In my room I laid out all of the sets of lingerie I had brought, still trying to imagine what I wanted to be wearing for whatever the night held in store. After pawing through my pile of satin and lace and weighing my choices I settled on a sexy red number.
The top was a harness bralette. The cups were sheer and would both hold my breast forms in place as well as show the dark areolae and nipples through the fabric. The harness ran straight up from the middle of the cups to a choker that would fit around my neck, giving me a “servant” sort of look without being super obvious.
The bottom, in addition to having a matching G-string panty, was a high-waisted garter skirt that looked very girdle-like. The sheer front was trimmed with three lines of ribbon in a bisected “V” that ran from the bottom edge all the way to the waist. The back had a keyhole detail at the waist and the four garters were centered on the front and back of each leg.
I selected a pair of black seamed stockings and placed it all inside a small travel bag along with my heels and makeup bag.
Hoping tonight’s activities were going where I wanted them to, I skipped eating and instead used the time of ‘Isha to prepare my sissy hole for a night of anal fun. I slid my favorite buttplug — the Thin Tool by Doc Johnson — into my ass. I knew that the five-inch penis-shaped plug would ensure I was more than ready when the time came.
Almost as soon as the final intonations of the evening prayer had ended, I was in the elevator on my way to the lobby. I stepped outside to hail a cab but before I could even raise my hand a green taxi pulled up.
“Mr. Wilson?” the driver asked. I nodded assent. I opened the door and hopped in. My stomach was in knots as I handed the card — hand-written side up — to the driver. He grunted and handed the card back to me.
“Haroun sent you?” I asked.
“Yes, yes. Haroun. We go now.”
We raced through the streets, the city coming back to its bustling normalcy after prayer time. We traveled in a series of confusing twists and turns. As he drove, he repeatedly glanced in his rearview mirrors and seemed to be constantly looking over his shoulder. If he had stopped and dumped me out I would have been completely screwed. I had no idea where we were or even what direction my hotel was in.
We ended up in a maze of what appeared to be warehouses. The driver certainly knew exactly where the directions were taking us and pulled up in front of one of the many nondescript beige buildings. A few men stood around by a doorway smoking cigarettes.
I looked at the meter and handed the driver 150 riyal — about $40.00. “Thank you,” I said. I had barely stepped out of the taxi, bag in hand before the driver sped away. What was going on here that made him so nervous?
Assuming I was in the right place, I walked toward the group of men. One of them stepped away from the others and approached me. My stomach started doing flips until I realized it was Haroun.
“Stacey?” he asked me, nodding toward my bag.
“Yes,” I said. His face broadened in a wide smile. “Haroun, what is all this?”
“This way,” he said. “You go here.” He took my elbow and ushered me around to the side of the building. He indicated a side door. “Meet you inside.” He turned and quickly walked back toward the front of the building.
I had a hundred questions, none of which was going to get answered.
Above the door was a hand-lettered sign. I recognized it as the wording used to differentiate women’s bathrooms from men’s; “nahif” I had heard it pronounced. I opened the door and stepped inside. My sense of smell was assaulted by a combination of heavy perfumes and burning incense. The sounds of dance music seemed to echo from all sides.
What appeared to be a hallway covered in heavy damask fabric was dimly lit by a series of single-bulb fixtures spaced too far apart. I saw two women in long hijabs — or head scarves — running down the passage. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light I could have sworn that they were naked except for the long scarves that covered most of their torso.
There was a matronly woman just inside the door. She was dressed in flowing black robes, a head scarf, and veil. Only her eyes, eyebrows, and forehead were visible. As soon as she saw me she hissed, “Mutakhanith,” and immediately pulled and pushed me through a gap in the curtains on the left.
Through the curtain, I realized that it was not a hallway, per se, but just hanging fabric that formed a series of “rooms” and other spaces. Inside, I saw three figures. Two were in various stages of dress and it was immediately apparent that they were Arab men who were wearing lingerie. One of them was just finishing up fitting a hijab. It was the same long style I had seen on the other two women and covered the upper torso, giving onlookers a teasing view of what sexy secrets were beneath it. The second person was still pulling on a pair of stockings and trying to connect them to his garter belt.
The first one finished with the hijab and moved for the exit but was stopped by the third person. She was wearing a hijab with no veil but barked something in Arabic. He stepped over to her and she fitted a tight veil across his face, leaving only his forehead and eyes visible. I could see from the side the string of his bikini panties. He was also wearing stay-up stockings and a pair of low sandals. Once the veil was fitted, she grunted her approval and he dashed out the entrance.
She turned to me and said something in Arabic.
“I’m sorry, I don’t speak Arabic,” I said.
“Welcome to Club Niqab,” she said in perfect English. “Please get dressed over there. If you need help with the hijab and niqab I am here to assist you.”
“Thank you,” I mumbled, more than just a little confused.
“Hurry!” she said as she clapped her hands. “We never know how much time we have!”
I was puzzled by her remarks as I stepped to one side. I quickly stripped out of my male clothing and was in my lingerie in record time. I started to tuck my penis to flatten the front profile but then decided against it — the G-string panties wouldn’t keep me tucked anyway. As I deftly clipped my garters to my stockings the other man, with both head scarf and veil already on, stopped for a quick inspection by the woman who sent him on his way.
I got out my makeup bag and started to apply foundation as I normally would.
“No, you foolish baghi,” she said. “You only need to do the eyes, but don’t forget your lipstick!”
Right. The head scarf and veil! I did my forehead and then quickly applied eyeshadow, eyeliner, and mascara. I stepped into my high heels and adjusted my breast forms. I applied a fresh coat of the same lipstick I had used at the airport, tucking the tube inside my bra strap in case it needed to be refreshed later.
She approached me, looking me up and down. I heard her say “waqiha” under her breath as she indicated she wanted me to turn around.
“First the hijab,” she said as she fitted the head scarf. She deftly folded the fabric several times on top of my head, creating a stylish pleated look. She pulled it tight under my chin and pinned it in place. As I looked down I could see that like the others, most of my torso was covered, leaving quite a lot to the imagination. She turned me around.
“Now for the niqab.” She placed the veil over my face, completely covering it. She tied it tightly around the back of my head. I couldn’t see and I was about to say something when she pulled up on the top edge. A slit in the middle opened, and I could feel her adjust it so that my face was covered from the nose down with a veil that was about eighteen inches long.
“Keep your hijab and niqab on!” she said. “This is important. If you remove the headwear you could be arrested!”
My mind boggled at her last-minute instructions. Did she just say “arrested?” She turned me toward the entrance and slapped me on the ass as she pushed me forward.
“Have fun, fajira,” she said.
I trotted down the passageway as best I could in my four-inch heels. At the end, I parted the curtains and emerged into a large area. The music was louder here and various disco-style lights flashed intermittently. In the brief flashes of light, I saw clusters of people in various positions — all clearly having sex.
Some were bent over, being fucked from behind. Some were laid on low sofas with their legs splayed wide open while being mounted missionary style. Some were even getting it in both ends — being spit-roasted by two guys.
To my immediate right, I recognized one of the men who had dressed with me on his knees. A man stood in front of him, clearly receiving a blowjob. The niqab was long enough that the man’s penis — and the mouth sucking it — were not visible.
I was amazed. Every woman wearing a hijab and niqab in this room was providing anonymous sex for the men — it was basically a room full of mobile gloryholes! The men were dressed in an assortment of both traditional Arab clothing as well as modern Western-culture garb.
I felt my left arm being tugged and turned to see Haroun.
“Stacey?” he asked.
“Yes,” I yelled, hoping to be heard above the noise. He smiled broadly, tugging my arm as he led me across the floor. We crossed to a far corner where several men were gathered around a pair of low couches. Haroun’s hand wandered from my arm to cradle my right ass cheek. As he squeezed my butt I felt some of the butterflies in my stomach depart.
A woman sat on the edge of one of the couches with her legs spread wide. A man stood between her legs and the movement under her niqab indicated that he was enjoying her mouth. Two more men watched, stroking their cocks. It was obvious they were waiting for a turn.
Haroun led me straight to the other couch and indicated that I should kneel on the padded surface. I turned my head to speak to him.
“I guess we’re just getting straight to it, huh?” I said. He did not reply, but instead, I felt him lift the hem of my hijab. He stroked my ass and then I felt his hand in the middle of my back, pushing me. I bent over and felt him step between my legs. I was on all fours and felt his hands between my ass cheeks, tugging the string of my panties from my crack.
While Haroun fumbled with the buttplug one of the other men stepped in front of me. He didn’t seek approval or even indicate by his actions that permission was necessary; I guessed my being the “girl” here was all the permission he needed. He lifted the edge of my niqab and thrust his cock in the general direction of my mouth.
As I felt Haroun’s cock opening my ass, my mouth opened in a satisfied “O.” The cock in front of me entered my mouth as I felt Haroun’s balls press against mine. I had joined the ranks of those being spit-roasted and was loving every minute of it!
