Foreign Affairs

by Jacqueline George

  Setting his book down on the table, he peeped out through the shaded window, this time careful to keep out of sight. The girl had taken off her smock and was reaching up to hang it on a cut branch. He stood rooted, waiting for her to turn round. Bare breasts were common out in the countryside, mostly belonging to older women working in the fields. Flat and pendulous with leathery black nipples enlarged by countless children, they were thoroughly uninteresting. These, however, looked completely different. Full and round, with chocolate brown tips, they bounced enticingly as their owner set about raking up the rubbish.

  She's a real beauty, he thought. That's the best figure I've seen in a long time. I wonder what her legs are like? Though apparently concentrating on her work, she had a knowing look, and it suddenly struck him that she knew he was watching. A wave of shame at his animal thoughts came over him. Then, refusing remorse, his animal self reasserted itself. What the hell—I may as well enjoy it, he thought, and moved his book to the other side of the table where he could watch in comfort.

  With his book face down on the table, he sat, head in hand, and watched her work. A warmth started to swell in his loins, and he found himself rocking against the tightness in his shorts. Once the girl had got things tidied up, she retrieved her blouse and disappeared around the end of the house. The show was over.

  He was jolted awake by the fly-door in the kitchen being opened.

  “Boss,” she called softly, “I go toilet.”

  She was through the kitchen and into the living room as he stood up guiltily. She seemed taller indoors, and he could not keep his eyes from her commanding breasts. She laughed at his confusion and swept on to the bathroom, leaving the smell of cut greenery behind her.

  “You stand by small, and I make you a cold drink, Boss,” she called as she disappeared.

  She seems to know her way around, he thought. His discomfort was heightened when he heard the shower running. This was going a bit far. Where did she think she was? He would have to be firm with her when she came out.

  She re-appeared, still half wet. His bath-towel was wrapped around her waist and she was drying her hair with the hand towel. The two brown orbs shook rhythmically as she rubbed at her bushy mop, and the sight of them silenced him.

  “That better. I make a drink.” Throwing the small towel aside, she padded into the kitchen. For want of something better to do, Peter picked up the towel and carried it back to the bathroom. Her clothes were spread neatly on the towel rail, her well-worn, conservative cotton panties on top. He felt disappointed that she could wear anything so prosaic. Or not wear at the moment, he corrected himself.

  He heard her open the fridge and drop ice into glasses, and moments later she came in bearing a tray with the glasses and a jug of freshly squeezed lime juice and water. She set it on the sideboard and, obviously knowing just where to look, opened the drinks cupboard and took out the rum bottle.

  “Your name Peter, right Boss? My name Vicky. How much rum you like?”

  “How did you know where to find that?”

  Her laughter tinkled around the room. “I work for Mr. Grayson before. He very good man, very good to me.” She poured generous measures into both glasses.

  “He never said anything to me. He said the garden was done by old Sally.”

  “Oh, no. I didn't do the garden for him. I work inside. Secret. Every Sunday I come here. Every Sunday after church.”

  The crafty old bastard! No—it couldn't be. “You mean he—you— you went to bed with him?”

  “Oh, yes. First I cook dinner, then we go to bed and I go home early-early on Monday. Mr. Grayson was a good man, but old. He not do too much. He pay me ten shillings every Sunday.” She put his glass in his hand and settled herself on the sofa with her legs curled up. “Aiyeee! It too hot outside. Cheers!”

  Peter sat in a daze, his drink untasted. The shock of Grayson's secret was too much to take in. The old fraud apparently used to make a fetish of a private time at home on Sunday evenings. He politely refused invitations and even turned chance visitors away. He said he needed a quiet time every week to tidy up his personal business. Well! His personal business was sitting half-dressed on the sofa across the room. Peter shook his head in amazement.

  “You not like your drink?”

  “Oh, yes—thank you.” He took a hurried sip. “Very nice. Did Mr. Grayson teach you how to make these?”

  “Mr. Grayson show me many things.” Vicky set her drink down and cupped her ample breasts, offering them to Peter. “You like these?”

  “Er—yes. I like them very much. They're beautiful.”

  Vicky chuckled delightedly. “Mr. Grayson like them too much. I think Englishmen like titties too much. Look, I show you what I do to Mr. Grayson.”

  Feeling that he was taking part in a slow motion film, Peter watched Vicky unfold her legs and come towards him as he sat at the table. His heart pounded as if he had run a mile and his stomach twisted itself into a knot. The girl stood behind him. She reached onto his chest to undo his shirt and pull it down off his shoulders.

  He leapt as if electrocuted when a firm rubbery button was drawn across his back. Vicky was holding her breasts and delicately dragging the tips across his taut and sensitive skin. It was the most erotic thing he had ever felt. She probed and provoked every square centimetre of his shoulders with her tormenting nipples. Then she started to draw first one and then the other up the back of his neck and into his hair. He turned to her as she explored his ear, blocking off his hearing on one side then the other. Finally, with her hand on his brow, she pulled his head back to rest between her breasts. His whole head was cushioned as she pushed her female softness against him, rolling her breasts up and down over his ears.

  It felt fantastic. Peter closed his eyes and floated. Vicky stopped with a chuckle. “I think you like titties also, right?”

  Peter swung his chair round to face her. Looking down on him with soft black eyes, she gave a motherly smile. But Peter's blood was up, and being mothered was the last thing on his mind. He reached for her hips, but instead of allowing herself to be pulled forward, she dropped to her knees. He seized her head and dived into a frantic, hungry, untutored kiss, rolling their lips together and probing deep into her mouth. As if surprised, she allowed herself to be pulled close, and he felt her arms reach round to rest on his shoulders.

  She broke for air. “Aiyeee—Peter! You one hungry man. How long since you have a good time?”

  If he told the truth, the answer would have been forever. “Too long,” he mumbled, and reached to unwrap the towel. It fell away to reveal a flat belly half covered by a jungle of curly hair. As he leaned back to get a better view of it, Vicky's hands dived for his lap. His cock sprang out, unfolding rapidly, puffing itself up to its full height.

  “Ooh. A big one.” She clapped it between her hands. “A strong one. A nice young one. I like it.” She bent forward and ran the tip of her pink tongue over the blind eye that stared at her. “Very nice. Look, I undress him,” and she carefully uncovered the swollen mushroom. Peter sighed as her gentle hand pumped him. Vicky cooed with delight, as she turned it this way and that, putting it through its paces. Then she bent forward again and Peter felt her hot mouth engulf him. Her fist still worked up and down while her tongue twirled exotic arabesques over the tense plum.

  Her assault was too much for him. He buried his hand in her hair and tried to pull her away. “Stop—stop. I'm coming—stop!” Vicky was deaf to his pleading. Her tongue and fist speeded up, and she sucked as if her lungs would burst. His climax came to him so quickly that he had no time to relish it. One second he was fighting her off, the next he felt a hurricane hit him. She gripped more fiercely still and sucked deeply at him as spasms convulsed him. She looked up and swallowed.

  “Hmm. Truly too long without a good time. Come, we go to bed.” She led him away, pulling firmly on his dogtail.

  Still in a daze, he undressed without taking his eyes from the young brown body stretched o
ut on his bed. Her pose was classic. Resting on one elbow, she lay on her side. Her legs were long and straight, crowned by the thick bush of black hair. The generous swelling of her hips emphasised the tightness of her waist, but her breasts called out to him as he tore his clothes off.

  Peter leaped on her and grabbed a soft, heavy handful in each hand. He felt overwhelmed with luxury, hardly believing his luck, trying to take it all in before some cruel fate whisked it away from under his nose. He buried his face in her breasts, sucking at the nipples, drawing them deep into his mouth and drumming them with his tongue. They stood up and pointed at him like stubby thumbs.

  As he slowly came to terms with the splendours he massaged, a suspicion crept over him that something was wrong. When he had been allowed to play with the breasts of previous girlfriends, the results had been gratifying for both of them. Even the coldest girl had started to sigh and melt, even if they did not let him get any further. One memorable girl could come just by having her nipples gently twisted.

  Vicky was very different. She watched his antics, offering food to a hungry man, urging him to eat his fill. But for his good, not hers. In fact, his playing did not seem to excite her at all. Feeling that he had been selfish, he moved up to kiss her face and mouth.

  This was more to Vicky's taste, and she responded warmly. As he held her tight, he felt her slip a hand between them and grasp his rigid cock. “Ahh—you are ready again. I show you what Mr. Grayson like.”

  “Bugger Grayson!” but she had taken over and pushed him onto his back. Parting her bush with one hand and letting her sex flash a pink smile from the darkness, she steered him up into her. She was tight and difficult to enter, and he thought she frowned as she impaled herself.

  His hips bucked as she moved up and back down, as if trying him for size and fearing to be hurt. “Very good. You are too big and hard.” But she smiled and started to move more freely. The sensation was fantastic. Peter had had no idea that lovemaking would feel like this. Her warm glove gripped him and slid up and down more easily as her moisture came. Soon she was bouncing up and down, swinging her hips in irregular circles so that he probed every corner of her secret place.

  Peter was lost in a frenzied dream. Vicky's beautiful brown body jumped up and down in front of his eyes, and his conscious self had moved down to his sexual centre. The rippling grip on his upright sex melded with the sight of her breasts swinging. He reached out to grasp them, willing them to stay still while he concentrated on what was happening below. He felt himself smiling like an imbecile as his climax crept up and exploded skywards.

  When he collected his wits, he found that he had sat up and was clinging hard to Vicky, clamping her to him. Her soft eyes looked fondly down at him, proud of what he had done.

  * * * *

  The memory of Vicky's visit filled his waking hours for the next days. At first, he felt guilty. Guilty that he had been to bed with a house-girl, guilty that he must hide the fact away. Then pictures of Vicky lying on the bed would take over, and lust would conquer all. He found a curious security in the fact that she had taken the ten shillings from him. That made her a prostitute and able to take care of herself. In fact, it made him feel rather grand to have paid for sex. He felt like a man of the world, and it looked as if his new status would be quite interesting.

  Vicky had promised to come again on Wednesday, and the thought of what waited at the end of that day made work pass very slowly. A lingering sense of what was proper took him to the Club for a sun-downer, but he turned down a second and hurried home.

  Spicy flavours wafted from the kitchen. Vicky was busy inside, chopping vegetables into the pot. She wore his black silk dressing gown from Hong Kong, and felt good to touch when he cuddled her.

  “Hey, Mr. Peter, you go shower first, then we have drink, then we have food, then we see what happen.” He padded off to the shower in happy anticipation.

  Vicky was a good cook. She laid a large bowl of steaming curry on the table, complete with trimmings. His heart warmed to the idea of home cooking, something he had missed. Vicky sat opposite and served them both. Then, before settling to eat, she slipped the dressing gown off her shoulders and watched him, waiting for a reaction.

  Food forgotten, Peter reached across the table to cup and caress her breasts, but she was too quick for him. Rapping his knuckles with her fork, she laughed. “You wait, Mr. Peter. You eat my food first or I don't let you play with them.” She raised her glass to him.

  The meal passed slowly. Peter tried to talk, but all the while he stared at the beautiful woman across the table. Simply watching her take a bite of curry with her shining white teeth set his pulse racing. The meal enflamed his mind and body, and her comfortable smile told that she knew just what effect she was having. He hurried her, protesting, to the bedroom as soon as he could.

  Again, she lay on the bed and watched him undress. She drew her knees up and opened them impossibly wide, laying her thighs flat on the mattress. Reaching both arms out to him, she offered her soft luscious body with its pink heart half hidden in black curls.

  This time, Peter promised himself, I'm going to take my time. Leaning over the bed, he kissed her and she responded uncertainly. His hands seemed to find their own way to her breasts, and as he kissed her face and neck, he explored and squeezed them. He looked down. The dark nipples were erect, aimed straight at him. Truly magnificent breasts, but strangely enough—even though they were obviously stiff and excited—Vicky did not seem to enjoy them half as much as he did. She watched him with the same tolerant smile. “You like titties too much, Mr. Peter,” she murmured.

  Strange, but tonight he had another goal. Kneeling by her head, he ran his tongue down to her navel and beyond. She stiffened and reached for his sex. Not wanting to be diverted, he lay on her heavily, trapping her hand beneath him. He parted her thatch with his fingers.

  Now he blessed the virginal music student who had first shown him where to find everything. She had always preferred it this way because, as she said, at least she knew his dangerous bit was out of harm's way. She had shown him around her pussy, shown him where to rub, where to probe, what to lick. Vicky's flower was different. No rose but an imperious tropical lily.

  Her dark skin seemed even darker under the lawn of black hair. Opened wide as she lay, her innermost secrets were on display. Her long frilly lips were edged in purple-black, but inside she was coloured sugar pink. He breathed on her and was rewarded by a sigh. Tentatively, he reached forward with the tip of his tongue and flicked her clit. She sighed again. He lowered his open mouth onto her and started to explore.

  Vicky seemed to have been taken unawares. She wrapped her arms around his thighs and hugged his legs to her. He felt her hips start to rock, tipping her hungry purse up to him, begging him to plunge his tongue deep inside. He probed more urgently, pulling her along with him. The rocking of her hips began to make it more and more difficult to lick the places he wanted to reach until, at last, he pressed his chin hard against her mound and concentrated on her bud.

  It took all of his strength to hold himself in place against her threshing. Panting and moaning, she bucked her hips up against him until suddenly she slammed her thighs together around his head and squeezed in a wrestler's crush. Peter sucked in a mouthful of her sex and clamped it between covered teeth. Cut off from the world by the steely thighs that pressed over his ears, unable to breathe and not daring to move his tongue against her clit, he held rock steady while her waves of ecstasy shook the bed and slowly ebbed away.

  She flopped back onto the mattress, releasing him. “Aiyeee—Mr. Peter! You very good to me.” She lay limp and exhausted.

  He laughed and wiped the wetness from his face. “My turn now.” He mounted her, sliding easily this time into her wet and welcoming pussy. The sounds of her climax must have excited him more than he realised and, taking no more care for her pleasure, he thrust in a punishing rhythm. She butted against him, drawing him in deeper and urging him on to a rapi
d, pounding climax.

  “Oh, Mr. Peter! You make good time like a black man!” She ran her fingers through his hair. “Come on, you rest a little.”

  * * * *

  Remembering Vicky's tumultuous climax made Peter feel proud of himself as he went about his shopping next day. The African sun beat down on his head and shoulders as he came out of the minimarket, but he was used to it now and hardly noticed. He left his shopping in the car and went on to the vegetable market.

  The place was always chaotic, vibrant with the noise and bustle of Africa. Some of the established vendors had stalls in the shade, but many of the best bargains came from the country women sitting on the ground with small mats of freshly gathered fruit and vegetables. He picked his way over the bare earth, carefully stepping over discarded leaves and rubbish, buying a little here and a little there until he suddenly came face to face with Vicky.

  She was on the same errand and already had a string bag loaded with sweet potatoes and plantains. If he felt embarrassed, she did not and came straight up to him. “Mr. Peter, how are you? You meet Thelonius.”

  It was only then that Peter noticed that she had a companion. Standing just behind her was a tall, muscular man with very short hair and tribal scars on both cheeks. He reached a hand forward and rumbled, “Very good to meet you, Mr. Peter. Vicky tell me all about you. She work good for you? She give satisfaction?”

  Trying not to gulp, he stuttered, “Oh yes. She's very good. She works very hard, thank you.”

  Thelonius gave a deep laugh. “Very good. Very good. She like to work for you. If she get lazy and no good, you tell me, hey? I make her straight, no problem.” He laughed again.

  “No problem,” Peter repeated. “Really, she's very hard working, and cooks very nicely, thank you.”

  “Very good. She cook very good. She like to be a good girl.” He gave her a hefty slap on the backside, presumably in fun. Vicky snorted and went off in a huff.