[center]have a prodigious passion for

African women. I love their style

and elegance, but above all else I

yearn for their beautiful black

bodies. They are so eminently

gorgeous and s*xval that my

c-ock stiffens whenever I see

them in the street or imagine

them in my mind.

My s*xval appreciation of African

womanhood began at the age of

eighteen. I had gone to stay with

Aunty Sarah in Lagos, Nigeria,

while my mother was attending

a business conference in Kenya.

Aunty Sarah was not my real

aunt, but I’d always known her

by that name. She and my mother

had been at university together

in England, and had remained

close friends throughout their

lives. Aunty Sarah was divorced,

thirty-nine, generous hips and

br-3asts, lovely face and a very

welcoming personality. Her home

was large and sumptuous, with

numerous bedrooms and eight

servants.

On my first day I rose early,

showered and went downstairs

to hunt for some food. I found

the kitchen and the cook

provided me with an excellent

breakfast. Just as I was clearing

my plate the intercom buzzed.

The cook answered it and then

informed me that Mrs Makeba –

Aunty Sarah – would like to see

me in her room. I was escorted

upstairs by Molly, one of the

maids, and led along several

thickly carpeted corridors. We

reached the room, the maid

knocked, and we were bidden to

enter.

Aunty Sarah was sitting up in

bed suckling her infant daughter.

“Ah, Peter, come in, come in.” She

said, with kindly authority.

“You’ve caught little Elizabeth at

her breakfast. Molly, please take

this greedy little girl to the

nursery, she’s had enough for

now.”

“Now Peter, take off your shoes

and come and sit beside me

while we discuss your itinerary

for the day.”

I was rather embarrassed at this

injunction, but felt excited and

aro-used at the sight of Aunty

Sarah’s large naked bre-asts, and

as I walked to the bed my pe-n!s

began to swell within my cotton

shorts.

She noticed. “Oh, I’m sorry, Peter.

I still think of you as a baby. Give

me a minute to get dressed and

then we can have a chat in the

drawing room.”

“Oh…no…no…er…don’t get

dressed on my account,” I

babbled, vainly trying to adopt an

air of sophisticated nonchalance.

Aunty Sarah smiled benignly at

my bungling attempt to appear

worldly wise. Then, in an attitude

of mock coyness, she placed her

hands over her nip-*ples and

simpered: “Well, young man, the

choice is yours, should I get

dressed or stay naked.”

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