Crimson Crossing – Stories in Erotica

Persian Tea Room

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For years I frequented the Persian Tea Room during lunch breaks from work. I’d visit it twice, sometimes thrice weekly. They had the most delightful tea anywhere in the area, coupled to a middle eastern cuisine left me wondering why I did not visit the venue all week long. Typical to this region, the waiters were all men. The serious and direct type. It was all business to them; never making small chat, not even to someone as myself who frequented the restaurant for such prolonged period of time; even the host was an unengaging fellow.

Then one day the place became overrun by estrogen: two waitresses and the host, all female. Part of their attire was a hijab, which left me rather impressed. I had never figured that covering of the hair painted such alluring sight. The look of deep meaningful eyes staring back in my direction excited me more than any of the naked women I had ever seen staring back at me. To improve the matters, the females were more pleasant and far more amicable.

The division between the male and the female staff members was palpable; the tension, well, I ignored as the women’s beauty was far more engaging than the shunning they appeared to be receiving from the men. Females cared for a section of the dining hall, while the males cared for the other. It was soon enough that I noticed the sitting pattern, so I waited for the precise moment to enter the restaurant which led to being sat at the same table time and again. It would have been easier to ask but, somehow I felt uncomfortable doing so. I’m not a shy man to any extent, which leaves me believing that I’m respecting enough of cultural differences that I would be troubled to let “chance” take its course.

Woman wearing a hijabIt was always a joy coming in. The decor was pleasing from the monotones “modern” look of just about it all in the area. A sure welcome sight to feel the vibrancy of the restaurant with it’s middle eastern background music and aromatic spices emerging from the kitchen. The hostess ensured to greet me in a joyous tone each visit. It was as if she was delighted to see me. She would also come by my table, pull a chair and small chat. I never even had to wait, always ensured to have the very same table. A dramatic difference from the follow who used to show me to my table in times past.

It wasn’t just the hostess who became friendly with me. It was also one of the two new waitresses who cared for the table in which I sat. Number 12, that was the table in which I sat. It also happens to be my favorite number. She and I developed more than a waitress-client relationship. I would say we became good acquaintances. She stayed longer than required at my table, conversing about life in general. She’d tell me about her life, and I about mine… about the joy that it was for everyday to come spend an hour of my life in her presence.

The appearance of her olive skin coupled to an incredibly spotless white-teeth-smile resonated in her colourful eyes. Looking into her eyes gave no reason to wander elsewhere. It was her who I went to meet every visit. All the vitalizing characteristics of the restaurant were opaqued by her eyes. I tried valiantly not to signal that my desires followed her as she moved from table to table.

Episodes of debauchery replaced line items on the menu. I read them intently wondering which of them I was to be had every time I visited. Sometimes I’d read for nearly the entire hour, at which time I had to rush for a small dessert and few cups of tea. Still, I would leave satisfied that I had spoken to her, that I had shared dreams of consuming her while in her presence. It somehow made it all feel more real: her being in the room while I dreamt of having her. I made it an art, that of looking at her figure as she moved from position to position adjusting herself to clear tables.

I don’t recall the exact date where it all changed. It was sometime after management changed. The male staff was replaced with different men but; the ladies were kept. The feeling in the air, too, changed. The women were more progressive in mannerism, less restrained I would say. My waitress began to take my order from a closer position, sometimes she would join the hostess at my table to welcome me. I learned most of everything I did about her roughly one year before the incident that broke our relationship.

The attraction between the two of us wasn’t a secret to us. Even when the connection elevated to a more adult-natured one, it was no secret that our insinuations indicated more than restaurant-geared interactions. She flirted, oh and she flirted well with her eyes. It was the type of action that seemed void to American women. She made me feel alive, aroused, seduced with the variation of looks and stares she projected. A master she was at revealing her desires through the eyes.

When it happened, there was no prelude nor omen forewarning me. I came in, but not as usual. I had given up the mockery to be sat on the same table a few weeks back. I was greeted as usual, both the hostess and the waitress walked me to the table, all of us briefly chatted while standing, but instead of leaving to bring me the normal cup of tea with cubed sugar, the waitress remained behind, looked around, and handed me a piece of paper.

She disappeared for a few minutes, bringing with her my normal dish, and sides when reappearing. I picked through the side dishes, looked about the dining area and walked off in direction of the kitchen. As I drew closer to the kitchen, a light powered on to the right of the its entrance. It was the kitchen storage room. A beaded curtain was the only protection keeping the contents inside visible from the outside. I push aside the curtain, leaned in, look to the left… between the meat freezer and the spices’ rack stood a woman whose mind had been certainly westernized.

Woman wearing a hijabShe still wore the hijab, but her dress was being sustained by her left hand covering her crotch, most of it on the floor around her ankles. I’m no authority on muslim wear, but I don’t think she wore a Burquaa or Ridaa, this was more like a Sari. Still, whatever the dress was it looked just as good on her as it did in its many colours on the floor, and over her feet.

The olive of her skin felt haunting in the lightly lit room. I admired her beauty for long moments until she opened her grasp, and the dress gave way to her groomed, but not totally void of hair, nor manicured to form any specific shape essence. It was just shaped enough where it expressed more intimate knowledge of sexual awareness than I had believed. There was no need to speak, everything I needed to know was revealed by her stare into my eyes. It told me that her world of boundaries laid to the other side of the beaded entryway.

My intentions were to directly indulge in her groomed self, but instead her eyes drew me face to face. We kissed softly, very softly for longer than I had ever cared to kiss anyone. That day I only used my lips on her mouth, kissing as if losing my breath to her. I didn’t need to close my eyes because the world around me blacked out. It was the darkest dark I had ever witnessed. During the kissing she unbuckled my slacks, dropped them to the floor, and pulled me outside my underpants. She didn’t play, she didn’t try any sort of foreign technique on me. She simply reached up with her pelvis, swallowing me ever so slowly.

Fire rushed through my veins raising my body temperature to the point where perspiration responded. I knew then that this was an event sent by a higher calling. I didn’t want to respond in any other stance than the one where our lips locked to each other’s and our pelvis slightly swayed onto one another. That was the lunch time I learned to feel the climax of a woman who revealed no expressions of pleasure from the fear of being exposed during such an intimate moment. I felt the her warmth completely overtake me inside of her. It was as if she had spoken to me, greeting me to a world in which I was the alien. The kissing stopped, so did the movement of the hips. She looked me in the eyes, again, said nothing because she didn’t need to speak.

She grabbed my face, kissed my lips softly, stared into my eyes one last time… Woman wearing a hijab

When I returned to for my normal lunch two days after, she was gone. Not to return for another 30 days. I found out she married during that absence. Now I sit and small talk seldom with her. She sits me down, keeps her distance; only the times I leave her eyes speak to me. Sometimes they apologize, others they thank me.

Author: jibarican

https://crimsoncrossing.wordpress.com

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