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  I shake my head. ‘It shouldn’t be hidden in anything ! You’re absolutely gorgeous!’

  She smiles appreciatively and cups her breasts, pointing them at me like a pair of six-shooters. I try to push aside my envy at their ripe fullness, the vividly dark swollen nipples with their generous surrounds, and stop my instinctive move to cover my own smaller titties, whose inadequacies are rather too highlighted by their paler colouring against the light tan of the rest of me. I haven’t yet “let them all hang out” in the sunshine, though some of the other tourists do at this exclusive resort – and of course the local girls and older women wear nothing above the thin cotton sarong draped around their hips. I’m quite happy to keep mine covered – the competition does nothing to lessen my inferiority complex in the boobs department. Nor do Wanda’s, which she is pointing and shaking at me right now. But at least I get to play with them and I salivate like a babe for its mother’s milk at the thought. Meanwhile, Wanda continues her potted personal history.

  ‘Anyway, we’re not Arab, not any more. We’ve so much mixed blood in us. We’re truly part of the “Coast People” – Swahili, Bantu, Arab – probably mzungu too.’ (I already know that the word means “European”, or more correctly, anyone who’s white). ‘But I don’t look too bad on it, do I?’

  ‘Hell, no! Come here!’ I make a grab for her and she laughs as she makes a feeble protest before allowing me to haul her naked body onto mine. There’s a pause, while our tongues explore one another’s mouths and our limbs entangle, our flesh slithers and entwines like copulating snakes. We’re roused and a little breathless, but we both desist and lie back in more casual and less fervent embrace. We both like our pleasures to be lingering, teasingly so, to simmer slowly, a delicious kind of torture before bringing to the boil, and so Wanda continues her story. (I still get to play with her breasts though!)

  ‘In the end, I couldn’t stand the family pressure. I was at school in England, then one of those fancy places in France, then my dad sent me to the States for a year.’ She laughs cynically and stretches her body, bending her knees and raising her hips and belly, splaying her thighs in a frankly pornographic display that distracts me from the narrative momentarily. ‘That was their biggest mistake! When they brought me back, they were lining me up for marriage – to one of the clan, of course. Selling me off, to bring a few more millions to the Sharif empire. So I split. And that’s the really clever part.’ She swivels over so that she’s lying on her side, her nose only inches from mine, grinning like the schoolgirl she used to be not that long ago. ‘I got some help from a friend and flew back to America. Then sneaked back here, right under their noses! And they don’t even know! Not yet, anyway. And I’ll keep it that way as long as I can.’

  I shake my head in admiration. ‘But surely ...? I mean they’ll find out, won’t they? Being so close to home?’

  She shrugs, with just a touch of bravado I find endearing. ‘I’m not exactly mixing in their circles, am I? If any of the male members of the family frequent places like The Sombrero, they keep pretty damn quiet about it! Anyway, they’ve cut me off. Disowned me. Never darken our doors again kind of thing!’ The glossy black hair is flung back in a gesture of defiance. The smile dazzles again. ‘I’m just one of the Sombrero girls now!’

  I stare at her disbelievingly. ‘But ... but ... how do you manage? For money, I mean.’

  ‘I just told you! I’m a Sombrero girl! A high-class whore!’ She giggles anew at my hanging jaw, reaches down and slides her hand between my thighs, her nails graze through the little scrub of my pubic hair and lightly caress my sex lips. ‘I give good value, don’t I? I’m worth the fortune your Simon is paying for my services. Or do you still need convincing?’

  She throws herself on me, wrestles me onto my back and kneels astride me, pinning me by the wrists to the bed. I can feel the scratch of her own darker, neat pubis across my stomach, as she moves rhythmically back and forth. She dips her head, until that thick black hair brushes lightly across my face. She kisses the tip of my nose, then her tongue flickers over my eyelids, forcing me to blink before her lips settle cushioningly over mine. The breath hisses through our nostrils, we strain and gnaw and worry at each other, mouths open, jaws stretched. We’re both gulping for air when we finally end the kiss; my white breasts heave, and distract, and then attract her next lingering attention. Still pinioning my wrists on the pillow, she extends her arms a little and her smooth thighs slide down my sides, the dark hair spills about throat and sternum as her mouth now fastens hungrily on my slight mounds, their softness mashed by the wet kisses, the lapping tongue. I feel them flattened against my ribcage, before all my feeling centres on the tingling excitement of her suckling mouth enclosing first one then the other nipple, the even teeth nipping the small erect teats, the tongue brushing avidly over them until I moan in weak, dizzy delight.

  The wet trail of tender yet fierce passion moves on and down; her hold on my wrists has gone, but my arms remain stretched, pinioned now of their own accord and I arch my belly towards her seeking face. She takes time to root and lap the tip of her tongue into the shallow little eye of my navel. Her fingers pluck at the wiry curls of my pubis, tugging to lift and stretch the white skin beneath, before they move on down to assist the widening of my already yielded gaping thighs, then the pulsing furrow of my labia, peeling them open, to allow that consuming tongue to possess the beating centre of my hunger, with long, ever more demanding strokes, until the hunger, the need mounts, the hard little ridge of the teeth closes over the throbbing little nub of my clit, and I buck and raise myself to the immolation of the climax that flares from my sex, up through my straining belly and every nerve of my opened up frame.

  Some time later – seconds? Minutes? Hours? I’m never sure – I feel her kisses again on my mouth, gentle this time, slow and soft, and taste the sticky, distinctive flavour of my own sex juices on my tongue, which receives them in grateful acknowledgement. That’s another thing that girls share far more frequently, in my more than limited experience: the savouring of the post-orgasmic moment, or rather moments; the slow, slow drifting back, the feel-good factor after you’ve come that can be almost (I did sayalmost !) as good as the climax itself. Girl lovers know that it needs to be valued more than the obligatory after-the-meal mint you get with your bill in cheap restaurants.

  Later still, I’m surprised, and even a little disappointed, when Wanda laughingly halts my eager moves towards reciprocation, and eases herself out of my arms and off the bed, with an apologetic little shrug. ‘Not just now, baby. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m a bit of a butch when it comes to girl-girl action. Even with Simon around, I’d rather be muffing you while he’s shafting me than the other way around – if you get what I mean!’

  I do, and feel a little ashamed of my jealousy when it had happened that way a few nights ago.

  ‘I love dishing it out,’ she goes on, with an explicit little nod towards my still nakedly displayed loins, ‘but when it comes to taking it, I still prefer cock – the straighter the better!’ She laughs apologetically again. ‘I bet you think that’s really weird, eh? Must be my religious upbringing!’

  ‘They never taught us that at Sunday School!’ I answer, a little cattily, and can’t keep myself from adding, ‘If you’re desperate for it, and can’t wait ’til Simon gets back, there’s always Mattius. He’ll be more than happy to oblige!’

  ‘Yeah, I heard. A pretty good screw, is he?’

  I gape at her, blinking rapidly in hurt and humiliation as the blood mounts hotly from my breast to my forehead.

  Simon doesn’t return on the afternoon ferry. We have hitched a ride on one of the hotel minibuses to meet it and we travel back in the same vehicle. I check at the Reception Desk, but there is no message. Wanda puts her arm round me. ‘No word, eh? Never mind. I guess he knows you’ll be waiting, however long he takes. Nowhere else to go, eh?’ Her tone is half sympathy, half teasing mockery. At that second, Mattius appears at
our elbow, reaches out and touches Wanda’s brown bare arm.

  ‘Tide’s right for reef, Memsa’ab Wanda. Not dark for two hour yet. Good for goggle, maybe fishing.’ He grins, turns to me with a little nod. ‘I take missy out to reef, OK?’

  Don’t I get a “memsa’ab” too, I think meanly. Suddenly I remember the last few minutes of our bedroom session earlier and Wanda’s disclosure. ‘I think I’ll come too!’ I declare, with just a hint of challenge. ‘I might even try a bit of goggling myself, if I feel brave enough!’

  ‘Deep out there, memsa’ab. Can be swell.’

  ‘Well, if I chicken out I can stay in the canoe. Or walk about on the reef.’ My tone is sharp, I feel myself colouring up, which isn’t helped by Wanda’s knowing chuckle.

  ‘Sure! The more the merrier, eh? Two’s OK, three’s better, yeah?’

  We arrange to meet Mattius down at the beach in ten minutes and head for the lift to go up and change into swimsuits. ‘Are you sure you don’t mind me tagging along?’ I ask, catching hold of her arm outside her room, already half decided against the outing.

  She laughs easily, lifts her fist and pushes it lightly against my jaw in a mock punch. ‘I want you there, sugar. Who knows what we’ll get up to? Threesomes are fun, aren’t they? If Simon can stand watching Mattius shag you, I guess we can do the same, whichever one he screws! Maybe he’ll manage both of us! I hear he’s quite a stud.’

  ‘Listen – it wasn’t – Simon made me – wanted me ...’ the tears are close, my tone desperate, almost. Wanda gives a little nod of understanding, though her dark eyes still sparkle with quiet amusement.

  ‘Sure! I bet he had to hold you down, didn’t he? I heard you yelled fit to bust, right the way through, yeah? Or was that just at the end, baby?’ She gives me a little push towards the door of the room I share with Simon, and turns away, a last tinkling laugh tossed over her shoulder.

  I sit on the pale, mollusc-crusted, almost flat rock of the reef, its surface warmed already by the dipping sun, and watch the long white rollers come sweeping in to break on the outer fortifications of the reef a hundred metres or so further out. In less than an hour, these slabs of rock will vanish again beneath the waves until the tide lowers enough to bring them into view once more. The solid canoe is hauled up beside me. I can see the marks of the adzes on the uneven surface of the hull, where its curving shape was hacked out of the hollowed log from which it came. Wanda and Mattius are goggling beneath the surface, their dark heads appearing at regular intervals in the relatively calm swell of the waves close to this main barrier of the reef.

  I sit enjoying the evening mellowness of the sun, the steady, strong breeze, with my towel draped over my shoulders, my still damp bum resting on the thin bright strip of my kikoi , which is the local name of the simple cotton cloth that serves as a sarong. I tried for some nervous minutes to attempt to join the other two, ducking under the heaving surface, observing the startling colours of the plants and the fantastic surfaces of the reef through the strange green light of the filtered sun, but my nervousness overcame me, and my heart was thumping as I kept squirming away from Mattius and Wanda’s restraining holds to kick to the surface, gasping in blinded thankfulness, spitting and threshing before gulping in air and forcing myself to dive down again to that mysterious but frightening bubbling world. They gave up soon enough and let me go, to flounder my way inelegantly but thankfully up onto this solid table of rock and lie here, like a stranded fish, except for my relief as I drew in shuddering gulps of splendid air.

  I try but fail to dispel the resentment which simmers in my thoughts at the conversation with Wanda while we walked down to meet Mattius on the beach. My fault, I suppose, for I couldn’t help taking it up again as soon as we met after changing into our swimming gear. ‘He told you!’ I began accusingly and Wanda knew exactly what I meant. She nodded.

  ‘Of course. Why not? He’s proud of it. Proud of you!’

  I stared in wounded suspicion of her sarcasm.

  ‘Proud of your obedience. How you do whatever he tells you to. He thinks he can make you do anything he wants. And he’s right, isn’t he? You would ! Anything!’

  My face burnt crimson. I felt my throat closing, the tears ready to well up. Several seconds passed before I could find my voice. ‘I’m no different to you. You do whatever your customers want, don’t you?’

  She gave me a hard look, and for a second I thought I’d got through her defences. The dark head shook. ‘No way! I only do what I want, baby. Otherwise, no way!’

  ‘And it’s the same with me!’ I answered swiftly.

  And now I sit here with the weakening sun behind my shoulders, lowering towards the horizon of the shore, with its tall trees and harmonious, grass-roofed buildings, casting my long shadow before me, onto the heaving green ocean. From which, with startling abruptness, appear the heads and shoulders of my two companions, almost touching. Wanda turns her streaming head towards me and grins brightly. Her left arm is coiled round Mattius’s gleaming brown shoulder, her right is raised and she flings something soft which flops beside me. It is her black swimsuit. Mattius’s right arm emerges and he flings his yellow satin trunks so close I flinch in anticipation of their hitting me.

  They tread water, only yards away from me now, and I can’t move, can’t tear my eyes from them. His brown arms are extended; I can see her paler body resting against him. He is holding her by her buttocks. Her knees and the narrow soles of her feet break surface either side of him. Her upper body leans back, her arms encircle his neck as her legs wrap around his body, then their faces mesh together, gnawing at each other while their bodies lock in the rhythmic thrusting of their copulation.

  Chapter Seven

  MY FACE FEELS STIFF. I don’t know what expression to try for, when Wanda and Mattius clamber naked from the sea some minutes later. I also don’t know where to look. My eyes dart about in the effort to avoid theirs, and instead snag on the sight of Mattius’s dripping, compact tube of a cock, the helm still showing from the collar of his circumcised foreskin. My gaze swings away, to the streaming dark tuft of Wanda’s pubes, like seaweed fronds over the little, demure pout of her sex cleft, and then up to the free hanging swing of her breasts. I get mad with my acute embarrassment, the feel of tears pricking behind my eyes, trying to analyse the agitation of my whirling mind. ‘Had a good swim then?’ My voice is high, and harsh. ‘See plenty to interest you down there?’

  Wanda flops down beside me, spreads her kikoi out, holding it down against the strong breeze and sprawls on it, making no attempt to put on her swimsuit. Mattius sits close by, his knees drawn up, arms loosely resting on them, staring out to sea. He too makes no effort to re-don his trunks. ‘Yeah, it was great!’ Wanda laughs, well aware of my discomfort and clearly savouring it. ‘You’d be surprised at all the nooks and crannies we explored. Shame you couldn’t have been with us! You were right. Mattius is great!’

  I let out an anguished squeal, swing round to face her. ‘I never – I didn’t say anything–’ my voice dies out, my breast heaves and I quaver on the point of tears. Wanda scourges me further with her low chuckle. ‘Fuck off!’ I gasp inadequately. ‘Cover yourself up!’ My eyes stinging, I nod towards Mattius. ‘You too! Put your shorts on.’

  ‘Ndio, memsa’ab . Yes, madam.’ He grins broadly, stands up slowly and faces me full on, flaunting his nakedness before he stoops with insulting slowness and scoops up the wet trunks from the rock.

  ‘Just hold on a second, Matt.’ Even Wanda’s use of the alien shortened form of his name jars me. ‘It hardly seems fair. I think Miss Crissie is feeling a bit left out of things, don’t you? Maybe we can make her feel better. You’re up for it, eh, stud?’

  Mattius immediately lets the limp little cloth drop back onto the rock, and the grin is transformed to one of more wolfish anticipation. He nods, his eyes narrow, but still they glitter with black brilliance, moving slowly over me, from my feet to my head. All at once, my mind vividly replays hanging there
in the water, pinned to the side of the canoe while his hands swiftly peeled my bikini from me. I feel his eyes stripping me again, and I am deeply ashamed of the involuntary squeezing of my vaginal muscles, the sudden extra tightness of my sex lips against the tiny briefs that hug them. Even worse is my knowledge that the sexual excitement is stimulated by my fear, my helplessness in this situation, that innate weakness in my devious nature that has cast me in the role of victim from my earliest solitary fantasies.

  ‘Let me alone!’ Wanda’s hand has shot out and closed round my ankle, so that I try to squirm away, pushing the heels of my hands and my tender bum against the roughness of the rock to escape from her clutch.

  She laughs and comes after me, ignoring the prodding attempts of my free leg to effect escape, and in fact, capturing it too, in her other hand, and dragging me laughingly back towards her, the kikoi bunched up now under my bottom, whose cheeks, bare except for the narrow scrap of the briefs between them, scrape painfully on the rough surface. In an instant she’s on top of me, her beautiful naked body pressing me down onto the hard rock, her hands now on my wrists, pinioning me like a wrestler, and I thrust myself tearfully against her weight, feeling the glorious coolness of her flesh, her thighs gripping me. A loud sob escapes me and I collapse, aware of that insidious, dampening thrill which highpoints my surrender. ‘Get off me!’ I gasp, like a victim of the playground, and the tears spill over, along with that other, secret, internal lubrical and lubricious seepage of mounting intensity.

  ‘Give me a hand here!’ Wanda calls laughingly, at my renewed and equally unsuccessful efforts to dislodge her; Mattius comes eagerly across. As he, correctly interpreting Wanda’s nod, quickly scoops the cups of my top off my breasts and pulls the loose little band around my neck, so that he can reach and unclip the catch, I can’t help noticing his already rejuvenated, rising prick.