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Amateur

Author’s note: This story is fictitious and is a product of the writer’s imagination. The characters and situations are strictly for the reader’s enjoyment and bare no resemblance to actual events or facts.

*

Twinges of fear crawl around behind Rikki Lovette’s breasts. She nervously drums her fingers on the rented Fiat’s steering wheel. Out the side window, Gourad Street is a glitter-fest of blinking neon. A half-block down, the Kremlin Club’s garish sign beacons brightly in English and Arabic.

BAR BAR

LIVE NUDE GIRLS

“So this is the Paris of the Middle East,” Rikki mumbles softly. Her golden-brown eyes scan what lies between her and the club’s entrance. The packed sidewalk is a treacherous obstacle course. Milling around are tough-looking Lebanese street thugs shouting and scuffling with rowdy Russian soldiers. Mysterious burnoose-clad Arabs lurk in the shadows. Shifty-looking gawwads work an alley entrance, hawking street-sluts to any scumbag who’ll listen to their pitch. Two of the girls remotely resemble Britney Spears on her worst day. Three others are the size of a Mongolian cows.

Jack Parsons’ voice echoes in her ears. “Tread lightly Rikki. Beirut can be a dangerous city for an ambitious American news reporter, particularly a pretty girl like you.”

“Screw it,” Rikki mutters. “Gemmayzeh can’t be any worse than Chicago’s South Side after dark.” She raises defenses to redline and gets out of the Fiat. Tucking her purse tightly under her arm, she ventures down the sidewalk.

Inside the Kremlin Club, six spot lit exotic dancers shake, stretch and strip on white pedestals. An Egyptian rock band blasts out an ear-splitting rendition of the Rolling Stones’ song “Let it Bleed.” The strippers are Eastern European or Oriental, save one. Alchena Yamun is the tallest. Her generous olive-toned curves are stuffed into tiny bright orange booty-shorts and a silk camisole top. Undulating to the music, she draws her butt-cheeks across a chrome pole, waggling her hips back and forth then sliding up and down. On a music beat, she whirls around, flexing her knees and rubbing the pole between her legs while gazing provocatively toward the whooping gaggle of drooling men at her feet.

Outside on Gourad Street, Rikki raises a small tape recorder near her lips. “Beirut’s red-light district could be anywhere, London, Amsterdam, even Tel Aviv.” She pauses and glances into a derelict building. “Amongst the danger, glitz and glamour, pathetic Palestinian refugees squat and watch Lebanon’s rich speed past in brand new Mercedes. In some aspects of life here, it’s hard to believe that any bloody conflict ever took place. The occasional covered Muslim woman seems to co-exist naturally with the young happy-go-lucky Lebanese girls dressed in stylish club wear.”

A slimy Arab in a black burnoose steps from the shadows. “Fuckie-fuckie-suckie-suckie?” he whispers as Rikki passes.

“Charra alaik,” she snaps in Arabic.

The man’s eyes bloom at the “shit on you” insult. Rikki’s nerves tighten. It looks like he’s about to spring at her. Quickening her pace, she ignores a barrage of wolf-whistles and goes inside the club.

Clouds of tobacco smoke sting Rikki’s eyes. The place is a sardine can. Music and shouting voices are loud enough to split eardrums. Boozed-up Arabs, wretched Russians and loose Lebanese cheer as spotlighted strippers whirl around, taking the tit-out-of-the-top look to its grossest level. Atop the long bar, three butt-ugly sluts jiggle and shake like ungainly drones. Dozens of topless waitresses scurry about with trays of beer and vodka held high over their heads. Cautiously, Rikki ventures forward.

A man groans.

Rikki’s eyes swing to a dark booth. Right out in the open, a leggy blonde is on her knees giving fellatio to a bearded Russian soldier.

Rikki yanks her eyes from the disgusting scene. Gawd, this is about as pleasant as watching a vulture regurgitate a belly-full of road-kill. “Note to self,” she says into the recorder. “Gemmayzeh is worse than the South Side after dark.” She cranes her neck looking for Alchena Yamun.

Atop her pedestal, Alchena’s glorious breasts bounce under the camisole with each vigorous dance step. Her long jet-black hair flies as she whips her head back and forth, thrusting her elbows up and down like pistons in a car engine.

Suddenly, Rikki has a distinct feeling of being watched, but writes it off as just some horny asshole ogling the snow-white Versace Jeans and flashy crystal silver backless top.

Twenty-feet away, a pair of intense eyes scan the American woman like the probing beams of Doppler radar. The Arab’s build is like a boxcar. Long, slicked-down hair surrounds a dark face that wears a relentless stone-like expression. Massive muscles strain against the white undershirt he wears. Ear-ringed ears and huge tattooed biceps complete an imposing presence that even the toughest dare not challenge. Moving forward, he watches Rikki like a hungry hawk.

“Excuse me,” Rikki pendik escort says to a passing waitress. “I’m looking for Alchena Yamun. Does she work here?”

The waitress stops, sizes Rikki up then tilts the top of her head. “Center pedestal honey. She free in ten minutes. Cough up fifty bucks and she lick your pussy. You like?”

“Ah, no thanks.” Rikki looks toward the center pedestal. Alchena is facing away from the dozens of disgusting dudes crowded at her feet. Their arms look like wiggling octopus tentacles as they try to touch her white knee-high go-go boots. She bends over. Men roar as she tightens her muscled ass-cheeks. Putting her hand between her legs, she slides her fingers up and down her butt-crack working her shorts’ silky material deeper into herself.

“Gawd do I detest nudie bars,” Rikki mutters. Suddenly, she recoils as if she’s just been slapped. She whips around. In this shoulder-to-shoulder crowd, there’s no way to tell who the guilty party was. “Big mistake,” she mumbles. “Should ‘a chucked the Versace look and gone with frickin’ chain mail.”

Although surrounded by freewheeling sex, the tattooed Arab can’t tear his eyes away from that blonde dressed in white. He works his way closer, his black eyes affixed to her every tormenting curve and voluptuous valley. What a bosom, he thinks to himself. That blouse is as thin as gauze. She wears no brassiere, leaving her ornaments to ride free and high. He chuckles. That bitch will be a generous serving for the man who’ll claim her for the night.

Alchena’s chest aches from relentless bouncing and jiggling. The taste of sour semen still haunts her mouth. Men whoop as she squats and pushes her finger under her booty-shorts to caress and tease her pussy mound. It’s still tender after accepting two repulsive Uzbek’s cocks ten minutes earlier. Rising, she pivots and flexes like a cobra snake. The blinding spotlight swings away. Below, in the mishmash of shouting men, the American blonde stands out like a white rose in a patch of ugly brown weeds. That’s gotta be her, she says to herself.

The music switches to bone-rattling thuds. White strobe lights blink. Sandwiched in the mob of men, Rikki winces. Gawd, don’t these people ever bathe? The Russians stink like fesses and the Arabs, well they smell worse than a herd of Syrian camels. Suddenly something pushes repeatedly against her backside. She whirls around to confront the attacker. Lit by pulsing strobe lights is a gigantic coal-black mountain of shirtless blubber, white teeth, red gums and a pair of eyes — lusty African eyes.

“Do you fuck as good as you look?” the African asks, as his massive amounts of fat jiggle to the sharp thudding music.

Rikki totters back for a second, gawking at his sheer size.

He steps closer. “How much to do-it?”

“Blow it out your ass, twinkle-toes,” she snaps right into the African’s face.

The African jiggles as he laughs. Without warning, he grabs her, mashing her body to his. Five grimy oil workers close in. They roar with laughter as she struggles to no avail. He’s just too damn strong.

“Let me go,” Rikki pleads.

Suddenly, a powerful arm comes out of nowhere and clamps around the African’s jaw. The arm’s huge tattooed biceps clench, snapping the African’s head backward.

“You heard the lady. Let her go,” a deep voice growls.

The oil workers stop laughing and quickly move away. Rikki wrenches free and bulldozes her way through the gawking onlookers.

Atop her pedestal, Alchena dances and watches Rikki’s humiliating retreat. “Bad news, girlie,” she says through a soft giggle. “You won’t last long messing with these wolves.”

“Get lost asshole,” the big Arab snarls as he shoves him. The African beats a hasty withdrawal.

Alchena pushes her foot forward toward a hungry Russian. He sticks out his tongue and licks her boot as if it were a lollipop.

Ten feet away, the tattooed Arab has a curious glint in his eyes. He follows Rikki, apparently magnetized her implied display of backdoor cleavage. Now there’s a babe that really fills a pair of trousers, he thinks to himself. Bitch’s feisty too. She knows she has half the schmucks in this place pissing their pants with her provocative clothes and flirtatious look. He cocks his head and leans toward the lanky weasel-like man at his side.

“Mohammad? See that American woman?”

“She is a juicy one,” the weasel says.

“Find out who she is and where she stays.”

The weasel nods. “We gonna employ her? American girls fetch big money in Cairo.”

“Not just yet,” the big Arab says. He looks toward Alchena.

Atop her pedestal, she’s stroking her pussy with one hand. With the other, she lifts each breast, rolling her nipples, which protrude provocatively through her thin top. She looks down. Rikki squeezes through the men at the base of Alchena’s pedestal. She looks up and waves. Alchena smiles down at her and nods.

Suspicion instantly paints the big Arab’s dark face. “Something’s going down,” he maltepe escort tells the weasel. “Watch that American woman. Report what you see.”

The weasel shrugs his bony shoulders and nods.

“Fuck off asshole,” Rikki growls as she elbows another butt-pincher. Dammit. Being pawed and goosed aren’t in the job description. Better retreat to safer ground.

Skirting a group of rugged Iraqi oil workers, Rikki takes refuge in a less populated spot. She sits on the edge of an empty table. The noise is deafening. The stench of stale booze, stale hashish and fresh piss invade her nostrils. “Nothing like spending a romantic evening in a sewer,” she grumbles aloud. Her eyes sweep past the weasel-like man. “Now there’s a guy that could star as an ax-murderer in a Stephen King novel,” she says into the recorder. She swings her gaze to the young girl she’s about to interview. “Alchena’s geometry is trim and tight. When these guys fantasize about a harem queen, Alchena’s image would be front row center.”

An ear-piercing shriek cuts off Rikki’s thoughts. Drums pound. Cymbals clash. Spotlight beams swing in wide arcs. Rikki stands to see what the commotion is all about.

Alchena screams at the top of her lungs. Cloth tears as she violently rips her camisole off and spins it around, vibrating her naked chest wildly. She tosses the garment into the air and it flutters down into the cheering mob. Rikki shakes her head. That’ll be fodder for wet dreams for years. Rikki’s nostrils flare. There’s a heady scent of fresh booze and stale body odor. She tenses. There’s a disconcerting feeling of uninvited hands sliding around her waist.

“Mister,” she says softly without turning around. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep your hands off me.”

He laughs, tightening his hold to her waist. Hot breath fans across Rikki’s ear. “You make joke, yes?” he says in a low grating voice.

She squirms as the hands inch upward — toward her breasts. She twists around slowly. Lusty Lebanese eyes greet hers’.

“You don’t hear too good, do you?” she says with a deadpan look.

“Oh baby, you’re so well, soft and warm.”

“I’m glad,” Rikki says, her tone cool and smooth. “But you see, you don’t understand.”

“What don’t I understand?”

“That I’m a paid assassin and I’m working this party.”

He freezes instantly. His hands jerk away. Lust melts from his face in an instant. As he backs away, Rikki follows, her head forward, aggressively invading his space.

“Okay buster, as I see it, you got two picks here. Hang round, and you get caught in the crossfire. Then you go home to mama in a rubber bag. Or, you can buzz off and go jack-off in the toilet.”

“Ah, sorry-sorry,” he says backing away. “See-ya.”

“Gawd, what’s next?” Rikki mutters. “Some smelly scumbag offering a hundred bucks to chew the rivets off my jeans?” Moving around a waitress, she makes her way toward the very back of the club.

The weasel follows, nonchalantly keeping an eye on her every move. He too is smitten by Rikki’s natural good looks and raw sex appeal.

Rikki sits down at a round table, orders a Club Soda and continues her electronic note taking. “The locals and tourists alike seem happy. However, scratch the surface and the reminders of civil war, and the irony of it, are never far away. Say the wrong thing and the rebellious side of Beirut can rear up with the dagger-like teeth of a Tyrannosaurus Rex.” She pauses and sips her drink. “Definite divisions still sizzle in Lebanon. Smoldering religious fundamentalism sits side by side with naked consumerism –.”

Ten minutes later Alchena’s curvy figure materializes from the thick smoke. Rikki’s eyebrows rise. Alchena has changed into chocolate-colored-curve-loving latex pants and a silky beige Baby-doll tee. Cropped just below her breasts, it hugs her swaying chest like a fine coating of body spray. Stiletto-heal boots complete the diva-display, but the Muslim headscarf looks ridiculously out of place.

“Come here often?” Alchena asks.

Rikki shrugs. “Only when I have an uncontrollable urge for smelly armpits.”

She laughs at Rikki’s quick wit. They introduce each other. As Alchena sits down, Rikki can’t help but notice the rhinestones that circle a daring oval hole cut just below the pants’ back waistband.

“Now that’s a rear-view that’d make a blind man drool,” Rikki says through a smile.

“In my business, what’s better than bare?” Alchena giggles. “Okay, Miss Rikki Lovette. You’re a reporter. I’m a hooker. Make me famous.”

Rikki switches on the tape recorder. “Let’s start with where you were born.”

“Between my mother’s legs.”

Rikki laughs. “The bigger picture please.”

“Palestine. The Gaza Strip. It’s on all the tourist guidebooks. If you’re a Jew, watch out for wayward missiles.”

“I’m not Jewish, but I’ll certainly keep that in mind.”

As she speaks about her childhood, Rikki watches her face. Alchena is strikingly lovely. Her big brown eyes are wise, her kartal escort lips luscious and smile infectious.

“School?” Rikki asks.

“No school. If your parents tell you you’re stupid enough times you start to believe it.” She sighs. “Once I did dream of going to America to live with the Brady Bunch.”

“Their loss,” Rikki says with a chuckle.

“Also, I dream about fall in love, like in American movies and,” she pauses mid-sentence. “Being a young Arab girl is curse!”

Rikki arches an eyebrow. “Why do you say that?”

She leans forward in her chair. “Alchena’s story make sick. You like sick?”

Rikki gestures to her bare belly with her thumb. “Strong stomach.”

“You won’t print my story in your magazine.”

“Rikki smiles. “Try me.”

“Okay, you’re on.” Alchena leans even closer. “My father beat me when I was six. He sodomized me when I was eight. Then my uncle raped me when I was ten.”

Rikki winces.

“When I was eleven, Father say, ‘you marry cousin Ja-ja Muk-moody.’ I was just a kid. No tits, no hair, no nothing.”

Rikki slides the recorder closer. “Tell me about him.”

“Ja-ja Muk-moody has bad temper. He love fighting and want go to Iraq. He want to join the Islamist insurgency and make war with the Americans. He tell Alchena he like killing more than woman.”

“How romantic.”

“After wedding, Ja-ja Muk-moody take me to dirty hotel. He say, ‘take off clothes.’ Alchena so scared. When I say no, he hit me. I hit him back. Then I run into the toilet and lock the door. Muk-moody is real mad. He breaks the door. He has big knife. He yells, ‘do-it or I cut you between your legs.'”

Rikki cringes. “Oh jeeze.”

“Then he push me on the floor and hit my face and — and cuts hijab from my body. His penis is so big. My vulva can’t open. He yells ‘Alchena frigid bitch.’ I was so mad I spit in his face. Then he twist this arm so hard I thought I’d die. Doctor say shoulder socket broke. Muk-moody told doctor it was a wedding gift. They both laugh at me.”

“Nice way to start a marriage. What happened next?”

“Mak-moody tell doctor to cut me open. Next time he try fuckie, it felt like he going to toilet in me. Alchena throw up on him.”

Her words make Rikki’s skin crawl.

“When Mak-moody come home from making war, he tie me up, strip me down, take me, and then piss in my face when he was done.”

Rikki’s stomach knots. “Oh you poor thing.”

“I dare you to print THAT in your magazine.”

“It’ll go in word-for-word. Tell me, how’d you wind up here?”

“One day, Mak-moody smuggles me into Lebanon. He takes me to whorehouse. He say, ‘Go, learn to be proper woman.’ Then he go away.”

“That’s so sad.”

Alchena shrugs. “Whorehouse is better than a hopeless life in Beirut streets. The girls take me in. There, I grow nice titties, learn good English, how to strip-dance and how to please a man.”

Rikki nods. “Tell me about the first time you ah, did-it.”

“He was a big-fat Saudi. I cried the whole time. But after a while –.”

On the other side of the club, the big Arab’s eyes widen as the weasel whispers in his ear. His thick tattooed biceps tighten.

Rikki looks into Alchena’s dark eyes. “Fakhri al-Amari said something about going to college?”

Alchena laughs. “And give up all this?”

“Then you’re not?”

She beams. “Three-point-four G.P.A. Alchena work hard and pay all. If Beirut police ever find me without papers, Alchena go to horrid prison. So, I use forged papers and another name for school. When I have money, Alchena go back to Gaza and open safe house for troubled girls. Then –.” Suddenly Alchena’s face goes chalk-white. She bites her lip.

“What’s the matter?” Rikki asks, instantly picking up on her concern.

“It Abu Bukhari.”

“qaHbeh!” a deep voice growls. “Why are you talking?”

Alchena’s lips tremble. Expecting the worst, Rikki twists around. The first five-seconds are like an electric shock. Thick thighs — fitted black pants — thin waist — enticing center bulge — massive tattooed biceps — wide muscled chest — rugged semi-attractive face — deep blackish liquid eyes — earrings. Put an electric guitar in his hands and he could be a rock star — a sexy rock star.

“Ma Ismok?” Bukhari says his dark eyes boring into Rikki’s.

Quickly recalling his thuggish attempt at gallantry, she dredges up her best nice-to-meet you smile. “Ana ismee Rikki Lovette. I’m a reporter wi–.”

Bukhari suddenly grabs Rikki’s arm and yanks her up. The chair tumbles to the floor with a clatter.

“Hey? Who pissed in your Wheaties?” Rikki snaps.

Bukhari jerks her closer. They’re eye-to-eye.

“Let go or I’ll scream,” Rikki hisses into this face.

Bukhari laughs. “Oh you’ll scream all right. When I take you to the toilet and fuck you right up your round American ass.”

That ignites a bombshell that starts in Rikki’s boobs and explodes right between her butt-cheeks. “How dare you! I’m a professional American journalist and –.

“Please Abu,” Alchena whimpers softly. “Leave her alone. We were just talk–.”

Bukhari glares at Alchena. “Your mouth is not paid for talking,” he shouts. “Use it to hustle customers. Make money before I pound you to a pulp.”

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