Ali-Akbar was a remarkably strong young man, who could lift the front of a car or could bring down a brick wall with one tackle – after pouring down a few shots of aragh, of course. In that remarkably powerful body, one could hardly find even one single mean bone. He had a soft spot in his heart for plump women with light skin soft and watermelon-sized breasts, thick thighs, and enormous round buttocks. He compensated for his lack of good looks and charm with the goodness of his heart and his ceaseless passion for sex.
Always smiling, he was mild-mannered, well liked by everyone, even though he always dressed in shabby clothes that never indicated success. He put up with Esmat's flares of temper. He loved her huge body and treated her tenderly. It was as if he could see some precious gem buried deep beneath all that flab, a piece of jewelry no one else could see.
Being younger than her and tremendously strong, he could stand the violent jerking and clenching of her body when she became sexually excited, working herself toward a climax. He would crawl between her thighs, missionary style, whenever the opportunity presented itself, which was way above the average. Afterward, to heighten his sexual ecstasy, he would beg Esmat to tighten her tree-trunk thighs and legs around his body and squeeze as hard as she could. “The best damn way to get rid of the pain in my bones,” he would philosophically articulate with a deep sigh of relief, followed by thunderous laughter.
With the experience of a few men under her belt, Esmat had known how to hook this one, reel him in slowly, land him in her bed, and possess him for good. She had gone to buy a sausage sandwich in a shop that also served aragh and beer in the neighborhood. She noticed that she was the target of an intense stare from a young man, who was trying to undress and devour her with his look. She had responded to his lustful stare with a smile and soon accepted his invitation for a walk, which gave her an opportunity to gather detailed information about him. At first, she pursued him persistently like a shadow. She then lured him to bed, giving him generously as much sweetness as she could muster from her plump sensuous body, until he could no longer live a night without lying next to her. When she thought he was hooked, she pulled back, staying out of his sight for a while. He came running to her like a saturated-with-hormones teenage boy who couldn’t stay away from his first love, begging, as if he had gone utterly mad.
Determined not to lose this lover under any circumstances, she planned everything thoughtfully and nothing was left to chance or luck.
She sent Faty to stay with one of her neighbors for the night. Having the room all to herself, she used her imagination and creativeness to the fullest, arranged an outlandish romantic feast for him that she had never done for anybody before. She spread a sofreh, a rectangular white clean tablecloth, on the floor, placed two candles in the brass candlesticks that she borrowed from her neighbor, two red roses in a tall glass, and a steaming browned roasted chicken on a large plate in the middle. For drink, she chilled two bottles of bootlegged, hundred proof aragh sagy, cheap vodka, extracted from raisins, a sort of aragh that no one except underprivileged men could stand because of its sharp taste. To ease the taste of the aragh in his mouth, or as a chaser, she provided a bowl of cool yogurt mixed with chopped cucumber and mint.
Ali-Akbar gently knocked on Esmat’s door around eight o’clock that night and waited anxiously. When he heard the soft sexy voice of Esmat, saying, “It’s open. Come on in, aziz,” he most probably thought a nightingale in the Garden of Eden was speaking to him. He found Esmat sitting near a sofreh like a pinup girl on calendars – a sofreh decorated with colorful food and drink that was exclusively set for a special visitor. He took off his jacket and placed a passionate kiss on her lips. As he tried to explore her body with his hand, she gently refused his advance and forced him to sit next to her.
Wearing pink see-through chiffon, Ail-Akbar’s favorite color, revealing as much of her soft white skin as she could, she hand-fed him piece after piece of tender-cooked chicken, and acted with naz and kereshmeh, coquettishness and flirtatiousness, and as hard-to-get as she knew how. She then handed him shot after shot of ice-cold aragh sagy to wash his food down, and spoonfuls of yogurt and chopped cucumber to erase the bitter aftertaste of the aragh sagy.
When his stomach was full up to his throat with roasted chicken and his veins were overflowing with aragh sagy, she rose and began to perform an extraordinary dance, stripping down to the little pieces of underwear she had on. She gracefully took a few small steps and twisted her waist lustfully with all the eshveh, teasing, she could muster. The collective movements of her legs, arms, hands, chest, shoulders, head, and even the subtle motions of her fingers, were beckoning, performed to disarm and attract Ali-Akbar.
Loaded with lust that was brewing in him fermented by watching every sensuous move of that great plump goddess of beauty, he was about to lose his mind. The last piece of fabric on Esmat’s voluptuous body was a cherry-red thin string panty. She peeled that tiny piece of garment off in slow motion and rotated it in the air around her finger. The dim candles’ light illuminated a black beauty mark the size of a quarter between her naval and pubic hair. Besieged Ali-Akbar couldn’t take it any longer. He stood up, swaying and shaking, ripped off his clothes like a madman and tried to wrap his arms around her, but she eluded his grasp with all the naz she had in her bag of tricks, driving him to the edge of sanity. Burning in a fever of passion, powerless, standing in the middle of the room, panting and trembling like a thirsty dog, his brain non-functional, he could no longer take Esmat’s titillating eshveh. He knelt down as if he were consenting to his defeat in this game of love and was willingly prepared to surrender his body and soul for a piece of Esmat. He opened his arms and begged, “Come to me ... I can’t stand it anymore, aziz-e man. ... I can’t live without you anymore, maman-e man [my beauty].” He paused for a gulp of air before saying, “Come to me, bolbol-e man [my nightingale].”
Holding her breasts in her palms, pushing them upward, targeting his heart with both barrels of her nipples, she walked toward him in slow crossed steps like a peacock hen in heat until she reached his mouth and watched him kiss her erect nipples so gently; and then, grinning, she watched him going absolutely wild, struggling to take her entire large breast in his mouth, sucking, going from one to the other.
She allowed him to lay his coarse hands on every curve of her soft body, caressing. When she could no longer stand it, she buried herself in the half-circle of his muscular arms. Gently, he sucked on her swelled lips, lowered her to the floor and nervously hurried to make love to her. She disappointed him by firmly refusing to submit herself to him.
Both naked as newborn babies, he was now about to go out of is mind; full crazy with passion. She was aroused but controlled, calculative and shrewdly manipulative. She was thinking: I have him where I want him. My fish is hooked. All I have to do now is reel him in gently.
He was as hot as an oven and steaming like a locomotive, and the precious seconds were ticking away. Before losing all that good steam completely, she begged him to close his eyes. He obliged helplessly, expecting that she was about to do something erotic or surprise him by a new exotic sexual way of getting on with the urgent business. She offered nothing of the sort. Instead, she rose and fetched a copy of the holy book of Quran from the mantel and put it in front of him on the floor.
When he opened his eyes, as he was told, she demanded, “Put your hand on the book and swear to its holiness that you will never leave me for another woman.”
With sparkles in his eyes, willingly and timidly, he obeyed her like a child. Doing exactly as he was instructed, he placed his right hand on the holy book.
“I swear I will never leave you ziba-e man [my beauty],” he managed to whisper.
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