Goddess of the Moon - Sex Stories

Goddess of the Moon

... in.” You don't say anything, just look down timidly and giggle. I can tell you're a little embarrassed. I step aside for you to pass and the air fills with a waft of strong, Arabic style perfume. It makes me a little dizzy. I close the front door and direct you through to the living room. You move down the narrow hallway with such elegance and grace, I feel unworthy to follow. Your perfume lingers. Sitting on the sofa you fumble in your big Prada handbag for a pen, notebook and your reading glasses. I desperately try to make small talk. Why is this so difficult for me? It's my job, for Christ's sake. I've done this many times with pretty girls and it's never been a problem. Somehow you are different. I look at you and the words won't flow. There is more to it than just your staggering good looks. Your aura, maybe? “Can I get you something to drink?” I ask, “Coffee perhaps?” “Er...çay?” “Tea, sure, no problem.” I turn on my heel and leave the room. You’re ashamed and curse yourself. You can't believe you forgot the word 'tea'. You can speak English, you always got top marks in it at school. Now, here in London, in front of your new teacher you say 'çay'. You didn't even say please. You know the English are polite and you must always mind your P’s and Q’s. While I clatter about making the tea, you wonder what I must think of you. I didn't notice at all. I'm more worried about how I am going to teach you for the next three hours, let alone the next eight weeks, if I am so ...

... overawed I can't even manage simple small talk. You make up for your perceived blunder when I come back carrying a tray containing teapot, cups, saucers, spoons, sugar bowl full of cubes and a little jug of milk. As I place it down on the coffee table you say, “Oh, thank you very much. Really, you are too kind. How lovely, so perfectly English.” Great, now you're speaking better than me. I need a drink. Something much stronger than PG-sodding-tips. I need scotch. You pour the tea for both of us, ever the perfect lady. You add sugar to your own cup but avoid milk. I don't add anything to mine, I don't intend to drink it. Instead, I disappear into the kitchen again and return with two glasses and a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label. “Not for me, thank you,” you say as I begin to decant the haram spirit. You've never tried alcohol before, never even been around it. The closest you’ve ever come was smelling the sickly, aniseed Rakı on your pious father's breath from time to time. “Oh, come on. It's traditional in England to have a little whisky with your tea in the morning,” I lie, hopefully convincingly. You stare at the glass for a few seconds. I can see you are torn. Torn between wanting to try new things and wanting to be a good Muslim. Then you think of your father. If he can drink alcohol and still go to the mosque, why can't you? “Alright then, a little bit, just to taste it,” you say and smile your sweet smile. I pour a healthy splash and push it towards you. Holding it in ...