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I first noticed her while tending the tombs and gravestones in the churchyard. I had of course seen her before, many times in these last few months, but this was the first time I had stopped to consider the woman. Her eyes were a wide, deep hazel narrowing to bright pupils, and these shone through the slit in her headscarf. The rest of her body was shrouded in the black cloak of one observing hijab.
She was sitting on a bench in the shade, as she always did, overlooking this lush, overgrown burial place, tucked behind one of London’s oldest churches. She had been watching me for ten minutes as I picked carefully at the lichen on an 18th century tombstone. I was unsure as to whether the look was studied or faraway.
As I sat next to her on the bench I introduced myself, “My name is Seamus, I am the caretaker of All Saints. I hope you don’t mind if I join you for a minute to rest up?”
“No, I don’t mind. Please do,” she said.
Sitting adjacent and this close I could see the curvature of her breasts, hugged tightly by the cloak, and the spread of her ample haunches. A woman shrouded, yet revealed. As respectful as I was to church visitors, I couldn’t help but linger in the look and I felt a slight swell in my jeans, my heart skipping a beat at this glimpse of the unknown, the unknowable.
“This is very beautiful place, very restful,” I said, as if to break my own spell. “I have lived and worked here for ten years and wouldn’t change it for the world. There is something magical about the building and its grounds. I find it… sensual, ancient.”
Wood pigeons fluttered from the tree in front of us and flew away into the air, drawing both our gazes to the heavens.
She turned to face me, the fine shape of her jaw and cheekbones impressed upon her veil, her lips speaking as if through a dark gauze, yet my attention fixed upon her sparkling eyes.
“Would you have the time to show me around, perhaps?” She asked.
There was a lot to see here. A Norman church with a glorious vaulted nave, faded medieval frescoes and stately Georgian memorials, this was a museum marking the evolution of ecclesiastical building and decorations. The early Tudor stonework filled the air with a humid, spectral mist, the organ recital ringing bright, piped echoes off the walls and stained glasswork.
She told me she had never set foot in a Christian church before. She was Muslim, proud of and diligent in her faith, yet she too had sensed the sacred vapour of the grounds. As she told me this we were in the crypt chapel, nearing the end of our tour, and we stood before the remains of a Saxon wall. I noticed her breathing had become heavy; her parted lips panting against the veil cloth, her bosom rising and falling as she turned to face me. In the dense air she was perspiring slightly, causing her cloak to wrap more snugly about her.
“I have thought deeply about şişli üniversiteli escort faith and the spiritual path all my adult life'” she said. Her eyes had become vivid, almost demanding. “I am devoted to hijab, it is my choice. From Islam I draw strength and find happiness.” Her nipples now began to stiffen and forcefully protrude through her cloak, the thin fabric outlining her shape boldly in this musty underworld.
“Faith through free will must be a wonderful thing.” I said, really just to respond to the enigmatic woman. I was uncertain as to where this was leading us.
“Yes, it is,” she said, “and free will enables me to explore and experience without fear of losing faith.” At this she fell silent standing before me, her hands held low fidgeting and hesitant, her eyes fixed upon mine. She exuded overpowering desire, the surge of adrenalin before the great leap.
I had become speechless. Accompanying this mystery woman on her first footings had me in the grips of abandon. I unlocked the little gate into the oldest corner of the crypt, the site of a prehistoric well, now a tiny chapel. Here was a little altar draped with a thick, crimson cloth, which I lay folded against the near wall. And then I turned to reach for her, stooping towards those veiled lips, yet she held me back.
She had me sit on the altar cloth while, standing before me in the dim space, she slowly lifted her cloak. From the floor, I watched as her sandaled feet appeared, dark skin above pale soles and toes, and a golden ankle bracelet strung with bells. Her skin shone like stars in a new moon night, recalling rich teak as she exposed her smooth calves, knees and thighs rounding and filling to strong trunks. She turned around to lift her cloak above the hips, revealing to me a perfectly global arse, and as she bent down from the waist I noted the contrast of her tan anal button nestled in the shadows.
“Despite wearing the hijab and abaya I always attract the attentions of men, Muslim and non-mahrem alike,” she said, turning to face me again, clutching her cloak above her hips. “Perhaps it is my figure showing through the garments, perhaps they leer at all the women, I cannot say.” And I couldn’t help but stare at the dark clutch of pubic curls, parted slightly by swollen pink folds, and the neat seam of her inner thigh as this devotee of the Qur’an brought her knee up to rest on my right shoulder. Holding the cheeks of her smooth arse gently, in reverence, I buried my face in her primeval terrain and ran my tongue widely about her salty sex lips. I could feel her open and call me in, a barely perceptible urge from her hips.
I soon became impatient with passion and forced my tongue tip along her crevice, unfolding her like a lotus. I dropped my flattened tongue on her plump, pearl-like clit whereupon I lashed her vigorously. She gasped taksim anal yapan escort and muttered in Bengali as she lifted her abaya further to reveal a bejewelled navel. I ran one hand down to continue caressing her wet loins as I flitted my tongue about her belly, licking and flicking about her broad hips and thick, toned waist. And upon dabbing into her deep, gold studded navel, she grabbed my hair, pushing my head back down to her yearning sex.
My devout guest then steadied herself against the wall with both hands and, as a consequence, I became enveloped by her billowing abaya. Darkly I ran my hands up her smooth torso to her heavy, firm breasts, the fleshy tips pert between my fingers. My tongue became a butterfly, fluttering wildly against her now immodest womanhood, juices trickling in streams down the insides of her thighs. I took a wet finger and gently teased her anus against which she wriggled a welcome and whispered, “Yes… please”. And slowly my tip slipped further inside her tight tube as if slipping on a ring.
Her Asian shores soon began to roll to the rhythm of thunderous breaking waves; her pleasure rolled down my wrists and arms, across my face as she rocked herself back and forth between my finger and tongue. Holding on to my head, she guided my licks and kisses with her clutch, forcing and humping against me until she began a lengthy moan in a high voice, trailing off to whimper as I massaged blindly those smooth muscled, occasionally juddering thighs. “Praise be to Allah, most compassionate, most merciful” she said softly within this ill lit 10th century chapel, and slowly she let go of my head.
I slipped from under the cloaking and, easing her stance back a slight, I slid my rearing cock inside her slippery chamber. She let out a small ‘Mmmm…’ and I allowed myself to journey to the hilt, embracing her warmed cheeks with my grinding pelvis. With my eyes closed it felt as if I had slid into the flesh of a ripe fig, juices spilling around me, drenching my bristled bush. “Yes'” she said, “Yes, keep doing it…”
In time I looked down at the wonder of this Eastern pleasure wrapped around me; the joy of watching my sceptre slide back and forth between those widening dripping lips, those shining, cocoa orbs, the rumpled cloak hauled up her sleek back. Dew had collected about her squinting rear eye and I could not, at this moment, resist temptation.
Withdrawing my penis, I let it dance in the air like a cobra as I dropped to my knees to apply some delving, wet tongue to that tight little squint, tasting the mingled spices and fruits of her free will. She gasped and undulated against the wall, inviting further and I took my bouncing erection by the head before nosing it gently against her rim. As I slowly pushed, she pushed back, parting around me, and she emitted a tonal ‘Hoo!’
“I hope taksim bdsm escort you’ll forgive me this pleasure,” I grunted as I felt her firm grip on my shaft, slowly yielding.
“There is nothing to forgive when the action is invited,” she gasped.
I pumped inside her hot, soft arse for a dozen strokes, spanking lightly her flesh and I could sense my soul lifting in this dim, divine space. As I felt her clench and release skilfully, my cap began to tingle like stardust and my thighs jerked and slapped against her. I was reaching a revelation of sorts, my Mecca, a great gathering of joy welling from within.
“I want you to come on my voluptuousness, just like I know all the men want to”. And at this my taste of Islam pulled herself straight, leaving me throbbing and slimy, waving in the holy air. She lay down on the cloth, a veiled beauty wrapped in a headscarf, her hijab, and she lifted the gown seam to her armpits.
Her breasts stood full like domes of worship, her nipples rigid, haloed by wide, dark-brown aureoles. I stood above drinking in the glory of the East while she teased and stroked herself, pushing her bosoms into an irresistible Asian hill range. Her belly was delicately plump, womanly, her thighs squirmed, and perspiration sparkled her skin like wood polish. Her wet curls had now flattened as though beaten by monsoon rain and the glistening labia spread wide and raw amongst them.
I knelt around her waist and, hauling my juicy pole in one hand vigorously, I lowered my lips onto one of those breast tips and flicked my tongue rapidly across it, feeling it leap and stiffen further between my teeth. I could hold back no longer and, stroking her full glistening length, jerks of semen shot from my cock cascading across her breasts and belly; the last drops emptying into her navel to form an opaque pool for her stud. She sighed running a finger through the sticky trail as I sank my kisses in her cleavage. And together we lay in a motionless embrace for several minutes, until she sat up to mop herself with the altar cloth. “Thank you,” I said. “Thank you,” she replied.
I stood up and looked about us at the misshapen ancient walls, the statues of the Virgin and the Crucifixion, the huddle of a half dozen seats for those drawn to this sacred corner. My visitor, once done with the cloth, knelt before me and carefully unhooked her veil. “Just one last taste,” she said, and with a hand delicately holding the fabric to curtain off my gaze, she began to run her lips along my reviving shaft. She played joyfully up and around the glans with a flickering tongue, engulfing me in turn, jerking my stem rhythmically in her palm, until she had slurped me like a lollipop. “Mmmm…” she murmured.
Yet here she withdrew to once again leave me hanging, and deftly she re-hooked her veil.
As I looked down at my drooping erection I saw the length of my shaft smeared in crimson lipstick and a shrouded, fleeting stranger stood up above an ancient well to leave me. Rearranging her hijab and abaya, she was set to rejoin the devotion and liberation of her choosing. On the wall, overlooking the seats, the Virgin Mary looked down upon us both. She was smiling. She recognised a divine annunciation when she saw one.
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