Once upon a time there were three Guianas: British, Dutch and French. They were on the north coast of South America. Then the British one became Guyana, as the Brits ignored local tradition and applied their own spelling and pronunciation. The Dutch changed theirs to Suriname, for reasons best known to themselves, or at least their historians. but the French retained their original name for their part: Guyane Francaise.
For the purposes of this story, we will turn to one woman; one humble woman unknown to the world outside her own little circle, as most of us are. Eileen was a nurse. She had spent her life in Paramaribo, the ramshackle capital of ramshackle Suriname. But Eileen was from neighbouring Guyana. So she had a British name and she spoke English.
The Britishness didn’t go back far, though, because the population of the Guianas is mainly of African stock: they are the descendants of slaves. So they are black.
I don’t know why, but I have always found black women attractive. Not just some black women, but most of them. That probably makes me some kind of fetishist, but I can’t help that and I don’t think it has had any detrimental effect on the black women it has been my good fortune to be intimate with.
Without doing some deep research into shipping and immigration records, I can’t tell you exactly which African countries provided the slaves to each of the Guianas. All I can tell you is that I have always been particularly fond of women from Guyana, whether or not their ancestors were from Ghana, as I suspect, and more than a few have been fond of me. Eileen certainly fell into that category.
She was quiet and shy, although obviously a capable woman, as she was a senior nurse and highly regarded within the medical community. I had met her when I was sitting in the Outpatients department, waiting to have my ankle examined after I had fallen and twisted it. It turned out to be nothing serious and just required a few days’ rest. But having got chatting to Eileen as she left at the end of her shift, we had exchanged phone numbers and, while the authorities just told me to go away and all would be well, she had offered to come and check on me after a few days. She was in her 50s and looked tired. Tired of work, tired of Suriname, perhaps tired of life.
Physically, she was slim and slack, as if her body had had enough too. I had seen through the neckline of her tunic that her smallish breasts lay loose within her bra, relaxing against her chest rather than alert and looking for men to impress. Eileen needed some love and affection.
When she came to visit me the first time I still had my foot bandaged and raised on a stool. She gently unwrapped it and examined it with care and concern. I was wearing loose shorts as I usually did because of the hot climate, and I thought I detected a slight glance up my legs as she went about her business. She certainly gave my knee a nice friendly pat as she expressed her satisfaction at the way it was going. The swelling was much reduced – she kind of looked into my eyes when she said this – and she gave me some arnica cream to out on it. That’s a homeopathic remedy for bruising. She smeared it on and rubbed it gently into my skin, and I have to say that swelling began further up as she did that. She smiled softly to herself.
“I can come back on Thursday,” she said. “If you like.” I nodded keenly. “Yes please.”
“Same time okay with you?” she added as she stood up. I found it hard to take my gaze away from her mid section, imagining her pubic hair, her vagina and buttocks.
“Yes. Okay, then,” she said when I didn’t answer her question. I felt a bit guilty after she had gone, hoping I hadn’t blown my chances by my clear and unsubtle interest in her body. But then, I reasoned, women must get this all the time and she probably had her own standards by which she measured male behavior. If she kept the appointment, it would mean she was happy with the situation. If she didn’t come, I would know why and I could either pursue her or leave it there.
When Thursday came, I had a shower in the middle of the afternoon. She would be coming around 5:30. Not one of the world’s traditional seduction times, but perhaps not too early to offer her a drink and start the evening.
She knocked on my door on time, wearing her uniform as usual but with a slight waft of perfume preceding her into the room. I was walking almost normally by that time, so I breezed into the kitchen and fetched a bottle of sweet martini, which she had mentioned in passing as being her drink. I brought two short glasses with ice and a slice of lemon in each.
Eileen had sat herself on the settee like last time. I put the bottle and glasses on the side unit and sat down to be examined. She didn’t mention the drinks, going professionally straight for my ankle, peering, lightly squeezing and gently rubbing before announcing that it was fine, and I should carry on as normal. I noticed for the first time a scar on her left knee and leaned down to kiss it. This instantly changed the atmosphere. Perhaps she, like me, had been just waiting for an excuse for this to turn intimate. She put her hand on my head as I became aware that my face was now between her legs, just inches away from her crotch. I inhaled deeply to see if I could smell her, and I imagined that I could detect something savoury and musky.
Because she hadn’t pushed me away, I moved my head up the tunnel of her skirt, kissing her smooth, warm thighs. To my surprise, she parted her legs and leaned back. I scrambled onto the floor to get a better angle and in a second I was licking the gusset of her knickers, pushing my tongue hard into the fabric in search of her slit. She reached down and pulled the fabric aside and I was in there, my face in Eileen’s naked crotch. I licked her gratefully but clumsily and she shook herself free.
“Just a minute,” she said, and stood up to pull down her knickers. Ever the gentleman, I helped her. She sat down in the same position and I went right back in to feast on her delicious bounty. This quiet, demure woman, hard-working, respectable and long-married (although she never spoke of her husband), had made her vagina available to me and I was almost delirious with pleasure.
Her juices were other-wordly; there was surely no reason for them to taste and smell so divine. If they were purely for lubrication, they could have been odorless, but they weren’t: they were intoxicating. This was something I would have to discuss with God, if and when I ever met him. Perhaps it was all to do with a woman securing a man to procreate with. There is this theory that love was designed to keep a man around long enough to protect a woman through her pregnancy. But then there is sexual attraction, which happens long before a man gets his nose and tongue anywhere near a vagina. To then ensnare him with aromas and flavours seems unnecessary.
But who can understand even a tiny fraction of what the Creator had in mind? I was – and still am – just grateful that close proximity and intimacy with a woman is such a wonderful thing on so many levels. You could probably make the same sort of argument about why women are fascinated with penises and love to be invaded by a frankly unbeautiful man whose sole aim is to pump his semen into them. And then, of course, you get into the tricky territory of homosexual attraction, man-man and woman-woman. It all gets too complicated. I sometimes wonder why I enjoy rimming women so much but have no desire to do it to a man. After all, they also have an anus. But then again, the male of the species also has a mouth, but I have no desire to kiss a man.
Was all this going through my mind while I was face-to pussy with Eileen? No, but I was so close to her ass that I just had to pay it a visit. I asked her to turn over and kneel on the settee with her arms on its back. She did so without question, looking behind her at me for further instructions as I slipped quickly out of my shorts and t-shirt. I got her into position and put my face to her rump, my tongue between her buttocks. And I licked her. I licked Eileen’s ass as if I had just discovered sex and was the first man in history who had realized the incredible thrill of what I was doing. I felt her trembling as waves of erotic electricity tensed her muscles.
I stood up and plunged my cock into Eileen’s vagina and within seconds I was spasming my load into her. I would have liked to show more control, but it just wasn’t possible. And anyway, technique is one thing, but animal action is the essence of sex. She wasn’t complaining as she turned around and sat back on the settee while my stuff trickled back out of her. She pulled me to her and we kissed like a devoted couple.
I fetched the drinks and we laughed and relaxed with them, and then it turned serious again.
“I haven’t felt this good for years,” she said, stroking my naked thigh.
“Eileen, you’re amazing,” I replied as she sank to the carpet and took my slippery, spent cock in her mouth.
“Nobody has ever licked me like that,” she said with a short giggle.
“I want to do that to you every day,” I said softly.
“Starting tomorrow,” she said. “I’ll text you.”
