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My Date With Sultaana Freeman by Crad Kilodney

My Date With Sultaana Freeman  by Crad Kilodney

May 2003

 

 

A mutual friend fixed me up with Sultaana Freeman. I guess you’d have to call it a blind date because no one except her relatives had any idea what she looked like.

As I drove up to her house, I saw her standing at the curb, covered in a black shroud and veil. Only her eyes were visible. I got out and greeted her with exaggerated cheerfulness. She replied with a perfunctory “How do you do.”

In the car, she buckled herself in and stared straight ahead. I was going to tell her a joke but forgot what it was. “Where are you taking me?” she asked.

“I thought we’d go to a drive-in.”

“What is playing?”

I didn’t want to tell her it was a soft-core porn flic. “It’s a drama.”

“A drama about what?”

“Uh…hygiene.”

“Hygiene?”

“Yes.” As we drove, I tried to make conversation. “So, what do you wear beneath that, uh, black thing?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like, do you wear normal stuff like a bra and panties?”

She looked at me coldly. “I am quite normal.”

“Yeah, good. How about a garter belt and stockings?”

She glared at me for a moment. “Stockings.”

“So, like, do you go in for really skimpy panties or g-strings?”

“Your questions are impertinent. I hope you understand this is just a friendly date.”

“Sure, sure, why not, heh, heh.”

When we got to the entrance of the drive-in, the cashier, a heavily made-up woman in her fifties, asked, “Is that girl eighteen?”

“Yes,” Sultaana replied testily.

“Let’s see your driver’s license,” the cashier demanded.

“She doesn’t have one,” I explained. “She has this legal battle going with the State.”

Sultaana reached into her handbag and pulled out a well-worn piece of paper, which she unfolded and handed across the seat to the cashier. It looked like a birth certificate. The cashier looked at it briefly and handed it back. “Ten dollars, please.”

I paid and accepted the ticket stubs, and we drove into the lot, which was about half full. The sky was just getting dark. I parked in the last row. “There,” I said. “Uh, you wanna sit in the back? We’ll be more comfortable.” I figured if I could get her into the back, I’d score at least a hand job for sure. There was a moment of hesitation, and then she unbuckled herself and got out. I moved the front seat forward and got in the back with her.

As the movie started, she shifted nervously and looked away from the screen. I moved closer to her and put my arm around her rigid shoulders. I looked at her shrouded form, trying to determine whether her tits were worth going for. “Don’t you have buttons on the front of this thing?” I asked.

“No, so you can stop looking.”

I had my left arm around her and gradually moved my hand toward her left tit. “You know, I really admire your courage,” I said. “I mean, fighting for your religious rights. Not too many people have the nerve to, uh, to stick to what they believe in.”

“Yes.”

I put my right hand tentatively on her thigh. “I might become a Muslim myself.”

“You must read the Koran every day.” She picked up my right hand and removed it from her thigh. I was getting a hard-on.

I reached over and took her hand and, after pretending merely to hold it for a minute, I slowly brought it over to my crotch.

“What are you doing?” she said sharply, tearing her hand free.

“How about rubbing me,” I said boldly. “I got a hard-on like a fuckin’ telephone pole.”

“You are insolent!”

I coughed nervously and sat still for a minute. Then I slowly unzipped my fly as inconspicuously as I could. I pressed her toward me. “You could blow me under your veil, and no one would see.”

“You are disgusting!” she said, moving away from me. I shifted right over next to her.

“Oh, there’s a dollar on the floor,” I said, feigning surprise. I reached down where her feet were and then quickly tried to burrow my hand under her shroud.

“Stop it!” she said, hurling my hand away.

“Jeez, how many layers you got under there? You worried about cosmic rays or something?”

“Is sex all you think about?”

“No, of course not….” I thought for a moment. “I also think about violence.”

“I am trained in martial arts,” she said, glaring at me through the slit of her veil.

I slumped back, temporarily beaten. Okay, some dates get off on the wrong foot. It happens.

A change of gears was called for. “Want something from the snack bar?”

“Yes. I would like some peanuts and a Diet Coke.”

“Right! Coming right up!” I got out and strode jauntily to the snack bar, smiling to give the impression that I was having an excellent date. When I returned with the snack, I found Sultaana reading the Koran and ignoring the movie. I handed her the snack.

“You know, if you’re bored, we can go to my place. We can watch a video,” I ventured.

“What sort of video?”

“I’ve got some really interesting German B-and-D stuff.”

“What is that?” she asked, munching her peanuts and sipping her drink beneath her veil.

“Bondange and domination,” I replied with a straight face. “It’s about the struggle of people in bondage.”

She looked at me quizzically. “Is it a documentary?”

 

“Yeah, yeah, it’s a documentary, filmed right as it happened. There’s stuff about men oppressing women.”

“In what way?”

“Well, there’s whipping and stuff.”

She stopped chewing and put her drink down. “And are these women naked, by any chance?”

“Uh…well…yeah, in a manner of speaking.”

She put her snack on the floor. “You are a disgusting pig. Take me home at once.”

Impulsively, I reached for her chest. “Just show me your tits, baby, come on!” She smacked me. I gave up and got out. She made no effort to move from the back seat.

I drove back with my balls aching with disappointment. In the rear-view mirror, I could see her reading her Koran.

When we got to her house, she let herself out and slammed the car door behind her. I moved over and called out from the window. “How about next Saturday? We’ll go for a long drive! You can tell me all about Islam! Hey, I’ll eat you like you’ve never been eaten before!”

She went inside the house, shut the door, and turned off the front light.

Whew!…Sultaana Freeman….Some broads are like that. It’s all an act, you know. You just have to find out where the right button is and push it. Then they turn into total sluts. Believe me. I know all about women.

 

by Crad Kilodney

 

 

All material at Dead Man Talking/ www.cradkilodneyarchives.wordpress.com  is copyright © by Crad Kilodney. All rights reserved.
Crad166@yahoo.com

Crad Kilodney, P.O. Box 72577, 345 Bloor St. East, Unit 7, Toronto, ON, M4W 3S9

Crad’s new writing is now at CradKilodney.wordpress.com

 

 

 

 

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