Context Is Everything

His name was Carlo and I had encountered him in my professional life around six months earlier. Back then, I worked as a Business Consultant and had been leading some strategy development work with the South African branch of a well-known multinational. He was an Account Manager for a big name IT company and had participated in some of the strategy workshops. There he was at my sister's Sunday barbecue (or "braai" as we call it in SA), standing quietly on the periphery of the usual group of guys gathered around the flames of the grill. He looked a somewhat solitary figure, gazing absently into his glass of wine whilst the others were drinking beer and laughing too much at unfunny jokes. In the background, a few children were playing noisily in the pool with their mothers perched around the edge enjoying the warmth of the afternoon sun. It was clear to me that it was not at all Carlo's scene.

I recalled him from those strategy sessions as being insightful and focussed in his contributions which were delivered in a cool and professional manner without any of the sales pitch that normally comes from people in his kind of position. I placed him as a little younger than myself, perhaps mid-30's, but it was hard to tell. There was a certain gravitas about him and that was complemented by his dark framed glasses.

Seeing him in a different context, casually dressed in a white polo shirt and well-fitting jeans, with a confident posture, looking lithe and fit, I have to say that my inner slut started to stir. That it was for a guy was a little unusual but not unheard of.

As I approached him, his face broke into a lovely smile of recognition and we engaged in a brief hug. He stood head and shoulders above my petite frame but I was used to that kind of situation. I discovered that he was a friend of my sister's husband, Brett, and was in Cape Town for the weekend ahead of a Monday business schedule. He was holding his glass of wine as if he wanted something more so I asked what he was drinking.

"I'm not too sure," he responded, "but I think it is some kind of Merlot/Cinsaut blend."

"If you give me your glass, I know where they keep the good stuff," I said. "I'll get some for you."

I handed the fresh glass of wine to him, he looked into it then swirled it expertly and took a couple of sniffs.

"A nicely aged Pinot, not too much wood and a touch funky," he said, then took a good sip. "That's excellent," came the verdict.

I gave him the estate name and the vintage and then went off to bring us some of the cheesy, choux pastry bites that had just come out of the oven; one of my sister's specialities.

"You're spoiling me," he said, "but it's always good to be with someone who has the inside track."

"I wouldn't do it for just anyone," I responded, "but, tell me, do you like these braais?"

"Well," he answered, "they always smell better than they taste in my experience but I have to say that it's never been my favourite way to spend an afternoon. I'm just here because I was invited and I would just be kicking my heels otherwise. What about you?"

"I agree totally," I responded.

He looked away for a moment and then looked into my eyes. "Look," he said, "if you square things with your sister and with Brett, then we could slide away. I noticed there's a new tapas place with a real Spanish chef close to my hotel and it's open all day. I assume you've got a car outside."

We'd struck an instant rapport and I very much liked his boldness in wanting to turn the afternoon around. There was only one way I could see things heading. My inner slut was fully awake and I had to remind her that it was still important to take it step by step.

"It's a black Porsche out on the grass verge." I said. "Give me a good five minutes. You do the driving."

*

I watched his angular hands, with their trimmed nails, on the steering wheel as we drove into the city. I like good hands, in fact, if they weren't good hands, he wouldn't have been with me.

"What did you tell your sister?" he asked.

"She's my sister," I replied, "That's all you need to know."

"And Brett?" he asked.

"Don't worry," I replied. "She's got Brett well under control."

He drove smoothly and surely, without much to say, and I think he was enjoying my car. We ended up in Camps Bay outside a smart hotel that overlooked the beach. The car was left in the care of the hotel driver/doorman and Carlo took hold of my hand for the short walk to the tapas bar. Few of the lunchtime crowd remained and we were able to find a sheltered table out on the patio.

The wine list was presented to us and I let Carlo ponder over it for a while. He chose a local Chenin Blanc from a good estate for which I nodded my approval and we headed into the main area to check out the offerings. The trays of food hiding behind a large glass cover, lying upon a chiller, were a little bare after the lunchtime servings and a swarthy man, who I assumed was the chef, appeared and apologised for the lack of options. From that point on I have little idea what happened because Carlo broke into very fast Spanish and the chef took a step backwards. The conversation lasted a while and eventually they seemed to reach an agreement.

"What was that all about?" I asked as we returned to our table.

"He was thinking we are stupid locals and would just accept what was left over," Carlo responded, "but now he knows better."

"He seemed intimidated by you" I said.

"My father was Spanish and very upper class," Carlo explained. "At home he spoke Spanish to me whilst my mother spoke English. In Spain, class is very important because it represents power or the lack of it. Your accent says everything. I picked up my father's accent and that's what he heard. I think we can expect a very nice little meal."

And so it turned out. A plate of seared baby calamari tubes, dressed in olive oil, garlic and herbs appeared together with a dish of olives and some warm crusty bread. It was not exactly tapas but it was totally delicious and I was impressed.

As we chatted, I learned that Carlo was shortly to be moving to London to his Company's European HQ. The trip down to Cape Town was about saying farewell to some colleagues and a couple of valued customers. It seemed like I had snared him at the very last chance.

*

I like rooms in smart hotels. For some reason, they have me feeling safe and free and sexy, not that I needed to be thinking any more about sex at that point. Carlo's room was on the top floor with a view over the South Atlantic. Unfortunately, the sun had already set and dusk was falling rapidly. We embraced and kissed, sensing each other at close quarters for the first time. His body felt as good as it looked, toned and powerful, and I wanted him to be strong and demanding of me. I wasn't there for the romance; what I wanted and needed was sex. I broke the embrace and took a step back.

"What would you like me to do?" I asked. "Tell me and we'll see ..."

I'd caught him by surprise and he paused for a moment or two.

"This might be a little different," he said, "but since you ask, what I would really like is to watch you strip off those clothes and lie back on the edge of that bed with your legs wide apart so you are fully exposed."

It seemed he had read me very well, and it was my turn to be surprised. At the same time it was perversely exciting.

"Certainly different for me," I said after a short pause, "but I'll do it with pleasure."

I'd always had body confidence from being a child taking ballet classes to a young woman in full-time ballet school. After that I had posed for nude pictures in men's magazines in order to pay my university fees. And I knew I was still in good shape because I had never lost the fitness bug. The intimacy of a man's bedroom was very different of course but that he was taking control was exactly what I was hoping for. By this point, my inner slut was raging, probably encouraged by the wine, and whatever inhibitions I might have had were long gone. My lady friend down below responded with a copious flood of anticipation.

"I'd better get some towels," I said.

I spread the towels on the edge of the bed and stripped as gracefully as I could then positioned myself as he had requested with the towels under my hips.

"Now," he said, "I want to watch you play with yourself until you cum."

I'd masturbated with women before and a few times with a certain man but never quite as an act of foreplay with someone new. Somehow, I found myself feeling very aroused by the vulnerability of what he was asking and I readily submitted to his wishes. As I began to finger myself, he began to undress and when he got to his briefs, out jumped a very erect cock. His body was slim and tanned and there was plenty of dark body hair that looked very well trimmed. But it was his cock that I fixed upon, strong and sturdy, and the head was distinctly long and bullet shaped.

He gently stroked it as he watched me and I just hoped that it wasn't going to turn into a mutual masturbation session. I could play with myself anytime but I was there to be fucked. Fortunately for me, his stroking didn't seem to portray any intention to jerk off so I relaxed into my frigging. The sexual anticipation had been building through the afternoon and now with thoughts of having that cock inside my body, it didn't take long for my orgasm to take me.

"That was the hottest and most erotica thing I have ever seen," he said.

I could only look at him and smile.

"Move over to the middle of the bed," he said, removing his glasses and grabbing a well-stuffed pillow, "and put this under your hips."

I did as he asked and he climbed onto me, straddling my thighs.

"Spread a little," he said.

"Wait," I interjected. "Come up her, there's something I want to do."

I urged him up to my face, until I could take him into my mouth and feel his shaft. It was rigid but slightly bendy, solid but slightly spongy. And, close up to my face, it seemed seriously big.

"Now," I said, releasing him, "do what you were going to do to me."

I complied as best I could to part my thighs with his knees constraining my movement but it was enough for him to slide that long cock head along my slit, over my clit and, with my hips tilted by the pillow, to readily penetrate my swollen and sodden pussy at the first attempt. Slowly he pushed all the way in, that fabulous first full thrust, then stretched out his legs so that he was lying fully over me with my legs trapped together between his and his chest just above my face.

He began a steady fucking, gliding upwards into me with his pelvis putting pressure on my still sensitive clit. He felt very thick and very deep and because of the angle he was pushing against my G-spot with each thrust. I could only fall back, arched over the pillow, and luxuriate in the intense sensuality of the experience.

"You have the tightest and silkiest pussy I've had been into," he said.

"Just use me, I'm loving it, and tell me when you are about to cum in me," I told him.

Gradually he built up the pace, I felt his power, the pressure on my clit, and the sensations and arousal intensified along with the images flashing though my mind.

"I'm getting close," he said.

I saw pictures in my mind of his cock, twitching and spurting semen into me, and that was enough to take me over the edge. Very soon afterwards, his thrusts became short and rapid. I felt his body tense and then quiver and jerk. I knew what was happening and it wasn't just images in my mind, it was the real thing, and that was the most blissful moment of all.

We lay back side by side for a while, dozing in that post-orgasmic daze. All too soon I became aware of a cocktail of male cum and lady juice drying into a sticky glaze over my pussy and thighs. And then the bedding, wet and rumpled beneath me, but it was the post-sex urge to pee that finally had me reluctantly heading to the bathroom.

I showered off, found one of those nice cotton hotel robes on the back of the bathroom door and slipped into it. Back in the room, Carlo was making coffee, still naked with his cock dangling but still looking very meaty. Coffee was just what I wanted and, since the hotel seemed to have provided a plunger and real coffee grains, I was optimistic that it would be good. We went out onto his balcony which was refreshingly cool after the heat of the day.

"Good coffee maker, great driver, wine expert, successful businessman, fluent Spanish and an amazing lover," I said. "What else do you do?"

He laughed.

"Seriously," I said, "that was the best sex with a guy that I could ever have imagined."

"What about you? I would never have dreamt that there was such a sexy lady hiding behind that stern, serious, businesslike consultant that I first met. It took me a moment to recognise you with your hair down and that little tight skirt. And you really do have the tightest pussy," he went on.

"Perhaps it was because my legs were together, perhaps the angle, which was all just incredible for me," I offered.

"Yes," he said, "but believe me you are tight, tight, and you can have no idea what that feels like to a man."

"Maybe it's because, for my age, I'm hardly used, at least by guys," I responded.

"What do you mean? No boyfriends? Hardly used?" he asked.

"It's like this," I explained. "I am actually more into females, the younger the better, than I am into guys. But I discovered I liked the penetration. I even crave it at times. A dildo just won't do it. It has to be the real thing, the real experience. The problem is that there are so few available men that I find sexually attractive. And then it is a matter of creating the opportunity. Only a very few have been where you have been this afternoon."

"You created this opportunity pretty well today," he said.

"It takes two to tango," I responded.

Time was moving on and I had a girlfriend waiting for me back home. I'd texted her that I'd be late but it wouldn't be helpful to our relationship to leave her behind for any longer. Perhaps Carlo was hoping for a second round but my inner slut had got enough of what she wanted and was resting contentedly somewhere.

I never expected to see Carlo again and I guess by now, at the time of writing, he has settled himself down with one of those pretty, posh English girls - lucky her.

Saying a final good-bye to someone, especially after such an intimate encounter, is never easy but everything has to come to an end. I left him with the thought that when the context is right, many things are possible. That might sound trite but it has often been true for me.