Black Bottom Ch. 01

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In ‘Pygiaphilia’ I introduced my long-ago lover, Alan, and his earliest adventure, going on in ‘Semper Figura Chapters 1, 2 and 3’ to chronicle his next encounters, starting while still resident in Southern Rhodesia, as it then was, in 1942. He came, as planned to England, soon after the events so far covered and became the navigator of a Lancaster bomber. He was one of the fifty percent of bomber crews to survive the required 30 missions. His nerves were too shattered after that for anything further to do with flying, and he was shifted into the ordering and organisation of equipment, at which he was brilliant. He next took a degree in economics and went into business, in which his service experience stood him in good stead, so that with hard work he became a wealthy man. His aim had always been to use his money for the welfare of Africans, whom he regarded as his siblings, and he began a series of projects across the continent, bringing fresh water, infrastructure, education and financial opportunities. And here is an account of an experience of his in the late 1950s.


It was often necessary in newly independent countries to bribe or otherwise gratify politicians and officials, to get agreement for his schemes. For this one, he was saddled with the daughter of a junior minister, to accompany and supervise him.

This large, abundantly healthy and fleshy lady was in her thirties, dressed in the traditional robe of her tribe, a flowing, multi-coloured, cotton garment, gathered tightly above the bust and round the waist, falling away into a long, loose skirt with an uneven hemline. Which was not the most suitable outfit for climbing into and out of an American army surplus jeep, but which she managed fine. He was pleased, however, that her only luggage consisted of an ornately decorated bag with a drawstring closure, from which she produced, day by day, what seemed like an endless number of different robes. Presumably it also contained whatever underwear, if any, she made use of.

There was no chaperone, so they spent many hours together, on the road, or at the several sites involved in the scheme. They ate, and slept, separately of course, at such places, housed in native huts or tents, in Spartan conditions.

It was made clear, in the first minutes of their enforced association, that the lady, suitably named Azuka (meaning confident from past experience) was determined to punish and humiliate him for the sins of his colonial forebears. So that, when she spoke, it was aggressively. Further, she insisted on using English, in which she was much less fluent than he was in her native language. And he was to address her as Madam.

‘So, Mr Englishman, you come here to make good things for us stupid blackies.’

‘Not quite like that, no, Madam, and I am actually Rhodesian.’

‘One of the agents of big boss man Cecil.’

‘I’m too young to have known him, Madam.’

‘But English in your past time.’

‘My great-grandparents were from Scotland, Madam.’

A short silence. Then, ‘They didn’t work tobacco.’

‘No, Madam. My grandfather helped set up universities, and my dad is a teacher.’

‘And you are businessman, making money from us fuzzy-wuzzies.’

‘Your father understood, Madam, that I want my programmes to succeed, so they can become independent, and build capital with which to expand and generate more wealth.’

‘But you will have share.’

‘No, Madam, I take nothing once they are running and have paid their setting-up costs, so I can fund the next project.’

Whether or not she believed him was unclear, but after a few days of driving on stony tracks in stony silence, she shifted her attack:

‘So, Mr Rhodenglishman, you have been with many black women?’

‘Rather an intrusive question, Madam.’

‘What is your answer?’

‘If your good-will really requires such information, none at all, Madam.’

‘Why no? You are afraid of black tonga?’

‘No, Madam, I’m not afraid of African vaginas.’

‘You think black women ugly, with big bust and backpart.’

‘No, Madam, they can be beautiful, like all women.’

‘They why you not going to them?’

‘Because, Madam, given the colonial past, there’s the danger of exploiting them.’

She was silent for a long time. Then:

‘So, Mr Scottishman, if a woman is beautiful and you not have power of her, you would go to her?’

‘If we liked and wanted each other, probably yes, Madam/’

‘If dikmen escort the woman is above you and wanted, what you do?’

‘It depends on the situation, I should think, Madam.’

Further silence:

‘Do you think I am beautiful woman, Mr Businessman?’

‘How do I answer that, Madam? If I don’t say Yes, what will you do? Cancel the project, and we go back to the ministry in an awkward atmosphere?’

‘You say honest, what you like.’

He was still in a dilemma, of course, more or less bound to express admiration, as anything else would make the near future difficult indeed. As it happened, he did find her attractive, and sought a tactful formula. ‘You know very well you are beautiful, Madam. You don’t need me to say so.’

‘Stop now, Mr Cleverman. No-one here. Only big space.’

‘Would you like a break, then, Madam? Shall I make tea?’

‘You like to see big black mommas, Mr Whiteman?’

‘Well, Madam, one gets used to seeing them in Africa, as I have done all my life.’

‘You like see my mommas?’

What did he say now? The relationship was going to change whatever he said. But the project was too far advanced to risk cancellation. That was the crucial consideration. So he said, ‘I’d be a strange man if I said No, Madam?’

‘See, then,’ she said, slowly loosening the top of the robe and folding it down, watching his face and giving a gurgling chuckle. ‘Oh, yes, you like. Big and strong. Look!’ She hefted them in her hands, large nubbly nipples caught between her fingers.

They were a little slack, but wonderfully inviting, as she knew well. ‘Good for putting head. Good for suck like baby,’ she said. ‘You like suck, Mr Lickyman?’

‘Would you like me to, Madam?’

‘I tell you do that.’

Nothing loth, he leant over from the driver’s seat and she lifted a breast towards him as he applied his lips. The combined nipple and areola were huge and as he drew them into his mouth, much soft bosom followed in.

‘Ah,’ she said, ‘You do this before. You do well. You feel grow big. Other one. Yes. You are Mr Whitebaby with my black mommas, You suck Africa in my teat.’

She gave herself up to his steady, vigorous sucking, licking, engulfing, nibbling, her head tilted back, eyes closed, body slumped in the seat. He wondered, in fact, whether she would actually orgasm. And she certainly reached a plateau in her excitation, on which she rested a while, before sitting up, detaching him, like a mother withdrawing the breast, and reached suddenly for his nearer thigh. She ran her fingers up his shorts, and said, ‘You white part ready. Get out now, Mr Readyman.’

‘Is this wise, Madam?’

‘I feel you can do. I am boss now. You do my orders,’

She withdrew her hand, humped herself across her seat, opened the door and got out. She waited for him to get out the other side and beckoned him to walk round the vehicle to join her. She said, ‘You have cover? Put on ground.’

There were tools, sacks and other gear in the rear of the jeep, including a tarpaulin, which he spread on the short, parched grass close by. She stepped onto it, kicked off her shoes, and stood erect, chin up, breasts thrust forward. Then she unwrapped the robe and threw it to him. Tight white silk knickers enfolded her broad haunches, pushed out at the groin by a grove of wiry hair. ‘You take,’ she said, and he knelt before her and eased the garment down her sturdy thighs.

The damp gusset came free and the coarse fuzz filled his vision. He had wondered about the pigmentation of a black pussy, and he now learned that both sets of lips continued the skin tone right up to the edge of the vulva. Which on this occasion was showing a gleaming pink, its colour the more striking from the contrast. Within the steadily upspringing tangle, terminating the upper limit of the slit, was the largest clitoris he ever saw – up to our time together. He reckoned it was the size and shape of the end joint of his little finger.

He stood, holding the two garments, and she commanded, ‘Put in car.’ He lifted them over the side of the jeep and laid them on top of the items there, and turned back to study her.

She was magnificent, a woman conscious of her beauty and power.

‘Get ready, Mr Slowman,’ she said.

He felt awkward for a moment, fumbling with the laces of his boots, but then he became calm, welcoming the inevitable, whatever she intended. And when he was undressed, emek escort standing close, she said, ‘You touching.’

He ran his hands slowly, gently, for a long time, all over her, stroking, moving round, kneeling down, to contact everywhere. She stood tall, head slightly back, silent and focused on his ministrations. Always a man to marvel at the changes women experience during sex, he loved at the swelling of her breasts, with the plumping and expansion of the areolas. He gazed in delight and moulded the bosoms overflowing his palms and outspread fingers.

The only movement she made, at this point, was to open her legs, so that he could more readily follow under her bum-cheeks and travel the creases between outer labia and thighs, and between outer and inner lips. Here, too, impressive engorgement was in progress, and lubricant was oozing from her half-open vestibule and glazing her thighs.

He wondered whether or not to extend his caresses to her vestibule. Should he try a finger or two? Should he track her glistening vulva to that amazing clitoris? Nothing ventured, nothing achieved, he did both. Crouching behind her, under the overhang of those glorious black cheeks he slipped two digits of his right hand into her vagina, and, reaching round her left thigh with the other hand, he laid a finger into her vulva, pressing with the little pad at the base onto her clit.

Now she moved a second time, giving a little sashay of the hips in response to this new stimulus. Thus encouraged he risked taking the clitoris between the first two fingers and thumb of his left hand and squeezed and rolled it, as if it were a tiny penis he was causing to erect. And, student of female arousal that he was, he noted what he had so far observed, and would continue to observe, that though they vary greatly, a clitoris does not usually fully harden like a cock. It enlarges, partly erects, but does not necessarily become rigid.

As he carefully masturbated the clit, the fingers within her were powerfully gripped, and he considered she might be progressing towards orgasm. But, after nearly an hour of his reverent concentration on her body, she spoke. ‘You are like slave man to please woman. You lie on ground now. I make all best feel.’

Obediently he lay on his back, looking up her strong body, with its abundant bush, within which the open vulva showed as a shiny, dripping, groove, and those distended breasts, which swayed as he moved to stand with a foot either side of his waist. He guessed what was coming, and inwardly rejoiced, but underwent some seconds of apprehension. This princess must have absorbed many, many cocks larger than his average size one. Perhaps her aim was, indeed, to humiliate him.

But she said nothing as she bent her knees to the tarpaulin, crouching over him, apparently looking over his head into the distance, but probably not seeing anything. Slowly she lowered her hips, bobbing up and down a little as she sought for his cock-tip with her vestibule. Which was somehow more exciting than using a hand to lodge him there, because it was a curiously feral proceeding, like a tomcat easing its way several times down its molly’s back to prick into her vagina.

It was a role-reversal, the female seeking to achieve the mating with a passive male. And at the fifth or sixth attempt she closed round him, bore down and engulfed him. She was using, him, taking him, fucking him, dictating the pace and rhythm of the copulation, lifting her hips to keep him just inside, and bearing down to draw him into her depths.

The sensation was exquisite, but he knew he should not allow it to intensify to orgasm. He must lie still, enjoy every moment, but simply accept that she was in control, building her climax. He was privileged to be the instrument she was using, and must await patiently whatever she required to achieve her fulfilment.

She had been bracing herself with her hands spread across his chest, but as her excitation arrived at the stage prior to the entry into orgasm, she put a hand to a breast and shook it, to show him what he must next do. Therefore, he put gathered those now distended, stiffened bosoms into his hands and firmly palpated them, trigging the rigid nipples with his thumbs. But this was not quite right, for she shook her head and wrenched her hips sideways. Impatiently. The servitor was not fully performing his function.

He transferred a hand to feel into her wiry nest and took eryaman escort the readily available clitoris between his finger-tips. Which was evidently correct, for she began to move up and down more quickly, leaning back now to give access to those busy fingers. And what almost undid him at that point was the scent, the rich, cunty, salty, spicy, sweaty aroma she was generating. It went straight to the primitive areas of his brain, the age-old rutting centre, and he had to hold himself in check to prevent himself thrusting up into that hot, slippery slot, the passageway the penis is programmed to plunge into.

Thanks to past experience, not least with his London landlady, he was able to hold back, and enter into the woman’s arousal instead of his own. He had the knack of so merging cock and cunt that imaginatively, even sensationally, they became fused, a joint organ, all stops out, blasting forth a vast chord of ecstasy.

Her orgasm gathered slowly and its intensity increased steadily, accompanied by tremors throughout his system, body-quakes, with their epicentre at her core, behind the cervix. He felt it spread up from the clitoris and down the vagina, as if both were transmitting electrical pulses, picked up by his penile skin, capillaries, nerves. His cock seemed to extend, swell, vibrate in tune with the rapid pulsations in her vagina. And this carried him beyond the capacity for ejaculation, as if such a merely male event were too trivial to be entertained, while the true, female orgasmaclysm was the be-all and end-all of the enterprise, of life itself.

She didn’t so much undergo, or experience, the orgasm, as become it. Her whole physiology and psychology simply moved into it, as if it were their proper state of being, and that such a condition were more customary than the ‘normal’ condition.

She rested her bottom on his thighs, her vagina clutching his cock as if sucking it, her breasts slowly decreasing, loosening into flaccidity. She was not breathing much harder than usual, because she hadn’t so much raced to the finish as moved past it into a state of nirvana. And they stayed like that for what he guessed to be half an hour, with her intermittently easing her cheeks up an inch, circling them a few times and settling down again, like a mother bird adjusting herself on her eggs.

Eventually, without comment, she roused herself to stand. She looked down at the recumbent Alan and he stood and went to gather dried vegetation to make a fire and brew tea, as his erection slowly subsided, without his feeling disappointment or frustration. To the contrary, he had a sense of satisfaction, even of triumph.

She sat down on the tarpaulin and drank from the enamel mug, contemplating the horizon. She pointed to the kettle and he refilled it from the jerry-can strapped to the jeep, and put it to boil. She went to the vehicle to retrieve her knickers and threw them to him. He washed them with soap in the hot water in a canvas bucket.

She stood in front of him, and he understood he was to wash her down with the hot water and the soapy knickers, and she turned slowly, raising her arms and parting her legs to give access to every square inch. He then hung the knickers to dry on the spare wheel.

Apparently it was now time to get dressed, as she reached for her bag and drew out some clean knickers. These, too, she threw to him, and he knelt and held them for her to put on her feet. It was tricky to get them back up her legs and over her bottom, since she was still damp, but he managed it, and passed her the robe. She wrapped it round her and secured it while he resumed his pants, shorts, shirt, long socks and boots.

Still without speaking he opened the passenger door and she got in. He kicked out the fire, put away the gear, got in and made ready to resume the journey.

She said, ‘You like the black bottom, Mr Washerman?’

‘As I said before, Madam, beautiful. It was a dance, you know.’

‘Maybe one time soon you will dance.’

Did this mean he might be allowed to offer seminal tribute within that deep romantic chasm, below that forested peak?’

What followed I will convey in my next relaying of Alan’s callipygian adventures.

Endnote 1: my own clitoris does enlarge, and extrudes the tip of its glans, but otherwise remains quite soft. But, of course, the external protrusion is only the visible element of the total organ – the rest lies within the labia, like a wishbone around the vestibule.

Endnote 2: I have, as indicated in other stories, conducted some research into clitorises, but I would be glad to hear from any woman who can write about her own, or other she has come across, ever keen to extend my knowledge, from life rather than websites.

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