Men like me don’t get together with women like Aster very often. And that’s because on paper it’s all wrong. I was twenty years older than her. She was black and I was white. She was gorgeous and I was… well, I had done all right with women over the years but I had never considered myself to be handsome. Now that the age battle was getting the better of me, I was looking at a different area of the spectrum as regards women.
I was thinking about grandmas. While young men wanted MILFs who had a certain amount of experience and were perhaps more uninhibited than girls, I was looking for those who felt like me: past their prime and not expecting too much.
That’s not to say I was looking for losers; the world is full of attractive women who for one reason or another were not regarded as prime properties.
However, you still can’t help noticing beautiful, sexy young women, and there was one in my orbit at that time. Aster was in her mid-twenties, medium height, quite dark-skinned but not ebony, and she had a svelte body, slim in the right places and plump in the buttocks and breasts. She had sultry eyes, she dressed sexily in short skirts or tight jeans and tops and her thick, silky, wavy black hair was like a shampoo commercial as it cascaded down her shoulders.
I used to sit next to her at government press conferences on Wednesday afternoons. This was in Tobago, where I lived for a year or so and managed to get a job as the Tobago correspondent for one of big brother Trinidad’s national papers.
I sat next to her at these things because we were two of only three journalists prepared to sit in the front row; the rest preferred to skulk at the back, out of harm’s way if the week’s featured politician decided to ask questions of his or her own.
The other one of the three was Indy, a stick-thin but pretty Tobago Indian who was married and quite prim and proper. She and Aster had been friends since they started in the profession. So, although I was always first to arrive and Indy second, I would leave a chair between us for Aster, who would sashay in a bit later, but still before the meeting started, because the politicians were always late so the journos were always late, so the politicians… It’s a vicious circle, unpunctuality.
I would get a bit of conversation with Aster when Indy went off to talk to somebody else, so Aster and I became Facebook friends. Her photos reflected her real-life demeanour. She would be draped across a man, presumably her boyfriend – with a leg protruding from a slit skirt for the benefit of the camera, not the man. Or walking along the shoreline of a sandy beach wearing a bikini that was not made of a clingy stretch fabric but an inflexible material which meant that as her body moved there would be gaps around the edges of the briefs. You’d get the unusual feeling that you could just slip your hand in there with no effort whatsoever.
All in all, Aster looked as if she knew she was God’s gift to men, but the way she draped herself over her man was a potent mixture of provocation and affection. And as a personality, she was humble enough.
It was that that gave me the courage to email her one night and ask her out to dinner.
“Thanks, Vic,” she replied, “but I live with my BF so dinner is out of the question. But I wanted you to know your invitation was well received.”
That was a nice touch, I thought, reassuring me that I hadn’t made a fool of myself and implying that in different circumstances she might have said yes.
As the weekend rolled around I was resigned to a quiet one as usual, because I didn’t know many people and the bars weren’t my cup of tea at all: too loud and full of locals who knew each other. I stuck out like a sore thumb. So on Saturday night, I was sitting on the balcony of my little apartment with a glass of chilled red wine. You have to chill it in that climate and I had a three-litre box of Merlot in the fridge because the bottles were heavily taxed, not the wine, so boxes worked out much cheaper.
I saw a car pull up on the road, way down below my third-floor eyrie, and a woman got out, looked around and up at the building, then took her phone out of her bag.
To my great surprise, my phone rang shortly afterwards.
“Vic?” the voice said.
“Yes.”
“It’s me, Aster. Look, I’ve had an almighty row with my boyfriend and I could do with a shoulder to cry on. Are you in? I’m outside your building.”
I explained how to get to the apartment and just had time to fly into the bathroom and “freshen up”, as they say.
I had just sat down again outside, with a spare glass for her, when she appeared around the corner, puffing from the stairs. I poured her a glass of wine and we sat and attempted to get started.
“Bad row?” I asked, good old Uncle Vic.
“He’s cheating on me,” she said, still outraged. “With this girl I was at school with, only she’s five years younger than me.”
I encouraged her to talk and she poured out the story of her relationship and how she put everything into it because that was just her way. Then she looked at me steadily.
“Show me around,” she said quietly.
I took her into the lounge/diner.
“And that’s about it,” I said. “Bathroom there, bedroom there.”
“I said show me around,” Aster repeated, almost irritatedly.
I flung the bedroom door open and gestured for her to cross the threshold. She sat on the bed and patted it for me to follow. I sat next to her.
“Console me,” she said, leaning towards me, so I put my arm around her shoulder, unsure of how far I was being invited to go.
“God, you’re not very good at this, are you?” she complained humorously, putting her face in front of mine and looking into my eyes. Those dark pools with their jet black pupils drew me in. I put my arms around her and kissed her and she kissed me back, leaving me in no doubt as to the permissions on offer. She was wearing a loose, sleeveless top and a short denim skirt. I put my hand inside the top and felt her breasts.
Aster’s right hand found my bulge and squeezed it gently. Having established that there was an erection present she outlined it with her fingers.
“For the next hour or two,” she said, “I am completely yours. Love me and I will love you back. Do anything and I will reciprocate. Don’t hold back. I believe in adoring and being adored, so adore me, Vic.”
As she said it, she slipped off the top and unhooked her bra, to reveal the most beautiful, shapely, dark, gleaming brown breasts.
“You may suck my nipples,” she said with a flourish of her hand.
I licked and kissed and sucked her tits and she threw back her head and sighed.
“Oh God, yes,” she said, grappling with the button of my jeans.
“Get naked with me,” she said urgently, standing and removing her skirt and then waiting for me to pull her knickers down. I first removed my own clothes and then turned my attention to her small, silvery thong. I slipped it down and she held on to me as she stepped out of the little contraption. I was sitting with my face right in front of her Venus mound.
It was shaven and/or waxed smooth, and it struck me for the first time that a black woman’s shaven bits have a darkness like a black-haired man’s shaven face, a five o’clock shadow just before the bristles appear.
I kissed Aster’s dark bump and she sat on the bed and lay back with her legs apart, inviting me in. I launched myself at her and licked and sucked her pussy as if it were the most delicious thing in creation – which it was, in fact. I sucked her juices and made slurping sounds as her labia slipped from the grasp of my eager mouth.
“I’m going to suck you,” Aster said, pushing me off. I lay back and waited as she ran her tongue down my body, sucking my nipples and kissing my stomach. Her breasts sent sensational little shocks into me as they dangled and brushed against my skin. When she reached my crotch she held my balls gently and took my cock into her mouth with a tenderness that bordered on the religious.
Aster was true to her word about adoration. She worshipped my body and sucked me with such skill and love that I was close to cumming.
“One more thing before you fuck me,” she said. “I want you to lick my ass.”
She was so polite and yet she apparently had no doubt that I would comply with her request.
Aster lifted her legs to the sky, exposing her exquisite little grey, crinkled arsehole. I kissed it, licked it, licked the insides of her buttocks and sucked it.
“You’re getting the hang of this,” she said happily. “The only way is to adore each other. You want me to do that to you?”
“No,” I said. “Just let me lose myself here. You’re so wonderful.”
And with that, I returned to her cleft and my adoration.
Something the made me climb back up and we kissed like besotted lovers, mingling the tastes of our private parts as our salivas merged and our tongues explored each other.
Then Aster got on her knees and whispered.
”Fuck me.”
I mounted her, thrusting my electrified cock into her gorgeous depths. She pushed back and ground herself against me and we fucked like a well-oiled machine. I pumped and pumped until she began to whimper.
“Oh yes. Oh, God. Oh, you’re a lovely man.” And then Aster squealed as she came and I felt her vaginal muscles squeeze my rod, wanting me to cum too. I filled her with my seed and with one hand she found one of mine and held it.
We lay together happily, she playing with my soft, juice-fragrant cock.
“I’m going to leave at 10:30,” she said. “That gives us an hour. What shall we do?”
“Let’s just love each other,” I said. “I want to do all of that again plus some other things.”
“God, I hoped you were going to say that,” Aster replied. “Adore me.”
