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We were lying close together after making love. Niki was lying on her side facing me, her head on my shoulder, arm flung over my chest, leg lying over my thigh, her breast pressed against my chest. I gently caressed her temple and stroked my fingertips down her cheek. I planted soft kisses on the top of her blonde head, and murmured words of love in her ear. Niki raised her head to look into my eyes and said, "What's your sexual fantasy? What would you imagine that you'd do if you could do anything to anyone in the whole world?" I thought for a short time, then leaned forward and kissed her lips. "I'd stop your move to Asia, and have you here all the time to make love to you whenever I wanted," I whispered. She laughed and snuggled closer. Niki and I have been lovers for several months now, but she was moving from Sydney to Hong Kong in a promotion brought about by the restructuring of her company. We'd met for the first time at a pool party at the house of a friend we both shared. There had been an attraction and a sexual awareness between us from the second we had first seen each other across the pool. We had left the party early in the evening and rushed straight to my place to tumble into bed and make wild, exciting love. Our relationship had concentrated on the physical side since then, but the physical side had been great for both of us. Softly Niki continued her line of thought, almost as if she were talking to herself. "I'd like to make love to a black man, someone like those American basketball players who come out to Australia and play basketball out here." I cuddled and stroked her as she spoke, and my caresses slowly awoke the embers of the passion that still smoldered within us both. We kissed deeply and our hands roamed across the other's body, searching for those sensitive places, fingers rubbing and sliding, and soon we made love again. Desperate love making, because Niki would be leaving in just over a week's time. The next night I went downtown to a bar frequented by the university sports crowd. I import and market a wide range of sports goods through one of my businesses, and I am well known by the sporting community because I have donated equipment to the university sports teams and to many of the local athletes, swimmers and football players. Several people in the bar waved and I waved back, but I was looking for one special track star in particular. Joe runs sprints. He is within a couple of hundredths of a second from running the one hundred metres in under ten seconds. As the local expression says, he is build like a brick shithouse. Joe has wide muscular shoulders above a solid chest and legs like concrete pillars. He was brought up in England, studied engineering at university in England and speaks just like an English gent, something I think he cultivates because he like to sounds different to everybody else's Australian drawl. Now he is studying for a Masters in Business Administration degree here in Sydney, and working towards his dream of joining that elite club of sub-ten second hundred metre runners. And, perhaps most importantly, Joe is Jamaican. His skin is dark, black with almost a trace of blue in it, his hair is cut short but it still manages to form into tiny dark curls across his skull. I saw Joe across the room as I walked further into the bar, and he waved to me. I made motions of drinking and pointing at him, and he nodded his head as I made my way to the bar and bought our drinks. I know Joe well enough to guess he was drinking lime and soda with lots of ice, and from the bar I saw him move to an empty table and sit down. We exchanged pleasantries when I reached the table, and both took long gulps from our drinks. Talk moved through a number of subjects, his last race, my last business trip overseas, the weather and the surf last weekend, his studying, and finally on to casual comments about some of the girls in the bar. "Joe, what do you think about casual sex?" I asked. Teen Steam
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