2 comments/ 37603 views/ 1 favorites That Old Black Magic By: Huckfunn1 The following is a true story, to the best of my 31-year memory of it. It is a good story, though not especially erotic, nor designed to be lurid. Rather, it is something I feel compelled to share with readers. Your comments/votes/personal contact are very welcome. THAT OLD BLACK MAGIC OR Not Just Another Case of Finally Talking Her Into It After Weeks of Heavy Petting Graduation was 28 days away for Parkway High’s all-white, sub-suburban class of 1973. Contemplation of that occasion brought great happiness to members of that class. Yet, for four close friends, there remained a palpable awareness of an unfulfilled goal – a poorly suppressed desire that haunted and marred the joy of their upcoming liberation. These four friends – Rick, Mark, Schultzy, and yours truly – had agreed that to sally forth and face college as men, Boyhood must be quickly and unmercifully locked away in the closet of their collective past. Furthermore, it was quite clear how this was to be done. Ask a random sample of high-school males how Manhood is established, and their responses will vary along socioeconomic and geographic lines. Fighting ... drinking ... competing in sports ... owning a car ... holding a job ... rejecting authority – these and other means are the time-trampled paths, imagined and real, that bring boys to the Holy Grail of Virility. Nonetheless, within his anguished soul, every teen-aged boy knows that no matter what previous bids have been cast, he doesn’t buy into Manhood without first losing his virginity. It is an absolute truth; a truth we could not, and did not, avoid. ********** We were spending a rush weekend with the brothers of Zeta Beta Tau at the University of Missouri in Columbia (known locally and hereafter as Missou). Most of the attending high-school seniors – Rick, Mark, and Schultzy included – intended pledging the house after fall matriculation. Moi? I was along for the ride, my commitment already made to Northwestern University. And where did we believe that long ride halfway across the state would take us? To the usual modes of organized debauchery, certainly. But beyond the anticipated agenda of fraternal shenanigans, we harkened to the genuinely thrilling rumor of a very special Rush treat. Word had it that the SAM house, notorious for its depravity, had booked a couple of Kansas City whores to dance for the boys. Our wallets held crisp, fresh-from-the-bank bills in high, but nebulous, hopes that the whores would do more than dance. ********** About 9:00 pm, we gathered in ZBT’s rec room to drink, talk, solidify old friendships, and spark new ones. The majority of us came from St. Louis or Kansas City, with a handful of revelers from smaller Missouri towns or from out of state. Many of the weekend guests were acquaintances or relatives of the ZBTs and had arrived at the house earlier that warm, drizzly Friday evening. A couple of kegs and a small cluster of “little sisters” kept spirits buoyed. The conversations around me ran a predictable course. Our hosts were checking us over, while some of us were checking them out. And all of us were scoping the little sisters. -- “We have the highest grade-point average of any frat house here.” -- “What are you thinking of majoring in?” -- “A fraternity is like having a family away from home, but you’ve got your independence.” -- “More beer?” Neil (“The Creeper”) Goldfarb cornered me over by the makeshift bar. Neil was the house dork, his moniker fittingly applied in evidence of a pathetic pattern of creeping, unwelcomed, into the private space of his colleagues. If not for the exceptionally tasteful escort Neil had somehow acquired, I indubitably would have heeded the urgent twin calls from brain and bladder to depart. “Hi, my name is Neil Goldfarb.” I shook his damp hand. Then she introduced herself. “I’m Cindy.” I introduced myself with all the flair and importance of Gulliver among the Brobdingnagians. I riveted Cindy’s cerulean eyes, and struck straight for her heart. Too late. I lost it, as well as the rest of her, to a tall, dark-haired fellow standing just an “excuse-me-a-minute” away from us. I strangled a dead-end dialogue with Neil by unearthing the loosely interred rumor of the SAM-house entertainment. “Say, Neil, did you hear anything about some whores over at the SAM house tonight?” “Yeah,” he responded, “if you’re interested in that sort of thing, go over about 10. The SAM-ies usually deliver.” Interested? Hell, this was the best news of the day -- maybe of my life. But I had to be cool. “Tenish, huh? At the SAM house. OK, I might check it out. Thanks.” And I sauntered away to confirm the rumor for my pals. As expected, each took the news in his own self-reflecting way. Rick spoke first. We held him in high esteem because he actually had a girlfriend, rotund though she was, whom he had seriously groped, on numerous occasions, in the rathskeller of his home. “I’ll believe it when I see it.” Always the cynic. Yet I caught the gleam of excitement in his eyes. Mark reported hearing that the whores would not only do a show but turn tricks, too! He insisted we were soon to set eyes on “naked dancing girls.” That was Mark, typically audacious, refreshingly optimistic. “What time should we go over?” asked the timid third musketeer. Schultzy wouldn’t miss the dancing, but queasy doubts rattled me over his dedication to the coital possibilities being raised. I knew Schultzy better than the others, and if it were to come down to fornication, I just wasn’t sure he was ready. ********** Two bare mattresses lay side by side on a long Formica table. To each side of the table stood two photographic lamps. It was a little after midnight, and the drizzle had become a steady rain. There had been a false call to the SAM house earlier, only to be told that the whores were on their way and to expect a delay. Now, on our second visit to the house, about 50 intoxicated people crowded onto the soggy carpet in the SAM’s wood-paneled den. The bright beams of the lamps directed our attention to the "stage” up front, while, from somewhere close by, a stereo pumped out a healthy helping of rock ‘n’ roll. It was every gaper for himself. I started way in the back, fought to stage right, then decided a left-flank position provided the best view. But of what? Certainly not any naked dancing girls. The few women I spied were, I assumed, girlfriends of some of the men in the predominantly male audience. A scattering of gray-haired and bald heads led me to believe that a few father-son teams were present. The show began with little fanfare. A gush of music, some adjusting of the lights, and on the mattresses before us stood two black women in their early 30s. Neither was a beauty, but then this weren’t no beauty contest. The crowd offered an appreciative cacophony of whistles and cheers. With the ice broken, the women commenced dancing. Both wore thin panties and sheer nightie-like tops. Fuzzy slippers would have completed the picture had the girls been kicking around their own cribs and not strutting nature’s bounty for dozens of libido-crazed white boys. The one Rick and I later dubbed “Sylvia” had impressive mammaries and long processed hair. I liked her. Her partner, “Lyvesta,” needed orthodontia and promised lesser rewards to a breast man. Still, she had her following among the throng. An argument developed over the lamps being used to highlight the action. “Too bright!” complained the performers. “Turn them off.” And off they went. Then, annoyed spectators cried in unison, “Turn them on! Turn them on!” On…off…on…off. At first the dancers protested the excessive illumination by refusing to gyrate, but, ultimately, the lights were left on. There was no questioning the loyalty of the men operating the lamps. Now, you will think I am making up this next part, but I swear it is as real and true as the Los Angeles smog. Some of the frat lads had consumed copious amounts of ethyl alcohol, as well as various pharmaceuticals on hand. Stripped to their Fruit-of-the-Looms and JVCs, one…two…three…then four of the assembly persuaded themselves – and the dancing girls – that it was time for audience participation. Well, I had been to the Olympic XXX Drive-In Theater. I had run trembling hands over 17-year-old Linda Levine’s C-cups. Randy Osomo had allowed me countless hours of access to his father’s Playboy collection in the basement of his house. But the situation then and there rocketed light years ahead of anything my fledgling imagination could produce. To the surprise, amusement, then raucous approval of the crowd, we were treated to a live sex show. This is to say fellatio, cunnilingus, and even down-and-dirty, might-be-fucking grinding, on stage, in full view of friends and numerous strangers. It took major cojones – as well as a peculiar brand of insanity – for those dudes to be up there. We respected this, and that closing act of the show set the mood for what we felt we had to do. The group on stage melted away, and with them went the core of curious onlookers who had squeezed themselves into the SAM den. Word was passed that the whores would be tricking upstairs for $15 a throw. Schultzy found me. We waited for Mark and Rick. “You guys ready?” asked Mark, implying that our minds and bodies were as committed as his. “I’ll take some of that brown sugar,” declared Rick. Schultzy was silent. I knew he was out. “I’m in,” I said. ********** On the second floor, we joined a line of five or six, jovial, beer-drinking boys standing outside of a closed door. The humor seemed forced. (Perhaps waiting to fuck a black hooker is not the funniest thing in the world.) Every few minutes, Sylvia or Lyvesta would open the door, beckon to the buyer next in line, and return inside to transact business. Mark, Rick, and I didn’t have much to say to one another. We each meditated on the personal significance of what was about to transpire. Our eyes stayed glued to the opening and shutting of the door. Big-titted Sylvia drew Mark inside. I had to piss. Reminding those around me – now about 20 eager lads – of my place in line, I ducked into a bathroom down the hall. Rick was entering the room as I returned, 60 seconds later. “Come on. You’re next.” Sylvia’s gentle hand took mine, and I stepped into the room. Mark was pulling on his pants. A minute to a minute and a half – that’s how long it had taken him. I vowed to get my money’s worth. Rick was negotiating. “All I have is a twenty,” he said. “Thass okay, Sugar,” replied Lyvesta. “Ahm gwan ta gif you fife dollas eggstra.” “Yeah, well, I still want my five dollars change.” I don't know whether or not he got it, but when I next looked over in his direction, Rick was furiously plowing his “date.” Sylvia took a moment to clean herself with a wad of toilet paper, while I slipped out of my clothes. She still had on the same flimsy negligee, but the gossamer panties were absent. I paid. She played (with me). We adopted the missionary position, and she fed me in. There are few, if any, pleasures in life equal to the first time a boy enters the warm wet confines of a real live human vagina, and I almost lost it right then. But I acclimated myself, and began to thoroughly enjoy my first big love scene. It wasn’t difficult. She was soft and perfumed and, despite the seediness of the setting, quite appealing to me. Her teeth were so white against her charcoal skin. Should I kiss her? Do you kiss a whore? No, this wasn’t the time or place for that, I realized. Five minutes later it was all over. I grabbed a bonus, a quick feel of those pendulous, inviting breasts – an opportunity I had ignored earlier. I dressed. And Rick and I met Mark and Schultzy outside. ********** Back at the ZBT house we continued several rounds of hand- and back-slapping. “What was it like?” asked Alan, my obnoxious and obviously envious neighbor from back in St. Louis. “Just like any other beaver,” I coolly replied. Monday at school the grapevine shook, and in a couple of hours everyone heard what had gone down at Missou’s SAM house. Later that day, my brother stopped me by my locker, a distinct look of embarrassment on his face. “Do you know how many people have asked me if it’s true you paid to fuck a nigger?” I pondered the depth of that question for several seconds, then smiled. “No. How many?” ********** The End … and the beginning That Old Black Magic We were watching the ten o'clock news, Vee beside me on the sofa, when I thought I saw him. Just a group shot on the red carpet at the Cannes Festival. The camera didn't linger and in a few seconds the image had disappeared. Vee, aware that something had caught my attention, raised an eyebrow. I said, "Ntombe. There was a suggestion about the south of France, wasn't there? When he went into exile." "I think so," she said, "but it was a long time ago. Why?" "I thought I saw him. Even after these years, he's not easy to forget." " Would you expect him to resurface at Cannes?" "With his attributes, yes. Could make him very popular." "I know what you're thinking," Vee said. "King Dong." It was what they called him behind his back. If he knew, he didn't mind. "Yes. King Dong." A memory had obviously sprung into her mind, too, for she allowed her hand to descend into my lap. Her fingers began to explore. I felt myself begin to respond. You should understand that this wasn't usual behaviour for us. We are, after all, both in our sixties. Not that we've given up on sex, but it's become a less passionate pastime than it once was. Yet here was Vee, in our drawing room sharing a whisky and soda before bed time, unexpectedly taking the initiative. "Bed?" I asked. "No. Let's do it here. Now. You're ready, aren't you?" Her fingers tightened their grip slightly. I was. More than ready, aroused, excited even. Ntombe was Vee's first - and only, she claimed - black cock. Remembering how it happened was something we had used in the past, although not for some time now. It worked then and it was working now. Vee had already dropped her knickers on the carpet and was bending over the arm of the sofa, skirt up round her waist. I opened my zip and moved behind her. These days we were inclined to start with oral. Fellatio had always been one of Vee's exceptional skills, even back when we were on our honeymoon. I enjoyed reciprocating, especially nowadays when it helped her lubricate. But not this time. I slid two fingers between her legs and encountered wetness and warmth. "It's all right, dear," she said, glancing back over her shoulder. "I"m ready. Put it in. Do it like we used to." How long was since I had seen Vee on heat like this? A long time, I thought. Remembering Ntombe had certainly removed any inhibitions there might have been about sex in the drawing room with the lights on and the weather forecast on the television. I took my member in my hand, grateful that it had never been too bad in comparison with my wife's recollection of Ntombe's, and guided it into her. Deep penetration proved to be easy. It was greeted with a little grunt of pleasure from Vee. When I began to move, she spoke again over her shoulder. "It doesn't have to be a marathon, darling. It doesn't matter if I don't come. I just want to feel you doing it the way we used to. Hard and fast. Do me now." It was more encouragement than I needed. Vee had always been blessed with a trim figure; to her credit, she had looked after it well. The bottom cheeks that parted to facilitate my entry were firm and round, the skin still smooth and unflawed. I took a firm hold on her hips and began to give her the repeated benefit of the full length of my shaft. No doubt we would have made a somewhat comic spectacle, both still half dressed, Vee's thighs white above her stockings, my trousers round my ankles, her knickers in a pool on the floor. I closed my eyes and concentrated all my thoughts on the exquisite sensation building within me, preparing to erupt into Vee, reasserting the love that had been the foundation of our marriage. "Yes. Yes. Yes, darling!" she was exclaiming as every thrust ploughed into her. " Yes, now!" I heard myself cry out as the orgasm overtook me in one long draining spasm. As it dwindled, I stayed inside her, my groin pressed against her buttocks, savouring her luscious suction, never wanting it to end. When at last I had to withdraw, I asked her if she needed me to complete her pleasure. "No," she said, kissing me lightly on the cheek. "I know you would, and I love you for it. But you gave me what I wanted." As she gathered up her knickers and headed for the bathroom, she said, "I hope we'll both want it again soon." Alone in the drawing room, turning off the television, gathering up the whisky tumblers, switching off the lights, closing the house down for the night, I pondered on the fleeting image on the screen that had triggered such animated and rewarding sex. Ntombe. Patrice Aumond St Pierre Ntombe. Much of what I now know derives from a variety of sources: personal experience during part of his two-and-half-year 'reign'; Foreign Office briefings which tend to be mostly but not totally accurate; and press reports which tend to be mostly but not totally inaccurate. Inevitably, there are a number of obscure areas. Rumours, many of them wild, many of them believable, but few of them substantiated. It is at least clear that the name Ntombe is one he adopted. The family name is St Pierre. Patrice was a bright youngster who found his way to St Cyr, France's élite military academy in Brittany. There is no explanation of why he didn't complete the third and final year of his course, though some disciplinary scandal has been suggested. Most of a decade is then unaccounted for until he turns up in Africa, styling himself not merely Ntombe but President Ntombe. In passing, it can be noted that among former St Cyr cadets were Charles de Gaulle; Louis II, Prince of Monaco; Peter I of Serbia; Haj Ali Razmara, one-time Prime Minister of Iran; and Felipe Angeles, a noted Mexican revolutionary. Patrice may have felt he was following worthy predecessors. The brief existence of the state of Orintombe made little splash in the European press, and has been easily forgotten. It was a few barren square miles of central African hill country that seceded from its larger neighbour and wasn't missed. Patrice probably instigated the process. Certainly it was he who named it Orintombe and called the capital Ntombeville - what else? One of his first acts as President was to hold a referendum on his own title. So keen was he to demonstrate the value of numeracy to his impoverished subjects, he counted the votes himself. Thereafter he became President-for-Life Ntombe. It wasn't the most prestigious first posting for a young, newly-married diplomat but I had to start somewhere. Vee wanted to know why we bothered to recognise Orintombe at all. I could only compare it to the way children collect stamps, wanting to have the full set and hoping that even the least promising might turn out to be valuable one day. Remarkably, some six months after our arrival, it seemed that the FO's optimism might not be misplaced. Whispers began to circulate in Europe that beneath Orintombe's stony hills lay precious mineral ore. Looking back, there seems little doubt that the source of the whispers was the President-for-Life himself. At the time, such was the fear in London that we might be missing something, hasty decisions were made on the flimsiest of suppositions. I was informed that a party of mineralogists and surveyors would be leaving London the following month. It would not be an easy journey. Orintombe's nearest airport was in an adjoining nation with whom Ntombe's relations were fragile. If the survey party made it through customs and immigration, which wasn't guaranteed, they faced a journey of 573 miles over bad roads. Once arrived, they were to be given every assistance but on no account should the reason for their visit be disclosed. How this was to be achieved was left to me. The first test of my future prospects as a manipulator of diplomatic strings. In the interim, Ntombe invited us both to dinner at the Presidential Palace (a large but nondescript edifice which I understand has since been refurbished as a Holiday Inn). The invitation was unprecedented. Previously my only contact had been at fortnightly formal meetings in the President-for-Life's office. Vee had met him only once - at a garden party he gave to celebrate his birthday. She told me afterwards that he had taken advantage of her curtsey to look down her cleavage. The hand that later briefly caressed her bottom may or may not have been his. The dinner was about as informal as Ntombe's sense of his own importance would allow. We were eight. Ntombe, wearing a full-length black robe with gold trimmings, sat on a slightly raised dais with his own table. The rest of us - Vee, me and Ntombe's five wives - faced him from the opposite side of a long table set with expensive porcelain and crystal. (I should explain that polygamy was a privilege Ntombe had conferred upon himself. It did not extend to his subjects.) The wine was better than the food. Ntombe had imported a cellar and a chef from his homeland. The chef lasted less than a month before he fled. So we ate abominably but drank unexpectedly well. Until, that is, Ntombe proposed a toast. "Let us drink," he said, raising his glass towards me with a smirk, "to the hope that your survey group arrives before the Belgians." So much for London's confidential arrangements. Not only were they known to Ntombe, there was a rival operation also on the way. I thought it best not to respond beyond draining my glass with a greater air of insouciance than I actually felt. But the President-for-Life was a man of surprises. "Come," he said. "This is no time for business. We should relax." He rose and led the way to an adjoining room where there was a long, low sofa and a number of large cushions scattered around the floor. Ntombe took the sofa, indicating that we and the wives should relax as best we could on the cushions. Once we were all seated he spoke to two of the wives in their African language - something I had not mastered at that time and later gave up trying. "Now," he went on, "for entertainment I can offer you something you would not find easily in London and would cost you dearly in Paris. Here, it is free. These are naturally sensual women." The two Ntombe had selected rose and stepped easily out of the patterned shift-style dresses they had worn at dinner. Underneath, both were naked. They arranged cushions and then arranged themselves, one on her back with spread thighs, the other on top of her, head to toe in the classic sixty-nine position. I glanced at Vee, hoping that she wouldn't take offence and cause a diplomatic rift. To my surprise, she caught my look and raised what seemed to be an appreciative eyebrow. I learned a lot about Vee that night. Apparently, Ntombe's wives needed no preliminaries. Caressing each other with exploring hands, they began lapping at each other's intimate parts. They communicated in grunts which seemed to indicate on the one hand pleasure and on the other a desire for further gratification. After a while, they parted, sat on their haunches facing each other and masturbated. The mere word cannot nearly convey the lascivious intensity with which they applied themselves, fingers circling in each case a prominent pink clitoris that gleamed beneath its dark hood. Ntombe watched with apparent approval for some while. The self-stimulation in the space between us continued, mounting arousal evinced only by a kind of rocking motion as the women pushed themselves back and forth while throwing their heads upwards and occasionally emitting a weird keening cry. Then, on a signal from their master, the other three wives rose to take their part. One knelt on the floor beside Ntombe. In single bold gesture she threw back his ceremonial robe to disclose a black phallus, huge and erect. Her head descended and the distended member was drawn inch by rigid inch into her mouth. While my attention was riveted upon this extraordinary display, I was aware that another of the wives had crouched beside me and was gently but firmly removing my clothes. Across the room, Vee was receiving the same treatment from the fifth woman. It was as if my wife read my thoughts, for she smiled at me and nodded, wanting me to know (as she told me afterwards) that she could not have staged a diplomatic scene of refusal if the thought had crossed her mind, which it hadn't. Only innate British reticence can account for the fact that Vee and I had never discussed sex between women, otherwise I would have known that it had long germinated in her imagination as an experience worth trying. I had hardly had a moment to observe the astonishing sight of my wife eagerly opening her thighs to her companions' tongue before my thoughts were concentrated nearer at hand. The woman assigned to me pressed me gently on to my back before leaning over me to let her breasts enfold my penis. Her skin, naturally oily, massaged me to full erection in seconds. She sat back to examine the success of this manoeuvre, grunted in apparent satisfaction, and reversed her position. Now she was kneeling astride my face, her own head down in my groin where her hands subtly guided me into her mouth. Nothing in my Foreign Office training had remotely prepared me for this, but my masculine instincts simply took over. Should a junior diplomat insert his tongue into the vagina of one of the wives of a President-for-Life? Probably not, but I was past caring. Sex with Vee, although somewhat conventional, had never been less than enjoyable; when aroused I could always play my part to the full. And so I did now. In the early stages we were four pairs all coupling - with varying degrees of vigour and nuance - more or less side by side. When my partner turned on to her knees with a plain invitation to mount her from behind, I didn't hesitate to accept. I saw that Vee had reversed positions with her server. The masturbating couple had resumed in sixty-nine. Ntombe's wife was astride across his lap. facing us, riding him with practised skill, breasts luridly swaying. The ringmaster, though, was Ntombe. He spoke to the women in two sharp sentences. Immediately, they disengaged themselves from their present activity before realigning with a fresh partner. Musical laps with no empty lap. I welcomed the opportunity to allow my personal excitement to subside a little, having begun to have doubts about the diplomatic protocol when one neared the point of no return. Fortunately, my member had lost none of its fortitude. I was able to participate fully when my new partner threw her ankles on to my shoulders and parted her vaginal lips with her fingers. The merry-go-round continued but gradually lost its strict coherence. Eventually we were all, including Ntombe and his chosen wife, in a writhing mass on the cushions. Of course, with only two men and six women the President-for-Life and I were seldom at rest, necessary though the occasional pause was in my case. You may wonder why I, with my English public school, Cambridge University and Foreign Office background, did not feel revulsion at finding myself at the centre of what was an orgy, nothing less. I have often asked myself that question since. Vee and I have discussed it. We have wondered if some potion had been administered during the meal, but we think not. We can only conclude that sex, in a certain context, can be an overwhelming, all-consuming emotion. Inhibitions, far from being removed, simply cease to exist. That is why I was able to look on with equanimity when Ntombe announced - in French this time - that for a finale he would take Vee. My wife was not given any choice but it would not have mattered. She was as caught up in the erotic atmosphere, the collective lust, as I. If asked, she would have accepted with alacrity. To Ntombe's credit, there was a brief interlude while one of the wives reached into a drawer to produce a packet of condoms. Seemingly, they taught him something other than military exercises at St Cyr. The woman opened the foil pack, moistened the President-for-Life's penis with her mouth and then rolled the sheath down about three-quarters of its length. Surprisingly, Ntombe suddenly laughed, a loud roar. Vee, he said, was English and the English were the pioneers of the missionary position. They brought it to Africa, and Africa knew its manners. Vee glanced at me, suddenly vulnerable. I raised my eyebrows: is this what you want? She understood and nodded. I gestured to Ntombe that he should proceed. Two of the wives arranged cushions under Vee's bottom, raising it so that her vagina protruded lewdly, an orifice ready to be filled. Ntombe knelt between my wife's legs. The wives each rested a hand behind Vee's knees, holding her open. Ntombe took his penis in his hand, steadied himself and made the insertion. The grunt that he gave left no doubt about the satisfaction he had experienced. He began slowly, half penetration, full withdrawal. Vee closed her eyes and abandoned herself to her first sex with a vibrantly endowed black man. Ntombe gradually grew more forceful, the thrusts firmer and deeper. Each full penetration was accompanied by an approving grunt. Vee's lubrication was such that even when his penis emerged completely, he was able to drive it back into her without hesitation. It lasted much longer then I would have thought possible. Presumably the lengthy preliminaries had taken them both on to a plateau, that sublime balance where the physical sensations are exquisite but are not ready to demand the ultimate sacrifice. Vee began to match Ntombe's grunts with ecstatic wordless cries, quietly at first but growing increasingly louder and uncontrolled. There had to be an end, of course, and as that approached, visibly and audibly, one of the otherwise unoccupied wives squatted at my side and began to masturbate me. Her eyes swivelled repeatedly between my face and the couple rutting in front of us. Extraordinarily, she was able to sense the moment. As Vee lifted her body to absorb Ntombe's final thrusts, the woman tightened her grip on my penis and matched the others' momentum. Vee, Ntombe and I all came within seconds of each other. ******************** The aftermath can be briefly recounted (though I will pass over the embarrassment Vee and I felt in extricating ourselves from Ntombe's party). The British survey group did arrive ahead of the Belgians. It was a hollow victory: they swiftly established that beneath Orintombe's parched and hilly terrain lay earth total free of any useful mineral ore. British and Belgians drove away in convoy and shared a flight back to Europe. Shortly after I conveyed the disappointing news to London, I was transferred to a remote island in the Pacific ocean which the FO had just added to its collection. Ntombe's abdication and disappearance back into the void from which he had surfaced was reported briefly, as was Orintombe's recession into its geographical neighbour's protection. Over the years, I made modest progress up the FO's promotion ladder, collected my CBE, and retired with Vee to our villa in Bexhill. Ntombe had figured less and less often in our conversation, until we spotted that fleeting image on the television news. I turned off the lights, locked the doors and made my way to our bedroom where I found Vee naked on bed, limbs splayed. We resumed the business unfinished in the drawing room earlier with diminished gusto but infinitely loving invasion of each other's bodies. This time, Vee came but I didn't. Nevertheless, we didn't fall asleep without expressing our gratitude for the enhanced sexual activity Ntombe's memory had aroused. The following morning, I found a photograph in the Times of the group at Cannes we had seen on our television screen. There, half hidden in the background, was a large black man. It definitely wasn't Ntombe.