Erotic News: Uprising in Libya

27 Feb

This story has grown bigger than I expected so I’m posting the first part now and the second part will come later.


Jemima examined her suitcase. A pair of jeans. Five tops, two of them dirty. Two pairs of sandals, two unmatched flip-flops, and her Louboutins. A shalwar kameez, without the matching scarf. That was still in Tripoli. Her make-up kit, thank God. Seven pairs of knickers and five bras. No dresses, no jackets, and no Agent Provocateur red bikini. At least she had her heels.

The ship rolled a little and her stomach lurched with it. How long til they reached Malta? Too long for her insides, but not long enough, because she knew Marcus would be there, and she knew she would have to explain to him why she had been in Libya and not in Fuerteventura with Alice.

She caught a glimpse of something underneath her jeans. One of Ijaz’s vests. She smiled, despite her seasickness. Of all the things. She picked it up and pressed it to her face, drinking in the odour of sweat and sex.

He had worn it underneath his uniform when he met her off the plane at Tripoli International Airport five days earlier. She had worn her Louboutins, a clingy Helmut Lang dress and her enormous sunglasses so he couldn’t see how nervous she was. He was smiling that confident, arrogant smile that made her tingle, and had made her get on the plane in the first place. She had known it would be a risk. First Tunisia, then Egypt. Marcus had been droning on about how Libya would be next, rubbing his hands at the thought of the opportunities, the weapons, the ammunition, the sales. She had even called Ijaz about it and told him she was worried and could they meet, ironically as it turned out, in Malta.

“No, my darling,” he had said. She had heard his smile through her mobile. “There will be no problems here. It’s my job. And I’m good at it. There will be only one uprising in Libya, and that will come when you arrive.”

She forgot any misapprehensions as he escorted her across the tarmac away from passport control and away from the other passengers to a limousine. An officer of some rank opened the door for Ijaz and scooted round to open hers. The seats were leather. There was a minibar.

“You would like some juice?” Ijaz swept his hand grandly over the bar. She giggled. He laid his hand on her thigh, at the hem of her dress, then leaned closer to whisper in her ear. “You know I can only drink in London.”

At the party, thrown by Marcus’s boss at Claridges, Ijaz had been drinking whisky; sipping it and pretending to enjoy it. That was what had made her notice him–that and the enormous bulge in his tight trousers. They were a size too small for him, and when he turned round she noticed the material was taut around his buttocks. They were a fascinating sight, almost feminine, and she realised that if a woman was wearing a dress that tight, there would be a strong risk of VPL. He’s not wearing any underwear, she thought. He noticed her looking at him and raised his glass, then winced as he sipped. She smiled and sashayed towards him.

“Can I get you something to go with that?”

Ijaz looked at the glass, and then looked her up and down, inspecting her. “A key to the finest suite in the hotel.”

Jemima laughed, touching her throat. She took his glass. “Perhaps some soda water would do for now.”

She walked away, knowing he would be watching her ass, and wondering if he would be curious about her choice of underwear. She returned with a soda and whisky to discover, to her intense disappointment, that he had gone.

He surprised her outside the cloakroom, grabbing her arm and pulling her to him. “I knew you would look for me.”

She ran her gaze up and down his chest, but made no attempt to free herself. “Actually I was just looking for the bathroom.”

“Don’t lie.” He kissed her fiercely, and she melted into his body, then pulled away.

“We might be seen. My husband…”

“He is not here, and neither is my wife. Come.” He pulled her into a storeroom and closed the door. It was almost completely dark except for the light under the door. He kissed her again. The taste of whisky on his lips was matched by a spice on his skin that intrigued her. She kissed him back and he ran a hand down her spine to her ass and pulled her to him, grinding the bulge of his cock against her belly. His scent filled her head and she sighed as he pulled up her dress to get his hand underneath. His fingers traced their way up to her thong and underneath the elastic. She made a vain attempt stop him but her hand made no impact on his arm. She leant her head back as his fingers found there way to her pussy and–

Her phone rang. The green light shone up from her bra, lighting up his chin and mouth, set hard in concentration.

“Leave it.”

She fished it out with her free hand. It was Marcus. She answered it.

“Where are you, Jem? I need you to come and meet the Sudanese military attache.”

“I’m just in the, the bathroom. I won’t be a minute.” She pushed Ijaz in the chest, harder. He held onto her for a moment, ignoring her hand, and then let go. “I must go. I’ll come back.”

“You won’t.”

She went out into the light, blinking, and smoothed her dress down. The rest of the party went slowly. Ijaz was nowhere to be seen. At the end, a bell-hop approached her, and gave her an envelope. “Mr Bassem asked me to give you this, madam.” An air ticket to Tripoli, first class, leaving a week later.


“I did not think you would come,” he told her in the car.

“I nearly did in the cupboard.”

He smiled. “You British women are so easy to please.” He patted her thigh. “Perhaps you have never been treated properly by a man.”

His arrogance crossed the line from alluring to off-putting. “Perhaps this was a mistake.”

“But you are proud, of course.” He gripped her leg. “I did not mean to insult you. It is not an easy thing to fly into the terrorists’ den to meet a man, however charming.”

“Oh, I think Libya is a lovely country,” she said. “Although some of the red tape is a little unorthodox.” She lifted his hand up and removed it.

He chuckled. “So why did you come?”

She sat still for a few moments, then turned to look directly at him. “To find out.”

“Find out what?”

“What you were going to do next.”


She found out when they reached an apartment. She had no idea where — it was somewhere in the centre. Ijaz told her to get out and go to the third floor. The car sped off. She considered hailing a taxi and going back to the airport but her curiosity and desire led her to the lift. She waited at the door for what seemed like an hour. Then the lift doors opened and Ijaz was there.

He moved past her and unlocked the door. The apartment was marble-floored, with an enormous television in the sitting room surrounded by large leather sofas still in their plastic coverings.

“Would you like some coffee? Mint tea? Whisky perhaps?” His eyes glinted.

“Mr Bassem.” She put a hand on one hip. “Do you really think I flew all this way to sample your poor tea-making skills?”

He laughed, then walked over to her and scooped her up and carried her to the bedroom, dominated by an enormous white hotel bed. He stood there, holding her, while they kissed, until she broke off and nodded towards the bed.

He made her keep her shoes on — “They look expensive. I like expensive” — but he pulled her dress over her head.

“Hey, that’s expensive too.”

He shrugged. “Wrapping paper.” He loomed over her on the bed, one knee between her legs, his hands either side of her waist. She leaned back on her elbows as he caressed her chest, her breasts, the notch below her throat. “Stand.”

She obeyed, standing awkwardly at first, shielding her tummy with one hand. He reached up and lifted it away and it hung loose for a moment, til she tried to strike a pose of confidence, a hand on one hip and one knee bent.

“Why do you try to hide your beauty?” His mystification was genuine.

She smiled in embarrassment. “I don’t…” Then, looking him in the eye, “I feel like a hooker standing in front of you in my shoes and underwear.”

“The most precious exhibit in the British Museum has it’s own stand, does it not?” He ran his forefinger down her leg, then up, tugging at her knickers. “But you are right–there is no need for this… garnish.” He pulled them down to her knees and she stepped out of them. “Bra.” She unhooked the clasp and shrugged it off.

Ijaz’s eyes widened at the sight of her breasts. They were smaller than she wanted. Marcus had refused to give her money for surgery. Still self-conscious, Jemima folded her arms, hiding what she could. His appraising eye made her imagine he was wondering how much he would get for her at auction. The thought sent a tremor through her midriff, down, to her pussy.

“I told you not to do that.” He grabbed her wrist and pulled her onto the bed. She lay back, unsure of what to do. He framed her head with his hands and kissed her. The longing that had been there since she boarded the plane sprang into desire and she was ready, for whatever he wanted.

He was urgent, and selfish. He placed a hand to her pussy and she sighed, expecting him to work at it til she was swept away. But he ran his finger round her entrance and then dipped it in, checking she was wet. Then he stood up and pulled down his trousers to his knees. No underwear. She smirked. He flicked one of her ankles aside to part her legs and knelt between them.

Her disappointment at his own modesty was masked by her fascination with his cock. It was rigid, but it swung wildly as he manoeuvred himself between her legs, slapping against her legs. He corralled it with one hand and pressed it against her wet pussy lips.

“Now you will see the real Libya,” he said, and drove it deep inside her.

She grabbed his arms as he thrusted. She held his hair, twisted her fingers on the lapels of his uniform, pulling the buttons apart to reveal his vest–but it’s so hot here, how…? She scraped them across the sheets, looking for some purchase against his merciless drives into her. The tide was welling up, she could feel herself rising, pushing down the fear that had gripped her since she had arrived, since she had got on the plane, since she had received the tickets, since the storeroom fumbling, since his eyes stripped her naked at the party.

“You are my whore,” he breathed. “You are mine. My English whore” And his face clenched–too soon! Too quickly–and he heaved himself inside her once, twice, a third time as she reached down to her clit, hoping she had time, pushing against each dwindling thrust, feeling the swell recede. He collapsed on top of her, trapping her hand awkwardly. If only the angle was different…

End of part one.

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