Hot wife loves when i talk dirty in arabic

The sun beat down mercilessly on the rocky desert landscape, the heat shimmering off the sand in blinding waves. Yet within the cool, dim confines of their traditional Bedouin tent, change was in the air – a sultry, charged energy that hung heavy like the thick scent of incense. At the center of the tent, Yasmina lounged back on a pile of plush silk cushions, her eyes half-lidded and smoldering as she watched her husband Kalil stride into the room. He was a striking figure, his deeply tanned skin glistening with a sheen of sweat, tight robes outlining his muscular frame.

Yasmina snapped her fingers imperiously, summoning her young handmaid Amara to bring them spiced wine. The girl bobbed a curtsy, her heart fluttering at a glance of the master’s chiseled features as she scurried off. Yasmina watched her go with a smirk tugging at her full lips, painted the color of ripe figs.

“An obedient little thing, isn’t she?” Kalil rumbled, his voice a low growl in the back of his throat. He sank down onto the cushions beside his wife, one heavy hand resting possessively on her hip. “She’d never dream of displeasing us, would she?”

Yasmina shivered at his touch, a pleasant tingle racing up her spine. “No, she wouldn’t dare. I’ve whipped that notion right out of her.” Her voice was honeyed poison, laced with wicked promise.

Kalil hummed, approval evident in the pleased uptick of his mouth. “Good. A woman should be taught to obey.” Slowly, he trailed his hand up her side, fingertips ghosting lightly over the curve of her breast before grazing higher, taking the angry red well she’d acquired during his absence between urgent fingers and thumb. The mark was still tender, and Yasmina gasped as he pinched and rolled it, sending stars wheeling behind her eyes.

“So responsive,” Kalil purred, satisfaction evident in the thick, drawn-out syllables of his native Arabic. “She may not have a mouth on her as filthy as my Yasmina, but the little slut will do nicely for what I have in mind.” He leaned closer, hot breath gusting over the shell of her ear. “Tell me, beloved, how do you feel about sharing?”

A shiver ran through her, anticipation thrumming in her veins like liquid fire. “Anything you desire, husband. You know I live to please you.”

Kalil’s eyes flashed, pupils blown wide with lust. “Mmm, you do indeed.” He paused as Amara returned, the girl holding a pewter tray bearing two goblets of inky wine. Kalil waved her off with an impatient gesture and turned back to his wife, mischief dancing in his gaze. “I missed you.”

“I know you did,” Yasmina purred, pressing close. “And I missed you. But one can miss a person without missing the act of fucking.” She bit her lip, a sinuous, fluid wave of gold and honey as she arched beneath his touch. “I have needs, husband.”

He laughed, low and rich, sliding a hand up her thigh to cup the heat of her between pressing fingers. “Yes you do, lovely Yasmina. Very insistent needs.” He strummed fat thumb over her clit, making her sex quiver. “Fortunately for you, I’ve brought a friend for you to play with while I’m away.”

Yasmina felt her cunt clench, picturing it in lurid detail – Kalil, his muscles rippling beneath desert-bronzed skin, holding her down, enormously hard inches from her face. Her head filled with matter-of-fact, thickly accented Arabic, laced with gravelly, gravelly grunts and groans, telling her – not asking, not in the least – how eager he was to split her open, to fuck her to shrieking, shattered orgasms, to flood her with his seed.

“Oh, yes,” she breathed, moving restlessly beneath him, pressing closer, wanting, needing. “Let him come to me, husband. I want it. I want them to see me, to know what you do to me – how you break me apart, how you make me scream.”

He groaned, trapped between her thighs, fingers flexing, kneading, stroking. “Take it, then. Take what I give you.” His cock jerked against her belly, rigid and insistent. “Know that when I return, you’re mine again. All mine.”

“Yes,” she cried out, bucking into the rub of his fingers. “Yours. Yours from the first moment. I’ll never forget that. I’ll never forget how you make me feel.”

“Fucking right you won’t.” His voice was gravel, a low rasp. She panted, needy, as he peeled back thick lips to bare intense, shattering blue eyes and white teeth, all male hunger and desire. There was possessiveness in the set of his mouth, his jaw, and he hovered over her, eclipsing her with the heat of him, the pressure. “Do you trust me?”

“Of course I trust you,” Yasmina panted, wrapping herself around him, sinking her nails into his shoulders as he pressed at her entrance, that thick ridge of him dragging through her soaked folds. “I trust you above all else.”

“Dh Rochelle ti-lfit, mi’ਣ Rowland,” he growled, the accent thick and rich, the gravelly drawl making her shudder, wetting her instantly.

She’d always loved hearing him speak Arabic. There was something about the clipped precision of it, guttural and masculine, every humped syllable strained with lust, need, hunger.

The heat of him was everywhere, his skin slicked with sweat, the salt of it layering his scent. She gasped as he surged forward, splitting her open, filling her absolutely as he ripped a harsh cry from her throat, the satisfaction in his blue eyes fierce, brutal.

Her nails raked down his back, urgeing him on, needing more, needing it all, and he laughed against her throat, a deep rumble that she felt through her entire body.

“Karl Rowland el sharmootiya kinzba,?” he purred, low and filthy. “Kanzab wa takrizak.”

Yasmina tensed, that thickly accented Arabic making her sex clench, and she shuddered as Kalil pulsed inside her.

“Malbon, Sheemtil,” she purred, throwing her head back with a throaty moan, rolling her hips just so to take him deep. “Malbon elzoz elzoz.”