A Black Man's Tale Part3
THE KOULLA EPISODE
It turns out Koulla was to be the next lady in the Greek trio. She was a close personal friend of Zola's, slightly older and, likewise, married.
Koulla was also a hairdresser by profession but, unlike her friend, had long ago given up working in a salon and worked from home on weekends, just for some pocket money. In Koulla's case, the money supplemented the meagre cash her old man gave her, since that barely covered the housekeeping, and there was none to spare for those little extras that made life bearable for a neglected, middle-age housewife.
Koulla's old man, Stelios, preferred to blow his extra cash at the Golden Nugget every weekend, or on his floozy, the wife of a pal, a long-standing family friend. He'd been banging her on the quiet for years. Well, you can guess the consequences of this tragic little triangle: 'Steli-boy' had neither the energy nor inclination to attend to his wife's conjugal needs. Not only that, but he was occasionally inclined to publicly subject her to verbal, as well as physical abuse, thus further depressing her self-esteem and widening the chasm between them.
Stelios and Koulla had kids, two strapping young lads, but they were both grown up and left home to make their own way in life.
And so, here we had, another deprived, neglected middle-aged, Greek housewife, who was trapped in a dysfunctional marriage, and was open to any diversion from the humdrum, asexual grimness that was now her life.
Actually, Koulla yearned for romance as a respite from the emotional and physical privation. Sex too, but in the context of a romantic relationship. The sort of relationship she had long ago ceased to enjoy with her husband. But, being a realist, she knew that there was about as much chance for that in her life, as there was for any post-menopausal married woman in poor economic circumstances and of limited means of mobility and an even more limited social circle -- Zip! Zilch! Zero! Nada!
And so, if she couldn't satisfy her emotional needs, she was 'gonna have a go,' at least, at fulfilling her physical needs -- quietly, furtively and most probably with some very improbable individuals, in order to maintain the secrecy and discretion needed to prevent her indiscretions coming to the attention of her husband -- he would kill her, of that she had no doubt.
Even at fifty, she felt she was still attractive enough to men, in spite of the onset of extra girth on her breasts, waist, hips and thighs. Her face, for sure, belied her fifty years: it was smooth, wrinkle-free and gave her the appearance of a woman twenty years younger. Even her body, although ample in proportions, was firm and smooth --limbed: quite a turn-on for guys who like chicks with generous proportions, and especially those who go for mature broads, every now and then.
Like me!
She was ideal cock-fodder... not just physically, but her eagerness and availability, were a heady aphrodisiac.
I don't apologise for all this boring detail, but it's important you appreciate the specific personal and emotional circumstances surrounding our first encounter.
In any event, she had resolved to get her pussy thumped, like it hadn't been thumped in a long time and, if she could manage it, by a virile, good-looking stud!
Well, as it happened, she'd drawn up a list of the men, either specific men, or stereotypes, whom she would like to screw. She would tick each one off in turn as she worked her way down the list. A black man was not on her list, as it happens, but through a twist of fate, I came into her life one grey, drizzly, overcast day in March. She, apparently, had me down as the 'toy-boy' on her list.
It was a weekday (and the day when hairdressing establishments customarily close up shop so as not to go over the earnings limit that requires them to register for VAT) and I had arranged to meet
'Zola'
for an afternoon of the customary
'skewering the kebab.'
I got a call from her, crying-off at the last minute because of some domestic crisis or other. However, so as my day would not be a complete write-off, she said that she was sending her friend round, who was dying to meet me, was really very attractive and she was sure I'd like her. Well,
"in for a penny, in for a pound,"
as the saying goes, so I didn't argue. If she was half as good as
Zola,
I wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth.
So, sure enough, Koulla turns up at the flat: the substitute shag for the afternoon.
When I opened the door, I wasn't exactly dazzled by the short, dark, spectacled, middle-aged lady that stood before me. According to
Zola
, Koulla was 'slightly older' than she, but she looked much younger: younger, even than the fifty or so years of age I estimated she was. She wore a long, blue, denim skirt, a black leather jacket and ankle-length, black high-heeled booties. Her hair was cut short and trimmed high up the back and at the sides over her ears. She wore no make-up, save for some lipstick on the full, pouting lips of her small mouth. Her skirt was the type with buttons up the front and tight-fitting, so that it accentuated her broad, well-padded hips and thighs.
Well, I showed her in and offered her coffee, while we sat on the settee and chatted for a while to break the ice. This phase of any such encounter is crucial, especially as this was our first meeting -- we were both strangers to each other - without the prior knowledge or common experiences to help smooth the rocky and potentially perilous path to the anticipated consummation. It's necessary to prepare a woman psychologically, as well as physiologically for the imminent intimacy. Equally crucial, is the fact that the lady should be fully reconciled to what we were about to do. Irrespective of the fact that she was here voluntarily, intent on sex with a stranger, there may be some unresolved issues. These unresolved issues may be lingering below the surface as latent doubts or reluctance that may crystallise later as restraint and inhibition.
She had to be mentally prepared and, one hundred percent, willing to go all the way! After all, 'it takes two to tango' and the last thing I wanted was for her to yell 'Rape!' at the last minute. Anyway, she must have warmed to me and the certain prospect of being screwed by a young, black guy, as she didn't spurn my advances and we were soon intimate.
She, too, was a good kisser and enjoyed the intimacy of mouth-to-mouth contact and close, bodily contact. So, we spent a good, long time reclining there on the sofa, with her on top of me, indulging in leisurely, un-intimidating foreplay, allowing her more time to make the psychological adjustment that would lead her, voluntarily and unquestioningly, to the inevitable, shagging to which she had tacitly consented.
We were fully clothed, except that she had loosened the front fastener of her bra and unbuttoned the top few buttons on her dress so that, the fleshy tops of her full breasts bulged through the bodice front. I firstly turned my attention to her ears, alternately tonguing and nipping her ear lobes and licking the inside. Then, our mouths met, and her probing tongue felt rough against mine as our mouths locked in a prolonged, damp, sensual ballet. I loved the feel of her tongue in my mouth, as I alternately sucked it in and slid my tongue into her mouth. I ate her lips, mangling them gently between my teeth and lips.
The skirt of her dress had ridden up at the back, and over her left shoulder, I could see she wore a tanga that exposed her full, firm buttocks. I gripped their corpulence in my hands, pinching, kneading, and fingering them tantalisingly. I slipped my hand under the back of her tanga and ran the index finger over her wet pussy, but she flinched when I tried to insert it into her ass. So, I didn't persevere - that was cool, she was only a last-minute substitute, after all!
I turned sideways so that she slid against the upright of the sofa, facing me. I reached into the front of her open bodice. Her breasts were voluminous and soft, not as firm as the rest of her body, and I massaged and distorted them between my fingers. I sucked them into my mouth, to chew, and massage, and lick around the convoluted, marble-sized nipples on her bulbous tits.
Her breathing became more audible as our arousal mounted. My fully engorged prick was straining painfully against her stomach through the confines of my jeans. I was dying to tear off my pants and drill her right there and then but decided that self-restraint was the better option.
I had decided at the outset that I would let her take the initiative, but thought it was time to prompt a response so to move proceedings along -- besides my poor old prick was straining to breaking point.
