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I missed the early ferry by half an hour and the next one wasn?t till 1:30, so I settled down for a three hour wait. ?Settled down? isn?t really accurate, in fact, because the only vacant seat was in the middle of the room, with no back support, so there was no chance of dozing. I would just have to twiddle my thumbs and wait.This was in Guadeloupe, a French island in the Caribbean, and the ferry was to the smaller island of Marie Galante. There were plenty of people waiting with me and they had bagged all the comfortable seats against the wall and in the recessed area.The only good thing about where I was was the breeze that swept through the room. That and the view, that is.As luck would have it a middle aged black woman was sitting opposite me. She was probably in her sixties, pretty, short and rather plump, with a nice gap in her front teeth which is supposed to indicate sensuality or at least naughtiness. She was wearing a knee-length pale green dress, an old, functional number she probably wore all the time.The array of shopping bags around her suggested she had come over to use the big supermarket because Marie Galante wasn?t populated enough to have a decent one. The bags were bulging with corn flakes and flour and all the rest of the weekly shopping.The woman sat in typical old-lady pose, with the skirt of her dress riding up a little, which made ankara travesti the fact that her knees were parted very interesting. I couldn?t see anything but a dark road, like an underpass, but that was enough to keep my eyes glued to her.She wore a pink floppy hat, set back on her head in a carefree manner. She looked like an ordinary, family-oriented woman doing what she had done hundreds of times and which always passed without incident.And today, so far so ordinary, with the one slightly unusual element of a white man apparently looking up her skirt.I could tell that she had become aware of me and my inquisitive eyes. But after all, what harm was there in such a thing? *She had seen enough of her peers wearing similar dresses to know you couldn?t really see anything, and anyway, a little unspoken flirting was what made the world go round. She had decided to relax and enjoy it.She didn?t look directly at me, but her eyes flickered across my face from time to time as they swept the room. We quickly entered an unspoken arrangement that transcended country, nationality, age, race and every other difference, real or arbitrary.My imagination was permitted to roam the dark space between her thighs and conjure up images of her crotch. I imagined the savoury aroma of her, the slightly sweaty, vaguely urined succulence of her. I pictured her travesti ankara sparse, tightly curled pubic hair and I daydreamed of having my head up there, my nose delirious with the smell of her sex and my tongue lapping up her juices.For her part, she conjured up images I could only guess at, but which surely involved the two of us naked and enjoying our nakedness.One thing she probably didn?t expect was my strange, perhaps perverse interest in her arsehole. She didn?t know I wanted to get her on her knees and sniff her like a dog, then lick her there until it drove her crazy with wild, rude thrills, a primeval excitement that modern sophistication had pushed deep into the area of undiscussed urges.Or maybe I was wrong and that was exactly what she was thinking, wondering if, after all these years of fantasising about it, this white guy might be the one who would finally lick her fucking arse like her husband and the few boyfriends before him had never done. And although she had presented herself to each of them to make it possible, she hadn?t actually asked for it and they had seemingly no inclination to do that.They hadn?t really spent any time on oral sex, just a quick lick of the pussy to tick that box before getting up close and ramming heir cocks into her doggie-style. And humping and jiggling and coming inside her before climbing ankara travestiler off, satisfied and pleased with themselves.I had no idea if this was really going through her mind, but I knew something was, because her right hand had settled in her lap at the top of her pubic area, several inches above her clitoris, and she was very gently and discreetly rubbing herself from time to time, her fingertips just tickling the flesh beneath the dress and, presumably, her knickers.Maybe what she was doing was pulling the knickers because they were in her slit and transferred energy to that female trigger.By the time the ferry arrived, in my mind the woman and I were an established couple and all that remained was to make a few arrangements. The ferry was almost empty and I did a tour of it to check out the toilets in case there were any possiblility of dragging her in there, but sadly I concluded that would probably result in our being arrested for public lewdness.The woman had, though, parked herself in a very handy, private row of seats under the stairs. I sat next to her and we grunted hello, or in her case bonjour. Guessing that my French was better than her Engilsh I started a conversation in faltering, school days Francais.She had, as I thought, been on a quick shopping trip to the bigger island and had lived in Marie Galante all her life. We shared a bag of peanuts and I bought her a Coke.I touched her bare arm when talking, in a way many people did and which wasn?t an obvious, deliberate touch with an ulterior motive, but merely a way of emphasising a point or making sure the other person was paying attention.