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?
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...
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.."
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
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...
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..
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."