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Indy and Tom

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A tale of friendship, love and interracial desire.

I first met Indy when I Iived in Tobago. That's the only place anyone could have met her, in fact, because she was a local girl who hadn't been around much. She hadn't been around much in any sense, really, because she was twenty and married.

Indy was very slim, but not skinny. It was her width that made her slender: narrow shoulders and hips. She was shapely enough from other angles, but when you put your arms around her it was like hugging a cigar, albeit a cigar with breasts.

Like all West Indian nations, Tobago and its big brother, Trinidad, was populated mainly by people of African origin, but after slavery was abolished and the plantation owners couldn't make the figures add up once wages were introduced, they brought in "Indentured" labour from India, which is to say they weren't quite slaves but were paid pitifully small amounts.

And so, to this day, there is an Indian community which is, bizarrely and shamefully, looked down upon by the black population in general, although there is no overt tension. In its way it's a cosmopolitan society, with a fair few Chinese in the mix, doing what they do: setting up shops and making a living through sheer hard work.

And there is a small percentage of white people too. Ten years ago that included me, and that was the early part of my Caribbean experience, when I was still coming to terms with being regarded with suspicion and resentment because of my colour.

I did my best to integrate, but I can't say I was welcomed with open arms. That's what made it so striking when I walked into a cafe one day and a girl's voice said boldly, "Hi Vic." Yes, she had remembered my name and wasn't afraid to say it out loud.

That was Indy. She was married to a British man named Tom, a quiet, introverted boy who was born middle-aged.  I found out later that that was what had attracted Indy to him in the first place. She was from a private, respectable Hindu family and she wanted to start one of her own, so she needed a private, respectable husband.

She also, I quickly came to understand, regarded me in that light, so she was happy when the three of us became friends. Tom and I shared a love of cricket, which the British had taken with them around the world, with the West Indies a long-established and occasionally dominant force in the game.

Indy was what they call a brown-skin Indian - dark and exotic - and with slightly protuberant eyes which gave her a doll-like appearance. She was relentlessly cheerful, indefatigably decent and almost too sweet to fancy. Almost. While it was my earnest desire to please her and be the best version of myself for her, I also longed to wrap my arms around her delicate frame, feel those breasts against my chest and run my tongue down her taut brown belly and between her labia, tasting the essence of some Hindu goddess.

But she and Tom were a happy couple and both good friends of mine, so it was one of those relationships in which two men are in love with the woman but one can have no part of her, nor confess his devotion. There's a great song about this by the British band Prefab Sprout. It's called Talking Scarlet, and I found myself listening to it a lot and even putting it on when Indy and Tom came to my place, but not drawing attention to it, just silently identifying with the story as it spoke of harbouring thoughts of kissing her neck and so on.

They were both career-oriented, Indy an accountant and Tom in the oil industry.

I left Tobago eventually and lived on other islands in the region, enjoying the lush delights of some lovely, buxom (they use the word "thick") Caribbean girls. Somehow we lost touch, because it was just before Facebook and presumably when it did arrive they regarded it as a frivolous activity for teenagers. I would occasionally find myself thinking about Indy and fantasising about being alone with her in very different circumstances.

And then one day about ten years later, I saw an advertisement for the Caribbean Association of Chartered Accountants Conference at a local hotel. So I went, at lunchtime, intending to hang around and have some drinks in the bar and just look at the dorks in their suits and the sleek, businesslike women in their pencil skirts.

As I sat in a deep, comfortable chair, reading the sports news on my phone, I suddenly became aware of a fragrant presence beside me. And there she was: Indy, in all her glory, a little fuller in the figure but immaculate, pristine and beaming with those perfect white teeth.

I stood up so fast I nearly knocked the table over. We embraced and drew back to look at each other, then clung together again and it was all, "How have you been?" and, "You look fantastic," and then we sat down, both leaning forward so our heads were as close as our knees.

"How's Tom?" I asked and the mood broke like a sudden squall. Tears filled her eyes and her voice went up to a squeak.

"He died, Vic," and I pulled her close and hugged her like father and daughter.

A freak accident on an oil rig, four years earlier. Traumatised, she had flung herself into her work and was now a partner in an international firm and giving a talk the next day.

She went back to her conference and I went to the beach, and we met for dinner at the hotel. There were more tears but there was joy too and it was revealing to find a closeness that had been suppressed when Tom was alive.

I enjoyed those breasts against my chest and I loved the smell of her and longed to look up her skirt - I'm sorry, but that's the truth - but we parted early, as she had to be in good condition for her talk. I went home and she went to bed.

The next day I managed to slip in quietly at the back of the room and watched Indy delivering her insightful, inspirational words. I realised I had been in love with her all that time. Not just in lust; I admired her, I adored her and yes, I wanted to fuck her and enjoy every inch of her body.

The afternoon was free for sightseeing, so I picked her up at two and took her to my favorite beach, one of the less popular ones which was quiet and atmospheric. We lay on our sunloungers and talked for hours, punctuated by swims and beers.

And then eventually our eyes locked in mutual adoration and we both flung our gaze aside in shame. We went to my apartment and I made us a big salad while she knocked up a fabulous dressing that included passionfruit. Afterwards, we sat together on the sofa and I gently took her hand. The air was thick with conflicting emotions.

"I kind of feel bad about this," I stumbled, "but I really... want to..." and she threw me a lifeline.

"God, Vic, so do I."

I looked deep into her eyes and she gave a barely perceptible nod. We collapsed into each other's arms and kissed with years of pent-up emotion. I felt her breasts and put my hand on her leg but she shook her head.

"Not like this," she said. "We're already a couple. Give me two minutes."

She walked into the bedroom and I waited as instructed. When I got in there she was in bed, under the sheet, her clothes stowed neatly in the closet. I undressed as unobtrusively as I could and she pretended not to watch me.

As I slid in beside her my erection was flagrantly violating any pretence of a controlled exchange of affection. I flung myself on top of her and we kissed deeply as she held my cock and stroked it urgently.

"I'm going to suck you, Vic," she whispered, and slid down to take me in her mouth, feeling my balls and crotch.

"I've always wanted you to do that," I said hesitantly, "but..."

"I know," she said. "You were great. You respected the situation. And so did I, I hope you'll agree. But now it's okay. We can do whatever we want and it's okay."

To emphasise her point she licked me from the base of my cock to the tip and sucked hard, as if trying to elicit some semen as a sort of advance.

"We can do anything," she repeated

"I always wanted to..." I began, and she hushed me.

"Just do it," she said softly. "Anything."

I went down on her. I licked her all the way down her chest and belly, through her trimmed bush and into her cunt. I slurped at her juices. I sucked her lips. Then I turned her over and licked her ass.

"Wow," she said happily.

"I have always wanted to do that to you," I said. "You like it?"

"It's beautiful," she said. "It's just beautiful."

"I want to make you cum like this," I said.

"I think you can," she replied, adjusting her knees to give me the best position, her ass completely accessible for my eager tongue. She turned to jelly when she came, then pulled herself together and went down on me again.

"I want you to cum in my mouth," she whispered, jerking me skilfully, and after a blissful minute of being serviced, I came, pumping my spunk into this wonderful woman's mouth."

We lay together afterwards and she stroked my chest.

"We can do things all night," she said. "Just promise me one thing.

I grunted my assent.

"Don't tell me you love me tonight," she said. "Just show me."

This story is protected by International Copyright Law, by the author, all rights reserved. If found posted anywhere other than with this note attached, it has been posted without my permission.

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