Part 2.5: A Slight Detour.
Any comparison with real life characters is purely coincidental. Only the names have been changed to protect the very guilty..........
I've been asked, how I know that Thelma had split with her husband and was later living with a refugee from Somalia.
Well......... we have coffee to thank for that.
I love a good cup of coffee.
I will hunt out places that serve a good cup. Good coffee, strong coffee, black and with no sugar or any adjuncts. Plain and simple strong bitter coffee.
I heard that there were new cafés owned by some refugees in town, in one particular area.
So on a quiet afternoon, or Saturday morning you could find me sitting at a table with something thick, dark, and bitter.....(Insert your own joke!) whilst I perused the Guardian.
I luxuriated in the differing ways that non-European's would produce my caffeinated high.
One place that became a regular haunt for me was called Qaxwa, and I liked how that coffee hit the spot, and after a while I raised a regular chat session with the owner: Saadiq.
Saadiq liked to talk about football, and various aspects of English life. I tried to help him where I could, about English manners, stances etc. He was in his late 40s and a very intelligent and charismatic man.
His spoken English was good, but it lacked the nuances a native speaker would use, he often queried me on such things as the correct usage of such terms as "easy as pie" and "a piece of cake", and I looked forward to our frequent chats.
He loved smutty English jokes, ones that had been circulating here for many years, but were new to him. It helped him understand some of the sexual mores in England. When he had found a new one, or I told him one that particularly liked, he would guffaw with great gusto. I heard that laugh many times.
He told me that since he had arrived in England he'd enjoyed how English women had reacted to him. He'd particularly enjoyed the way women dressed, their short skirts, their heels, and their stockings. Things he was not used to in his homeland. He was also the willing recipient of their extremely lose morals, especially compared to the more chaste Muslim women he had known.
I laughed and agreed.
His words were often peppered by his colourful opinions of Christian women, which he had initially formulated when he had first studied at an English University in his 20s, before returning to Somalia.
He then, quite without affectation, told me about various English girls who had been very happy to welcome him, as a refugee, with open thighs. We swapped stories about our conquests.
Once we'd found our common ground he was delighted to share details with me.
For easiness (I hope) I've written his comments without the inevitable stumbles and missteps a non-native English speaker makes, but I know you'll understand what he meant. I've taken his words and formulated them into this narrative so it reads more like a novelised sequence of events than an interview.
Since settling in England he'd found that many Christian churches had outreach programmes, advocating pastoral care for refugees. Some families invited him to their homes for a meal, and hospitality. Even some single women invited him home.
He was confused at first. In his homeland, if a single woman invited a man to visit her, then she was offering her body to him. And as a visitor to our country, he expected to take full advantage of that.
He told me of one who had seemed very drawn to him. Each time he visited the church she had made a point of talking to him, and over time they revealed a little bit more of themselves to each other. He talked about the civil war in his country, and his hurried escape, and finally how he arrived in this town.
The girl told him she had become very active with the church after her marriage broke up, spending a great deal of her time and energy with their outreach programmes.
Her body language gave her away. Her lips slightly parted, her sideway glances, the times she 'accidentally' brushed against him or touched his arm. The slight downward tilt of her head when she spoke to him. Add in her rapt attention when he spoke to her...well he was sure this was an open door that he would be pushing at.
He then let slip her name, Thelma....
I mentioned the surname of the Thelma I had known, and one or two of the particular things I knew about her, (including her devotion to her church) and sure enough........it was the same woman.
He was even more delighted that he had met me when he talked about how Thelma had been explicit that it was that second boss (me) that had had given Thelma her first real sexual awakenings.
I confessed that I'd just showed her how to please me, but that I'd had a sneaking suspicion that others would benefit down the line, and I was glad that he appreciated my efforts.
"That laid the groundwork for my success with her" he said.
He asked me if I was interested in hearing the highlights of his encounters with the girl we had both 'known'?
I said I was very interested, the Thelma I had known had been delightful company.
He then set out what had been going on for the past 9 months or so.
Inevitably, having lacked much physical attention since her husband left, she was vulnerable to a concerted attack on her defences. He sensed this and during one of their chats in the church he pushed this issue by inviting himself to her home. "I will call round and visit you tomorrow morning. You can make me some English tea" he told her.
"She seemed a bit confounded" he said "a bit tongue-tied but she soon agreed".
The very next day he was knocking on her door at 8.45 AM for what was an agreed 9.00 AM meeting. Hoping to catch her a little off balance.
He succeeded.
She answered the door, a little flushed, a shy almost guilty half smile on her face, and admitted him into her home. He watched as she walked in front of him, a black pleated skirt that fell to her knees, a red blouse, red heels, and what he anticipated were black stockings... and as he followed her he realised those stockings were seamed. Her hair was in her usual pony tail, hanging to just below her shoulder blades.
He knew enough about English etiquette for her clothes to strike him as a bit overdressed for this early in the day, as was the makeup she was wearing. She hardly ever wore makeup to the church events, but today there was eyeshadow, mascara and lipstick.
Saadiq said he had not been in her home 20 minutes before she was on her knees giving him head, and smudging that lipstick.
Well, she had shown him into the lounge and made him a cup of tea to start with. They had been sitting on the sofa together as Saadiq told her how much he liked English women. She looked so nervous he said, trembling a little, and she did not attempt to resist him as his large brown hand stroked her nyloned knee, the hemline of her pleated skirt just above that knee.
Pushing the hem up along her thigh was met with no resistance, and he smiled inwardly as the tops of her stockings came into view, confirming his suspicions.
Her ready acceptance of his forced invitation to her home, more makeup than he had ever seen her wear before, the clothes (especially the stockings) all added up to one thing.
This is a girl expecting to be fucked today.
One hand on her thigh, the other round her shoulder, as he pulled her towards him. The kiss was not resisted either, nor was his practiced removal of her clothes. She even assisted, standing to let him unzip and unhook her skirt, after he had unbuttoned her blouse. The skirt and the blouse pooled on the floor, topped with her red panties and red bra.
"Nice" he told her "not bad for 40".
She reddened, she was well aware of her advancing years. The praise and the put down balanced just right to keep her off guard.
He let her keep those thigh-high stockings and her red heels on, and she was happy to slip to her knees, and do as requested, and unzip him.
He kicked his shoes off and she helped him slide his jeans off, showing that he had had gone commando today, his semi hard erection springing out in anticipation.
She reached out to accept his cock in her hands, looking up at him, as those slim pale fingers stroked up and down his long, dark brown dick. She licked the tip....and then down the shaft...meeting his gaze from her kneeling position with a sense of wonder in her eyes. Was he was happy with her? She'd dressed hoping to please him.
He stroked her cheek and nodded.
She was so eager he said........she had not had a man for a few months, and he was the lucky guy who was the recipient of all her pent up need.
Her words came out in a staccato rush (in-between licking his cock and sucking on the head)........a gushing stream of emotional and heartfelt, long constrained passion.
She told him that she had been drawn to him from the first meeting, she could tell he was a decision maker, a leader. And that aroused her in a way she had not been aroused for some time. Her body had ached for him, she had found it difficult to be dignified around him.
His hand played softly in her hair.
"I could tell my little mutanaka"
Her submission, her acquiescence was the fuel for his ardour, for his passion as he stiffened in her hand.
She knelt and gave the cock in her hands her rapt attention. Her tongue twirling around the head, licking the tip, kissing from the tip down to his balls. Lips coordinated and sucking.......wrapped around his dick and slowly sliding down.......then back up.....then back down.........slowly increasing her pace as she felt that thick meaty spike harden and throb in her mouth. Her eyes constantly on his, never breaking that gaze.
