... somebody challenged me to write a fragment of erotica -- not really my genre, but here's a try :-) ... "Annabelle"


by Thor May

Nobody met the plane. It was 11pm. Tropical air, thick and warm, not long after rain. Passengers left quickly with waiting friends, Europeans in new cars, the others in old taxis with the boots tied down by bits of string. He looked around the peeling terminal with its grubby, slightly menacing night air of a public building gone suddenly quiet. So this was the beginning, or was it the end?

Even the taxis had fled when she came, perched behind the wheel of a battered, grunting Landcruiser. "Dr McVey?" McVey nodded. "Annabelle Duncan," she said briefly, picking up his bag. He hadn't expected a woman. He hadn't expected much at all. McVey knew he was just a foot soldier from a lost academic tribe, oddballs and outcasts in mouldering 3rd World universities. He'd pitch camp here for a while, until something bad caught up. It always did...

"Here, give me a hand". The last terminal lights went off. She was standing beside him, very close, black as the night, her body richly aromatic, a mix of sensations as exotic as the rolling cadences of African dialect under her Oxford accent. Annabelle ran a playful finger through the curly hairs on his forearm. A tickle ran down his spine. What the hell was going on? He was immediately confused, but immediately prepared to give up on reason too. Damn it, this was a Pacific Island, not central Africa. As far as he could figure it this, uh, Annabelle was trading under the name of the guy who'd given him a job. "Oh yeah," she shrugged telepathically. "..the usual story. He's pissed." Then, almost casually, "we have a bit of time.."

McVey stopped reasoning altogether. His left hand brushed a whisp of hair back from her face. He hadn't asked his hand to do that, but her body melted softly against him immediately, and she explored the inside of his shirt collar. "Annabelle's a bad girl," she murmured, making a quick lick at his ear. Her throaty whisper excited him as much as her touch. Maybe this wasn't the time to chat though.. Annabelle's lips yielded generously. They wrestled playful tongues, and McVey's undisciplined hand found it's way to the zip on the back of her cotton dress.

The whole thing was mad. If he'd stopped to think McVey would have been terrified of a military jeep roaring out of the blackness, brutal retaliation from an outraged mob, or the gang rape of his hostess by passing thugs. He wasn't a hero, and he'd seen too much of places like this .. But this was a crescendo, moist, tropical, lush, urgent. She'd giggled when he fumbled and slid her panties down, then unzipped him and pressed in with a single movement. Her breasts were wondrous, firm, slippery with a light film of perspiration. Annabelle breathed in quickly when he gently rubbed her taut nipples...

It couldn't have been long. It seemed forever. In years to come McVey would think back, get a hard on just thinking back, roll over in bed and only be half sure that Anabelle wasn't a wishful dream from some long forgotten skin flick..

But yeah, of course it had to end. She drove him home to the university in a perfectly matter of fact way, as if nothing amazing had happened. She had a different dream, a different terror, McVey realized far too late. She dropped his case by the step of a shadowy bungalow, made no motion to come inside. Even by the headlights, he could see that the place was half swallowed in a profusion of tropical vegetation. "Well, this is yours," she said, "for now. Sleep well". Without ceremony she walked back to the Landcruiser, then suddenly turned. "They took him away you know. Even the students won't tell me where. There was a coup two days ago."

copyright (c) Thorold May 2004, all rights reserved

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