Saffron

Anais Nin was a master of eroticism. Her stories are more suggestive that graphic, and have a way of sneaking into the unconscious mind and working a magical spell that later blossoms into sexual intention. I'm thinking of one particular story that sent my wife over the edge. It first announced itself with the scent of citrus in our bedroom.

I walked it to find her lying nude on the bed and reading Nin's Little Birds. The room smelled different. "New perfume?" I asked.

"No, it's a room fragrance, saffron tangerine," she said. "It's supposed to be the smell of Africa."

Her comment was so matter-of-fact, but the aroma didn't do that much for me. We had been in western Kenya and among the beautiful peoples of the Kikuyu, Luo, and Kalenjin, but this smell did not smells take me there. This had to be something else.

"Does it work for you?" I asked.

"Not even close," she said.

When she was in the shower, I picked up the book. Turning to the table of contents. My eyes fell on a story entitled "Saffron." I could still hear the water running as I read the story of a sixteen-year-old girl named Fay who was both beautiful and innocent. She easily fell under the spell of the much older Albert, a man in his forties who had sophisticated ways, a good family name, and a large home with many attractive female black servants. Fay was not used to such luxury or kindness from everyone, including Albert. He visited her room nightly, but refrained from forcing himself on her. Instead, he appeared nightly and gently explored her body, unveiling her a little more on each visit, declaring she had the body of an angel.

Fay's arousal was becoming intense; she wanted more. She wanted to be in the body of a woman, not an angel, and felt deprived of pleasure night after night. Even more, she wondered how he denied himself pleasure when she was so willing and anxious to be baptized into the world of sexual escapades. One night she followed him when he left her room. She discover the truth, and it came in the form of sounds-- moans of rapture calling from the throats of the very black women who served her during the day. At night, their serve was rewarded with the pounding thrusts that Albert had denied her angel body. The aroma of saffron punctuated the voices of passion that came from the Africans. Fay began to wear the spice beneath her clothes, and it was not long before her husband's driving passion was kindled toward her. "You smell African," he said.

I was still holding the book when she emerged from the showed. "I read your story," I said. Her skin was warm and damp and clung to the terrycloth white town that covered her torso.

"My story?"

"She uses saffron and it drives Albert crazy. Saffron, the smell of Africa."

"It's been driving me crazy, too," she said, "but I'll need more than the smell of saffron."

"I'd like that, too," I said as she dropped her towel. I took her right there in the aura of saffron tangerine.

At the office, I sought out a co-worker. We played handball on occasion and he had the athletic build that women like, broad shoulders, narrow waist, and a tight butt. DeShawn knew that we were in the lifestyle and we'd spoken about the possibility of a threesome. He was tempted by my wife, but not so sure of having a second guy involved. This time, I was the perfect pimp and offered my wife solo. It was the easiest deal I ever struck.

"He'll be here around six-thirty," I said. "I'll get back by seven, but won't come upstairs." I could see the wheels turning in her head as I told her the news. "I wish I could be with you, but I'll join you for a second round, if you're up to it."

"If you're up to it," she answered.

"I will be, count on it." When I walked through the door, I knew two things:1) My wife and DeShawn had wasted no time in, and were completely engaged, and 2) wifey was in heaven. Her gasps were timed perfectly with the sounds of hive pelvis driving hard against her pussy. "There, there!" she cried at last and I knew exactly what he was doing. The slapping sound had stopped, and he was in her to the hilt rotating his hips so that his black cock was churning her juices within. "It's hot," she said, and I knew his spunk was spurting inside her womanhood. She went quiet for a moment; then gasped for air. They had climaxed in unison.

It wasn't long before the ensuing silence was broken by footsteps on the stair. Deshawn was buckling his belt. "Did it go well?" I asked.

"You are one lucky son of a bitch," he said with a smile.

"Don't I know it," I answered. "Having tasted the waters, so to speak, would you consider my offer of teaming up sometime?"

DeShawn looked back up the stairway. "Pick a time and place," he said, the mischievous smile returning.

She was rereading "Saffron" when I came into the room. It was immediately clear that if a condom was used, it had completely ruptured by the force of DeSawn's thrusts.

"Did you like being in Africa?" I asked

"Africa was in me," she said. "Would you like to come, too?"

I didn't need to be invited twice. My clothes melted into a heap on the floor and I was beside her kissing deeply the mouth that had just enclosed around a black man's pole. I moved down her body with my tongue tasting the salty remains of their passion. I rested my cheek on her mound of Venus, taking in the fragrance of her white oozing labial lips. "You smell like Africa," I said as I raised myself up to ram my pulsing shaft into her milky, wet, warm flesh.