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In Search of Tamar Ch. 1

By: miskeivitch



Finally, I was returning to Israel after five years. I never forgot Tamar Ya'akov, the soldier I had met on a chance encounter one night in Tel Aviv. I may have been with Tamar only a few days but the were enough for me to fall in love with her. Then, a chance meeting with her boyfriend's cousin resulted in my leaving Israel under a cloud of suspicion and in pain. Now I was returning to Israel.

Why did I wait five years to return? One reason was that I could now get safely through Lod airport without encountering Daniellah Argov, my interrogator the night that Tamar and I were separated and a dominatrix of painful memory. Daniellah had taken a post as El Al's security head in Toronto.

Another reason that I could go back was that Air Canada had recently instituted service between Tel Aviv and Toronto. By bypassing El Al, Mistress Dani would never discover that her favourite sub was returning to Israel. Finally, I was absolutely sure that Mossi Bar Lévi was out of jail by now and getting on with his life. Surely five years was enough time for even a Morroccan to forget me and how I had stolen his girlfriend. 

As I sat in my airplane seat, I wondered if Tamar remembered me at all. Was she still available and did she still love me? Would she appreciate that I took up studying Hebrew for her? I hadn't been wasting my time in the last five years. At least I would be able to find my way around Israel in search of the woman I love.

I remembered when I landed in Lod on El Al that the passengers burst out in hand clapping. This time there was stony silence. We're Canadian after all. As I exited the airplane, the heat hit me like a hot iron that fell off the ironing board. This wasn't Whitehorse, Toto. I had my passport stamped by the same unsmiling clerk as five years ago. Where do they get these people from?

I collected my luggage and made my way to the bus stop for the Ashdod Express. Why Ashdod, a city that wasn't on anyone's tourist list? I had stayed in contact with Colonel Chava Krotchnik, the only person I could trust in Israel who had any contact with Tamar. Colonel Krotchnik had had her own tragedies. She lost her lover and bondage partner, Percival Purves and got demoted at the same time. Somehow, she had rebounded, getting back her rank, although she wasn't the Chief Army Censor now. We never talked on the telephone about our love life. It's not something a young guy can discuss with an older woman.

So I had to see Colonel Krotchnik first on my way to find Tamar. The Colonel was in charge of the Israeli Army's Ashdod Women's Training Facility. When an Israeli girl got out of high school, her first month of army service consisted of Colonel Krotchnik beating her into shape. Well, that may be a poor choice of words. I knew the Colonel was a dominatrix but I was almost sure that she restricted her talents to submissive men. Colonel Krotchnik was a pervert but it didn't involve young women.

I found the Army base in Ashdod and located Colonel Krotchnik's office. She obviously hadn't had the time to beat their girlishness out of the new recruits by the time I arrived at the base. The ones I met as I was escorted to the Colonel's office giggled and stared at their male visitor.

As I sat outside the office, I practiced my newfound Hebrew and made out the letters "Chvh Qrtznk" on the door. Damn, what a difficult language. No vowels and what about that throat-clearing "ch" sound? Suddenly, I heard shouting and a uniformed girl burst out the door in tears. This girl wasn't giggling and staring. Col. Krotchnik appeared in the doorway. She was fit, tanned and she stood ramrod straight so that she looked taller than her actual 160 cm. She hadn't added one wrinkle in the five years since I last saw her. Her brown hair, tied in a roll at the back, didn't have one grey hair. Her stern face turned into a cheerful smile when she saw me. When Colonel Krotchnik spoke, it was in an Eastern European accent so thick that you could smell the borscht on her breath:

"Chris, dollink. You come from Canada to zee me? Come in. Ve must talk dollink. I must apologize for zis unpleasant scene vit Private Zohar but Zahal must maintain its discipline. Please heff a seat. How long has it been Chris? Five Years? Ve must talk. I vill heff Private Reubens bring us zome refreshments."

We sat down across her desk. One of the Colonel's flunkies brought some café botz to sip whilst we performed the Middle Eastern socialization ritual. The Colonel brought me up to date on her reinstatement in rank and transfer to the Ashdod women's barracks. When I asked her if she had ever gotten together again with Percy Purves, she shook her head:

"I neffer hear from Percy again. I hear from zome journalist friends zat he is vorking for American scandal paper writing stories about young ladies spanking bottoms of English lords. I don't care vun bit because ze English heff zo many good submissives. I can heff my pick from ze English commandos who come train vit our army. Right now, I am training two English officers, Captain Biff Whipple und Corporal Bart Bottomley, how to be good submissives. Ze men vear me out, ze vay zey luff to be beaten. But enough about me und my luff life, dollink. How can Colonel Krotchnik help my good Canadian friend?"

"Colonel, I'm on a mission to find and marry Tamar Ya'akov. I've been hiding from Daniellah Argov and Mossi Bar Lévi for the past five years. These have been five years of pure loneliness and increasing desire for my lost love. Even if I am in danger from Daniellah or Mossi, I must find Tamar. You were the last person I know who had contact with Tamar. Can you tell me how to find her?"

"I vish I could help more but all I know is zat Tamar completed her service in her home town of Be'er Sheva. I only know zis from ze army records. Ven Tamar und me left zeh Army Censor's office, ve lost all contact. Zat girl didn't vant to shame me because I vas demoted. Eff you find her, tell her no hard feelings, don't feel guilty und don't be a stranger. If you vant to find Tamar, I suggest you go to Be'er Sheva and see if she is still zer."

"I thank you for the fine coffee and the help you've given me, dear Colonel. I'll try and find Tamar there in Be'er Sheva or someone who knows where she's gone. I'll get right on the next bus."

"Zer is no bus to Be'er Sheva until tomorrow. I heff a suggestion if you heff ze time. Biff Whipple und Bart Bottomley heff gone to Dimona to show our people ze English technique of interrogation. Zat Bart luffs to get a beating from ze rubber hose when he plays ze prisoner. I tell you zis; zat man is a born submissive. So, I heff neither of my true luffs vit me tonight. Since you must stay vun night in Ashdod, zo vhy don't you spend zeh time vith me? I know ver ve can eat vun good falafel und I heff a leather thong, yust your size. Ve could heff a good time after zupper."

"Colonel, I wouldn't have anyone else show me the delights of Ashdod but you. But I must decline your idea of a good time. You're a good looking woman but I'm not into whips and leather, whatever you may have heard about my last visit to Israel. But I promise you this. If I'm ever in the mood for a good beating, I want it to be at your hands and your hands alone." 

"OK dollink, ve only have supper und talk about zeh good old days. I see you ven I am off duty zis evening." 

The way Colonel Krotchnik said it, she gave an order I couldn't refuse. She commandeered a jeep and ordered one of her soldiers to drive me to the hotel and another to load my luggage. As I walked into the hotel, I'm sure that I heard the driver whisper to the other soldier "takat yafeh" (nice buns). I snoozed away my jet lag in my room and was awakened precisely at 7:00 p.m. by the Colonel ringing me up on the house phone:

"If you ver in my unit, I vould make you do 50 pushups for sleeping so late. Get down here now, dollink. Ve heff a date."

Colonel Krotchnik turned out to be a fun date. We were an odd couple, a 50-year old army officer and a young civilian. Despite the differences, there was something between us that clicked that night. The Colonel had a good sense of humor and a lot of stories to tell. Who knows? Maybe she was that rarest of breeds, a happy dominatrix. She didn't just talk but she listened. She asked about my career as a journalist, as if I was any match for her experiences in life. Most of Colonel Krotchnik's stories were about her days in the Army Censor Office.

"Of course, I got all zeh stories to be sent to Eastern Europe. Zose Communist journalists ver zo obedient zat I could tell zem to write anyzing. But zen, zey ver used to taking orders vere zey come from. Zey took orders zo vell zat zey vere almost as good submissives as ze English. It vas ze Americans who giff me trouble. Zey alvays zot zey knew grammar better zan Chava Krotchnik. I got speeches from ze Americans like you vouldn't belief about Freedom of the Press. Zo, I alvays gave ze Americans und ze Canadians as a bonus to my Tamar to deal vit."

"Tell me more about the Tamar you knew, Colonel. Was Tamar a good worker? Did you get along well with her?"

"Tamar vas to me like zeh daughter I neffer had. Such a good vorker und villing to go zeh extra mile. Ve had a good vorking relationship und personal relationship as vell. Tamar told me all about you and asked my motherly advice. It vas me who got her leaf for a veek to go avay vit you."

"I didn't know that. What did Tamar tell you about me and why would that convince you to give her leave so she could go on a trip like that?"

"Vell dollink, you know how vomen are ven ve talk? Tamar said that she fell in luff vit you ze first time you met. She said, zis guy, Chris, is kind, he luffs life, he's good in bed but maybe a little stupid. But Chris is only a man, after all. She could go on for hours about how she vas neffer fucked the vay you fucked her und how she luffed your zain. Ven she found you again at the Censor Office, I tell her, 'You must not let zis man get avay. Go vit him und enjoy der sex. He is perfect for you, effen if he has a goyische kopf."

Slightly stupid was I? It sounded like a good time to change the subject before she got too curious about my zain. I was curious how an apparently normal woman like Chava Krotchnik end up as an officer in Zahal and an accomplished dominatrix? We were at a sidewalk café and had downed a few 777 brandies. That loosened both of us up a bit so I decided to ask the Colonel a personal question.

"Colonel, how come you never got married? I mean you're fun to be with, you're a good looking woman and you seem to like sex, even if it's a little on the perverted side. Are you one of those people married to their careers?"

"Vell, I vas actually engaged vunce to be married. It vas anuzer soldier doing his compulsory service like me, Tzvi Studman. I vasn't into ze bondage zen. Tzvika made luff zo beautifully, it vas like music made by zer Israel Philharmonic. He vas der man for me. He vas zo vell hung und he knew vat to do vit it. Ze first time ve made love, I zink he push my vomb up into my stomach. I neffer see again in my life zain on any man like I see on my Tzvikah. He vas a sex machine zat could play Chava Krotchnik like Yitzhak Perlman play ze violin. Ven ve finish our army service, ve vanted to start a farm of our own. By day, Tzvikah could plow ze ground und, by night, he vould plow up Chava's insides. I vas zo happy and looking forward to being under ze choopah vith Tzvikah zat I bought a vedding dress vhile I vas doing my service."

"But what happened to Tzvikah and your dreams of life on a farm."

"Ze Yom Kippur Var ended my dreams. Tzvikah vas killed during heavy fighting in ze Sinai. I vas devastated but I stayed in ze army zo I vould alvays remember zeh time I had vit Tzvikah. I couldn't stand ze zought of being vit another man until I met a man who didn't vant sex, just a few slaps on his bottom. I discovered I had a talent as a dominatrix und, hineh, here I am."

Tears began to well up in Colonel Krotchnik's eyes as she told me about her long-lost love. I didn't think that an old dominatrix could cry but there she was with mascara running down her cheeks. She dabbed her eyes with her napkin, smearing around more mascara. I put my hand on the Colonel's free hand. It was smooth and warm. She didn't push my hand away.

"I didn't mean to bring up am old hurt, Colonel. I can imagine how losing your fiancé that way would break your heart. What can I do to make it up to you?"

"Let me clean up my face in your room. Zey heff no bathroom in zis place."

I took Colonel Krotchnik back to my room. OK, you know what happened next. I ended up fucking a 50-year old woman, Tamar's old boss no less, when I should have been looking for Tamar. How could I do that, you ask? As I said, Chava Krotchnik really wasn't a bad looking woman. Probably she looked even better in the evening and with a few shots of 777 brandy in me. I checked to make sure she wasn't carrying a bag full of sexual toys, so I wasn't in for a beating.

Then there was the curiosity factor. Did Colonel Krotchnik still have it after 50 years? Someone once told me that an older woman was the best lay because she never knew when she was going to get it again. Was that true? If she still had it, how does an old dominatrix respond to her first plain vanilla sex in 20 years? And was Tzvikah's technique as pure and unperverted as the Colonel implied? And was Tzvikah better hung than I was? My curiosity turned into a challenge, but it wasn't any trouble to get the Colonel into bed, naked and no leather . In fact, she was already in bed when I got out of the bathroom. She had placed her uniform neatly on my suitcase and made sure it wouldn't wrinkle. Her brassiere and panties were on the floor beside the bed. As I came out of the bathroom, The Colonel took the clasp out of her hair and let the roll cascade down to her shoulders. Long brown hair completely changed Colonel Krotchnik's face. She was smiling, an almost sensual look on her face. I undressed without ceremony and climbed under the sheets with her.

She whispered, "Please call me Chava, Chris. Please be gentle with me und I vill show you vat an old lady can do." 

Chava Krotchnik turned out to be one wild woman in bed. I had no sooner slipped under the sheets than she was all over me, kissing and thrusting her tongue in my mouth and kissing my face. I thrust my tongue back in her mouth and checked for dentures. None. The thought occurred to me that either they fluoridate the water in this country or they have good dentists. Chava's teeth were straight, all accounted for and a delight to run my tongue over. I remembered when she was smiling in the restaurant that her teeth were nice and white. The Colonel didn't smoke like so many Israeli women.

I reached for one of Chava's breasts to check out if other parts of her were still in shape. Chava had small breasts for an Israeli woman, which meant that she had a pair which a woman anywhere else would kill for. A Colonel's uniform was no better at displaying breasts that Tamar's regular soldier's uniform. Chava's breasts had a slight sag in them – well, they had been hanging there for 50 years. Chava started to moan and squeal like a 15-year old as soon as I touched her tit. Probably she had forgotten the pleasure of a man gently touching her breast during her years of administering beatings.

As I played with Chava's tits, sucking on her nipples and then gently pressing them between my fingers, Chava's moans and squeals went up in volume. She was no singer but any woman who expresses herself with noise makes the music I love to hear. As I ran my hands along her hips and along her thighs, I didn't find one speck of fat or love handles. Chava Krotchnik still had one nice tight body for her age, just the slight bulge around her stomach, not anything you would term a potbelly.

I reached down to Chava's crotch and parted her legs. I wondered what I would find there. It's always an adventure touching a woman's pussy for the first time but this was my first touch of fifty-year old pussy. I had heard so many stories from my friends about how older women's pussies dried up like the Negev Desert once past menopause. It was usually accompanied by my friend giving a graphic descriptions of the pain of a dry fuck and the discomfort of a foreskin being sandpapered off. There I was in a foreign country without a foreskin to protect me and no KY lubricant.

As it turned out, I didn't need to worry at all. Chava's crotch was soaked and the juice was running down her thighs. I parted her outer lips. If I remember my Slavic language studies correctly, the surname Krotchnik must mean "little crotch". If I was right, Chava Krotchnik was carrying on a proud family tradition. As my finger glided up between her inner lips, it was like exploring between two narrow, hard walls. Chava was a tight little package between her legs. When I get back to Canada, I'll have to tell the guys that everything they told me about older women was wrong.

I stroked the lower side of her clitoris lightly, never touching the tip, always staying on the side. Chava was so wet that my finger glided easily and lightly up and down these sensitive parts. Chava enjoyed the light touch. She didn't complain about tickling. The only sounds she made were groans, gasps and sighs the reached a crescendo as her clitoris bulged up as large as a baby's pecker. Chava's body convulsed as she had a prolonged orgasm.

You can take the dominatrix out of her leathers but you can't take the domination out of the dominatrix. When Chava stopped coming, she told me to lie on my back. I lay there with my pecker in the air while she fumbled in one of the pockets of her uniform on the suitcase and pulled out an army-issue condom. I already knew that the civilian Israeli condoms were as thick as a rubber boot so the military ones must be like truck tires. I had to put an end to this.

"What's with the rubber, Chava? I hate those things."

"But I tell all my recruits to use zese ven zey heff sex. It has ze Zahal serial number right here. Zere is vun of zese kaputs in effery Israeli soldier's field equipment, male or female. It's in ze regulations."

"I can't recall that you read that regulation to Tamar. Besides, you left the Colonel on my suitcase. You're Chava right now."

"OK, ve don't use der rubber if you promise neffer to tell my girls."

I promised, Chava discarded the package and she eagerly started to suck dick. She was even better than Daniellah at fallatio. Chava could not only apply the vacuum to a dick but she could run her tongue up and down the shaft of the dick at the same time. In no time at all, I shot off. I don't know if it was Chava's intention to blow me off but she swallowed without letting go of my dick. If Chava was typical, Israeli soldiers must be tough women.

I got hard again as Chava kept sucking my dick and maintaining my dick at full alert. Finally, she was satisfied with its condition and squatted so that our business parts touched and lined up. Her pussy was even wetter with excitement as she sensed that she was about to get some young zain again. She rubbed my tip a little between her pussy lips and then inserted the tip in her cunt.

Damn, for 50 years old, Chava was a tight little piece. My buddies told me stories about 50 year old women so completely fucked out that they were big as a coffee can down there. I shouldn't have worried. Chava hadn't had any children in her 50 years. I had checked for stretch marks while I was kissing her stomach. My dick hurt as she pushed to get me in but finally her cunt yielded and I was in an inch. Chava gasped:

"You're effen bigger zan Tzvikah. I vill heff trouble vit you tonight."

Was Chava saying that to make me feel good or was I really was bigger than her first love? Was she tight like a virgin because she never got a poke from her submissives? After all, what did I know about what really went on in the bondage scene?


In Search of Tamar Ch. 1



I don't know why I remember what Chava said and what I was thinking. At that time, my mind was completely in the head of my dick, concentrating on every centimeter of Chava's tight little cunt as she pushed me in further and further. She stopped somewhere in the territory of her cervix and said "Zat's enough."

Chava started to ride up and down on my dick, slowly at first but faster and faster as she got more excited. I tell you, I benefited from all the pushups she had performed for the Army. The woman was inexhaustible. As she picked up speed, she forgot her reluctance to take in all my dick and started plunging harder and harder, up and down. As she took me in more and more, she tightened around the tip of my dick. That was the process, deeper and deeper, tighter and tighter around the tip of my dick until Chava's bony bum cheeks were slapping on my thighs and I was almost screaming from the pressure on my dick. Did the woman keep a Vise-Grip up her cunt?

Fortunately. I could last under this punishment, having come once already. I felt my dick bottoming out inside 50-year old cunt when Chava started to moan. It sounded like half pain and half pleasure. I couldn't hold back any more and I shot off the same time Chava screamed in the ecstasy of orgasm. Chava slumped slightly from her usual straight posture, as if impaled on my dick. With a sigh, she lifted her head, rose and rolled off me.

Chava didn't get up and run to clean herself as my experience with young women had led me to expect. She just lay beside me, breathing shallowly and seeming to enjoy the trickle of semen on her thigh. I lay exhausted on the bed, partly from jet lag but mostly from Chava's extraordinary performance. It seemed like we stayed that way for hours. Finally, she broke the spell. She anticipated my question perfectly.

"Chris, I can't stay vit you, much as I vould like. You made me vun happy voman tonight but I must get back to my recruits. Vot vill I tell zem ven I come back to ze barracks? I vill heff zis vell-laid happy look on my face und I vill valk like my insides are all zore. I am zo happy zat I neffer yell at my girls again. How can I discipline zem if I neffer scream at zem? Zey von't respect me in ze morning."

"Respect you in the morning? I'll worship you in the morning, Colonel. I didn't realize that you would be so good in bed without your whips and leather. You've changed my attitude completely about older women."

Chava got out of bed and dressed slowly, almost reluctantly. She was doing a striptease in complete reverse. Young women are in such a rush to get back home before their parents' curfew. It's always a letdown the way they rush to the bathroom to clean themselves so there's nothing in their panties for Mom to see when she did the laundry. Chava knew how to prolong the pleasure of the fuck by taking her time to leave.

I saw what a good-looking woman she was earlier in the evening but now she glowed like a well-fucked woman. Chava looked good and she was a tigress in bed, so good that she changed my attitude towards older women. If I didn't find Tamar, I was going to start looking up some of my older single women friends when I got back to Canada. Chava noticed that I was looking appreciatively at her as she straightened her tie. She came over to the side of the bed and sat beside me.

"I vill tell you zomezing. Ven Tamar told me how good you ver, I vanted to heff you just vunce to replace my Tzvikah. Don't be angry vit me or vit her ven you find her. As her superior officer, I must know everyzing about my soldiers. I envy zat girl, vot big, hard schlong she vill get from you effery night. Zo, Chris, it's better I go now und let you find Tamar. You don't vorry vun little bit. I neffer tell Tamar or anyvun else anyzing about vut go on between us. I neffer mention again even to you. Zer's too much difference in our age to become involved, Chris. Good night und zleep vell my pootzie-mootzie."

Chava kissed my forehead and then she kissed my limp dick. Could you believe what was happening? I was now a Colonel's pootzie-mootzie. Chava left without turning around for even one last look. She was a strong woman, the strongest-willed I ever met. She kept her promise and never mentioned to me or anyone else what happened that night.

I didn't sleep well that night. Maybe it was the time difference between Whitehorse and Ashdod or maybe it was too much Israeli brandy in my café botz. My thoughts just raced through my head, plunging into the despair of guilt feelings. I had set out to find Tamar and had ended up in bed with her former superior officer. Would Tamar think of this as a betrayal? Had I done anything wrong to Colonel Krotchnik? After all, standing in for her long-dead lover was even more perverted than a bondage scene. Would she become attached to me? Older women often had unrealistic expectations from their younger lovers. And what really happened to Tzvikah Studman? Had he really died in the Sinai or had Chava Krotchnik fucked his brains out?

Finally, I decided that I think too much. Chava Krotchnik was happy when she left, happier than I had ever seen her before. Perhaps she would throw away her handcuffs and find a regular-type lover to spend her declining years with. Also, she was worried if her recruits would respect her in the morning, not me. That proved she wasn't expecting any mornings with me after this. As for Tamar, I would have to resolve this infidelity when I finally found her. Besides, finding Tamar was not a sure thing on this trip. Could anyone fault me for having some fun while on what might prove to be a fruitless quest? I drifted off to sleep with my guilt now resolved.



In Search of Tamar Ch. 2



I got off the bus at the hot, dusty town of Be'er Sheva and checked my luggage in a locker. There was one taxi standing outside the bus station. I asked the middle-aged, bald driver:

"Do you speak English and how many years have you been driving taxi?"

"Yes and 25 years. Why is this important?"

"I need someone who knows Be'er Sheva well to help me find someone. Do you know where the Ya'akov family lives and can you take me there now?"

The taxi driver introduced himself as Ronin and offered me a Time cigarette. Taxi drivers are the same all over the world – compulsive talkers. It must be the captive audience. Ronin discussed the state of the shekel, how the haredim (ultra-orthodox Jews) were taking away everybody's idea of a fun time and gave me a short history of Be'er Sheva from Avraham to the Likud Party. Ronin had the time to expound on all these topics because the Ya'akovs' home was a large villa on the outskirts of the town. I went up to the gate but nobody answered the intercom. I went back dejectedly to the taxi and told Ronin:

"Nobody's there."

"You didn't ask me if anyone was home. Yishai Ya'akov only lives there when the Knesset isn't sitting or he isn't cooking up some deal in the back rooms. I've only seen him come back to Be'er Sheva at Pesach and Yom Kippur. Oh, also he throws a great party at Purim. So, tell me, what do you want with one of our politicians?"

As if I could have gotten a word in edgewise when Ronin was talking and wagging his finger. Ronin looked like a decent guy, even if he talked too much, so I decided to take him into my confidence. I explained that I was looking for Tamar Ya'akov because I had met her five years ago and had fallen in love with her in three short weeks. I explained that her father had taken her away from me when she dropped me off at the airport. The last place she had been stationed during her army service was here in Be'er Sheva. Ronin just shook his head.

"Do you know that Yishai Ya'akov would turn you over to Shin Bet for another interrogation if he'd been in that house and you came looking for his daughter? You have to carry out your search in a more indirect, Israeli fashion. I suggest that you try some of Tamar's friends who might know where she would be now. Most of her school friends left Be'er Sheva after their army service but Delilah Toledano still lives here. Why don't you find out if Delilah knows anything?"

Ronin began a lecture on another subject, of which he was the greatest expert: how there were no opportunities for young people in Be'er Sheva. We drove to another villa in the same expensive neighbourhood. He let me out and closed the taxi's door.

"I can tell Delilah's at home because the gate is open. I'll leave you here for a couple of hours. It's my lunch break and I take ha'atzorim (siesta) after lunch. We'll settle up the fare when I pick you up. Have a nice chat with Delilah."

A woman opened the door in response to my knocking. It wasn't just a woman but a very beautiful woman. I judged that she was, indeed, in her mid-twenties, the same age as Tamar. She had the black hair, brown eyes and olive skin of a Mizrachi (Eastern) Jew. Her black hair was expensively coifed, I could tell even though I know nothing about hair styling. Most men don't know their hair styles except they know what they like. Well, maybe Mr. Bruce at the Whitehorse Beauty Salon knows hair styles but I'm clueless.

The woman was petite, slim but well built in the chest, as are most Israeli women. I could make out her protruding tits, even though she was wearing a rather shapeless caftan. Damn, these Israeli women must sport the biggest tits on earth. I stopped ogling the woman and got down to business.

"Do you speak English and are you Delilah Toledano?" I asked.

"Yes and yes. Who are you and how may I help you?"

"My name is Chris. I'm from Canada and I'm a friend of Tamar Ya'akov. I'm told that you went to school with Tamar and that you were still friends when she was posted here in Be'er Sheva. Can you help me find Tamar? I haven't seen her for five years."

"Yes, Chris. Tamar talked a lot about you when she was posted in Be'er Sheva. Please come inside, I'll put on the finjan and we'll talk about Tamar over coffee."

I sat down in the living room and surveyed Delilah's house while she performed the coffee ritual in the kitchen. The house was cool from the masgan (air conditioning) despite the midday plus 30 degree temperature outside. The Italian marble tile floor was barely visible beneath the oriental carpets scattered around. The walls were decorated with Arab brasswork. I had the distinct impression that I had stumbled into the pasha's harem. What wasn't covered by hammered brass was covered by expensive oil paintings bearing the names of European artists. The TV, sound system and other electronics were likewise imported. Nothing was Israeli-made; it all spoke of money and lots of it.

Delilah finally came in bearing a silver tray with a coffee set and two small ceramic cups. I detected a slight rattle of the coffee set. Were Delilah's hands betraying nervousness? She sat down beside me, making sure that her thigh was jammed hard against mine. She poured a tiny cup for each of us, indicating that there was more sugar if I needed it. I took a sip and braced myself for the onslaught of bitter coffee mixed with enough sugar to make a small cake. The coffee was so sweet that it made my teeth ache and so strong that my ears buzzed. At least I was at full alert for any clues Delilah might give me to Tamar's whereabouts.

"I really can't tell you much that can help you. When Tamar came back to Be'er Sheva, she finished her army service as a lowly guard at Avraham's Well. I only spoke to her a couple of times because her family kept her on a tight leash. Mr. Ya'akov thought that I was a little too unreligious for his little girl. OK, I was kind of wild when I was in high school but that's no reason to hate me. I never put up with my parents interfering in my life the way Tamar's parents did in hers. I suppose that's why she left Be'er Sheva, to get out from under her father's thumb. I wouldn't go to Eilat to help that fat cow, Sarah, run her tour company. I mean, there's no money in the travel business and everyone knows that Sarah is a little bit slow and no fun."

"Excuse me, who is Sarah?"

"Sarah Liebowitz, Chris. I apologize. Be'er Sheva is such a small place that I assume an outsider knows everybody here the same way we do. Sarah Liebowitz is the only Ashkenazi who hung out with us Mizrachis in the gymnasium (high school). I never thought Sarah fit in with us, and it wasn't just because her parents were Russian. She was so fat and awkward and my friends were all so good-looking, like Tamar. Tamar seemed to see something in Sarah, although I don't know what. Tamar was the one who always stood up for Sarah and insisted that she be part of our clique. No wonder, when Sarah needed help with her business, Tamar was the only one who responded. I really don't know what happened down in Eilat because I lost touch with them both. I know this hasn't been very helpful to you, Chris."

"It's been more helpful than you can imagine, Delilah. I learned things about Tamar from you that I never knew before. That's just like her, to try and love the unlovable and help the helpless."

"Well, Tamar is really in love with you. She told me all about how you met just by accident. Tamar thinks you are the sweetest, kindest man in the world. She said that what you lacked in intelligence you more than made up with your, how do you say it in English, physical attributes. Now, why don't you tell me about your night in Haifa?"

I had all the information I needed and some that I didn't. Apparently every woman in Israel had the impression I wasn't too bright. I wanted to go because Delilah was getting into an area I didn't want to discuss. On the other hand, I would insult Delilah greatly by leaving. Things move at their own pace in the Middle East and the coffee ceremony had to run its course before I could leave.

So, I tried steering the conversation to some innocuous small talk with my hostess about life in Israel compared to that in Canada, hoping that the opportunity would come for a face-saving opportunity to leave. Delilah always kept returning to how I met Tamar and the details surrounding our short-lived affair. I wasn't any match for this manipulative woman. I told her everything in detail. When I finished with the story about our separation at the airport, Delilah put her manicured hand on mine and said:

"It must have been heartbreaking for you both, to find love and to lose it in such a short space of time."

Well, you know how it is. Her hand on my hand, a word of sympathy and I'm a slave to any woman. We put our arms around each other and Delilah began her process of comforting my broken heart with an open-mouthed kiss. The tips of our tongues played around each other and then I thrust my tongue as deep into her mouth as I could. Delilah thrust back and wouldn't stop until I broke away for air.

We both rested our heads on each other's shoulder. I breathed in a subtle whiff of expensive French perfume. I already knew Delilah had money but I didn't know why she would wear such expensive perfume in the middle of the day. Certainly it wasn't for my benefit, since I hadn't told Delilah that I would be visiting. The milkman on this route must be one lucky guy, I figured.

I didn't have the opportunity to ponder for long the meaning of Delilah's perfume. Delilah was unbuttoning my shirt, which I was wearing Israeli-style with no tie and one button open. She was running her hand admiringly over my chest hairs. I slid my hand up along her outer thigh and past her hips. Delilah didn't wear panties underneath her caftan. I managed to one-hand the brassiere hooks open. The speed with which the ends parted indicated that the brassiere cups were carrying one heavy load. And they were. I brought my hand around to discover what I had just liberated from the bra. The Song of Songs describes an Israeli woman's breasts as rimonim (pomegranates) but I had my left hand on a plump, luscious avatiach (watermelon). 

Delilah sighed as I massaged her breast, working my way underneath her capacious brassiere until I had her nipple between my thumb and forefinger. I massaged her erect nipple gently to increasing volume from Delilah. Her concentration was remarkable because while I was scouting tit territory, Delilah undid my belt and zipper and was exploring my jockey shorts.

"So, it's not true that all the shaigetz (Gentile boys) wear boxer shorts. And what a remarkable zain you have. Tamar hinted about its size but I never expected anything like this. I thought that she was just trying to make me jealous, the same way she humiliated me by correcting my English in front of all my friends."

Probably, I should have defended Tamar but I had sex on my mind. I slowly moved my hand down Delilah's waist, and paused on her hip. I think that her tits constituted the only soft tissue on her body. Delilah was solid and muscular, probably the result or regular workouts. She had kept in shape from her Army days. I went for Delilah's crotch and she eagerly parted her legs. Her bush was drenched. Actually, her bush was trimmed and combed. Did her hairdresser style Delilah's bush as well as her head?

Delilah began breathing faster in response to my massaging her wet mound. I parted her pussy lips and slowly ran my finger up her slit to just below her clitoris. While I was playing with Delilah's parts, she was slowly massaging my dick. She wasn't rough with it as so many young women are. This woman apparently knew her dick.

"Please, give me some of that big zain of yours," Delilah panted.

A foreigner should always be courteous when travelling, especially in a politically troubled area. Not wanting to disappoint my hostess, I removed my clothes. Delilah took off her caftan and her brassiere. I looked at the couch. That kind of material is absolutely impossible to remove the pecker tracks. Wouldn't that be something for her husband to discover when he got home? I looked around and there was too much brasswork and paintings hanging on the wall for a wall job. Then I spotted it - a beautiful antique walnut table in the dining area. There was just a small budvase with a fresh rose in it. There was plenty of room on the table for a fornication.

I lifted Delilah easily and carried her over to the table. Her workouts were effective in keeping the weight off her. I placed her on the table and she lay flat on her back. I got between her legs. Delilah lifted her ass slightly and brought up her legs for the lay. I bent down and put her slim but muscular thighs on my shoulder. Then I parted Delilah's pussy lips with one hand and ran my tongue up her slit. There was something odd about Delilah's taste. I finally put my finger, or rather my tongue, on exactly what it was. Delilah used flavoured douche! Watermelon, I believe it was. She was expecting a tongue job today.

I continued running my tongue up and down right up to her clit. Delilah moaned more and more as I kept tickling her slit from the cunt to just below her clit. When I judged that the moans had reached the critical stage, I ran my tongue gently over the top of her clit. Delilah gave a scream of surprise, shuddered and said "Don't stop." I held on to her thighs and kept sliding my tongue over her erect clit until she stopped convulsing with pleasure.

I stood up, grabbed my dick and pushed it into her cunt. It slid in so easily that I knew it wasn't because Delilah was so well lubricated. She really wasn't very tight. That surprised me because the petite women I had the pleasure of fucking weren't built for big dick. I usually had to fight to get it in. This time, it was like sliding a knife through butter. Delilah was one fucked-out woman. I was all the way in when Delilah pinned me in the back with her tiny feet.

"OK, pound that pussy. Fuck me hard baby. Really give it to me."

I started pounding and pounding Delilah on the table for what seemed like an eternity. The woman just couldn't seem to come. I wondered whether my dick was losing its magic when Delilah said:

"Hit me. I want to be fist fucked."

I'm ashamed to admit it but I took Delilah up on her offer. Maybe it was because she bad-mouthed Tamar to my face. Maybe it was because I was beginning to despise this spoiled rich kid and the way she had seduced me. I laid a wallop on the side of her head. She screamed half in pain and half in delight. Delilah came immediately and kept coming and coming in waves of orgasms. Obviously, my punch hit the right button for her. Despite the disgust with this woman and the disgust with myself that welled up inside me, I came when Delilah started thrashing and bucking on the table as her orgasms subsided.

I pulled out my dick, letting a steady stream of assorted liquids flow on to the table. Delilah lay panting on her back. I heard a horn honking outside.

"I have to get going now, Delilah. That's my taxi outside."

"Please, can't you stay with me tonight? Mossi won't be back until the weekend. I'll make you a great cous-cous and we can drink some French wine I've been saving for a romantic occasion. I'll light candles all around the bed…"

Mossi. I had heard that name once before in the course of a very unpleasant encounter with the gentleman. Plus, Delilah was a Moroccan, as I could tell from her style of cuisine. It could mean only one thing.

"Is your married name Bar-Lévi?"

"Of course. Didn't you know that I married Mossi after he dumped your Tamar? Tamar finished her army service and left town long before Mossi got out of jail. I suspect that really she wanted to avoid any confrontation with Mossi. We Moroccans don't take insult very easily. Personally, I wouldn't mind at all if Mossi carved up Tamar Ya'akov. It was always an insult to me the way she was more popular in high school than I, Delilah Toledano, was. And the way she got such good marks, she was always raising the curve for those of us who wanted to have a good time. Now I've got both her ex-boyfriend and her present boyfriend. Do you know what Tamar did to mess up my life in our last year of high school? Well, she…."

This was getting nasty. I had to interrupt Delilah before she got on my case. "Uh, you mentioned that Mossi won't be home tonight. How can you be so sure that we'll be enjoying your cous-cous without Mossi's fine company?"

"When Mossi got out of jail, my father pulled a few strings and healed his ego by getting him a middle-management job in government. I, of course, mended his broken heart by my expertise in bed. Mossi was so grateful to both his benefactors that he married me and works day and night in my father's department. Mossi spends all week working in Jerusalem and he's only here on the weekend. You could spend three days with me and I'm sure that you'll want to after I'm finished with you tonight."

"Uh, I'm sure as well, Delilah. Can you excuse me for a minute? I owe the taxi driver some money. I'll be back right away."

As I headed out to the taxi, my survival instinct kicked in. Delilah wasn't a friend of Tamar. Delilah was Tamar's worst enemy and I had to get out of this place. I ordered Ronin to smoke his tires and get me on a bus to Eilat.

"You never told me that Delilah's married name was Delilah Bar-Lévi."

"You never asked."

"But don't you see the mess I'm in now? First I fucked Mossi's girlfriend and now I've fucked his wife. If he ever finds out I'm in Israel and what I've did on his dining room table, I'm dead meat."

"I know you think it's a remarkable accomplishment for a goy on a short visit to Israel to fuck the richest woman in Be'er Sheva. But relax. Everyone, except for Mossi, knows Delilah is the bicycle of Be'er Sheva. If Mossi ever tried to take out his revenge on every man who poked his zain in Delilah, he would have to kill almost man in Be'er Sheva, from her personal trainer to the mayor, before he ever got around to you. I think the alte zaken man (junk dealer) and I are the only men who haven't had a ride. We're beneath Delilah's social standing. And don't feel sorry for Mossi because he has Delilah for his wife. Every time the man's been in my taxi, he's frosted me on a tip."

Ronin started a long discourse about how he could tell a man's character from the type of tip they gave. Do you know that Israeli scientists had just proven that stinginess was associated with bad character and a host of personality disorders? We arrived at the bus station. I was just in time to get my luggage and get on the bus to Eilat. For helping me to escape from Delilah and to make sure I got me a good character reference if anyone asked, I gave Ronin a good tip.

I sat on the shady side of the bus and let the masgan flow over my face. I needed to cool off. I was angry with Delilah for fooling me into thinking she was Tamar's friend. I was angry with myself for hitting a woman. I have never hit a woman in anger, never mind in the throes of passion. Delilah had to be the worst lay of my life. Israel was an amazing country. Despite its small size, it had provided me the best and the worst fucks of my life.

In conclusion, I don't regret that I didn't go back to bet Bar-Lévi for a wild evening of cous-cous, candlelight and cunt. After all, women who work out that much tend to be lousy cooks. Besides, I wouldn't have any appetite wondering how many guys Delilah fucked on the surface where my plate was sitting. If she asked me to hit her again when we were fucking, likely I think I might kill her, I was starting to dislike her that much. I decided to take a nap and hoped that I would find out more about Tamar in Eilat.



In Search of Tamar Ch. 3



I bought a telekart in the Eilat bus station and started calling travel agencies from the public phone in the hope that I could find Sarah Liebowitz.  Fortunately, Sarah had a good reputation in Eilat and the first agency I called gave me the number of her company.  When I called Sarah’s agency, a woman with a pleasant, sensual voice answered.  The woman had almost the same BBC accent as Tamar had but with more Hebrew overtones.

“Is this Sarah Liebowitz?  Hi!  I’m Chris from Canada.  I just arrived by bus from Be’er Sheva.  I’m a friend of Tamar Ya’akov.  Tamar and I met five years ago and …..”

“Oh my God!  It’s you, Chris!  Tamar told me all about you.  Can you please wait where you are.  At the bus station?   OK, I’ll come and pick you up at the front.  Orit!  Please close up tonight.  I have to pick up a friend of Tamar at the bus station.  Remember Tamar?  Oh my God!  I never thought you’d return to Israel after what happened.  Oh my God!”

In all of that, I could tell two things.  Tamar wasn’t working with Sarah at her agency.  Also, Sarah certainly seemed to by on good terms with God the way she kept embracing the Divine.

During my ten minutes wait, I meditated on why fat women sound so sexy on the telephone. In Canada, the 900 numbers are answered by heavy women.  It’s something about the weight that makes a heavy woman’s voice exude sex.  Yet, I never thought of fat women as sex objects.  I never asked a fat girl out for a date when I was in high school.  In fact, I never asked a fat woman for a date after high school.  Was I weight-prejudiced?

My thoughts were interrupted when a tiny white Suzuki pulled up.  A huge woman was driving and she yelled, “Hop in Chris!”

“Hi Sarah.  How did you know it was me?”

“Don’t be such a slug, Chris.  Of course I knew it was you.  Tamar told me everything about you, especially how good looking you were.  And I’ll bet you knew it was me because you’ve been talking to Delilah Toledano.  She was always on my case about my weight.  That yenta will never change.  I’ll give you a quick tour of Eilat.  Then, we’ll go to a quiet restaurant and we can talk.”

I put my bag on the back seat and sat in the passenger seat.  The car was so small that Sarah’s bulk pressed me into a corner.  We were so close that I could easily smell Sarah’s perfume, despite the masgan (air conditioning) going full blast.  It was an expensive perfume but it didn’t remind me of  a Marrakesh whorehouse, the way Delilah’s perfume did.  Sarah’s perfume was far more befitting a self-employed businesswoman.

I was slightly uncomfortable getting so cosy with someone who was supposed to be Tamar’s best friend.  Sarah seemed comfortable enough in the tiny car, sliding her hand along my thighs as she shifted gears.  I got even more “feels” from her thick arms as she pointed out the various sights of Eilat, the beach, the cruise boats to the coral reefs and dolphins, the docks and Aqaba across the bay.  Sarah’s friendly manner quickly put me at ease, so I got in a few feels myself as I pointed at sights that were on the left side of the road.

Eilat isn’t that big a place so we quickly did the tour and parked the car near the beach.  As Sarah stood beside the car, I realized that Delilah Toledano was honest about one thing.  Sarah was a big woman, hefty and thick in all parts of her body.  However, Delilah was wrong when she called Sarah Leibowitz a “cow”.  In fact, she dressed very stylishly in a light brown pantsuit, the very model of a modern businesswoman.  She wore light makeup, emphasizing the best features of her broad face.  Sarah’s face was not movie star material but she was wholesome and pleasant in her features.  Best of all, she had a smile that could charm an ayatollah.  I had to give Sarah a compliment.

“Tamar never told me that she had such a good-looking best friend.”

“Normally flattery doesn’t work on me but I think you really mean it, Chris.  Tamar said that you didn’t have the slightest amount of guile in you.  In fact, she told me you bordered on naïve.  So, in this case, I’ll accept the compliment as sincere and thank you very much.”

There it was again.  Did every woman in Israel know that I wasn’t supposed to be too smart?  I was about to protest that, really, I did have a brain but Sarah continued.

“Let’s walk to a place where we can talk and have something to eat.  You see Chris, I wasn’t always the Sarah you see today.  Years ago, when I was in gymnasium (high school), I was your typical unhappy, dumb, fat child who sat at the back of the class so nobody would look at her and laugh.  I was about to fail my year because of Tanach (Old Testament) and Anglit (English) but I got up my courage to ask Tamar, the most beautiful and popular girl in the class, why she knew her Tanach and English so well.  To my surprise, Tamar told me her secrets.”

“Tamar said to me, ’Sarah, do you know that there are lots of very racy parts in the Tanach?  Start with Shir shel Shirim (Song of Songs).  If the Hebrew in that book doesn’t touch your libido, then you’ll never be a student of Tanach.  As for English, don’t listen to how our teacher pronounces the words.  If you listen to her, you’ll end up sounding like Prime Minister Shamir.  You must listen to the BBC and then you’ll speak like Abba Eban.’”

“So, we practiced English together and went through Tamar’s favorite parts of the Tanach.  I tell you Chris, Tamar took that book away from the rabbis and made it my own personal pornography.  With Tamar’s help, I passed my year and I was in her class the next year.  I really admired Tamar so I was so happy that she stayed friends with me, even though I didn’t need her help with my homework any more.”

Sarah continued: “Then Tamar told me, ‘Sarah, my next job is to do something about your social life.’  Tamar showed me how to dress in style and use makeup.  Honestly, Chris, I really thought there was no hope for me but Tamar made me believe in myself.  What she really gave me was the confidence to try and pick up guys.  Tamar isn’t like most pretty women who keep an ugly girlfriend around so they can look better by comparison.  No, Tamar really loved me and wanted me to have the best.  She would always encourage me to go after the good looking guys and not to pass up opportunities for love.  That’s what Tamar means to me.  There’s more but I’ll tell you when we have a seat.”

We ended up at a sidewalk café at the beach.  We ordered some Greek appetizers and made some small talk about our respective professions.  As we talked, I became more and more impressed by the “fat, dumb” girl who had made it socially and professionally.  That seemingly unattractive body contained quite a charming person.  The more Sarah talked, the more I liked her and the less I thought of her as just another overweight lady.  As impressed as I was by Sarah, I had to get our conversation back to Tamar, the whole reason for my trip to Israel.

“Sarah, your Tamar is the same Tamar I knew.  Tamar took sympathy on me because I was obviously lost in a foreign country and needed her help to get around.  Then she rewrote a lot of the copy I sent back to Canada.  She was generous with her talents as well as herself.  But you said you know all this.  What do you mean that there’s more between you and Tamar?”

“I went into the army at the same time as Tamar.  Yes, I did lose some weight in the army but it didn’t save me from a dull job patrolling the Negev.  I got to love the Negev so, after my Army service, I went to Eilat and worked in a tour company.  I thought I was getting a deal when the owner said he was retiring and wanted to sell it.  It was only after my ex-boss skipped to Argentina that I discovered that the business was a mess and the banks wanted to shut me down.  I thought I would lose my family’s life savings and I cried to Tamar about it on the telephone.  Tamar came right away and used her father’s influence to get the banks off my back.  Then she started going through our books and discovering what was profitable and got rid of the unprofitable tours.  She got in touch with the language experts who worked her in the Censor’s Office and hired them to work with tourists from Europe.  She made me brush up on my Russian and I did tours from Eastern Europe.  She studied archaeology and trained all our new guides, including me, on how to do a tour to Timnah.  In no time, we were a success, the banks were happy and I repaid the money my family loaned me.”

“We both owe Tamar a lot.  But, why isn’t she here in Eilat, if your business is such a success?”

“About three years ago, Tamar became restless.  I suppose you know how she’s always looking for new challenges.  She decided she wanted to try something different instead of herding tourists around Israel.  She came to me one day and said ‘Sarah, your business is really profitable now.  I don’t think you need me any more and I just can’t see myself doing this all my life.  I have to try something different and I think I know what it is.  A new kibbutz is starting up on the Golan, Kibbutz Hagafen, and I want to be part of it.  They’re interested in having me as a member.  I can teach language when they don’t need me to work on the farm.’”

“Well, Sarah, if that’s where I have to look for Tamar next, I’ll just have to go to the Golan.  As a travel agent, how do I get there?”

“You can go by bus but you’re so far south that it’ll take forever.  I suggest you fly to Kiryat Shmoneh and then take the bus from there.  That way, you’ll miss driving through the Negev and you’ll save time.  Unfortunately, the next flight isn’t until tomorrow morning.  I say, stay overnight in Eilat.  You won’t be tired that way and I can get you a ticket when I open the agency tomorrow.   I won’t even take my agency discount for the ticket.”

“I’ll take the expert’s advice and fly.  Can you drive me to a nice hotel?  I’m sure you know one that isn’t too expensive, being in the business.  Oh there’s the waiter.  I’ll get it. Hahashbon! (check)”

“Why don’t you stay with me tonight, Chris?  My place is quite comfortable and I’m not expecting anyone tonight.  Tomorrow, I’ll drive you to the airport.  That way, you won’t have to take a taxi.”

Sarah wouldn’t take no as an answer.  Every excuse I tried to get out of staying with Sarah, she had an answer for it.  The woman was a master at using guilt to get what she wanted.  She even used Tamar to make me guilty, saying “Tamar never told me that Chris was one of those guys who leave as soon as they’ve got what they wanted.”  Finally, I relented and let Sarah drive me to her apartment.  It was well away from the beach and in a nice neighbourhood.  It didn’t appear as if any tourists ever got to visit this part of Eilat.

Sarah’s apartment was furnished in a simple Swedish Modern style.  It was probably as expensive as Delilah’s furniture but not half as ostentatious.  Sarah had it made but she didn’t need to flaunt it.  I put my bag beside the couch, sat down and took off my sandals.  I asked if Sarah had a pillow I could use.  I don’t know why I said that.  I suppose that I still had some hangups about sleeping with a fat woman.  Sarah looked like a scolded child.

“I’m beginning to think that Tamar was right, that you really are clueless.  Chris, I’ve been sending out clues all night that I want you to make love to me and you still haven’t gotten it.  We have to talk about this.”

Sarah sat on the couch next to me.  I felt the cushions tilt in her direction and I couldn’t help being thrown against her shoulder.  Sarah lowered her voice.

“Please don’t think badly of Tamar but you and Mossi weren’t Tamar’s only lovers.  Do you remember that I said we used to pick up guys together?  Don’t judge the two of us but quite often we shared the same guy.  We shared notes about their, uh, performance and how we could improve our own performance.  I think at first that the guys only made love to me so they could get into Tamar’s pants.  Well, after they had Tamar, they would often come back to me on their knees, begging for what I had to offer.  Chris, believe me, in this one thing, I am better than Tamar.  Can I tell you a word of my people: ‘It’s hard to love a fat girl but oh how a fat girl can love.’  That’s not the Talmud.  That’s Sophie Tucker.”

I was reevaluating my attitude towards heavy women all evening.  Now Sarah was confronting my attitude directly.  Why should I accept as a friend some guy sporting a big beer gut but I would have some reservations about screwing a fat lady?  Was I being unfair to fat women?  Maybe Sophie Tucker was right about a fat lady’s talents.  Maybe there was a huge reservoir of red-hot cunt waiting to be discovered at Weight Watchers.  Maybe a fat lady really did have more to love.  I decided to accept Sarah’s charms but I wouldn’t let her seduce me easily.  I had to play the game with her.

“But why me?  If you’re better than Tamar, why can’t you have any guy you want?”

“Oh dear, you still don’t understand, do you.  When Tamar left, my social life went with her.  You don’t know how prejudiced people can be against overweight people.  I haven’t been fucked in a year and I’m climbing the walls, I’m so horny.  Why you?  Tamar said that you’re the best zain that she ever had and I want the best.  I want to fuck you and share you with Tamar, just like it was before she left.  Why don’t you want to sleep with me Chris?  It’s because I’m so fat, isn’t it? I won’t force you to sleep with me.  I’ve learned to take rejection in my life.”

This woman was an expert at using guilt and now she was trying to throw logic and my feelings for Tamar into the mixture.  I was pretty far down the road to yielding to Sarah but I made one last stab at turning turn the guilt around.  

“No, it’s not because of that at all.  I told you before that you’re very pretty and now I want to tell you that you’re desirable as well.  It’s just that you’re supposed to be Tamar’s best friend and I’m supposed to want to marry her.  Wouldn’t you feel guilty about sleeping with me?  Wouldn’t that be like stealing your best friend’s husband.”

“You’re not Tamar’s husband yet. It’s not like I would be husband-stealing.  You’re leaving tomorrow for the Golan and I’m staying here in Eilat with my business.  It’s a one-nighter and you should do it because Tamar would want me to have you if she were here.  She always told me when I asked her about some guy, ‘Go for it Sarah.  Don’t have regrets.’  Here, I’ll make the decision easier for you.”

With that, she undid my belt, pulled down my zipper, reached into my gaunches and pulled out my dick. I was completely immobilized between Sarah and the back of the couch.  OK, if I tried, I could have pushed her off but I was also curious if Sarah really had all the talent that she and Sophie Tucker claimed.  Sarah started slowly sucking on my dick, working her tongue around the sides, never touching the sensitive tip.  Yes, Sarah was good at sucking dick, every bit as good as she and Sophie had promised.  I straightened out immediately.  Sarah seemed to be satisfied with her job on my dick.  She stood up and led me by the dick into her bedroom.

Sarah’s bedroom was decorated in the same light, modern motif as the rest of the apartment.  It was as if she wanted to contrast her own size with the lightness and delicacy of her furnishings.  She let go of my dick and I sat down on the edge of the bed and got undressed.  I watched with delight as Sarah started to take off her clothes slowly and erotically.  Sarah might have been larger than life but she wasn’t clumsy.  In fact, I probably should have checked out all those seedy bars I remembered in Georgia and Florida that advertised 300 pound strippers.  A graceful fat woman is really quite erotic as she undresses.

When Sarah got down to her lingerie, I could hardly wait for her to take her bra off.  Her bra looked like a triple E cup at a minimum.  If Israeli women had big hooters, then a “full figured” Israeli woman had to have tits that belonged in the Guinness Book of Records.  Sarah didn’t keep me waiting too long.  She undid a clasp at the front and showed her boobs to me like a flasher opening his trench coat.  They were enormous as they tumbled out of each cup.  Shit, I had my work cut out for me tonight.

My attention wandered to Sarah’s panties.  Hot damn! Gottex made bikini panties in XXXL in Israel.  Sarah slowly reached to the waistband and pulled down her knickers.  I can’t explain how Sarah could build up the anticipation more than a skinny woman.  Perhaps it was because that waistband had more travelling to do over her large stomach and ass.  It seemed like I was watching her panties slide down for hours until her big, dark bush showed in all its glory. Her tummy hung out over her bush like a shelf, keeping the triangle of love protected from the sun.  Sarah’s performance was so sensual that my dick was hard and aching.  My dick wanted so much to poke around that lush, hairy growth.

Sarah let her panties drop and climbed into bed beside me.  She slid all her bulk between the sheets without plopping on the mattress.  It made me compare this graceful big woman to all the skinny women who had just did a bellyflop into my bed.  The way she moved in an erotic, controlled way got me into the mood of probing into all that flesh with my dick.  I put my arms around Sarah.  Her back was soft, almost cushioned.  As our bodies touched, it was such a comfortable, enveloping feeling, like slowly entering warm water.  I smelled a trace of the same perfume that I smelled in the car.  A good perfume always lingers long after it’s applied. 

We kissed each other on the lips.  Sarah wasn’t in any hurry, savoring all the preliminaries.  Her soft, chubby fingers caressed my back and ran up and down my body.  She was so big that I couldn’t get my arms around her so I had to content myself with kneading the rolls of skin on her back and the love handles on her hips.  She was so soft that a tight hug would have been like squeezing ninety kilos of Silly Putty.  Yet, all that softness made me want to cuddle and enjoy the comfortable feeling that her body gave next to mine.

I turned my attention to the mountains on Sarah’s chest.  Did you ever see that Busty Morgan movie where Busty kills the guy by smothering him with her size 62’s?  That scene flashed through my mind as I buried my face between acres of boobies.  Better keep Sarah on her back or I wouldn’t be able to compare notes with Tamar when I found her.  Sarah was so big there that I could bury my nose between her tits and play with her nipples and my ears at the same time.  I discovered this on my first run up Sarah’s cleavage.  Cleavage, it was the Grand Canyon and I was diving right in.  At the top, I worked my way around one tit and then along the indentation her bra had made under her boobs.

As I rounded the top of her other tit, Sarah was starting to make some noise so I decided that I would try sucking on her nipples.  I wish I took the time to read what size Sarah’s brassiere was because it took two hands to hold one tit so I could suck her nipples.  Like everything else about Sarah, her breasts were large and prominent.  At dinner, I couldn’t get my eyes off the nipples outlined through her brassiere and blouse.  Sarah went crazy as I sucked and played her nipple with my tongue, so I shifted my mouth to the other tit.  Sara went even crazier.  Back and forth I went, giving my attention first to one nipple and then to the other.  Then I did another run up Sarah’s cleavage kissing and licking any part I might have neglected on my first run.

Sarah’s tits were fascinating but I had to move on to more serious things.  I started to move my hand up the inside of Sarah’s leg.  What impressed me most was how big and soft her thighs were.  In Sarah’s case, size does seem to matter because Sarah was extremely sensitive inside her legs.  I don’t mean that she was ticklish there but those thick thunderthighs were an erogenous zone.  As I caressed her softness nowhere near her pussy, Sarah started to tremble so badly that her body rippled like waved on a sea of jelly.  Sarah opened her legs wider.




In Search of Tamar Ch. 3



“Play with me, Chris.  I want you to use those gentle fingers on my pussy.”

Sarah was ready,  I reached into her soaking wet crotch and parted her pussy lips.  Despite being big everywhere else, Sarah’s pussy was absolutely normal.   Maybe my hang-ups about big women stemmed from a fear of discovering that they had supersized genitals.  I was afraid that my finger might get lost in there but everything was the right size and in its proper place.  My finger slid easily between Sarah’s inner lips to the side of her prominent, erect clitoris.  I played around her clitoris, slowly stroking the sides to build up her tension.  At the right moment, I moved to the top of her slit.  Sarah let out a prolonged scream of passion.  I don’t think anyone heard.  Israeli apartments are made of concrete.

After Sarah came, I got between her thick legs and brought her knees up.  Maybe Tamar had encouraged her to go after guys but I didn’t get a sense that many had taken her up on her offer.  Bringing her knees up to line up her target with my dick didn’t seem to cone naturally to her.  I parted her pussy lips and confirmed her inexperience when I put in my dick.  The resistance and tightness I felt could only mean one thing.  There hadn’t been a lot of dick there before me.  Sarah was far from a fucked-out woman.

“Oh yes, Chris.  Oh yes.  Fuck me with that big zain of yours.  It’s been a long time.  I love what you’re doing but take it slow.  I want this to last.”

Sarah was so tight that I really had no choice but to work my dick in slowly,  I was also impeded in my progress up Sarah’s cunt by the size of her stomach.  I just couldn’t seem to get the angle right.  It was like trying to hump a camel.  When I was as far in as I could get, I started to pound pussy.  Sarah stopped me.

“Chris, you’re damn good but you’re not all the way in.  I don’t want to lose one centimeter of that delicious zain of yours.  Here’s how you have to fuck a fat girl.”

Sarah pushed me off and I pulled out.  She rolled over and put her enormous ass in the air.  Below her fat bum cheeks, her clam poked free and was spread wide, inviting me back in.  But I didn’t stick my dick in right away.  Sarah’s clitoris was swollen and visible at the top or bottom of the clam, depending on your perspective I suppose.  I couldn’t resist and I let my tongue slide over her clitoris.

I never ate a woman from the back and I had never eaten a fat woman either.  I was always afraid that my nose would get caught in the asshole and that a fat woman would smell sweaty there.  I was wrong on both counts.  Sarah had her clam at such an angle that my nose never even came near the crack of her ass.  Even if my nose disappeared between Sarah’s bum cheeks, I couldn’t have cared less.  Sarah was clean and tastier than any woman I had ever known.  I could have licked Sarah from cunt to clitoris until it was time to catch my airplane but Sarah came in another noisy orgasm that shook her loose flesh even more violently than her first.

“Now, Chris.  Give me your zain.  I want you to fuck me hard this time.”

I straddled her calves, pushed her bum down to the right height and ran my dick up and down her open clam.  I found her cunt and entered it again.  Sarah was tighter than before so I slowly worked my dick into that wet, quivering mass below her asshole.  Sarah was big everywhere except for her cunt.  I pushed in and then slowly withdrew.  I pushed in a little more each stroke.  Sarah got tighter and tighter the further I entered her.  Finally, my dick was absolutely as far in as I could get it.  I was bottoming out inside Sarah’s cunt and she was screaming with pleasure.  Then I started slowly pounding pussy again but the difference this time was that I was pounding right to the end of Sarah’s cunt each time I shoved in my dick.  Sarah was right again.  Doggie style is the correct manner to fuck a fat girl.

I kept up the long, slow strokes until Sarah protested, asking for it faster.  Obligingly, I started going as fast as I could with Sarah tightening up all the time.  As Sarah got tighter, my strokes got shorter and faster.  Finally, we both came.  I had such a prolonged orgasm that I thought that the sperm would start leaking past Sarah’s pussy lips.  As my orgasm ended, Sarah was still coming so I gave a few extra strokes so she could finish.  The sound my dick made was sloppy and squishy.  Sarah stopped moaning  and I pulled my dick out slowly.  Sarah just rolled over with her back to me, like the way that car that always rolls over on the Mr. Bean show.  She lay there panting so I came up behind her and put my arm as far around as it would go over her stomach.

“Don’t you want to get up and clean yourself up, Sarah?”

“Chris, I so seldom have a guy fuck me that I think it’s the greatest feeling in the world, to feel his essence trickling over my thighs.  So, don’t ask me if you’re the best.  I just don’t have a lot of experience to judge you.  All I know is that I’ve been fucked like no other man has ever fucked me before.  And you’ve gone deeper inside me than any man has gone before.”

“And I say, ‘What a waste of sexual talent, if you haven’t had dick in a year.’”

What could I add to that?  So I didn’t.  I just lay in bed with Sarah beside me.  I couldn’t get to sleep with her snoring so I had time to think about what had just happened.  I had just screwed Tamar’s best friend.  I hoped that Sarah was right, that Tamar wouldn’t mind.  Whatever Tamar’s real feelings might be, I would have to live with it, if I ever found her.  More importantly, Sarah had removed my hang-ups about fat women.  Now, I regretted neglecting the fat girls in my high school class.  If I didn’t find Tamar, I would have to start dating some fat women when I got back to Canada.



In Search of Tamar Ch. 4



I left Sarah Liebowitz at the gate of Eilat's small airport. Sarah was a big woman and her emotions were Supersized as well. She kissed me with passion and didn't want to let me go. To tell you the truth, I kissed her back with equal passion, wishing I could have gotten my arms all around her. I wished I could spend more time with this remarkable, independent woman but it was becoming quite clear that I really had to find Tamar before Mossi got to her. In fact, I had to find Tamar before Mossi found me.

The airport security guard's standard questions didn't faze me at all until she got to "Did anyone give you something before the flight." The security guard noticed my hesitation and looked like she was going to call for the scowling soldier with the Uzi to do a rectal on me. I've had this aversion to airline security ever since I encountered the team of Argov and Livshitz. I regained my composure and assured the security guard:

"I didn't get any object to carry on the flight. A wonderful woman who lives here in Eilat gave me a goodbye kiss. I couldn't get her off my mind. That's what I got before the flight."

I got on the flight to Kiryat Shmoneh and suddenly found that I had found a little bit of Canada. I was flying on a Canadian-made Dash 8. It takes something like a commuter aircraft to get in and out of Eilat airport as the airport is almost on the beach. As I relaxed in my seat after takeoff, I had some time to think about Sarah Liebowitz. I didn't feel the least bit guilty about fucking Tamar's best friend last night. Our night together had been a night of remarkable sex. Sarah had opened my eyes to fat women. If I didn't find Tamar, now I was going to look up some plump women who were still single, in addition to the older women that I now had a taste for, courtesy of Colonel Krotchnik. Sarah wouldn't have any problems getting guys if she performed the way she did for me. I'm sure the word gets around Eilat like in any small place.

It wasn't as easy to get to Kibbutz Hagafen as Sarah had thought. From Kiryat Shmoneh, I caught the bus to Katzrin, a new settlement on the Golan. Katzrin has nothing to commend itself except that it's new. I waited until the next day to catch a local bus that meandered along dusty roads alternating between Druze villages and various farms and moshavim (collective farms). The local had no air conditioning, allowing the dust to billow in through the open windows. Finally, the bus returned to the main highway. Kibbutz Hagafen was located just off the main highway as the bus made its return to Katzrin.

I was the only person who got off the bus in what appeared to me to be a god-forsaken wilderness. The guard at the gate suggested that I see Yitzhak, the secretary of the kibbutz, if I was looking for information about an ex-member. Then, he did something strange. After searching my luggage, he handed me my kippah (skullcap) and told me to wear it inside the gate. When I tour Israel, I always hake a kippah in my luggage, in case I encounter an interesting holy site.

Things became even stranger as I walked towards the office. Every man was wearing a kippah (skullcap) while he was working. I had seen the odd kippah around Israel on the more religious types but, since most Israelis aren't that all that religious, a kippah is a rare sight on a working day. I had never seen wall-to-wall kippot like this other than at the Wailing Wall. The other strange thing was that everyone I met was pleasant and seemed happy. Most Israelis are fairly rude publicly and always seem to be worried. Well, I suppose if the guy standing next to you on the bus can blow himself up any time, you'd be a little worried and uncivil too.

Yitzhak, the secretary, was a jolly-looking guy in black pants, cotton shirt and tassle-like fringes hanging from his belt. He had a large black kippah on his bald head. His white beard reminded me of Santa Claus, if Santa was into studying the Talmud. Yitzhak greeted me with a hearty handshake and many effusive shaloms. I decided not to piss off the man by telling him that he did a good Santa impression.

"Welcome to Kibbutz Hagafen. The guard told me your name is Chris. How can I be of service to you? This is the first time that someone from Canada has taken an interest in our humble kibbutz."

"Thank you Yitzhak. I'm an old friend of Tamar Ya'akov. I met her five years ago when I visited this country. I believe she may be in trouble. I may be the only person who can help her."

"Tamar Ya'akov left our kibbutz under mysterious circumstances. She came one day with a letter from her family that a former Israeli boyfriend was out of jail and looking for her. Tamar said she had to leave immediately and that I would understand that she couldn't tell me where she was going. She looked so terrified that I didn't press the matter. I hope this doesn't mean that your search has ended here on the Golan."

"Is there anyone in this kibbutz that Tamar was so close to that she might have confided in her?"

"You know, Miss Ya'akov worked closely in the Ulpan with one of our teachers, Rimona Katz. Yes, she might have confided in Rimona. Unfortunately, she's still teaching and won't be able to talk to you until 4:00. Why don't you spend that time on a tour of our winery with the next busload of tourists that arrive?"





In Search of Tamar Ch. 4



As soon as we entered her room, Rimona handed me the wine and whimpered, "Chris, I don't feel well." She stumbled towards her bed and fell face first on the bed. "Chris, the room's spinning out of control." All the signs of an imminent hurl were present. I scooped Rimona up in my arms, thankful that Sarah Liebowitz didn't get puking drunk, and ran to the can as fast as I could. Just as I was getting the lid on the toilet up, Rimona started to upchuck a multicoloured combination of recent vintage, tomatoes, eggplant and turkey guts. I grabbed her hair and pulled her over the toilet but I couldn't prevent her dress from being redecorated. She honked so violently, her glasses flew into the bowl. I was amazed they didn't break. They make good glass here in Israel.

Rimona spent a long time honking up supper and probably most of lunch and breakfast. When she was finished, she just collapsed on her bathroom floor. I took off her dress and petticoat, put them in the sink. I removed her shoes, garters, thick stockings and bra. Then I pulled Rimona into the shower, propping her up against the cement wall. I cleaned her up as best I could, making sure that her bush and pussy were squeaky clean. I managed to get all the puke out of her hair with some shampoo I found. Finally, I toweled Rimona dry and combed her hair into some semblance of order. OK, so I didn't like Rimona but I had to do something to thank her for giving me another clue to Tamar's whereabouts.

I carried Rimona over to her bed and gently laid her on the bed. It felt like I was carrying Sarah Liebowitz, even though she must have been 30 kg less than Sarah. I've always wondered why someone unconscious seems to weigh more than someone awake and co-operating. Had Rimona honked up everything so she wouldn't choke? I decided to stick around for a few minutes to make sure she'd be OK. It never looks good on your resume when a woman dies while you're supposed to be looking after her.

To pass my time, I went to the bathroom and fished Rimona's glasses out and cleaned them off. Looking on the floor, I noticed Rimona's dress and petticoat. The dress was quite soiled and that took most of my laundry skills to clean. The petticoat was just stained. While I was washing the petticoat, my dick started to stir. "What the hell is causing that?" I thought. Then it struck me. It was the thrill of discovering what an orthodox Jewish woman has under all those clothes. It must be the same thrill that a woman experiences when she discovers "what a Scottie has under his kilt."

I decided that I should check on Rimona instead of getting off on her underwear. She was still lying on her back but now she was snoring loudly. That was a good sign that she wasn't dead. She lay on the bed with one arm over her head, her legs stretched out with her feet hanging off the end of the bed. I pulled Rimona up onto her bed and turned her head towards me so she wouldn't swallow her tongue. This was irresistible, so I slid down my zipper, pulled out my now-stiff dick and stuck it in Rimona's wide-open mouth. Without a co-operative tongue, the thrill of a good blowjob just wasn't there for me. Just the same, I was compensated by the feeling of revenge I got from humiliating a woman who dissed me badly.

The sight of Rimona's big tits lying on her chest like over-raised pancakes caught my eye so I started massaging the low mound. To my surprise, the nipple popped up. This was too good to resist so I yanked my dick from Rimona's mouth and started sucking on Rimona's erect tit and massaging the other one. It popped up as well. Rimona was still out of the picture even though I was thoroughly licking her tits and rubbing my dick between her cleavage. I was having fun and learning that a nipple erection is entirely involuntary in a woman. It doesn't mean a thing.

How much I could get away with? I decided to push the envelope a bit and kiss Rimona on her stomach to see if I could tickle her awake. Absolutely no response. Of course, I've had my share of flatbackers but none of them were quite as quiet as Rimona. As I kissed my way down her stomach, I caught a whiff of pussy, mixed with soapy perfume. I admit that I'm a perverted muffer and I go crazy at the scent of pussy. Right now I had a nice clean one inches just inches from my nose. So, I did the natural thing and ran my nose through the forest of dark, curly pubic hair right up to her slit. I cracked Rimona's legs and got my tongue between her inner pussy lips on the first try. I must have done a great job of cleaning her up because Rimona tasted as good as any pussy I had eaten. I don't know if it was me giving the licking or if Rimona's subconscious libido had kicked in but her pussy got deliciously wet and I was getting a nice rise out of her clit.

I assume you think I'm totally debauched at this point of my story but things got even worse. I took off my pants and gaunches and got on the bed, between Rimona's outstretched legs. My dick was so stiff and aching from kissing Rimona's pussy that just couldn't take it any more. R-E-L-I-E-F in my dictionary that night was spelled F-U-C-K. I crawled up towards the tasty object at the top of the V made by Rimona's legs. I held my dick in one hand and pulled up her legs with the other. Rimona's legs flopped to each side so that she opened up with her cunt at just the right angle.

I ran the tip of my dick up and down her slit between her inner pussy lips to give my dick a little lube job. She was still wet from me going down on her. Finally, I found her cunt and pressed in the tip. There was a slight resistance at first because my subject really wasn't the co-operative type, conscious or unconscious. However, the further I worked my dick in, the easier it became. Finally, I was all the way in. I withdrew a little and slid back in. Yes, Rimona was nice and wet so she wasn't sandpapering the tip of my dick away. I started to stroke a little faster and then faster still until I was pounding pussy as furiously as I could. Here's the interesting part. My dick couldn't have been less interested in the job. I suspect that it was because Rimona was so quiet. Even perverts like me need a bit of feedback.

Finally, I did come after a lot of work. As the last twinges of my dick pumped Rimona full of male hormones, my ears perked up. Faintly, over the silence of the night, I heard the rhythms of the Kaddish. "Yitgedal v'yitkadash shmey rabah…" That meant the service was nearly over. I was well on my way to becoming dead meat, if religious kibbutzniks discovered me with my dick firmly embedded in one of their unconscious sisters. And on Shabat, no less. I yanked out my dick, stuffed it in my pants, turned out the lights in Rimona's room and ran back to my room as fast as I could.

Back at my room, I slung my travel bag over my shoulder and ran to the main road without looking back. I didn't even bother to take Rimona's panties for a souvenir. I'm not sure what I had on my mind, whether I was going to walk to Katzrin faster than a bunch of angry kibbutzniks in a farm truck. Maybe I did think I would beat them on foot because they couldn't come after me until the sun went down on Shabat. Whatever my reasoning, my plan was helped by the timely arrival of a sherut (shared taxi) full of Druze villagers heading the same way as me. They all eyed me suspiciously as I tossed my luggage on the roof along with their market items. Well, I smiled back as one should to people who've just saved you from a pitchfork in the back.

The sherut stopped at every Druze village on the road to Katzrin. I never realized that there were so many small villages up on the Golan. Sullen villagers piled in as others piled out. It was slow but I was going to get to Katzrin and hop a bus to Tel Aviv in plenty of time to escape. Nobody in the sherut said a thing to me but I definitely had that old outsider-in-the-wrong-place-at-the-wrong-time feeling. I was uncomfortable but I'm sure it was more comfortable than lying face down on an Israeli highway with a pitchfork and tire marks on my back. Actually, I welcomed being left alone with my thoughts.

Did I really rape a woman back there on the kibbutz? After all, Rimona Katz never actually said "no". On the other hand, Rimona never said "yes," "ani ohev otchah" (I love you), "Fuck me, baby, with that magic stick of yours," or anything else of a positive nature. So the best I can do is, maybe it was rape and maybe it wasn't rape.

I never heard from Rimona, the kibbutz or the police after that. Probably she was so hung over the next morning that she never noticed her crotch was a little stickier than usual. Well, even if she did notice a mess and complained about me, nobody would believe her with her panties lying incriminatingly on the floor of my room. Sometimes there are benefits from having to leave in a hurry. 



In Search of Tamar Ch. 5



In Search of Tamar Ch. 5 The fastest woman in Israel has a dark secret

I checked into my hotel in Tel Aviv, determined that, this time, I wouldn’t be sidetracked by another one of Tamar’s friends. I was on a mission and I was getting closer to locating my old lover Tamar. Rimona Katz had given me the name and address of Miriam Kessim, one of her Ulpan students. If Miriam would just give me a recent address for Tamar, I would be on my way, tout de suite. I took a taxi to Bat Yam, a suburb on the south side of Tel Aviv. Tamar once told me that Tel Aviv was divided socio-economically along the Yarkon River. Anything to the south of the Yarkon was considered working class whereas any Israeli who had it made in the shade lived North of the Yarkon. Bat Yam was about as far south as you could get in Metropolitan Tel Aviv.

My destination was two blocks away from the Mediterranean, according to the address in Rimona’s neat handwriting. The apartment was on the fourth floor and there wasn’t any elevator in the building. The mezuzah on the doorpost was plain metal, painted over several times, not like the ornate mezuzah I had seen on the doorpost of the rich Delilah. A slim, short woman dressed in a white bathrobe, her red hair in curlers, answered the door. I asked:

“Do you speak English?”

“So, what’s it to you if I do and whadda ya want?”

At least Miriam could speak English, even if it she was more than slightly bitchy and she had an awful nasal New York accent. That clinched my decision to grab the address and get the hell out of there as quickly as possible. I started to ask, “My name is Chris and I’m looking for Tamar….” Miriam forced a smile, grabbed my arm and pulled me into the apartment. She talked non-stop, making it absolutely impossible to get a word in edgewise:

“Oh, so the Holy Land Escort Agency sent ya. Hey, ya look not too bad, if ya know what I mean. The Agency didn’t tell me a fowaner was coming today. Lemme check my Pelaphone (cellular). Aw, shit! The batteries are dead. I gotta put the charger on. OK, let’s get down to business. I hafta get to my night job at the club and I wasn’t expecting ya, so let’s make it fast. No rough stuff because I can’t have any bruises when I show up for woik. So, drop them pants and let’s get naked. Shy are you? Ok, I’ll get the gaunches off myself. Ooh, that’s one big putz, mistah, and it’s cut. So, you are Jewish after all. Did the agency tell you about my surcharges for oversize zain? Ok, on your back and get ready for the lay.”

I couldn’t get a word in edgewise as Miriam led me into a room with two single beds. One bed looked plain, as I imagined Colonel Krotchnik’s bed might be. The second bed was draped in frilly-dillies the way one might imagine a Babylonian hooker would arrange her sleeping quarters. Probably, Miriam had a guy for her roommate. Miriam dropped her bathrobe, revealing a distinct surfeit of body hair. There wasn’t one hair on her arms, on her legs, under her armpits or anything resembling bush for that matter. Rimona never said anything about Miriam being a shaver. Conclusion: her night job must be peeling at that “club”. That’s the only thing that would explain bald beaver.

OK, so I wasn’t keeping my promise to leave as fast as I could. What’s a guy supposed to do when there’s a naked woman in front of him and he’s getting one helluva woodie? I decided to stay a few more minutes, just to be friendly. Miriam helped my decision by firmly shoving me on my back on the frilly bed. She stretched one of those horrible Israeli rubbers on my dick. Then Miriam mounted me without much ceremony and started to push down on my dick. She wasn’t too well lubricated and she didn’t stop yakking for a second.

“Oh Shit! Oh Fuck! God Damn, you’re big! Oh man, that feels good now that you’re in. OK now, lets take in a little more. Oh shit, you’re hurting me again. Let me get some more Vaseline in there. Shit, it’s not working. Oh, no, that’s OK now. Oh JEEEsus you’ve got your putz right on my G-spot. Sorry for that. You are Jewish, aren’t you? So it don’t matter if I say Jesus Christ? Now don’t come you momser or I’ll kill you. Keep it up you shmuck. Shit, I never come with a john but you’re one fucking good ride. Fuck me baby. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

Miriam kept jumping and pumping, yapping, yapping and especially yapping. She was pounding on my dick so furiously that one of her curlers flew off under the other bed. Thanks to the resilience of Israeli latex. I didn’t feel a thing and I didn’t come. Finally, Miriam screamed, in badly-faked ecstasy:

“Ben Zonah! I’m coming. Oh you fucking machine. You’re so fucking good. AAAAAAYYYYYYAAAAAHHHHHHHH!”

Miriam rolled off me and said: “That’ll be three hundred and fifty shekels, cash please. I hope you have an extra fifty shekels for the industrial-sized shlong? That really caused me problems. If you don’t mind, could you put the kesef (money) on my dresser on your way out. I’ve gotta go take a showah now. Otherwise, I’ll be late for my night job.”

“Uh, Miriam, perhaps we have a basic misunderstanding. This has been great, but all I really want to do is find my friend Tamar. Do you possibly have Tamar’s address?”

“Miriam? I’m not Miriam. Miriam’s my roommate and she ain’t heah. Didn’t you say you were looking for Tamar? Well, I’m Tamar, Tammy Fink, boan in the Bronx, formerly employed as a hair stylist in New Joisey but now the best exotic dancer and freelance poisonal soivices agent heah in Tel Aviv. If I might be so bold as to ask, why were you looking for me if you really want Miriam?”

“I was told that Miriam Kessim had some information about my friend Tamar, same first name as yours but her last name is Ya’akov. That’s where the mix-up started. Now, I don’t think I owe you three hundred fifty shekels because I never came and you faked yours. Also, I’m not Jewish, despite the cut dick.”

Tammy just shook her head. “You want Miriam Kessim and not Tammy Fink? And you ain’t Jewish! As long as I live, I’ll never understand you Gentiles. Why would you want Miriam. Miriam don’t speaka da English and her Hebrew ain’t much better. She don’t like men neither so you ain’t going to get nuthin’ outa her. She won’t be home until foah and, when she comes home, she heads right for the showah. She runs from woik ‘cause she’s in training. She thinks she’s the fastest woman in Israel. So, grab a beah from the ‘fridge and wait in the living room while I have my showah foist.”

I grabbed a Gold Star from the fridge and sat down in front of the TV with a beer in one hand and the remote in the other. Flicking through the three Israeli channels, two of them had just some dreadful Hebrew soap operas. The third had a soccer game. Since my last visit, Israel had gotten cable TV big time but I gathered neither Miriam nor Tammy could afford it. I settled in the sofa and watched Haifa Maccabee and Tel Aviv Hapoel run the ball around mid-field to little effect. Soccer games can be boring, even Israeli soccer.

A little past four, the apartment door opened and Miriam walked in. I was totally unprepared for the woman who now stood in front of me. Both Rimona Katz and Tammy Fink had omitted telling me several important facts concerning Miriam Kessim. Miriam stood over six feet tall. She was black and beautiful. Miriam was Falasha. It was like the Queen of Sheba had just walked in the door.

Miriam must have been as startled to see me as I was to see her because she just froze like a deer in the headlights, her brown eyes looking me up and down in a darting fashion.  If Miriam was evaluating me, I should take a better look at the woman I had to get Tamar’s address from. She stood rigidly in her tracksuit with the sweat glistening on her face, arms and legs. Her curly hair was cut short in a nappy, giving her a boyish appearance. Miriam had a perfect Semitic nose, not the flat kind that most Africans have.  Her face was narrow, not broad like the Afro-Canadians I was familiar with.

Miriam was skinny, a characteristic that her height exaggerated. I didn’t see much tit showing through her tracksuit. Well, sports bras tend to be a little tight. The apparent lack of tit emphasized Miriam’s boyish appearance. She had a flat stomach that accentuated her Modus Venus in the wide gap between her thin thighs. I couldn’t keep my eyes away from Miriam’s crotch. Her tracksuit inadequately covered a very healthy bush. There were small patches of pubes on her upper thighs. I could even see black pubes trying to liberate themselves from the tight crotch of her tracksuit. Miriam definitely wasn’t a shaver.

Her legs seemed to go on down forever from her crotch, ultimately culminating in a pair of narrow, tiny bare feet. Miriam ran barefoot, à la Kip Keno. From top to bottom, Miriam Kessim was a stunning specimen of an African woman. It was at this point that my resolve not to get involved with another acquaintance of Tamar’s must have begun to weaken. After what seemed like an eternity of staring and assessing each other, I asked in my crummy Hebrew:

“You Miriam Kessim?”

“I Miriam. Who you? You customer of Tamar Fink? You no touch me or I kill you.”

“I friend of Tamar Ya’akov, your friend also. I called Chris. I want find Tamar Ya’akov. You help me please? No kill me?”

When I said who I was and mentioned the Tamar who had befriended her in the Ulpan, Miriam dropped her defenses a little. “I hear about Chris from Tamar. Prove me you Chris. What Tamar favourite candy, where she go to school, what football team she like?”

“Elit dark chocolate, Be’er Sheva and Jerusalem Betar. Also, she have mole on left of face and one more on the left ass cheek.” 

Miriam laughed at the added detail. “OK, I believe you Chris. We talk after I take shower. You wait for me, OK.”

I finished my Gold Star while Miriam had a shower. In my mind, I went over my brief encounter with Miriam. When the Queen of Sheba found that she couldn’t ask King Solomon a question that he couldn’t answer, “there was no more spirit in her.” Well, I had answered all of Miriam’s questions and there was more spirit than ever. In fact, once she found out that I wasn’t one of Tammy’s paying customers and I passed her test, Miriam seemed to display a distinct feminine spirit, albeit immature like a girlish spirit. Still, that girlish spirit didn’t seem to rush Miriam. Whatever their culture or the colour of their skin, women shared the same trait. They liked to keep men waiting while they made themselves look their best.

Miriam and Tammy made such an Odd Couple that I would never conclude from this pair that all women were the same. I don’t mean that Tammy was white and Miriam was black. Tammy was a loud, aggressive, obnoxious hooker and peeler. Miriam was shy, soft-spoken, athletic and, well, exactly what was her work? Secretly I hoped she didn’t pull a night shift for the Holy Land Escort agency. Nah, that was unlikely. Tammy had the hooker’s bed so Miriam must have the plain one. 

My philosophizing ended when the soccer game started getting interesting. A Maccabee striker had a one-on-one break with the Hapoel goalie out of position. He had a clear shot at the upper left corner so I leaned forward to watch. My view was blocked by Tammy standing between me and a sure goal. She stood so close and her skirt was so short that I almost poked her in the snatch. Apparently, Tammy wanted another “woid” with me before leaving for “woik”:

“Make shoah you’re outside Club Gomorrah at two tomorrah morning. Heah’s my Pelaphone number in case you’re late. We’ll go up to your hotel room and I’ll show you Tammy Fink don’t fake it when it’s for free. We’ll ditch the rubbah and Tammy Fink’ll make you come in buckets. In the meantime, Chris, I’ve got some good advice for you. Better you should skip the meal if Speedy here invites you to stay for supper. Ethiopian food gives me the fahts, big time. It’s just impossible to dance and toot at the same time, if ya get my drift. It’ll probably do the same to ya. The last thing Tammy Fink wants tonight is some guy fuckin’ her and fahting like a machine gun at the same time. Chow, baby. See ya at two.”

Tammy turned and flounced out the door, her high-heeled boots click-clicking away on the terazzo floor tiles. I could see the beginning of the cheeks of her broad fanny as the hem of her skirt rode up and down in time with her stride. Tammy had taken her hair out of the curlers and the heavily shellacked mass was hanging down to her shoulders. Tammy badly needed a trip to her hair stylist as her black roots were showing. Tammy looked like your typical big-city whore. Well, she was a big-city whore, wasn’t she? Maybe my hotel wasn’t the most elegant in Tel Aviv but no way was I going to parade through the lobby and take that cunt up to my room.

I continued watching the soccer game until I heard some activity in the kitchen. The refrigerator door slammed shut and I heard two shplutzes, one after the other. Miriam came into the living room carrying a tray on her head and a small tablecloth in her hands. The tray had a bottle of Gold Star for me and a can of Tempo for herself. Miriam had ditched the track suit in favour of a traditional Ethiopian costume. Her head was covered by a kerchief, hiding her masculine haircut. A colourful robe covered her completely except for her face, hands and feet. That was the recipe for an orthodox Jewish woman, but right out of Africa instead of the shtetl. 

Orthodox women like Rimona Katz dressed to hide their femininity. Miriam’s robe folded between her legs as she walked, a promise of pussy between her thin thighs. She walked so gracefully that her hips swung back and forth the way a woman’s hips should, yet the tray stayed absolutely level. There was no trace of head on the beer. Miriam’s tiny, bare feet made no noise on the floor. Miriam was the perfect African village girl, all woman, sensuous and completely natural acting. Yet, she knew how to emphasize that she was a modern woman.

Miriam knelt and spread the tablecloth on the floor, keeping the tray and drinks balanced on her head. Have you ever seen a white woman with such poise and balance? I thought not. As she placed the tray on the tablecloth, I noticed that her fingernails were painted the same colour as her toes. Other than that, Miriam didn’t use any makeup at all. Miriam sat beside the tray and motioned for me to join her on the floor.

“Now you tell me why you want find Tamar. She good friend but she no want me give address to anyone, she tell me.”

I slid off the chair and joined Miriam on the floor but on the opposite side of the tablecloth. I poured my heart out to Miriam as best as I could in Hebrew. I told the whole story about how I met Tamar by chance in Tel Aviv on an Erev Shabat (Friday night). I said, in halting Hebrew, that I lost Tamar once and regained her but I lost her again at the airport. Since then, Mossi Bar Lévi wanted to kill me and Daniellah Argov wanted to, alternately, fuck me and then beat the shit out of me. Finally, I realized that there was no other woman for me than Tamar and I had to come and find her no matter what the cost. Miriam nodded and interjected a few “ken” (yes) as I was speaking. Obviously Tamar had told Miriam the same story and, hopefully I was establishing my bona fides with Miriam. I also hoped that my bad Hebrew was something that Miriam and I could share in common.

When I finished, Miriam reached into somewhere in her robe and pulled out an envelope. Tamar’s address was written in the corner. Miriam began her story. Her words were hesitant at first but then they began to tumble out in broken Hebrew:

“Tamar say she afraid of this Mossi like you so I no tell any person where she live even if they kill me. But you the only man Tamar ever love. Take this. Go Tamar. Only for you I tell secret of where Tamar live. Now, I tell you why Tamar special to me, why she trust only me with secret. First I must tell you story about me. I only tell one person in Israel, Tamar. I born 20 year before in small village in Ethiopia. All Falasha in my village. My father head man of village; all people respect and love very much. One day government soldier come to village. All people run, hide, not my father. He say his place with holy books. Soldier come find no one but my father and mother. Soldier shoot them because they no tell where other people hide. Then the soldier take me and throw me on floor. Two soldier hold my leg, one soldier hold my arms, one soldier stick zain in me. Then he change with other soldier and another soldier stick zain in me. Four soldiers go into me that day. When they finish, I hurt. I bleed. I cry like little baby. Three soldier leave my house to go find other soldiers. They tell other soldier ‘Shoot girl now. Then meet us later.’ Soldier with AK-47 look at me. I stop cry. I think I die then. Then he cry, raise gun and shoot bullet in ceiling. He run away. Leave me on floor with mother, father, books.”

I was almost crying myself at the thought of how this beautiful, vulnerable village girl had suffered, losing her parents and her virginity so savagely at the same time.  It was a miracle that she still had her sanity. No wonder Tammy Fink just assumed Miriam hated men. Maybe she even thought that Miriam was a lesbian.

Probably, it was the only act of decency that soldier had ever done, sparing Miriam’s life. After what I did to Rimona Katz, I wondered if I was any better than the Ethiopian soldiers. OK, it wasn’t exactly the same thing. Rimona was a full-grown bitchy woman, and not exactly a virgin, as I recalled. Hovering midway between guilt and sympathy, I decided that this wasn’t the time to bring up the “incident.” My redemption from guilt would be in showing sympathy and continuing the healing process that Tamar had begun with Miriam. I reached out and took her hand in mine. I wasn’t sure if I was doing the right thing but Miriam gripped my hand tightly. She didn’t refuse my sympathy. Miriam continued, not sparing me from the brutality of her past:

“When people come back to village, I complete empty. I have no feelings. I no talk to anyone. One family give me food, place to sleep because I am daughter of village head man. I work for family like servant. No talk anyone while I work. Especially, I no talk to men. I hate men for what they do to me and my parents. Many time I ask Adonai (the Lord) ‘Why You stop soldier from kill me. I better off dead.’ Then one day, army come my village one more time and say, we send you all to Israel. We get good money for you Falasha. They tell me we go Israel Operation Moses. Mean nothing me. If I die in Israel or my own country, same thing. We come to airport in Israel and I see white people first time my life. In Israel, people not know what to do with me. I no talk. I no talk Amharic, I no talk Hebrew, I no talk anyone. They say ‘send neboch (nebbish) to Ulpan. Then she speak Hebrew. Then she can be Israeli’”

“They send you to Kibbutz Hagafen and there you meet my Tamar?”

“Yes but not first day. After one week, Tamar come to me and ask why I stay by myself all the time, not talk to other boy and girl. I tell her that I empty person. I tell Tamar that bad soldier rape me and I not want live. Tamar hug me and say she want be my friend number one in Israel. She talk to me more, make me want live again. I like Tamar so I talk to her. She find out I run fast. She say that I can be on Israel team for Olympic. I no believe her but she have friend who coach. See me and take me here to Tel Aviv. Now I want to be on track team. I want Miriam Kessim become something.”

Now was the time to ask the question that had been plaguing me on this trip. I knew that Miriam, if anyone would tell me the truth.

“Miriam, you must now tell truth. What Tamar say about me? She have someone else? She still love me? What she write in letters about what she do and where she is?”




In Search of Tamar Ch. 5



“Chris, all I have is address I give you. Tamar no talk about herself except she always afraid Mossi find her. She no say she find another guy. When I in Ulpan, she also no have other guy. I ask her, why she so beautiful and no have man? Miriam like rabbi, ask me question back, ‘Why Miriam so beautiful, no have man?’ I say I no beautiful and no want man. Man only give me pain and hurt, try and kill me. I tell Tamar same story about soldier I tell you. Tamar start to cry and hug me. We become like two sister and we talk woman talk. Tamar tell me story about you and how you meet. She tell me you kind man to her. Maybe you not too smart. Tamar say she give you sign she want make love you but you no see. When she get you in bed, Tamar say she never have man like you in bed. You only man who…” 

Miriam stopped talking and a faraway look came over her face. The mystery of another person is that we can never fathom exactly where their heads are at. Was Miriam in her village in Ethiopia or was she in the Ulpan being comforted by Tamar? Was she thinking that I lacked intelligence or was she getting interested in the great fucks Tamar told her we had?  Miriam stood up abruptly. From where I sat, Miriam looked so tall, I thought her head would hit the ceiling.

You stay. I bring food. We talk more.”

Miriam returned with plates of lentil, lamb and cooked vegetables, all heavily laced with garlic and fiery Berber sauce. I wondered whether Miriam forgot the cutlery but she motioned to several huge Ethiopian-style pita breads. So. there I sat on the floor of the small living room, scooping up spicy goodies with bits of torn pita. This stuff was good, so I dug in and too bad if I got the farts the next day. It was the first time I had eaten African-style and I was gloriously sloppy, to the amusement of my hostess. Maybe it was because, when I was a kid, my mother always nagged me to not eat with my fingers.

We ate in relative silence, not because we were both struggling with a second language. Our Hebrew was good enough to speak about trivial matters, what was life like in Africa, Canada, Israel, small talk. No, it was because something seemed to be troubling Miriam. It was something that I couldn’t get out of her. Was it because I had made her relive her suffering? Nah, that couldn’t be the reason at all. If I had upset her, she wouldn’t be eating supper with me.

Then it struck me. Tammy believed that Miriam didn’t like men. Like so many of Tammy’s “woids”, that was bullshit. Miriam didn’t hate men; she was afraid of men. I could understand that after what she had endured in her rape. Her only encounter with men had been painful, humiliating and had almost cost her life. Miriam had avoided personal contact until Tamar had broken through and related to her woman-to-woman. Tonight represented another breakthrough, having a perfectly normal conversation with a man. Because I was the first man who had spoken to her respectfully, who had taken an interest in her, who met her on her own terms, Miriam was evaluating me and her whole attitude towards men. My job tonight was to repair her shattered faith in men.

When we finished, I started to help with the dishes. Miriam pulled my hand away from the tablecloth. She gripped my had firmly but without anger.

“In my country, man no do work in the kitchen. You stay here, watch television.”

“In my country, man help woman, especially if she make good food. All night, we pretend we in your country. Now we pretend we in my country.”

Miriam didn’t protest, as if she welcomed the chance to be around a harmless male. She rolled up the sleeves on her robe, exposing thin but solid black limbs. Miriam washed while I dried the dishes. I’m sure it was deliberate that she stood so close to me that her ebony flesh continually brushed my arm as she scrubbed the plates. Miriam’s rubs were sensuous and gentle, not as if she was being clumsy. I wished that we had used cutlery when we ate as the dishes were finished all too quickly and the rubbing ceased.

When we were finished the dishes, Miriam stood on a stool and had me hand her the dishes. I pondered the reason for the stool as she really was tall enough to put the dishes on the top shelf without it. It all became clear after Miriam carefully put away the last dish. Miriam turned to get off the stool, stumbled and fell into my arms. Now, why would a woman who could balance a bottle of beer and a can of pop on her head suddenly fall off a stool? Miriam’s clumsiness was as choreographed as a low-budget kung-fu movie. Miriam, in her shy manner, had contrived a way to get physically close to me. 

She put her arms around me and we stood in a mutual embrace for an eternity. I felt Miriam’s breath in pulses that flowed over my forehead. It was sweet, slightly tinged with garlic. Her breathing increased in frequency. Finally, Miriam whispered in my ear:

“I want to know you.”

This was not an invitation for me to bring out my family photographs. This was the Biblical Hebrew equivalent of “Let’s get it on, baby!” Somehow, through the evening, Miriam had made a transition from being suspicious of all men to wanting to ball a man. It was my fortunate circumstance to be in the right place at the right time for once. I seized the moment and took Miriam by the hand to the bedroom. My afternoon encounter with Tammy was now paying off. I knew exactly where to take Miriam.

I don’t know if you’ve ever been curious about what African women wear under their robes. Well, I have and now I was about to satisfy my curiosity. I pulled the robe over Miriam’s head, knocking off her kerchief in the process. Her hair was so short that she couldn’t accuse me of messing up her nappy. The answer to my question was revealed. Nothing. Miriam wore absolutely nothing under that robe. Nada. Squat. Miriam was naked as a baby. This was an easy undressing job.

In an effort to preserve her girlish modesty, Miriam instinctively covered her beaver with one hand and her tiny tits with her other forearm. Despite her efforts, parts of a lush, curly bush invitingly peeked around her hand. In the interests of equality, I undressed as fast as I could. I put my arms through hers, forcing her to uncover her vital parts. As I pressed her thin body against mine, I felt her tense up as rock solid as a black marble statue. I think it was my dick poking Miriam somewhere around mid-thigh that felt strange to her. 

My eyes stared at Miriam’s throat. Her boobs were small but firm, almost as rock-solid as her tensed-up muscles. Each mini-tittie poked my collarbones with erect nipples. Miriam was the tallest woman that I had ever held naked and close. I placed my arms around her skinny waist. She was in such good shape that there wasn’t a trace of fat anywhere on her. I could feel every her every rib bone, every vertebra with the palms of my hands.

Miriam didn’t say a word. She just tilted her head back and drank in the first words of flattery of her short life. I clutched one of her bum cheeks and she wilted, falling on my shoulder. The woman was light despite her six feet of height. I picked up Miriam easily and put her on the plain bed. She lay on her back for a minute and then opened her eyes and stared at my stiff dick. Miriam snapped out of her ecstasy and tensed up, as if from fright. She turned away from me, curled up in the fetal position and tried to hide her feminine parts. Miriam was starting to relive her rape.  I had to take this slowly and be extra gentle with this woman. So, I carefully slid behind Miriam’s prone figure and let my arm go around her stiff form. 

Just being there and not forcing the issue helped Miriam to relax. Once she untensed, I started to kiss her between the shoulder blades. I detected movement towards me and more pronounced breathing. I kissed up and down that narrow, firm strip of black skin that was Miriam's back, savouring each caress. I moved my hand over Miriam's hips and along her thighs. She was now not just breathing loudly but definitely sighing with each caress. I moved my hand over her tight little bum cheeks, over her hips and around her stomach. Then I kissed Miriam on the shoulder, along the shoulder and up her slender neck. While I was occupying her attention that way, I moved my hand towards her tits. I cupped one tit in my hand and I kissed behind Miriam's ear, making sure that she got some breath in the ear. Miriam shivered at the sensation.

I turned Miriam towards me and kissed her on the mouth. Miriam responded by opening her mouth. I played with my tongue along her lips and white teeth and slowly started to penetrate her mouth. Miriam's mouth tasted sweet with a garlic overtone. I suppose, if you’re white bread Anglo-Saxon, garlic will make you run like a vampire. To the rest of the world, Canada included, garlic is a healthy scent. That’s what Miriam’s breath meant to me at that moment. I was making love to a healthy woman.

This was the moment to move in and eliminate the physical distance between us. I got an arm around her back and pulled her towards me, meeting no resistance. Miriam needed the closeness as well.  Long arms wrapped around me and thin fingers went up and down my spine. Instinctively, Miriam knew what to do and how.

Miriam’s mini-tits rubbed my chest as we held each other and she squirmed with excitement. Miriam’s tits were not impressive in every-day use but now they were getting me excited the way she was using them. I put my hand on one. It was hard and the nipple was huge and erect. Miriam started to breath faster and make some noise as my hand enfolded the base of one tit. Not only were her tits firm and hard but they were responsive. 

Miriam jumped as my fingers gently massaged her erect nipples. I couldn’t wait and I sucked her tit like a baby. I grabbed both her tits with both hands and sucked first one tit and then another tit. I licked and sucked Miriam’s little tits back and forth until I was afraid I would wear off the nipples. Ok, I wasn’t that hard on Miriam because she kept up her cat-purring noises until I came up for air and kissed her again. This time, I gave Miriam full tongue with the kiss as her mouth was conveniently open. Miriam seemed startled at first by the oral violation, probably because she had never made love to a white guy. Hell, she had never experienced any love from a guy, except perhaps for her father.

I thought that, while Miriam was occupied by the novelty of a deep kiss, this was a good time to start exploring her pussy. I reached down to part Miriam’s legs but, in her eagerness, she already had them open. As my hand slowly caressed the inside of her thighs, I remembered the stories you hear about women athletes, especially the track and field athletes.

Miriam certainly didn’t look like a chemical freak, but neither did Flo-Jo. I had read that the steroids and testosterone injections could make a woman’s clitoris swell to huge proportions, almost dick-size. What if she was growing a pecker between her legs? What if she already had a pecker? I had heard of hermaphrodites or men dressed as ugly women cheating in track and field. Nah, Miriam just couldn’t be a guy. I had seen that lovely hump between her legs through her tight tracksuit. A pecker just couldn’t hide in there.

Besides, Ethiopian soldiers aren’t partial to little boys. Greek soldiers, maybe, but not Ethiopian soldiers. Her story of being raped by the soldiers rang true. If Miriam’s pussy held any surprises for me, it would have to be drug-related. I hadn’t asked Miriam if her track coach had any connections to East Germany.

All these thoughts raced through my mind until I placed my palm on Miriam’s Modus Venus and parted her pussy lips with my index and ring finger. Aside from a very lush growth of curly pubic hair, Miriam’s gynecology was entirely normal. Her clitoris was swollen the size of my thumb but that was normal for any other super-horny woman. And Miriam was horny, as evidenced by the ample liquid my middle finger swam in. I breathed a sigh of relief. Miriam was a natural woman, not a chemical freak. I was so relieved that my dick grew an inch, shocking Miriam as the tip slid along her thigh.

I ran gently stroked Miriam’s engorged clitoris and her excitement kept getting higher and higher. Finally, her entire body shuddered in the first orgasm of her life. When she came down to earth, Miriam was perplexed by what had just happened.

“What happen to me? I never feel that before. What you do me Chris.”

The poor dear girl had never had an orgasm in her life. She had been fucked four times in her life and sex had only represented pain to her until now. Now she had such come so forcefully that my fingers were soaked and the smell of Ethiopian pussy pervaded the bedroom. In fact, the perfume of Miriam’s pussy was so intoxicating that I had to fight the urge to give Miriam my tongue right between her black, pulsating pussy lips. I was on unfamiliar territory just by showing kindness and love to this woman. I would have to treat her almost like a virgin. I shouldn’t scare her off with too many unfamiliar experiences. I crawled up that long distance between her long legs and placed my pecker in her tight slit. Miriam raised her head to get a look at what was going on between her legs. She spotted white dick aimed directly at her cunt and went rigid on me again and said:

"No Chris. You too big to come into me. You make me hurt. Please, you no hurt me." 

"Miriam, I’ve never hurt any woman with my zain. I find out you normal woman. You tell me when it hurt and I stop."

I worked my dick up and down Miriam’s inner lips, not pressing too hard but just enough to grease up the dick and give Miriam the good feelings again. She relaxed and instinctively got ready for the lay, proving that horniness is a stronger emotion than fear. Miriam was so wet that I knew that I was going to just slide in, no matter how tight she was. When I was sure that I had gotten the tip wet enough, I moved the tip down her inner lips, finding the opening to her cunt. I pushed slightly and found more resistance than I had expected from a wet woman who had had four different guys before me. Miriam was a tight little number, if you can call and woman over six feet little. 

I pushed in a little and then pulled out and then pushed in a little and out. I worked my dick in about an inch and checked on Miriam. She was relaxed, as relaxed as any woman can be, discovering the Joy of Dick for the first time in her life. Miriam’s head was back, rolling from side to side. Her eyes were rolled back, hiding her pupils under her eyelids and leaving her eyes two white dots in a sea of black.

Ever since Miriam told me she had been raped as a child, I was afraid that she might be messed up inside. I’m sure that she never saw a doctor in that remote village. As I slowly worked my dick in, I mentally checked for abnormalities on the way. Smooth and tight, just the way a young girl’s cunt should be. As I worked my way in, Miriam became more active. She reached up and pulled me towards her, close enough to plant kisses on me and to softly caress me with her thin fingers. Instinctively, she reached down and ran her fingers along the shaft of my dick that remained outside her. As she reached herself, she touched something sensitive, causing her to twitch inside and to make high-pitched primitive sounds.

“Chris. I am able to make myself feel good.”

Well, obviously Tamar hadn’t introduced Miriam to the pleasures of playing with herself. Miriam removed her hand and I slid the rest of my dick in all the way. I didn’t bottom out. Miriam’s cunt was built the same way as the rest of her, long and skinny.

I backed out my dick and then slowly explored the dark interior of Africa. I looked down and saw my white dick slide out and then disappear back inside sweet, tight, black pussy. At the end of the stroke, my blond European pubes entwined with a wet mass of black African pubes. This was interracial sex at its best. It wasn’t just interracial sex, it was intercontinental sex. The contrast of colours got me so excited that I wondered how I could stand this. Without any sex education, Miriam knew that to take me in further she had to raise her legs. She brought her legs up a little with each slow thrust, as if she still feared that taking me all the way in might hurt. Miriam’s legs came all the way up and on to my back, begging for as much dick as I had available.

My dick explored every part of deepest, darkest Africa and fell in love with the territory. Miriam was a natural lay; she didn’t need to be told a thing. As I would build up the frequency of my strokes, Miriam would grunt and then squeal and then shriek as the orgasm rolled through her body and forced animal noises out of her mouth. You didn’t need to be an expert in Amharic or Hebrew to know that Miriam was loving the experience of being fucked with love. Every time Miriam would come, she would tighten around me and tease my pecker even more. It was hard keeping control but I would stop when she came and enjoy her cunt spasms. 
The interval between Miriam’s orgasms became shorter and shorter. Towards the end, I was furiously pounding pussy and forgetting to be gentle with Miriam. Miriam didn’t seem to mind the heavy duty poking. She had her arms on my back and her fingernails were digging in. Finally, I came myself and it was one of those rare full-body orgasms. I think that the last one I had was with Tamar. I thought I would never stop. It was all over my body. I think everything on me was twitching as I came. 

Finally, Miriam stopped twitching and screaming. We just lay there conjoined, my dick buried well within this woman’s body. When I finally pulled out, I was still hard. We just lay beside each other with my arm under her neck and her hand holding my dick.  I was one contented white guy as I lay with Miriam in my arms and dreamt peacefully. 

For the five years since leaving Tamar behind, I’ve had a recurring dream. In this dream, Tamar searches the streets of Jerusalem for me while singing “I am my beloved’s and he is mine.” Tonight, in the dream, Tamar was replaced by a naked black woman running down the streets in bare feet and singing in crummy Hebrew. I pondered in my dream whether I was falling in love with Miriam but I didn’t come to a conclusion. I was awakened by the lights going on, a poke in the back and a nasal New York accent that I had learned to loathe:

“You momser (bastard). I waited all night for you bring that big putz of yours to my club. You stood me up in front of all the othah poisonal soivice agents. You totally humiliated me in front of all my business associates. I told them all that I was going to get the best shlong that ever visited Israel and you nevah showed. Nobody stands up Tammy Fink and cheats on her the same night.  I’m so angry I could faht. I knew as soon as I came home why you didn’t show. I smelled the spunk and cunt coming from this room when I opened the door. You’ve been fucking this Cushi all night, haven’t you, you….”

Tammy never got a chance to get the second “momser” out of her mouth. You see, Hebrew has been a playground for rabbis for so many centuries that they’ve laundered all the cuss words out of the language. Nobody really knows what Goliath said to the Israelite army when he was dissing them with his WWF act. Nobody knows exactly what a navi (prophet) might say when he was in a really foul mood. Since Modern Hebrew hasn’t, in the hundred years since Ben Yehuda, developed good cuss words, there really isn’t an exact translation of “nigger” in the Hebrew language today. “Cushi” comes close enough, though. Modern Israelis use Cushi in a derogatory way, the same way an English speaker would use the n-word, even though Cushi means merely someone from the Land of Cush. Miriam probably didn’t catch all the nuances of Tammy’s conversation but she picked up that I was a bastard and she was a nigger.




In Search of Tamar Ch. 5



Miriam sat up in a squatting position and screamed “Sheket!” (Shut Up!). Obviously, my Miriam had never asserted herself because Tammy seemed to be at a loss for words for, what I assumed, was the first time in her life. Miriam had one hand on her knees and with the other she gestured angrily in a stabbing manner at Tammy. She spoke in very fluent and earthy Hebrew, the gist of which I understood had to do with Tammy’s manners, morals and personal hygiene. Finally, Miriam pointed one of her long, thin fingers in the direction of the living room sofa, indicating where she should take her tuches (ass, adding Yiddish to her Amharic and Hebrew) and leave us in peace. Tammy meekly obeyed. Miriam’s face took on a sly smile.

Miriam didn’t gloat at all at her triumph. She simply rolled on her side, pushing her ass into my lap, and fell asleep. Miriam slept the sleep of an Olympic Champion. I fell asleep soon afterwards, but not before I pondered what had happened in the last few minutes. Miriam had grown into a confident woman in less than a night. Tammy Fink had picked absolutely the wrong moment to call Miriam a Cushi.

The next morning, I guess Miriam got up before me and showered. I only realized she was up when she brought me some café botz the morning. Groggily, I peeled some sticky sheets from my thigh and sat up to drink the coffee. Miriam seemingly ignored me, dropped her bathrobe on the floor and went about dressing in her running gear without a trace of shyness. Now she proudly displayed her naked femininity, her small hard tits and lush black bush, for my benefit. Miriam didn’t hide any of her goodies from my stares. She walked about the bedroom with her head held high as if she were the Queen of Sheba reincarnated. In one night, Miriam had grown up from a scared village girl into a mature, sexual being. It took some effort for me to keep my eyes open and admire the beauty of an African woman. Her lush bush and pert little tits disappeared too quickly from my view as she donned her track suit.

“Ohevi, (my love) I go now to work. I run to work so I stay in shape. You drink and then you go, no wake up Tamar Fink. I sad I no see you again. You go Jerusalem, find Tamar Ya’akov. You say to Tamar, ‘Miriam still love you.’”

Miriam lightly touched my cheek with the back of her bony fingers and kissed me on the lips. Tears of love and sadness welled up in her eyes. Miriam couldn’t contain herself and threw her arms around me and squeezed me with surprising strength. Finally, she kneeled, kissing on the tip of my dick as if she were worshipping it. Miriam left walking backwards out of the room as if she wanted her final look at me to last as long as possible.

I drank my coffee without the slightest enthusiasm or taste as I went over the past night’s events. True, Miriam had given me a remarkable fuck on her first try at real sex. The problem was that she had fallen in love with me as I had fallen in love with her. That wasn’t the way things were supposed to work on this trip. I was supposed to find Tamar and bring her to Canada with me and not get entangled on the way. Most of the women I had encountered in Israel had understood this. I guess Miriam sensed this as well, despite her youth and immaturity. With her parting words, she gave me up and sent me off to Tamar.

I got dressed without showering. I hoped that I didn’t smell too bad. Tammy was right. The room was a bit gamy from last night’s fucking. Not only could I smell spunk and cunt from the bedsheets but there was a distinct odour of stale sweat. No, it wasn’t stale locker room sweat. It was red hot man and woman sweat.

I carried my sandals in my hand so I wouldn’t wake Tammy in the living room. There was little chance of that happening. Tammy was snoring on the couch, a 1/3 empty bottle of 777 Brandy beside her. She was as biff naked as if she were doing her show at the Club Gomorrah. Her legs were parted displaying her inner pussy lips poking out of her shaved clam. I guess that the spreads must be de rigeur for a peeler at the Club Gomorrah. No class, I thought. Despite growing up in a primitive African village, Miriam Kessim had infinitely more class than the big city girl.



In Search of Tamar Ch. 6



In Search of Tamar Ch. 6: Miriam cuts it short when Chris explores the African bush

As the taxi driver wove his way through the morning traffic screaming assorted curses at the other drivers, I took the precious envelope that Miriam had entrusted to me out of my pocket. Tamar’s handwriting was neat and precise but I was never any good at reading Hebrew script. I made out “Jerusalem” but I couldn’t figure out the street and district where she now lived. Well, if worse came to worst, I would just hand the envelope to a taxi driver in Jerusalem and let him take me there.

Back in my hotel room, I put the envelope on the bed beside my still-packed travel bag. Checking my watch, I figured that I could grab a shower and still have plenty of time to check out and grab the noon express to Jerusalem at the Tachanah Merkazit (Central Bus Station). So, I undressed and showered as quickly as I could. I could hardly wait until I would have my long-lost Israeli girlfriend in my arms and my dick between her legs. 

As I was toweling off, the cramps in my stomach signaled that Tammy Fink was quite right about Ethiopian food. All those lentils and red-hot sauces had made their way through my digestive system and were about to embark on the process of removing the hair around my asshole. Fortunately, I was already in the bathroom. I’m not sure I could have put ass to porcelain in time otherwise. 

With the paperwork done, I opened the bathroom door. Shit, the chambermaid was cleaning the room. I hoped she hadn’t heard all the embarrassing noises I was making in the can. There I was standing biff naked with a strange woman in my room. It’s not my custom to flash the chambermaids so I was about to close the bathroom door when I noticed that she was bent over the bed looking at the envelope. Miles of skinny black legs extended below a uniform that was meant for a much shorter Israeli woman. The hem of her uniform rode up over her ass, exposing a lush African snatch covered with thick pubes, as the tall grass covers the savanna. Could there be any other Falasha woman in Tel Aviv who didn’t own underwear? Could there be any other black woman that skinny? My chambermaid was Miriam Kessim, the fastest woman in all Israel. Somehow, chance had brought us together again.

The sight of Miriam’s tight little pussy gave me instant woodie. I tiptoed up behind Miriam, and gently placed my hand on her half-exposed ass. She shrieked in shock and stood bold upright. I grabbed her rigid form and placed a kiss on her ear as she tried to see her attacker. I guess the envelope in her hand gave me away, or had she figured it out from a familiar woodie playing on the back of her thighs? Miriam relaxed almost to the point of melting in my arms. I released my chambermaid/lover/African Queen and she turned, kissing me passionately.

“It really you, Chris. Quick. We have little time. I want you know me one more time.”

Miriam didn’t have to ask me twice to fuck her. I just turned her around and, as gently as I could, pushed her face down on the bed, her knees on the floor. A doggie was just what my hard aching dick needed help and it needed it NOW. It looked as if Miriam needed it too. Miriam pulled her dress over her ass without any ceremony, exposing her clam in its full glory. I tried to part her lips as fast as I could but she had a big tangle of damp hair that I had to get through. Finally, I opened Miriam wide. Her inner lips were purple and glistening wet.

I put my dick into the opening of her cunt and pushed gently. It wouldn’t go in. Damn, Miriam was even tighter than she was the night before. I slid the tip of my dick between her inner lips, picking up pussy juice that was flowing at a good rate now. This time a little push on my circumcised dick and her cunt parted around the flared end. Miriam gasped and let out a low moan.

I was just a few centimeters in when it felt like I had reached a dead end. I grabbed the shaft of my dick and pulled back slightly, playing my dick inside her opening and trying to loosen her up. It seemed to work because when I pushed in again, I got almost 6 centimeters in. I pulled back and that seemed to grease things up because my next thrust got me in two more centimeters. I had to keep Miriam s spread wide so those damp black pubes didn’t wrap around my cock. I kept working my dick in, back and forth and Miriam’s moans kept getting louder and louder. The woman gave good feedback.

Finally, I got my full length in after I don’t know how many thrusts and retractions. I grabbed Miriam by her narrow hips for some leverage. I slowly backed out and just as slowly worked my way back in my whole length. Every so often, instead of a slow poke in, I would just thrusts as fast as her tight cunt would allow. Every time I gave Miriam a fast thrust, she would scream and grab my clothes or the sheets, until she had a pile of linen and assorted menswear under her chin. I think her nose was buried in one of my socks because she said in nasal Hebrew:

“Chris, I no come. You stop.”

Normally I’m an obliging sort of guy but no way would I let Miriam go without complete satisfaction. I leaned forward, got my hand in the wide gap between her thighs and found Miriam’s swollen clitoris. One tiny little touch of my finger on the top of her clit was all it took. Miriam’s body shuddered, she screamed and my clothes scattered in several directions. My dick can take only so much. Miriam’s writhing body sent me into orgasm as well. In my excitement, I pulled Miriam off the bed and we both squirmed on the floor in ecstasy. As we quieted down, Miriam was the first to speak.

“Last night, you take long time know Miriam. I think you slow like Tamar say me you be. But you no slow. You one fast shmuck with Miriam today.”

There it was again. Well, at least Tamar told a consistent story about me, even if she couldn’t be flattering. Miriam unplugged me and ran to the bathroom, trying not to leak on the rug. She cleaned herself quickly and just as quickly assembled her cleaning equipment.

“I want see you tonight. Tamar make me feel I want to live. Chris, you make me want to be ishah (woman). I run home, dress good clothes. You show me how to be ishah. Meet you here 1800. OK?” 

“But I go Tamar in Yerushalayim. To place you give me. I go takanah merkazit take bus. I must pay hotel.”

“No, too late. Hotel make you pay for tonight if you go now. Tamar safe and she wait for you. You stay one more day. Make Miriam woman. You show me how to get good man.”

Miriam’s logic was impeccable. I agreed to stay one more night. Miriam was right on time for our meeting in the lobby. She hadn’t learned that everything in Israel starts late. She also hadn’t learned that a woman is supposed to keep her man waiting. Now, there’s a thought. Israeli women must keep their men waiting for ever.

Somehow, Miriam had convinced Tammy, her roommate, to lend a party dress and to give some quick lessons at makeup. The dress was too short, which served to emphasize Miriam’s long legs. Tammy had done some quick alterations so that the dress wasn’t too baggy. To divert attention from Miriam’s lack of chest, Tammy had loaned a gold Magen David pendant. I didn’t think that Tammy was at all religious. Well, maybe I was too quick judging the woman.

Tammy’s only failure with her makeover was to lend Miriam her heels. They were too big and, the way she hobbled awkwardly, Miriam looked like a basketball player in drag. Miriam protested but I took her straight to the Shouk Carmel and found a nice pair of fancy sandals that a Yemeni woman was selling. They went well with Miriam’s skin colour and with the colour of her borrowed dress. Best of all, they didn’t elevate Miriam to an embarrassing height. Despite her protests, Miriam beamed with pride as she walked on my arm in her party clothes down towards the beach.

As we walked along the beach, Miriam seemed to look at the falafel stands and the souvenir shops as if she were exploring another foreign country. Then it hit me. She worked so hard and trained so intensely in her spare time that she never realized how Israelis lived. Miriam had never boogied in Tel Aviv. A Canadian boy had to show her how to be an Israeli.

The first stop was a fast food stand serving shwarma. Miriam looked at the lamb, turkey, lettuce, tomato and chamoutzim curiously. Then she bit in and gave me an approving smile. Our next stop had to be the glida (ice cream) stand. It was a hot evening and Israeli ice cream has to be the most underrated substance in the food world. More smiles from Miriam. The ice cream was going down well. To anyone Jewish reading this, I know already that meat and dairy doesn’t rate as kosher dining. First of all, most Israelis don’t keep kosher. Secondly, it wasn’t my duty to be Miriam’s lover and her rabbi at the same time.

We wandered down the beach area further until we arrived at a disco called the Dolphinarium. I remembered it as an aquarium on my first trip to Israel five years before. Being early in the week, there wasn’t much of a lineup to get in. The bouncer looked curiously at the 30-ish foreign guy with the tall, young black woman. Miriam didn’t have a handbag so we obviously didn’t pose a security threat. I was glad we passed security because I never saw a bouncer with an Uzi before.

I went over to the bar and got myself a Gold Star and watched Miriam dancing. She threw me her sandals, dancing barefoot, swaying that tiny ass of hers with rhythms only a young African woman can produce. I felt just like an old tight-assed white guy. 

A few not-too-good looking but twentyish women grabbed my arm and pulled me to the dance floor. They way they looked at my dancing didn’t need to be translated from the Hebrew: I was a lousy dancer. Then when they tried to chat me up and heard my basic Hebrew, they knew I was in Tel Aviv for a good time, not a long time. Has it ever struck you that, the uglier the woman, the longer the relationship they’re after?

So that’s how I spent my last evening in Tel Aviv. Watching Miriam, drinking beer, getting hauled out to dance, getting rejected and going back to my beer. After being picked over by all the bottom-feeding women in the Dolphinarium, Miriam finally came over and took pity on me.

“Chris, we go now. I have pelephone number of two nice guy. They want take me home but I say them I got date. OK, finish birah of you and we go hotel.”

I was the envy of the disco as I left with my six-foot plus black woman in tow. Miriam was swaying her ass and flashing her ebony legs in her best “gonna get laid tonight” manner. She had traveled a long way in just 24 hours. Last night she was a rape victim, scared of men and now she had transformed into the fastest slut in Israel. I just hoped that her newfound interest in dick didn’t divert her from her running career.

Every head turned our way as we waltzed through the hotel lobby. I’m taller than the average Israeli male and I still had to look up to her. I wondered how a shorter male’s ego would take this.

I closed my room door and we stared at each other for several minutes. Miriam was so beautiful, a child and a complete woman simultaneously, that I said the Hebrew words that I vowed that I would save for Tamar:

“Miriam, ani ohev otach.” (Miriam, I love you)

Without a pause, Miriam replied, “Ani ohev otchah gam, Chris.” (I love you too, Chris) Then it dawned on me what we’d just done. We both betrayed Tamar, whom I loved and Miriam respected, with our profession of love. I felt as guilty as O. J. Simpson. A Jewish woman like Tamar can make a guy feel guilty without even being in the room. Miriam’s emotions went beyond mere guilt. Tears welled up in her eyes.

“No good, Chris. You belong Tamar. You no say you love Miriam.”

I agreed and just held Miriam until her feeling of betrayal of a Jewish sister abated. The tears stopped and Miriam started to savor the familiar, knowing that the other knew the inner secrets and how to unlock them. As for me, just lust, telegraphed on my part by a growing woodie in my pants. A woman doesn’t show anything as obvious as bulging pants but the way she acted, I knew that Miriam wouldn’t let me go without a poke.

There wasn’t any trick to getting my hand under Miriam’s dress, it was so short on her. I caressed her tiny bum with Miriam sighing in time to every stroke on her bum cheek. Miriam was so horny that she was making her panties damp. I reached up for the zipper on Miriam’s dress and took a sniff of horny black pussy dripping from my fingers. Geez, it was just pouring through her panties. I found the zipper and took a good grip, hoping that it wouldn’t slip from my well-lubricated fingers. Miriam let her dress drop to the floor, answering the question I had all night. Yes, Miriam owned underwear and fairly skimpy at that.

I tried to hide my eagerness, unbuttoning my shirt with shaking hands. I undid my belt slowly and let my slacks drop to the floor beside Miriam’s dress. We stood staring at each other’s bare skin, a contrast in colours. I embraced Miriam, bringing her full lips close to mine with one hand while I unhooked her preteen brassiere with the other hand. As her brassiere slipped down her arms, I felt her erect nipples caress the hairs on my chest. With my free hand, I cupped one tit in the palm of my hand. Miriam sighed deeply, opening her mouth to receive a full kiss. Keeping Miriam occupied with my tongue as it explored her sweet mouth, I slid her panties over her small, solid ass. Her panties were soggy.

I moved slightly away to see the pièce de résistance, Miriam’s gorgeous big bush. African bush. It was not to be. Somehow, Tammy’s makeover included a bikini shave. All that black hair was gone, exposing Miriam’s black clam. She was shiny from lubrication and smooth, except for the odd bump where Tammy’s shaving was less than expert. Miriam sensed the disappointment on my face.

“You no like? Tammy say men no like hair. Tammy say she know what men like.” 

So, maybe I was disappointed but I lied and said it was fine. No way was I going to postpone screwing Miriam until her bush grew back. I don’t know if Miriam believed me or if she was too far gone to care whether I really liked bald beaver or not.

Miriam took my dick in her hand as if that was the way Ethiopian women shook hands. As she knelt, Miriam examined my dick as if she was afraid that she might have done it serious harm the night before. How could my dick come to any harm Miriam in the sack. My dick grew so fast that the tip poked her in the eye.

Without a further word, she took my dick in her mouth and began furiously sucking, her head bobbing back and forth. Miriam was no longer the shy village girl but she hadn’t yet learned the finer points of a blowjob. I had to stop the amateurish work before her white teeth shredded my dick away. I grabbed her head and forced my dick to the back of her throat, triggering a gag reflex. Miriam coughed out my dick, as I hoped she would. Despite her inexperience, she produced a fine woodie on me.

I stood Miriam up and gathered her in my arms. Placing her ass on the edge of the bed, I pushed her on her back and cracked her thighs wide open. I knelt down and got my dick head between her thighs before she could close them. Gently, I parted her bare pussy lips. They must be still sensitive from their first shave. The powerful perfume of African snatch filled my nostrils, making my woodie ache with each beat of my heart. I got my tongue right in the slit above her cunt and slid my tongue slowly up her slit to just below Miriam’s swollen clitoris. Miriam tasted much as I expected, like fine roast lamb, liberally seasoned with salt and garlic.

Miriam sighed and placed her bony fingers on the side of my head. Despite the novelty of oral sex, Miriam clearly meant me to continue the job. Of course, I never ate black pussy before. I ate lots of bald pussy but I was still naive enough to think shaver equaled white slut. It was a first for the eater and the eaten. Obligingly, I kept my tongue working up and down her slit. Up and down I licked her pussy, slowly at first and then increasing in frequency, stopping just below the tip of her clitoris every time. Miriam’s breathing kept up with my tongue movements until finally she was gasping for breath. Then I moved my tongue right on top of her purple, swollen clitoris.

Miriam writhed on the bed in ecstasy. Her arms flailed vainly for something to grab. I had my arms around her thighs, keeping her business parts in place. I was unrelenting, the way I slid my tongue over her clit, again and again but not pressing too hard. Finally Miriam stopped thrashing. That was the time to stop the tongue job and slip my dick back into that sweet black pussy.

I had my dick in hand and was ready to take the plunge but Miriam sat up and said:

“On back. I want do same thing Tamar Fink do to men.”

I was so intoxicated from the taste of African snatch that Miriam could have told me to stand on my head with my feet in the toilet and I would have done it – flushing even. Miriam got on top of me like a pro and squatted over my dick. She worked my dick in and out exactly the way she wanted it, teasing and pleasing the tip of my dick. I lost track of time but Miriam wasn’t in a rush, in full knowledge that this was to be her last taste of my dick.

I got the full benefit of Miriam’s intensive training. Miriam went up and down on my shaft relentlessly, pacing herself like a marathon runner. Slowly at first, she held her strength in reserve and let my dick feel her tight pussy lips caress the sides of my shaft and the tip of my dick slide over her cervix. Miriam picked up the pace in the middle of the race, passing the average woman in speed and squeeze. All I can say is that Miriam must have had muscles everywhere, the way she put the squeeze on.

Miriam saw the finish line in sight and put on her final spurt. Her hard bum cheeks were furiously pounding the tops of my thighs. The bed made high-pitched squeaking noises in time to Miriam pounding on my dick. The way Miriam writhed, twisted and turned, I was positive my dick would fall out but it never did. Miriam’s tight snatch kept me right where she wanted. Finally, Miriam came one more time, squeezing the juice out of me.

The aftermath of all the athletic activities was surprisingly peaceful. Miriam curled up and let me hold her. She was so relaxed that I forgot how hard and toned her muscled really were. I was tired, sore and completely fucked-out. I quickly fell asleep.

By morning, I had slept off my exhaustion. Miriam had worn me out but not herself. She left quietly in the night, but taking the time to pack my clothes and lay out some clean clothes to take me to Jerusalem. Miriam never talked too much but her message was unmistakable: On your way to Jerusalem and find Tamar.

I stayed in my room as long as I could without incurring another day’s charges. It wasn’t reasonable to expect Miriam to clean my room again. After all, we had made a sticky mess of the bed. This morning my chambermaid was a plump, sweating Russian woman with a kerchief on her head. She looked like a typical Politburo wife with a disposition to match. I know that beauty is only skin deep but sometimes ugly goes all the way through. She glared at me when she saw the mess in the sheets. Her eyes said it all: “You’re dead if you don’t leave a tip.” I threw everything into the travel bag, left babushka ten shekels, headed downstairs, and paid the bill.

The Jerusalem express bus left right on time. Hopefully, Tamar was still at the address Miriam gave me. Hopefully, Tamar still wanted me.



In Search of Tamar Ch. 7



In Search of Tamar Ch. 7: Chris facilitates female bonding in Jerusalem

The Jerusalem Express pulled out of the new Tel Aviv Central Station. The new station was a lot cleaner than the old open-air station, and air-conditioning was a definite plus in an Israeli summer. The new toilets lacked the bouquet of the old ones. Still, I missed the charm of the shops and restaurants around the open bus stands that contributed to the charming Middle Eastern chaos of the old tachanah merkazit. 

The bus laboured up Highway 1 to Jerusalem past the wrecked armoured vehicles from the 1948 war, now painted in gorgeous primer. Since the war of independence, Israel was still trying to find a national identity, the same way Canadians have been since 1867. Take the three major cities as an example. Jerusalem and Tel Aviv were just a hundred kilometers apart but they could just as well be on different continents. Haifa must be on the moon on that scale. The Israeli rhyme “Jerusalem prays and Tel Aviv plays, while Haifa works” (hey, the whole thing rhymes in Hebrew) was absolutely the truth. People in Tel Aviv are big city, rude and crude, like Parisians or New Yorkers. Haifa is strictly blue collar, as friendly and practical as most of the working class. Jerusalem is subdued, conservative, very old-world and reeking of its religious connections. Call it a side effect of Jerusalem being the capital of the world’s only Jewish State but that’s the reality my bus was heading for.

You can see these urban differences in the way women dress. Haifa women wouldn’t look out of place in a small-town trailer park. Otherwise, Israeli women dress stylishly but the styles are far more conservative in Jerusalem. For example, Tel Aviv women wear their jeans cut so low that I assumed they kept them from falling down with a piece of Velcro snagging their bush. Crack-of-young-woman’s-ass is such a common sight in Tel Aviv that I gave up staring. Too much female plumber’s bum creates indifference. The point I’m trying to make is, if I woke up from a coma in Israel, I could immediately tell if the hospital was in Haifa, Jerusalem or Tel Aviv just by looking at the nearest woman.

In Jerusalem, I checked into the same hotel where I once fucked Tamar. Call me sentimental or just a believer in fucking luck. As I waited while the desk clerk took down my registration details and copied out my passport, I noticed that my clerk seemed to take extra interest in my case. I believe in equality, so I started to take an interest in my desk clerk. Her nametag stated that she had the wonderfully redundant name, Taliah Tal. I think I’ve already mentioned to you that Israeli women are world class champions in the chest department. Taliah’s chest was even bigger than the typical Israeli woman. Her gigantic boobs jiggled up, down and from side to side as she went with my passport from the copier to the reservation files, to the computer and back to me.

As Taliah explained the hotel’s amenities at length, I pored over Taliah’s amenities. Taliah had red hair almost touching her shoulder blades. Red hair in a Jew betrays an Edomite milkman somewhere in her family line. Below a conservatively low Jerusalem hemline, I could make out shapely legs. Some guys might assume that Taliah was unattractive just because you wouldn’t find many of her features, such as her padded hips, prominent jaw or her heavy eyebrows, on the body of a high fashion model. Well, I’m different. True, Nobody would call Taliah a raving beauty, yet there was something appealingly wholesome about this woman. Taliah was the kind of woman you’d take home to Mother, especially if Mother happened to be Jewish. Of course, when Mother was away in the kitchen making the hummus, you’d get your hand under Taliah’s sweater and play with her juicy avatiach (watermelons).

Taliah concluded the verbal hotel tour with a winning smile and a very open-ended question: “So, Chris, may I be of any further assistance to you in your stay at the XXXXX Hotel?”

As with everyone in Israel’s tourist industry, Taliah spoke flawless English, especially if you compared it to my halting Hebrew. Yes, Taliah could help me a little bit. I pulled out the envelope with Tamar’s return address and pointed it out to Taliah.

“I don’t read Hebrew handwriting but I want to look up an old friend at this address. Taliah, can you tell me how far away this is and about how much the taxi fare will be”

Taliah’s eyes opened wide. “Are you meshugah? This is in Mea Shearim, near the Old City. Why would a nice foreigner like you want to go there? Mea Shearim is a ghetto for the haridim (ultra-orthodox). I’m Jewish and even I don’t meet their standards. Dressed the way you are and without a kippah, they’ll probably stone you to death at the Damascus Gate.”

“Thanks for the advice, Taliah but I have to go there. It’s my reason for coming to Jerusalem. I need to look up an old friend who lives there. Don’t worry, I have a change of clothes for the occasion.”

“Can you take a little advice? Don’t go to Mea Shearim. It’s no place for a goy. Look, my shift ends at 3:00 this afternoon. Why don’t I show you how secular Israelis boogie here in Jerusalem? I’ll make you forget all about those zonot (whores) in Tel Aviv and the burkhas in Mea Shearim. Tell me, I’ve heard that you Canadian men have deadly tongues. And is it true that all Canadians are circumcised, even the Gentiles?”

Isn’t Israel a great country? I hadn’t even checked in to my hotel room and a horny young woman was already checking out my tongue and my zain. Any guy with an IQ above the room temperature and all his parts working will never be lonely in Israel. Besides, Taliah’s big boobs were tempting me. I was halfway to accepting Taliah’s proposition when my conscience reminded me that my prime directive on this trip was supposed to be finding Tamar. My apparent ambivalence didn’t escape Taliah’s notice, so she put a little more on the table.

“Maybe one Israeli woman isn’t enough? I’ll ask my girlfriend Gyula to join us. Gyula’s boyfriend, Gideon Katan is in Zahal reserves. Gideon’s unit was called up for three weeks of service in the Territories. She’s so desperate for a few centimeters of zain after just one week that she can’t go near the melafafon (cucumbers) at the super. How does that sound, Chris? You, me and Gyula? You’ll have one Israeli woman at your nose and another at your toes.”

“Taliah, I hate turning down an offer like that but….”

Taliah switched on her pouty look. “Then, it’s me, isn’t it? I think you don’t want me because I’m just not pretty enough for you. Don’t you know that plain girls like me work harder in bed than the pretty ones? Don’t you want to see what a plain girl like Taliah can do for you?”

Obviously, Taliah had superb Jewish Guilt skills and wasn’t shy to pour it on. She also had a bit of female intuition that I really wouldn’t mind getting into her pants. Taliah played my male horniness off against my basically kind nature. I had to buy some time here. 

“That’s not it at all, Taliah. Under different circumstances, I could really go for you but I hope someone in Mea Shearim is still waiting for me. I can promise you this, at least. If I don’t find what I’m looking for in Mea Shearim, we’ll go out together, I promise. And maybe I’ll even solve Gyula’s problem for her.”

Taliah seemed OK with a conditional offer. I decided to accept her advice and change my clothes and grab my kippah before heading to Mea Shearim. The taxi dumped me on a corner and motioned that the address I wanted was “up there, somewhere”. I looked up the warren of narrow alleys and then at the sign that announced in Hebrew, Arabic and English that everyone entering the area should be modestly dressed, etc., etc. It wasn’t a particularly friendly, “Y’all welcome” sign but I suppose it was better than “Abandon hope all ye who enter.”

Finally, I found the address near a place where one narrow passageway made a fork with another. It was one of a series of Jerusalem stone row houses that originally looked alike but successive owners had given some individuality with distinctive doors and flower boxes on both floors. I didn’t know what to expect when I knocked on the door. I waited impatiently for several minutes. 

The door opened slowly, revealing my lost Tamar. She stood there in a long-sleeved ankle-length baggy 18th century dress that covered all body parts except her hands and face. That was enough for recognition purposes. I could never forget her olive skin, dark eyes, Semitic nose and black hair, even if it was now shoulder length. As for her luscious body and big chest that I had ravished, forget it. Tamar was dressed just like any ultra-orthodox Jewish woman you could find in Mehane Yehuda.

We stood staring at each other speechless. I can only imagine what was going on in Tamar’s mind. As for me, did Tamar’s clothing indicate that she got religion in the five years we were apart? If not, did she still want me if she knew I fucked both her friends and her foes along the way. Another woman’s voice called from the upstairs floor in Ashkenazik Hebrew:

“Who is it, Tamar?”

“Just some goy who’s lost, Rebuttzin Avigail. I’ll be right upstairs as soon as I give him directions.” Tamar lowered her voice; “I can’t be seen talking to you here. Go back to your hotel and wait for me in the lobby tomorrow morning. We need to do some serious talking, Chris.”

Tamar smiled and closed the door. I walked back to the spot the taxi had left me looking just like the misplaced Gentile I was. I didn’t like the thought of waiting another day to get together with Tamar but I learned the hard way to accept Tamar Ya’akov’s Israeli street smarts. With the rest of the day and night ahead of me, I hopped the number 4 bus back to my hotel.

There’s not a lot to do on a city bus tied up in a Middle Eastern traffic jam except to think. At first, I was happy that I was going to get laid tomorrow. Or maybe not. What if Tamar got religion big time and all she wanted to do was convert me? Now I regretted being so blasé with Taliah’s proposition. And what if that guy with the knapsack who just got on was the suicide bomber? That’s what happens as a result of too much thinking. The first thing I did when I returned to the hotel was to ask Taliah if her offer still stood. She grabbed her pelaphone:

“Gyula, do you remember that good-looking foreigner I told you about?…You don’t. Then, do you remember what I told you about Canadian men and tongues?….So now you remember….Yes, Gyula, this Canadian foreigner wants to do us both tonight….Just meet us at Albergo Finkelstein and let me take it from there.”

Like any Jerusalemite, Taliah was quite proud of the ethnic restaurants in her city. Albergo Finkelstein managed to be Italian and still keep a kosher license. I ordered a bottle of Kibbutz Hagafen Cabernet Sauvignon Casher from Finkelstein’s wine card. I loved that vintage ever since my encounter with Rimona Katz on the kibbutz. As I swirled the wine around my glass and brought it to my lips in my best wine snob manner, the “nose” of the casher wine reminded me of my “nose” in Rimona Katz’ casher pussy. If my Hebrew was any good, tonight I was going to get my nose and my tongue into, not just one, but two sweet Israeli pussies.

As I was refilling Taliah’s glass, I felt a soft, small hand on my shoulder. I turned to find a gorgeous blonde who said in Hebrew, “Shmi (I’m) Gyula Gal. Atah (You must be) Chris. Shev. (Don’t get up.)” I was about to answer in Hebrew when Taliah jumped in. “Chris, you must understand that Gyula didn’t exactly come out at the top of her high school class. In fact she flunked English. She can’t speak a word of it. I’ll have to translate everything for you.”

Then Taliah and Gyula launched into a rapid-fire Hebrew conversation, excluding me, supposedly the night’s main attraction. For all their respect for Canadian tongues, they couldn’t fathom a Canadian speaking the Hebrew tongue. I didn’t mind this little misunderstanding by the two women. Listening to people talk when they thought I couldn’t understand somehow appealed to the voyeur in me. To tell you the truth, the two women talked so fast that it was all I could do to follow the thread of their conversation while pretending I didn’t understand a fucking thing.

The gist of their conversation, I gathered, consisted of Taliah attempting to convince Gyula to try oral sex. Apparently Gideon Katan had never had his Hebrew tongue into Gyula’s pussy, something that Taliah was convinced that Canadians were best at. Of course, Canadians are world-class when it comes to muff diving. How Taliah gained this knowledge working behind the desk of a three-star Jerusalem hotel was a fact I probably didn’t need to know. 

If Taliah was tongue deep into oral sex, Gyula was equally reluctant to try a licking. She had prissy hang-ups about whether she had gotten herself clean enough for oral sex and whether I would like how she tasted. As the conversation wore on, I had to agree with Taliah. Gyula wasn’t too bright. As for me, I learned a lot of new words for feminine hygiene matters in Hebrew.

The other thing that fascinated me was the relationship between these women. I sensed that Taliah didn’t like Gyula an awful lot but Gyula was too blonde to figure this out. However, Taliah hung around Gyula just to have a crack at the guys that a blondini in Israel attracted. Taliah had an industrial-strength inferiority complex when it came to her looks. Tonight, Taliah was lording it over Gyula. Taliah had discovered me and wasn’t she great for bringing me to Gyula’s attention. I let Taliah take her power trip. I played dumb on Hebrew and let Taliah translate or ignore me as she saw fit.

While I was expanding my Hebrew vocabulary and investigating female relationships, I took the opportunity to look Gyula over. Gyula was quite pleasant on the eyes, almost cutsie-poo. She dyed her hair blonde and her makeup and nails were impeccable. She could have been a high fashion model if it wasn’t for her big Israeli hooters. Gyula had a rack on her almost as big as Taliah’s. The fashion industry doesn’t want spectacular boobs to compete with the clothes. Gyula’s job as a clerk in a fashion boutique was as close as she’d get to the fashion runway. From her stylish clothing, she obviously believed in her product.

Eventually, Taliah convinced Gyula to come along for the, umh, ride and try out oral sex. Taliah basked in her newfound power as the three of us made our way back to my room. Taliah also hadn’t figured out yet that I had a slight command of Hebrew. She talked incessantly how the hotel was a bottomless pool of foreign zain, both circumcised and uncircumcised. All of this was in aid of impressing Gyula. Finally, the three of us were in my room. Taliah did all the work, taking my clothes off. Gyula stood there as if she never saw a naked goy in her life.

“See, he’s circumcised, just the way I said he would be.”

“Ben zonah! You never said that he was this big. What am I going to do with this log?”

“What are you saying, Gyula? They don’t lay their zain on the desk when they check in. How was I supposed to know that he had this monster between his legs? If you don’t want to eat this hunk of meat, then I’ll have it all to myself. Just leave now.”

“No way, my friend. I need a bit of zain so much that I’ll even jump this stump.”

“So you see it my way then. First, I’ll let his beard tickle my thighs while he eats my pussy. You don’t appreciate how good foreigners are at eating pussy. Did you remember to bring the galoshes for some protection?”

They both pushed me on my back on the bed and started to undress in a businesslike manner. If they were intimidated by the size of my zain, I was just as awed by their tits when they finally removed their bras. I was so impressed by these four round masses bobbing back and forth that I completely ignored their pussies when they dropped their panties.

Taliah and Gyula started out on my chest, kissing it and licking my nipples. Taliah moved up on me, kissing my chest and shoulders, ending up thrusting that tongue into my mouth. Gyula moved down on me and ended up with a hand on the zain, kissing and licking the sides. Since I first saw Taliah, I had to get my hands on her tits. Gyula was out of reach but Taliah’s tits were handy. They were soft and big, too big for one hand. Taliah’s nipples rose immediately, either from my touch or due to expectations about the Canadian tongue.

Taliah interrupted my explorations of her Hills of Judea and plunked herself on my face. I grabbed her hips to make enough space so I could get my tongue through her red bush and between her pussy lips. Gyula hand was shaking as she licked my stick. Gyula’s licking was redundant as Taliah’s pussy reeked of pheromones that went instantly from nose to zain. Gyula got a rubber from somewhere and rolled it down the zain. It snapped like a pair of doctor’s latex gloves and felt just as thick. 

Gyula mounted me and started to carefully work my zain in or at least I think she did. I was too occupied with red-haired pussy in the face. I think I’ve told you already that Israeli rubber is the best defense against premature ejaculation. I started licking Taliah slowly at first below the clit and lightly between her inner lips. Then another stroke, never touching the clit until it was well swollen. At the right moment, I lightly licked Taliah’s clit on the top until she came.

I had to come up for air after eating so much Israeli pussy. I took a quick glance over at the full-length mirror on the hotel room wall. Taliah embraced Gyula, rubbing their tits together. I felt Taliah’s hand slip into Taliah’s slit and start playing with her clit. Sometimes it takes a woman to know what another woman needs and Taliah obviously knew what it takes. Gyula overcame her fear of big zain, or else forgot about me entirely, and let the whole thing slide in. I suspect it was the latter because Gyula started to play with red-haired pussy, leaving me with nothing to do but watch the two friends become even better friends.

After the two women made each other come, Taliah got off me and told Gyula to get off so she could get a bit of zain now. No response. I looked at Gyula. Her eyes were rolled back in her head and her full weight rested on my hips. Gyula was already all fucked-out or all played-out or dead. Gently, I rolled over and Taliah and I put Gyula on the side of the bed to recover. 

Taliah got on her back, knees up, thick thighs in a V formation. Surreptitiously, I peeled off the rubber. I wasn’t getting any feel with it on. I got in the missionary position and Taliah grabbed my zain. She was so eager to get fucked that she didn’t even notice that I was bare. She spread her pussy wide open and placed the tip of my zain exactly on the right spot. Without any hesitation, I shoved my zain past a wet mass of red pubes and soaking wet pussy lips deep into Taliah’s interior.

Tonight wasn’t the night to take my time teasing one woman while another one was waiting. Taliah was tight but so well lubricated I slid in and out without any trouble. Man, did this woman ever feel great, tight enough to give a great feel but not so tight that I couldn’t get it in. Fucking Taliah was just like putting on and taking off a comfortable slipper. I easily slid all the way in, the tip slamming up against the end of her cunt.

The whole operation was aided by Taliah’s well-padded bottom. A big ass might not be aesthetic to some people. It may be just my opinion but a big ass aligns cunt just right for the missionary position. Sarah Liebowitz, Tamar’s full-figured friend, taught me that. I’d fuck Sarah missionary any time if she didn’t have such a big stomach to go along with her big ass. 




In Search of Tamar Ch. 7



Well, I wasn’t fucking Sarah right now. Taliah had a big bum and a flat and stomach for this job. I pulled my zain out a little, admired the shine, and then pushed it back in. Everything was just as it should be, Taliah’s insides imparting a nice tickle to the shaft of my zain. Taliah was obviously enjoying herself or me as the case may be.

Taliah felt great but my Holy Grail all evening were her tits. I could hardly wait to start romping again on those Hills of Judea. I gently placed my free hand on one of Taliah’s tits, slowly massaging it and working up towards her nipple. She started a moan as I slowly slid my zain out and then back in. I just love moaners that don’t fake it.

Since Taliah was giving me what I liked, I leaned over and slipped my tongue into her open, moaning mouth to give her what she wanted. I thrust my tongue deep into her mouth the same time my zain bottomed out again. Taliah responded, letting her tongue dart teasingly in and out of my mouth.

She broke away from my kiss to compliment me. “Oh, shit Chris, you’re great. You’re so big but you don’t hurt me. I just knew you’d be great. Don’t stop. Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me until I come again.”

Well those were just words. The proof that Taliah was having fun was that the tickle down there was turning to a squeeze and then, finally, a tight grip on my zain. Taliah was making all the right moves. Damn, she was a great fuck. I was starting to regret bringing Gyula along.

I was down to the short strokes as Taliah brought her legs up around my back. We both came together, screaming loud enough to wake the dead. Taliah was right. Plain girls work harder. Speaking of which, where was Gyula? I guess we both had the same thought because we both looked at Gyula’s limp frame. Her head was miles away and her had was covering her pussy.

“OK Chris, lets both take care of Gyula. You eat pussy and I’ll take care of her boobies.” Then she switched to Hebrew. “Gyula, darling. Are you ready for a real Canadian tongue?”  

Well, if Gyula wasn’t ready, I was. I spread Gyula’s legs. Her bush was jet-black and untrimmed. Her hairdresser obviously never got into this bush. I got down and started to eat Israeli pussy au naturel. It was still wet, tasty and sweet. Licking Gyula was sweeter than licking glida (ice cream) melting in the desert sun. Every time I glanced up from my pleasurable job, Taliah was sucking on a different tit or giving her best friend a tongue in the ear. In my opinion, Taliah was taking too much interest in her friend’s tits. 

Taliah spread Gyula apart, and placed my zain in exactly the right spot. Geez, Taliah was acting like some farmer getting his prize mare bred by a stallion. Pushing as hard as I could, Gyula just popped open a little. I couldn’t have been in more than a centimeter. Taliah was talking a mile a minute, alternately encouraging me (“that’s it Chris, push harder, give it to her good, just like you gave it to me.”) and then Gyula (“Loosen up Gyula, you did it once. Relax my love. Let it all in. You’ll love it my sweet little girl.”)

Gyula never even had a chance, if she wanted to. She had a guy on one of her enormous boob and her girlfriend sucking another nipple. Not wanting to play favourites, I sucked on Taliah, and rubbed Gyula’s tit with one hand, keeping my balance with the other hand while working my zain into Gyula’s tight little cunt. I never knew I could co-ordinate so many activities at one time.

And it was work. I had just expended 20 minutes on Gyula’s first tongue job and she should have been lubricated inside right up to her ears. Theory says that my zain should have slid tight in. Not. Gyula was as tight as if I was grabbing her cherry. That Gideon must be a real peanut if he hadn’t loosened Gyula up more than that. After all, they had been going out for a year. Well, Gideon had two problems. He had a small zain and now some other guy and her best friend were fucking his girlfriend. 

I worked for another 20 minutes pounding tight beaver. Thanks to Taliah taking such good care of my zain lasting 20 minutes was no problem at all. Gyula didn’t make much noise. In fact, she acted like she was in the next room. Finally Gyula came, just a bit too quietly for my taste but I let myself shoot off anyway. 

I got off Gyula and left Taliah holding Gyula who still lay flat on her back. My zain ached and I needed to piss. Actually, I needed to be alone for a few minutes. The night hadn’t turned out quite the way I expected. I thought I was supposed to be the star attraction but now it seemed that I was just breeding stock for a couple of women.

Maybe if I were a deep thinker, I would have sunk into an acute depression when I realized I was irrelevant to these two women. I would have moped, thrown the pair out, had a shower and drowned my sorrows in several glasses of arrack. BUT, I’m not a deep thinker. I pissed, washed off my zain and left the can to get whatever those two had left to give.

Gyula was still lay limply, flat on her back on the bed. Taliah took advantage of the situation. Her head was down between Gyula’s thighs and she was giving Gyula the tongue. Israelis are so impatient. Taliah couldn’t wait to try out oral sex on her friend and she had to do it on a sloppy pussy in front of me. Gyula was toying with Taliah’s ears and enjoying the novelty of oral sex with a woman

Taliah’s ass was in the air, a tempting target. Wet, damp, furry clams always make me horny, so my zain went straight immediately. I got up on the bed and slipped my zain in, fucking Taliah again doggie style. Despite all the goo I left behind, I couldn’t get my zain in full. Taliah was tight from excitement and she was so busy with her friend’s pussy that she wasn’t getting her cunt lined up right for a doggie.

Frustrated, I pulled out. A good erection is a terrible thing to waste. I looked at Taliah’s well-padded bum and gave into temptation. I smeared Taliah’s asshole with whatever juices were coming out of her cunt. Then, I lined up her ass just right and jammed in my zain. That popped her asshole right open. Taliah came up for air screaming that I was hurting her and to stop. Gyula screamed in Hebrew not to stop.

Who to obey when two women give conflicting signals? I resolved the conflict by grabbing Taliah by the love handles and ramming my zain in her colon right up to the sigmoid. Then I pushed Taliah’s face into Gyula’s pussy so that the three of us were pulling a train. Taliah stopped protesting, Gyula went crazy from the meal Taliah was making of her pussy and I continued sodomizing that soft ass. Gyula was moaning and my stomach was slapping against Taliah’s bum cheeks. Finally, I came for the third time somewhere in the interior of Taliah’s digestive system. Gyula came with a scream, Taliah’s head between her thighs and a girlfriend's tongue playing between her pussy lips. As I said, Taliah seemed to know what her friend needed.

When I went to sleep between the two women, I had one on one arm and one on the other. When I woke up, I was alone on one side of the bed and Gyula and Taliah were curled up and interlocked on the other side. OK, so I had fun last night but I think I made really good friends out of those two women. They even went into the shower together. Closed the door behind themselves. I could hear all kinds of giggling as well as the sound of running water.

Gyula wouldn’t be out hunting for zain whenever Gideon was called up, so that was good news. Taliah’s big tits were as interesting as whatever Gideon had to offer. Yes, I was kind of disappointed that the women were more impressed with each other than with me. On the other hand, Taliah and Gyula were so tied up with each other that I didn’t have any loose ends to tie up myself. That was a man’s dream. Fuck two women in one night and not have any commitments left over. I needed that freedom because today promised to be a make or break day with Tamar and I didn’t need any complications.



In Search of Tamar Ch. 8



I sat in the hotel lobby room waiting for Tamar. I whiled away the time with the current edition of the Jerusalem Post and numerous cups of Israeli kafeh botz. The cut and thrust of Israeli politics was interesting enough but what I really wanted were the latest CFL football scores. That day in Israel, the sports pages consisted of third-rate soccer teams from seedy West Bank settlements playing on the pitches of dismal Negev communities. Nothing about the Alouettes or the Argos. Obviously Canada wasn’t at the top of an Israeli’s thoughts.

Originally, I set out on this trip to find my Israeli girl friend, Tamar, to take her back with me to Canada. I found her all right, in an ultra-Orthodox religious commune in Mea Shearim, the unfriendliest place on earth next to Mecca for an infidel like me. It just blew my mind to think of Tamar as a religious fanatic. Was she now so goody-goody Jewish that she wouldn’t consider balling a gentile like me? On the other hand, with some people, religious passion is interchangeable with sexual passion. Think televangelist for example. So, becoming more religious might mean that now Tamar was even more interested in sex. Since I agreed to meet Tamar, I must have faith in assumption #2.

If the first assumption were correct, Tamar wouldn’t be impressed by my recent romp through a varied assortment of Israeli cunt. So far, in one short week, I fucked Tamar’s old boss, Tamar’s worst enemy, Tamar’s best friend, an unconscious Ulpan teacher, one of Tamar’s former students and my hotel’s desk clerk in a threesome with her blondini girlfriend.

Then there was Tammy Fink, the compulsive talker/peeler/hairdresser/personal services agent who mistook me for one of her paying customers. Should I count Tammy as a fuck on this trip? After all, she was so tough and the Israeli rubber she used was so thick that I never came. Tammy must have ground on top of my zain for ten minutes without results. Now, there’s a Zen koan equivalent to “If a tree falls in the forest with no one to hear, is there any sound?” Answer this one. “If you poke a hooker and you don’t ejaculate, have you really fucked?”

There was no doubt in my mind about whether I fucked Miriam Kessim, Tamar’s Ulpan student. Miriam was Falasha, a rape victim from the civil war in Ethiopia. She was just a shy and frightened child when we first met. In the two days we spent together, Miriam changed into a confident woman. I grew so fond of Miriam that I was a few millimeters away from falling in love with her and forgetting Tamar. If we spent any more time together, I wouldn’t be in Jerusalem right now. So, it’s probably just as well that Miriam slipped away from me in the middle of the night.

I suppose that, even if you count Miriam as love and don’t place her in the generic fuck category, I still racked up a respectable score for a tourist spending just a week in a small country. Despite all the assorted road nookie, I just couldn’t get Tamar off my mind. Tamar was beautiful, intelligent, articulate, apparently religious and the best piece of ass I ever had. It was five years since I last saw Tamar, not counting our brief encounter the day before. My mind returned to what she had become over those five years.

Too much thinking always makes me hungry. So, I bought a boureka and a Hebrew newspaper from the coffee shop and went back to my chair in the lobby, just in case Tamar showed up. I have trouble reading Hebrew at the best of times but Maariv uses a weird font and there’s no nikudot (vowels) to help with the pronunciation. Where’s Vanna White when you really need to purchase a vowel? I took my first bite of my boureka, when I heard Tamar’s BBC-accented voice behind me:

“Beteh Avon.” That just means “bon appetit” in Hebrew. I’ve always wondered why the English never wish each other a “good appetite”. I suppose that a race of people that dines on bubble and squeak with spotted dick for dessert, all washed down with warm beer, can’t appreciate being wished a “good appetite”. My musings on food etiquette were interrupted by Tamar’s instructions, as she stood in front of me.

“Get up and follow me out the door as if we’re friends. We don’t have much time. I got away from the yeshiva because I went to the mikveh (ritual bath). They’re expecting me back soon so we don’t have much time. Remember not to touch me. And maybe you can tell me why that red-headed desk clerk is giving me such dirty looks?” 

I could hardly recognize Tamar. Yesterday, in Mea Shearim, Tamar just peeked out the door. I caught a glimpse in the shadows of a Semitic beauty with long black hair. In the light of day, I couldn’t help but notice she was dressed in an unflattering old-fashioned long-sleeved dress, the ultra-Orthodox Jew’s answer to the Afghan burkah. Tamar looked as if she had gained weight. I hoped that it was just her bulky clothing. I checked if she was wearing a wig. Her hair was long and natural, but lifeless. No wig on an Orthodox woman means no husband yet. That was reassuring. Tamar had lost her olive complexion and was rather pasty-faced. Was her faded beauty the result of too many meals of brisket and cabbage followed by too many hours of studying Shulchan Aruk? Like a real man, I lied through my teeth.

“Hey Tamar, you look great! Yeah, we have to talk. I’m sure that the last five years have been as dull for you as they were for me.”

Keeping a respectable distance between us, we went out for a walk. A long walk. We had five years of separation to overcome and it wasn’t easy for Tamar. A guy can jump back into bed with a lover after a five year hiatus, maybe even ten years later, no problem at all. Women are different, in case you haven’t noticed. Tamar was a real woman, so we had to go through all that interpersonal relationship and feelings shit before she would even accept a cup of coffee from me.

Much of what Tamar had to say hurt me deeply. It wasn’t just the other guys she’d been with. It wasn’t because she thought I was her intellectual inferior. It was her bitterness that I waited five years before returning to Israel. I tried to explain about Daniellah Argov and the Mossad pursuing me for those five years. A bitter, angry woman doesn’t listen to valid excuses. If I wasn’t so much in love with Tamar, I could have hurt her back with some readings from my short-term sexual rap sheet. Instead of hitting back, I listened like a good little boy to get where I wanted to be.

I won’t bore you guys with all the details about the interpersonal stuff, feelings, etc. You’ve been through enough of that with your own woman. As for you women, you don’t need any more ammunition to use on your poor schmuck. Once Tamar was satisfied that she had dumped on me enough, we sat down at a café and talked about things a guy can deal with, like reality. A latte with some whipped cream pastries and Tamar’s mood improved immeasurably. So, let’s cut to the facts and skip the feelings.

“…so, when Mossi got out of jail, he headed straight for Kibbutz Hagafen. I left before he got there and went straight to Mea Shearim. That was the one place I was sure he’d never look for me. I got a job teaching English in the yeshiva of a famous rebbe, Rabbi Shlomo Putz. I have to dress the part or these haredi women refuse to learn from someone ‘outside’.”

“I know Mossi’s been out of jail for a couple of years. He almost caught up to me in Be’er Sheva last week. Do you know that he married Delilah Toledano, the biggest slut in Be’er Sheva?”

“Serves that momser right. Sarah Liebowitz provided me with those details. Did you meet Sarah yet? Isn’t she the sweetest best friend I could ever have?”

“Ummmmh, yes I met Sarah and she’s, uh, as sweet as you say. But Sarah never told me that you went religious. You’re not exactly dressed like the Tamar I once knew.”

“Trust me, Chris, I haven’t changed. I’m still Tamar Ya’akov, just as religious as I was doing my National Service. You knew that the Ya’akov family is a prominent mizrachi (Sephardic) religious family. I told you my father, Yishai, is a politician in the National Religious Party. Those were my credentials to teach in Rabbi Putz’ school.”

“Tamar, isn’t Rabbi Putz the same rebbe who wants to build a wall between Bnei Brak and Tel Aviv to keep the secular Israelis from polluting his followers? I read that in Ha’aretz a few days ago.”

“Yes, that’s the same Putz. Chris, all is not well in Mea Shearim. I need to get out of there. The rebbutzin wants to arrange a marriage for me with one of the rebbe’s followers, Zalman Nebbish. Zalman’s only accomplishment is that he’s the world’s dumbest yeshiva student. What Zalman lacks in IQ, he tries to make up by quoting Talmud, 24/7, and usually incorrectly. I’m sure that we could all do with a bit more Talmud in our lives but Zalman isn’t any girl’s idea of a good time.”

“Well, that’s bad but you haven’t married Zalman yet. I still have a chance, don’t I?”

“I haven’t told you everything. Besides the rebbutzin playing cupid, I have to fend off the rebbe as well. The ultra-Orthodox have a custom of never touching a woman except your wife and only then for sex. Somehow, the rebbe thinks that little rule doesn’t apply to him. Every time the rebbutzin isn’t looking, the rebbe chases me around the classroom. Then, there’s the rebbe’s teepee creeping every night….”

I kept Tamar talking. The longer she was with me, the less likely she would return to Mea Shearim. What kind of excuse could possibly explain five hours in the mikveh? I didn’t need to force the conversation. Tamar brought up the subject of running away with me. I was exactly where I wanted to be, reconciled to my Israeli girlfriend and planning our future together.

By the time evening rolled around, I was escorting Tamar up to my hotel room. Taliah Tal’s shift at the front desk was over so we didn’t have a red-headed obstacle to navigate. Once in the elevator, Tamar dropped her religious pretenses and transformed into her strictly Orthodox slut mode. She threw herself at me, kissing me aggressively, forcing my mouth open with her tongue. With one arm she held me close and the other hand targeted my crotch, rubbing my cojones and stiffening zain. The line between passion for God and passion for man was indeed very thin with Tamar.

The elevator stopped abruptly at our floor. Tamar broke off her frantic kissing only to make sure the hallway was clear. She pulled me off the elevator and fumbled in my pocket for the key, making a side trip to check out my zain. Her body trembled visibly under all her clothes.

“Oh Chris, you’re still as hard and as big as I remember. I haven’t been laid since…well never mind. I’ll explode if you don’t shtumpf me. I want that circumcised monster between your legs. I want a fuck that will make the front page of Yehidot Ahronot.”

Once the door to my room was shut, Tamar dropped to her knees and unzipped my fly. She couldn’t get my zain out my Jockeys so she undid my belt and let my pants drop. Exploring carefully in my briefs, she finally pulled out the prize she had been searching for. The first time a woman gets her hands on your zain, she’s just curious about what you’ve got. An old lover like Tamar will take your zain carefully, reverently, almost worshipping your maleness for the memory of past fuckings. Tamar savoured the feel and smell of my zain, gently caressing the length and girth.

Tamar then began a slow blowjob, putting the tip of my zain in her mouth, then letting the glans slide slowly over her tongue. Just as slowly, she pulled her head back until the tip was just inside her lips. Then she performed the slow erotic slide over her tongue almost to the back of her mouth again. You just don’t get that kind of service from a woman you just picked up. Tamar knew just how much of this treatment I could take. She stopped and looked up at me.

“Undress me Chris. Make love to me as if it’s both our first time and our last time. Eat my pussy. I want the whole deal. I want to remember this night whatever happens to us.”

I didn’t like the way Tamar seemed still a little uncertain. Nevertheless, I started to unbutton the back of Tamar's dress, trying to look as if I didn’t know what I was doing. Of course, I had some idea of the territory I was entering, having already undressed the ultra-Orthodox Rimona Katz. I tried not to hurry. I had to give Tamar the impression that we had a lifetime together ahead of us, so what’s the rush.

I unbuttoned Tamar's dress down the back. She let it drop slowly and seductively, that is, if you find multiple layers of petticoats to be seductive. Tamar stepped out of her dress and kicked her sensible, flat-heeled shoes to one side. I began to unbutton the first layer of undergarments. Tamar stepped out of that layer of clothes and then another. How do these Orthodox women ever get through an Israeli summer?

Tamar laid a carpet of long-sleeved dresses and petticoats from the door to the bed, leaving just an old-fashioned brassiere that went almost to her navel. Just below her navel began a pair of Victorian bloomers that went to mid-thigh. They ended in a tight elastic that I suppose was all that kept her brown stockings from falling to her ankles. Even after shucking all those clothes, Tamar was still 80% covered up. Here’s what I can’t understand. Covered up, Tamar was even more seductive than when I first saw her naked.

I undid button after button on the relic of a brassiere until her ample breasts popped free. Propelled by its weight and the force of liberated boobs, the bra slid easily off Tamar’s smooth white arms. She advanced towards me and played her firm breasts on my chest, as if it was necessary to prove to me Israeli women have the world’s biggest tits. I picked her up and carried her the rest of the way to the bed. I was wrong about Tamar looking heavy. She hadn’t gained any weight even though she felt somewhat softer than in her soldier days.

As I figured, her stockings were held up by her bloomers. I rolled those down to reveal lily-white legs instead of the olive-wood colour I remembered. Damn, these ankles hadn’t been on view for years. As I pulled off the bloomers, I looked between Tamar’s legs. Her bloomers had a huge wet spot in the crotch.

Tamar raised her takat (ass) and I pulled off her bloomers as slowly as I could. Her navel appeared first, then protruding hip bones and, finally, black damp bush. Tamar raised her legs, letting me remove the bulky underpants. She parted her thighs wide open, displaying pink in the middle of black curly pubes. 

I didn’t hesitate a second. I dived between Tamar’s thighs and began a slow tongue job. Tamar’s scent was intoxicating. She was clean and fresh from a dip in the mikveh. I buried my nose in Semitic bush and inhaled Tamar’s delectable scent. My tongue slid up the valley between slippery inner labia towards Tamar’s swollen clitoris. My tongue ascended from the depths of the valley to the top of Mount Clit, causing Tamar to scream in ecstasy. With limited success, she tried to keep her hips still and me on target. Tamar released her pent-up sexual energy through her upper body, writhing with pleasure.

“Oh shit, Chris. That felt so good to scream when I came. Orthodox women are taught to stay quiet and just make babies from sex. They mustn’t take their husband’s mind from the Torah. I just had to get that scream out, I’ve been repressed so long.”

OK, so it was a scream of rejection of the Rebbe’s teachings. As for me, I certainly didn’t care if the rebbe approved of what we were doing. I got up from between Tamar’s legs and slipped on one of the condoms from what remained of the dozen that Taliah brought the night before. If Tamar had been to the mikveh, she couldn’t be ovulating yet. But I wasn’t about to take any chances. My cock was leaking and the rubber slid on. I just crawled between Tamar’s wet thighs and Tamar had her hand on my zain, guiding me into her. I stuck my goyische zain into wet, quivering Jewish cunt. Even through the rubber, I felt that Tamar was tight, something that pleased me immensely. This cunt hadn’t seen a lot of use in the last five years.

I played my zain around the entrance to my Jewish Temple, not out of reverance but because of mechanical tolerances. I was swollen and Tamar was tight and quivering. Between her spasms, I worked my way in as slowly as I could. Tamar took deep breaths with every movement I made. Then she relaxed and raised her knees up. I lowered myself onto her soft body and went the rest of the way into her in one thrust.

Tamar brought up her legs and squeezed my ass tightly to get as much of me as she could. We clenched for the longest time, afraid to come and lose the moment. As old lovers, we knew each other’s moves and what prolonged the fuck or what made the other come instantly. After the longest time just enjoying the shared closeness, Tamar spoke.

"Chris, take that rubber off. Then fuck me nice and slow with your bare zain. I want to feel your skin against me as you give me those nice long deep strokes. I could come again right now if I wanted to, but I want you to spill your seed inside me."

Tamar even talked dirty in Biblical terms. Sarah was right. Tamar knew all the dirty parts of the Bible. I pulled out from Tamar and rolled the vulcanized rubber off my zain. Tamar shoved me on by back and was all over me before I knew what was happening. I couldn’t remember if she was this aggressive making love before. But what the hey – I enjoyed it and let Tamar enjoy me. Finally, she mounted my zain, carefully taking the measure of the tip before pushing down on the shaft.

“This is forbidden fruit to an Orthodox woman. They’re supposed to let the man have his way with them and get on with producing babies. And they have absolutely no imagination when it comes to different positions. Let me enjoy this Chris. Don’t move.”

Let Tamar enjoy it? I was enjoying the feeling of Tamar’s silky smooth cunt gripping every millimeter of my zain. Tamar was still tight as a virgin. However, Tamar had raised a good point. Exactly how do the ultra-Orthodox fuck? Do they use a variety of positions or do they conform to something mystical from the Cabala? The Bible lacks the details of the Kama Sutra when it comes to sex. A lot of fucking went on in the Bible but the Bible is essentially silent concerning which positions the Patriarchs and Prophets used.

I assume that Judah gave his daughter Tamar a good roadside doggie. I can’t imagine a feisty woman like the Queen of Sheba any place but on top of King Solomon. There’s no information at all on how many ways the hooker Rahab satisfied her customers. She must have used woman on top as part of her sexual arsenal. Rahab and the Queen of Sheba get good marks in the Bible, so a woman on top can’t be all that un-Orthodox a position.

Tamar leaned forward to let me suck on her nipples and take my mind off my Biblical research. Then she straightened up and started to move my hard cock in and out, moving in all directions, stirring up her insides like she was stirring up a pot of soup. Tamar kept at it for what felt like an eternity

Since my mind had turned to the Bible, I tried to keep myself from coming by thinking of as many randy Biblical characters in as I could. Gomer, wife of Hosea, came to mind. That was a bad example. Gomer fucked religiously and that was the way Tamar was doing me at that moment. Tamar was intense, almost religious in her determination to gloriously shag me off and herself in the process. She moved faster as she felt my zain harden, bringing me to a climax, tout de suite. Tamar still had all the moves and didn’t stop making them. The sloppy sounds emanating from her pussy were finally interrupted in an explosive scream of ecstasy.




In Search of Tamar Ch. 8



Tamar lay beside me sweating and letting the liquids trickle down her thigh and over my thigh. Of course it made a mess but I’ve never liked women who roll over and rush to the toilet to rid themselves of their man’s semen. Why bother fucking if the results are so repulsive? I loved Tamar for that. She enjoyed making a mess with me. We fucked some more that night but not with the same passion and fervor of that first fuck. We didn’t get married for another week but I will always consider that fuck the actual moment that Tamar and I became man and wife.

The rest of the story has a short epilogue, so please don’t go away until I’m finished. The next day, I bought Tamar some “secular” clothes that she immediately hated. I thought she looked sexy but what do I know about shopping for a woman. At least my shopping got her out of the hotel and to a hairdresser to complete her disguise. Then we made plans to get to Canada, as far away from Mossi, Mea Shearim and the National Religious Party as possible.

Tamar didn’t think we should fly out through Ben Gurion Airport because she was 99% sure that Mossi would be watching for her there. I said I didn’t think that going north was a good idea because of a little bit of unpleasantness that happened at Kibbutz Hagafen. Tamar didn’t think we should go anywhere by bus because the Rebbe owned a chain of Putz-Ner candle shops at the all the major bus stations in the country. His shops were staffed by loyal former students. So we traveled south by the only remaining possibility. I rented a car and we drove south to Eilat through the Aravah. 

The traffic was sparse and we had lots of time to talk about our future. We were in love but the only way to stay alive and together was to leave Israel and somehow make our way to Canada. Tamar’s best friend, Sarah Leibowitz, owned a travel agency where Tamar once worked. Sarah knew the travel business. If anyone could get us out of Israel without alerting the growing number of people on our tail, it was Sarah.

Sarah was more than willing, given that Tamar had bailed out Sarah’s travel agency years ago and, uh, Sarah and I exchanged some services to our mutual satisfaction. To tell you the truth, I had to keep my eye on Tamar so she never got one-on-one with Sarah. The last thing I needed right now was a womanly chat about how Sarah and I spent our evening in Eilat. As it was, Sarah was almost embarrassing the way she kept holding my hand and winking at me when she thought Tamar wasn’t looking.

Sarah Leibowitz arranged for a sightseeing trip to Petra, across the border in Jordan. We slipped away from the tour and took an Arab bus to Amman. From there, we went to London on Royal Jordanian Airlines and got married in a Registry office. Tamar was peeved that she couldn’t get married under the hoopah (canopy) until I pointed out that Zalman Nebbish was more than willing to marry her under a hoopah. The anti-Semitic clerk at the Canadian High Commission didn’t want to give my new bride a visa until I pointed out that Tamar’s Hebrew skills were in demand at various Canadian Talmud Torahs.

So, now we’re living in Canada. Tamar teaches Hebrew full time at our city’s Talmud Torah. I’m the religion editor at my newspaper, thanks to all the tidbits on Judaism Tamar throws my way. We’ve got cash and we may even start a family now that I’ve agreed to raise the kids as Jewish. Am I happy? I’ll let you in on a secret. Tamar showed me where it’s written in the Talmud that it’s a mitzvah (commandment) for a Jew to have sex on Shabat. So, every Friday night, we perform our mitzvah plus a few extra mitzvoth during the week, just to be sure. My advice for all you Gentile guys out there is to marry a Jewish woman. You’ll get laid at least once a week, no headaches, no excuses, and a guaranteed minimum number of lays. You can look it up in the Talmud.