The sound of the spin dryer starts up. It’s part of an old twin-tub in the back yard, in the shade of the bedroom extension upstairs. This is a Caribbean island where everything is a bit rough and ready. So the back yard is part grass and part natural, bumpy stone, a bit like the coral reefs that fringe the beaches.
I look out the back door through the mosquito screen and see Tamika. She’s the twenty-five-year-old who lives upstairs with her parents and her little girl. The parents own the house and I’m renting the ground floor apartment.
Tamika is a big girl. Her mother is tall and slim; her father is very tall and solidly built. Looks like a tough guy but is always very pleasant. Tamika is not as tall as her mother but in other respects she is twice her size. She makes her Dad look skinny. She has very dark skin, braided hair and a big, round face with a gap in her front teeth. Smooth, silky shoulders and big, firm breasts crammed into her sleeveless, vest-type top. Her belly is entirely appropriate to the picture I’ve drawn so far. It’s not fat and bloated but there is plenty of it. Her buttocks lurk in tight, stretchy shorts, proudly substantial, like supple watermelons that wriggle as she walks. And she is walking: up and down, back and forth, talking to herself, as if she were rehearsing something. Her legs project in no-nonsense trunks – they are the least subtle parts of her.
And yet there is a grace about her, almost a daintiness as she picks her way across the rough terrain. She’s a nice girl.
The noticeable thing here, though, is that she has changed her clothes. Twenty minutes ago she was all in black: same sort of clothes, but monochrome. Now her top is orange and her shorts are blue. That means that while she went upstairs to let the clothes wash she was temporarily naked. Or at least standing there in her underwear. And I missed it.
Her parents and the girl are out, gone to see relatives, as they do every Sunday. Tamika enjoys this little break, with the house to herself. And every week I watch her discreetly, feeling a bit of a pervert but unable to stop myself drinking in the sight of this exceptional young woman.
I touched her breast once. She was showing me some project she was working on, a children’s book, and we got closer and closer together until my upper arm touched her left nipple. It takes subtlety to do that: subtlety on both sides. She knew as well as I did that we were inching towards a sensational little physical contact and she allowed it to happen. In fact you could say she facilitated it. It was one of those minuscule unspoken agreements that allow two people to touch each other for no reason other than they want to. It’s not going to lead directly to sex, nor even to a deepening of the relationship. It’s just a pebble on the beach of you and her.
So now Tamika was out there and I was inside, but I felt sure she knew I was watching. I felt she always knew I was watching. And she was there, rather than doing it some other time because she wanted me to watch her.
I opened the white aluminium door and it swung away and bounced back on its hinges. Tamika looked up and smiled her self-conscious, gappy smile. I gave it my best attempt at a blasé glance, but I was sure she could sense the animal desire that was always present when she was near me. Maybe she felt it too. When you think about it logically, she probably had the same feelings coursing through her veins. It’s only natural. Some people want you, simple as that. It’s just working out which ones.
“I’ve just made some coffee,” I said. “Want some?” Corniest line in the world. Oldest trick in the book. But it’s just a very simple way of putting the ball in someone else’s court. It’s not an overt suggestion of anything improper, just a simple invitation that may or may not lead to other things.
“Mmm, thanks,’ she said with no hesitation, turning the dryer off.
We sat and made small talk.
“We used to live down here,” she said eventually. “I had the back bedroom. It was always hot, even with the fan.”
“Still is,” I said, standing up to give her the tour. She popped straight into the room, which I used for storage, although it still contained a double bed, which she sat on.
“Still squeaks,” she said.
“The other one’s much cooler,” I said.
“That bed squeaks too,” she observed. “I used to hear Mom and Dad sometimes. Very embarrassing.”
We went through and she sat on the bed to demonstrate, bouncing up and down.
“Oh. It doesn’t anymore.”
“I fixed it,” I said. “Easy enough. Your beds upstairs still do it, though.”
“You can hear us?” she said, crestfallen. “My room’s right above here. And Mita’s right next to it.”
I could hear her daughter running around in the mornings and late at night.
“Yes, but you’re not getting up to anything,” I said.
“Chance would be a fine thing,” she said. “How about you? That why you fixed the bed?”
“A gentleman never discusses that sort of thing,” I said, and she smiled. We had overcome a potentially rocky stretch and were both relieved.
“I like a gentleman,” she said, staring at her knees. “But you can’t be like that all the time, can you?” It didn’t require an answer. I sat next to her, our shorts-clad thighs rubbing together innocently and yet brazenly.
Suddenly I lay back and she turned to see what I was doing. I put my arms up, beckoning her, and she lay on top of me, her sensational breasts on my chest. I grabbed her behind her head and pulled her face to mine. Our eyes locked for a second before we gave in to the urge and kissed heartily. I swung her over so I was on top, which seemed to make her more comfortable.
“That’s better,” she said. “Listen, women in my family are incredibly fertile and I don’t have any condoms.”
“Men in my family are notoriously fertile too,” I said. “If that’s the word for a man. And I don’t have any condoms either.” We looked at each other seriously. “Of course,” I continued, “We can always switch to my oral masterclass.”
“Masterclass, eh?” she grinned. “You’re giving yourself a lot to live up to.”
“First, we take off our clothes,” I said, pulling her top up and playing with her breasts. She did the rest up there while I removed my t-shirt. There is something very naughty about a woman naked from the waist up, and I swooped on her breasts, sucking her hard, grainy nipples. Then I took her hands and placed them either side of her head. Her eyes sparkled with expectation and curiosity as I moved down and licked her left armpit.
“Oh, I see,” she said approvingly. “Is this what the English girls get?”
“Only the beautiful ones that I really like,” I smarmed back at her.
“You think I’m beautiful?” she asked guilelessly.
“I think you’re sensational,” I said honestly. “I have wanted to lick your armpits ever since I first saw you.”
“You’re kinky,” she said happily.
I swept down her body, pausing only to poke my tongue into her navel, before grabbing the waistband of her shorts and panties and pulling them down in one smooth movement. She raised herself a little to make it easier. I knelt beside her and pulled my shorts and underpants down, giving her a good view of my balls and crotch and my erection that reached for the sky.
I was about to dive for her crotch when she stopped me.
“Let me suck him first,” she said quietly. I maneouvred so my cock was pointing at her mouth and she took my shaft and pulled it down, then plunged her mouth over it.
“I have never done this with a white man,” she said after a while. “I like it.” She licked my shaft and then my scrotum, as if to demonstrate her approval. “Now you may continue,” she said. I like a girl with a sense of humour.
Her pubic hair was sparse and tightly curled, but not shaved. Her vagina smelled a little stronger than many white women’s do, but it was definitely a cunt, that most prized of creations, and I lapped at it unscientifically, just loving it, before focusing on her clitoris.
“Mmm,” she said as she felt me locate her command module. “Good boy.” She began to move her hips and I clung onto her trigger and then gave up and just licked her all over her crotch. She too had lost focus and was just carried away on the tide of erotic pleasure.
“Lift your legs,’ I said urgently, and I knew she knew what I wanted. She lifted from her knees until she was past horizontal and almost rolling over backwards. Her arsehole was looking at me. It was smooth and shiny and crinkled.
“You like that?” she said uncertainly.
“I love it,” I said. “I’m going to make you cum with my tongue.
She readjusted her hands on her knees to stabilize herself as she felt me move into her precious, terribly rude zone. She gasped as my tongue found her little hole and moaned with pleasure as I licked her entire area, the insides of her buttocks as well as the little rosebud itself.
“Nobody.” She said. “Has ever. Done that. To me.”
“I will lick your ass anytime you like,” I said, slipping into the local way of talking.
“Make me cum,” she squealed, out of control. “Make me cum. Oh my God. I’m cumming.” With that she pressed her rump against my face and I could smell the juice coming from her pussy. Her arsehole itself tensed and relaxed, tensed and relaxed against my tongue.
I crawled back up and we lay in each other’s arms, kissing and stroking and loving each other.
“You of all people,” she said. “The guys I’ve met think they’re it, but nobody has ever made me cum like that. I want you to do that to me every day. Next time I’m going to sit on your face. And you’re going to cum in my crack.”
