The Mandingo Diaries: A Case of Taboo

by Clyde Viechweg

  "Oooooh, aaaaaaah, don't stop, that's it, aaaahhhh am cummminng, woooooo aaaaaaah!" she screamed. I quickly took my tongue off her clit and pushed it into her ass as she came.

  I have never seen a woman cum so much. Her legs kept spasming and trembling. She would lift up her arms and throw them aimlessly. It would take her a good five minutes to return to normal.

  Then she motioned me to enter her. Seeing her cum like that only made me hotter and my cock was swollen like the trunk of a mahogany tree.

  Holding it with one hand, she guided it to her promised land. I can never forget that wet hotness; it refused to open for it kept clenching. When I rubbed against it slowly, it soon relaxed and I entered.

  "Oooooh aaaah, yes, yes, I want it, oooh," she moaned.

  I slowly moved my waist in tiny circles, going deeper with each circle. Her eyes were rolled back into her head so that I could only see white. Inside her wet and hot pussy, I could feel the clenching and relaxing. With each relaxed moment, I would seize the opportunity to go deeper.

  I could feel the wet walls massaging my cock from all directions; her fingers were now dug into my lower back. She would lift her head off the bed to kiss and then painfully bite my shoulder. This drove me crazy and I plowed her deeper and harder. I was nearing my release. My eyes were closed and head back when I felt something wrap around my neck, restricting my breathing. She had wrapped a leather whip around it that she kept on the nightstand, I was to find out later.

  My first reaction was to pull away, but she wrapped her legs tightly around me and pulled tighter on the whip. I choked her back with my hands and a wicked excitement possessed me. I started to fuck her with wild abandon. She would release the tension every so often and I would hungrily gulp air and I did the same for her.

  Soon, the tremors started all over her body; seeing her face contorted in a pleasure-pain mix and knowing that I was fucking my boss's wife, I felt like I was about to pass out and she released the whip; the fresh air rushed in and intoxicated me. I exploded. “Aaaaaaaaaaah ooooooooooh woooooo, ah love you, I love you, aaaahh, am cumming.”

  I kept cumming and cumming and I kept drilling her pussy.

  "Aaaahh my love, oooooooh woooooo, I am cumming toooo."

  After that night, we would have sex at least three times per week. She would go on to teach me many things about sex and my body. However, she had a dark side; her most explosive orgasms happened when I whipped her or choked her to near passing out. That scared and excited me in a sick kind of way; however, what would become of me if I was to accidentally kill her during one of our crazy romps?

  Well, my mother died a week ago and she left me a long confessional letter and her diaries. When I had finished reading the diaries, I was floored. I always looked at my mother as the standard for living a morally correct life, yet her own handwriting tells another story. I felt like I never really knew her, but yet I knew her as good as her own soul. Such conflicting emotions threatened to consume me. However, it was the revelation of who my father was that sent me over the edge. I cried for days and there was no one I could confide in, so like my mother before me, I turned to the blank pages of a diary to whisper words that only a diary could be trusted to remain silent.

  Now I have decided to find my father. I don't know if he still breathes, but he is all that I have left and I wish to hear his story.

  Marcus Adams

  1840

  Grenada West Indies

  Mangoes and Orgasms

  I remember the crash of thunder as if it was yesterday. I was not startled, for I had anticipated it due to the lightning flashes on the horizon, not to mention it was that time of the year.

  The air was thick with negatively charged ions. The vegetation all around was perfuming the air in an offering to the gods. However, the scent I recalled the most was that of mangoes. The loud clashes of thunder in the heavens signaled that the gods were pleased with earth's offering and, with that, the clouds off loaded their burden onto the land. Yes, the rainy season was here and with it, mango season had come too.

  What a time to be on the Isle of Spice; everywhere you turned were the vivid colors of flowers, trees, grasses and, of course, mangoes. Even the birds had reserved their finest melody for this time of the year and not a morning would pass without being serenaded upon awaking.

  So it was among a backdrop such as this that my love story begins.

  The year was 1993 and I was visiting my grandmother at her estate in St. Andrews. The estate was situated high up in the mountains and surrounded other by other towering mountain ranges. Most of the trees in that area were covered with a dark green moss that gave them an ancient look.

  Grandma's plantation house was situated on a plateau that commanded a breathtaking vista of the tallest mountain on the island, Mount Saint Catherine, which was framed by two long rows of fir trees, the blue sky above and the gravel pitch driveway below. Whenever I visited, I always found myself on evenings admiring the way the fog covered her as if in tucking her in for the night.

  Sitting in an old off-green flaky painted chair that my great-grandma used to spend her evenings in too, I would rock back and forth while waiting for supper.

  Due to the isolation of the house from the villages below, electricity never made it up the mountain. That was an inconvenience I could bear, for I found my body connecting to nature's clock and soon all my stress dissolved with the evening mist.

  Of the many reasons I chose to visit around that time of the year was for the annual carnival and the mangoes, of course. I love mangoes and Grenada has been blessed with numerous varieties of them.

  My mornings would start with two green-skinned coconut waters, followed by the scooping out of their insides to eat the soft flesh. This was followed by six mangoes of a mixed variety and a couple joints of sugar cane.

  Then I would use the outhouse to relieve myself. That time of day was where I did my best thinking. With the old wooden door closed, I would see the rays of light streaming into the spaces between the wood and I would observe the dust riding their beams.

  In the solitude of that outhouse, I would listen to the wind rustling through the trees, even the groaning sound from the bamboo trees as their trunks rubbed against each other, causing friction. Birds would light on the roof of the outhouse and chirp a call or two to their mates.

  The pigs would snort as if they understood bird talk. The donkey would bray, while the rooster would crow so loudly as if to outdo all the others.

  Finally, those sounds would fade out and the scent of the cloves, cinnamon, and nutmegs would invade my nostrils, thankfully expelling the outhouse scent.

  When I was finished, I would take my soap dish, towel, and pail and walk up to the spring. There among nature's backdrop I would strip down and fill the bucket with the cold water, tense my body, and empty it over me. No matter how many mornings I did it I would scream out at the first bucket.

  With my skin wet, I would quickly soap up from head to toes and rinse. Eventually, my body adjusted to the temperature and, soon, bucket after bucket followed. When I was done, I would stand on the big rock next to the spring and towel dry my body vigorously. I would feel the blood flowing all throughout my body, reminding me how alive I was.

  Wrapping the towel around me and slipping on my slippers, I would make my way down to the house to dress and head down to the village or into Grenville to see friends or just to bust a solo lime. (“Lime,” in this sense, is to hang out)

  So it was a morning quite like this that I first laid eyes on her. I was driving down the bumpy old road when she came into view. She was walking with two other girls whom I knew, for their parents were friendly with Grandma.

  The way she walked was like a leaf floating in the wind, for she glided. Our eyes met and I saw her step falter for a split second; however, she quickly recovered and kept her head straight. I waved to the other two girls and they waved back. As I passed them, I looked into the rear view mirror and saw the two girls
leaning into her to say something. Then the two girls busted out laughing while she shook her head and hand to signal no.

  Then she turned to look and our eyes met again, and it was I who faltered this time. My foot shot out unconsciously and hit the brake, causing the jeep to skid in the gravel. A huge smile lit up her face while I could feel the embarrassment in mine. All three of them started laughing hard and, with that, I sped off.

  That day, I spent in the capital with some old school friends. We hung out at the Spice Land Mall and had a couple of Carib beers. One of my friends mentioned that I was distant and wanted to know if everything was kosher. The problem was that, between laughs and sips of beer, her beautiful face would haunt me. Try as I might, I could not shake her. Around five in the evening, I bowed out and headed home.

  The drive through the Grand Etang Mountains was always adventurous. As I navigated around sharp corners that edged deep gorges while maneuvering past on-coming traffic, I finally made it to 1910 and began my descent. I would pass the Grand Etang lake and tourist welcome center and down pass more winding roads to Birch grove village , then I shot up through St. James village on to La Digue and then up the mountain to Dry River estate.

  On the way through Bellevue Land, I looked for her, but it was already dusk and I doubted that she would have been outside, for there were no street lights and I could tell she was a foreigner by her attire. Nothing could protect her from the menaces of the night: sand flies and mosquitos.

  Driving up the weather-beaten path to the house, I was surprised to see two other vehicles parked in front of the house. So I pulled to the edge of the driveway so as to not impede outbound traffic later.

  The night was cool, which is common for any mountainous area. The moon was out and there were millions of stars scattered in the heavens. As I walked up the steps, I could hear loud laughter and the clinking of glasses inside. Since I did not make out any of the vehicles parked, I reckoned it to be Grandma’s church friends and I really was not up for any “ole” talk.

  So I sat down on the cool, broad concrete steps and looked in the direction of Mount Saint Catherine. Although the moonlight was bright, I could not see her. I figured she was asleep, wrapped up in her blanket of fog.

  “Good night, my love; sleep tight and I am about to do the same,” said I out loud.

  “And to think, I thought you were sane.”

  I spun around, startled by the voice, which was clearly a woman's but not a Grenadian one.

  Standing up, I saw the silhouette of a woman rocking back and forth in my favorite chair. Climbing the stairs slowly, I came face to face with the one face that I did not expect to find here—the face that had haunted me all day.

  “Oh my! It's you!” I exclaimed in surprise.

  “Why, I came all the way here to see you and that is how you greet me,” she said, feigning disappointment.

  “Nuh, ah, I mean, you must forgive me; I could not have anticipated you being here. However, this is a most pleasant surprise,” I replied softly, at the same time trying to regain my composure.

  “Do you mind if I join you on the stoop?” she asked.

  “No problem; there is plenty of room,” I answered, at the same time motioning her with my hands.

  “What were you doing out here all by yourself?” I asked.

  “I was bored. Besides, it was so pretty outside that I excused myself, but not before taking the bottle of Golden Apple wine with me,” she said.

  “Do you have any left? I could do with a drink myself after such a shocking surprise,” I said, laughing.

  “You got jokes. Maybe I should just drink all myself,” she teased.

  She jumped up and brought the bottle back.

  “There is only one glass. Do you want me to fetch you another?” she asked.

  “Nah, it’s all good. We can share this one if you don't mind,” I replied.

  “Aah you don't want the old folks to know you are here, for you know they will talk your ears off,” she said and busted out laughing.

  I joined in and we had a hearty laugh, for she had hit the nail on the head.

  I poured out a full glass of the wine. The powerful scent assaulted my nostrils, making me feel a little woozy even before I tasted it. I took a mouthful and closed my eyes. The flavors exploded in my mouth. The fruity sweetness, the flowery scent of it, along with the cool mountain breeze, bright moonlight, and the company of a beautiful stranger made this the most memorable wine I ever had.

  I passed the glass to her and we went back and forth until the bottle lay empty. I found out that her name was Elizabeth and she was from Canada. The girls I had seen her with earlier that day were her cousins. This was her second time here, for she had come last year too. I had not.

  She had come and fallen in love with mangoes and the enchanting beauty of the island. She loved the soca music, the steel pan, Oil Down, and the rum and coke.

  “Are you growing out your hair or something?” she asked at the same time reaching out and touching it.

  I felt electricity shoot through me, for I had turned with her touch and found my face inches away from hers.

  Our eyes met and, for a moment, I stopped breathing. I could see her smile fade as her lips parted and eyes closed. Then our lips met....mmmmhm.

  Her lips were so soft. I could taste the Golden Apple wine, which only helped to intoxicate me more with each kiss. I slowly explored her mouth, deepening the kiss while I pulled her into my arms. This forced me to lie down on my back. She mounted me and although the pressure of her weight sank my back into the edges of the steps, I could care less.

  She was wearing a thin sweater and jeans. I slid my hand up her sweater to caress her back. My hand went all the way up to her neck without obstruction, which meant that she was not wearing a bra. This made me so hot. My cock was now throbbing with excitement and was stiff as one of the pillars holding up the house.

  “Mmmmhmmm. Oh my. Someone is awake,” she teased me, at the same time reaching down to massage it.

  ”Oh, aah yes ooooho yes,” I moaned happily.

  I brought my hands around to her breast. They were medium-sized with rock hard nipples that were longing for a kiss.

  “I want to kiss your breast, I want to kiss between your legs, I want to lose my tongue inside you,” I panted, at the same time playing with her breast.

  Liz went crazy. She pushed her tongue deep into my mouth and started pulling on my tongue while gyrating against my stiff cock, which was trapped in my jeans.

  I reached around her with my left hand and massaged her ass, which was held firmly together in those tight jeans. My right hand was busy pinching her taut nipples.

  “I want to take off your jeans and slide my big cock in you. I want to feel your wetness all over my cock... I want to stuff your pussy full of it,” I murmured in her ear.

  “Yes, I want you too. Ooh yes, I want it in me. Promise me you will fill my tight hole, ooooh, baby, I am going to come,” she moaned.

  “Elizabeth! We are about to leave,” came a voice from inside the house, breaking the spell.

  She jumped off me and sat down. A lady walked out into the veranda.

  “Ah, there you are. I was wondering what you were doing out here all by yourself, but I see that you have met Walter,” said the lady.

  Getting up, I walked up and introduced myself. It turned out to be Liz’s mother. We exchanged pleasantries and the others came out of the house. I walked Liz and her mom to their car. I promised to meet up with her the next day to go mango hunting if it did not rain.

  After they left, I turned in for the night. Leaving the window open, I drifted off to Lala Land in the cool mountain breeze.

  The next morning, I awoke later than usual. Grandma was outside in her kitchen garden.

  “Morning, Ma,” I greeted her.

  ”Morning. How was your night?” she inquired.

  “It was good. I slept like a baby,” I yawned a reply.

  After making small ta
lk, I quickly went about my morning rituals. Looking up at the clouds, I could see them darken. This could ruin my mango-hunting plans.

  So I jumped into my rental and headed down to pick up Liz. She was sitting on her veranda in long black tights and a white t-shirt with no bra.

  Seeing me pull up, she jumped in and we headed back up to the estate.

  “Looks like it is going to rain,” she said.

  “Looks like it,” I replied.

  “I forgot to tell you last night that I leave tomorrow evening. My grandma fell sick two days ago in Toronto and we have to cut our vacation short,” she said sadly.

  “I am so sorry,” I replied, more sorry that she was leaving than about her granny (I know it wrong, but that's how I felt.).

  “So now, I must find you the biggest and juiciest mangoes today, for sure,” I said, trying to sound upbeat.

  Pulling up in the yard, I went inside for a cutlass and a bag for the mangoes. We then headed out by foot down a soggy track to the estate lands. It was humid and, soon, we both were sweating. Because we were high up in the mountains, the ground always felt wet, for it was always cooler than the lowlands and less evaporation took place due to the density of the vegetation.

  On our way, I stopped to pick her two oranges. I peeled them with the cutlass. She delighted in their sweetness and freshness. I could see her relax a bit. We continued on to the ravine that was flowing with crystal clear water. To get to the other side, we had to jump from rock to rock. I held her hand, for some of the rocks were slippery.

  On the other side, we came to a field of mangoes. There were about fifty trees loaded with Starchy, Caliviny, Julie, cellon, and peach mangoes among countless others. Their scent was heavenly.

  Liz’s eyes lit up. Our first stop was at the Julie mango tree. I picked two ripe ones and we sat down to eat them. Liz had never had that kind before, so I showed her the Grenadian way of eating it. I bit a small hole in the bottom of the mango and squeezed the sweet nectar from inside into my mouth. Liz followed suit. Her eyes closed and it was a look of ecstasy on her face.