WATAMU NIGHTS
It was one of those sultry, Kenyan tropical nights, hot, but not too humid. We were in Watamu on a kind of a second honeymoon, a long awaited trip without the kids. Watamu was just the kind of escape we had been looking for, unencumbered, here in this resort village with its reputation for wild, swinging parties and sultry nights.
We went for a walk on the beach, aching and wanting to fuck right there and then. As we walked, I had my hand on your arse, and I could feel your wetness. Every now and then you would turn and kiss me hard, my cock pressing into you, feeling your wetness. It was open night at the hotel, and we decided to eat a light meal of Swahili coconut prawns and then sit back and observe.
We sat back in the shadows on the big, deep couch, watching the dancers on the floor. It was a hot, sweaty night in Watamu at one of those hotels whose name is long forgotten. Most of the people there were European tourists out to have a good time. The air reeked of sex. This particular hotel had a reputation for wild, swinging parties.
I watched you out of the corner of my eye: you were wearing a silk Thai shirt with no bra, and a long silky Hip Hop dress, sexy boy pants underneath. Earlier in the evening, you posed for my camera with our friend Katie, who was in a bungalow next door to our camp, just for fun. The two of you were in a teasing mood, but Katie had to leave, she had a date in town. But the picture remains ...
It was a bizarre scene inside the hotel's club: these Europeans seemed to have no inhibitions. There were two women in fishnet stockings quite openly fucking in a booth in the corner.
In another darkly lit corner, another two women were naked, and kissing and fucking and nobody seemed to notice, or care.
There was one woman there who seemed out of place, a gorgeous Italian woman in her late 30s, an impish red head, tall, with firm, full, but not overly big, breasts. Her hips were wider than her legs, peasant hips, her nipples shifted against her thin top, swelling. The music changed to salsa, and you asked me if I wanted to dance.
I said no, I'll watch, you go ahead. Just then the Italian woman drifted over and in halting English, said "I am alone here and would like to dance. Will you join me?"
She was looking at me, but the question was directed at you. I inclined my head, and smiled. You rose, ever gracefully to your feet and the two of you began to move together. You found your rhythm fast, as you always do, and soon the two of you were engaged in a wonderful, sensual whirl of hands and hips and breasts and legs. You touched without seeming to touch, seduced without seducing, and I was bewitched.
The music gathered in tempo, climaxed, and stopped. As it stopped, the two of you were touching fingertips, and you did not separate hands, but began to talk, heads inclined towards each other.
The next song started, a slow, sensual Latino piece, full of tropical rhythm. You moved closer, and your hand drifted down to her hip, and hers to yours. Every now and then, I could see that your breasts touched each other, almost as if by mistake, and you moved closer together. She linked her hands behind your head, and you danced cheek to cheek, your hips moving together, your bodies closing in.
Then the music came to an abrupt end as the DJ tried to find a new CD. The two of you looked confused, then moved slowly across to sit on the couch. "Tony, this is Francesca, from Napoli," you said. "She was here with her friend, but they had a fight and he has left for Nairobi. Won't you get us some dry white wine."
Finding a good dry white wine in Watamu is like finding water in the Sahara, but I wandered across to the bar and asked the barman if he had, by chance, any good South African wine. He smiled, and said that he had been hiding a couple of bottles of Durbanville Hills sauvignon blanc under the counter. I could take the lot if I had fifty dollars to spare. "Asante sana, rafiki," I said. "Lete barafu tafadhali," and he passed across the three bottles and a jug of ice.
I poured out the first bottle and we all drank, savouring the crisp dryness in the tropical heat. Then the DJ returned, and the music changed to a thumping disco beat, a mood destroyer. Francesca grimaced and said "I want to dance salsa, not this rubbish. Let's go to my suite and drink wine and dance."
We exchanged glances and nodded. We were camped down the road in our Land Rover, and had merely dropped in for a snack and a drink. Why refuse an invite to a suite with a rich Italian?
We walked through the indigenous forest across the lush lawns, the sea murmuring in the distance, and all three of us stopped dead as we turned the corner and saw two women in their shower, wrapped together, kissing deeply. Francesca giggled softly and hugged you, and took my hand, and said "I like this place."
Francesca's "suite" was down the beach, the honeymoon suite, secluded, sumptuous, a huge makuti living area on stilts in the lagoon, the water lapping underneath. It was completely invisible from the rest of the hotel, hidden behind a grove of trees, paraffin hurricane lamps lit the pathway. We entered, and gasped: the suite had been lit with hundreds of candles, and night jasmine, that distinctive flower of the African tropics, had been strewn on the floor, on the bed, on the path.
Against the back wall was a four-poster Lamu bed fit for a sultan: a bed big enough for four people, mosquito nets draped up ready to be hung. Against one wall was an ornate, brocaded Victorian couch.
Francesca hit a switch, and soft salsa music began to wash across the night, mingling with the sound of the crickets, Christmas beetles and the soft lapping of the waves underneath. She stretched out her hands to you and said "shall we?"
I watched, mesmerised, as you rose to your feet and grasped her hands, then swung her slowly into your arms, and began to dance. It was a limpid, gorgeous scene.
I wandered outside with my glass of wine, and smelt the night. The salt air and the smell of the mangroves was intoxicating. Far off in the distance, I could hear the boom of the surf on the outer reefs, and I felt the wind shifting as a slight kusini, a south wind monsoon, began to blow. I turned and look through the window. You and Francesca were in a slow embrace, dancing hip to hip, breast to breast.
I took a walk down the beach, and walked up to a lit bungalow. There was a young woman lying there on a couch, naked, and she looked at me and mouthed the words "I want to fuck." I said "I do to, but with my wife," and walked back to Francesca's suite.
As I got back to Francesca's suite, the salsa changed to an even slower, more moody piece of music. The rhythm reeked of sex, slow, sultry, tropical, wet and warm. I stood outside in the shadows on the deck and watched as you lifted Francesca's chin and began to kiss her. Your arm reached up her back and you rested your fingers on the base of her neck. Her fingers crept up your thigh and you slid your hand up hers. There was a long moment as you danced like that, breast to breast, thigh to thigh, pressing against each other.
You slid your fingers over her silky pants, feeling the heat and dampness deepen. She slid the straps from your top and pulled them down over each shoulder then tugged on the top exposing your swollen nipples, then she stripped you naked.
You pulled all her clothes off in a sexual frenzy and climbed onto that ornate Victorian couch, with incredible works of sensuous art surrounding you, and began an elaborate dance.
It was like watching two beautiful blue cranes mating, as you arched and rubbed and stroked and danced, two beautiful nymphs together. Your skin tones were enhanced by the rich brocade of the Victorian furniture, there was a faint hum of the fans overhead. Then Francesca produced a hookah loaded with dope and you puffed, and everything became soft edged and even more erotic, life slowed down as she leant down to kiss you.
You slid your fingertip over the exposed flesh of her cunt, feeling the slippery wetness. Her clit was hard and swollen, wet, her lips moved to your breast. Your finger slipped between her lips and entered the hot thick wetness of her cunt.
You slid your finger in deeper, feeling her body clench it then relax. You felt around her cunt inside the slick hot walls - feeling her move and slide, moaning softly, wanting more, wanting it deeper. You made her wait and felt her response as she rose above you, both breasts exposed . You took your second finger and placed it at the entrance of her cunt. As her mouth closed over your nipple, you pushed it in and let both fingers glide deeper into her wetness. When you were fully in, you took your thumb and passed its tip softly over the exposed valley of her bum, wet from the juice of her cunt. Her teeth bit your nipple then sucked to take away the sting. You reached over to the table and fished an ice cube out of your wine.
I watched as you took the ice and circled her hard nipple. The heat of her excitement mingled with the sharp cold of the ice and you felt your cunt grow wet and your delicious clit grow hard and sensitive. You slid your fingers out of her cunt, then eased them back in. Slow. Really slowly. On each thrust you pressed your thumb against her bum a little harder, feeling her tight resistance relax with the repetition and the warm wetness that coated her cheeks.
