Foreign Affairs

by Jacqueline George

  “We go, Mr. Peter. Vicky come to you again on Sunday.” He ambled after her.

  “Who is Thelonius?” asked Peter when they settled into bed that Sunday evening.

  “He my cousin. He very bad man. Very rude.” Vicky stifled further questions by filling his mouth with her breast. “There. You like them, Mr. Peter?”

  “Mmmh.”

  He had spent a hard day on the beach and was content to lie back and let Vicky take control. She seemed to enjoy his reaction to her breasts, not taking her eyes from his face as she trailed them over his stomach and circled his sensitive part. Then she lay on his legs and nuzzled and sucked him until he had to pull her up by the hair to lie on top of him. She chuckled at his urgency and, using both hands, guided him into her. Moistened by her kisses, he was able to push into her tight warmth and then they lay quietly, Vicky gripping him and waiting for her wetness to come. Still staring at him, she started to move, milking him with her pussy.

  Peter tried holding back. He tried to ignore her increasingly demanding movements. He thought of the week's work, of home, of anything but the succulent tunnel in which he was buried. He turned his face to one side so as not to see the dark eyes watching for his reaction. Without a break in her rhythm, she turned his face back to her and kissed him, panting with exertion. It was too much. Sucking at her mouth, he gave up fighting and let her dancing carry him up and over the edge.

  “Very sweet, Mr. Peter,” she chuckled. “I like it.” She rolled off him and lay on her stomach. “Oof! I work too much.”

  “You didn't come, did you?” he asked.

  “I only come sometimes.” Her voice was muffled by the pillow. “But you came very good. That enough. I rest now.”

  Peter felt unsettled by her reply. He did not know much about women, but it seemed to him an unsatisfactory way of looking at things. She had certainly enjoyed it when he had kissed her to a climax last time, and yet now she was content to go without. He raised himself on an elbow and looked at her.

  She had strong shoulders, almost masculine. Her brown back, wet with beads of sweat, had a pronounced muscular furrow running down to her hips. He trailed a finger down her spine towards her bottom. She had a statuesque bottom that was far from masculine. He cupped a hand under one generous swelling, and was rewarded by a quiet whimper.

  What a surprise! Here was something that Vicky seemed to respond to. He experimented further. Using both hands, he squeezed and kneaded her cheeks. He was right. This time she moaned and, opening her legs a little further, arched her hips up off the bed.

  Her reaction fascinated Peter. Massaging her bottom seemed to give her some deep-seated, pleasurable sensations. She opened her legs wider still and continued to writhe under his touch. In a spirit of scientific observation, he moved to sit cross-legged between her knees. In the shadows between her thighs, he could see her wet sex glisten. Above it, deep in the cleft of her backside, hid her small purple knot. It seemed to pulse and wink at him as she moved. He ran a finger lightly down her back, finally moving it slowly along her valley until he could gently brush her knot.

  It was almost as if he had switched her on. She groaned deeply and thrust her bottom upwards. The little mouth was tightening and relaxing. It sought to swallow the fingertip that teased it.

  “Put it in, Mr. Peter,” she begged.

  He pushed against her tautness and quickly realised that this would not work. “One minute.” He raced back to the front room where his bag of beach things had been left unopened. Grabbing the sun-tan oil, he ran back, his stiff sex bobbing up and down as he went.

  Sitting between her knees once more, he poured a little oil onto his palm and started again to massage the plump cushions. She heaved slowly up and down with his movements, moaning gently. He poured a little oil into her furrow, and as it trickled down, he teased her again. The oil was sucked in by the pulsing mouth. Again he rested his fingertip on her knot.

  She bucked back against it. “Put it in. Please. Aaah!” The rubbery tightness gave way and his finger slipped in a couple of centimetres. Vicky was electrified. Wailing, she surged back against him until his finger was buried as far as it would go. Her thighs tightened on either side of him and her hips started to gyrate. With a shout, a shuddering climax ripped through her.

  She fell forward, taking his hand with her. She looked back over her shoulder with an amused smile. “You never do this, Mr. Peter? I like it too, too much.” She closed her eyes and returned to the sensations she was drawing from his finger. She was pushing her hips into the mattress, squeezing his finger with each thrust. Her warm sheath pressed around him and he began to wonder if something other than a finger might fit inside.

  Apparently, the same thought was in Vicky's mind. Raising her hips off the bed, she looked back again. “Come inside me, Mr. Peter.”

  He eased his finger out and her little mouth gaped at him. Before it had a chance to close, he quenched it with more oil. Kneeling behind her, he pointed his sex at her target. Her ring rippled closed against him. Vicky sighed and buried her face in the pillow. He pushed a little harder against increasing resistance. Fearful of hurting her, he was reluctant to force his way in. “Push!” she commanded, “Push hard!”

  Shuffling forward and pulling on her hips, he leaned against her and felt the end of his sex buckling against the closed entrance. Then suddenly the resistance gave way and the rubbery ring stretched far enough to allow part of his plum inside. Involuntarily she tightened again, squeezed his tip. “Ooh, that good. Push more!” Again she gave way and all the swollen head slipped in. “Aah! More! Put it all in. Yes!” Triumphantly she swallowed him completely and collapsed onto the bed with his weight on her back.

  If his finger had excited her, his actual sex drove her crazy. Wailing, she kicked her legs and bucked her hips. Her movements were wild and incoherent, and Peter found it difficult to stay on her writhing back. Thrusting in and out in the normal way was out of the question, so he clung desperately to her hips and concentrated on remaining as deep as he could inside her hot, tormented tunnel.

  Vicky's erratic movements soon settled into a violent pounding of her hips down into the mattress and back up against him. She pumped his buried part mercilessly, and he was quickly ready to flood her. With a final cry, Vicky clenched her bottom around him and crushed his cock as it pulsed its relief into her.

  That evening changed Vicky's attitude toward him. Plunging into her like that seemed to have tamed her, and all that night, until she left his bed at first light, she did not stop touching him. She twined herself around him while they slept, and each time he moved, he half woke into a warm erotic twilight.

  He was at home waiting for her when Thelonius brought her in his battered Japanese car on Wednesday evening. She ran to the house like a little girl, swinging a string bag of delicacies as she came. She rushed laughing into his arms and immediately started to unbutton his shirt.

  It was the first of many similar evenings. She loved to curl up on the sofa with him watching a video, but she could only settle to this pleasure after her other hunger had been satisfied. They quickly found that her preferred way of lovemaking was better left as a second course. The intensity of her feelings and her grasping hot tightness was just too much for Peter to resist unless he had already come first. He was delighted by Vicky's inventiveness and the number of different ways she knew of making him spend his first urgency before settling down to what she really enjoyed.

  Her favourite treat was to sit Peter naked on the sofa and oil his cock. She would then turn her back and carefully sit on his lap, impaling herself centimetre by centimetre on his erection. She felt fantastic, hot and tight around him. She would lie back on him, legs open, and offer the front of her body to his questing hands. She became clever at clenching her muscles and jogging her bottom against him just enough to steal a quiet delightful moment without exciting him unbearably. And then doing it again and again, taking her pleasure while keeping him near the summit.


  Peter had free range of her body as she lay back against him, and was content to handle her breasts for half an hour at a time. He also found, when probing her sex, he could feel his cock buried inside her. The thought was as exciting as the feeling, and sometimes Vicky would tease him by reaching into her open pocket with both forefingers and pushing him from side to side.

  In the end, she would have to start moving, and then Peter could not last much longer. Soon her hips would pump more and more forcefully. Shouting, legs wide and pushing herself as hard as she could onto his cock, she would shudder through her final moments, sweeping Peter along with her.

  The warmth and contentment that good sex can bring to a couple enfolded them both. He felt deeply for her. He was even, he suspected, a little in love with her. And Vicky's pleasure in her situation was clear. Cuddling Peter on the sofa afterwards was the next best thing to heaven.

  He was always careful to pay her. He liked the security that it gave him, and she did not seem to mind. Often, Thelonius would be waiting outside the gate on a Wednesday evening and the pair of them would wave as they drove off. His generosity did not extend to meeting her at dawn on Monday morning. Old Sally had re-appeared after a week or two, a toothless knowing smile on her face, and settled down again to the gardening. Vicky just cooked and made love.

  Reluctant to part with her when his annual leave arrived, he left her a generous present to tide her over.

  England was, as always, wet, cold and grey. His parents and relations seemed incapable of understanding his experiences in Africa or even of maintaining more than a superficial interest in them. He felt like a foreigner in his own home.

  His search for diversion was also frustrated. He would have liked to pick up a girlfriend, but he found he no longer had any idea where to look for one. The discos were smoky and dispiriting, full of crazed children unable to communicate because of the noise. The pubs held only groups of men or couples. With quiet relief, he welcomed the end of his vacation and took the bus to the airport.

  Stepping out of the plane in Africa felt like the real home-coming. Even the Customs officers looked welcoming. His house and garden felt good, and he rushed to unpack. Vicky's present, an armful of slinky underwear, he put in a bedside drawer to surprise her. Handling the lacy vanities made him realise how much he had missed her. The picture of her stretched out on the bed, all black and inviting, sparked his desire and he suddenly felt desperate to see her again.

  Vicky did not come that Sunday, nor the following Wednesday. He tried to pass a message with old Sally and even gave her a note, but with no confidence that she understood what he wanted. It was not until the next weekend that he had word of her again when he met Thelonius in the vegetable market.

  “Hey, Mr. Peter,” he chuckled in reply to the urgent questions. “I don't know what you do to that girl. I think you make too much good time and she go silly in the head. She forget her pills and now she go back to the village to wait for a baby. You drive her crazy!”

  Peter was stunned. The natural consequence of lovemaking simply had not occurred to him. It did not seem possible that their playing could result in a real baby.

  Thelonius laughed at his obvious confusion. “No problem, Mr. Peter. Probably he my baby. And if it come white, you give a little money to help, OK?”

  “Your baby...?”

  “Sure. We have two more baby already. Now I find you another girlfriend until Vicky come back. Don't worry, I make sure this one not too silly in the head.”

  * * * *

  Discussion on Vicky and her particular way of having fun did not start until after lunch. When the story had ended, Priscilla had felt pleased that there had been only a little applause, drowned by the confused noise of people rushing out to get something to eat. She had crossed the stage and gone with the Board back to Valerie's office at the RCCS. There they enjoyed an Italian meal brought in by the Authority's housekeeper.

  “You know, I'm going to have to find my copy of that book,” said the Major, staring into her wine glass. “It's impossible to relax and get the whole flavour of it with everyone watching us. I feel quite tired having to keep a straight face all the time. You don't have a spare copy do you, young Priscilla? My husband's not admitting that he pinched mine.”

  “Sorry, Major. But I'm surprised you want to study it. Detailed work's not normally your line, is it?”

  “Don't be so patronising. I only avoid it because most of it's so boring. Can't say this one's boring though. That Trehearne chap certainly has a way with words. I get the feeling I'm really there and seeing the places and everything. I wonder where he gets his ideas?”

  Priscilla knew where the ideas had come from. “It's an autobiography. That's why it's so real. He's done all those things. Or had them done to him. What I don't understand is why he wants to write them down and sell them.”

  “Really?” Valerie found it hard to believe. “He really did those things? And he looks so much like a gentleman. I mean, if you didn't know what he had written.”

  The Major gave a hearty laugh. “It's always the real gentlemen that cause the trouble. It's never the middle class officers that get caught playing with guardsmen in Green Park. It's always the Right Honourable This or That. Same with my girls. Always the ones from the best families who were in the Sunday papers for having it off with pop stars and the like. Trehearne's probably seen it all.”

  Valerie still had trouble believing it. “But the things he writes about. I mean, this last one, he was—er sticking it—er, you know what I'm talking about.”

  “Sticking it up her bottom, you mean. Well, politicians seem to like doing it to each other, so why shouldn't normal people?”

  “But it's awful! The whole idea, it's dirty. And I don't really believe she could get it to fit in, do you? It would be too big—impossible! Anyway, I can't believe that girl did it for fun. If she'd wanted fun, why didn't she just do it the normal way?”

  “Sounds like she did do it the normal way. And then tried a bit of the other for dessert.”

  “Major! Sometimes you go too far!”

  “Oops! Sorry, Valerie, it just slipped out. But it's quite possible, you know. A lot of people enjoy it that way now and again. Er, so I'm told. You know what I mean, don't you, Sue?”

  Susan blushed and looked at her plate. “I don't know anything about it, Major. I do wish we could stop now. I'm sure people are just watching us on television because it's exciting. Can't we stop it now, Priscilla?”

  Priscilla looked at Valerie, who was quite sure they could not. “Not a chance, Susan dear. All those people watching us. And on television too. And it's not as if the case is clear yet. Trehearne's been arguing very well. If I cut it off now, there'd be a riot, I'm sure. And questions in the House, that sort of thing. We could all lose our jobs.

  “I hope you're going to give us a bit more to go on, Priscilla. The way things are at the moment, I'd be afraid to make a decision against Trehearne. You never know what sort of friends people like that have. And he's on television all the time. People seem to love him. If you want to believe all he says, I think you've made a conquest, Priscilla. He always says the nicest things about you.”

  “I wish we didn't have the television there,” said Susan. “I feel I'm being stared at all the time. And they keep putting me on close-up, even though I don't say anything.”

  “Mmh. I must get my hair done again,” said Valerie. “I don't like the effect under these strong lights. Perhaps I'll have the girl darken it a little.”

  Priscilla walked back to the cinema alone. It was a warm day, and the street was busy. She kept her gaze down, but could hear people speaking about her as she passed. She hoped no reporters would catch her, but they did. They ambushed her in the foyer. She was ushered into a roped off area and immediately questioned for the cameras.

  “How's it going, Priscilla?” shouted an Australian voice.

  “You vill vin, Miss Investigator?” came a heavy German accent. Ot
hers overwhelmed her with questions.

  She held up her hand for quiet. “I'm sure I should not be speaking to you while the case is going on. I'll just say that this morning, we heard a story that was the product of a sick and vicious mind. I'm sure Trehearne did those things to Vicky just because she was black and poor. I'm going to let the Board, and the public, see exactly what a dangerous man he is. Now, if you'll excuse me....”

  They did not excuse her, of course. She had to push her way through, ignoring the microphones and shouted questions. Trehearne was waiting for her in the wings.

  “Hi there. You're looking a bit windswept. Try the mirror here. Did you have a lot of trouble getting past the press?”

  “Yes, they're awful. So rude and pushy. I wish we could shut them out.”

  “Just their job, I suppose. All part of a free society. Seriously, whichever side you're on, it's good that the public can look in on us and see exactly what is going on.”

  Priscilla straightened her hair. “I just wish I could believe they're worried about the democratic process. I'm afraid they're really watching us just because they like dirty books.”

  “You're right, of course. If it wasn't about sex, the book would have been forgotten by now. Never mind. If they won't read about democracy, perhaps they'll read about sex-and-democracy.”

  “That's exactly what makes you so dangerous,” she snapped. “People like your stories because they're dirty, and they just don't realise the insidious effect dirty stories can have on the position of women in society.”

  “Ease up, Priscilla. You're not on stage now. I believe you've got honest views, and you should do the same for me. Don't take it all so personally.” He walked out into the lights and sat down.

  Priscilla had decided that her best chance of damaging Trehearne would be to behave like the lawyer she was and slow down the pace of discussion. Detailed consideration of exactly what had happened to Vicky would certainly show Trehearne in a bad light. The audience could hardly sympathise with someone involved in such filthy practices, and the television would have trouble discussing it during prime time. She rose to start the afternoon's proceedings.