Author's Notes: This is a work of fiction, and perhaps even fantasy. There is some sex in the story, but not a lot, and it's certainly not a "stroke story." Maybe someday there will be Metzler Cell. The way science is progressing these days, it wouldn't surprise me. I was just imaging what I might do if I were Harry Zheng and I were in his place. I'll be interested to hear what you think.
My thanks to ErikThread and DaveT for their editing skills and technical advice.
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I have an active imagination. I'm not sure if it's hereditary or just one of those things that comes with being a healthy, heterosexual, perpetually horny Chinese-American man. I keep having this vision. Sometimes it appears during my sleep, and sometimes during the day when I lose focus on what I'm doing and start to daydream.
The dream is a woman, of course, naked, standing on a sandy beach, the hot sun beating down on her. Her back is to me, her legs spread about a foot, and her arms are outstretched with her hands limply hanging down. Her head is turned, and I can see one eye as she looks back over her shoulder at me with the sexiest look you could possibly imagine. Oh yes ... she is black and her body is shiny, as if it had been oiled.
She has one of "those" bodies. Perfection! Fabulous hips and glorious ass. Long, beautifully tapered legs with sculpted calves. I can see little of her breasts, but I'm sure they are faultless as well. Her shimmering black hair is slightly more than shoulder length, falling in sensuous waves as it caresses her skin.
I was sitting in a sidewalk café in Ste. Maxime, France, when she walked by. It isn't very often that I am totally distracted by a woman, but in this case it was no ordinary woman. In the three or four seconds that I saw her, I had already concluded that she was my version of the perfect female form. She was the woman in my dreams.
The brain can assimilate a lot of information in a very short period of time, and mine was currently in overdrive as she turned and stepped into the café. She was about six feet tall, extraordinarily voluptuous in every dimension, and blessed with a flawless dark chocolate complexion. Expensively dressed in business attire, she had a large, black leather handbag slung over her shoulder, black patent high heels, and my last glimpse of her was her shiny black hair in a cut reaching just past her shoulders. Strikingly familiar.
I turned my attention back to yesterday's European edition of the New York Times. I'd read the first sentence for almost the tenth time when I saw her walk out of the shop toward the sidewalk tables, a cup and saucer in hand, searching for a seat. A quick look told me there were none, and before anyone else could pre-empt me, I stood and gestured to the open chair at my table.
She smiled, capturing me by that simple gesture. She walked toward me, accepting my offer. I was surprised at her size. She was only a couple of inches shorter than my six-foot-four.
"Bonjour," I said, using one of only a handful of French words I knew.
"Hi yourself," she smiled again.
"You're not French," I reasoned instantly.
"Ha, no ... and neither are you with that accent."
I waited for her to be seated before I sat. "I'm Harry Zheng," I said, offering my hand.
"Savannah Wilson," she replied, taking it gently.
"You're dressed for business, not as a tourist."
"Yes, I'm a representative for a cosmetics company. I'm here to help launch a new product line."
"Huh! The last thing I would expect would be an American showing the French how to sell perfume."
"The times are changing, Harry. This part of the world is full of very discriminating women who only want the latest and best. They don't really care where it comes from any more."
"How's it going?"
"Very well, thank you. Of course, it never hurts when some of the glitterati at Cannes feature your product. We're doing fine. I'll hate to finish up, really. I'm enjoying the south of France and this lovely May weather."
"I know what you mean. Where are you from, New York?"
"No ... not at all. Naples, Florida. And you?"
"San Francisco, originally, but Seattle right now. Just about as far from Naples as you can get."
"And what brings you to Ste. Maxime?"
"Just cruising around, looking for something to do."
"You don't look like you're a typical underemployed."
"Yeah ... well ... it's a long story."
"I've got some time. Tell me about it."
She seemed to be sincere and since she was far and away the best looking woman I'd had a conversation with in many moons, I went for it.
"I am ... or was ... a marine biologist. I worked for the University of Washington, gathering and identifying specimens in the North Pacific. It's what I always thought I wanted to do, so when I got my masters, I just stayed on as a paid employee.
"What I didn't realize was the amount of time I would be spending on an eighty-foot boat in forty-foot waves in the Gulf of Alaska. I toughed it out for a couple of years, but cramped quarters and constantly battling the elements just wore me out. It was never a fun job, but I was determined to follow my dream. Now that I've done that, it's on to something else."
"Wow! I can get seasick just listening to that."
I nodded solemnly. "You don't know the definition of seasick until you've been where I've been."
"No need to explain," she said quickly.
I laughed. I was enjoying our conversation.
"So, where do you go next? Back to Naples?"
"No ... Monte Carlo, then Milan, Rome, then Naples ... the one in Italy."
"How long?"
"Another ten days. It isn't hard. It's almost like a vacation. I don't dare tell the other girls how much I'm enjoying this when I get back to the office."
