‘THIS IS M. AUGUSTE Ramazin. He’s a very close associate of mine and I hope in the days to come, a dear and highly valued friend. I want you girls to make sure he is made to feel most welcome. One of our little family, eh? These are my two exquisite beauties, Auguste. They’ll take care of your every need. Your wish will be their command.’
Simon laughs, but I shiver internally at the look those grey eyes fix on me, and the clear message of “every need”. While he makes the introductions, my thoughts riot in keeping with my thudding heart. “You girls”. So Wanda is included. Have I lost my exclusive claim to be Simon’s girl? Are Wanda and I now partners, equal in his possession of us, and our obeisance? No, no! My brain screams its condemnation even as I smile demurely, lower my eyes, even blush a little, with almost a tiny bob of acknowledgement. To distract myself from the painfulness of my reflections, I turn my gaze towards the stranger Simon has brought back to the island with him.
M. Ramazin is short – no more than five foot six – and round. His shoulders and chest are broad, but a prominent belly thrusts out below, even in the expensively cut tropical suit in light grey. His head sits squat on those broad shoulders, which make it look contrastingly small. His jet-black hair is cut short at the sides and at the back of his thick neck, and cropped too on the top of his narrow skull. Its glossy blackness is dotted here and there with just the first faint suggestion of iron greyness. The complexion is brown, of a much deeper shade than Wanda’s creamy au-lait , and, along with his surname, suggests an Indian ethnicity, which has been well represented in East Africa for many generations. But the flatness of his facial features, and in particular his eyes, which appear slit-like in the folds of flesh behind his black-framed, extremely thick-lensed spectacles, as well as his apparently permanent wide smile, suggest a more extreme oriental background. The French name of Auguste and the “monsieur” mode of address merely add to the mystique.
‘I’ve never heard of him,’ Wanda tells me, when we are dismissed to make ourselves ready for dinner, and what will no doubt be a long session of dining, wining, dancing and who knows what else. Perhaps we’ll watch the sun come up out of the ocean in its superb blaze of gold and red over the bruise-dark bank of clouds before they disperse at the rising paleness of the new sky. But with whom? I wonder, and I feel that hollow, sick tension in my tummy while we scrub each other’s backs and jostle companionably at the long mirrors of one of the bedrooms. We pull on the few miniscule scraps of dainty underwear – Wanda selects a transparent thong, a misty pale wisp which shows her carefully trimmed bush and leaves that magnificent bottom bare, before wriggling and easing a sheath like a second skin up over her body. Its hem reaches a few inches below her knees, requiring her to trip along like a hobbled geisha, which in turn makes that awesome backside, its swell of cheeks and pert crevice breathtakingly outlined, sway in a manner to draw all eyes, male and female, letching or fuming with envy. At the top, the half cups put her breasts on show to the discreet hint of the peeking tips of the areolae. This devastating little marvel is in dazzling white that sets off the creamy brown skin tone to perfection.
My throat closes. I have to struggle to speak, she’s so beautiful it hurts, and I don’t know how I feel, but I’m compelled to murmur, ‘God! You look absolutely stunning!’
She grins, looks like a young kid, her dark eyes shine, and I feel myself reacting instinctively to her beauty. ‘Thanks, honey. It’s OK as long as I don’t burp, fart or bend more than six inches. Imagine what our new guest will say when my tits pop out in his soup. Might even steam up those inch-thick goggles of his.’ She zips up my own pale blue number, also off the shoulder but not cut so daringly low nor filled half so well. Underneath, my glad-rags are of a matching shade – a bustier that nips my already slim waist, with long satin, ribboned suspender straps attached. Though my legs are picking up a tan, my fair complexion doesn’t take too well to sunburn and I’m all the more conscious of my pale skin and slight frame. I’m happy enough to wear stockings – I’ve always enjoyed the sexy feeling they give me, and prefer the old-fashioned discomfort of suspenders to hold-ups or the dreaded tights. In the comparative cool of the air-conditioned rooms of the luxury hotel they are perfectly bearable. I do think briefly of dispensing with the wide-legged, lace-trimmed French knickers that go with the bustier. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve gone knickerless, but I decide I’d better not risk it on this occasion. For a start, I’m sure it wouldn’t escape Wanda’s notice, who might well make mischievous use of her knowledge. And in any case, there are already quite enough imponderables on this night, given our illustrious new guest and Simon’s explicit, far-reaching instructions concerning our duties towards him. Your wish will be their command.
When we get down to the wide veranda which is an extension of the bar, where most of the well-heeled clientele gather for their sundowners, and now that the heavy tropic night has fallen, their pre-dinner drinks, Simon and M. Ramazin are deep in earnest conversation with a group of four or five men, of varied appearance, none of whom seem to fit in with the wealthy types that make up the usual guests in this exclusive establishment. Among them I am surprised to catch sight of Mattius. I’ve never seen him dressed so formally. He is wearing a pressed shirt of dazzling white, short-sleeved, with top buttons open to allow a generous display of his smooth brown chest. Most startling of all is the smart pair of pale chinos, which have knife-edge creases. I realise I have never seen him in trousers, and am briefly furious with myself for letting my gaze stray immediately to his crotch. Even in his unaccustomed finery, the swell of his genitals is prominent. Dragging my gaze from his loins, I notice that his formal dress code does not extend to socks. His bare ankles and feet show above a pair of rubber flipflops. His teeth dazzle as pristinely as his shirt as he recognises us. It’s the first time to my knowledge that he has penetrated so far into this elegant interior. Usually, he waits in reception, in his more normal garb of yellow shorts and cheap, open shirt, or at the front entrance outside. None of the group attending Simon and M. Ramazin looks at ease in these surroundings, though Mattius’s expression reflects just a flash of his normal familiarity when he catches sight of Wanda and me in all our finery. His bright gaze moves over us, doubtless in his mind’s eye stripping away our fancy clothes, to comfort himself with the thought of how comprehensively he knows and has enjoyed what lies beneath.
Though each of the newcomers is holding a glass of beer, it is clear that they are not here to socialise and, at our approach, Simon nods in what is clearly dismissal, and the men turn away, avoiding looking at us – all, that is, except Mattius, who cannot resist showing off to his companions. ‘Jambo, Missy Wanda, Missy Crissie.’ He grins again, and my anger returns as I feel the colour mounting up my neck to my cheeks. I can just hear his insufferable tone to his mates a few seconds from now. ‘Yeah, I fuck them both, mingi sana .’ Many times.
But of course, Wanda beams back at him with perfect aplomb. ‘Hi there, Matt my man! My! You really look swell. You must have a hot date tonight, yeah?’
He giggles, with a mixture of his usual cockiness and a rather juvenile pride in front of the others, like a kid who’s pulled at a disco. But also there’s just a shade of embarrassment, and instead of being jealous at Wanda’s easy manner, I relax and decide that her friendliness is really a put-down of neat subtlety.
Then they are gone, and I’m absurdly pleased at the fuss of welcome Simon and his chief guest make of us as we settle into our comfortable loungers – not as easy as it sounds in our attire, but worth it, I guess, at the gleam of approval behind the bottle-bottom glasses, and Simon’s smile and little nod of approval. We linger over our drinks, and by the time we move at the maitre d ’s summons to our table close to the small circular dancefloor, we are a relaxed and you might say intime quartet. The wine makes me pleasantly heady, puts a touch of colour in my cheeks which I flatter myself is not unattractive, and smoothes the edges of my admittedly somewhat diffident nature, to make me more outgoing.
And I need it when, just before midnight, I return to our table after a lengthy, slow, smoochy dance with “M. Auguste”. I am on such permissively intimate terms with him now as a reward for accepting the hard, cold feeling of his black spectacles digging into the exposed tops of my breasts, and that cold, broad nose of his rootling between then, as well as his comprehensive exploration of every centimetre of the admittedly slight curves of my bum. The fact that he explored through the fine silk layers of my dress and knickers seemed an added stimulation, judging by the noise and indeed the feel of his breath whistling through the broad nostrils of his stubby proboscis.
Duty done! Again ! Simon will be proud of me. But then the thunderbolt is flung, no less devastating from its anticipation. ‘Look, I’m awfully sorry, but I have to leave you,’ Simon declares, bathing all three in the brilliance of his smile. He glances at his gold wristwatch to back up his words. ‘Offices are just closing in Europe. There’s some vital business I really have to get through – I can’t put it off, or leave it to anyone else. You know how it is, Auguste,’ he appeals. ‘I’ll be on iPhone and laptop all damned night, I expect. Do forgive me.’
Auguste is already nodding, glasses twinkling, as Simon stands, bends over and puts his hands on our bare shoulders, left on mine, right on Wanda’s. They stay there, in tender possession, and the fingers tighten until they press imperiously, to stamp his ownership in the red brand of their imprint – appropriately deeper on my paler skin. ‘The girls will take care of you, my friend. As I told you, your every need will be taken care of. Isn’t that right, my darlings?’
‘Ndio, bwana !’ Yes, sir. Wanda’s teasing impersonation of a local maid draws laughs from the men, and with a great effort I crack a smile. ‘We aim to please!’
Striving desperately to hide the deep pain inside, I add, ‘Whatever you want, monsieur ,’ and Simon ruffles my carefully groomed blonde hair. A gesture full of affection, like a master with his favourite hound.
‘That’s my girl!’ Well done, Rover.
Undressed, M. Auguste is a round, brown, roly-poly barrel of man, with not a vestige of hair except that black brush on top of his head. His skin gleams as though oiled, and gives off a light spicy fragrance that is pleasing and still quite masculine. His hairlessness includes, rather startlingly at first glance, the pubic area, which is totally devoid of the slightest curl or bristle, and is, on closer inspection and contact, as silky smooth as the proverbial baby’s posterior. It is clear that the depilatory technique favoured is more than mere razor and shaving foam, and he nods with that habitual grin when Wanda says with admirable lack of snigger, ‘A Hollywood, monsieur ?’
‘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.