Goddess of the Moon

You come from Turkey. Somewhere in the east, I think. Your father is rich. He's in steel and owns a mine, or a mill, or something. He has always had money and you have always been spoilt, he bought you whatever you wanted. However he didn't always let you have your own way. He was strict and overprotective. He's quite religious, a Muslim of course. You wore Islamic dress from a young age, before you started to develop. Loose fitting clothes covering your body and the obligatory head scarf concealing your long black hair.

From the age of fifteen you begged him to allow you to go to London and stay with your mother's relatives. He was never going to allow that, no way! Your mum wasn't keen on the idea either. Not at such a young age. After you turned eighteen though, she came around to the idea. They'd brought you up properly and you'd always been a good girl. You'd studied hard and got into a good university. She knew you wouldn't get into any trouble. Besides a summer in London would be just the thing to improve your already excellent English.

Eventually, after months of pleading from you and persuasion from your mother, Daddy gave in. You could go to England for two whole months, on the condition you have lessons four days a week, every week. Also, you weren't to go out on your own, home before dark and absolutely no boys. You readily agreed. Anything to get to London!

Little did your father suspect, his wife's family no longer keep quite the same traditional values as he does. After years spent in England, they have loosened up considerably. The women no longer wear hijab and the kids pretty much do what they want. They weren't going to enforce any of his rules upon you.

Your mother was right though. You are a good girl and had no intention of taking too much advantage of the situation. You like studying so lessons weren't a problem. You didn't plan on going far on your own, you were afraid of getting lost in such a big city. You always went to bed early so you could be up at sunrise to wash and pray. And you weren't even interested in boys. Well, not much anyway.

No, the trouble was their choice of English teacher. It was decided that you should have private tuition. Your dad was happy to pay for it because it eliminated the the chance of you being in a class with boys. Your cousin phoned the local language school, who passed her on to one of their best teachers willing to give one on one lessons over the summer. That teacher was me.

Daddy had never even considered the possibility that they would choose a male teacher for you. And nobody thought to mention it to him. You didn't mind who taught you, as long as they were nice.

You arrive the first weekend of July. Unpack, get settled and your cousins show you around the local area. Your mum's family aren't as rich as your dad's. They do all right, but don't live in the opulence you're used to. Not that it matters to you. You're not a snob and are just so excited to be in a new city far away from home. You can't wait to see everything and experience new things. You've got it all planned out. The sights, the museums, galleries, theatre shows, tea at the Ritz, Buckingham palace. But first, lessons.

It's Monday, quarter to nine in the morning. You've taken the tube for two stops and are now walking the short distance to my house, following the directions on your phone.

You are immaculately dressed in the designer clothes you and your mother went to Istanbul to buy especially for this summer. Clothes your father would never have approved of, despite being far from slutty. You have on a pair of fitted capri pants which expose a little calf. A long, unstructured summer jacket with a lacy top underneath. It is very see-through, but you wear a camisole to preserve your modesty.

On your feet you have Gucci sandals, which show off your perfectly pedicured and painted toes. On your head, of course, you wear your hijab. You might be far from home, but god is everywhere. Today it is a brightly coloured and patterned scarf from Hermès. However, instead of being pulled tightly and pinned in the Turkish style as usual, you have it loosely wrapped. You even have a tiny bit of hair poking out from underneath. As long as you still pray five times, you are sure Allah won't mind. After university you'll go on hajj to Mecca, that'll erase any little sins you commit here.

As you walk you are aware of how nervous you are. You've never been alone with a man who wasn't a blood relative before, not even for five minutes. Now you are going to spend three hours with me, a man you have never met, at my house, in a strange country. It's not that you think I'll do anything. I'm a teacher, a respectable person, but you're still anxious. This is liberal London, it's perfectly normal for men to be alone with women here. You suppress your nerves and continue walking up the street of little terraced houses where I live.

You ring my doorbell briskly. I don't keep you waiting long before I open up. Immediately I am struck by your beauty. I was not expecting you to be this pretty. I don't know what I was expecting exactly, but I never imagined the vision of loveliness standing before me.

You are wearing quite a lot of make-up, even though you don't need any at all. It doesn't look tarty or trashy in any way, it's expertly done. You have huge, hypnotic, hazel brown eyes, which you accentuate with lots of mascara and heavy eye-liner. Natural coloured lipstick on your full, perfectly shaped lips. Your nose is cute, not too big or misshapen in any way. Strong, pronounced cheekbones and little dimples in your cheeks as you smile timidly. Your eyebrows are thick and shaped so that they are completely symmetrical. Flawless skin, you can tell even with all the make-up. Your complexion is a wonderful shade of olive. I don't think I've ever seen a girl quite like you before. For a moment I am dumb. We just stand there, staring at each other.

After I don't know how long, I manage to snap out of it and say, "You must be Selen. Hi, come in."

You don't say anything, just look down and giggle. I can tell you are a little embarrassed. As you walk past me, the air fills with a waft of heavy, Arabic style perfume. It makes me a little dizzy. I close the front door behind you and direct you through into the living room. As I watch you walk down the narrow hallway, you move with such elegance and grace that I feel unworthy to follow you. The perfume lingers.

You sit on the sofa and fumble in your big Prada handbag for a pen, notebook and your 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're different. I look at you and the words won't flow. There is more to it than just your stunning 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 are ashamed and curse yourself. You can't believe you forgot the word 'tea'. You can speak English, you always got top marks in it. Now, here in London, in front of your new teacher you call it 'çay'. You didn't even say please. You know the English are polite and you must always say please and thank you. 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 that I can't even manage small talk.

You make up for your perceived blunder when I come in with the 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, like a 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 Johnny Walker Black Label.

"Not for me, thank you," you say as I begin to decant.

You've never tried alcohol before. Never even been around it. The closest you have 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 glasses 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. You pick it up, hold it in both hands and examine the amber coloured liquid. I tap my glass against yours, say "chin chin" and knock it back in one. You gingerly bring the glass to your lips. It doesn't smell like Rakı. You don't know what it smells like, but you know you don't like it. You feel a little queasy.

You grimace before taking a decent sized gulp. You swallow and your grimace turns into a look of pure shock and horror. For a second I you think you are going to vomit, but you fight it back. You glug down some tea to take the taste away and sooth the burning in your throat. A wave of warmth washes over you, partly from the booze and partly from the still quite hot tea.

"Yuk. That's horrible!" You say in disgust. "Do English people really drink that stuff?"

"Almost everybody, every morning."

It occurs to me that you might, at some point, discover this is not true, but I don't worry about that now. You look a little puzzled and slowly sip the rest of your tea. You feel a tiny bit dizzy and your cheeks are slightly flushed.

I feel better now, much more relaxed. Johnny always hits the spot. I take out the books and papers for today's lesson. You pop your glasses on. Channel I notice. You look so cute and innocent in them, I can't help but smile at you. You smile back and your cheeks flush redder. I feel something stir in my underwear, but I try to ignore it.

We progress smoothly. The usual stuff. I outline the syllabus, discuss the possibility of you taking the CPE exam sometime in the future etc. etc.

After that I give you an article to read and some questions to find the answers to. You work away assiduously. Highlighting sections and underlining bits here and there, making little notes. Occasionally your glasses slip down your nose and you push them back up with your pristinely manicured fingers, never taking your eyes off your work. You are adorable.

I don't read the article. I've been through it countless times with other students and I know it backwards. I'm content to just sit here and observe you. It's difficult not to stare. In fact, it's taking all my willpower not to jump on top of you and start kissing you and tearing your clothes off.

I need a distraction, something to dull my prurience. I grab the bottle of Mr. Walkers finest restorative and tip some into my glass. Automatically I do the same for you. I am a good host. I throw mine down my neck. To my surprise you actually pick yours up and take a sip. Not a large sip, just wetting your lips really. You're probably just trying to be polite.

Soon you have finished your task and we go through your answers together. As we sit there discussing your ideas, you take a couple more little sips of scotch. On your third sip I pause mid-sentence and give you an inquisitive raised eyebrow.

"It's not too bad once you get used to it," you confess.

Once we're done, I suggest a short break. You simply lie back on the sofa, a content smile on your delicate lips. You seem very relaxed. The whisky has done its job well. Thank you, Mr. Walker!

We lounge about for a while and chat. You tell me how delighted you are to be in London, how long you have been waiting for this trip and all the things you want to do while you're here. Your talk is punctuated by occasional, small sips of blended scotch. I just sit and watch you, smiling and nodding. I could look at you and listen to your voice all day. I have never heard music so sweet.

"I'm tired. Can I just close my eyes for ten minutes before we get back to work?" you ask, your eyes already shut.

"Take as long as you like. We have plenty of time."

This is where you take me by surprise. You put your feet up on me.

I have been a teacher for a while. Students have given me countless compliments, presents, hugs and kisses on the cheek. This has always been after they have known me for a while though. We only met about an hour ago. Putting your feet on someone is an intimate act. It shows a level of comfort and closeness not usually reached between teacher and student. Certainly not between borderline alcoholic, male teacher and conservative, religious, female student. This is the kind of act only the water of life could induce.

I am astounded by your spectacular feet. They are perfect, so smooth and soft looking. Artistically shaped, each toe is slender and exactly proportioned to its neighbour. I have to touch them. You must want me to. You were the one who put them on my lap. I begin stroking, just your instep with my fingertips at first, but then I become bolder. I use my whole palm to caress from just above your ankle to right over and under your toes. I slip my thumb under your arch and stroke your sole. You sigh, with obvious pleasure.

You don't open your eyes, but use the toes from one foot to pry off the sandal on the other and let them drop to the floor. I now have complete unhindered access and I take full advantage of it. I use both hands to feel every millimetre of your exquisite peds and sublime toesies. There is not the tiniest patch of hard skin to be found, not dry, not clammy, pure perfection. The only aroma is from the scented cream you used after your morning ablutions.

I start off gently, just stroking. I gradually apply more pressure so I am rubbing them, then firmly massaging. You let out quiet moans of arousal to encourage me on every step of the way. You wiggle your toes provocatively. Your very first time alone with a man and you get him to give you a foot rub. You are an instinctual seductress.

I'm done being timid now. I lift one sumptuous foot up to my face and press my lips to the ball. I kiss and inhale deeply. I slowly slide it down and kiss the toes. You make no complaints, just lie there with your eyes closed, panting nasally.

I open my mouth slightly. Your toes enter and are met by my wet tongue. I lick them lovingly. I savour them. There is barely any flavour, it's all about the texture. The tiny ridges on your toe pads, silky and perfectly smooth skin in between. My top lip on the hard glossy nail, occasionally clacking against my teeth. You bite your lip and stifle a sultry moan.

I lower your foot back to my lap and let it rest there. I look at your face. You open your eyes to meet my gaze. We stare intently at one another for a few moments. A coquettish smile, I smile back.

We both know exactly what is going to happen now. Well, you don't know exactly, you've never done it before, but you have a good idea of the basics. You and a friend watched a couple of naughty videos on the internet once, you understand how it works.

You're anxious, but no more nervous than when you were walking from the station. The alcohol has definitely taken the edge off, loosened your inhibitions. You are eager too. You knew that people get up to all sorts of immoral things in big cities, but you never believed you'd be taking part. Somewhere in the back of your mind you had hoped that you'd meet a boy to talk to, maybe hold hands even, but not lose your virginity. That was meant for your husband. However, you know I want it and for some reason, you're going to let me take it.

You press down with your toes on the bulge that has formed in my trousers. You know what it is and are full of curiosity. You want to see it, feel it, even taste it. I can tell you want it, you've made it crystal clear. You have already made the licentious first step, it's now up to me to bring this encounter to it's logical and inevitable conclusion. You want a man to take the lead, to guide you, to have you. You've managed to forget, at least for now, that indeed Allah is ever watching over you.

What can I do? I have no other choice than to oblige. I hold out my hand, palm facing upwards. You take it. I grip your dainty fingers firmly and help you into a sitting position. I stand and then bring you to your feet. Without a word I walk into the hallway. I don't let go of your hand and you follow me meekly up the stairs.

Into my bedroom and I sit you on the bed. I stand in front of you and clamp your legs in between my own. You aren't planning on going anywhere, but I am letting you know that I wouldn't let you if you were. You tilt your head upwards, trust on your angelic face. Those eyes, those magnificent eyes! I feel as if I could dive into them, get lost in them.

I had almost got used to your strong perfume, but standing so close to you now, it fills my brain again. It is a scent I shall remember for the rest of my life. I lean in and press my lips against yours. You close your eyes and we kiss. Your first kiss, the kiss you will never forget. The kiss you were saving for the man you would marry.

I keep it soft and tender. I don't want you to feel too overwhelmed. I hold your cheek in my hand, to steady and comfort you. As we smooch, I playfully flick my tongue out and lick your lips a couple of times. The third time your own tongue is there to meet it. Oral ecstasy!

We break. I peer deeply into your eyes. You look straight back at me. Your lips simpering. You may well be totally inexperienced, yet you know you did a good job. You are a naturally good kisser. No need for you to practise, the ability is innate within you, you can sense it.

My fingers move quickly and confidently to your headscarf. A light tug in the right place and it unwraps itself. Your luxuriant hair tumbles out and the scarf glides onto the floor. This is the first time a man has seen your head uncovered since you were a child. You can't even remember when your own father last saw you like this. Usually the idea of being bareheaded, allowing a man to see your coiffure, would be enough to bring on an anxiety attack, but not today, not in front of me. You shake it out so it hangs pleasingly over your shoulders. You are transcendentally beautiful!

Another kiss.

You idly trace the outline of my fully engorged penis with your fingertips, feeling it's turgid rigidity still encased in several layers of fabric. It feels different to how you imagined it would be, but then you're not quite sure how you imagined it. It just seems different somehow.

I release the button at my waist and you undo the zip. I pull my chinos down to mid thigh and assertively guide your head to the front of my underwear. You kiss my straining cock through the taught cotton jersey.

You toy with the elastic waistband and slide a couple of fingers underneath. Then, ever so slowly, pull down to free my manhood. It stands to attention. Straight, proud and ready.

At first you simply ogle it, wide eyed and open mouthed. You drink it in with your eyes, observing every detail. The foreskin around the bulbous helmet. The broad shaft with thick blue veins snaking over the entire length. It is several shades darker than the skin on the my thighs and my balls are darker still. My pubic hair has been recently trimmed, but not too recently, it's a little untidy.