by Nicole Dere
‘Of course, my dear. I can thoroughly recommend it. It enhances the sensitivity down there, improves the pleasure whatever sex activity you enjoy.’
His English is almost perfect, but again the accent is there, faint and difficult to define, with a tendency to stifle the “r” sound, which suggests a far eastern background.
Wanda nods in agreement. ‘Yes, I’ve had my pubes stripped a few times. Bald as a coot.’ She giggles. ‘Fine until they start growing again, and they always do, no matter what they say. And folks can get the wrong impression when they see you scratching down below.’
This lack of pubes adds to the strange impression of youthfulness. His penis is very short and stubby, almost as thick as it is long, with a thick collar of folded foreskin, through which the pink helm peeks palely. The prick nestles over the tight wrinkled walnuts of his testicles, themselves of suitably modest dimensions. He shows no embarrassment whatsoever at displaying this unimpressive tackle, just as he proves entirely comfortable with exposing his nudity. In fact, he has beaten both of us in stripping completely, carelessly tossing off his clothing with amazing speed and flinging himself on the wide bed like some oversized milk chocolate cherub. The only item he does not discard (and never will, no matter how convoluted our combinations of limbs and bodies become) is those thick spectacles. He is spread out naked on the coverlet while we are still reaching for the zips between our shoulderblades.
‘Take your time, please, ladies!’ he urges us, the light catching on his glasses like miniature headlamps. They are trained eagerly upon us, as we at once comprehend the pleasure he will obtain from our deliberate removing of the few pieces of clothing we have on. With the skill we have learnt over many such performances, private and more public, we strip with all the titillating artistry we can summon from our experience. For once I can feel temporarily superior, for he is particularly entranced by my underwear – the bustier, and the long ribbons of the suspenders stretching down through the hazy blue lacy knickers to the fine dark nylon stockings. In contrast, once Wanda has shed the skin of her white dress, and stepped out of her light evening sandals, she has only that diminutive thong to discard, though admittedly she makes the most of it by turning her back on him once she has slipped the little triangle from her pudenda, bending slightly and thrusting her buttocks forth for his approval as her fingers pluck the unseen strap from the deep cleft before shimmying the miniscule frippery down her limbs and over her ankles.
My turn. Dismissing my entirely justified feeling of inferiority at her divine beauty, I make the most of my few seconds of exclusive attention under the spotlight of those gleaming goggles. I turn my toes posily, unclipping the suspenders, roll each stocking in lubricious slow motion down my legs and off my feet, drop them like curling little snakes on the floor. Elbows jutting like wings, I reach behind me and, with considerable expertise, pop the hooks on my bustier and let it fall to join the stockings. Slower still, my thumbs hook in the elastic of the French knickers, and I ease them downward past my hips, exposing the sandy little neatness of my pubes, and when they reach my upper thighs I let go, give a quick little scissor (I can shimmy too!) and let them fall to my ankles, then out I step.
He claps his hands like an enthusiastic little boy, and cries out, ‘I love blonde girls!’ I know he is neither thinking of nor looking at my coiffure. I try to feel ashamed at the mean little thrill of triumph that quivers through me. After all, Wanda has never given the slightest sign of gloating at her clearly spectacular superiority of looks over me. But then, she doesn’t need to. I do a good enough job for her, knocking myself down in my constant self-denigrating comparisons between us.
M. Auguste is comfortingly impartial as he beams and holds out his chubby arms in wide invitation. ‘Come here, ladies! Come and have your wicked ways with me.’ And we move as one, spreading ourselves on and over him, encouraged by his eagerness and openness, and smother him with our available flesh.
Again I’m reminded irresistibly of his body’s air of youthfulness. His skin is as smooth as an infant’s, and, to my surprise, the pronounced curve of his belly, far from feeling flabby, feels firm and tight as a drum, his quite small hands and feet similarly childlike. He lies passively under our ministrations, clucking and chuckling, then groaning with delight. We pour our flesh over his, in exotic combination, suddenly and strongly aroused by having this chubby brown man so completely in our clutches. Clutch we do, kissing, and lapping, and stroking. Somehow I am not surprised to find that his squat little prick scarcely elongates at all, though I notice that its delicate mouth is agleam with fluid. Wanda is the first to actually take it between her lips. Her black hair falls across his curving belly, and the short column disappears in its entirety as she bends deeply, until her mouth rests against the smooth bareness of his pubis. My nails graze lightly on the wrinkled underside of his balls, my hand trapped in the warm fusion of flesh: the cave of his smooth round belly, and the underside of Wanda’s warm chin and moving throat. There is a loud plop as Wanda suddenly pulls her head up, gasping for breath, and his prick, a little longer, even thicker, and undeniably considerably stiffer, gleams with her saliva and his emissions.
‘Your turn!’ Wanda gasps, rolling away and rather forcefully pulling me onto him, thrusting my face down into his genitals. The wet, velvet helm squashes against my eye socket then my cheek, smearing me with its fluid, and I feel its throbbing resistance. I experience the familiar thrill, the weird admixture of horror and excitement whenever I fellate someone, the fearful anticipation of that surging, choking flood of their coming. I stretch my mouth, feel his prick fill it, surge to the roof of my mouth and I start to suck frantically, trying not to hurt with my teeth, the breath whistling through my nose, the blood pounding in my ears, desperate for more air and dizzy. Until suddenly a hand is tearing agonisingly at the back of my head, dragging me up by my hair, and I feel his prick slide like a slippery eel from my mouth.
‘Mount him! Mount him!’ Wanda cries frenetically, trying by force to haul me onto him, and, submissive as I have always been by instinct, I begin to move, until a faint spark of rebellion flares.
‘Why? You–’
‘Yes, yes! Crissie! Come! Come!’
I hear the strangulated voice of Ramazin crying out urgently, and we both feel his bulk heaving, lifting our combined, sprawling weight with the violent upthrust, and all at once I am moving, straddling him, grabbing that short little thrusting cock and putting it to my cunt. I take it inside, ramming down deep until he is buried in my clinging wetness. My wet face is driven against Wanda’s smooth, flawless back. I cling to her as he bucks and I ride him to a furious spouting climax. I feel it fill me and flow back out until we are joined belly to belly in the viscous spillage, and the thick hardness dies.
We collapse. We are both still sitting astride M. Auguste, I lie forward against the warm curve of her back, and we both rest on the inert bulk of our male partner beneath us.
Chapter Nine
I’M ONCE MORE ASHAMED when I reflect later on the extent and meanness of the pleasure I take from the undoubted, unexpected preference M. Auguste shows for me over the beautiful mixed-blood girl. It is nearer dawn than midnight when exhaustion calls a halt to our triadic revelries, though to be truthful M. Auguste’s active role in the fun subsided soon after the wild ride which ended in our copulation. Nevertheless, he was an enthusiastic spectator of our prolonged and also enthusiastic two-way show, as we wrestled and writhed and fiddled and ate at each other across the wide bed, while he sat like a jolly Buddha resting against the satin headboard.
At long last, audience and performers alike collapse wearily. I am expecting that we will all three sleep in sated harmony, so I am surprised (and wickedly proud) when Auguste simply wraps his brown arms around me, hugs me to his side like a favourite teddy, his eyes now slits as thin as a pencil line behind his glasses, and murmurs, ‘I keep this one. She stays with me. G’night, Wanda.’
She rises at once and leav
es – worst of all, with a final little kiss on the top of my wildly tangled blonde head, and I am the one that feels like Judas. But my heart still swells and sings in triumph! Slim little (all right! Skinny little!), pale little me, and still he chooses me! I push aside the snidy inner voice that whispers, he just likes fucking mzungus, countering it with the argument that this powerful individual can have, and has had, as many girls of all ethnic groups as I’ve had hot dinners. Instead, I snuggle down like Baby Bunting on his broad chest and round belly and drift into deep and dreamless sleep.
Until I wake up goose pimpled to another air-conditioned, humming morn, and a pair of hands pushing me down below that firm hemispherical belly to the sticky, stirring, chunky prick that briefly slotted and discharged fiercely within me a few hours ago. The guiding hands on my blonde thatch make it clear that he has no wish to repeat our coition. I dismiss my flash of disappointment and open my mouth to accommodate him. Soon I’m bobbing away, my nose rubbing that hairless little spot at the root of his throbbing, swiftly expanding column, my nails scratch delicately at his little nuts, my fingers assisting the vigour of my sucking, nibbling and lapping. There’s a frightening instant of deep, deep throat as he rears up, lifting me with him as he lunges, the spread of those hands on my head remorselessly strong, impaling me. He explodes inside, and I choke and swallow convulsively and, to my undying credit, I do not regurgitate or even spit back the glutinous issue filling me up. I manage to swallow again, another cloying mouthful of him, then allow the residue to ooze forth onto his now limp glans, which I then lick at savagely while smearing the spongy tip all around my lips and chin as though I’m jealous of and greedy for every little drop that has got away from me.
He whimpers and shudders, and sighs with bliss. His hands fall away from my head, and I rest my gasping face on his brown thigh, in sweating pride. Penalty shootout, and I win! Mentally I give thanks to my long-ago mentor, bottle blonde Jo, who taught me all the advanced tricks of giving head, and even (for the moment) forgive her for all those blistered bottoms she gave me.
M. Auguste is clearly delighted with me. We sport in the scented, foam-filled bathtub, but his sex play is not spectacular, and clearly for his own pleasure rather than mine. He plays with me like an infant with a rubber duck. I am just a little aroused by his roaming fingers and his kisses, but certainly far from blowing my top. When his prick emerges from the froth of bubbles like Paddington Bear in the snow, I suggest hopefully, ‘You want to fuck?’ – I would certainly be up for it, another gallop astride his bulk – but he shakes his head with that ear-to-ear grin, wipes his fogged specs and says, ‘You do it, quick handjob. I’m ready for breakfast!’
I oblige. My wrist aches, my hand is a blur, but the fruits of my labours are swiftly apparent. He is standing this time in the foam, and I am close behind, my arm slipped under that rotund belly, and I feel his buttocks flex like bellows against my own tummy. His sperm arcs out in a strong jet before the final oozings over my tired fingers, and I wonder just how much protein is contained in that stuff, and how much I swallowed. Maybe just toast and coffee for me!
My sneaky feeling of superiority and pride in a job well done is pricked like a party balloon when we meet Simon and Wanda already emerging from the dining room. ‘Oh, hi,’ he says. ‘I was just going to leave a message at Reception. Thought you wouldn’t want to be disturbed.’ He beams that A-1 smile, accompanied by a flicker of a wink. ‘More snags have come up, I’m afraid.’ He sighs like a martyr. ‘Got to dash back to the mainland. Can’t do anything from here. That’s the price for staying in paradise. So sorry, Auguste, mon ami . Another couple of days, I’m afraid. But I’m sure Crissie here will do her level best to entertain you.’
‘Ah, c’est la vie, n’est-ce pas? ’ The wide brown shoulders shrug in understanding. ‘Do not worry. She is an angel, oui ?’ He kisses his fingers in the air, beams his widest grin.
‘But – but what about ...?’ I glance helplessly at the smiling Wanda, then back to Simon. His grey eyes, dancing with warmth, nevertheless send a clear, icy dagger to my heart.
‘I’m leaving everything here in your capable hands, darling. Wanda has some things of her own to see to back there.’ His head flicks towards the beach and the ocean outside. ‘We did rather kidnap her, didn’t we, Crissie? But I’m hoping I can persuade her to return with me. Two or three days, I anticipate. All right, sweet?’
‘Have no fears, Simon. She is parfait. Our time will fly. Take as long as you wish.’
I am speechless, sick with despair. And I can see from Wanda’s sparkling eyes and her smile that she knows exactly how I am feeling. ‘Oh, I’m sure they’ll be fine while we’re away, Simon.’ She holds my gaze. ‘You won’t have me as gooseberry for the next couple of days.’ She gives a deep, gurgling laugh, leans forward and kisses me, lightly but slowly, on the lips, right there in the busy foyer. Not the casual buss on the cheeks of greeting or parting girlfriends, but the token of affection exchanged by lovers.
I stand mutely, burning with humiliation, and with hurt. My pain is increased when Simon steps in close too and also kisses me on the mouth, more lingeringly, and holds me briefly to him. His lips move to my ear after the embrace. His breath is warm on me. ‘I count on you. Be my good girl, Crissie.’
I note the “my”, and almost choke with bitterness at its shackling truth. I am indeed his. His to be put at his command to another man, like M. Auguste, or Mattius. Or to another girl, like Wanda. The girl he is taking away to fuck with, the girl he has fucked right in front of me. Cruellest of all, the girl he has fucked instead of me, since she came into our lives – such a long time ago, it seems now, though it is only a matter of days.
I daren’t trust myself to speak. I can’t . I merely nod, my head bowed in obeisance. I hear and obey. Like shackles, M. Auguste’s right arm falls around my shoulders, and holds me proprietarily in his grip. A desirable property. For short stay or long let.
‘You are sad that Monsieur Simon has left you behind, to look after me , yes?’
M. Auguste’s slit eyes behind the twinkle of his glasses and the wide glitter of his smile are as inscrutable as ever, but I sense at once the hidden censure in his remark, and blush, stammer slightly in the swiftness of my denial. ‘No, no! Of course not! I’m delighted–’
‘Delighted that he has taken the beautiful Wanda, and left you alone back here with Caliban, the monster of the island?’
I stare blankly for an instant, my dismay at his perspicacity deflected by my incomprehension. Then the word “island” stirs my memory of my beloved cruel Miss Challis and I recall vaguely he is referring to something in Shakespeare. That’s as far as it goes, but it’s far enough. God bless you, Mrs Servis, you callous bitch. ‘You’re no monster, Monsieur Auguste! Far from it! And yes! I am delighted. I love Wanda to bits, and she’s gorgeous, I have to admit, but at least I get a chance to get noticed while she’s away. Otherwise, I’d hardly get a look in, would I?’
My fishing for compliments is a bit obvious, but M. Auguste is spot on in his conjecture that I am envious of Wanda’s accompaniment of Simon. I am eaten up with jealousy, writhing like a kebab on a barbecue, and desperate for distraction. The smiling little brown man does not disappoint.
‘Let me tell you, my dear, and I speak only the truth, that I am delighted to be here with you. With only you, on this enchanted isle! It is the answer to my prayer, I am so happy! Wanda is trés belle , of course, but ... I must confess to you, Crissie – I love the European girls. And especially the Nordic, yes? The blonde. True blonde!’ He grins, his head gives a little nod, a bow in the direction of my hips.
It isn’t needed for I am well aware he is thinking of my pubes. I still remember the way his eyes lit up when they were first revealed in the little cabaret of our stripping that Wanda and I indulged in last night – and my mean little thrill of pleasure and one-upmanship – at his reaction. And he continues to please me inordinately as he goes on now.
‘Girl
s like Wanda are beauties, of course, no one can deny. But you girls of the north – you blondes – you are more subtle. Your figures are graceful, without being too ...’ his hand waves in the air, half as though he is searching for words, and half indicating my bosom ... ‘obvious, too overstated.’
Shamefully, I give a little shiver, unperceived, I hope, and I cross my legs, squeezing my thighs tightly together, to give myself a sexual thrill. I feel the nipples of my understated tits harden inside the cups of my mini sundress with the fine wire of pure pleasure. It’s like he is licking me all over, feeding off every inch of me, and the bikini briefs are dampening already. The power of words! Who needs Shakespeare, when I’ve got roly-poly M. Auguste to sex me up? Then I feel once more the consuming heaven of Wanda’s lapping tongue, and see over her shoulder the beautiful, transported face of Simon as he fucks her to the hilt. Frantically, I reach out, seize M. Auguste’s strong brown hand in both of mine, lift it to my lips, and think disconcertingly of that squat brown cock that I have sucked and that discharged inside me just a few hours ago.
‘Perhaps I can offer you a little diversion, my dear. A little boat trip. There is a place just up the coast, a little to the north. It is another island, but very small – an islet , I think you call it, yes?’
I nod as intelligently as I can, reverting in my mind to the sulky, lovelorn schoolgirl I used to be. Who knows? And who the fuck cares? I think, as I smile back at him.
‘It is not habited now. A place where the dhows used to come in the ancient days. They kept the slaves there, before bringing them to the market here, or sailing on to Zanzibar. There are some old ruins. Very interesting.’
Fascinating – not ! I’m still in my rebellious teenage mode. My heart sinks further, down to my light open sandals. Another trip in that bloody canoe, with Mattius grinning and letching every inch of me all day. Maybe he’ll even get to shag me again. Simon has probably told M. Auguste all about my performance with the fisherman. And Auguste does seem to enjoy his spectator sport. He certainly took great pleasure in watching Wanda and me doing the business for each other last night! But another surprise awaits.