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This story is an entry in the ‘In A Sunburnt Country’ Literary event
Copyright © 2018 Black Jack Steele — All Rights Reserved.
CASABLANCA, Australia — Part One — Devil Woman
I cross paths with a woman I haven’t seen for seven years
This story is submitted as an entry in the ‘In A Sunburnt Country Story’ classification. Sadly, I have only submitted Part One of this story as has taken on a life of its own and is developing into a novel-length piece. I will release the next parts as each is finished.
“Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world…,” Humphrey Bogart’s line from the film, Casablanca, immediately jumped into my mind as I glanced across the room and my eyes met those of the woman sitting at the end of the bar.
As they had done a little over seven years earlier, those eyes spoke volumes. The message they transmitted this time was the same as it had been last time we had crossed paths. And it set my heart rate up a couple of notches.
I had heard about ‘bedroom’ eyes and ‘come-hither’ looks and I’d had daggers cast in my direction by a particularly emotional Spanish-Irish lady who believed I had wronged her in some way — I had really only looked at another woman; and not even particularly longingly — but only once in my life had I ever had someone use their eyes to tell me that they wanted me to fuck them; or, more correctly, that they wanted to fuck me. And that message had come from this same woman.
We had passed each other while shuffling between the stalls at a food and craft market in a little tourist town in far north Queensland. I had seen her and she had seen me. I thought she was very attractive and she told me that she wanted me. Not a word had passed between us and neither of us had slowed our pace. She was with someone else and so was I. Things might have been different had we both been on our own.
It wasn’t just me who noticed her message, though. The lady I was with also saw it and read it the same way I had.
“Don’t let me hold you back, big boy,” she said. “Go for it! I’ll find my own way back to our motel. If you haven’t returned by lunchtime tomorrow, I’ll send out a search party.”
I didn’t take her advice, however, and have often wondered what would have happened had I done so. That didn’t stop the lady I was with from taking the piss out of me for the next few days, though. Every time she caught me in her gaze, she would wave her hands about like a nineteenth-century Vaudeville hypnotist and try to replicate ‘that look’, as she called it. She didn’t even get close. But that didn’t mean we didn’t have a lot of fun. In addition to trying to copy ‘that look’, she kept coming up with scenarios around what she believed ‘Devil Woman’ would do to me if she had managed to get her hands on me. At that, at least, she was successful. By the time we parted company at the end of our brief sojourn on the coast, we were both worn out. We both needed to get back to our respective cattle properties to build up our stamina for the next time we could arrange a bit of leave together.
Suzie and I were friends with benefits, an arrangement that had started a couple of years earlier when we had bumped into each other while on leave in Cairns. Although we had worked together on a couple of large cattle stations (ranches, to my American friends) we had maintained a platonic relationship. That was partly by agreement — romantic relationships in those situations generally don’t last — and partly by regulation — most large cattle concerns frown on the forming of relationships between male and female staff members as it tends to create friction in the camp. It was only when, after we had gone our separate ways, that we felt we could allow our friendship to move to another dimension. And that only happened when we bumped into each other at a Cairns nightclub during a coastal break. Our first night together was anything but romantic. We both discovered during what had started as a tentative kiss that we had been lusting after each other for much longer than either of us imagined. By the time the kiss was ended, we had torn the clothes from each other’s bodies and I had thrown her face down across the table in my room and was pushing my cock into her well-lubricated pussy. Neither of us lasted very long that first time.
Our subsequent efforts were a little more rewarding, however, but it was coming on for daybreak before we were settling into more of a love-making rhythm. Everything before that had been just two animals on heat. Most of it had been spent fucking each other’s brains out.
After that, we would arrange to meet two or three times during each year to relieve the tensions that had built up in the interim. While she was as feminine as they come — and certainly as horny as a Northern Territory buffalo on heat — Suzie had an almost boyish appearance. That appearance was helped by the almanbahis fact that her tits were small — hardly bigger than a small B-cup — and her hips were less prominent than some of the other jillaroos working on stations in the region.
She tended to promote that boyish façade by not wearing tight jeans and tight shirts while working. She couldn’t hide her narrow waist and beautifully-rounded backside, of course, but she overcame any feminine impression that that might have created by adopting a bit of a butch attitude. Most of the young stockmen — cowboys, jackaroos, ringers; call them what you will — identified her as a lesbian. She didn’t attempt to dissuade them from this opinion and they and left her to follow what they believed was her own path.
Those who gave her trouble very quickly learned that leaving her alone was the best option. In addition to having received an excellent academic education, Suzie had also achieved a black belt level in Karate and was proficient in a number of related martial arts disciplines.
It was only when she was away from her work environment that her true personality was allowed to see the light of day; and then, only when she was far enough away from those with whom she worked that it would not be discovered.
I still believe that I was one of only a few people — other than her close family — who knew the truth about Suzie.
During our time together I learned that although her breasts were small and boyish, she had two of the longest nipples I have ever seen on a woman. They were also, as I learned, very sensitive. I could bring her to an explosive orgasm just by strumming them with my tongue. One of the reasons why her tits were so small was because she was so well muscled. Her broad chest added to her boyishness but her waist was so narrow that I could almost join my fingers when I put both hands around her. Her hips, while not wide, were shapely and she was almost a full hand-width between her legs. Of course, there probably hadn’t been very many men who’d had the opportunity to measure that part of her. She was not a virgin when we experienced each other for the first time but she had been extremely tight.
Suzie stood about one-hundred-and-sixty-five centimetres tall (five-foot, six-inches in old-speak) and was as fit as a scrub bull. It was when she faced you, though, that you realised that her boyish appearance was a disguise. She had a beauty that eclipsed that of many catwalk models. She kept her brown hair cut short — which was a sensible choice when working out in the bush where you might go months between trips to a barber or hairdresser — but mainly to promote her boyish, butch-like appearance. Anyone who bothered to look, though, would see that the way her incredibly beautiful brown eyes were set in her face belied that impression. She had an eternal enquiring look.
Her nose was well-proportioned and was generally straight; although it had a slight kink that indicated that it might have been broken and roughly repaired at some stage. Her mouth was wide but her lips were anything but boyish. Her face was a classic oval shape, with her chin rounded rather than pointed. To me, she was beautiful but I could see beneath the façade. I could understand, however, why others might consider her to be just reasonably good looking.
The other thing about her was that she was part Aboriginal; probably about a quarter, was my guess. That wasn’t something that bothered me. In fact, the mix or races added to her beauty. During the time we had worked and played together, we had broken down any racial barriers that society might have imposed upon us. In fact, they had been destroyed long before we began sharing our bed.
Our racial differences had nothing to do with our not progressing our relationship beyond the friends with benefits arrangement we had. Certainly, we loved each other, but we both knew that we had different paths to follow. We were both honing our skills so we could follow different dreams. In the meantime, however, there was no reason why we shouldn’t make the best of what we had …for the present, anyway.
Who knows, in the end, we might have ended up together but that was not to be. Suzie was killed in a helicopter crash while mustering cattle on a large Gulf-country station a little over a year after our encounter with ‘Devil Woman’. Life didn’t carry the same joy for me up in the north after that so, after persevering for another year, I headed south and, combining my skills and qualifications, set up my pastoral management consultancy.
****
As had been the case in that other place, seven years ago, the woman whose gaze was calling me was with someone else, a fact that complicated things. Unlike the situation at that time, though, I was not with someone; which meant that only one of us had to make an adjustment to their partnership arrangement for her desires to be fulfilled.
After having had her picture — almanbahis giriş and her invitation — locked in my head for such a long time, I was more than willing to help her to fulfil to her wish. I had fucked her in so many positions and in so many ways and so many times in my dreams that I felt I knew every curve and bump and every crack and crevice in her body. She had been with me on every station and cattle camp I have been in for all those years. She had shared my bed almost every night during that time. She had ruined every relationship I had struggled to cultivate and hold together since we met. Of course I wanted her. I wanted her badly. I needed her like an alcoholic stockman needs his rum; like a drug addict needs his fix of whatever it is that keeps him sane — or insane, as the case may be.
From what I could see of her, she didn’t appear to have changed at all during the time between our encounters. She was still as beautiful as ever, with her long, dirty-blonde hair cascading down and framing her slightly round face. Her Cupid’s bow upper lip was just as prominent as it had been, as was her full lower lip; a lip I had dreamed about sucking into my mouth so many times that just the sight of it stirred my loins. Her expertly-chiselled chin still pointed down to her delicately-shaped neck. Her well-rounded shoulders drew the eye to her still pert C-cup breasts. I could picture her upturned nipples hardening and pushing through the fabric of her sheer satin blouse. Of course, in my dreams, she never wore a bra.
Sitting, as she was, at the corner of the bar, I could see that her waist was probably a little thicker than it had been. But I was only guessing. I wouldn’t really know until she stood. Only then would I be able to see how the years had treated her waist and hips. Her legs, though, were encased in tight jeans and I could see that she was still supported by the same beautifully-sculpted thighs and calves that had carried her so well last time we had crossed paths.
I knew that I hadn’t changed much during that time. I hadn’t shrunk. I still stood one-hundred-and-eighty-five centimetres tall. I knew that, even at forty-two-years-of-age, I was just as well built as I had been back then; although maybe I’d had to punch another hole in my belt. And I knew that I was just as fit now as I was when we had run across each other up in far north Queensland. I was cowboying then and I’m still cowboying, now. The only difference is that I was working for someone else back then, drawing short pay. A lot of things change in seven years, though, and these days, I work for myself and charge like a wounded bull for the services I provide to my clients.
That’s why I’m down here in this little town on the mid-north coast of New South Wales. One of my clients has asked me to come down and conduct a viability and sustainability assessment and management audit of a few of his cattle grazing properties in the area. For convenience sake, I decided to stay at the town’s main hotel, which offers reasonably private self-contained accommodation along with traditional, old-style hotel services such as a full dining room and a saloon-style bar. As the commission looked like taking me about three months, I had managed to negotiate a long-term bed and breakfast rate for the duration of my stay.
“It looks like you might have drawn a winning ride, cowboy,” a soft-sounding female voice said from out of the gloom behind the bar, as I approached to order my first drink. I had only just booked in and had taken my duffle-bag and gear up to the room that was going to be my bedroom and office for the next few months. I had been on the road for almost ten hours and was looking forward to a couple of cold beers, a quick meal, a hot shower and an early night.
Being Sunday, it was fairly quiet in the bar. There were only my old girlfriend and her companion at the end of the bar, an older couple sitting at one of the tables — I guessed them to be guests in the hotel — and one other bloke sitting at the other end of the bar; the end furthest away from my soon-to-be lover. He had the look of a stock and station agent about him. He was wearing RM Williams boots, moleskin trousers and one of those pinky-coloured shirts that they seem to think gives them a cattleman look. I can’t say I’ve ever seen a real cattleman wearing a pink shirt. I mean, seriously? Any stockman caught wearing a shirt that colour wouldn’t be wearing it for long, up where I come from.
‘Still,’ I thought to myself, ‘each to his own. I don’t know what they wear down this way so it’s probably wise to keep my mouth shut.’
I was the only one in the bar wearing a hat. It had become so much a part of me that the only time I took it of was when sitting at the dining table — a rule my mother had beaten into me from a young age — and when I went to bed. My father’s contribution to my dress code was that I should dress well whenever travelling. People aren’t going almanbahis yeni giriş to stop to help out a broken down hippie, he had said, but they might consider stopping to help a decently dressed young bloke who is in trouble. Even though I had been on the road for most of the day, I was still reasonably presentable. There was probably no-one in the barroom, however, who hadn’t guessed that I was from Queensland. I think it was the hat that gave it away. Only a Queenslander would be wearing a wide-brimmed Akubra Woomera down this way. Most of the young fellas, these days, wore those American straw rodeo hats, Ariats and Justins and such; either that or baseball caps.
“Ha! I get that all the time,” I said jokingly, as I pulled out a stool and took a seat. “I’m still waiting for my dreams to come true.”
“What’ll you have?” she asked, laughing at my response.
“I think after the miles I have put under me today, I could use a schooner of your coldest beer. Fourex, if you’ve got it. Otherwise, surprise me. Gone are the days when there was much difference between brands. These days they all taste much the same.
“I find that if you want something that tastes different, you’ve got to search out a boutique brewery. Either that or make it yourself. And, while I don’t mind making my own brews, I tend not to be home long enough to do them justice. My father usually goes around to my place if I am away for any length of time and rescues them; ‘so they don’t go off,’ he says. That’s probably what will happen again, this time.”
“Well you’re going to love working around here; assuming that is your intention,” the barmaid said as she placed my large glass of beer in front of me. There are a number of boutique breweries that have started up in the area. I hear that some of their stuff is quite good.
“By the way, that’s a Fourex. We’ve had it on tap for some time. The boss gets it in for the State of Origin football games, just in case any Queenslanders are in the area and are courageous enough to come in to barrack for their team on game nights. It’s not a big seller so you’ll probably have it all to yourself.”
“That’s good news,” I said, “both about the breweries and about the Fourex.
“I’m Matt,” I said, reaching a hand across the bar. “Matt Buchanan. It’s Matthew, really, but only my mother calls me that. I plan on being down here for a few months.
“I’m pleased to meet you, Matt,” the barmaid said, trying to wrap her small hand around my large paw. “My name is Evelyn Sloane; although everyone — including my mother — calls me Eve.”
I smiled as she introduced herself. In addition to her name, I liked her quick wit and how she had thrown the ‘mother’ comment back at me.
“What?” she asked. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing,” I said. “Well, not nothing but something. I will share it with you one day when we know each other better.
“No,” I said, noting a doubtful look on her face. “It’s nothing nefarious or odd. It’s just something coincidental that suddenly occurred to me.
“Coincidences aside, though, You might be just the person to help me, Eve. Working behind the bar, as you do, you would know who’s who. Because I’m new to the area, I could use a guide; at least until I get to know the place.
“Do you know of someone who knows the area well and would be able to show me around the district? I’m willing to pay the going rate; although its all got to be above board. I’ve got to run everything through my books. I’m not about to lose my accreditation just to help someone I don’t know cheat on their taxes.”
“As a matter of fact, I do know someone,” Eve replied. “She’s a lovely person and I know she could use a bit of extra money. Could she bill you as a contractor instead of putting her on the payroll? I know she has her business and taxation paperwork up to date.”
“I don’t see that as a problem,” I said. “Can you give me some background on her? I’d like to meet her before I fully commit, of course.”
“Okay, let’s see. As I’ve already said, she’s a really lovely person. Bubbly and vivacious, even. She’s was born and raised in the area.”
With a straight face, she continued, “And she knows the location of every gas station, residence, warehouse, farmhouse, henhouse, outhouse and doghouse in the area. She’s working two jobs to keep the wolf from the door but could probably arrange her schedule to fit around your needs. I know she’d enjoy introducing you to the area.
“As for introductions,” she took a step back and extended her arms wide, “Ta-daaa!”
I laughed at her antics. I particularly liked the Tommy-Lee Jones quote from the film, The Fugitive.
“All right,” I said. “Let’s say I was to take you on as my guide. How would it work?”
“Were we to agree that I should work for you, there would be two stipulations. First, our sightseeing tours will have to fit in around my bread and butter work schedules. I work three evenings a week here and two evenings at a pub up the range a bit. I’m free most mornings and all day on Wednesday and Thursday. That doesn’t mean that I am available for all of that time, though. I have to keep up with my normal housekeeping duties but they can be shuffled around a bit.
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