I’m proud of him, and note the weird mixture of feelings. I feel pride in a way that makes it obvious that I am older than him. There are different notes in it – familial, sexual… I am a protege, advisor, lover, and friend.
I find myself in London at least once a year, and so, straight off a plane from three months in the Middle East (wherein I note more hijabis in my London neighborhood than in the one where I stayed in Dubai), I work in a side trip to Cambridge.
I’m there for one night only, sleeping in Bardia’s little basement apartment near the college he attends. It’s a single bed, so he takes the floor with a couple sleeping bags and gives his bed up to me. I think we could fit, but I don’t really need that.
He’s not sure he belongs. He doesn’t.
He picks me up from the train station, warmly embracing me. I’m shocked. He’s matured in the last year, behaviorally, energetically, physically. I miss some of the youthful playfulness, but the man he is maturing into is surprisingly deep, broad, and masculine. The energy between us has shifted.
I change before he shows me around, and he sits down watching me, legs spread, hands clasped. He looks posed. Eager. Entitled. I note my shyness taking off my shirt.
“You did gain weight.” he says, acknowledging an earlier conversation. “I like it. It looks great on you.” he jumps to his feet and caresses my torso with his hands, squeezing me and investigating my textures.
I smile and reach up, draping my hands around his neck. I’m never sure if after not seeing a lover if we will still be lovers the next time we see each other. Without any expectation, it’s a lovely surprise.
Bardia snaps off my bra, grabs my hand and puts it on his cock. Blood and energy surge.
He pushes me to the bed and undoes my pants. I’m giggling, the way he’s taking the lead is new and has ripples of heat radiating down my thighs and up my belly.
He moves like the king I know him to be, shoving his hand down my pants, but then gently, sweetly parting my lips and tracing the contours of my clit so delicately I feel the ridges of his fingertips catch on them, the delicious texture melting me against him, smiling into his chest.
“I remember.” he whispers in my ear, soothing me. I smile even bigger as he expertly works me, playing my clitoris like a delicate instrument, strumming threads of ecstasy into me, sending me into rippling orgasms that he extends, overlaps, and chases through me.
Falling into a trance I come to suckling his chin with my hands around his cock, wrists bent at an angle that pulls my palms away from him. Playing him like a flute, eight fingers down the underside working him in circular rhythms as he gasps, grabbing for some nearby lotion.
Steadily pumping his rigid cock as peaks of need flutter through the taut skin of into my fingers.
“Talk to me Zoe” he demands.
“How come you don’t go with other girls? Is it because they don’t know how to please you like I do.” I pout.
“That’s exactly it.” he says, grinning, rigid in my hands, at the edge. Stroking, pausing, teasing.
And now my fingers are shining, glossy, slipping around and under his head, gripping him hard enough to send a wave of slick lube in front of my stroke. Thumbs skimming over his swollen helmet, making him twitch as I hit spots that give him just a little too much.
“This is what all the other girls want to do but you save it all for me.” I whisper to his cock, knowing he hasn’t been with anyone else since me. “Good boy. This is what you get for saving it for me.”
I’ve learned him well enough to stroke him in his favorite ways. Milking him just where he needs it. Now I turn my attention to dragging him over the precipice and pump his greasy cock hard and fast.
Bardia throws his head back and sucks ragged breath through his teeth.
“Oh that’s too good.” he moans. “You’re TOO good.” he says, feistily, grabbing his cock out of my hands and finishing himself all over my belly.
He lifts his head and stares at his juice running down over my curves. “And too hot.” he finishes, his head dropping back to the pillow.
We don’t rest but a minute before he makes best use of my time there, knowing my penchant for devouring new places, and plays tourguide incessantly, showing me college after college.
I do not feel the Harry Potter magic after a while, it all looks the same. Old, and cold, and settled in its ways.
This is my first taste of the Oxbridge system. I visit Oxford, the town, later, with a townie. The architecture and formality is not what I notice. What I notice is that we are not allowed into all the areas, even with Bardia’s school ID. What I notice is that the white students frolic around and the few who aren’t are asked for ID at the majority of the entrances. I notice that the other students look at Bardia and question whether he belongs.
The classism takes me longer to see. It’s not until I’m seated at the formal Cambridge dinner across from Bardia, next to another American, at a table of primarily old money British students with a smattering of Asian, Middle Eastern, and African tokens all seated together that I begin to see the specific, complex and bizarre construct that is British social class as it relates to Cambridge and Oxford.
It enrages me.
They treat him as a fucking showpiece.
“So tell me Bardia, in Iran do people use the same table settings?” in a posh British accent as she smugly points to the full five course table setting.
“Depends where, but of course at fine restaurants we have the same.” Bardia answers, innocently. He isn’t picking up the exclusion. I am.
He tells jokes, riddles with punchlines, to start conversation. It’s the only way he can enter into their sphere.
I want to scream at him. He isn’t a minstrel. He’s descended from kings.
And I, I am descended from scribes. How long has it been since I would have been one of these showpiece tokens for being Jewish? If they knew, would I be now?
I sit there frowning into the second rate British food, wearing Bardia’s Cambridge gown for warmth, bought second hand like all Bardia wears. He could not afford it, but it is mandatory.
I had thought we’d for sure fuck in the gown, but after dinner I take it off and quietly put it away. Symbols of white supremacy are not a fucking turn-on.
Later he tells me he doesn’t like the English.
“I miss Americans.” he says.
“Really?” I ask.
“Yeah.” he says.
“Like, literally?” I joke, knowing he doesn’t like the US penchant for overusing this term.
“Yes, literally.” he smiles. “Especially the women.” Bardia touches my face. “I miss your freedom.”
I smile at this. Nothing like a stint in the UK to drive that one home.
We’re having a drink in the Hilton bar in Cambridge, because I’m a Hilton Honors Diamond member and I gain points for spending money. I’m sure they’re horrified for the mention here on my blog of debauchery, I certainly don’t gain anything through that.
Last I met Bardia, he didn’t drink. Now he does on occasion, to fit in. He’s in his cider phase. I buy him a cider. I buy myself two double Lagavulin 16’s. I’m in my Scotch phase.
We walk around Cambridge enough that I’m only mildly tipsy by the time we’re back to Bardia’s place. I fall into bed. Bardia stands looking at me, and then shrugs, stripping off his clothing. He grabs a pair of compression leggings from his laundry pile.
“I want you to play with me while I wear these.” he says, and pulls them on. It takes effort. They’re tight. He pulls them all the way on, and then back down below his cock. They squeeze his balls into his cock, like he’s wearing a cockring that only circles halfway.
Bardia begs me to talk to him while I give him a handjob. And so I do. I tell him what a good boy he is, and how hard he works, and how much he deserves to be pampered. And I serpent my hands around him, slowly, excruciatingly edging him for nearly an hour.
He pulls on the leggings, pressing his fingers into his upper hip, writhing.
“Please, please please” he begs. His face is red hot, and I feel him trying to hold back anger. His hips buck into me, and then he is still, whimpering.
I pick a rhythm and push him over. Usually quiet, he lets out a low moan.
“I’ve never come that hard in my life.” Bardia says. He looks over at me. His attention feels a little like an afterthought. His arrogance always has me on the edge of disliking him. He sees it in me and I see him decide to show me some love. “And what do you want?” he asks me, rolling on his side and propping himself upon his elbow.
“I don’t know. Tired of being your caretaker every time. I want you to take control sometimes.”
At this he jerks. I don’t immediately sense what makes him do so, and neither does he. I watch his eyes darken.
“Oh is that what you want.” he says, simply, and gets out of the bed.
I’m wary. I don’t know where this is going.
Bardia smoothly rummages through the corner of his room, producing a length of rope. He binds my hands together in front of me, then binds them to me, forearms jam into hipbones, jutting away from my mound frustratingly preventing me from fiddling with myself.
He ties me off quickly and surely. I want to say something out of the habit of being in a dominant position with him, something like “Oh, is this what we’re doing”, but he clamps his hand over my mouth.
“Shhhhhhh. Shut that mouth.” His voice is almost an octave lower in pitch, and hard-edged.
He lifts me.
Entirely off the bed. I feel the whole of my weight born by his arms and can’t process it. This boy can’t lift me….. can he? What’s happening?
Bardia places me halfway down so that my lower legs are hanging off the edge but my thighs and hips supported. I curl my legs in to pull more of them onto the bed, but he shoves them straight again and slides himself halfway down the bed, flicking off the light. There’s a brief, dark pause.
He pulls off his leggings and bulldozes his soft cock into my mouth. I expect none of it. I want all of it. Warmth slides from my heart to my cunt. I feel my lips pull apart and my pussy sucking for his cock. I need this.
He fucks my head roughly, at first my teeth catching on his loose skin a bit which makes him angry.
“Watch what you’re doing.” he hisses.
His cock thickens and fills my mouth. It’s only been twenty minutes at most since he last came and am wondering how long this will go on at first but I feel lust and passion surging through him and before I know it I feel the muscles in his torso grip down into the final throes. Quickening his pace, he falls into a different rhythm. He isn’t the Bardia I know. He’s on some new shit.
Bardia grabs me by the sides of my head. His cock strains against my palate and he’s rough and careless, bucking his hips against my face full throttle, slamming into my throat.
“That’s what you want.” he grunts, his English thick with Persian sounds, and thrusts one final time.
Bardia comes hard and I taste it, sweet and sour running down the furrow of my tongue to the back of my throat.
He sweetly and quietly unties me and sits at the edge of the bed with his head in his hands. I have that sinking feeling as his reaction sucks the joy out of the experience.
“That was so hot” I say to encourage him.
“That wasn’t me.” he says. “I’m a nice person.” He wallows in guilt for a bit until thankfully I convince him out of it. He is correct. It isn’t him. He was acting. At the core Bardia doesn’t want to dominate, and I see it took something out of him to step into that role. He doesn’t even like cursing, he thinks it’s crude and tells me not to when I do, which tickles me, but I don’t obey.
I take his hand and put it where it matters.
He slides his thumb onto my clit and first and middle finger into me, then pulls me to him for deep sensuous kisses as he slowly massages me and smiles.
When the pandemic hit, the UK pulled Bardia’s student visa during a holiday break, leaving him stranded outside of England, but luckily not in Iran. He waits, like so many others from countries with weak passports, to see how the world will fuck him next.
This story is #4 of 4 dedicated to Bardia:
1: How we met: Young Persian Lover
2: Bardia on Drugs: Babysitter
3: Meeting in Boston: Hot Cougar Roleplay
Like stories about Persians? Read about other Persian Lovers.
Like stories about age differences? Here’s more:
1: Becoming a cougar: Becoming a Cougar
2. Israeli at Burning Man: The Israeli Lovers: Nisim
3. Persian stripper at Burning Man: Persian Stripper
4. Indian lover in Muscat: The Indian Lovers: Ramadan5
5. Flashback to when I was 19 (this one is about a younger woman/older man): The European Lovers: Amsterdam (Live Sex Shows)