Foreign Affairs

by Jacqueline George

  “She made me move my calendar.”

  “Oh? And I liked that one. Why?”

  “I don't like the idea of women being exploited like that. And stared at by all the men. They're only doing it for the money.”

  John did not seem so certain. “I don't know. They certainly look as if they're enjoying themselves.”

  “Of course they are. I know I would,” said Sonya and Pat, wondering what she had fallen into, dropped the subject.

  She supposed she would have to stay for dinner, and the thought of eating with John staring at her breasts made her shiver. Perhaps they would let her change first.

  Sonya went to refresh the drinks and John tried to set his guest at ease. “Sonya's crazy. Never a dull moment living with her.”

  “Where did you meet?”

  “She was a bar girl in a little place south of Iquitos. Looked on me as her ticket out of there. She's come a long way since then.”

  “She was a bar girl?” Pat had never met such a person. “You mean she went with – er…?”

  “With men for money? I don't know. She never charged me anyway. She's been a tailor, a mother, owned a couple of restaurants and now she's the crazy wife of a beat-up geologist on the other side of the world.”

  Sonya reappeared with more cold beer. “John, before I forget,” she said as she climbed in between them, “I'm going to Adelaide tomorrow to stay with Sally. We met her on our last break.” She told Pat. “She's crazy.”

  Pat giggled. “John says you're crazy too.”

  “Maybe. But not as crazy as him. Or Sally.”

  Sonya’s hand fell to John's lap again. He put his arm around her and drew her close. “Crazy lady,” he murmured in her ear.

  Pat felt relaxed. Perhaps it was just the beer after a long day. I don't mind what she's doing, They're sitting right next to me, and she's playing with him. I can just see her hand through the water. And I don't mind. A feeling of well-being trickled through her. She gave a good stretch, lifting her breasts clear of the water and into the light of the setting sun.

  “Isn't she nice?” asked Sonya. “I bet you'd like to get your hands on those, wouldn't you?” She wiggled her hand ostentatiously. “Yes, it says he would definitely like to give them a try.”

  Pat giggled again. Christ, she thought, I must be getting drunk. I'd better be careful or God knows what might happen.

  Dinner intervened. While John opened the wine, Pat followed Sonya into the kitchen, offering to help. They did not let her change before dinner and, yes, John watched her breasts throughout the meal. But she did not mind. In fact, she had begun to like being admired. She felt she deserved it.

  For the next few days, John behaved as his normal cheerful self at the office. He made no mention of their evening together, and he did not seem to want to make a pass at her. Pat was vaguely disappointed. Every other man in the camp had tried already.

  Sonya sent a postcard to the office, discreetly hidden in an envelope. John laughed as he read it and passed it over. The picture was of New Brighton beach—harmless. On the back, in an erratic scrawl, Sonya had written, “Having a good time here. Sally met me at the airport and took me straight to bed. Carl came back from work and wanted to join in, but we wouldn't let him until he had taken us to the beach and out for a meal. Then we wore him out. Sally is very sad you could not come, but she is sending you a pair of her knickers as a souvenir, and a magazine to cheer you up. She says to look carefully at the pictures and see if you still recognise her.

  “Give my love to Pat and keep your hands off her until I get back. I should be back in time for the camp disco. See you soon, love Sonya.”

  Pat felt shocked. She knew Sally was meant to be crazy, and goodness knows Sonya was no blushing rose, but what sort of people were they? John smiled at her. “I guess I'll just have to keep my hands to myself.”

  “You'll be in a minority.” Pat felt pretty heated about that. “Just about everybody else fancies their chances. They're all sex-mad. They've only got one thing on their minds, and I hate it.”

  “Oh, you mustn't be too hard on them. Most of them don't get a woman from one holiday to the next. Then it's off to the Philippines or Thailand to screw themselves silly. And you are pretty tempting, you know.”

  “Why can't they just treat me like an ordinary engineer? Why must they always bring sex into it?”

  “They do treat you like an engineer. But you can't blame them for mentally undressing you every morning. I do it myself.”

  Pat was horrified. “But that's awful. You mean that every time you look at me you want to take my clothes off?”

  “Certainly do,” said John cheerfully. “Same goes for everyone else. Look—I've got to go over to the other base for a few days. Would you mind watering our house plants while I'm away?”

  Pat felt too astonished at his revelation to refuse.

  Watering the plants was easy enough; the house had automatic sprayers outside anyway. Inside, it had already begun to show signs of bachelor disarray. A padded envelope lay open on the breakfast table, and the tiny white panties on top showed it had come from Sally. She picked them up and, because she was a woman, looked at the label. Wow! Sally or her partner had a touch of class.

  She turned to the magazine and let it fall open. Fascinated, she delved deeper. Apart from a couple of professionally shot sequences at the beginning, it was full of amateur snap-shots. Girlfriends and wives of all shapes, colours and sizes photographed in their front rooms, in their gardens, on the beach. Some showed their faces, some had them blanked out or shadowed. So many of them. Pat supposed they must be ordinary people, but who exactly? Weren't they afraid that a friend would see them? Or their families? Why did they do it anyway?

  And which one was Sally? Most of the photos had tags like “Debbie —NSW,” so she started to search for Sally from South Australia. She found her lying on a beach with the swash of a wave ebbing past her, leaning back on her elbows and soaking up the sun. A beautiful girl, she could see that. Long blonde hair, neat little breasts, very pointed. She sat with her legs open just enough to display a total absence of hair. Had John been in there, Pat wondered? She felt sure he had, and a shade of envy crept over her. Sally looked so cool, so disdainful of anyone else's opinion. Why couldn't I be like that, she asked herself. Then the thought of her having sexy portraits taken and of sending her knickers to boyfriends across the country made her chuckle out loud, and she got on with the watering.

  Sonya's plane landed just before dark, and Pat had prepared a large bowl of lasagne. She would go to their house to cook it while John went to the airstrip. The light had faded when John's Range Rover drew up outside. Sonya bounced into the house, gave her a present and a smacking kiss and rushed for the bathroom. “We're going to the pool. Open your present and join us,” she called out over her shoulder.

  Pat took her time to make the salad look really nice, then reached for the present. Isn't that just like Sonya? she thought, shaking out a brilliant green mono-kini with hardly any back to it. It can't be more than a few square centimetres, but then, how many square centimetres do I need to hide? Thankful that she'd remembered to trim her hair this time, she slipped it on and looked at herself in the mirror. Not bad. I don't know what mother would think, but it looks pretty good to me. She turned around. The green string ran across her hips and dipped down to disappear between the cheeks of her bottom. That would give John a buzz.

  She carried some cold beers out with her. Sonya sat on John's lap, astride his legs, chattering and laughing. They both reached for a beer while Pat did a pirouette to show off her new present. “Nice. Very nice,” said John, and Sonya laughed again. As Pat climbed into the cool water to sit beside them, she saw Sonya's black bikini bottom lying on the edge of the pool.

  A cold jolt brought her heart to her mouth. They were doing it! Right next to her, they were actually doing it. John's thing was sticking up inside Sonya, right now. Oh God, why didn't I notice? “I'm sorry, I didn'
t realise.” She started to stand. “I'll come back in a minute.”

  Immediately John's arm was around her waist, holding her down, and Sonya reached for her shoulders. “Don't worry,” she said, looking seriously into Pat's eyes. “I wouldn't mind if you watched. But we've finished anyway. For the moment.”

  Oh well, Pat thought, what the hell? It's only natural, anyway. She raised her bottle in an effort to appear relaxed. “Here's to crazy Sonya.”

  Sonya laughed, and John gave them both a squeeze. “I'll drink to that. It's nice to be back where I belong.”

  It could not work. Try as she might to speak and behave normally, the thought of John's cock stabbing upwards beside her pushed its way to the front of her mind. Her own sex had begun to send up warm messages, swelling and opening, its desire demanding her attention. The new thong seemed to have tightened, pressing her lips together, folding her pussy in on itself. Terror gripped her as she realised what her body was trying to do to her, what her body was succeeding in doing to her, how it had begun to wash her away like a sandcastle on a wet beach. She wanted to be filled and stretched as Sonya beside her was being filled and stretched.

  Similar thoughts must have been troubling Sonya, for when their eyes met, Pat saw her arousal. She watched Sonya soften, her spirit overwhelmed by the primitive commands welling up from below. Sonya started to rock and pivot on the hard fulcrum held at her centre. With a thrill of cold fear, Pat felt her own resistance crumbling. Her sex was taking control, brushing her whole personality aside and leaving only warm animal feelings.

  Sonya put a hand to her shoulder and drew her into the triangle. Pat slid closer to John, easing her legs open as she moved. Sonya rocked more purposefully, circling her hips, raising herself slowly up and down, stirring herself with John's cock. Her eyes were half closed, her face relaxed and totally without expression, and she moaned with each movement. Pat gripped her thigh, feeling the powerful muscle tighten and relax as it drove her on, up and down.

  Of itself, her right hand began to slide up her own thigh, moving to squeeze and crush the source of her rebellion. Before it could get there, John pulled his arm from around her waist and elbowed her crudely against the side of the pool. His arm pushed her back against the wall and pinned her there like a butterfly, while his hand slid up between her thighs and cupped her mound. She grasped the back of his wrist with both hands and, using all her strength, pulled him into her, pressing the intruding hand against her pussy. She was not pushing him away, not denying his right to enter, but using his strong male hand, riding it, stabbing at it with her hips, not stopping, ignoring the small piece of cloth that separated her sex from him. His rigid middle finger lay the length of her lips, parting them and pressing the sweet folds within. In her frenzy, she thrust her hips to him, rubbing and riding his hand. Her clit was crushed mercilessly between his finger and the anvil of her gyrating mound. She could hear herself panting and grunting with her efforts.

  Sonya was near to her end. Her head nodded loosely as she moved, and she was panting harshly. Her black hair had fallen forward, shadowing her face. As the climactic waves started to engulf her, she took Pat's face between her hands and kissed her open-mouthed. For an infinite instant, Pat teetered on a knife-edge, and then she too swept down from the clouds. She had her arms around them, around John's broad, hard shoulders and Sonya's brown back, pulling them together and pulling herself into them. She crushed John’s invading hand between her thighs, squeezing and trapping it against her pulsing sex.

  For moments the tension held, then ebbed away, the girls kissing sweetly over John's shoulder as their three heads rested together.

  The oven timer shattered the moment as it rang in the kitchen. “Christ, the lasagne's come too,” muttered Sonya, and she whipped herself off John's cock and ran inside. Pat did not join her. Eyes shut, nuzzled in against John's back, she floated on. Her hand pressed on the back of John's, holding it in place, luxuriating.

  “Hm. That was good. You didn't come.”

  “You two didn't give me a chance! I've heard of having a quickie, but that beats all records.”

  “No, it doesn't,” she said dreamily. “It took hours and hours.”

  “Lucky girl,” was all he said until Sonya came for them.

  * * * *

  Memories of that evening haunted Pat for the next few days and nights. In quiet moments, they crept up and surprised her, making it difficult to concentrate on work. At night in bed or stretched out on the sofa reading, Sonya's wet mouth sucked hers and her breast was again crushed behind John's hard arm. Her body cried out for his cupping hand, but had to take what satisfaction it could from her own. This is bad, she thought. I know it was my first good orgasm for ages, but this is silly. I'd better hurry up and find myself a man or I'll go blind.

  The hunger would not leave her. Whenever she was alone, her body reminded her and piqued her imagination. One quiet afternoon, alone in the office and unable to settle to her task, she strolled over to the calendar. John's hard hat still hid the three girls. She moved it aside and started to leaf through. Girls smiled at her, pouted at her, cupped their breasts for her to admire. They held their bodies open to the wind and sun, showing them off, opening themselves so that all could adore them and suffer. The way she felt right now, she could have taken one herself. Their sensuality played on her enflamed nerves like a bow on a violin string. They must get enough love, she thought. They wouldn't look so confident and self-satisfied if they felt as hungry as I am. On impulse, she took the calendar and returned it to its original hook. She found it made her feel even emptier.

  The camp discos came rarely. Any single girls in the local cattle stations would come, and the bachelors with girlfriends would try and fly them up for the weekend. The camp had a few wives resident and not one was allowed to feel old or ugly that night. Pat went with the firm intention of getting laid. She had checked out the available men and settled on a couple of likely ones, but that did not stop her from dancing with everyone. The beer flowed, the traditional Aussie reserve cracked and even the most die-hard males began talking to the girls as if they were human. A whirl of men surrounded Sonya who flirted outrageously. The other married women treated her affectionately, allowing her a latitude that would have been unthinkable if she had been born Australian. Peruvians, it seemed, were expected to behave like that. John spent the evening near the bar with only occasional forays onto the dance floor. Neither of her friends noticed when Pat slipped away with one of her targeted males.

  John and Sonya did not stay to the end. He had drunk enough, and her shoes had started to pinch. There was no point in staying until the last bottle, when the old men got fighting drunk and started smashing glasses. The night felt cool and still as they crossed the car park. Pat sat in the back of the Range Rover, dry-eyed but clearly upset. Sonya climbed into the back beside her. “What happened?”

  She put on a bitter Sidney accent. “How about going round the back for a swift naughty and then on to Rex's to crack a few?”

  “The bastard! Did you hit him?” John started the car. “Come on, we'll go and get some good coffee.”

  Pat lost the traditional race for the shower, but that meant she could take her time and cool off. When she stepped out, she found her clothes had gone. Instead, with a fresh towel, one of Sonya's blouses made of gossamer-thin chiffon hung over the rail. John! she thought. Oh well. He's seen just about everything, and a little more won't hurt. But that's all. No playing around tonight. I'm just going to drink my coffee and go home.

  She heard them outside on the veranda and went to join them. As she stepped into the moonlight, John smiled. “You look lovely. You should have gone to the disco like that.” He wore only an incongruous batik sarong he must have picked up somewhere in Southeast Asia. Sonya wore nothing at all. They were sitting cross-legged on a double futon around a tray of Irish coffees.

  Pat joined them and, without thinking, tucked the tails of the blouse between her legs to hide herself
, then stole a guilty glance at John, ashamed of being so prudish. His eyes laughed as he raised his glass. “Here's to the prettiest surveyor south of the equator.”

  “Didn't do much good, did it?” Her failure to secure a man still rankled.

  “Men!” snorted Sonya. “They can be so stupid! Drink up and I'll make you another.”

  “No,” Pat was firm. “I'm going home. I'll feel better tomorrow.”

  “Oh, no. Not yet. You look too miserable. Drink up!”

  “But I really don't want another. It will only make me feel worse.” Indeed, Pat felt terrible, now that she thought about it. Another kind comment and she thought she would cry.

  Her friends leaned closer, and their support was heart-wrenching. “I know what you want,” decided Sonya. “Have you ever had a proper massage? You finish your coffee. I'm going for oil.”

  Pat let herself go and made no resistance when Sonya helped her off with her blouse and laid her face down in the centre of the futon. They tucked her arms by her sides and told her to relax completely. Then the pair of them began to give her a roller-coaster sensual massage. Sonya started by kissing her ears, lifting her hair and dabbing the back of her neck, drawing little circles with her tongue. Pat's nerves jangled and fell to pieces as the kisses trailed down her spine to the small of her back. She groaned. Christ, I'm not going to be able to relax if she does that, she thought. She shivered as they poured cool oil onto her back.

  John's strong hands grasped her shoulders and the massage began in earnest. He probed mercilessly and manipulated every muscle and sinew of her shoulders and back. As John's power and weight seemed to bend her very bones, Sonya's fingers poked and pulled, sliding through the oil to bring life to her skin. A feeling of calm and contentment began to seep through her being as the four hands worked down to her waist. Mmh, that's beautiful. They're so good, I could almost go to sleep.