Gurama Aunty

She was one he hadn’t seen before until they brought him out of the barracks and trussed him to the rest of the line. He’d never seen her working the fields. She was too beautiful and soft looking for that kind of work. They must have been grooming her for work of a more personal kind. Her hair was long and darker than the night surrounding them. Under the moonlight, her skin had the quality of wet almonds. Jagger was sure if he didn’t get free of her now he would never get free at all. Every second they stood in confusion on that ledge was two steps closer for the dogs. And the closer they drew, they not only sounded louder but in greater numbers. Jagger moved without thinking, as if his hard, lean body were moving purely by reflex. He dropped to his haunches and scrabbled one handed on the ground for a rock. “Everyone look for a rock,” he told the others. “Something you can swing like a hammer.” Only Jagger and the small, wiry Ecuadorean man at the other end of the line had a. Her nipples, or at least the dark brown areola around them, were larger than her vagina. Each one almost the size of her face. But unlike the huge-breasted women of male fantasy, her bosom rested on an even larger stomach. Fatima twirled around on her toes. Sometimes she found it a burden to even support her own weight. She turned her neck round to regard her buttocks, or their reflection in the mirror. Also huge. Also plump. Maybe they were designed to be comfortable to sit on, but not when squeezed into the narrow confines of a seat in a car, a train, a bus, or, worst of all, an aeroplane. And yet, despite her plumpness, she had a date. With a man. Or at least, she thought so. When she’d left Freddy last night, she was sure he’d agreed to let her see him again. She’d kissed him goodbye after their brief fuck, and when pressed he admitted that he’d not got anything planned for the day and that she could come by. Not perhaps the most encouraging of invitations, but Fatima was never.
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