To the casual observer, Maxwell James Robertson looked much like any other expatriate in the lounge of Nairobi’s Fairway Hotel. A well proportioned man, a touch under six feet, age had treated him kindly. Middle-aged, he had a firm face with a determined “Scottish” chin and aquiline nose. Having just spent a couple of weeks in Uganda, he was pleasantly tanned, a tan that set off his immaculately groomed silver hair to perfection. He was plainly dressed in what is commonly known in the tropics as “planter’s” attire. A pale blue cotton shirt, well cut beige chinos, calf-length dark grey socks, and a pair of brown Timberland moccasins.

Personal adornment was conspicuous by its absence. No rings on his well manicured hands, no gold bracelets or chains decorated his wrists or neck. A simple Casio watch on a black plastic strap around his left wrist was his only accessory, other than a packet of Marlboro Lights and a disposable cigarette lighter placed neatly on the long low table in front of him. He was drinking slowly and with care from a dimpled pint mug of “Tusker” lager.

To anyone who chose to study the relaxed looking figure more closely, his eyes gave him away. Large grey-blue pupils, surrounded by remarkably white whites, and quite unhooded by eyelids, they moved incessantly, noting everything and everyone in the old colonial style lounge.

An old Africa hand, he sat, as always, with his back to a wall facing the door. Every newcomer was rigorously inspected as they walked the five or so paces past his settee. He didn’t miss a thing. A bitten nail or nicotine stained finger, unbrushed shoes or a crumpled shirt, no detail escaped his fastidious eye. He periodically scanned the lounge about him but to divert unwanted attention, he did so with an air of mild surprise.

Women were subjected to even closer scrutiny. Those curious large eyes first focused on the lady in question’s head, and then moved steadily and inexorably down to her feet. Everything about her was noted and filed away in about five seconds. Nothing, but nothing escaped this extraordinary visual interrogation. Her looks, her make-up, earrings, a hint or more of cleavage, black or white bra or no bra, a protuberant nipple, visible panty line, tights or no tights, perhaps the outline of a suspender, a waft of a familiar perfume. And of course, where visible, the third finger of each hand.

For Mex, (he had changed it from Max when he was sixteen; it was more distinctive, quite apart from rhyming with sex,) was no ordinary middle aged expatriate. Mex was a seducer, a womaniser of consummate skill. He had bedded more than four hundred women in his forty eight years, and kept a detailed note of each and every conquest. He was still counting.

The Fairway was rather quiet that Monday evening. It had been a public holiday in Kenya that day, and expats were strongly recommended to keep a low profile. Walking around the streets of Nairobi, day or night, could seriously damage one’s health and wealth. About half a dozen couples were scattered around the lounge. Mex could see no likely quarry.

He gave only the most cursory of glances to a European woman who entered. Plain just wasn’t the word. Thirtyish, very ishy, she had perhaps the plainest face Mex had ever seen. Her fair hair looked as though it had been cut under a pudding bowl. A pair of pig-like little eyes peered out though a pair of steel framed spectacles which had lenses like the bottoms of beer bottles. Thin lips pursed a prim little mouth and she was devoid of anything resembling a chin.

She was wearing a voluminous Springbok rugby shirt over an floor length floral print dress from below which peeped out a pair of feet wearing Jesus sandals. She appeared to be built on the lines of a prop forward. A more un-alluring sight would be hard to find, thought Mex to himself as he took yet another sip of his lager.

As he lit another cigarette, Mex was barely aware of the figure approaching his sofa from the right. A mellifluous female voice asked if he would mind if she might join him. Mex shot to his feet and spun round, finding, to his complete astonishment that he was looking into the piggy little eyes of the chinless wonder.

“Oh my giddy aunt,” he thought to himself, “just my bloody luck. I’m about to be chatted up by the plainest wench in Africa.” Mex struggled to turn on the charm.

In fact, Milly’s voice, for that Mex soon learnt, was her name, was just the first of several surprises. Milly, he was shortly to find out, had a brain; a very good brain. She was in fact a fund manager with a prominent firm in the City of London. She was taking a sabbatical to tour Africa, and had just come up to Nairobi on the train from Mombasa.

“She must be damn good,” Mex thought to himself. “She certainly wasn’t hired for her looks.” Much to Mex’s surprise they were soon deep in lively conversation. He soon noticed that Milly had quite remarkably fine and elegant hands. “Maybe there is something here,” he thought to himself during a brief lull in the conversation. But try as he might, Mex couldn’t bring himself to look into those beady little eyes for more than a second or two. “Forget it,” he said several times to himself.

Reaching the end of his pint, Mex rose languidly to his feet, and asked Milly if she would like another drink. “Another glass of dry white wine would be wonderful.” Mex ambled over to the bar and soon returned with their drinks.

The evening wore on. Mex later reflected that it was a conversation unlike any he had ever had before, or since. Mex talked to women with only one objective in mind. He didn’t want to get inside their heads; he wanted to get inside their knickers. And once inside, he wanted to stay there for as long as possible.

This was different. Try as he might, Mex could not bring himself to switch on the legendary charm which he could, and did, use to devastating effect. Mex found himself almost unburdening his soul to Milly, something he had never done with anyone, not even his wife, the delectable and understanding Caroline.

Mex talked of his upbringing in genteel Edinburgh, his youth, his marriage, his work, his aspirations, his successes and even his, admittedly few, failures. He talked of Caroline and his family, a family it should be said, of which Mex was quite inordinately proud. He even alluded to, in an offhand sort of way, to his philandering. Milly remained unmoved, and failed to rise to the bait, if bait it was.

Mex bought another round of drinks. Time was passing but their conversation rattled on with Milly showing no signs of retiring for the night. They were now deeply engrossed in discussing the merits and demerits of international aid to developing countries, something with which Mex had been deeply involved.

Mex glanced unobtrusively at his watch. It was nearly eleven. He had to deal with a group of recalcitrant Kenyan bankers on the morrow. It was not a task he relished. He was going to have to be very bright eyed and bushy tailed in the morning. He finished his third beer, and rose to leave.

“I’m afraid I have a particularly heavy day, tomorrow. I really do have to try and catch some zeds.”

Milly had also stood up. She looked directly at Mex, those little eyes shining.

“This has been absolutely wonderful evening. I don’t,” and she quickly glanced away from him, “have too many of these.”

Milly paused for a moment, and bit her lip, something that took quite a bit of doing, given the complete absence of a chin. She seemed to make up her mind about something and looked back at Mex, straight into those large grey-blue eyes.

“Can I ask you something?” she said softly,

“Of course,”

“Something very direct and personal?”

“Fire away,” replied Mex, his brow furrowing slightly, “but I can’t promise you an honest answer.”

“I know I’m not the most attractive woman in the world,” continued Milly in a tremulous voice, “But I am a woman. I have got feelings and desires, just like any other woman. Let’s face it, I’m not just plain, I’m pretty ugly. Mex, you’re a seriously class act. But I really want to find out how good an act. Please… please… take me to bed with you,” Milly paused. “I promise, you won’t regret it.”

Mex stood stock still for a moment or two, his mind racing. He was rarely rendered speechless, either professionally or amorously. This was one of those rare occasions. He was, as they say are now wont to say, totally gobsmacked.

Mex collected himself. “Alright,” he stammered. “Why not?”

Milly too had recovered her composure. She picked Mex’s cigarettes and lighter up from the table and handed them to him. Taking him softly but firmly by the hand, she walked him slowly into the hotel lobby and over to the lift, glancing neither to left or right.

They ascended in silence, Milly looking down at her feet while Mex carefully studied the detailing on the ceiling. Reaching the second floor, Mex handed Milly out of the lift and led the way along the deserted corridor to his room. He unlocked the door, opened it and switched on the centre light. Milly followed him in and gently closed the door.

“I’ve only gin and tonic,” said Mex without turning his head as he walked over to the two bottles standing cooling on top of the air-conditioner.

“Fine,” said Milly, pulling out the chair in front of the dressing table on which lay Mex’s notebook computer. She sat down.

Mex brought the two bottles over to the dressing table where there sat an empty glass.

“Excuse me while I get the other one from the bathroom.” Mex returned with the glass and poured two very large gin and tonics. He passed one to Milly.

“Cheers,” they both said simultaneously, and each took a large draught. Mex stood beside the dressing table, unsure for once, quite what to do next. He swithered about having a cigarette, and decided against it. He took a sip of his drink and then walked purposefully over to the bedside table. He put his glass down on it and switched on the bedside light. He went over to the door and switched off the centre light. Returning to the bed, he pushed back the mosquito net, and sat down on the edge of the bed.

Mex was a deliberate man who dressed and undressed with equal care. He was emphatically not a former pupil of the “Wham, bam, goodbye mam” school of seduction. When expat chat in hotel bars turned inevitably to women and sex, he kept his own counsel. The less his numerous friends and acquaintances knew about his extra-curricular activities, the better. Since he was a witty and convivial man, much in demand for his good company, his peers put this down a prudish streak in his makeup. It was an illusion Mex was not inclined to dispel.

He took his cigarettes and lighter from the breast pocket of his shirt and placed them on the bedside table beside the ashtray. Bending down, he untied his moccasins, and slipped them off. He rolled down his socks, pulled them off and tucked one in each shoe, placing both neatly beside the beside table. Standing up, he unbuckled his belt, unzipped his fly and stepped out of his trousers. He took them over to the wardrobe, opened its door, and hung them neatly on a hanger.

Standing right behind Milly who remained silent and apparently lost in thought, Mex unbuttoned his shirt. He noticed as he did so that she didn’t seem to be wearing any perfume. “Ah well,” he thought, “in for a penny, in for a pound.” He threw his shirt and then his tee-shirt into the bottom of the wardrobe for dhobi the next day and closed the wardrobe door.

“Right,” said Mex, “I’m ready. The shower’s through there, there’s plenty of towels and so on. Help yourself.”

Milly did not reply and remained sitting. Mex walked over to the bed dressed only in his boxer shorts. He was surprised to feel the first faint stirrings of an erection. He lay down, flicking the mosquito net back down as he did so. He stretched out flat on his back and closed his eyes. It had been a long day, and he was exceedingly tired. His first somewhat irreverent thought was that he should just lie back and think of England!

“Do you want the light on?” asked Milly.

“Why not?” Mex sort of mumbled. He heard Milly stand up and go into the bathroom. He vaguely heard sundry sounds of running water. Mex slowly sank into oblivion. He next thought was that he was dreaming. He had an exquisite erection and seemed to be having one of the greatest screws of his long and varied career... Only this time he wasn’t doing a single thing.

Mex had some difficulty in opening his eyes. Looking down, he saw the top of Milly’s head as she administered one of the best blow jobs it had been his pleasure to experience. Mex felt the bed slightly shaking. He opened his eyes wider to take in the whole extraordinary scene. Milly was kneeling on the bed at right angles to him. Her head of course was wrapped deliciously around his penis. The kneeling body was georgeous. He could see only one of Milly’s ample breasts, swinging gently to the rhythm of her body and tipped by a wonderfully distended red nipple.

“Christ,” thought Mex, “She’s got a body like the Venus de Milo.”

Milly’s right hand was clearly steadying Mex’s erection as she gave it her undivided attention with that little thin mouth and what was obviously a very well educated tongue. Her left hand was between her slightly open legs, and the shaking Mex had felt was Milly frigging herself with some vigour.

Mex took a few moments to take everything in. Milly was clearly enjoying herself, and, so he discovered, was he. Mex prided himself in taking his time. He liked to think that he could give a woman at least one orgasm before he had got his weaponry anywhere near her. Thereafter, once he had slipped his well tuned engine of delight in to the, by now, suitably juicy pussy, he could roger away for at least half an hour before he climaxed himself and fired a load of warm ecstasy into a receptive chamber. While not in the same league as Mexican Pete, of whom it had been written, “had he the mind could grind and grind, for a couple of solid hours.” Mex was proud of his prowess. Repeated requests for encores were proof enough of that.

This was different. Glancing at his watch, which he had forgotten to remove before getting into bed, he reckoned Milly had been working on him for perhaps five or six minutes. But already he could feel the signs. Some of Milly’s beautifully elegant fingers were working quite incredible magic on his balls and scrotum, quite apart from the damage the ministrations of her lips, mouth and, of course that amazing tongue, were doing to his now throbbing penis.

Mex realised he was going to have to try and regain control. Milly, quite literally, held him in the palm of her hand.

“How about a spot of soixante neuf?” he whispered, “It seems a pity that you are having to do all the work.”

Without interrupting her fellation of him, Milly swung her body round gracefully, placing her knees on either side of Mex’s head. Mex drew back his arms and took two handfuls of smooth, firm buttock. Her skin was flawless, and Mex gazed up in wonder at her magnificent arse. Milly was a natural blonde, but the pubic hair either side of her pussy lips were dark with moisture, and sparkling with tiny droplets of her juices.

Without a word, Milly gently sank down over Mex’s head. Using just the tips of his fingers, Mex spread open Milly’s labia. Well lit by the bedside lamp, he gazed up at the wondrous sight glistening wetly above him; soft, pink, ripe and inviting. As she sank down further Mex put out his tongue and unerringly guided it that dear sweet spot. As soon as his tongue softly brushed the expectant spot, he felt Milly give an involuntary shudder.

Mex was an veritable artist with his tongue. Whether just necking or in cunnilingus, it tickled and teased, now softly and langourously, now quick and forceful, but never roughly. Milly was not immune to this deft practitioner but Mex was amazed with both the speed of her response and the volume of juices that suddenly poured out of her. Mex withdrew his head after a just a couple of minutes, gasping for breath.

He was also becoming increasingly aware of his own condition. Milly’s fellatio was proving irresistible, even to him. For the first time in very many moons, Mex was forced to almost cry out, “I think I’m going to come pretty soon.”

Milly’s response was immediate. She lifted her head and swung her left knee over Mex’s head. She then turned round and kneeled astride him. At last Mex could see all of this truly magnificent body, a body made even more amazing by being topped by the plainest of visages, a countenance with piggy little eyes, a small thin mouth and bereft of a chin.

Milly’s fine shoulders narrowed to her waist and a flat stomach before broadening out to her nicely rounded hips and thighs. Her full breasts were quite superb, arrogantly thrust forward. They required no artificial support, and stood out proudly, almost in defiance, each tipped by large pink areola and a distended red nipple. Mex thought he could see a tiny pulse in one of them. Her skin was deathly pale and smooth, the blue veins just below the skin of her breasts giving the impression of marble. In spite of the air conditioning, her whole body was bathed in perspiration.

With Mex’s distended and angry penis in her left hand she lowered herself slowly but deliberately on to him. Thus mounted, she then slipped a couple of fingers into her dripping cleft and again started to frig herself. At the same time she put her right arm behind her back where her nimble fingers resumed their magic on Mex’s increasingly distended balls.

Heaven, Mex irreverently thought, must be like this. Milly moved gently and rhythmically up and down on him using her knees. That unbelievable pussy was exercising an extraordinary grip on his well seasoned member. Milly had pelvic muscles Mex had never come across before. He was reminded of another noted couplet from “Eskimo Nell”; “She gripped his cock like the safety lock of the National Safe Deposit”. He slowly raised his arms upwards and forwards to caress those wonderful breasts, now running with little rivulets of sweat. Milly tantalisingly and intentionally swung her torso just out of reach.

But Milly too was approaching climax. Her tempo increased and she leant forward thrusting her glistening and slippery orbs into Mex’s open palms. Mex had had many a good ride in his time, but this was something else. He was in excruciating but exquisite pain. The pressure on his penis was beyond comprehension while his balls felt as though they were about to explode. Something had to give.

Milly, who until now had not uttered a sound, suddenly threw her head back and arched her back. Mex thought he heard her shreik something like “Oh sweet Jesus fucking Christ” as she bore down on him with a final primordial thrust that tried to force him right through the mattress of the bed. At that very moment Mex too ejaculated, and Milly felt for a minute that his hot seed would fill her entire body.

They both remained still for what seemed an eternity, each gasping for breath. Mex could feel his heart thumping like a steam hammer. Milly slowly leant forward over him, supporting herself with her arms. She and Mex could hear the soft drip, drip of her sweat on to his supine and equally wet body.

Eventually Milly gently lifted herself off Mex, and lay down beside him. Neither of them spoke. After about five minutes, it might have been even ten Mex later thought, he leant over to the beside table, struggling with the mosquito net in the process. He lit a cigarette, and drew on it long and deeply. The classic move after sexual intercourse, he thought wryly to himself, and not for the first time.

Mex turned to look at Milly. She lay flat on her back, her hair wet and matted, her eyes closed. Her breathing had slowed and was back to near normal. Mex rose on one elbow to further admire that wonderful body. Her nipples has regained their composure and her damp breasts rose and fell in a slow, even rhythm. Mex took another pull from his cigarette.

“A penny for them,” he asked quietly.

Milly opened her eyes, blinked a couple of times, and stared up at the ceiling. It seemed to Mex that she was slowly gathering her thoughts. After a few moments, she began to speak.

“That,” she started falteringly, “was the most amazing experience of my fairly short and extremely uneventful life.” Mex was again struck by the strange contrast of the melodious tones emitting from that thin, severe little mouth.

“You will have noticed that I’m no virgin. It was lost, I have to say, to a painful and messy experience with a dildo. I have had a man. Once. I went, believe it or not, to a male prostitute. That insensitive bastard,” and here the venom in Milly’s voice was almost tangible, “cost me two hundred quid.” “I could well afford it” Milly continued, “I am disgustingly well paid for a women; obscenely so for a plain one.” Mex felt rather than heard the dry chuckle in her voice.

“I have a nice flat in Docklands and drive an exquisite Merc. I of course get the eye from men whenever I stop at the lights. I always drive wearing a headscarf. It’s less revealing. When I turn round to look at them their reaction is so predictable. First surprise, or astonishment, then the quick and inevitable change to pity or worse. I can almost hear little wheels turning inside their tiny little minds. “Oh my God. What’s an ugly bitch like that doing driving a new SL 500?””

“I should be innured to it by now. I’m bloody thirty two. But,” Milly paused, “it still fucking,” and she positively spat the f-word out, “hurts. It fucking hurts.”

Milly paused for a moment, and for the first time glanced over to at Mex.

She reached up and took his dying cigarette from between his fingers. She inspected it closely before taking a long slow drag. She exhaled slowly from those small pursed lips. “I don’t usually,” she said almost conspiratorially, “but, by God, I really needed that.” She leant over Mex to stub out the cigarette. The folds of the mosquito net defeated her and Mex took the smouldering stub from her and did the needful. Milly lay back and folded her arms under that remarkable bosom. She looked thoughtful.

“I was never,” she continued after a moment or two, “very literary at school. I never had much time for the Brontes, Jane Austen and all that bookish crap. I much preferred science and maths. There is something quite wonderful about the elegance and symmetry of physics and mathematics. The satisfaction of proving a tricky identity. The neat and elegant proof of a theorem. I loved it, and was actually rather good at it. I still am. I have a very good first in maths from Cambridge.”

Mex glanced across at her. “Jesus H Christ,” he thought. “Here I am, lying in bed with this amazing women, with whom I have just had about the best screw of my exceedingly active life, and here she is wittering on about the elegance, would you believe, of effing mathematics.” He held his peace.

“I have to tell you,” Milly went on, “that I’m bisexual. Don’t get me wrong Mex, I’m no lesbian. But, you do have to admit, in your heart of hearts, that I’m unlikely to have been pursued by hordes of good looking red-blooded males. But, as I think I said earlier, I am a women. A women with aspirations, desires, wants and wishes like every other good-looking broad in this goddamned, unfair world. I have, as you now know, been blessed with a figure many women would kill for. I have also been cursed with quite the plainest face on the planet.”

Mex leaned back, absolutely enthralled by this outpouring, this, and it seemed no less, this statement that, he began to think, Milly had been rehearsing for years, probably several years.

Milly continued, “I don’t often dress as I did this evening. I had a hot and uncomfortable couple of days on the train up from Mombasa. I arrived sweaty and dirty, absolutely dying for a bath. I got a shower. Pulling a man was quite the last thing on my mind when I came downstairs for a drink.”

“I have, as you might well put it Mex, a classy chassis. I know how to, and can afford to dress well. I have a wardrobe at home most women can only dream about. I can, when I put my mind to it, be a veritable shopoholic. I carry, not here in Africa, I hasten to add, some serious plastic.”

“The lesbian scene was both my escape and saviour. I hated them, but didn’t they just love my body. About my face or my job they couldn’t have cared less. I actually got over my initial revulsion. Some of these women could get me very turned on. I’m almost ashamed to say so, but I began to very wholeheartedly enter into the spirit of the thing.”

“Don’t get me wrong Mex. A georgeous young lesbian, never mind a raddled old one, is no substitute for six inches of hot firm meat pulsing between your thighs, as I have just discovered. But it sure as hell beats sitting home alone on a Saturday night having a wank or playing with a dildo.”

Milly paused, and as Mex glanced over at her, he saw her forehead furrow.

“Get a grip girl,” she muttered to herself, “get back to the point.” After a moment she continued, “Mex, you have shaken me tonight more than you can imagine. I am normally what the chattering classes refer to as a control freak. I have to be. It’s my lifeline. Milly-is-always-in-control. Geddit?”

Milly paused again, as Mex stretched out for and lit another cigarette, declining the one he proffered to her.

“You asked me, it seems ages ago now, for my thoughts. I seem to recollect that I said I was not into literature. But I do remember some old quotation. Though I couldn’t for the life of me tell you who said it or wrote it. It goes along the lines of “one perfect hour of glorious life is worth an age without a name”.

“You have just given me that hour, Mex. O.K. so it was maybe just ten minutes. But, Mex, you helped me achieve something that, according to the agony columns in all these women's magazines, most women only fantasise about. For that alone, Mex, I thank you. I thank you truly and honestly, from the very bottom of a somewhat shattered heart.”

Milly paused for a moment and then continued, “I rather,” and at this point Milly’s face broke into a sort of lop-sided grin, “got the impression that you quite enjoyed it too.”

Mex couldn’t suppress his smile. “This evening, my dear Milly, has been quite unbelievable. If, and I assure you Milly, I’m the soul of discretion, I repeated it, nobody, but nobody, would believe me.” He leant over and placed the palm of his right hand softly but firmly on her flat stomach. “The first thing,” he said quietly, “that you, young lady, and I need is a long hot shower."

Mex got a second glimpse of Milly’s lop sided grin. They each got up from the bed and walked hand in hand into the bathroom.

Much to Mex’s surprise, he had long since given up wondering about the inefficiencies of the Dark Continent, there was a copious supply of hot water given the lateness of the hour. Milly went in first. Eyes tightly shut, head back, she slowly turned round as the hot water sluiced over that magnificent body. Her arms hung loosely by her side. Mex watched her closely, almost as in awe. He reached through the stream of hot water for the bar of soap that he had left on the little shelf. He seemed lost in thought as he gazed on that fabulously ripe body slowly rotating in front of him. He absently raised a lather with the bar of soap between his hands.

Mex started on Milly’s back. She immediately stopped turning round as she felt his soft touch. He slowly and thoroughly soaped her back, arms and armpits and then sank down on to his haunches as he washed her firm bottom. Mex was careful not to get too personal and made only one, almost cursory, pass between the tops of her legs. He worked purposefully down each leg in turn and Milly meekly lifted each foot in turn, so that it might also received Mex’s devoted attention. Finished with her back, Mex rose slowly to his full height, once again lathering the soap between his hands.

Sensing his actions, Milly turned round to face him, thrusting forward those amazing breasts for his attention. She shuddered slightly as he gently soaped first one, and then the other. Mex felt each nipple firming and responding to his delicate touch. He soon felt them gorge with her warm blood and within a few moments they were restored to their former glory.

Mex moved his hands up to rinse Milly’s shoulders and shoulder blades. She herself brought up both her hands to continue to caress her own swollen and pulsing nipples. He moved his hands down to wash her firm stomach, but stopped as he felt the rise of her pubic mound and the those first few pubic hairs. Milly, almost imperceptibly, shifted her stance and moved her legs slightly apart to assist him.

Again, Mex barely touched that most sensitive of spots, as he worked down her thighs and legs. When he had finished, Mex again got to his feet. Without a word Milly moved out from under the shower, briefly clutching at Mex as she nearly lost her footing on the slippery wet tiles. She gestured for Mex to move into the shower and wordlessly took the bar of soap from his foaming hands.

Mex turned his back on her and closing his eyes, turned his face up to the torrent of hot water. By now he was unsurprised by Milly’s delicate and sensual touch. She too washed and soaped him diligently. She was a few inches shorter than Mex, and a couple of times he felt her nipples lightly touch his back as she reached up to wash his hair. Another moment, he thought he felt her pubic hairs brush past his buttocks.

Milly washed Mex down with intense concentration. He shuddered as those magic fingers flickered round his anus for a second or two as she soaped his bum before moving on to wash the backs of his legs. Mimicking Milly’s own actions, he lifted first his left foot, then the right for her attention. As he felt Milly rise to her feet, Mex turned round to face her.

Mex lowered his head and opened his eyes. Milly reached up to wash his shoulders. Her funny…. No it wasn’t, it was almost bloody deformed Mex thought to himself, little face was screwed up in rapt concentration. Nothing escaped those dancing fingers, every fold, wrinkle and cavity of his body was carefully visited. He felt his own nipples rise in expectation of her bewitching ministrations. Milly worked her way steadily downwards but, after dealing with his, admittedly slight, paunch, she avoided his genitals and moved on to his thighs and legs. “Saving the best bits for the end,” Mex chuckled to himself.

He was, of course, quite right. Milly knelt, one foot flat and one knee on the tiles, of the shower. As he looked down, Mex saw that her face was only inches from his groin. She intently studied his tackle as she toyed with the bar of soap in those long, elegant hands. She began to lovingly soap his flaccid penis, testicles, and his dark, wiry pubic hair. Her long fingers slipped between his slightly parted legs and gently soaped his anus. Mex soon felt that oldest of primeaval stirrings.

Milly also sensed it. She rinsed the soap off him and as she stood up, she leant across him to replace the soap on its little shelf. Milly tightly closed her eyes as she reached up to take Mex’s head in both hands. She pulled it down towards her and with her pink tongue peeping though her parted thin lips, kissed him full on the mouth.

It wasn’t the greatest kiss Mex had ever had. Milly’s complete lack of anything resembling a chin saw to that. But what she did to him with that body was, Mex often recollected to himself later, absolutely indescribable. She swayed slowly in front of him, as her mount of Venus with its soft brush and its delicious promise of wet delight, relentlessly teased his rapidly reawakening penis. Mex lightly cupped her cheeks of her arse in both hands. One moment she was barely touching his body with either her pubic hair or nipples, the merest hint of a caress or touch. The next she seem to be glued to him as she seemed to want nothing more but to weld their two wet bodies into one amorphous whole.

Meanwhile, Milly’s lengthy kiss continued. Their tongues tangoed together and Mex noted that the inside of her mouth was quite ordinary. It tasted, Mex noticed, of nothing in particular, yet it tasted absolutely delicious.

Mex’s member was by now more than ready for some more action, a fact that had not escaped Milly’s notice. She dropped her right hand from behind Mex’s head, and stretching upwards, Mex knew not how, she guided his swollen gland into her warm, wet and welcoming cleft. She then raised her legs and entwined them around Mex’s back, and began to rock slowly up and down.

Mex found Milly was heavier than he expected. Again he marvelled at the extraordinary grip her vagina could exert on him in spite of the lubrication provide by her love juice. He took most of her weight in his hands which were round her buttocks, and gingerly inched forward across the wet tiles. He was relieved to find that they had left the door to the shower open. With his feet on firmer footing he carried Milly towards the bed. Standing at the foot of the it, Mex realised he had a problem. The mosquito net. If they both flopped down on the bed, which was his intention, they would pull the net down from ceiling.

Still closely coupled, and already beginning to suffer from Milly’s second assault on his manhood, Mex stood and pondered for a moment. He then backed a couple of paces away from the bed and turned to face the curtains. The next stage was going to be tricky. Milly had no intention of releasing him from the combined and vice-like grip of her thighs and pelvic muscles. Her mouth remained firmly clamped to his and she remained oblivious to his movements. She was lost, Mex thought to himself, in her own little world. She was probably, he surmised, determined to make the most of what might be her one and only visit to sexual nirvana.

Somehow Mex slowly dropped to his knees and lowered Milly’s bottom gently on to the carpet. He slipped out both his hands, and firmly grasped her shoulders. He pushed her away from him and their lips finally parted. Milly’s head immediately turned away. Mex thought it was probably a conditioned reflex she had acquired over the years.

“Come on,” he whispered in the convenient ear just in front of him, “I want to go down on you. I want to suck you.”

Mex felt her gradually relax. As there bodies parted, with an audible “plop” Mex could not help but notice the distinctive smell of her juices. They suddenly seemed to pervade the whole room. Something between the smell of old urine and rotten fish, he always found it strangely intoxicating. Smells like shit but tastes like honey, someone had famously written. Without hesitation, Mex lowered his head to service that hidden little button that would transport Milly back to sexual paradise.

Milly now lay flat on her back on the carpet, her head turned to her left. Her fingers played with erect nipples, well oiled by the perspiration that oozed out of every pore in her body. As Mex lowered his head towards her, she opened and drew up her legs a little, as though offering her most precious possession for his worship and adoration.

Again Mex carefully opened the wet lips with his fingertips, and again Milly shuddered as his rapacious tongue homed in on and then proceeded to tease its target. His own kit had now regained its composure, and Mex settled down to the task with a will. Her wet and glistening body writhed with increasing abandon beneath him, until she began to climax again. Her hands kneaded and squeezed her slippery breasts and nipples. This second orgasm, Milly let out just one short squeal of agony as she almost tore at her nipples in one final act of wantoness before falling back, limp and motionless on the damp carpet.

Mex raised his head. He did, he confessed later to himself, need to come up for a breath of fresh air. He also want to gaze once more that almost perfect example of the female form as it lay in half light on the blue carpet. Milly lay motionless. From what he could see of one half of her plain little face, it seemed devoid of expression, the piggy little eyes closed. It was strangely unlined, as though the very act of at last experiencing orgasm with a man, had somehow restored the lost bloom of her youth.

Mex leisurely continued to gaze at her in wonder. His eyes roamed her voluptuous body, as he visually caressed her. They lingered over her labia, where her juices still seeped out of her and trickled down her to the carpet. Her aroma was overpowering, a heady, sweet musky smell, a smell of which Mex was unable to get enough of. He breathed deeply of it.

His continuing reverie was halt by a sudden stab of cramp in his right calf. He stiffly got to his feet. Mex hobbled stiffly over to the side of the bed. Remembering his gin and tonic, he took large swig which he first swilled round his mouth before swallowing it. He sank down on the side of the bed and lit a cigarette, drawing the smoke deeply into his lungs. His mind remained a blank. He sat quite still, moving only to smoke or sip his drink.

The events of the evening gradually floated back to him. It was all, quite literately, incredible. Totally unbelievable. Seduced and Mex could think of no more appropriate word for it, by the ugliest looking bint imaginable, with the body of Venus. Nobody, but nobody would believe it. Not even the wackiest author of erotic pulp fiction could dream up such a plot.

Mex stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray and finished his drink. He got to his feet, feeling much refreshed. He walk round and looked again at Milly lying on the carpet. She was clearly asleep. Her naked splendour still took his breath away. He could not tear his eyes away from her, and he was astonished to feel a familiar stirring in his groin. “By God, Mex,” he chuckled, “there’s life in the old dog yet!”

Mex kneeled down between Milly’s outstretched legs. With extreme delicacy, he opened her labia and slipped two fingers into its warm wetness. Milly did not stir. He slipped out his fingers with equal care and wiped them over his by now very erect penis. Very carefully he repeated the manoeuvre, a second and then a third time. Thus lubricated, for he had been neatly circumcised as a baby, he methodically masturbated, while gazing intently at Milly’s fabulous sleeping form.

Mindful of this weird situation, Mex masturbated until he was almost ready to come. Leaning forward over the sleeping Milly, Mex eased her labia apart and slowly inserted in his hot red penis. It slipped in sweetly and Mex noted that in her comatose state, Milly had lost control of those devilishly strong pelvic muscles. He leant forward over her, supporting himself on his hands. He moved in and out of her with his usual steady and unhurried rhythm. He leant further forward and started to nibble on first one and then the other nipple. Milly was not quite unconscious. Mex felt them begin to distend and swell again in response to his delicate but insistent mouth.

Quite suddenly, Mex felt Milly’s whole body stiffen. This, he thought was probably “le moment critique.” A few more hurried strokes and as he thrust deeply into her he ejaculated once more with a long, low groan. He collapsed on top of Milly, and lay there panting for breath. He vaguely felt Milly’s body slowly relax.

Mex lay for a minute or two while he got his breath back. He carefully slipped out of her and rose unsteadily to he feet. He walked slowly into the bathroom, and rubbed himself down with a towel. Still doing so, he returned to look down on the still sleeping Milly.

Kneeling down beside he tenderly began to dry her, paying special attention the sticky mess between her legs. Milly slept on, breathing lightly and evenly, oblivious to his ministrations. Having done the best he could, Mex stiffly got to his feet, and went over to the bed where he pushed back the mosquito net and pulled down the single sheet. He went back to Milly and knelt down by her side. By raising her neck, he was able to get one arm round her back, which was still soaking wet. He easily slipped his other arm under her legs. Mex braced himself as he took the strain of her weight, and slowly forced himself to his feet. He then tottered round and laid her softly on to the bed.

Mex pulled the sheet up to her chin and pulled back the mosquito net. He walked unsteadily round to his side of the bed. He labouriously clambered in, pull up the sheet and again fought with the damned mosquito net. Finally, he stretched out and with his fingers round the net, switched off the bedside lamp. Exhausted, he flopped back on to the pillow. Mex closed his eyes. All he could hear was Milly’s slow breathing, and an throbbing pulse in one of his ears. As he quickly fell into a dreamless sleep, Mex began to feel a nagging ache in his groin. He was going, he smiled inwardly, to have a very severe attack of lover’s balls in the morning.

Mex woke to the angry bleeping of his alarm. Not for the first time, he was grateful that he was a creature of fixed habits who always set his alarm clock before partaking of sundowners or any other pre-prandial libation. He shook himself awake and then fought once more with the mosquito net as he fumbled to switch it off. In the ensuing silence, memories of the previous evening came drifted back to him. He turned his head and stretched out his left arm expecting to find a sleeping Milly. He was momentarily stunned to find her side of the bed empty. She wasn’t there. In his panic, Mex failed to notice the note, neatly written on hotel notepaper, lying on what had been her pillow.

Mex yanked back the mosquito net, and shot out of bed. Everything was neatly back in its place, the bottles back on top of the air-conditioner, one clean glass on the desk beside his notebook, the chair neatly placed underneath it. The bathroom was immaculate, only some dampness in the towels bearing witness to the events of the previous evening. Still failing to come to terms with her sudden departure, a very subdued Mex took a long lukewarm shower.

Towelling himself down, Mex walked unsurely back into the bedroom. Only then did he notice the note on her still crumpled pillow. He grabbed it, scrabbled around frantically for his reading spectacles, eventually snatching them up off the dressing table where he always left them. Her writing was model of clarity, dainty and neat, just as he expected it would be.

“Dear Mex,” he read with difficulty, such was the shaking of his hands, “I am sure last night was only a dream. Thank’s for everything. I can now die a fulfilled and happy women. Adieu! Milly. P.S. I am off to Kampala on the six a.m. bus.”

Mex saw that the dot over the “i” of Milly was a little heart. He never saw her again.

Postscript

Some eighteen months or so later Mex was sitting in his study at the Steading leafing idly through the Financial Times. A slightly blurred picture of a woman on the obituaries page caught his eye. She looked vaguely familiar. The caption below it read “Ms Millicent Warner Norris." With an unexpected sense of foreboding, he read on;

“It is with deep regret that we have learned that Ms Millicent Warner Norris, a senior fund manager with Nomura Securities, was a passenger on the ill-fated flight TW 800 which crashed last week off Long Island, NY. Ms Norris was one of the outstanding analysts of her generation. Born in Guildford in April 1962, and educated at Cheltenham Ladies College and Girton College Cambridge, she gained an outstanding………”

He could read no further as great tears welled up in his eyes and rolled down his face. He unsteadily replaced the paper on his desk, and held his bowed head in his shaking hands. He wept loudly and unashamedly. Great sobs wracked his body as he was completely submerged by grief and above all, horror at the gruesome manner of her death.

“Why her, why her, it’s all so unfair,” he wailed, “it’s all just so bloody unfair.”

By Alexander Hugh Goudie