Foreign Affairs

by Jacqueline George

“Did you roll her onto her back and make love to her?”

  “Of course not. Why hurry? Now that she was feeling all rosy, I rubbed her back a little. Gave her a good massage.”

  “Can you do that? Do you know how?”

  “Sure. Been taught by the best. I started at her neck, kneading muscle by muscle. All across her shoulders, lifting her shoulder blades out, then working all the way down the muscles of her back.”

  “Was she enjoying it?”

  “Do you think she would? She certainly seemed to. Then I switched to her legs. I kissed the hollow of her knees just to wake them up and started on her legs.”

  “What were her legs like?” Debbie was not too shy to ask for compliments.

  “They were long and straight, like a dancer's, but not so stringy. She was a film star. I massaged them all the way up to her butt where I could really have some fun.” He stopped speaking and seemed to be deep in his imagination.

  “Tell me! What did you do to her bottom?”

  “Well, I just took her cheeks one at a time in both hands and squeezed and kneaded them. My fingers were deep in her furrow and she felt warm and moist.”

  “She enjoyed that?”

  “Oh, yes. She was arching her back and lifting her butt up at me, asking for more.”

  “Now you must have been able to see her sex. Was it ugly?”

  “Ugly? How could it be? In the shadows between the tops of her thighs, all pink and shiny wet? It was just asking to be eaten up whole.”

  “Did you eat her up?”

  “No. Not just now. I trailed my fingers up and down her furrow, over her blind eye and just brushing the edge of her fur. Then, when I had done that enough, I pushed her down flat again and reached an arm up the back of her thighs so I could cup her butt with the heel of my hand pressing against her most sensitive bits. Then I vibrated my whole hand rapidly from side to side.”

  “Aah! That must have felt wonderful.”

  “Yes. Like an earthquake deep inside her. It made her sigh and gasp.”

  “Christ! When are you going to turn her over and stick it into her? She must have been desperate by now.”

  “But I hadn't kissed her feet yet, so I moved around to her feet and started to massage them and pull her toes until they clicked. Then I put a big kiss in the sole of each foot to make her toes curl up. To make things easier, I twisted her ankle to make her roll onto her back while I sucked her toes.”

  “You didn't!”

  “Sure I did. Don't you think she would like it?”

  Debbie had been taken by surprise. No one had ever done that to her, but she could see how it might feel delightful. “But were they clean?”

  “Of course they were. What sort of girl do you think she was?”

  “You must have been able to look right up her legs while you were doing that.”

  “Sure did. And she looked even more tasty now that she had stopped trying to tease me.”

  “She must have been soaking.” I'm soaking, too. If I tried to get up, I swear there'd be a wet patch on the back of my skirt. I wonder if he'll touch me there?

  “Yes. She was looking pretty excited. She certainly had a wide, welcoming smile down there.”

  “Now you got on top of her.”

  “My, my. You are in a hurry. You must be a hard lady to hold back once you get going. No, I didn't get on top of her. I laid her feet down and went up to kiss her again.”

  “She must have thought you were going to take her in your arms and make love to her.”

  “And so I was. But I was the boss that night, so I started on her nipples, nibbling and sucking. She liked that.”

  “Yes. You'd made her wait so long for it. They must have felt as if they were forgotten. Did she touch you there?”

  “My nipples?”

  “No, your—thing.”

  “I let her for a moment, but when she went to kiss it, I took it away.”

  “But why?” Debbie almost wailed in frustration.

  “Girl, I was so excited that I would have exploded in seconds.” His hand had left her breasts and was rubbing across her tummy. She was impatient for more and gently unhooked her skirt at the hip and drew down the zip. She wanted him to reach down for her, put his hand deep between her raised thighs.

  “What did you do after you had kissed her breasts?”

  “I was feeling hungry, so I wriggled around until I was upside down to her and lay down over one arm and shoulder.”

  “She couldn't move.”

  “No. She couldn't reach me to make me come because my cock was lying flat with me pressing it against her. And her shoulder was pinned down. I had her trapped. All she could do was let me enjoy myself.” His fingers had crept through the opening in her blouse, under her skirt-band and panty elastic, and were gently patrolling the area between her navel and hair. She moved her feet further apart on the far armrest, opening her legs a little, ready for his entry.

  “How did you enjoy yourself?”

  “Her legs had opened wide, near flat on the bed, so I started to kiss her. Here and here. Up and down here.”

  Aah! His fingers are running all around the edge of my hair. And right down either side of me. But he's not touching it. “You were teasing her again.”

  “No, I wasn't. I was just starting at the edges and working in. I covered my teeth with my lips and bit her hard, like this.” His strong fingers were pressing her lips together, turning her sex in on itself, rolling the delicate folds together. “With her all closed up, I tried to wriggle in the tip of my tongue, then I opened her wide and licked her.”

  The nimble fingers somehow managed to spread her sex wide and still have a fingertip to trace its way delicately up and down the edges of her inner lips and round the rim of her entrance. Stomach somersaulting, her knees fell unashamedly open, one resting on the seat back and the other flat on the seat. Even in the dim night lighting of the aircraft, no one could have doubted what was happening under the thin blanket. His finger was wrapped in her now, running up to her sensitive button and down again.

  It was difficult to talk. “Did she come again?”

  “Yes. She squeezed her thighs around my head and shook violently. It was tremendous. I was reaching as far into her as I could, pressing her bud with my chin and twirling my tongue round and round inside her, and she came and came and came. It was great. I loved it.”

  Debbie's voice was strained. “Did she make a lot of noise?”

  “I don't know. She'd closed my ears with her thighs. She was pressing me into her. I couldn't hear or see or breathe. I felt as if I was part of her as she tried to swallow me up in her coming.”

  I'm going to come too. Yes. No. He's slowing down. Don't. Make me do it. Please. “It's the right time. Do it to her now.”

  “I got up off her and turned around. She reached for me, but I put her hands down by her sides. I knelt over her face and brushed her forehead with my balls.”

  I can feel them. Soft and hairy, brushing across my face. He smells good.

  The fingers of his other hand touched her face. “Across her forehead, down to each eye, from cheek to cheek, her nose, her mouth.”

  Her enflamed mind felt the rough sac drag across her cheek, felt the touch of the hard silken pole above in the darkness. “Yes. Do it to me.”

  He whispered on, the hand between her legs working slowly, steadily. “Down across her breasts, nipple to nipple. I brushed over her tummy, up the inside of her thighs. All around her red hair, against the sides of her sex. Her eyes were closed and her head rocking from side to side. She was gripping her own breasts tight. Her fingers were digging deep into them as she kept squeezing. And then I was rubbing my balls against her pussy.”

  “Aaah—ooh,” Debbie gasped, “God—do it to me! Please! Now!”

  “I pressed hard against her open pussy. My balls were buried in the soft wetness and being sucked inside. She opened her eyes again and looked down. My cock was standing up, trapped between us,
growing out of my hair and out of hers. It was impossible to tell if it was part of her or me. She was panting and making little movements which made it bob back and forwards towards her.” His hand moved purposefully, his middle finger reaching deep inside her. “She was hypnotised by watching this male thing growing up out of her. I said, ‘Tell me, what is the sexiest thing I could do to you?’”

  Debbie's legs crashed together around her tormentor. She turned her face to him and buried herself in his stomach, gagging the cries rising from her depths. His hand was behind her head, crushing her into him. Clinging to his taut arm, she shuddered her climatic moments away.

  * * * *

  At the airport, he left her queuing at the Immigration desk while he walked quickly through the gate reserved for US citizens. Just a wave, and he had gone. She took the bus into town. The ride through the early morning half-light seemed interminable, and she was glad when she finally called for the car from the hotel to pick her up.

  American professional courtesy took charge of her as she checked in. Then, just as the girl gave her the room key and directions, another girl hurried up. “Excuse me, Miss. Are you Debbie Ryder? There's a fax for you. It says it's very urgent.” She handed it over with what seemed like a wink. For Debbie Ryder, beautiful English lady checking in about now. If you fancy going out dancing, I'll be in the bar at around 8:00 tonight, love, Ross. Her first thought was “He even found out my name….”

  * * * *

  As the tape stopped playing, Priscilla jumped to her feet. “Chairperson, I'm glad that’s over. It's too stupid to need a comment from me. If Trehearne wishes to print such a thing, I won't stand in his way. What I would really like to do is get on with the next story while we still have time this afternoon. This one is far more threatening. It involves the rape of a woman and illustrates quite clearly what Trehearne feels about the crime. May we move on?”

  Trehearne would not let her get away with it, of course. “Madam Chairperson, I'm sorry that the Investigator found that story so difficult to relate to. May we ask why this story is apparently acceptable to her while the others are not? I think that would add an important dimension to her case against the book.”

  Valerie and the Board looked across the stage at Priscilla, but she felt reluctant to rise.

  Trehearne provoked her. “Please, Miss Investigator, the story was romantic, yes, but it was also very sexy and explicit. This one did not upset you. Can I hope that it touched a chord in your heart?”

  “Certainly not! It's just silly! I am not personally interested in things like that. It's unbelievable that any woman could allow a strange man to do things like that to her in a public place. Ridiculous. But I suppose they didn't do very much together, so I prefer to concentrate on the more poisonous stories in the book.” Priscilla was on the defensive, and Trehearne would have the last word.

  “Chairperson, I believe the Investigator is not telling us what she really feels about the story. It's romantic, and how could she not be personally interested in romance? Perhaps she is troubled by the fact that it is romantic and sexy at the same time.

  “As with all of these stories, it is there to be enjoyed and also to educate. I do admire Debbie's confidence in herself. She was alone on an airplane, sitting next to a strange man, and instead of withdrawing into herself, she was open to romance. What a nice place the world would be if there was a bit more romance around, don't you think, Miss Investigator?”

  Priscilla sat with head bowed and waited for the next story to roll.

  A Meeting of Cultures

  Their speedboat pounded mercilessly across the tropical sea as it headed northwest out of Lae. At this distance, the Papua New Guinea coast appeared as no more than a shaggy green wall of rainforest plunging down the mountains to the sea. No road ran along the shore and into town, so the few villages that existed along the beach had not developed but remained pretty much as they had been for centuries, except for the transistor radios and bright fabrics that civilization had brought.

  John had been sent here for reasons he could not understand. His Australian company had been working on an ilmenite prospect up here for a couple of years now, but gossip said it was a loser. The mineral concentration was just not high enough, not even in a world hungry for titanium. But someone had decided they needed a hydrogeologist to look at the drainage pattern, especially the neighbouring river which had shown a dangerous tendency toward flash flooding. They had already lost a Toyota, a diesel tank and the camp toilet block, washed away in the night after a tropical downpour.

  Pat had come too, looking every inch the experienced bush hand even though it was her first visit outside the country. It was not just the clothes, he thought. Everyone on the boat wore variations on the same limp, washed-out drill shirt made in China. It was just that she looked so competent and relaxed, balancing lightly to counter the rising and crashing of the deck, eyes half closed against the wind. Not for the first time he found himself watching the heave and fall of the breasts hidden under her bush shirt, and then fell to imagining how they would bounce if only....

  “Are your thoughts worth a penny?” He woke up. She had caught him watching her, and he saw from her smile she knew pretty well what had been passing through his mind.

  “A deal more, I'd say, but for thoughts like that I should be paying you.”

  She laughed happily. “You really are a dirty old man. You never let it rest, do you?”

  “I do afterwards.”

  “Not for long, that much I recall. But you'll just have to stay dreaming because we're going to be pretty busy daytimes, and if you think I'm performing at night with a bunch of hard-arsed drillers listening in, you've got the wrong girl!”

  The boat's course brought them nearer to the jungle, and they could pick out the rich tangle of it shadowing the long, white beach of coral sand. The mountains were further from the shore now, and John guessed the ground immediately behind the beach would be flat and swampy, almost impassable. Not to worry, he thought. I could live right there on the beach. Build a little hut, say on that point, and dig a vegetable garden behind. The sea is so rich, it is like fish soup; drop a line over the side and in five minutes you would have something to eat. And if you are too lazy to cook, just stroll through the coconut palms behind the beach and pick a nut off the floor.

  As they rounded the point, the prospector's camp came into view, a ramshackle jetty with an equally ramshackle camp behind. The huts looked like tacky parodies of local village houses, a framework of wooden poles cut straight from the bush, topped off with steep, corrugated iron roofs. The floors were raised three feet off the ground for coolness and to keep the crawling insects away. Walls were almost a vanity on such a structure, but yellow polythene sheets had been pinned on to form a windbreak. One hut supported a radio antenna suspended between a bamboo flag-staff and the nearest palm tree. That must have been the office.

  Accommodation was definitely basic. Pat and John were shown to one end of a sleeping hut full of hammocks draped in mosquito nets. Their guide was a cheerful young geologist called Tim. “I'm afraid that we don't have too many ladies visiting, so you'll just have to bunk with us. New people always get the end hammocks because you'll have to crawl past everyone else if you want to get up in the night. I hope you don't snore. Drop your stuff and come over to the canteen. I'll put the tea on.”

  The canteen looked pretty much the same but without the hammocks. Tim set up three mugs. “How can you drink hot tea in a climate like this?” Pat asked.

  “I'm from England. But you try it. We don't have enough fridge space to waste on soft drinks anyway, and you'll find this will refresh you even better.”

  “Have you been here long?”

  Tim smiled. “Eighteen months. But I got a couple of weeks in Manila over Christmas, and I'm due for a longer break soon. It's not too bad, and the work's interesting. It's always good to be on a project that's successful.”

  John's ears pricked up. “I heard this was a
duster. That's what they're saying back home.”

  Tim looked coy. “Commercial disinformation, so you'd better keep your mouth shut. If you don't look trustworthy, perhaps we'll keep you here forever. Well, we'll keep Pat anyway.”

  How do they survive, Pat wondered. No foreign women, and the local women she had seen selling vegetables in the Lae market did not bear thinking about. She could not imagine any female who regularly chewed betel nut being attractive, no matter how long the men had been without sex. Even the opportunities for doing it by hand were limited by the hammock next to you. The whole hut would shake.

  Back to business. “So what are we supposed to be doing here?”

  “Well, I'm not the boss. Roger will be in soon. But I know he wants Pat to check the surveying on some of the fixed points, and to survey in the trial holes we've been doing recently. We had our regular surveyor quit a couple of months back, and we've been trying to do it all ourselves. I don't know just what he has for you, John.”

  “I was told to look at the river, to control the flooding.”

  “You'd need to be Moses to control that,” Tim snorted. “You’ll see.”

  They turned in early that night and both slept wretchedly. The awkwardness of the hammock, the smoke from the mosquito coils and the deafening night noises from the swamp all combined to rouse them at every turn. Pat woke to a scampering movement on the outside of her mosquito net. A translucent gecko was wrestling with a breakfast moth. She watched its fat stomach and splayed fingers for a while, then struggled up out of the hammock. Her very bones seemed to ache as she crept under the other hammock ropes, jungle boots in hand, and out into the dawning.

  The sun had touched the far clouds with a coral bloom, and in minutes it came roaring up out of the sea and the day began. She was guided out into the swamp after breakfast and spent a struggling, sweaty day fixing bore-hole positions with Tim controlling the labourers. He joked and shouted with them in Pidgin, that incomprehensible mix of mispronounced English words with smatterings of coastal trading languages, all stirred up with a peculiar local grammar. At least these labourers spoke Pidgin. Up in the hills, the villages each had their own languages—place-talk they called them—and could not even communicate with their compatriots from neighbouring valleys.