Roxy - Sex Stories

Roxy

... usual cheeky comments about my ID picture. The officer sat the lectures desk. “Roxy Ahmedi.” “Sure.” I strutted to the officer and passed him my visa documents. I watched his raised eyebrows and guessed that he spotted my ID picture. “Bloody Hell. I’m surprised they let you in the country with a picture like that... shocking.” His lame joke was predictable, but I humoured him. “Oh, not heard that joke before.” “It’s not a joke... you look diseased.” “Diseased?” “Dengue fever, maybe?” “Dengue..? Of course not.” Fucking dengue fever, was this guy serious? I felt like telling him to fuck off, but feared the consequences of being deported. So I tried to explain why I appeared to be suffering from post diarrhoea sweats. “I was still in Bahrain and about to file for my UK Visa. As always, I was running late and the UK embassy was about to close.” “Well you defo weren’t late because you were putting make up on. Just look at that skin.” “No...I wasn’t. At peak hour, Manama traffic doesn’t exactly move very quick, so I had to run three miles in the height of summer. Hence I look like crap when I had my photo taken. Happy? Or do want to know what bloody route I took?’’ “You’re quite feisty for...” “For? You obviously don’t know many Arab girls, do you?” “I’m married to one. Jeila, she’s Jordanian.” I hissed through my teeth. “A visa chaser?” “You must have a very understanding boyfriend.” “You must have a death wish.” “Is that a threat?” I realised I had crossed the line. “No, sorry. ...

... I’m single... and very bitter.” I hung my head back, then glanced at him. “It’s also the time of the month... Sorry.” “My wife uses the same excuse.” The officer passed me back my visa. “Anyway, everything is fine here. But I’m going to book you an appointment at the hospital of tropical medicine.. just to make sure you’re clear from your fever.” “I got checked out last week!” “What for?” I whispered, “Crabs... Not the type you eat.” Chapter 3 New week and a fresh problem. I could just tell by looking at Professor Graham Shaw that he was a dirty old pervert. He had that leering look about him. You could just tell that he fucked hookers on weekends and wouldn’t care if they hadn’t washed in a week. He was probably into all kinds of kinks too. The kind of guy who would ask to be bummed with a strap on. As Graham handed out our marks, I smiled at him as if he was my favourite. Yes, I’m two faced, so get over it. But one look at my paper changed all that. I suddenly felt like slapping his pasty face. “Fifty nine percent?” “Got any complaints, see me in my office.” “I’ll be there alright. Don’t you worry.” “Good, I look forward to hearing your excuses.” “I haven’t got any.” “Then you’ll have to show me how you’re going to fix them.” The pervert’s voice was layered with dirty undertones. I’ve never fucked an old man and I can’t see it being much fun. During lunchtime I usually spend my time in a riverfront bar, hoping for a rich footballer to whisk me off my feet... before laying me ...