My nerves tighten and begin to hum. My heartbeat quickens somewhat and I start to tingle inside with budding fear. But according to my flight training, I clutch my underwear package and shoulder bag against my breasts, I stride forward, looking straight ahead. The two nerds plant themselves in front of me and I stop dead in my tracks. I look up at their pimply, grinning, imbecile faces. Thoughts are flying around in my head like pipistrelles at dusk. I'm about to be robbed, I decide. You hear stories of rape, but that's unlikely here in broad daylight in a shopping centre, isn't it?
Just then a stocky, dark skinned youth with longish jet black hair brushes past me and literally shoulders Miss Piggy, enough to knock him off balance and spin him round to my right. The pig instinctively regains his balance and turns back to square up to my saviour. But equally quickly I see the grin has gone, and a look of apprehension, even of recognition has appeared in his eyes. When he sees the size and shape of his adversary, he starts to move backwards, like he's doing a moonwalk. The other juvenile delinquent, now on my left, circles slowly around behind me trying to look tough but clearly keeping his distance, and finishes up beside his pal. Then my tall dark knight in denim bermuda style shorts and white T-shirt, whose tanned legs are a very nice shape, I note, says something I can't translate, directly at them. The pig inelegantly hikes up his cargo pants, as though in final defiance, aims an imaginary pistol at the good guy and fires once, blows on the end of his smoking gun and slips it back into its holster. Both young thugs slouch away into the crowds, just like that. Game over, I say to myself. I'm grateful for the timely intervention of my young French vigilante hero.
The youth who has surely just saved me, deliberately or not, from losing my bag and my precious credit cards, maybe my new underwear, doesn't look back. He steps onto the descending staircase and before I can come out of my near catatonic daze, he too has gone.
My heartbeat slows almost to normal by the time I step off the escalator at the bottom and continue my tour on the lower level. Now I need a shot of quality caffeine, and also I decide to get something to read. I'm lucky; there is a large bookshop, or "librairie" as they say in French, on this floor, with even an English books section. They must get lots of anglophones from the airport, passing though. I can read some French and manage to speak it quite well after a glass of wine or two. But novels can be hard work in anything other than your mother tongue, and are certainly not relaxed reading in French. So I'm especially pleased when I find a small selection of erotic novels in English. I shouldn't get myself excited, I know, with my Richard a thousand kilometres away, but I give in to my immediate need for personal cerebral stimulation and pick up one of those ubiquitous blockbusters about South Carolina rice plantations. You know the kind: disgustingly rich American white masters and mistresses on black slave-driven plantations in centuries gone by, the men screwing the black slave women instead of their own wives, and the white women bedding the big handsome black bucks at will. 'Gone with the Wind' but with blatant sex on demand, if you like. It's a nice thick book, and I think it could keep me going for a few hours, perhaps more if that strike goes on. And on.
I pay for it, carry on browsing the boutiques for a while, looking for a place to escape the madding crowd. I find a cosy looking coffee bar piping out bland but quiet pop music, where I sit down and order a large cappuccino. I look around me and see people eating, drinking, yawning, tapping fingers on tables, cracking their knuckles, reading, talking on mobiles, dreaming, even sleeping. I see heads swivelling in a dozen directions. When my coffee comes at last, I lace my fingers through the ear of the cup, feel the heat on my palm, sniff in the odour. I open my book and sink rapidly into my caffeine and erotic encounters. It's an easy read; my eyes fly across the paragraphs, and loose-end boredom soon becomes increasing lubricity.
I lose track of time somewhat reading about all those black bodies and frantic couplings, then realise, not only that my cappuccino is finished and I am dribbling love juices into my panties again, feeling a growing urge for penile penetration, but I also need to pee. I make my way to the ladies, there's always one on each floor in these places. In the cubicle, I pull up my skirt and slip down my panties. I notice how moist my pussy lips are, am encouraged to take instant advantage of this natural lubricant, am simply overwhelmed by a sudden urge to masturbate. Visions in my head of all this interracial stuff have been just too much for me, and I can't restrain my natural instincts. I am a very highly sexed woman. I make myself a nest of toilet paper on the wc seat, as I always do in public toilets. Sitting there, I pee, and at the same time start to finger my emergent love button as golden water trickles, then spurts out of my pussy lips. I manipulate my clitoris delicately at first and the focus of my fantasies switches between my beloved Richard who is several million miles away just when I need him, and hard, sweaty, black male flesh.
I glance at puerile felt-tip pen sketches on the cubicle door and walls, of cocks and pussies created by either female sex fiends or frustrated artists; there are even phone numbers. I try to decipher a few badly written French words I can't understand. I resist the temptation to write down the phone numbers. It's like being in a non-speaking confessional. I close my eyes to shut it all out, and I rub on my clit, enjoying the anticipation of a burst of sexual release.
Suddenly I hear a high-pitched humming in my ears all around me and feel a sting on my inner thigh. Fucking mosquitoes! How I detest those nasty little things. Why me, I ask myself? It's uncanny just how mosquitoes always manage to find me when I'm anywhere south of Gatwick. How they seem to love good quality British blood! That's it, I say, rubbing session over, orgasmus interruptus. I'm still wet, my insides are contracting deliciously and I'm absolutely longing for a quick climax, but I also know I need to get out of this cubicle before the hateful little bugger tells all his pals there's pure English blood to be had on the WC menu and they all join in the sanguine feast.
I tidy my hair and freshen my makeup like all good air hostesses do, and I wander on through the Centre Commercial Lagrange looking anxiously for a pharmacie and hopefully some cool soothing ointment that might be available without prescription for my itching mosquito bite. I also look over my shoulder periodically, you can't be too careful. I check my voicemail. I hear my Richard's soft sexy voice say 'hi darling', that he's thinking about me between heavy and boring meetings and has a hardon. My heart goes out of rhythm. Then I listen to an over-long complaint about life from my mother which cancels out the pleasant bumping in my chest. No news from the airport is bad news I guess. After drifting in and out of one or two more classy shops on this floor, after successfully resisting overwhelming temptations to buy, and then getting cross at seeing no sign of a pharmacie anywhere, I need to get back to my book, back to my fascinating story.
I spot another smart café bar, where I order another cappuccino and this time a "patisserie" and dive once more directly back into my own personal, private, erotic world of hot, steamy colonial rice plantations and those utterly fascinating and endless black and white fucking permutations, pausing only to slip my hand furtively under my skirt on a regular basis to scratch my itching thigh, where a large, angry red bump has now developed. This is the only distraction from my lubricity for a while.
"Mistress Anna whimpered, as she felt the hard callused palm of Sam the plantation worker's hand slam across her pale delicate face. She clutched her cheek as she fell backwards, half sitting, half lying, onto her wide, luxurious bed, looking up through tearful, fearful eyes at Sam's sweaty, glistening, naked black torso. She could smell his appalling odour; his black chest heaved, showing his huge pectorals and Mistress Anna saw a mixture of lust and racial hatred on his wide, flat-nosed, thick lipped face as he glared down at her. He said nothing, but began to unbuckle his thick leather belt. His baggy, filthy, worn out pants fell to the ground, and his long, black snake of a penis sprang out, distending and swelling before poor Mistress Anna's eyes."
