Almost as soon as I entered the line at customs I heard the now all-too-familiar phrase I had come to expect, “There is a small matter that requires your attention, Mr. Wilson.”

I was led to a nondescript room with no sign on the door and ushered inside. I stepped behind the screen, quickly stripped out of my mundane clothes, and began to get ready. To make the process faster I now traveled in panties and wore stockings under my pants. I pulled my matching bra and breast forms from my suitcase. As I deftly assembled my top half I heard the shuffle of feet on the other side of the screen — the men were already lining up.

I looked at the bra — a bright yellow push-up underwire with light padding. The cups were bisected with a thin line of ribbon with the top half done in a paisley print and the bottom a vertical pinstripe. A bow was perched between the cups above the triangle of lace that separated them. The sides and back were all lace.

I glanced down at my panties, a tanga-style whose front and sides were made of the same lace. The panel in the front was done in the same pinstripe, only horizontal. The panties did nothing to hide my bulge. My legs were covered with simple black RHT-seamed stockings. I adjusted my “breasts” and retrieved my black patent Dorsay heels from my bag. As I stepped into the four-inch heels I grabbed my makeup bag as well.

I quickly rubbed on some foundation and applied a muted lipstick — an Estée Lauder Color Crème I had grabbed at a beauty kiosk at the Miami airport called “Rose Tea.” It was just pink enough to feed my sissy side while being just brown enough to not be so garish in this environment. A quick swipe of some eyeshadow and I was ready to go.

I stepped around the screen, my heels clicking on the tiled floor. I could feel my tanga panty creeping between my ass cheeks as I strutted to the other side of the room without looking at the expectant men. I felt every eye on me, keeping my back to them. I bent over and grabbed my ankles, shaking my shapely ass at them before turning around and kneeling.

“Who’s first?” I challenged the room. We all knew what was next.

I wiped the cum from my face, using my index finger to push it into my mouth. The man who had just shot his load on me zipped up and walked away briskly. This was my fourth load of cum since landing in Riyadh — and each man had stroked his shaft until the point of orgasm and then held the base of his cock as his load spewed on my upturned face and into my open mouth.

He was replaced by another man who had been masturbating as he watched the pair of us. He behaved the same way, coming very quickly, gripping the base of his shaft as spurt after spurt landed on my face. None of the men allowed me to touch them, let alone suck their cocks. Not that I didn’t enjoy being used this way periodically, but there was just something more satisfying about sucking a cock to the edge before he cums all over your face.

The last man stepped up and stood in front of me with his cock hard and jutting out. It was between eight and nine inches long and had a wide helmet-shaped head that was bright pink in contrast to his otherwise dark skin. He wasn’t jerking his cock so I waited, somewhat impatiently, for the inevitable.

“Haroun,” he said.

“I’m sorry, I don’t speak Arabic, sweetie.”

“No, Haroun!” He said, more insistently. He pointed at me. “Stacey.” He patted his chest. “Haroun!”

Recognition flashed across my face as I remembered the man who had fucked my throat and ass years ago after I had been detained here and had been forced to prove my identity as a cross-dresser. At last, here was a man who would let me suck his cock!

“Mmm, Haroun,” I purred. “I have missed you.” I beckoned him forward with a twitch of my right index finger.

As he stepped closer I opened my mouth. We groaned in unison as my lips closed around the head of his cock and the first few inches of his shaft. I felt his hands move to the back of my head and he guided my mouth deeper onto his cock.

“Mmmm,” was all I could manage. Haroun pushed his hips forward, feeding the entire length of his cock into my mouth to the back of my throat. Briefly, I had a flash of the last time I was bent over a table with Haroun’s cock in my mouth. I remembered gagging repeatedly as he tried to push it down my throat.

I had been used by so many cocks since that time — many much larger than his — that my throat just opened as he went balls-deep into my throat. He made a noise that seemed to indicate surprise. I think the dirty bugger was actually looking forward to making me gag! I reveled in the feeling of his balls pressed against my chin as I inhaled, enjoying his musky scent.

Haroun held my head between his hands as he guided his cock in and out of my mouth, pulling almost all of the way out before pushing balls-deep inside once more. As he fucked my face I remembered that I never got to taste his load. In our last encounter, we had been interrupted and he had ended up finishing inside my ass instead.

I grabbed fresh air when I could, but I could tell from his urgent pace that he intended to finish in my mouth this time. His pace quickened and his strokes became more shallow and I knew he was close. I tried to speak, to encourage him, but his grip was unbreakable. Finally, I felt his cock swell as his orgasm began.

“Dirty American slut,” he said as I felt him explode in my throat. I was now able to push against him, holding just the head of his cock between my tight lips so I could taste his cum. He groaned with each spurt and I struggled to keep up with it. Some of it leaked from the corners of my mouth and dripped from my chin onto my bra.

As he finished I sat back on my heels, still suckling his softening cock until he pulled away.

I pivoted on my knees, turning my back to him while still on all fours. I arched my back and wiggled my ass invitingly.

“Are you sure you don’t want some of this?” I teased. I looked over my shoulder only to watch in disappointment as he pulled his cock inside of his pants and zipped up.

“Meet later?” He asked in broken English. “Must work.” I stood and faced him, slightly taller than he was in my heels.

“I would love to meet you later, Haroun,” I said. “Just tell me when and where.”

He reached into his shirt pocket and passed me a handwritten card. It was covered in Arabic.

“I don’t read Arabic, sweetie,” I said.

“Give to taxi driver,” he said simply. “After ‘Isha. Bring Stacey in bag.” ‘Isha, I knew, was the evening prayer time.

“Is this your home?” I wondered why he had this ready-made card in his pocket. I was wary of the many rumors of human trafficking situations.

“Taxi after ‘Isha,” he said again. “Bring Stacey.” He walked from the room without a backward glance.

I slipped out of my bra and put all of my gear in my suitcase. I dressed, leaving my panties and stockings on under my “boy” clothes. I exited the room and made straight for the nearest bathroom. I took a handicap stall and checked myself in the mirror. I used some toilet tissue to clean myself up.

As I wiped the spots of dried cum from my face and chin I thought about what lingerie I had brought in my bag. I was still thinking about what to wear to meet Haroun when I stepped into my taxi to the hotel. I looked at the card one more time.

I studied the Arabic once more, only this time I thought to turn the card over. The flip side was professionally printed, but amid the Arabic on the other side, two words were written in English.

In a font that looked slightly Middle Eastern, it simply read: “Club Niqab.”