She looked up at me. I glanced into her eyes for a moment, then let my gaze move down the front of her dress. It was a great angle; I could clearly see the swell of her breasts. As she looked away and bent forward to clean the polish from the floor, I let my eyes wander over the rest of her body. Not that I could see much else with her nicely rounded bottom facing me though. My body began its usual instant response and I moved to ease the discomfort.
I waited until she finished cleaning the mess. In the way of the English, I offered her my arm and helped her to stand. She was about 5'8", not much shorter than me. She was pretty too. Black hair with tight curls, clear dark brown eyes set against her dark skin. She wasn't full black African though; her nose was distinctly European in shape. The name badge on her uniform read 'Thandi'.
"I'm sorry Sir for the mess. I've cleaned it up. I'll come back later to finish the rest of your room," her voice was quiet, a little breathless, eyes not quite meeting mine.
"Yes, I'd like to see you later. About 8 o'clock, okay?" Realising I hadn't let her hand go, I pulled her toward me before she could answer and kissed her full lips. She moved away a little in surprise. I saw she understood what I wanted from her though. My desire was reflected in her eyes. She nodded in agreement. I watched her gather her cleaning equipment and walk gracefully out the door.
I opened the door to her at 8. She walked into the room and straight into my arms. There was no hesitation. We both wanted to know the other intimately; wasting no time we walked hand in hand to the bedroom. I undressed her slowly; my eyes travelled the full length of her well-proportioned naked body as she lay on the bed. My desire for her was obvious as I undressed.
Even with my tanned body I still looked pale as I lay beside her. My white hand held her dark breast with its hard nipple. It looked and felt so perfect to hold her. To kiss her was like sinking into a warm eclair. Closing my eyes she filled my senses, arousing me to aching need. I knew she felt pain as I entered her hot tight body. I tasted the salty tears as I kissed her face. Our lovemaking lasted the whole night. Her natural delight in the pleasure I gave her was arousing in itself. It seemed we would never have enough of each other. In the hours of the morning, we slept contentedly, our legs entwined.
I awoke as the sun hit my face. Reaching across the bed I found it empty. Her clothes had gone from the chair. She'd left the hotel. The feeling of being alone yet again washed over me. I quashed it down.
I showered, drank coffee and thought about her. In a way she'd reminded me of the last virgin I took. Almost twenty years ago to the day and not more than 20 minutes drive from where I was staying right now.
I'd met her accidentally. I'd left my motorbike at the hotel deciding to take a bus to the city instead. I'd been waiting at the bus stop when she came in to shelter from the rain. I hadn't seen the 'Black Only' sign.
I'd read a little about the segregation in South Africa, but hadn't experienced much at first hand, having basically kept to my hotel room since I'd arrived three days earlier. In no uncertain terms she had told me I shouldn't be there, I'd chosen the wrong bus stop. It hadn't taken long for us to begin chatting though. We kept contact with each other in the two weeks I was in her country, meeting in secrecy every day. Back then, it wasn't the done thing for a coloured girl to spend time with a white man. We couldn't eat together publicly either. Apartheid reared its ugly head even in restaurants.
So, we met usually at night in my hotel room. The inevitable happened. Her intelligence had drawn me initially, while her beauty held me. We made love on my bed. The first time my entry had been painful for her, but she'd welcomed my loving, had even begged for more.
My return ticket that time only had two weeks left. We spent every moment of every night together. Parting was difficult for us both. I couldn't take her with me, she knew she couldn't leave her own country. We'd agreed to end our contact, to not write or phone. Now, twenty years later, I found myself wondering where she was. Wondering if she was married, if she had a family of her own.
I had no family; my parents had died in a car accident over thirty years ago. I preferred the nomadic lifestyle I'd been free to live ever since. Though England was my home, I'd managed to work and travel almost every continent intermittently. I didn't have the urge to settle. In fact, I was happier when I was living out of my backpack.