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‘Pygiaphilia’ is my rendition of the sexual initiation of my long-ago lover, Alan (1934-1998), who was a fervent pygiaphile, and whose initiator possessed a prodigious posterior. But if that account implied that his passion was limited to huge hinderparts, the relay of the account of his second encounter should confirm that contour trumped quantity. Large was potentially fine, but shapeliness was preferable.
Digression 1: I am still proud that my own bottom was inflammatory for connoisseur Alan.
Language Note: ‘Pygiaphilia’ is Greek = bottom lover. But I have resorted to Latin for ‘Semper Figura’ = always the shape. Come to that, ‘prodigious posterior’ is Latin, too. And while ‘figura’ in Spanish means ‘figure,’ so not far from its Latin root, in Italian its meaning is closer to ‘impression.’
Jean and Alan’s coincident orgasms naturally began an intense affair, with much experimentation, including, naturally, entry beneath, through, the lower reaches of that stupendous bum. What transcendent delight, for a pygiaphile to contemplate a beautiful bottom while embedded in a warm, wet, welcoming vagina. And this was novel for Jean, who readily came when he reached round her curvy haunch to tease her sensitised clitoris.
News of this liaison, equally naturally, spread, through the women of the small community, and the grape-vine consisted of the darker grapes as well as the paler ones. The men were either not part of the plant or managed to preserve their ignorance. For this was 1942, and the impact of the War was being felt even in this colonial backwater, so that male attention was focused mainly on the new tasks and responsibilities involved. Quite a few of them had volunteered for military service, some travelling within Africa or to the UK.
Alan himself was resolved that on arrival in England, ostensibly for university enrolment, he would enlist, and defer the degree, though he did not tell anyone his intention. Meantime, the gossip was, he soon discovered, offering him other openings, as Jean herself informed him, after their fourth orgasmic afternoon.
‘I know I can’t keep you to myself, darling,’ she told aliağa escort him as they lay cemented together by drying sweat and sperm. ‘There’s a lot of female frustration here, what with men going away and forgetting there are other duties than the exciting ones for the War. And if I try to monopolise you their disappointment will turn into grumbles, and that’ll put the cat among the pigeons.’
‘So the pigeon must be put among the pussies?’
‘I’m afraid so. But you won’t stop coming to me, will you? After all, I do have the biggest arse of them all.’
‘Jean, it’s gone way beyond your bottom. You know that. We have something special, and I’m not going to give that up.’
‘The first lady to settle is the first lady – the senior woman here, Rhoda. You’ve seen her at the club. She’s the secretary. Widow. Husband’s in Pretoria at present. They’re South African. She’s tall, white-haired, in her fifties, on the thin side, but strong and fit. Doesn’t take No for an answer.’
At the next Saturday dance, Rhoda collected Alan in a ladies’ excuse-me, clearly aware that he had been told about her, for as they circled the floor, their faces on a level, she said, ‘Fancy a game of tennis, boy? I don’t have much aars,’ the Afrikaans sounded like an unaspirated ‘horse,’ ‘but I play a pretty good game.’
Alan thus found himself on the rather dilapidated court behind the club, facing, across the ragged net, a determined Rhoda, whose slim body was clad in a short-sleeved tunic and whose long legs led up into chaste, white knickers. And this assignation was not going to proceed immediately into intercourse. First there was to be a strenuous best-of-three sets contest, with no quarter given. Which turned out to be no easy match, though the players were a young, fit, man, and a woman forty years older.
Ever after, Alan thought it somehow symbolic that she beat him, two sets to one, with the last set going to 15-13. It was as if she gained an ascendancy to exploit, as happened as soon as they retired, panting, into the rickety shed which was the pavilion. For she took him by the upper arms, glued izmir rus escort her mouth to his and forced his head backwards as she probed his mouth with a tongue as lean and muscular as herself.
She eventually pulled away, and said, ‘You play pretty well, boy. I’m warmed up now, ready to fok, and I know you do that pretty well, too. We get ready. I take off the onderbroekie, like this.’ She briskly swept off her knickers. ‘I am an old woman but you see I have plenty of skaamhare.’ Another unfamiliar word, but she demonstrated by lifting the short skirt and ruffling up the abundant wiry, black décor. It was slowly unfurling from the constriction of the onderbroekie. It also contrasted starkly in colour from her short white thatch, but resembled the latter in appearance.
She stood like that, fingers scratching the skaamhare while he quickly got naked. Then she turned round, and said, ‘Is there enough to interest you, aas-geliefde?’
It was lean, yes, but neat, firm, rounded, and he rose to meet its challenge. ‘It’s charming,’ he said.
‘Bekoorlike, eh? My husband says it is like a boy, so let me see yours.’ He turned round. ‘Yes. Bekoorlike, but not like a woman’s, no?’
He turned back. ‘Yours is deliciously female all right. May I stroke it?’
‘I shall be disappointed if you don’t…Yes, that is nice. Hold the onder wange. I think you are ready for the kont.’
He drew her closer, so his penis poked at her crack, and made to lift off her tunic. She said, ‘No, don’t bother the boerste. They are shrunk and feel nothing. Nowadays I am all kont. I bend over now and put my hands on my kniee I am ready. It is dry now a lot, but we have played to make sweet so you can go in.’
The ambiguity delighted him – ‘sweet,’ she said, ‘sweat’ in Afrikaans, but, as he slowly pushed into her, he said, ‘It is sweet, yes, so sweet.’
‘You like it in an old heks kont?’
‘Another good word. “Hex” is “witch.” You are making a spell, your kont is magic.’
When she laughed he was almost expelled but thrust back in. It seemed right, then, to reach past a slim thigh and delve in the now upsprung izmir escort wires for her clitoris. It was easily found, being hard and protuberant. She laughed again, said, ‘You are going with the mannetjie in de boot? Row him good, row, row, him ashore. Yes, he likes that. Keep still in the kont a little, while the mannetjie does his work. He is doing good. Soon you will move.’
Alan was, as remarked in the first instalment, a brilliant, natural sex-artist, partly because he loved every stage, and especially the phase of simply being inside a woman while her orgasm accumulated within her, deep beyond the confines of the cunt. He could pause indefinitely, and enter a trance in which cock and cunt melded into a combined organ. He even believed that during that time he absorbed some essential female physical and spiritual essence from the pulsing, flexing, lactating vagina. What it exuded, he considered, was a kind of nourishing milk, a life-giving elixir.
Digression 2: Ever since he first proposed this possibility, I have cherished the idea of my vagina being a blessing for all who sail in her. Pushpa believes it, certain that her well-being is enhanced by cunting, not least with me.
Rhoda began to push back against him. ‘Push the mannetjie up the stroom. He is nearly there. Hard with the peester. Oh, she is going to kom. Hold aars. Make kom now!’
A super-fit, slim woman may have powerful pelvic musculature, and this woman’s clamped round Alan penis as the orgasm arrived, as if travelling from her depths, so that he felt so constricted that his semen seemed to be pumping through a restricted urethra. But its swelling and relaxing with each ejaculation seemed to contribute to her cuntly contractions, and further the climax to its peak.
Eventually she pulled away from him, so that his still semi-erect cock slipped out, and she stood and turned towards him. ‘You play a good game, meneer,’ she said. ‘I think you like the heks kont.’
‘Sweet, so sweet, mevrou.’
‘We must stop now, but we can play again soon?’
‘I hope so.’
‘You must not neglect Jean. But you have plenty of saad to spread in us vrouens.’
She pulled on the knickers, pressing the gusset into her vulva. ‘I take the saad home now and wash. But I am sad the saad leaves my kont. But you will put more in.’
Alan dressed , and they left, waving their racquets, as if energised by their encounter. As, indeed, they were.
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