Don’t Mess with Maala


My name is Caelan Foley, I’ve always been lucky in an unlucky sort of way. For example I met my ex wife when I wentamazonmaalacoverT over to her mansion to do some carpentry work. She’d been divorced for three months and although she had received a huge financial settlement and the house from her ex, she was miserable.

Now – I hate to see anyone crying and I tried to comfort her, this led to me putting my arms around her, which led to me kissing her that led to an incredibly good fuck, and to cut a long story short we got married. We were actually happy together for a while. I didn’t have to work anymore and spent most of my time painting pictures, which was my passion, and she socialized.

Unfortunately her socializing often involved meeting up with handsome men and one day she decided that I was yesterday’s news and an Italian Count encouraged her to marry him and move to his castle in Lombardy. I quickly overcame my anguish when my wife offered me $2,000,000 for a quick divorce.

I was relieved in a way because I was not really fond of her snooty friends and it gave me the freedom to wander the world and paint. In spite of planning to go to everywhere from Australia to Zambia I ended up in St. Tropez in the south of France, it’s the kind of place that’s difficult to part company with once you’ve settled in.

I’d been there about three months when I met Aicha. I was looking for a place to sit at a sidewalk cafe when I saw a vacant chair at a table occupied by this gorgeous black girl. She smiled when I asked if I could join her and that darn smile had me hooked.

We got into conversation and I was surprised to find she was a member of some kind of spiritual group that lived on an island some twenty minutes off the coast called the Île du Soleil. The inhabitants were all women and she was the cook.

“Being a cook enables me to come into St. Tropez once a week to pick up a few things we need,” she said, “We are pretty self sufficient but there all always a few worldly goods we can’t produce.”

I was really intrigued and asked her, if there was any chance I could visit the island and do a little painting.

“I’m afraid men are not allowed,” she laughed, “Even the fisherman that runs me back and forth is not allowed to set one foot outside his leaky old boat.”

“Perhaps I could buy you a coffee – or even lunch next time you’re out here,” I spluttered, as she got up to leave. Amazingly she said,
“OK – I’ll see you next week,” and with that she sashayed down the street with her beautiful ass moving sensuously under that plain cotton dress. I kept watching her until she disappeared into the distance and then I sighed with disappointment.

Arranging another meeting had been so easy I couldn’t believe my luck. However, after mulling it over in my mind I came to the conclusion that being cooped up on an isolated island with a bunch of women probably made her crave a little male company, and maybe – just maybe, she craved a little more than that.

As crazy as it seems I could hardly get any work done for thinking about her. I couldn’t get her smile, her eyes or her ass out of my mind, and seven days never passed so slowly.

When Saturday eventually arrived I got to the restaurant half an hour early. I could see the quay and I watched every boat that pulled in hoping it was her. Almost an hour later I was still sitting there with my heart in my boots. But then I saw this old tub docking and out jumped Aicha.

She was wearing the same gold metal band around her head as she was the last time we met. When I asked her if it had some religious significance she went strangely quiet. During lunch she did tell me that her last name was Callimachi and she was from the Ivory Coast, in Africa, but that was about all.

The problem was I had become fascinated by her, which was kind of frustrating because I figured if she was like a nun or something; the likelihood of this going any further was remote. However, when I mentioned that I was a painter, she became very interested in me and said she’d like to see my work.

After I’d paid for lunch I escorted her through narrow streets of historic St. Tropez to my apartment/studio. She picked up several paintings and admired them but I had the feeling that she was more interested in me. When I happen to lean over her shoulder to explain something she’d spotted in one of the pictures she turned her head and our lips met. I couldn’t really believe what was happening next as she put the painting on the table, draped her arms around my neck and explored my mouth with her tongue.

I had no idea how far she was prepared to go but when her hand rubbed gently over my dick, which was bulging out of my pants, I had a good idea. Unbuttoning that simple cotton dress she was wearing, I lifted up her lacy bra and started to fondle her tits. She took a deep breath and crushed her lips against mine until it hurt.

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Copyright 2016 Cristiano Caffieri

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