and turned to my soldier’s question: “Sorry but I don’t speak Hebrew. Do you speak English?”

In English that sounded vaguely like a cultured London accent with only shades of Hebrew in the background, she said: “Oh, a tourist. I’m sorry to put you on the spot. Welcome to Israel. I was asking what the time was in Hebrew. I guess you aren’t Jewish if you didn’t understand ‘Ma sha’ah’?”

“Yes, it’s my first time in your country and you’re right about my religion but wrong about being a tourist. I’m here on business. As for the time, it’s nearly 7:30. canlı bahis şirketleri And as for you, I guess you’re in the army and you just had a fight with someone called Ben Zonah.”

My soldier just about doubled over with laughter. “You’re going to get into a lot of trouble here unless you learn a few words of Hebrew. Ben Zonah describes the person I was talking to but his name was Mossi. Ben Zonah isn’t a person’s name. It means ‘son-of-a-whore’. Israelis use ben Zonah the same way an English speaker would use ‘bastard’ or “son-of-a-bitch’. But you’re right about having a fight on the telephone. My boyfriend was supposed to meet me here in Tel Aviv but he cancelled. He works for the Finance Ministry and he says that they can’t solve the currency crisis without him.”

“Yes, I learned about that on the airplane before I landed but I obviously have a lot more to learn about Israel. In fact, that’s why I’m in Israel, to learn about the country. Can I ask where you learned to speak such beautiful English?”

“Like most Israelis, I studied it as a second language but I was really interested in the language and took a lot of extra courses at school. Then, I listened to the BBC a lot. You can pick it up here on a pocket radio. My English helped me land an easy job with the Army. I am doing my army service after graduating from high school last year. I actually work in an office. The only time I saw a gun was when I did my two weeks of basic training.”

I looked at her hands and saw that they were manicured and polished. Her face was tastefully made up, bringing out the best of her Semitic features. There definitely was nothing that I could detect, other than the uniform, that suggested a life in the trenches..

“What do you do in the army that’s such a easy job?”

“I’d love to tell you but, with the current military situation, we are not allowed to mention to foreigners where we’re stationed. If the army ever found out I had told a foreigner my unit and where I was stationed, I would be severely disciplined.”

“OK, just name, rank and serial number. I’m Christopher. I’m working for a magazine, writing an article about the tourist spots in Israel. My Canadian passport number is …………”

My friend giggled at all this information. “I’m Private Tamar Yaakov, Zahal serial number ……. Say, are you meeting anyone tonight? If you aren’t, could I tag along with you. I can show you how to have fun in Tel Aviv.”

“But a guy on the airplane told me that nobody has fun on the Sabbath in Israel.”

“I bet he was some old guy without any imagination and he gave you the wrong impression of Israel. Yes, Shabat is dull in places where the ultra-orthodox live, such as Mea Shearim or B’nei Brak. But we secular Jews know how to have a good time. We’re both alone tonight and you don’t seem to know your way around here.”

Tamar grabbed my hand and led me down to the beach area. I couldn’t reconcile what I saw with the bleak picture my friend had painted of the Jewish Sabbath. The boardwalk was filled with people walking up and down just to see and be seen. Tamar’s idea of “tagging along” was to take me along the board walk showing me all the different ways to have fun in Tel Aviv’s beach area. Finally we ended up at a falafel stand in the middle of the beach area. Tamar explained that the falafel came in half a pita and an Israeli’s objective is to pile as much salad, olives and peppers as can be transported to a table. I was smart enough to realize the peppers were extremely hot but I generously ladled what I assumed was relish on my sandwich.

We sat down and I bit into my falafel and discovered that the green stuff was fiery hot. Tamar asked:

“How do you enjoy the schoug? It’s a specialty from Yemen”

I decided that to maintain the macho reputation of Canadian tourists, I wouldn’t say that it had just incinerated me. I just steered the conversation towards discovering more about Tamar. Her family had left Iraq in the 1950’s but she was a sabra, born in Israel. Her family was strict, as were most mizrakhis. Tamar was quite open that she enjoyed the freedom that the army gave her, so she had taken the opportunity to find a boyfriend. I thought to myself: “Your family must be strict if the army represents more freedom.”

Unlike Canadian women, Tamar was quite open about her sex life. Despite her strict upbringing, Tamar enjoyed sex. In fact, she ensured me that she screwed her boyfriend almost every time she went on leave. That’s why she was so angry when I heard her on the telephone. She wasn’t angry at being stood up. What had made her really angry at Mossi was the prospect of a celibate weekend. As the conversation was taking this interesting turn and I was thinking that I should volunteer to help out, Tamar said:

“Let’s go to a club. I will show you what young Israelis do for fun.”

“OK. There’s one over there. Would you like that, Tamar?”

“Christopher, you still don’t know enough about canlı kaçak iddaa Israel. That one’s just for tourists. Listen to the Ho-Ho music they’re playing! Besides that, it’s too expensive.”

We went down a street a few blocks from the beach. Tamar pointed to a small club that emitted Arabic-sounding music. Tamar explained:

“This is the kind of place that young Israelis go to. That music is what’s popular in Israel now.”

We went in and Tamar looked for a group of soldiers, explaining that that was the easiest way to ensure that the group was her age. We sat down and made introductions. The soldiers had varying fluency in English but were able to make themselves understood. I apologized for my lack of Hebrew but nobody seemed to mind. As the evening’s conversation progressed, I found out that everyone in the group was either an immigrant or a first generation sabra. They had come from all over the world to live here, just like people in Canada. Another reason to feel at home was that the dances were much the same as in Canada. What had I expected? A night of dancing the Hora barefoot? After an hour, I couldn’t keep my eyes open. I said to everyone:

“This has been fun but I’m so tired and jet lagged that I just have to get some sleep.”

“Can I stay with you tonight, Christopher? Mossi was supposed to take care of everything this weekend. I’m broke and I don’t have any place to stay this weekend.”

I was surprised Tamar would proposition me in front of everyone but what did I know about Israeli women? I paid for my tab and Tamar’s and left the club with Private Tamar on my arm. We walked wordlessly along the boardwalk to my hotel. Tamar seemed to understand when to stop talking and let the sexual tension rise. She was young but wise in sexual matters. The clerk didn’t even bother looking up from his copy of Ma’ariv as he handed me my room key. I suppose that every tourist in Israel must leave the hotel for supper and come home with a soldier for dessert. I wondered how my article on tourism would be received in Canada if I wrote that the hotels in Israel featured hot and cold women soldiers.

My room door shut behind us. Tamar was suddenly all over me, wild with her kisses. I didn’t mind at all and returned each kiss. As I explored Tamar’s mouth, my tongue noticed that her mouth still bore traces of garlic, cumin and the hot peppers. Definitely, I wouldn’t let Tamar suck my dick with her mouth in that condition. I’m not particularly religious but, at that moment, I prayed that none of the hot stuff got on her hands or mine. Otherwise, the night could be a disaster. Tamar unbuttoned my shirt and kissed me on the chest. I felt my skin tingle and the chest hairs curl. Definitely my dick was not going in that mouth no matter how much she begged me.

I removed Tamar’s soldier hat while she worked on my chest. Her hair was done up in a not very attractive roll at the back of her head. This could do with some improving, I thought, so I started to pull pins out of her hair. By the time I had removed more pins than a box full of grenades, Tamar’s hair fell down to her soldiers. Stepping back for a look at Tamar’s profile, I couldn’t help thinking how she reminded me of that famous bust of Nefertiti, Semitic nose included. Tamar was definitely a desert beauty.

I unbuttoned Tamar’s khaki blouse and let it fall to the floor. Reaching around Tamar’s back, I undid Tamar’s army-issue brassiere. As her bra straps slid down her arms, I could not believe what I saw. The Israeli army’s lingerie did not do justice to their women soldiers’ tits. Tamar displayed the biggest pair of tits I had ever seen in my life outside of the silicone-inflated tits in centerfolds. They were enormous, without any hint of sag. Tamar moved close to me, touching my chest with the youthful firmness of large tits. I reached up and started to caress Tamar’s tits from the side. Tamar started to make some low moaning noises that increased in intensity as my hand came closer to her nipples. Her nipples and areolas matched the rest of her breast for size. Tamar’s nipples were standing erect and hard, penetrating through my chest hairs to my skin.

I already knew Tamar wasn’t shy. As I was gently massaging her nipples, she reached down and undid my belt and zipper. She reached in my shorts and gasped as her hand circled my dick.

“That feels thicker than my boyfriend’s zain. I want to see it. Oh wow, it’s longer than my boyfriend’s and it’s circumcised. How come? You said you weren’t Jewish. I want to suck your schlong now that I see it’s circumcised.”

“In my country, lots of non-Jews circumcise their boys for health reasons. But please don’t suck it, Tamar, or I’ll go off too soon. Your lips are luscious but they’re deadly hot.”

Tamar seemed disappointed I didn’t want a blowjob but still looked admiringly at what she had in her hand. Since I didn’t feel any tingling on my pecker, I decided that my hands must be OK as well. I put my hand under canlı kaçak bahis Tamar’s skirt and pulled down her panties. They were so sensible they looked like Victorian bloomers. Tamar stepped out of the pile of cloth her panties left on the floor. I parted the lips of her beaver and put my middle finger inside. Tamar was wet and ready for a screwing. I gently moved my finger along the slippery valley made by her inner lips and up a mountain of a hard, pulsating clitoris. One gentle stroke was enough to send her into orgasm. Tamar moaned and shuddered while still standing.

When Tamar had finished her orgasm, she pushed me back on to the bed.

“You’ve worked hard enough and you’re tired from the trip. I’ll take over now.”

Tamar pulled off her khaki skirt. In the dim light, I looked at the bush I had had just been feeling. Tamar’s bush was black, standing out from her olive-coloured skin. Her bush hair was curly but short, a beautiful sight for the horny traveler. Tamar wasn’t into bush trimming like Canadian women were. She didn’t need to with her curly short bush hair. At that length, they were unlikely to get caught in the action. I thought to myself that here I was assigned to write about the beauty of Israel’s tourist destinations. How could I tell the readers of a family newspaper that I had found a place of beauty that surpassed them all?

Tamar climbed on to the bed and straddled me. Her parted legs, exposed her glistening pussy lips. My finger had explored her wetness and now my eyes confirmed that Tamar was ready. She parted her lips and lowered herself on my dick, grunting as she forced my dick in a bit. Tamar knew exactly what she wanted from me, which is why she chose this position. She held me in this little bit for what seemed like hours, driving me crazy in the process. Then she came down on me very slowly and withdrew again very slowly. Again and again, she came down on me and then withdrew me, taking me in a little at a time. Tamar worked slowly, wordlessly, effortlessly taking in my dick without making me come. Somehow she knew exactly how to play me, as if we were old lovers and she had done this many times.

Tamar finally took me all in and paused to get used to me. She had to get used to me? I had to get used to her. Tamar was very young and she was still very tight. She was as hot and wet inside as Tel Aviv’s beach. Tamar was taking my dick to heaven and the rest of me was tagging along. I had to detach my mind from my dick and begin to think of mundane matters, otherwise I would shoot off at that very moment. My money problems helped. So did thinking about my writing assignment.

Tamar started to moan a little as she sensed I was ready for some more movement. She lifted herself up slowly almost letting me fall out and then slowly let herself all the way down, increasing her volume when I was all the way in again. As Tamar picked up the tempo, the strokes became shorter and her moans became louder. I opened my eyes to see Tamar’s full, firm breasts bobbing in the dim light. As my dick and me resumed our journey to heaven, I thought “Mossi, you fool. You gave up this for your career?”

On Tamar’s last and most decisive downstroke, I felt her youthful interior become even tighter and moans turned to screams. I didn’t realize that it was also my scream as well. We were both having an orgasm together. My orgasm was so deep and intense that I lost track of Tamar’s activities. I felt as if I couldn’t stop coming. Was I becoming multiorgasmic man? My tired mind reeled and my body tingled from the experience.

Tamar lifted herself from my still-hard dick and cuddled up beside me. I was so zonked from the jet lag and the intensity of the fuck that I fell asleep right away. That’s not the way to treat a lady after she’s just fucked your brains out. Would Tamar understand?

When I awoke in the morning, I half expected that Tamar would be gone along with my little stash of dollars. After all, she admitted that she was broke and that’s why she stayed with me. However, I could hear her having a shower. Tamar came out of the shower wearing only a big smile. Her ample bush dripped a bit of water on the terrazzo floor.

“Finally awake, my stud-tourist? Get dressed fast because the dining room is closing for breakfast in an hour.”

We went down to the dining room. All I saw on the buffet was some pita bread, tomatoes, cheese, sweet peppers onions and a semi-liquid that looked like mayonnaise. Instead of a coffee pot, all I could see was a hot water dispenser and containers of teabags and Turkish coffee. Nothing that I could really relate to as breakfast.

“I guess we’re too late for breakfast. They’ve put the salad bar out for lunch already.”

Tamar giggled and said: “Christopher, you still have a lot to learn about Israel. This isn’t a salad bar. This is the standard Israeli breakfast, vegetables and white cheese.”

“Tamar, a Canadian has this concept of breakfast as consisting of bacon, eggs, toast, hash browns, a balanced variety of cholesterol to get his day going. This is a side dish for dinner.”

“Well, even the non-kosher restaurants in Israel won’t serve you bacon for breakfast. Get used to this.”

Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

Comment here