They shuffled down the queue. Eventually it was his turn to empty the shopping trolley onto the conveyor, eagerly assisted by his young son. Then he noticed who was attending the till: a tall young black woman. She caught his eye and smiled as she began scanning his weekly load through:
-My! It’s good to know that someone in Maryhill actually buys fresh produce and cooks. You’re a lucky man to have such a wife.
He returned her smile:
-Actually, I’m the cook in our home. My partner can’t.
-Can’t, she’s disabled. I look after things.
He couldn’t see it through her black skin, but knew from her expression that she blushed. She muttered:
-I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude.
-That’s OK, you didn’t. Life is as it is. But tell me something? I’ve rarely seen anyone black around Maryhill. What brings you here?
-I’m a student, I work here part-time.
Her name-badge said ‘Nafula’. He and his son had packed their bags. He paid her, and shook her hand:
-Lovely to meet you lassie. Enjoy your time in my city.
The image of her lingered in his head. The next time he went shopping with his son, he searched the checkouts, but she wasn’t to be seen. The following week she was there. ASDA was quiet; there was no queue:
-Hello again Nafula. How are you?
-I’m fine, thank you, apart from my course. I’m stuck on a couple of points for an essay.
Her smile was wide and relaxed as she checked his groceries through.
-What are you studying?
-Um… I’m a sociologist, I teach at GCU. Where are you?
-Strathclyde. Junior Honours year.
He glanced behind him. Nobody in the queue:
-What are you stuck on? What’s the essay about?
-Weber’s ‘Protestant Ethic.’ I feel disadvantaged because I understand neither protestantism nor catholicism in a European context very well, and all my classmates do.
Her face fell:
-Sorry, I didn’t mean to burden you with my problems.
-You’re not burdening me at all Nafula. Look…
He handed her his card:
-If you’d like to chat about it, if that might help you, please give me a call, at work or at home. You’re welcome for a meal, to meet my family properly — he tousled his son’s hair — and then we can talk about your essay. When’s it due?
-Not for a couple of weeks yet. Will you really help me? You don’t know me…
-I’d love to help you. And share a meal with you. Just give me a ring if you think it might assist please? We Scots try to be hospitable folk.
He smiled into her brown eyes, and knew she’d phone.
He really did want to help her, of course he did. She was a stranger in a strange land, had entered a new world both culturally and in her studies. And she was tall, young, slim, statuesque, and excited him.
His partner answered the phone. He’d told her about Nafula, so she wasn’t surprised at the accented African voice, in perfect English:
-He’s out just now, to take our son to his piping lesson. He’ll be back after nine. Give me a number so he can get back to you please?
His partner noted the girl’s number:
-He’ll phone you later. Bye for now. It would be lovely to meet you soon.
Nafula agreed to come by for a meal and a chat later that week. He picked her up after her shift at the supermarket. She was nervous:
-I’m sorry Sandy, this is all very strange for me.
-I’m sure someone must have invited you for a meal since you arrived in Scotland?
She turned away:
-Yes, my former boss did. But not in his home, not to meet his family. He always kept me separate from that part of his life. You’re… so very different Sandy.
-Don’t worry lassie. Both my partner and son are very welcoming. And I hope my cooking’s not dreadful. But I’ve told you she’s very disabled? You need to know what to expect…
-What’s wrong with her? Why is she so disabled?
-She has multiple sclerosis. Almost unheard of where you come from; it’s a disease of the far north. It’s neurological, wrecks the nervous system eventually. She has it pretty bad, has been wheelchair-bound for over six years now. Crouch to her height when you talk to her, but otherwise treat her as you would any other human being. She’ll really appreciate that. Most folk treat her gingerly, almost as if she’s a freak. She’s a very decent human being who has a most evil disease. She’ll welcome you to our home; we don’t get so many visitors of late. And my son loves you already!
-How can he love me, he doesn’t know me? He’s only seen me at the checkout a couple of times…
-Nafula, you’re someone very exotic to him. He’s never met anyone black before. I don’t generally believe in ramming my politics down his throat, but he’s been brought up to despise racism. And he knows from your smile what a lovely woman you are. Um… as I do. So relax, you’ll have a pleasant evening.
He brought her upstairs to meet his partner. Nafula crouched as she spoke to the woman, and they were soon deep in talk. He coughed:
-Just going to finalise dinner.
They didn’t glance up.
Dinner was a vegetable casserole; his son was a strict vegetarian. Nafula drank a few glasses of wine, Sandy only one. He expected to drive her home later. His partner and son plied her with questions about life in Kenya. She answered with the broadest smiles. He’d never seen anyone smile so much. Now that she was out of her work clothes, Sandy could admire her body better. Fuck, she was incredibly sexy… but as a university lecturer he knew how to put that out of his mind.
Dinner over, his partner and son retired to watch television. Nafula spread her work on the dining table, and Sandy drew his battered copy of ‘The Protestant Ethic’ from the bookshelf:
-So lassie, explain in more detail why you’re having problems with this?
She was articulate and well-read, but had little knowledge of European economic history. Sandy ran through the points he thought most relevant: how the pre-eminence of Mediterranean cultures had gradually been eclipsed by more rapid economic growth in northern Europe after the reformation.
Pointed out some weaknesses in Weber’s thesis; the fact that both the Netherlands and Belgium had large Catholic populations; that Catholic Bavaria was part of Germany’s rise to economic strength; that France had remained a major economic force throughout the period since the reformation.
Nafula wrote pages of notes in a flowing script. They were fully engrossed when his son entered the dining room, pyjama-clad, and launched himself squealing on the woman, his arms round her neck:
-I need to go to bed now. Will you come for dinner again? Please?
She tousled his hair and kissed his cheek:
-I’d love to. If — she glanced in Sandy’s eyes — I’m invited…
-Course you’re invited, we’ve all enjoyed your company. Now you…
He looked with love at his son:
-Off to bed. No stories tonight, I’m helping Nafula with her studies. But you’ll get an extra story tomorrow.
-Yes dad. Love you…
And with a hug and a kiss, the boy was through the door.
Nafula looked at her tutor, eyes sparkling:
-What a lovely child! You must be good parents, both of you.
-Thank you. There’s nothing more important in life than being a parent. Now, would you like to continue our tutoring session, or are you getting tired?
-I’m good for a while yet. Thank you for taking the time with me. I don’t know how I can ever repay you…
But this smile was different, and she leaned towards him, mouth slightly open. He resisted the urge to lean in and kiss her tempting lips. But it took some doing, and he couldn’t stop himself from touching her cheek gently:
-No repayment will ever be expected young woman. Now, let’s get back to the matter in hand?
They spent another half-hour discussing her essay, till she stifled a yawn:
-Um, maybe I’d better get going. You’ve worn me out with your tutoring Sandy. Would you mind walking me to the bus stop? I don’t know this part of town.
-I’ll drive you home, numpty…
-Numpty? What’s that?
-It’s… mmm… affectionate Scots for ‘silly girl’, in this case. Now, would you mind saying goodnight to my partner?
The drive to her flat was short. She hesitated as he parked at her door:
-Would… would you like to come in for a minute Sandy? I want you to see where I live…
His heart leapt. Fuck, would he:
-Thank you for inviting me. Yes, I’d love to see your place.
Her arse swayed under the skirt as he followed her up the stairs. When they entered her living room she muttered:
-Sorry, I really need to pee. Excuse me please.
He glanced round the room in her absence. Couldn’t help but think of her naked sex crouched over the toilet, tried to banish the thought. This wasn’t a standard student bedsit. The furniture was decent, and William Morris curtains concealed the windows. The bedroom and kitchen were separate rooms. Nafula had class, and wasn’t poor. When she rejoined him in her living room, there was a scent about her that hadn’t been there before. Subtle, musky. Her voice was silk:
-Let me give you the tour Sandy.
She took his hand to lead him into the tiny kitchen. Compact and organised. He didn’t recognise all her herbs and spices. She smiled as he peered at them:
-I’m a reasonable cook Sandy. I’d like to have you for dinner one evening. Maybe soon, so you can look over how I’m doing with my essay?
She was right beside him, her scent enveloping him:
-I’d love that.
He knew what was happening. Knew it should be impossible. He was over thirty years her senior. Thank fuck she wasn’t his student. She took his hand again:
-Bathroom next. Actually, there’s no bath, just a shower.
Like the kitchen, it was neat and tidy. Like the kitchen, it was small. Her breast brushed his arm as she turned:
-Not much to see, is there? But there’s more next door…
The bedroom was light and scented. Simple furnishings:
-I hate that it’s just a single bed, but it’s quite comfortable.
She noticed where his eyes were fastened, and slipped the vibrator from the top of the cabinet into a drawer:
She was giggling, maybe a wee bit embarrassed, but maybe a wee bit excited too:
-I really wasn’t expecting a visitor. And… you’re the first man who’s ever seen my bedroom. Well, my bedroom here…
-I’m honoured Nafula. But I think it’s time I got home, and let you get your rest. When am I invited to dinner, and to review your essay?
She smiled at him, that glorious full-face smile:
-Well, I need to write it first. I’ll give you a ring. What nights are best for you?
-I have to take my son to piping, dance and judo classes Monday, Wednesday and Thursday evenings. So any night other than those.
-He goes to dance classes? What sort of dancing?
-Scots Highland dancing. He’s quite good. If you’re interested, I know he’d love you to see him some time. But now, really, I must go. Don’t want my partner worrying.
She showed him to the door, then stood with her back to it:
-Where I come from, it’s traditional for friends to kiss when they part.
-It is here too. I’ve never kissed a black woman before…
It was a good few minutes before he left her.
She phoned several days later:
-I’m nearly finished the first draft of the essay. How does dinner on Friday sound?
-Sounds just wonderful lassie. Maybe you could email me your essay when you’ve finished the first draft? Then I could let you have my comments before we meet. That’ll speed things up. You don’t want to be late submitting it to your tutor.
-I’ll do that then. Friday about seven? Any dietary requirements, likes and dislikes?
-I’m happy to eat whatever you put in front of me Nafula. Friday at seven then.
He was trembling with excitement as he put the phone down. Couldn’t put her out of his mind for more than a few minutes at a time as the hours dragged till Friday. Finally he was at her door, clutching a decent bottle of wine and a bunch of red roses.
She looked gorgeous when she opened the door. She oozed class, and the delicate scent was there again.
-Welcome to my home again Sandy. And thanks for your comments on my essay. You’ve been a great help to me already…
And she leant forward to kiss his mouth, all soft promise.
Her meal was a simple beef stew, with sweet potatoes and vegetables he didn’t recognise. There was already a bottle of wine on the table breathing, and he placed his beside it:
-This looks and smells delicious lassie. A Kenyan dish?
-More or less. It took some searching to find the vegetables though…
-There’s an Afro-Caribbean shop near Kelvinbridge, d’you know it?
-Yes, that’s where most of this came from. Now, eat up.
She poured two glasses of wine. Didn’t allow them to empty throughout the meal. He couldn’t take his eyes off her as they ate companionably, chatting about their lives, allowing themselves into each other a bit. He helped her clear the table, but she didn’t permit him to do the dishes:
-They can wait till tomorrow Sandy. I’ve done a re-draft of my essay. I’d like you to look over it.
-Sure, that’s why I’m here.
Her smile was wide and open, teeth gleaming in the deep blackness of her face. She leant in to kiss him, a slack open-mouthed kiss:
-Is that the only reason you’re here? Just to help me with my essay?
Fuck, she was direct:
-Maybe not the only reason…
-Hmm, so what are the others?
-It’s immensely flattering for a man my age to be invited to dinner by a beautiful young woman. And your intelligence adds to the attraction… not to mention that I’ve never had a black woman friend…
-Does that turn you on, that I’m black? I know it turned my former employer on.
-I have to be honest and say that it does. Not sure why. How d’you know it turned your former employer on?
-Ah, that would be telling. Now — she took his hand — let’s get comfortable so you can read my essay, tutor.
She stood and picked up a neatly-stapled bundle of papers. Sat on the narrow chaise-longue and patted the space beside her. He rose and joined her, fumbling for his reading glasses. They weren’t touching, but very close. He inhaled her scent as she passed him the essay.
He read it with care. This woman was very bright indeed, and a fast learner. She’d incorporated some of the thoughts he’d emailed her, and written a couple of penetrating new paragraphs of her own. He removed his glasses, laid the essay on his lap, and looked in her deep brown eyes:
-This, young lady, is a quite outstanding piece of work. If one of my Junior Honours students had written it, I’d give it about eighty-five percent. Maybe more. But I think I’ve helped you enough: it has to be your essay. You should be very proud of yourself Nafula.
Her eyes sparkled:
-Why thank you. I had an excellent private tutor to guide me. Now, I have some fine cognac. Perhaps we can indulge ourselves, if that’s our work done for the evening?
He shifted uncomfortably:
-I’m driving lassie, and I’ve already had some wine. Maybe coffee would be better for me. I take it you have Kenyan coffee? I get mine from Whittards.
-Old stuffy tutor! Leave the car here and take a taxi. I love good cognac, but I don’t like to drink alone. It feels a bit… well… slutty.
There was a new look in her eyes as she said that.
-Well, a taxi it will be. I can’t have you feeling slutty…
She rose. He felt her eyes on his groin. His bulge increased as she crouched before the sideboard, her arse tight against the short dress she wore. Just a hint of white panties against black skin above the white thigh-highs. Fuck, she was gorgeous.
She sat beside him and placed the vintage Courvoisier and two balloons on the table before them. Her thigh was pressed against his as she poured, handed him a glass:
-Cheers then, and thank you for your guidance Sandy.
She raised her glass to chink his, and her breast brushed his arm.
-There’s one thing you haven’t yet learned during your time in Scotland. We normally say ‘slainthe’ rather than ‘cheers’.
-OK then, slainthe. What does it mean?
-It’s Gaelic for ‘good health’.
The glasses tinkled together, and they sipped. He watched as her full lips embraced the liquid. Placed his glass on the table:
-Put your glass down girl.
She shivered at the new tone in his voice. Felt herself dampen. Obeyed him.
Shivered more as his arms went round her, drawing her to his maleness. Went liquid as he kissed her, gently at first, then with increasing passion and need. She flooded when his hand slipped under the front of her dress, fondled her breast. Felt her nipples engorge under his ministrations. Then his other hand went to her knee… and stroked up the stocking to touch naked blackness above it. She couldn’t resist, opened her thighs to allow him access. He accepted her invitation, felt her flood as he fingered the wetness through damp silk. He broke their kiss:
-I’m going to take this tonight Nafula. Take my first black cunt.
His voice was harsh, demanding. She giggled:
-What if I say no?
-No is no. I’ve never taken a woman against her will. But — he looked deep in her glowing eyes — you’re not going to say no, are you?
She gasped and shuddered as his finger slid under the damp silk, and deep into her wet heat.
-No, I can’t say no to you.
-Tell me about your sexual experience Nafula.
She twitched and her hips rose as a second finger joined the first, deep in her cuntsoul:
-Ohhhhhhh… what do you want to know?
-Everything. I’m happy to tell you about mine. Right now all you need to know is that my relationship with my partner is that of a loving carer. We haven’t had sex in years; it hurts her. Sex is often the first thing to go when someone has MS.
So she told him, gasping as his fingers played with her gspot. She’d only had two partners: a boyfriend in Nairobi, and her previous employer. The former employer, knowing Kenya is an AIDS hotspot, had insisted she was tested, and she was clean. He’d used a condom although she was on the pill. She’d last had sex a year ago.
-So mine will be the first cock bareback in your cunt?
-Yes, the boy back at home always used a condom.
-Do you want me bareback in you?
She writhed in orgasm at the insistence of his fingers on her gspot. Finally she moaned:
-Yes, I want your naked cock in my — she struggled with the word, finally managed it — in my cunt.
She lay naked on the single bed, legs splayed. Her wetness glimmered in candlelight through her tight black pubic curls. He wished he’d brought his camera, but knew they’d have other times together.
-How do you like your sex, girl? Hard, or gentle?
-Gentle at first please. You’ll know when I need more.
He couldn’t resist any longer. Her cuntscent filled the room. His nakedness bent to kneel beside her, and his mouth went to her sex. Jesus, his first smell and taste of black cunt, and she was as delicious as she looked. She groaned as his mouth moved through the curls, seeking her source. Her hips lifted when his tongue found her need, his fingers fondling the hard nipples on her tight breasts:
-Jesus Nafula, your cunt is adorable. Need to make you cum for me before I fuck you. Have you squirted before?
She groaned, and her hands settled on his head, pressing him close:
-Then you haven’t. I love a challenge.
One hand remained on a breast, tugging and twisting the turgid nipple gently, as the other stroked down her blackness. Two fingers glided into her gaping pink cunt, palm up, as his tongue worked her clit. The fingers found the delicious sponginess, started making love to it. She squealed and moaned to his ministrations, his mouth and fingers deliciously wet from her slimy need. He twisted the nipple harder as his fingers rubbed more determinedly inside her. Fuck, she was so beautiful, all of her. His gorgeous needy black girl. He wanted to plunge into her, but wanted more to see where his mouth and fingers could take her first… her writhing body and soft groans told him what was happening to her. He worked her sponge ever harder, pulled her nipples viciously now in his fervour… was rewarded with a primal scream from deep within her, her muscles tightening on his fingers, her entire being twisting wildly… and the joy as her ejaculate splashed his face and she sank, panting, on her back. He licked every drop of clear fluid from her and rose to kiss her mouth. Some women thought they’d peed when they squirted; he wanted her to know it wasn’t urine.
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