Welcoe To America

Mary Beth Anderson was an all American girl from Indiana. She had roots in Kentucky and all about the American way. She was a single mother of nineteen and had just split up from the father of her child. On a chance encounter with a friend of a friend she met Habib. Habib was a young man from Jordon, slightly older at twenty-four. So needing a change, and Habib was certainly a change from the high school sweetheart who had fathered her daughter, she married Habib. Things were good until after the wedding. Habib was a virgin. He had been saving himself for marriage.
So Mary, a good middleclass girl, stuck it out. She stayed with Habib for two years because he was a good provider. He was working sixty-seven hours a week at a eatery on the near-west-side of Indianapolis, and that was a problem because the unskilled lover was almost never a lover at all anymore; and when he was, he smelt of the fish and vinegar that the eatery so famously served.
This is where I come in. I was blocked. I had been fighting on a follow up novel to my first novel that had bombed. It was summer time and warm and sunny, but the birds did not sing for me. The money that was keeping me in food and whiskey was dwindling fast. I was at a crossroad; and instead of working on anything publishable, I was doodling on my notepad and looking at pictures of attractive girls on the Internet. That was how I found her. She was on one of those networking sites. I had come across her by accident and was in the process of talking to another girl when she messaged me. I answered reluctantly. She wanted to be my friend. I clicked on her profile and added her. It said single and twenty one, so I thought what the hell. We talked. We talked for hours. She told me her story and how she wanted to leave her husband and how she had told him, but how he hadn't took it so well. I said I understood. I had known a few of the types before--those guys that marry the first piece they ever come inside. I told her so but said it was different with him, maybe because of his religion. She wrote back that she didn't care. She wanted an American man to come over and lay her right. I told her I was a beer drinking, truck driving, American boy from way back. She said I was silly and there it began. She wrote back that her daughter would be going with her father on the weekend and she wanted me. She wanted me to fill her lonely days with warmth and her steamy cunt with hot cum. I couldn't refuse, could I? What else did I have to do, write?
The first time she called me it was a Saturday. She gave me directions to the apartment the two shared and a list of things I would need. I didn't need much, she said. Just a bottle of lube, a pack of rubbers, and six pack of beer. I knew right then I was gonna like this girl.
When she opened the door she was wrapped in a silk gown that Habib had bought her. She was wearing nothing underneath it. I could see her nipples erect and the hairs on her twat that had been trimmed neatly into a v that lined perfectly with her tan line.
I wasted no time and gave her a kiss and a hug. I hadn't even set the paper bag that held the beer and lube and rubbers down.
Her breath was sweet like honey and her eyes looked into mine grateful and happy to be alive. She was suffering. She said so in my ear softly as I lifted her gown up and over her head. I fell to my knees instantly but not to pray facing Mecca. I ran my face and tongue down her belly and tasted her twat. The line of hairs tickled my nose, as bit into her ripe, juicy fruit. I nearly came--and I know she did. Her juice dribbled down my chin and soaked the collar of my t-shirt. The cum tasted like fresh peaches in cream.
I stood up and cupped her breast and kissed her with her own juices still wet on my face, fresh.
“He never eats my pussy,” she said. “He says it's unclean.”
“Seemed pretty clean to me,” I said and kissed her and smiled.
“Cleaner now,” she took her tongue and wiped the juice from my chin and neck and shirt and said. “Taste like pussy . . . yum.”
She led me into the bedroom. There she laid out on the big bed, spread eagled, and ready. She looked golden across the white sheets. She spat on her hand and then rubbed her clit with the spittle. She looked up at me and smiled, and said, “That's tight. It's like I've never been fucked before.”
She then stuck her finger into her mouth and waved me over.
“Let me guess, he doesn't believe in getting blowjobs, either?”
She laughed and I unzipped my pants and pulled out my cock that was throbbing and hard and already wet at the tip with precum. She ducked her head down over the edge of the bed with her blond hair splayed out across her rosy face. I brushed the hair away as I stuck my cock in her mouth and thrusted. She moaned as much having my cock in her mouth as she had moaned when I was eating her out. After a few minutes of her bobbing on my cock and swirling my head with her tongue, I pulled out. She had done something with the tip that had made me almost come and I did not want to come yet.
So I brushed her leg and spun her around easily so she was on all fours on the edge of the bed. She let out a yelp of pleasure as I rubbed my throbbing hard cock up and down the length of her long clit that was inflamed like a swollen lip and entered. She was like a Chinese finger trap, she was so tight. Like a hard hunk of muscle that was both giving and firm at once. I dropped my torso so I was on her feeling her body next to mine as I pumped. I would kiss her on the shoulder and up on her hair and lick her on the neck. I came inside her. I realized as the pulse in my testicles and sphincter subsided that I had forgotten to put on a condom. I was suddenly worried and the pleasure went away completely and my cock shriveled. I laid down on the bed beside her and she stood from the bed with my cum running out of her cunt and dribbling down her leg and onto the floor.
“I think I fucked up,” I said, taking a deep breath.
“You're all right,” she said. She was wiping my cum out with a white washcloth at the edge of the bedroom by the bathroom door. “I'm not ovulating,” she tossed the rag at me and said.
“How do you know,” I batted the sticky rag away and said.
“I'm on a schedule,” she walked into the bathroom and said. She came back out with a cigarette between her lips like an old movie starlet. “That son of a bitch wants me to get pregnant. He want lots of babies,” she said in a mock Mideastern accent.
She walked back toward me and sat on the edge of the bed. We smoked the cigarette together and then went another round.
So the two of us kept on meeting up in that fashion for the next two years. Me having all the fun, and Habib working his ass off at the eatery. I never met the poor bastard but if I had, I would have told him: welcome to America. And then I would laugh and walk away thinking about her with her legs up on my shoulders smiling. Or about her tight asshole when it's wrapped around my cock, and when I'm coming in her mouth and she's rubbing her clit, and begging for it. “I want your load. I want your creamy white American cum.”
“Welcome to America,” I say sometimes as I explode on her face like a car bomb on the Westbank. Welcome to America, indeed, Habib.

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