From Africa With Love

Miriam was Nigerian but had lived in London since she was eighteen. Now she was around fifty*and a secondary school teacher. She had a son but had never married, and what made that remarkable was that she was deeply religious, to the point of having had grave reservations about having sex with me because we weren?t married.We had met online through a dating site that was very proud of its squeaky-clean reputation and therefore attracted people like us: women with no racy past and no intention of acquiring one through a racy present and men prepared to play the waiting game in the belief that even the starchiest of human beings has needs and desires. She was a calm, motherly character but had a gentle sense of humor that hinted at a more fun person underneath.Because I lived on the other side of the country, when I visited her, I had to stay at a guest house half a mile from her tiny house in Beckenham, and I used to go round at lunchtime and stay until after dinner. We would go for walks and pass whole innocent afternoons together, and her neighbors, whom she was very anxious not to excite, would have had little to report to the church elders, even if they or anyone else was interested.I was just this respectable middle-aged white man who called on the black spinster and took her out, doing nothing more outrageous than holding hands.But of course, as Charlie Rich said in that old country song, no istanbul travesti one knows what goes on behind closed doors.Miriam and I overcame her shyness one afternoon at the bottom of the stairs. The house was ridiculously small. It was a semi-detached place in gold brick on a quite new development where the people who owned the land must have done the planning, worked out the numbers and then figured out that they could make even more money if they just squeezed the size of the units.So the space at the foot of the stairs by the back door was very tight indeed, and one day we found ourselves there, she heading up and I coming down after using the bathroom. It was the third day, so I was just over halfway through my little visit and the clock had started to tick more loudly.Thrust together by an unscrupulous architect, we stood belly to belly and it was one of those moments when the air seems to crackle with sexual electricity. I could tell she felt it too because she gave*me a slightly nervous look but didn?t budge.We looked into each other?s eyes, unable or unwilling to break the spell, and I put my arms around her. We fell into a hug and for a terrible moment, I thought that was all it was going to be. But I converted the hug into a cuddle, rubbing her back with both hands and as she relaxed, her chest fell against my ribcage.I leaned down and we kissed, gently istanbul travesti and sweetly, lips to lips, before I moved a hand up to her neck and stroked her. Then her lips parted and my tongue met hers. Everything changed, as if we had entered another realm.She was wearing a strange sort of wrap-around skirt that was almost transparent at one thickness but became opaque when doubled, as it was.I fumbled with her breasts through her white shirt but something told me the skirt would be easier, so I found the button and started to unwrap her. To my relief and surprise, she didn?t object and soon the garment was on the floor and she was standing there half-undressed with a human wolf aiming to devour her.?Shall we go upstairs?? I asked as pleasantly as I could. She looked deeper into my eyes.?Okay.?She picked up her skirt and followed me.Her room was immaculate and very feminine. It was a room just for sleeping in. As she had only lived there for*five years, I concluded that those four walls had never seen any sex. Maybe she had permitted herself a little hand-induced orgasm from time to time. But again, you just don?t know. She wasn?t fighting me off and she was well aware of my intentions.I unbuttoned her shirt and unhooked her bra and she stood there bravely with just her standard-issue smooth black Marks