0 comments/ 6263 views/ 1 favorites The Sweetness of the Pear: Mekela By: HectorBidon I spotted the frizzy pony tail even before I spotted the smile that went along with it. A tan skirt, a pastel blouse, shapely legs, and white sandals, stepping jauntily down the platform. We had been in almost daily contact by phone and email for the past month and a half, hammering out details about tidal flow rates, coral cohesion, and underwater currents, but this was the first time I'd actually seen her in person. She was much prettier than her picture. She spotted me and gave a little wave. When she reached me she held out both of her hands. We kissed cheeks. "Claire. In the flesh. It's so nice to finally meet you face to face." "Hector. We meet at last. Though it feels like we've known each other forever, doesn't it?" Claire was the Assistant Manager of the Santa Rita Office. We'd both come up to Panga Lea to make a joint pitch to the firm that we hoped would sponsor the project. I gave her hands an extra squeeze. "Did you have a nice trip?" "Yes, thanks. And you?" "I did indeed." "Did you have to wait long?" "Not long at all. A couple of minutes. Is this everything?" "This is it," she said, re-engaging her roller bag. "OK, then. Let's see if we can find a taxi." You have undoubtedly heard many things about Calandria. Some of them are true. It is true, for example, that as a general rule, Calandrians do not wear undergarments. Claire, I was reasonably certain, did not have anything else on underneath her skirt and blouse. Neither did I have anything else on under my trousers and shirt. What is the point of wearing something that chafes and binds and that no one else can even see to admire? On the other hand, many of the rumors are nothing but rubbish. For example, despite what you so often hear, it is almost always possible to walk more than two city blocks in Central City without having to step over a couple engaged in public fornication. Calandrians are affectionate, but they are also courteous and self effacing, and they would go out of their way rather than cause discomfort or scandal. As to the question of whether Calandria is a land of vile sinfulness, a modern Sodom and Gomorrah, as so many would have it, or whether it is the last sweet remnant of the Garden of Eden--- that is a judgment you will have to make for yourself. I will simply tell you what I know to be true: the climate is salubrious, the people are gracious and kind, and the social mores, though very different from our own, are based on a long and stable tradition. Claire went over several last minute change orders in the taxi, and then asked me to double check the figures in the hotel room. This was her first big project, and she had been working very hard to make sure it would succeed. We rehearsed our presentation and tried to anticipate possible questions. At last she was satisfied that we were in pretty good shape. She did not want to appear over-prepared. While I copied down the last of the figures, she unbuttoned her blouse and laid it on the futon. I couldn't help but notice how pretty her breasts were, each one plump and full, her nipples pink and perky. "I think I'll take a quick shower before dinner." She slipped off her skirt. "Traveling always makes me feel grungy." There are no tan lines in Calandria. Every inch of her trim body, from her pretty toes all the way up to the tips of her ears was burnished to a single, uninterrupted, flawless honey sheen. She reached to get something from her bag, and I couldn't help but admire her taught, symmetrical bottom. She turned back toward me, trying to corral her briar patch of hair into a shower cap. Down below she was completely shaved, the lips of her vagina smooth and virginal. "Or would you rather go first?" "No, no. You go right ahead." The inhabitants of Calandria are not at all self conscious about their bodies. To them, the state in which we first arrive into this world is the most natural state to be in. Their attitude toward clothing is somewhat like our attitude toward hats. They wear clothes to be stylish or to keep warm, and in today's fashion climate they would not be caught dead in public without something on. But they feel no moral compulsion to wear clothes indoors, and the thought of wearing anything at all to bed would strike them as just plain silly. They feel neither embarrassment nor shame in uncovering before someone of the opposite sex, and some social situations even demand it. I must say that this nonchalance about nudity is one of the most pleasant Calandrian customs for someone from the States to try to get used to. In the first place, it is innately pleasurable to see the naked human form, and to be naked oneself in front of others. The physiological thresholds adjust themselves after a bit of practice, so that it becomes possible to maintain a certain amount of equanimity even when, for example, a lovely, nubile colleague disrobes for her shower right in front of you as if you weren't even there. But the old mindset does not completely fade away. Alongside this newfound sense of Calandrian innocence one still experiences the same old deep lusty stirrings. One cannot help but feel to some extent like a voyeuristic impostor. But, of course, if one is going to play, one must play by the rules. Confidences inhabit a different plane than ironies. As Ilsa, my neighbor back in Central City, would put it, "The pear is sweet, but the one who offers the pear is sacred." I finished the figures. Claire had left the bathroom door ajar. The shower was at the far end, without a separate stall, the water falling onto the tiled floor. Claire moved to make room for me, but I saw she was finishing up. I undressed and got her towel ready for her. "Thanks," she smiled, patting droplets from her pretty face. "You have to turn it this way for hot, and that way for cold." Claire was right about the griminess of travel. I don't know if it is a byproduct of combustion, or if it just comes from the crush of the crowd and the sweat of exertion. But it felt very good to lather up and sluice it all off. When I came out, Claire was still naked, arranging her things in one of the drawers. "I took this one. I hope you don't mind," she said. There was a knock on the door and the maid came in. Did we have everything we needed? The monogram on her apron identified her as Conchita. She was an attractive woman in her late thirties, with dark hair and a pleasant disposition. Out of habit I repositioned my towel along a more defensive line of site. We were in pretty good shape, thank you. Everything was just fine, except, oh yes, could she perhaps recommend a nice place for dinner? There was a small seafood restaurant just a few blocks away, nothing fancy, but people seemed to like it. That sounded ideal. Claire put on a flowery summer dress, and I put on a fresh pair of trousers and a colorful Hawaiian shirt. Conchita's restaurant was delightful. The tables were set out in a courtyard hung with bougainvillea; none of the chairs were alike. The mussels and snapper had been caught just that morning, and the chilies and papayas had been picked that afternoon. It was my first visit to Panga Lea, but Claire had been there as a little girl, and over dinner she recounted several happy memories of that trip. Afterwards we took a stroll through the town and down along the beach. The night was balmy and the moon was bright. We took off our sandals and walked along the wet sand. There were still a few people in the water, and Claire suggested that we go in too. We left our clothes well up above the tide line. The bottom was sandy, but it fell off fairly quickly, and the waves broke close to shore. Beyond the breakers I could just touch bottom. Claire clung to my side. We faced out to sea and let the slow waves lift us up and gently set us down again. Claire pushed off and floated on her back, her shoulders and breasts glistening like sealskin in the moonlight, her hair a mass of tangled sea weed. I floated beside her, my penis breaching the surface every now and then like a gaping tube worm. We swam and body surfed and then played for a while in the wash, letting the tide tote us up and back like two bleached logs of drift wood. Although the night was warm, there was a light breeze that made it chilly to be in and out of the water. "Oh," Claire noticed. "Your poor little sea slug. He's all scrunched up." He was indeed all scrunched up, to the point that he was nothing but a mushroom cap sticking up from his ball of coral, without a trace of stalk. "Perhaps it's time we got the little fellow home to bed." "Well, we do have a big day tomorrow," I agreed. We headed off along the beach in the direction of the hotel, carrying our clothes until we were dry enough to put them on. Back at the hotel Claire brushed out her hair. "I'll give it a proper wash in the morning." I set the alarm for early, and placed the order for breakfast. She lay down on one side of the futon and I lay down on the other. "Do you think we should go over the presentation one more time?" she asked. In Calandrian society it is considered perfectly acceptable for recent acquaintances to sleep together naked in the same small bed. In fact, for two colleagues who find themselves brought together on a business trip in an unfamiliar town, the rules of Calandrian hospitality would be hard pressed to come up with any other arrangement. What could be more sociable and cozy than the warmth of another human being lying close beside one, the occasional inadvertent brush of his or her skin in the night? If Claire and I had drifted right off to sleep, and even if we had exchanged a little goodnight kiss, or an affectionate little goodnight caress, Calandrian society would not have taken us to task. But Calandrian hospitality is not prudish either. It tries to pay attention to all of life's little appetites, and it has a tender spot in its heart for each of life's little pleasures. It does not demand, but it certainly encourages one not to tuck in one's companion until he or she has been adequately fed. "Or we could make love instead." One of the wonderful things about being in bed together naked is that if you do decide to fool around, everything you need is right there where you need it. I reached out and ran my hand along the smooth lowlands of her flank, up over the dune of her hip, and down the cool, moonlit littoral of her thigh. She scooted closer and tangled her fingers in the kelp bed of my chest. It was a sweet, shy, getting-to-know-you fuck. The graceful cove where Claire's neck met her shoulder still tasted salty and warm. Her pretty nipples, which had bobbed along beside me so innocently just half an hour ago, now blushed like anemones as my tongue surveyed them more closely. My sea slug stretched himself out again to better receive Claire's affectionate caresses. He eeled his way along her coastline, happily exploring every little tide pool and estuary. And hidden within the fjord on the chaste southern promontory that he had already spied several times earlier that day, he was amazed, as he always is, to discover a secret cozy cave that had been there waiting all this time, all moist, and snug, and welcoming. He scratched his itch along the cave's smooth walls, first on one side, then on the other. A tingle told him that a sneeze was on its way. It approached as voluptuously and ineluctably as a tidal wave, lifting him up to the point where there was no turning back, and finally bursting forth in a tremendous, juicy, body wrenching spasm that reverberated all up and down the continental plate. It was followed by an aftershock, then another, then another. I floated for a while alone on the open ocean. The repeated squeezes of Claire's insistent thighs wrung out every last drop of eel jism. We rolled onto our sides. My eel slowly retracted his way back home, finally losing his purchase on her sweet cave altogether. Claire gave me a little smile. I pulled up the sheet, and only then did we drift off to sleep. In the morning light Claire's face was serene and lovely. Her cheeks had not yet lost all their baby fat. Her lips were full, her skin unblemished. Her wild pre-raphaelite hair diffused the scene behind her like a spotlit chestnut halo. I don't think I've ever met a Calandrian who was not at least reasonably attractive. It's not just the handsomeness of the race or the luck of the draw. From an early age, grooming, fitness, and poise form an essential core of the Calandrian education. Like all her schoolmates, Claire knew that appearance must be tended like a garden, and that with proper attention, any patch of land can be made into a splendid enough place for one to spend a summer afternoon, or, indeed, to stake one's claim alongside. In Claire's case the soil was fertile and the gardener plenty able. But the wellspring of her beauty, it seemed to me, the sap that infused every petal and twig, was the unqualified awareness that I could only imagine she must have felt, ever since she was a little girl sitting on her mother's lap, that she was pretty, desirable, and worthy of love. The alarm went off. Claire's eyes eased open. Took in their unfamiliar surroundings. Eased shut again. A few seconds later they ventured a second reconnaissance. This time they noticed the strange fellow on the adjoining pillow. Memory banks spun up, cobwebs were cleared. Her eyelids fluttered up for a third time, and this time they remained open in a weak but steady gaze. "Good morning, team," she mewed. I gathered her closer. The increasing chatter of her eyelashes, now played out against my chest, told me she was gearing up for the day's events. Traditionally, the Calandrian fuck consists of two full courses: the primo---the more substantial meat and potatoes portion of the meal, and the secondo---the lighter but equally delicious fruit compote, brandy and chocolates, or, as the case may be, continental breakfast. The two courses are separated by an intermezzo of cuddling, sleeping, or going about the impinging activities of the day. But no matter how satisfying the primo, the act of love does not feel complete, and the lovers feel themselves to be still somehow intimately entwined, until the consummation of the secondo. I glided my hand along the uninterrupted silkiness that stretched seamlessly from her shoulders all the way down beyond her bottom. I could just reach the tops of her thighs, where they turned in between her legs. Her eyelashes modulated their tempo, then paused altogether. She nibbled thoughtfully on one of my nipples. She slowly stroked the other one. Then she knelt up as if to begin her morning devotions. The sheet slipped off her back, revealing our nakedness. Tenderly she coaxed my obelisk into erection, rubbed its head along her vulva, and then lowered herself down upon it, impaling herself on its rigidity, bearing down until she had enveloped its entire length in her votive embrace. She worked her way back up again, slowly anointing every inch with her chrism, then down again, up and down, rubbing herself luxuriously against its ribbed totems. I paid homage to her as well. As she cantered above me like a ravishing goddess, I stroked her with reverence and awe---her flexing hips, her long, slender sides, her quivering breasts, her floating arms. Her nipples were hard as rubies, and I opened one hand wide to touch them both in their cycle. I slid the other hand between her thighs to venerate the wet, intimate folds of her labia. Another precious jewel was hidden there, and with every rise and fall she secretly pressed it against me. Her eyes were fixed on a horizon far beyond the walls of the room. Her face had become utterly slack, no longer with the peaceful serenity of sleep, but with the stark abandon of ecstasy. I could not take my eyes off her. She rode and rode and shuddered and rode and saw at last the full, glorious, radiant, undiminished object of her quest. She slackened her pace, but she did not stop riding for another good mile at least. Conchita brought us our breakfast of rolls and cheese and coffee. She was glad that we had enjoyed the restaurant, and she wished us luck on our presentation. When she turned to go, I saw that the apron constituted the entirety of her uniform. Apart from her sandals, it was the only thing she had on. Claire's hair was still a little damp when we headed out. It was a glorious morning. We passed groups of chattering children on their way to school, grocers and merchants opening up their shops, deliverymen making their morning rounds. We were welcomed by Dr. Peterson himself, the president of the firm. He introduced us to Grant and Mekela who would be heading up the project from their end. Grant was ruggedly handsome with short blond hair. He wore khaki trousers and a button-down shirt much like my own. Mekela had short nappy hair and wore a colorful vest and skirt that contrasted strikingly with her rich ebony skin. Her vest was bright scarlet and marigold, and it buttoned across her midriff, leaving her breasts fully exposed. They rose from her chest like two gentle volcanic islands with out-turned basalt craters. Her skirt was like a grass skirt, made up of narrow strips of scarlet, pumpkin, marigold, tan, and black that hung freely from her waist and shimmered and parted as she walked. The conference room looked out over the sparkling bay, The three of them listened attentively to our presentation and asked several thoughtful questions. Dr. Peterson congratulated us heartily on our preparation. The firm was very keen to get into this area, and our proposal was right in line with their vision. He was quite hopeful that we could do business. Grant and Mekela would go over the plans with us in greater detail, and we would all meet back together later in the afternoon. Grant had several specific questions related to the figures, and Mekela sketched out their ideas about funding. They brought up a few points we had not thought of, and they used a somewhat different pricing schedule, but there did not seem to be any major discrepancies. They also had their own maps, much more detailed than ours, and we studied them closely. The final decisions would of course require an actual survey, but we saw no cause for concern. We ate lunch on a patio overlooking the bay. Figs, grapes, and a salad of eggplants and olives. Grant had lived all his life in Panga Lea, and he gave us the captain's tour of the bay, pointing out several interesting features about the harbor, the islands, the plantations along the coast, and the small villages just visible on the distant hillsides. Mekela showed us where some of the project installations would be built. "Call us old-fashioned, but here in Panga Lea it is still the custom to take an afternoon siesta," said Grant when we had finished. "Of course we can go right back to work if you prefer, but I think we are well enough on track that we can afford a little time to recharge our batteries." Claire and I saw no problem in honoring the local customs. Claire went with Grant, and I went with Mekela. She led me to a small room with closed shades, a mat, a futon, a table, and a basin. She often went home for siesta, she said, but the firm had a few rooms available as well. We stepped out of our sandals at the door. She took off her vest and unwrapped her skirt. Her smooth, chocolate vagina was topped by a carefully trimmed patch that looked to be of the exact thickness and texture as the hair on her head. It reminded me of a French poodle. I smiled, and she smiled back. Following her lead, I took off my shirt and trousers and hung them on the post next to hers. "I'm not really acquainted with the siesta," I said. "We don't practice it in Central City." "It is second nature to me now," she said, walking over to the futon. "It really helps me to concentrate more fully during the second part of the day." She lay down and stretched herself luxuriously. She patted the spot beside her. "Come and lay down. We will take a little nap. We can make love first if you would like." The Sweetness of the Pear: Mekela "Would you like to?" "I always like to make love." I stretched out beside her. "You have an intriguing accent. Did you come here from somewhere else?" "I grew up in Africa." "How do they make love in Africa." She knelt up in indignation. "How do we make love in Africa? We make love just like everybody else. How do you think we do it?" The blood rushed to my face. "That's not what I meant," I tried to explain. "I meant, 'Do you have any special customs or special rituals?' " "I know what you meant," she laughed. "I was just teasing you. We have lots of ways to make love in Africa. Let me see. Sometimes we play 'the lion and the lioness.' Would you like me to teach you?" "Very much" She knelt down on all fours, facing me. Her skin was dark and glossy, her breasts just as firm vertically as they had been horizontally. "The lion, you see, he is a lazy fellow. He sits in the sun all day showing off him mop of hair. He thinks he is the king of the beasts." She reached out and tousled my hair. "You will be the lion." I got onto my hands and knees too. My penis was beginning to swell. "And who is it that sweeps the floor, carries the water, and hunts for dinner? Me. The lioness. I am the one who gets things done." She raised her head and neck up proudly and began to parade back and forth. As she turned, she gave me the full view of her backside, her firm, strong haunches, her dark, alluring vulva. "The lion is good for one thing, I suppose. But he is so lazy! Must the lioness do all the work herself?" She wiggled her bottom seductively. I crawled over to her, and knelt up behind her, bringing my now erect penis to the margin of its target. She took a step forward, coyly eluding my touch. My penis was drawn forward as if by a powerful magnet. I braced my hands on her firm hips. She snarled and reared back unexpectedly, pushing me off. "The lioness is contrary," she explained, matter-of-factly. "She does not want to make things too easy for the lazy lion." She resumed her walk, sashaying her hips and smacking her lower lips with every step. But every time I approached, she snarled and clawed at me. I launched myself onto her back, but she wrestled her way out from under with a strength and wiriness that surprised me. Then she wiggled her gorgeous bottom again just inches in front of my face. Perhaps a little sugar might do the trick. I ran my tongue lightly up the crack of her buttocks. I licked again, deeper this time, and then deeper still, probing the full depth of her crevasse. I found her anus, and tarried there a while to savor the texture of its pucker. I tasted the tidy little seam between her anus and her vagina, then lightly traced the slit of her vulva from stem to stern. I licked her again, this time plowing the furrow more deeply. I plowed more deeply still until I struck her wetness. She seemed more docile now. I tried once more to mount her, but again she threw me off, this time clawing my chest. I approached her warily, and gave her a few more tentative licks. Then I licked her more languorously, starting at her clitoris and tonguing a wide swath all the way to her anus. I brought up my penis one more time. She reared, but this time I was ready. I grabbed her firmly around the chest and waist and pulled her up on her knees. I held on tightly, her bottom spooned tightly against my groin, her back pressed firmly against my chest, until her struggling subsided. We were both breathing heavily. I gently nibbled her earlobe. Still holding tightly with one arm, I slid my other hand down between her legs to continue massaging her there. She turned her head, and I nibbled the corner of her lip. I let my grip soften into an embrace. With one hand still down between her legs I played the other over the magnificent contours of her volcanoes, feeling my way up their slightly overhung southern slopes, cupping their heft, running my thumb around the crater rims and over the steep, hard nipples. She was pressed so closely against me that it felt to my hands as if it were my own body they were exploring, my own silky skin, my own bursting nipples, my own patch of woolly hair, my own wet vagina. The head of my penis poked out between her thighs like an appendage of her clitoris, and my hands felt them both with equal wonder. Mekela leaned her head back against my shoulder and let my hands have their way. But when I went to lower her back down onto the futon, she bucked and tried again to escape. This time I roared and grabbed her with both arms around her waist. She slipped through, but I still had her by the knees. She squirmed onto her side. It took every inch of my strength to get her onto her back and myself on top of her. Both of us were now slippery with sweat. "My pretty lioness," I panted. "Why are you so contrary?" "My handsome lion," she panted back. "You have won me now." She wrapped her arms gently around my neck and lifted her face to kiss my cheeks and my eyes. She opened her legs. She was so wet that I slipped into her effortlessly, like a crocodile into the Nile. I kissed her, and with every stroke of my pelvis I rubbed her whole glistening torso against mine. She thrust back, and it was not long before I had filled her full of lion cum. We only had time for a very short nap before the chime called us back to work. Grant and Claire were already in the conference room. They regarded us with some amusement. "Did you have a nice siesta?" Grant asked. "Very nice," I replied. "We managed to get in a little exercise as well." "I see," smiled Grant. "Ostriches? Or lions?" "Lions," I admitted. Grant gave Mekela a knowing smile. "He made his lioness purr like a kitten," she volunteered. Everyone laughed. "Next time, ask her to teach you the 'motorcycle postman,'" Grant advised. We got back to work. Things proceeded smoothly until we discovered one potentially fatal snag. The projected transshipment route cut right across the marine sanctuary. We might be able to get a waiver, but Grant thought it was not very likely. The only other route was much longer and would be several times more expensive. Claire was visibly crestfallen. But Mekela remained optimistic. "I'm sure that we can figure this out," she said. "Let us put on our thinking caps." The problem seemed insurmountable. In most projects the movement of material makes up only a relatively small part of the overall operation, not the keystone to success or failure. We came up with three or four possibilities, but immediately had to reject every one of them. It looked like we might have to go back to square one and redesign the entire concept from the ground up. "In Africa," Mekela said, finally, "when we wanted to build a church or a school, we did not have contractors and engineering firms. We had to rely on the people of the village to come together to carry the mortar and lay the bricks." "I wonder if we could we do something like that here?" asked Claire. "Couldn't the local fishermen, in their smaller boats, reach the project sites without crossing the sanctuary?" "We have been trying to think of a way to generate more local enthusiasm," said Grant. "We'd probably be able to pay them a competitive fee," I said. "They could take one load out in the afternoons when they go to set out their nets, and another load in the mornings when they go back to retrieve them," said Mekela. We got back out the maps. Mekela consulted the gazetteer. Claire phoned Central City to be clear about indemnification. Grant and I ran some rough estimates two different ways. The supplies would arrive in much smaller loads, but they would arrive continuously. If we started the shipments early and continued them regularly, it just might work. Dr. Peterson was very pleased. He congratulated all four of us on our creative thinking. The very first thing tomorrow, he would initiate a formal letter of agreement. He was delighted to have us on board and was looking forward to a splendid project. We still had some time before dinner. Was there anything we needed to do? No? Well, perhaps Clark and Mekela had a few things they needed to attend to. Could we all plan to meet up again later at the restaurant? And, in the mean time, would Claire and I perhaps like to see the botanical gardens? They were the pride of Panga Lea. Claire remembered the gardens from her earlier trip, and clapped her hands together in anticipation. They were indeed quite enchanting: lush tropical foliage, incredibly delicate orchids, leaves the size of bedspreads, exotic flytraps, tree dwelling bromeliads, catwalks through the canopy. Dr. Peterson was a charming host, and I could tell that he thoroughly enjoyed Claire's sincere fascination with every plant and flower. We met Grant and Mekela at the restaurant. The chairs matched, at least most of them, but the tables were still exposed to the open sky, and the ambiance was still very informal and fun. Black beans and rice, mashed plantains, grilled fish, and watermelon juice, served family style. We told funny stories from our childhoods and tried to work out who had had the best place to grow up. We ended by agreeing that happy childhoods can take root in many different soils. After dinner Dr. Peterson shook my hand heartily and kissed Claire on the cheeks. He was glad that this would be just the first of many meetings between us. Perhaps Grant or Mekela could suggest some further entertainment if we were not too tired, but he hoped that we would excuse him. He had a family to get home to. "Do you like to dance?" asked Mekela. "There is a place where we can dance under the stars. I like it very much." The place was not much more than an open dance floor surrounded by palm trees, but it was pleasantly crowded with people of all different ages. There were two guitars, a trumpet, a steel drum, a conga drum, and an astonishing array of percussible objects. The local rhythms were infectious. Mekela and I started out as partners, and Grant and Claire, but it didn't much matter on the crowded dance floor. Mekela took off her sandals and vest and danced bare footed and bare breasted. Mekela's friend Patrick was there, and the two of them danced several numbers together. One was a bouncy cumbia that wound itself into a frenzy of steel drumming and earsplitting trumpet scales. Mekela and Patrick danced every beat, until the rest of dance floor was thrown back around them by centrifugal force. Mekela shook her grass skirt and her little breasts until she glistened with sweat. Patrick danced around her with his hands up over his head, conforming his body to her ever changing contours. She raised her own arms and whipped her hips around, sending the strips of her skirt out into a perpendicular orbit. Viewed edge on she was completely naked, a flash of clenched buttocks alternating with a whirl of nappy hair. Later in the evening, a violin arrived and the music slowed down. I danced with Claire, holding her close in my arms. Her head and pony tail rested contentedly on my shoulder, and I was very aware of the lithe, supple body beneath her soft blouse and thin skirt. I danced with Mekela too, her bare titties pressed against my chest and my semi-erect member pressed against her groin. During one achingly romantic tango, my member found its way out of my trouser slit. Without removing my hands from Mekela's naked back I wove it through the thicket of her skirt to give her a little pink kiss. "We can't call it a night without a little swim," said Grant. "Yes, yes," agreed Claire. Grant knew a nice spot not far from where we were. We took off our clothes under a palm tree. Grant's cock was all limbered up from the dancing, and Claire glanced at it more than once. She ran down the gentle dune ahead of us, her nude body pale in the moonlight. We followed her iridescent footprints. The water was peaceful and very refreshing after the long day and the dancing. We frolicked and splashed. Then Grant and Claire raced each other toward a light further down the shore. They took their time coming back. "Do you know that I never saw the ocean until I was grown?" said Mekela. "It must be wonderful live so close to it now." "I love it very much. My friends and I come to bathe almost every day." "Do you ever think about going back to Africa?" "All the time. But I think about staying here, too." "So do I." "Have you ever made love on the beach?" "No, I haven't." She grinned at me. "So many things I have to teach you today. Come on. It is not difficult." There was no one else in sight. We lay down right on the margin of the tide, where the bigger waves washed up gently around us. She straddled my chest and massaged each of my nipples with her groin. Suddenly I felt a cozy warmth spread over my chest and abdomen like a wave charged with sunshine. I gave my body to its comforting embrace, even as I recognized its familiar pungent odor. "It is good for the skin," Mekela laughed. Another wave, a colder one, washed the warmer one away. I rolled her over on her back and kissed her fleshy lips and her salty, sandy volcanoes. She rolled me back, and pressed herself flat against me, thigh to thigh and arm to arm. My penis was wedged against her pubis. "Aha," she said. "Is that the handsome fellow who kissed me on the dance floor? I hope he will stay a little longer this time." She wiggled her hips until it slipped right in, a perfect fit. She clenched her inner muscles and began to slide her whole body up and down over mine. I held her tight, one arm around her back, the other grabbing her bottom. Her weight, her friction, the warmth of her belly, the goose bumps on her thigh, the phosphorescent froth and splash and wetness, the slow, blissful rise, the gentle, rolling break, the sparkling ebb. We said our affectionate goodbyes on the beach. Claire and Makela embraced, Grant and I shook hands. We would be in touch about the project as soon as we got back to the office. On the walk back to the hotel, Claire was very happy. "We did well today, Hector." "We did indeed." "Are you proud of us?" "I'm very proud." "So am I." Back in the room, we got ready for bed. Claire cuddled up to me under the sheets. "Do you mind if we don't make love tonight, Hector?" "I'd say we were both pretty tired." "We don't have to be at the station tomorrow until noon." "Mmm." "Shall we just lounge around all morning?" "Mmm." "And will you fuck me like a lion?" I kissed her forehead. "Just you wait and see." "Goody," she yawned. We both slept soundly. The sun rousted himself out of bed long before we did. I drifted deliciously in and out of sleep, with Claire nestled softly beside me. Eventually we were both awake, but the only thing either of us did was to kick off the sheet when the sunshine reached the futon. The most luxurious thing in all the world, according to Claire, is to lie in bed for an entire day. But I just don't seem to have the stamina for it. Before long I got restless. So I got up to adjust the curtains. Then I went to the bathroom. Then I ordered breakfast. When I came back, Claire was lying on her tummy, propped up on her elbows, looking at the booklet from the botanical garden. I was captivated by the way her back tapered so gracefully toward her slender, practical waist and then burgeoned out so voluptuously into the copious abundance of her hips. The two round halves of her bottom were full and firm and I could see well down into the rosy fissure between them. Where her legs parted, the lips of her vagina were just visible down below. Her broad thighs, her buxom calves, her perfect little feet. She looked at once so innocent, lost in her book, and so alluring, that my Calandrian equanimity was all but overpowered. She put down her book, rolled onto her back, put her arms up on the pillow, crossed her ankles, and smiled. Every square inch of her radiated an overbrimming contentment with life. Her breasts were gentle and round, her navel soft and inviting. The fleshy hood of her clitoris poked out ever so slightly between the lips of her vagina like the tongue of a young girl concentrating on her lessons. All this she offered up to me as innocently as if she were swathed in flannel. My built-in polygraph could not help but register an uptick of arousal. "Lounging?" I asked. "Basking in glory," she replied. I knelt down beside her. My polygraph had ticked up another notch, and she had noticed. "I don't suppose you've seen any lions around here yet this morning, have you?" she asked, sweetly. "I'm kind of expecting one to drop by." "Lions! Well, if it's lions you're trying to attract, you're going about it in entirely the wrong way," I lied. I got on my hands and knees. The needle of my polygraph was now pegged to the limit. I strutted along the mat in my best lion form. "You are the sleek and powerful lioness. The huntress. The provider. You have just returned from a glorious kill. The blood is still dripping from your lips. You must promenade through the camp with your head and tail raised high." She crawled to her drawer. "I should probably try to look a little more like a lioness and a little less like a lion." She used some pins to gather in her unruly hair, then turned to show me her profile. If her coiffure was not entirely convincing, the perky upturn of her breasts left little room for doubt. "Grrrr," I said. "Like this, then?" She began her promenade. She took long, slinky strides, shimmying the two luscious halves of her bottom with each seductive step, keeping her pouty vulva on full display. "Is my tail up high enough?" "It's high enough all right." I knelt behind her, levering my penis firmly against the length of her slit. "See? You've already caught the lion's attention. But the proud lioness does not just let herself be mounted by any old lion who happens to amble by. She plays a little hard to get to test his determination. She plays a little bit rough to test his strength and vigor." I gave her a sharp slap on the butt. She flinched and scurried out of my reach, looking back crossly at me over her shoulder. I tried to approach her again, but she quickened her pace and would not let me near. I pretended to preen myself until she dropped her guard. Then I stretched out and slowly licked the sole of her foot. When she did not pull away I licked the knob of her ankle, and then the plump belly of her calf. I had just worked my way up to her bottom, when there was a knock on the door and Conchita came in with a tray. "Breakfast!" exclaimed Claire. Conchita carried the tray to the table, paying little attention to our state of disarray. "Breakfast indeed," I said. "There is nothing that lions like better than the taste of human flesh." The table was well within my striking distance. After Conchita had set down the tray I bounded over and took a great mouthful of her thigh. "What is this?" asked Conchita. "Poor Conchita," I replied. "You have fallen in with a pair of ferocious lions who are going to eat you up." "Oh, my goodness! Lions?" "From Africa," said Claire, pouncing. She took a big mouthful of the other thigh. We maneuvered Conchita back toward the futon, and she sat down with a plop. Claire opened the drawstring of her apron with her teeth. I buried my head under the loose garment and began to dine on her bare ribs and midriff. Claire started in on her shoulder. "Oh my heavens! I am being gobbled up by lions." I worked my way up towards one breast, and Claire worked her way down toward the other. "Please, Mr. and Mrs. Lion," Conchita laughed. "Please do not eat me up today. There are many more breakfasts that need to be delivered." I considered. "Well, all right. We'll let you go this time. But only so that you will be all that much more plump and juicy the next time." The Sweetness of the Pear: Mekela Conchita got up and retied her apron. She patted us each on the head. "You are very reasonable lions. Just you wait and see how much more plump and juicy I will be next time." Claire and I finished our breakfast lion style. We reared up to the table and tore pieces of smoked salmon and pineapple right off the plates with our mouths. We lapped up yogurt from one bowl and coffee with cream from another. She managed to smear half her face with jam. I had streaks of mustard on my chest. I was happily devouring a croissant when Claire snatched it right out of my mouth with her own. I bellowed and gave chase, bringing her down within five paces. She fought fiercely, but I managed to win back most of the morsel. The struggle left her covered in crumbs, crumbs that were rightfully mine. I vacuumed them up them from her squirming head and torso. The crumbs on her cheek tasted of boysenberry, the ones on her mouth of coffee. The ones on her left breast and nipple were sticky with pineapple juice. I followed the trail all the way down, shifting my hold so that I was kneeling on one arm and restraining the other arm and leg with my two hands. This gave me unobstructed access to her belly button and to the juncture between her legs. I snuffled each spot closely. Was that a whiff of salmon? I tasted to be sure. It was pink and very appealing, and I licked it thoroughly, up and down and up and down. Claire's wiggling subsided. My royal scepter throbbed. It seemed to me that the time had come to claim my kingly entitlement. I gently butted her over onto her stomach and coaxed her rear end up into the air. Her cunt was as slippery and warm as melted butter. I rammed my penis in as far as it would go, then pulled it completely out and rammed it in again, withdrawing from and then pushing through her curtains anew with every thrust. Claire lowered herself to the mat and turned over onto her back, presenting her open cunt from a different vantage. I positioned myself between her thighs and planted a paw beside each ear. She arched her back and hips up off the floor and caressed the tip of my penis with her clitoris. She maneuvered until she had my penis in her vagina, and then thrust several times to seat it securely. She lifted one of her feet off the mat and hooked her leg over my hips. Then she raised the other leg and locked it around me as well. She wrapped her arms around my back and pulled herself entirely up off the floor, clinging to me like a koala bear. She was now fully suspended underneath me, hanging from my frame, the two of us still intimately coupled. I toted her several lumbering paces and tried to scrape her off on the futon, but she stuck to me like tar. I collapsed down on top of her. Her arms and legs were wrapped around me like tentacles, and she worked her pelvis back and forth, kneading my penis like taffy. I put my arms around her too. I kissed her mouth, and she let me taste her tongue. Our two bodies were so close together that I could not tell if she wore my skin or I wore hers. She told me with her eyes that she was coming, and the communication made me come too, sumptuously, regally, majestically. We lay entangled for the longest time. "Purrrr," she said at last. We made it to the station just in time. We kissed each other's blushing cheeks. It would have to be a long intermezzo, but that just made the anticipation that much sweeter. The project turned out to be a great success, much to Claire's resounding credit. We came back to Panga Lea several more times. I got Mekela to teach me her version of 'motorcycle postman,' and I taught her the version that Claire and I had made up ourselves. Ours was better.