Foreign Affairs

by Jacqueline George

  Once she had made sure that everything was as it should be, she reached up on tiptoe and gave him a quick kiss. She stepped back and unfastened her jeans. Tim watched, fascinated, as she wriggled them down to mid-thigh and then turned her back. She now stood directly behind the shadow of Vladimir sitting on the park bench, and she leaned forward, reaching her arms around his neck and resting her head on his shoulder. She shuffled her feet, opening her legs as far as her jeans would allow.

  Tim saw her naked bottom only faintly as a white glow in the night, and he did not know if he was only imagining the darkness of its furrow and the shadowed place beneath. But if the vision was uncertain, the invitation was crystal clear, and he moved behind her. Crouching slightly to approach at the proper height, he found his cock roughly seized by a hand she had reached between her legs. Pulling firmly, she pointed him at the right spot and guided him home.

  After his long drought, the sensation overwhelmed him. His cock forced its way through the roughness of tangled hair and sank easily into the smooth wetness beyond. The succulent warmth swallowed him up, and Dulcina gave a low groan of satisfaction. Vladimir's attentions had prepared her well, and she began gasping again as Tim moved in measured strokes.

  The back of Vladimir's head made Tim vaguely uneasy. In fact, his uneasiness diverted him and prevented the instant crisis that might have swept over him.

  Vladimir said nothing and did nothing, but Tim unreasonably objected to his presence. After all, even if he had turned around, he could not have seen anything embarrassing. Perhaps it was his stillness, showing he was no more than an uninterested observer. Dulcina was making more and more noise. Tim decided to forget about Vladimir and just enjoy the situation in which he found himself. He had heard the term ‘buttered bun’, of course, and now it slipped unbidden into his mind. He had never thought to find himself buried deep in one. There seemed a lot to recommend the idea.

  At last the panting at his ear seemed to strike a chord in Vladimir's heart, and Tim saw his hand stroking Dulcina's hair and pressing her mouth closer to his neck. Somehow, that single gesture settled him and all Tim's attention went to the mounting excitement below. He admired the roundness of the bottom pressing against his open trousers when Dulcina's cries took flight and she bucked against him in her ecstasy. He could hold back no longer and he spurted into her, gripping her hips against him and lifting her off the ground.

  He was still standing there supporting her when Vladimir leaped from his seat and hurried around the bench to him. “I take her now. You sit down.”

  Dulcina had no time to comment on what was happening to her as Tim sat down with his back to her and drew her arms around his neck. Impatiently, she leaned over the back of the bench to draw his softening sex from its hiding place. Still holding his cock, she settled herself half over his shoulder and twisted around to kiss him. Her mouth was open and wet as he turned to suck kisses from it. The hammer blows of Vladimir's thrusting into her began to make the bench shake, and she started to wail again. Tim did not know what was happening to her, but perhaps the constant attention to her pussy had brought not just one or two crises, or even a succession of them. Her golden moments had run together in a long, orgasmic ride. Vladimir's grunting mingled with her cries as he, too, reached release. Tim jumped to his feet and as he hurried to the back of the bench, Vladimir returned to the front.

  This time Vladimir did not sit down. Instead, he knelt on the seat facing her. As Tim slipped into her flowing pussy again, he could just make out Dulcina taking Vladimir’s cock into her mouth. In her excited state, her pussy was very wet and loose about him, and her wetness felt voluptuous rather than intensely exciting. In spite of that, the thought of filling one end of her while Vladimir occupied the other quickly started him on the road to another climax. He was soon pounding rapidly and brutally into her, and listening to her muffled grunting with each stroke. He found that once more he had picked her up off the ground as he danced through his frenzy and attempted to burrow as deeply as possible into her.

  The confusion of sensation and the desire to absorb both men at once must have overloaded Dulcina's sensual system. Tim found that when he tried to set her back on her feet, her knees buckled. As she collapsed, his cock flicked out of her, and she fell to her knees.

  She knelt for a few moments, head resting on the back of the bench until Tim helped her back to her feet. “Are you all right?”

  Vladimir spoke to her, and she nodded listlessly. “She is all right. Just a little tired.” Tim put her arms around his neck and helped pull up her panties and jeans.

  They had reached the gates of the park before Dulcina felt up to talking again, and even then she was very quiet. She perked up in the taxi, however, and by the time they reached La Plaza, she had recovered something like her normal spirits. She gave Tim a smacking kiss before turning to Vladimir for a final embrace, and then she trotted away.

  Tim watched her swaying jean-covered hips move into the crowd and sighed. “You would never guess what she had just been doing, would you?”

  “No. They say there is a whore in every woman.”

  The bitterness in his voice surprised Tim. “Why do you say that? You didn't pay her, did you?”

  “No. But it is amazing that a woman would do something like that without money. You can never tell what that sort of girl will do.”

  “But I thought she was a nice girl. She just knew what she wanted,” Tim said. “Anyway, if she's bad, then so are we.”

  Vladimir could not accept that. “It is different for men, and anyway, it was her idea. I do not think I will go with her again. You can have her if you want.”

  Later, lying on his hotel bed reliving the experience, Tim was disturbed by Vladimir at the door. “What is it, Vladimir? Ready to go out and eat?”

  “No, I want to speak with you.”

  Something in his voice drew Tim off the bed to open the door. Vladimir came in uncertainly. “I just telephone to my wife. She is not in the house. What sort of wife is not in the house at eight o'clock at night?”

  * * * *

  Priscilla was ready to speak as soon as the tape finished, but a light round of applause stopped her. Then the audience got to its collective feet and made for the toilets. She looked across at the Board and shrugged. The ice-cream sellers had appeared in the aisles again and added to the confusion. Valerie tapped her pencil in annoyance, but the Major was trying to attract some attention from the wings behind her. A stagehand popped out and bent to listen. Moments later, a chubby girl with a large tray appeared and offered her wares to the Board. “It's all on the house,” she announced. “Please help yourselves.” To Priscilla's surprise, Valerie reached first for an ice-cream. Trehearne took a chocolate lollipop, but she refused to take anything. This was not, after all, an amusement.

  After a further ten minutes, Valerie re-started. “Investigator, what are your comments on what we have just heard?”

  “Thank you, Chairperson. What we have just heard recounted, written solely for male titillation I'm sure, was a story of a defenceless woman debauched by two men. The normal excuse a man will offer in a situation like this is that the woman enjoyed it as much as he did. However, that can certainly not be argued here as the woman had to suffer four times in rapid succession. I am sure we can all sympathise with how she must have felt. In the end, badly traumatised by her ordeal, she collapsed and had to be helped to dress again. She was used once— and I say used because of the character of the man who used her—and that must have been bad enough. But to have the same thing happen three more times so quickly must have been terrible. Trehearne's assertion that a woman could assent to such a thing is a ridiculous male fantasy.

  “I am interested to hear how he can start to justify such behaviour. But first, let me ask him if this story is also autobiographical.”

  “Thank you, Miss Investigator, for your pointed questions. I'm not going to discuss any autobiographical content. Dulcina and even Vladimir—if they
exist at all—are entitled to remain anonymous if they want to.”

  “And Tim also? Tell me, did you ever work in South America?”

  “Yes, Tim might also want to be anonymous, if he exists, that is. And I have worked in South America, but that has no bearing on the story.

  “To continue. You have said that Dulcina must have been forced because she made love four times in quick succession. I find your proposition surprising. Why are you criticising Dulcina for her enjoyment of life? Have you never, Miss Investigator, been hungry enough to want to do it four times?”

  “Certainly not!” The question scandalised her into answering without thinking.

  “I'm so sorry. Never mind. Perhaps in the future. And I suppose the same might be said of the members of the Board?” He looked across at the long table, and Valerie met him stony-faced. The Major was studying the ceiling. Only Susan tried to meet his eye and failed. She blushed and stared at the table. Oh God, thought Priscilla, that will be on every television in the country tonight. Poor Susan. How will she ever face her friends again?

  Trehearne continued. “How about the audience? And the press? How many ladies here sympathise with Dulcina?” He was rewarded by shouts of support and a wave of clapping filled the auditorium.

  Priscilla was astounded. She could not have imagined such a thing, even in her wildest nightmare. Women were on their feet, clapping at the thought of having sex four times instead of once. Still Trehearne went on, “Thank you, thank you. I agree with you. More is better in some cases. What I like about Dulcina is her vitality. The way she throws everything into making love, and enjoys every minute of it. Not for her the slow build-up of tension. She just wants to get on with it. I respect her directness.”

  When the audience settled again, Priscilla avoided any comment on Dulcina's sexual urges. They were obviously something far outside her own experience, and the audience behaved strangely when it came to lovemaking. Instead, she switched her attack to the men in the story. “Trehearne has shown us a real man, Vladimir, who uses Dulcina for his own gratification and then throws her aside like a discarded tissue. Here I must compliment him on the true-to-life portrait he has painted. Men are like that and should be stopped!” This statement was also rewarded with applause. A strident section of the audience started to chant, “Nice one, Prissy.” It felt good to know that she had at last scored a point. She nodded in the direction of her supporters and sat down.

  Trehearne immediately upstaged her. “How true, Miss Investigator! Members of the Board, you may feel, and the public may feel, that the Investigator and I differ on many points. For instance, she appears to have little interest in lovemaking while I find it fascinating, but on this point, I am sure we are in total agreement. Vladimir is an absolute shit. Pardon me, but there is no other word for it. And I'm afraid there are far too many men like him, especially in South America. Listen to me, parents, if you allow a boy to grow up like Vladimir, you've done an injury to half the human race.”

  Applause rang in Priscilla's ears, and her frustration exploded. “I can't believe what I'm hearing from you, Trehearne. You've got this poor woman with her back-side stuck up in the air, parading her sexual urges for every man in the country to read about, and the audience is applauding you? This is inexcusable. What are we thinking of?”

  Trehearne smiled at her. “I'm sorry, Miss Investigator. I understand your difficulties, believe me. If this were only a fantasy, you might have a point. Your problem lies in the fact that it might be true. If Dulcina chooses to enjoy herself in this way, who are you to say she shouldn't?” Priscilla bowed her head and let the applause and catcalls die away.

  Frustrated by Dulcina, she decided to move straight on to more solid ground. “Chairperson, clearly there are two opinions on this issue. More than two, probably. But the next story is simpler and carries a poisonous message that is not only degrading to women in general, but also to black women in particular.” She looked out into the darkness. “Can we have the next recording please?”

  Back in East Africa

  “Don't take a drink before sundown, keep your kitchen clean, stay away from the local girls, and you'll survive.”

  Grayson's sage advice came back to Peter as he sat looking at the bare-breasted girl working in the garden. Grayson had stayed here for many years—too many, most people said—before the Bank had forced him into retirement and to his pension back in England. He had left Peter his company house along with the advice. It was sad really. Out in East Africa he had been a big man, a figure of some importance, Chief Accountant at the African and Commonwealth Bank. He had adapted completely to the petty irritations and shortages of local life, even stayed on after Independence. His bachelor life had revolved around the Bank and the Sports Club, with church on Sundays.

  Peter wondered what he was doing now. Passing the time sitting in Bromley Public Library probably, or getting drunk and tedious in the saloon bar of some suburban pub. An old Africa hand like that should have stayed where he belonged. At least he would have been around to back up his recipe for a long and happy life in the tropics.

  Not that life was too hard on Peter. He had arrived here from England only nine months ago, and he was getting the hang of the work at the Bank. He had never done anything like this before. He had more responsibility for one thing, but along with the responsibility came many, many more problems. The day-to-day money business in Africa could be enough to drive a young man to drink. For a start, the system was Victorian. He still had Indian clerks writing entries by hand in huge ledgers. They did have a computer, but it was so prone to breakdown that everything had to be duplicated by hand anyway. Just trying to make a phone call could have him tearing his hair out. The only sensible thing to do was to sit back and relax. If things were going to happen, they would happen—sometime. And if they were not, all the fussing in the world would not bring them along.

  He had compensations. For the first time in his career, he worked as a boss of sorts. He was respected in a way that a young accountant never could be at home. If the hours were long, at least the work was not hard and he could always look forward to the evenings and weekends. The Sports Club had an excellent veranda, facing west, where the expats would gather to watch the sun go down. A modern parody of the old Empire days, with iced gin and tonic served by a black waiter in a starched white coat, to foreigners chatting and watching the flaming tropical sunset.

  He enjoyed the long days on the beach, too, snorkelling or windsurfing, or just lounging about reading. The wives in the group would generally bring along heaps of food and ice-boxes packed with beer and soft drinks. What more could a man want?

  A girl, for a start, he thought bitterly. The foreign women were almost all married and a pretty scrawny lot anyway. He could see some Indian girls around, but they were kept very much in their families’ bosoms and only allowed out to get married.

  And then there were the local girls. Peter had mixed feelings about them. Not that he was racist or anything like it. Who could afford to be nowadays? Local people were members of the Club, full members making as much of a contribution as anyone else. He had met some well-educated local girls around, especially at the University, but they seemed too shy to mix with foreigners. Most of them came originally from the villages, and the cultural gap was huge, almost as big as the gap between him and the girl working in his garden.

  She did not normally work for him. He did the housework and cooking himself, but he liked to have someone to do the garden. It did not cost much, only five shillings a day, and the hedges could take over if they were not cut back severely. He also had a fertile little vegetable patch that had not worked out too well. Usually it yielded nothing, and then a deluge of aubergines or beans that he could not possibly keep up with. The pineapple patch gave the occasional treasured fruit, normally stolen by the local kids a few days before Peter thought it was ripe. He liked his garden, though. Things happened so quickly here, he could almost see the plants grow. Not like at ho
me, sowing in the cold earth and then waiting weeks for the first leaves to show.

  So he had an old woman in twice a week to keep things clean and tidy, a friendly sort called Sally. She did not speak much English and was not inclined to over-work herself. She had found it all too much in the end because last week, she had come to the door and told him she was going back to her village and her sister—a loose term here—would come instead. He had been dumbfounded when instead of the old fat mama he had expected, a lively young woman had turned up on his doorstep speaking fluent local English. She was dressed in a brilliantly coloured cotton wrap and a loose smock blouse, and she had a ready smile.

  “Hello, Boss! I come cut the garden—OK?” Before he could agree, she had taken his panga, sharpened it expertly and started on the inside of the hedge.

  She set about the work with a will, and the pile of cut debris mounted quickly. The effortless sweeps of the panga told of years of practice and very strong wrists, as Peter had learned in pain. She made a real picture, slashing vigorously away at the towering hedge, her colourful clothes shining against the green foliage. The muscular grace of some of these locals made him envious. He could not resist the way her unrestrained breasts rolled under her blouse. Suddenly, she seemed to become aware that he was watching her and looked over at the house with a wide smile. Peter ducked away, embarrassed to have been caught staring.

  He sat down to read under the whirling ceiling fan with the noise of the girl's chopping in the background. It stopped once, and he found his attention immediately torn from the page. The rhythmic scraping of the panga being sharpened gave way to continued chopping, and he resettled himself. Some time later, he became aware that she had stopped again.