Caribbean Tales: Emma's Initiation Pt. 03

I had come to Jamaica in May, hoping to find myself a cocoon of quiet solitude in which to write my symphony. In my native France, I was bogged down with business (and excessive romance.) My friend Sebastien had found for me what seemed to be the ideal solution, a sojourn to a little guest house hideaway in the back yard of his friend, Mrs. Hewitt. It was located in the Sherbourne Heights neighborhood of Stony Hill, a suburb of Kingston, surrounded by fruit trees and remote from everything else. But as I chronicled in Emma's Initiation, I soon got myself caught up in yet another liaison, with a sweet, virginal young violinist named Emma who lived in the house on the adjoining property. She apparently was receiving encouragement in her tryst with me from both Mrs. Hewitt and from Emma's young clarinetist colleague from the United States, Natalie. And things got even more complicated one night, when the adventurous Natalie somehow managed to join us in a menage a trois. And all this, when the completion of my symphony seemed within my grasp.

These were some of the thoughts that teemed in my mind as I was waking up the next morning. Emma had been so innocent when I first met her, practicing her violin in her back yard, adjacent to Mrs. Hewitt's. She was preparing for an important audition that would determine whether she would be admitted to a conservatory in my homeland. We were both serious, disciplined musicians, and a friendship between us seemed like a natural and mutually beneficial step. Of course, things went rapidly out of control before long; when Emma expressed her desire for me, I couldn't resist, and Emma's innocence fell by the wayside. I was hoping that she was emotionally stable enough to handle her rapid introduction to the arts of love without it compromising her musical efforts. Her precocious friend Natalie, who evidently was quite worldly despite her own youthfulness, was spurring her onward. I hoped that Emma was not as distracted as I was.

I crawled out of bed, dressed myself, and traipsed gingerly into the main room of the little guest house. We had consumed liberal amounts of rum the night before, and I was feeling the aftermath. It was still early morning, but the summer heat was already coming on, and looking out the window, I could see the tropical birds chasing one another from tree to tree. They were making quite an infernal racket as they did so, but after spending a month or more in Jamaica I was quite accustomed to it, I would probably only notice if it stopped.

I stumbled into the little kitchenette and made myself some strong coffee. The finale of my symphony was spread out on the table where I had left it the previous day. I seated myself in front of it, and contemplated what I had written. After all the wild goings-on of the previous evening, it was a relief to apply myself to my work. I saw that some of what I had written was extraneous to the core ideas which I wished to present, and I set about to prune it away. Time passed; I don't know exactly how much, but the fact that I had not eaten began to dawn on me. I got up from the table and walked to the kitchen cupboard, but just then the door to the guest house opened and Mrs. Hewitt came in with my breakfast.

Mrs. Hewitt's long gray hair had been released from its usual tight coil atop her head, and was hanging in a fluffy ponytail. She wore a colorful print blouse and a long skirt, and she presented me with a generous plate of ackee, saltfish and callaloo. On this particular morning, she invited herself to join me, taking a seat opposite to me at the little table and serving herself a modest portion.

She flashed me a wry smile and began to eat without speaking. The notion suddenly blossomed in my mind that perhaps she knew what had transpired here on the previous evening. She often surprised me with how much she knew about the lives of the people around her, and from what she had told me in the occasional earlier discussion, she was clearly a woman of the world. But I certainly was not prepared to risk bringing it up. I smiled back as innocently as I could, and began to tackle my own saltfish.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Hewitt was finishing hers. "Emma seems quite lively lately," she said with a smile.

I tried to strike a balance between excessive caution and excessive enthusiasm. "Yes, she does."

"How is your symphony coming along?"

That was a safe topic. "I'm ironing some bugs out of the finale. When I'm done with that, it's finished."

"That's wonderful," Mrs. Hewitt replied. "I shall miss you when you leave! You know, Emma's audition is coming next week."

"Yes, I knew it was sometime soon. I hope she gets admitted to the conservatory."

"I do, too. She's very talented, and it would be good for her to get out of Jamaica and see some of the world." Here Mrs. Hewitt rose and began to gather up the dishes. "I wish the best of luck to the both of you."

Just then there came a gentle rapping at the door, and it opened just wide enough to allow Emma's dark face to peep inside. She greeted us both shyly, and then Mrs. Hewitt excused herself with what I thought might have been a hint of a smirk.

Emma seemed ill at ease, but I could also see that she had taken special care in her appearance this morning. She had her hair done up in the familiar topknot, but with an elegant fuschia-colored brocade band holding it in place. She was wearing a tight lavender blouse that made her full breasts look especially delectable. I thought that she might be wearing eye shadow -- it was very subtle, and normally Emma wore no makeup. Her light blue denim shorts called attention to her lovely dark thighs.

She looked at me hesitantly, and then embraced me. With her head against my chest, she spoke: "That was a pretty crazy night last night, wasn't it, Georges?"

"Well, we did drink quite a bit of rum," I said, trying to sound reassuring.

Emma squeezed me a little tighter. "Georges -- do you think I'm a lesbian?"

"Well, I doubt it. Young people always experiment a little, especially when they are bourré. There's nothing wrong with being a lesbian or bisexual -- some men find it exciting. But I wouldn't worry."

"Natalie says she is bisexual."

"I think Natalie likes just about any kind of sexual."

Emma gave me another fierce squeeze. "I do too! Except I wouldn't want to be a lesbian. In Jamaica we don't do that."

I wrapped my arms around her to reassure her. That wasn't how she wanted to be reassured. She pushed her arms out to free herself, and then seized my wrist, placing my hand over the crotch of her shorts. With her other hand, she took my shoulder and pulled me down to kiss her.

Emma was becoming a very good kisser. I savored the feel of her full, plump lips against mine, as she opened them wide to allow our tongues to dance. She rubbed her denim-clad crotch restlessly against my hand. She broke off the kiss to whisper urgently, "put your hand inside." I tried to slip my hand inside her jeans, but they were too tight. I used both hands to unsnap and unzip her shorts, pushing them down to her knees, and then I resumed kissing her as I stroked her cunt through her panties. She was finding this more to her liking, and I was quite aroused myself. I sucked her tongue, and slipped one finger under the elastic of her pantie crotch, running it along her pussy lips. They were thoroughly wet. She pushed her tongue further into my mouth, groaning her approval.

I slid first one, and then two fingers inside her. Emma whispered to me, "yes, Georges, that's what I want." Then she pressed her mouth once again to mine, and we resumed our slow, wet, hot kiss, as my fingers swirled in the cauldron of her pussy juices. She whispered again, "Georges, I still have most of my clothes on... and you have all of yours. I think that's naughty and sexy, don't you?" "Yes," I hissed in response, as I pulled my juice-covered fingers out and used them to massage her clit. Emma moaned. "Georges, I want you to make me have an orgasm, just like this!" "You do?" I said teasingly, rubbing her clit a little more slowly. "Yes, yes, kiss me some more!" I did.

Her kiss was more and more erotic, as I savored the feeling of her plump moist cunt against my fingers. My cock was rock hard and trapped within my pants, but the novelty of our being mostly dressed seemed to excite her. She began to make urgent noises deep in her throat as we kissed, and then I knew she was cumming. I let her catch her breath, and then I took it a step further.

Still fully clothed myself, I pulled down Emma's shorts and panties. Then I lay on my back on a throw rug on the floor and pulled her toward me. She was confused for a moment, and then she grasped my intention. "Oh!" she cried, and then lowered her cunt to my mouth. With mounting excitement, I watched it approach. Her lips were swollen and fleshy and very dark, but I caught a glimpse of pink between them. Her big clit was wreathed in a forest of hair, and then I was sucking it, as Emma knelt above my face and voluptuously rubbed her cunt against it. The taste and texture of her cunt were thrilling, and from the sounds she made I could tell she was about to cum again.

Suddenly she turned around and began frantically tugging at my belt buckle, struggling to get it undone, as I struggled with equal urgency to get her cunt back to my mouth, where I so badly wanted it. I groaned as I brought it back to my face and thrust my tongue inside her, just as she managed to undo my pants and push them down to my knees. I felt my cock spring from its confinement, and seconds later Emma began to devour it with her mouth. We sucked each other passionately, and within a minute it was clear that we were both about to cum. This time, I felt no hesitation; I knew that Emma wanted my cum in her mouth, which I found tremendously exciting. We continued our oral lovemaking with yet greater urgency, and then I felt myself erupting into Emma's mouth as she moaned and came into mine.

After a moment or two, Emma rolled off me on to the rug. I turned myself 180 degrees so that I might lie beside her, and I said softly, "You know, Emma, I think that Jamaican polite society might frown on what we just did." She giggled, and replied, "Then it must be our little secret."

Lying on the floor was now becoming uncomfortable, so we arose and put our pants back on. Emma suggested that we take a walk outside in Mrs. Hewitt's yard. The sun was now fully up and it was quite hot outside, although the breeze coming from the Caribbean provided some relief. As we walked among the fruit trees and admired the birds and the butterflies, Emma began to speak.

"Georges, my audition is next week. I'm going to be very busy working with my teacher and practicing my violin. I need you to do me a big favor."

"Certainly, Emma. What would you like me to do?"

"I need you to pick a dress for me to wear."

I was skeptical. "Emma, just because I'm from France doesn't mean I know much about ladies' fashion. How will I choose the right size and style?"

"Natalie can go with you. She knows what I like, and she's the same size as me."

Natalie had behaved toward me in a manner that was aggressively flirtatious. I thought that going off alone with her might be asking for trouble, but I didn't want to say so, because I knew Emma was devoted to her friend. "That might work," I said noncommittally.

"Natalie could do it, but she doesn't know to drive. But you could drive her. You can use Mrs. Hewitt's car. She already told me it was all right."

I knew it was important for Emma to have the right apparel for her big audition, and so I agreed, with some unspoken reservations.

"Watch," said Emma. She pointed at the grass near where we were standing. I peered in the direction where she pointed, and saw a small, dark-colored snake, gliding cautiously through the grass. "That's a grass snake," said Emma. "He doesn't hurt anyone."

"Maybe it's here to tempt us in the garden of Eden," I replied. Emma giggled.

***

On Wednesday, Emma came by to inform me that the dress shopping trip was set up for Friday. Mrs. Hewitt was to bring me the car keys at breakfast time, and Natalie would come by some time later in the morning. Emma would not be seeing much of me in the days ahead, due to an intensive practice schedule and meetings with her violin instructor.

Emma was seated on the couch, and I occupied one of the armchairs. I smiled and said, "You know, Emma, the last time we made love, I didn't get to see your breasts."

Emma looked surprised, and then she detected the twinkle in my eye. She hesitated for a moment, then said, "Do you want to see them now?" I smiled and nodded. Emma knew now that we would try something different. She smiled back at me, and her eyes had that slightly unfocused look that signified arousal. She began unbuttoning her blouse, slowly and provocatively. She took it off, folded it neatly, all the while looking at me and smiling. Then she reached lazily behind her back and unclasped her black lace brassiere. She took it off and casually placed it atop her folded blouse. Her breasts were big and round, and her charcoal-colored nipples were erect.

"Would you like to pinch your nipples for me, Emma?" I asked. She tried it and closed her eyes, enjoying the unfamiliar sensation. Then she said to me, "But Georges, you kept your shirt on last time, too. Would you take it off?" I smiled and removed my shirt. She pinched some more. I thought I ought to escalate things.

"Emma, would you like to see how men masturbate?"

"Yes, I would, very much!"

I unbuckled my belt and slid down my pants and briefs. When Emma saw my hard cock, I saw her suppress an impulse to come over and touch it. She understood the new game we were playing. I sat back down, parted my legs to give her a good view, and began to stroke myself. Emma's eyes were riveted on my cock. Her fingers moved restlessly on her nipples for a minute, and then, without further discussion, she rose and removed her jeans and panties. Mimicking my posture, she leaned back, spread her legs and began to rub her clit.

Now it was my turn to restrain myself, because her pussy looked very appetizing indeed. I concentrated on watching her rub it, and on the lustful expression on her face, and I felt my own arousal intensify as I stroked myself. I put on a show for her, moving my hips, and she reciprocated. I was getting very hot.

I knew my orgasm as coming. I rose to my feet, and cried out as I ejaculated forcefully across the room onto Emma's breasts and face. Her eyes widened as she saw my semen flying toward her, and seconds after impact she threw her head back and rubbed her pussy fiercely as her own orgasm hit her.

Emma looked dazed for a moment or two. Then she scooped up a bit of my cum off her breast with her fingers, and tasted it. Slowly she rose and crossed the room to me, and kneeling before me, began to gently suck my cock until it was once more fully erect. Then we retired to the bedroom and fucked for hours.

***

Friday came, and the day began according to plan. Mrs. Hewitt arrived in the morning with more callalloo and saltfish, and the keys to her old Suzuki Swift. I worked a little on my symphony, which was getting perilously close to completion, and then at quarter to 11 Natalie arrived. She was dressed in a classy peach-colored blouse and skirt, and she had left her outlandish hoop earrings at home. It looked like her afro had been trimmed. She could have passed for one of the young Jamaican professional gals I had seen working downtown at the banks and law firms.

"Are we ready to shop?" she asked cheerily. Her English had a brash North American clang to it, unlike the more mellifluous Jamaican version. My own heavily accented English was something else altogether.

"Yes, I believe so," I said while putting away my score. "Where is it that we are going?"

"Do you know where Constant Spring Road is in Kingston?"

"I know that one. But I don't know what to do after that."

"No problem -- Emma wrote down directions. Shall we be off?"

"Sure," I replied, and the two of us climbed up the hill from Mrs. Hewitt's back yard to the street, where her Swift was parked. We got in, the Swift rumbled to life, and I set off carefully down the rugged road, watching for potholes and reminding myself to drive on the left side. Before long, though, we turned onto Stony Hill Road, which was to take us to the Manor Park Plazas, one of the posh shopping areas in Kingston, and the Constant Spring shopping strip beyond them. Stony Hill Road was in better shape, and soon we were cruising down the hill through the verdant woods.

"So Georges, how do you like Jamaica?" Natalie asked.

"It's lovely," I replied, "but to be honest, I haven't seen very much of it. Just Mrs. Hewitt's place, and then I also drove to Ocho Rios."

"Did you climb up the waterfall?"

"Yes, it was nice."

"I did that a couple of years ago with my dad. He fell down twice."

"Ouch! Did he take you with him?"

"No, he wasn't holding my hand. He was holding hands with some lady from Cincinnati that he met down here. They both went right down the chute! I was smart, I was hanging on to one of the guides."

We continued at a good clip along the now-smooth road as it wended its way through the lush multi-hued trees.

"Americans have the wrong idea about Jamaica," Natalie continued. "They think it's all bad young people, smoking weed and getting into fights. I think that the Jamaicans I have met are actually more cultured than most Americans. They read books and talk about ideas. I like the orchestra that I play in here. I think it's better than the one back home in Tampa." Listening to Natalie speak, I found myself impressed with her. She was bright and had a serious side to her, although I remained wary, because I knew that she had a propensity for doing or saying things that were, shall we say, inappropriately sexual.

As if on cue, Natalie asked, "Georges, have you seen the movie called 'The Harder They Come'?"

I glanced over at her, raised my eyebrows, and shook my head. Natalie burst into laughter.

"No, Georges, it's not what it sounds like!" She dissolved once more into giggles before regaining her composure. "Have you ever heard the saying in English, 'the harder they come, the harder they fall'?"

I had not.

"I guess you might say that it means, if you have an opponent who is attacking you, and he's big and mean, then he's just going to hit the ground that much harder when you knock him down."

"Oh," I said.

"There was a movie that starred Jimmy Cliff. Have you heard of him?"

I had. I knew him as a pop singer who had gained a degree of popularity in France.

"In the movie he's a young ruffian who gets out of the Jamaican ghetto by selling weed and cutting other fellows with knives, and then he becomes a singing sensation. My friends all thought it was cool, but I didn't like it much. It doesn't show the real Jamaica."

"It doesn't sound like it."

We were on the flats now, passing neat rows of what looked like cultivated palms and bushes along the road.

"Do you like to shop, Georges?" asked Natalie.

"Well, I suppose I do, but perhaps not the way you ladies do."

Natalie giggled. "And how do we ladies like to shop?"

"Well, for you ladies it's more of a passion." I instantly regretted having put it that way.

After a significant pause, Natalie giggled again. "Maybe so!" Then she was quiet for a while.

I became aware of Natalie's eyes on me. I gave her a questioning look, whereupon she abruptly said, "I think Emma enjoyed eating my pussy." I tried my level best to suppress a look of shock on my face, but I know it must have appeared for an instant, because Natalie's smile was full of mischievous triumph. "I sure know I enjoyed it," she said.