The second Persian is four years after the first. And, Sepehr, I am so grateful for you. You were the transition in becoming a cougar. You set up the taste for Persians that still persists. Everyone needs a Persian Prince. Or five.
I’m driving. Again, crossing the country. This time, I have taken every Interstate so many times I would rather go out of my way to find new roads. On the way South from St. Louis I take the 54, a smaller highway that will bypass the I-70 and take me through the Ozarks directly to Wichita. This turns out to be a bad idea.
I have to stay somewhere in Kansas, and even if I weren’t craving new roads I would rather drive off my route to stay somewhere other than what’s along the I-70 in Kansas. I even know the anti-choice billboards by heart. My favorite is one in the middle of bumfuck nowhere cornfield Kansas, a giant white letters on black monstrosity rising out of the 2000 mile swath of clockwork cookiecutter that is GM corn in the US in the new millennium, reading
“IF YOU DIE TODAY, WHERE WILL YOU SPEND ETERNITY?”
I always mumble to myself “ANYWHERE BUT HERE”.
I look for a host in Wichita. Once upon a time in college, I had a lover from there, and even though it’s the largest city in Kansas, it being off my usual routes has kept me from it. I find a host, he’s 27, Persian. From Iran. Getting his masters’ in mechanical engineering. I think about what it must be like to come from Iran to Kansas and shake my head.
His profile is thinly veiled for sex, but he seems cute and offers a massage so what the hell. I don’t even think about becoming a cougar. I send a request. He can’t host me, but he offers to massage me anywhere I stay. He expects me to choose a cheap Airbnb but I tell him I’ll text him from the hotel, and book a room at the Hyatt Regency because there is no Hilton. I’m in the mood for the anonymity provided by a hotel experience. I’m in the mood for a top floor view.
The thing about driving on small roads is that that’s also what people who don’t want to be seen sometimes do. It’s beautiful but I have little time to enjoy it. Soon there’s a Missouri State Trooper behind me. I look down to see if I’m speeding, I’m not. The car tails me for what seems like hours. I get off to get gas. I get back on. It’s nowhere to be seen. I’m happy for a while, listening to my tunes, bopping my head. Until I see it. Going 40 in a 65 zone. I have to pass it. Driving carefully, both hands on the wheel. I don’t look at it.
Then it’s tailing me again. Eventually it passes me. Finally. Phew. Again I’m happy, driving, listening to my music, looking at the scenery which is definitely getting more interesting. I’m even more happy when I see it pull off at an exit ahead of me.
But it’s a ruse. It pulls back onto the highway and pulls me over near a rare sorghum field amidst the corn.
He’s in a vest. Huge. White. He’s in khaki. He has a big hat. He runs my plates, looks at my car. I reflect on all the times I’ve been delayed and detained traveling the great USA, and all the times I’ve never been delayed or detained anywhere else (except Canada. Fuck Canada.) I ask him why he pulled me over.
“Because when I passed you, you pulled back in your seat and put your hands on the wheel. That’s what people do when they have something to hide.” he explains.
I stare at him, baffled at his shoddy police work. I am rattled and anxious, but not afraid.
“It also might be what people do when law enforcement officers tail them for hours on a lonely road.” I say, knowing I’ll regret it. Interrogation commences.
“Where are you headed?”
“Wichita.” I respond.
“Why are you going there?” he asks.
“To visit a friend.”
“Do you have any drugs in the car?” he asks.
“No sir. Clean and sober. Am I free to go?” I cut him off. I’m trying to seem cheery but I’m furious. He sees that I will be a pain in the ass. He waves me off, but then is tailing me again. At the next exit he finally gets off, and I see that there is a police station there, and that he is pulling in. I pass, thankfully, never to see him again.
Thus – for the first time ever – I am grateful when I pass the state line into Kansas.
This takes up two hours of my six hour drive. I’m still rattled when I arrive and take a pull off the bottle of mezcal I keep in my trunk, a nice Tobala. It’s lovely. I check in with it in my purse and take a few more sips off it in the hotel room before taking a walk along the Arkansas river which winds its way through town. I come upon large metal sculpture representing a Native American in headdress calling towards the East. It is named “Keeper of the Plains”.
It is quiet. The wind is mild and warm, but gusty. I sense the feeling of the place. It has an energy. It is exposed.
The weather has time to build itself when heading to Wichita.
And so do I. I am showering and changing and applying an essential oil blend of patchouli, sandalwood, cedarwood, and some other trees, plus some vetiver. It’s made by my hippie friend and has become a good luck charm – apply this for good sex.
I meet Sepehr for a drink in the hotel bar. He keeps pushing to meet me at my room, but I want a chance to back out. I’m impressed that he pushes so hard.
He’s handsome and well-groomed, polite, attentive, eager, positive, and bright. Light brown skin, thick black hair, rounded features. He hugs me hello and insists on buying me a drink. We make chitchat about Wichita, and I learn that it is where White Castle, Pizza Hut, Cessna, and Beechcraft got their start. We have a lively conversation about mechanical engineering, law enforcement experiences, and Iran. Almost exactly at 30 minutes he asks if I want that massage. Now I’m thinking about becoming a cougar.
“Yeah. Let’s do that.” I smile.
I’ve had about four shots of liquor which at my current level of tolerance makes me just past buzzed into drunk. When we walk into my room I just strip, hand him a bottle of my own oil, and lie face down on the bed. Sepehr looks at me in awe for my lack of inhibitions.
“You better strip too if you don’t want oil on your clothes.” He takes off his clothing. His body is nice, fit, but soft from a bit of indulgence. He’s a beautiful golden mocha color and, sadly, he is completely hairless. He’s removed it all. I’m not surprised.
The massage feels great, but it’s not five minutes of it before he’s asking me
“Do you want me to massage you inside?”
I just say “Mmmmm” and spread my legs. His oily fingers curl into my pussy from behind. He finger fucks me gently. I am impatient.
“Play with my clit if you want me to appreciate you.” I say.
It’s a good guess. He hasn’t yet learned that that’s where it’s at. I sense too much porn. I teach him to get me off, but it’s a slow process and he keeps trying to go for my holes. Eventually he makes me come.
“I want to be in there so badly” he says, putting his fingers back inside me. It seems that it’s not only too much porn – he is also very into penetration.
I grab a polyurethane condom so that the oil he’s slathered all over my pussy doesn’t lead to unfortunate consequences. Rolling it on to him, I note that he’s rock hard and raring to go. I haven’t been with anyone under 30 since I was, and I am taken aback by it. I realize that I’ve been too hard on guys over 30.
The moment Sepehr enters me it’s a whole new game. The man loves to fuck. It’s an acrobatic, fun, seemingly endless romp that uses the entire room. We go through two condoms in the first session. I’m giggling and he talks to me in that beautiful Persian accent.
“I love fucking this pussy. I could fuck this pussy every day”
Turning into jelly on toast when he says that, just melting into soft, pillowy pussy for him to work with expert strokes. We are back on the bed. He’s arching his back and fucking me slowly and the condom slips off and gets stuck inside me. Sepehr notices instantly and pulls out.
“Oh, I’m sorry, but I think it just happened. Let me get that for you.” he expertly reaches his fingers deep inside of me and retrieves it, no scratches, no stretching, following my every fold.
“I’m impressed. You know my insides pretty well for a 27-year old.” I say. He kisses me and stares me in the eyes.
“Age is just a number” he says.
It’s the first time I hear it, but certainly not the last.
And then we are fucking again, legs spread, legs crossed, legs over his shoulders, legs scissored, from above, from below, diagonal, left, right, on the table, over the table, on the desk, over the desk, every which way a chair can be used.
“Oh I’m close, do you mind?” he asks. I just laugh, backing towards the bed, beckoning him with my arms. He falls into me again and gives me my favorite part. The heat. The intensity, the sweat. The focus. The need and effort folding together and disappearing into abandonment. All those moments before the last. And as we are locked in step, my legs circle around his ass, slamming him into me in a way I know I’ll regret. He lowers his head and I grab the outline of the pendant he wears around his neck in my teeth and pull him to me with it. At that, he comes. He needs no recovery.
He grabs a towel and uses it to pull the condom off and throw it towards the trash, then lies back down on his side, looking at me eager-eyed.
“Can I make you come again?” he asks.
“Yes, rub me like this and tell me about your pendant like I’m your best friend.” I say, putting his fingers where I want them.
“My best friend, Sardar, would love you, and you would love him too.” he says. I hear deep love for his friend in his voice. It’s hot. “But enough about him. You want to know about Cyrus the Great.”
“Who? I do.”
“You are so smart, and so hot, but still a dumb American slut who doesn’t know about the world.” he says, in a teasing voice, spanking me on my thigh.
“Do you like knowing that every time I hear about Cyrus the Great it will remind me of you?” I ask.
“I do.” He says. And then he tells me about the ancient kingdom. And then he tells me that that’s what the Faravahar that he wears around his neck symbolizes to him, Cyrus on top a bird. Later I learn it can have many meanings, and is currently worn by a certain kind of Iranian. One with pride in a made up version of their Zoroastrian heritage.
But now, I love it. I am riding a magic carpet to ancient kingdoms as painted by Sepehr’s accent, his timbre, his voice, and I am sliding into sleep when I feel the tip of his hard cock against my leg.
I grab it and stroke it harder. Sepehr moans and reaches for one of the condoms now strewn around the room.
“You’re ready again?” I say, in amazement.
“For you, always” he says, entering me gently and moaning with satisfaction and need.
“Age isn’t just a number.” I say, smiling. He laughs.
“Your pussy is magic, so tight, so young.” he says, fucking me, looking me in the eyes, kneading my breasts. “Your body drives me wild.”
“I can’t last too long, I’m going to get sore, don’t hold back on me.” I say. He doesn’t waste time. He fucks me like he means it, working so hard, single-minded, inhaling me, curling into me, leveraging himself, and shaking into a loud, messy orgasm.
We sleep maybe two hours before he’s at it again. We fuck until we run out of condoms, and then pass out until checkout time. I kiss him goodbye. I go to the Kansas Aviation Museum and see planes and aviation history and feel light as a feather.
“Please come visit! I would enjoy fucking a fresh wife.”
Sadly, three years later I still have not seen Sepehr again, but…
He eventually does hook me up with his best friend from Iran…
Like stories about age differences? Here’s more:
Sex During Ramadan: The Indian Lovers: Ramadan
Flashback to when I was 19 (this one is about a younger woman/older man): The European Lovers: Amsterdam (Live Sex Shows)
My favorite cub:
1: How we met: Young Persian Lover
2: Bardia on Drugs: Babysitter
3: Meeting in Boston: Hot Cougar Roleplay
4: Meeting in Cambridge: The Persian Lovers: Bardia at Cambridge