A new country. A new language. New people. It is claimed everyone is really the same all over the world, or some such nonsense. It may be true in that everyone likes to eat, drink, and fuck, even if tastes in any one or all of those activities varies from place to place. That isn’t really saying much. I remember, when I first came to this country as an exchange student in high school, how one day it dawned on me they didn’t know Mother Goose. Or Brothers Grimm. Oh, they may have heard about them or about some of the stories. Walt Disney did a pretty good job of spreading his mild milk-bread versions of what originally were pretty tough stories, but it’s unlikely my fellow horny friends had ever read anything resembling an original or accurate translation.

They had their own children’s stories and fables, but I must admit I never learned what they were. It didn’t matter. We were focused on more immediate things, and I don’t mean our studies.

It gets hot here early. The very early mornings are pleasant, from just before sunrise until almost mid-morning, perhaps. There’s a softness to the air, a languor that infests everything. I said “infests,” I don’t know why I’m referring to it as a disease, but I am. I guess because it slows everything and everyone down. That’s not a knock on how hard people work, at least those working outdoors, but it seems to affect everyone else. Is there a rush? Not that I know of. In fact, it makes me horny. Everyone else, as well. I know I sound like I’ve got a one-track mind. Funny thing is, everyone else seemed to be on that same track.

I looked at my locally hired staff, many of them women. At least two of them all but came out and said, “Fuck me now, please.” I’d take them up on it, except that it’s not good for discipline. I mean, how do you supervise someone who’s sucked your cock and swallowed the night before? Or even at lunch earlier? Or some guy, for that matter, depending on your personal taste. What you taste like, of course, is something else.

And then there was Debbie. Deborah. Lush doesn’t begin to describe her. She was new to the Service, this was her second post, I think, and she’d married not long ago a guy at least ten or fifteen years older. A blowhard. As he put it, “Everyone has a right to hear my opinions.” Well, yes. Just not as frequently as you’d like to share them, thank you very much. Debbie wasn’t as blatant about it as a couple of our staffers, but she wore dresses, almost always dresses, that apparently she made herself. I liked them. Bare arms, kind of a scooped neck or whatever it’s called, and the swells of what I learned were very firm and bouncy breasts, barely constrained by a bra that looked to be made of something very wispy.

When it happened, it happened fast.

“Come outside with me, Michael.”

It was late, the party was beginning to wind down, and my wife and I were hoping the remaining guests would abandon any hope of staying on until breakfast. Funny thing, in the years since then I’ve always regretted having told everyone to forget about breakfast. I wish I hadn’t. I wish everyone had stayed through until dawn.

Anyway, Debbie and I were off in a corner. She’d had enough to drink to make her relaxed and happy, but nowhere near too much or sloppy drunk or anything like that.

“C’mon, Michael, let’s blow this place.”

I must have looked dubious, for her laughter was instant and almost loud enough to attract unwanted attention. I glanced around quickly, ever the coward even in my lust and even in the presence of a willing woman and even, dare I say it, married to a woman who enjoyed little extra pleasures as much as I do, and ones that we often indulged together. I didn’t know whether Debbie knew that or even if she cared. Probably not.

I leaned in and kissed her, my hand far enough down her back for her to know I meant business.

“Lead on, Debbie.”

She took my hand and led me out onto our patio and over to a bench, the one we have to the side and surrounded by bushes and a tree on three sides. It’s a quiet place, cool except during the hottest part of the day, and not readily visible from inside the house. This was a little feature my wife and I had enjoyed more than once. And I mean enjoyed both ways, making use of it ourselves sometimes, and on other occasions enjoying the view from an upper bedroom window, since the shrubs didn’t actually impede the view from above. That bench got plenty of pretty inventive use, but as one might expect bending one party over the bench and ploughing him or her from behind was the usual. Followed very closely by standing between the parted thighs of the seated partner and offering him or her something delicious to suck on and kiss.

That night, though, once she had me outside and away from the party and, she thought, my wife, Debbie wasn’t in a big hurry. She kissed me. I felt her lips first on the side of my neck, moist but not wet, and very warm. She worked her way up from my collarbone without hurry, and she stopped every second or third kiss to inhale me, inhale my skin. That’s what it felt like. I’m sure she took in sweat as well as a bit of my after-shave, but whatever the combination was she liked it. Her little murmurs of happiness and “Emm hmms” said so. Eventually she moved up along my jawline and finally found my lips. I smelled her, then, her own combination of perfume, shampoo and sweat as well. I liked it, and I’m pretty sure my erection plastered against her told her the story in case she had any doubts.