I left Ascencion Island early and headed north. It’s funny but I felt different flying this day. I was still flying across the Atlantic for a thousand miles but knowing I was flying to a continent made all the difference psychologically. In reality, I was doing the exact same thing, following a little red line on a GPS for hours. But in my mind, I knew I wasn’t trying to find a spot of land in the middle of water, I was flying to a continent that stretched for a thousand miles. Even if I missed my target, I could turn and fly for another thousand miles before I would run out of gas. I would hit some airport. The idea that even if every electronic instrument failed I could find land and an airport made the flight just seem different, less stressful.
Exactly as predicted, I flew along the track and almost three hours in I started to see the coast of Africa ahead. After landing, since the airport has an aero club, I asked for taxi directions to the flying club. That put me away from some of the large jets. Several people came out from the club and admired my plane. One fellow spoke English and we talked as he translated about the plane and my trip. They all expressed congratulations for making it to Africa and good luck for the rest of the trip.
A former French colony, Abidjan hasn’t had all the upheavals of much of West Africa. Abidjan has been called the Paris of Africa. That’s not bad. Unlike Lagos which is the center of the Nigerian Internet scam, the Ivory Coast is considered safe for visitors, which is why I chose it for the landing in Africa. I got a cab to the hotel and checked in. I asked one concierge about the city and he told me that in an Ebrié legend, the name Abidjan (formerly Abijean) came from a misunderstanding. An old man, returning from his field with an armful of branches that he probably intended to use to repair the roof of his house, happened to encounter a lost European explorer who asked him the name of the nearest village. Unable to speak the white man's language, the old man believed he had been asked what he was doing there. Fleeing in terror from this unexpected encounter, the old man shouted: "tchan me bidjan" which in the Ebrié language means "I've just been cutting branches!" The white man took this to be the answer to his question and conscientiously noted the name "Abidjan".
The concierge had a recommendation for a good French restaurant. One of the things the French left behind in all for their colonies when they got kicked out was a legacy of good cooking. It was a typical Lyon style restaurant and was as good as the places I ate at in Lyon. It also had a great wine list, all French of course. The city is a blend of people in the latest Parisian fashions and African tribal clothes.
After dinner, I went to the hotel bar. There were several African women sitting together at a table. I pulled up a chair at a table next to them. Of course, I didn’t understand a word. I noticed one woman, dressed in Parisian clothes, looking my way occasionally. I waited till I could catch her eye and smiled. “Do you speak English?” I asked.
She nodded, “Yes, not well.”
I have noticed this as I travel. Many people speak English better than half of the writers on ASSTR use the language, but they always say, ‘Not well.’ It is as if they don’t want to appear cocky or something.
I asked her about the city and we started talking. Pretty soon, all the leaning back and forth was a trouble so I invited her to sit with me. Then I bought her a drink. We introduced ourselves, her name was Chipo. Her friends gradually left for the evening. I asked her if there was much nightlife nearby and she mentioned a club. I offered and she accepted and so I wound up in a Parisian nightclub in Africa. We danced and drank wine, a nice Loire as I remember. I was feeling a little tired from the heat and the dancing, and the wine didn’t help. Chipo said she would walk me back to the hotel, which turned out to be just a few blocks away. I was totally turned around.
She came up to the room with me. I admit to not knowing what to expect. Most North African societies are very conservative when it comes to women, the cultures being heavily influenced by the Muslim religion. When I opened the door I invited her in and she accepted. I didn’t presume since I wasn’t sure what was expected or allowed. I certainly didn’t need to be accused of rape in a strange land.
She went over to the windows and looked out over the harbor. I joined her. “Are you afraid of me?” she asked.
I smiled, “No. I don’t know your culture. I don’t want to do something wrong or unwanted.”
“In your country, if a woman accompanied you to your room, what would you be thinking?”
“In my country,” I said, “I would be thinking that we would soon be in bed.”
“Do you think African women are so different than other women?” she asked a twinkle in her eye.
That answered that. I smiled, said, “No,” as I leaned forward and kissed her.
Something I have learned is that women the world over are the same. I remember when I was very young and naïve, a friend told me that oriental women’s pussies go the other way. I was stupid enough to accept that then without realizing how anatomically impossible that would have been. Now that I have had many different women in bed I have learned how alike all women are, not just anatomically but more importantly, in what they want and like. You have to remember, we are all cousins.
I took Chipo into my arms and we kissed. Kissing is a universal language. She rubbed her thigh against my erection. I pushed my thigh between her legs and we both ground against each other in another universal language for, ‘Let’s fuck.’ Soon those fine Parisian clothes were littering the floor along with my stuff. We sidled, while still rubbing, over to the bed.
Once against the bed, I broke the kiss and helped her onto the big hotel bed. I just love big hotel beds, all the better for bed gymnastics. This one had room for as athletic sex as one could want. She lay there on the bed naked, her legs spread and looking as desirable as a women could look. I went around so I was looking down over her, climbed onto the bed and over her in the classic sixty nine. I hoped that, being a former French colony, French style would be popular. It is with me.
I was in luck. She grabbed my erection and started sucking as I dove into her pussy. Her lips were magic and she used her tongue and hand in spectacular fashion. I love to eat pussy and it takes a lot to distract me. Chipo had that something. I was soon caught up in what she was doing more than I was in what I was doing. I never stopped but it was difficult to concentrate as she sucked and licked on my erection.
Soon, I felt the familiar rumbling and contractions, I attacked her clitoris as it built, then I knew it was about to happen. I tried to pull back and give her warning, but she grabbed my ass and pulled me back sucking even harder. I let it go as blast after blast of cum burst from my cock. She sucked all the way through the contractions never taking her mouth from my cock. As I ended, she carefully kept sucking but left the sensitive head alone, concentrating on the shaft. I got a little soft but her gentle sucking kept me from losing it.
I went back to work on her pussy, determined to give as good as I got. I sucked, licked, and kissed, as her hips bounced around under me. I had to grab on to ride her hips as her own climax erupted, her hips bouncing as she climaxed.
When she fell back, I rolled off her and came around between her spread legs. Her pussy was a swamp of cum and spit, the slick lips open and red. I lined up my cock. Her hand grabbed it and rubbed it around though it was already wet with her spit, then she pulled it to the goal and I pushed sliding deep into her cauldron of love. As soon as I bottomed out she grabbed my arms for leverage and we were off to the climax races, fucking like little bunnies.
This was a high energy fuck as she urged me on faster and faster. I made sure I kept the strokes deep and full even as we went faster, thrusting hard and fully. Chipo grunted and moaned as she pushed back against me driving me to my climax as she urged me to give her a climax.
Her hands grabbed my ass, digging in as she reached her crest, moaning and crying out. I felt her muscles rippling along my cock which brought out my climax as I blasted away into her tight sheath. We slowed and stopped, my cock buried in her. She said something, I assume in her own language which I didn’t recognize. She opened her eyes and saw me, and smiled. “Sorry, I said that was wonderful.”
I smiled, “Yes, it was.” I bent down and kissed her as I rolled to the side. We snuggled until we had both recovered. She got out of bed and cleaned up. When she came out of the bath I got up. “You leave tomorrow?”
I nodded.
She looked a little sad, “Oh, I must go.”
I took her hands in mine and kissed her. She smiled, but quickly dressed. She opened the door and stopped, looking back with some sadness in her eyes. “I am sorry you have to go. Perhaps someday you can stay.”
I went to her and took her face in my hands kissing her softly. “I promise, I will come back.”
She kissed me, then was gone the door closing quietly behind her.
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Copyright Rod O'Steele © 2009