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The Gambia may be the smallest republic in Africa and Mex had only two brief sojourns there but it was indelibly engraved in his memory. For two reasons; firstly, it was the first and only time he ever worked in a holiday destination and secondly, it was where he first experienced the rapacious nature of grey sex.

He had been sent to the tiny West African republic by NORAID, the Norwegian International Aid Agency, quite unconnected with its near namesake which represented the Irish Republicans in the U.S.A. They had funded an upgrade programme for a fish processing plant in the capital Banjul and he was scheduled to make a couple of visits. The first was to check the work in progress while the second, three months later, was to see that the new facility had been commissioned and was fully operational. The time allowed was six weeks, which Mex thought to be rather excessive. As were his fees; thus he had no trouble in meeting the other demands of the ponderous Norwegians in Oslo.

His flights were on British Airways, day out followed by an overnight return as was the norm. However they were out and into Gatwick which was then regarded by discerning travellers as one of the arseholes of Western Europe. BA clearly had capacity problems and while they cheerfully routed more and more long-hauls through this hub they completely disregarded how travellers from the UK provinces might get there. Mex thus had to fly down the night before and stay overnight at an airport hotel. The first shuttles out of Edinburgh were to Heathrow and the first flight to Gatwick was too late for his connection, a situation he found infuriating.

However, he was in a mellow mood as his DC10 banked and made its approach to Yundum airport. Mex looked down at the meandering creeks and mangrove swamps of the Gambia River as the plane descended and made its finals. Some large lagoons which he assumed to be a fish or shrimp farm flashed beneath him as the aircraft thumped onto Yundum’s runway. It was comforting to know it was the longest in Africa, courtesy of Uncle Sam, who had extended it at considerable expense to serve as a back-up landing site for the space shuttles. After turning off the main runway they taxied for several minutes before coming to rest on the apron in front of a rudimentary terminal building. Some steps bolted to the back of a ramshackle lorry drove up to the door and passengers for Gambia descended. As always, the heavy, oppressive heat took him by surprise as it enveloped him like a gigantic hot wet blanket. He ambled the hundred or so yards to the terminal, mopping his face as he did so.

A convey of farm tractors pulling some agricultural trailers trundled the luggage to the terminal. The first melee formed at the immigration kiosks where a couple of zealous officials made the most of what was clearly the highlight of their day. Another crowd formed at the baggage retrieval area which was simply a length of conveyor belt about a foot above the ground. Those at the front had difficulty maintaining their footing as those behind pressed forward. The experienced Mex soon managed to sidle through to the front without causing too much offence where he soon identified and retrieved his battered Samsonite case. In the meantime, he has ascertained where there was a perfunctory customs check-point where a bored official chalked a white cross on each piece of luggage while a group of armed police studied the new arrivals. He soon emerged on the land-side of the terminal where he was instantly surrounded by taxi drivers fighting for his custom. After a few minutes of noisy chaos he agreed terms and soon found himself bouncing around the back of a dilapidated Peugeot 404 as it made its way along the road to Banjul, the capital and his destination.

Mex wasn’t quite sure if The Gambia was the smallest republic in Africa, but at just over 4,000 square miles and with a population of around 880,000 it had to be a serious candidate. A strip of land nearly 300 miles long on either side of the River Gambia, it owed its shape, if not its existence to Anglo-French rivalry in 19 th century West Africa. He was to be based at the Atlantic Hotel on the shore of the river’s estuary on the outskirts of Banjul, which in colonial times had rejoiced in the name of Bathhurst, after some-long forgotten colonial administrator. It was famed for a notorious post-war colonial disaster called the Groundnut Scheme; now tourism was Gambia’s main earner of hard currency. The origins of its tourist industry make an interesting, if apocryphal aside to our tale.

In the early eighties, groups of Nordic girls started travelling to the Gambia, lured primarily by the prospect of fantastically well endowed African men. They returned, often pregnant, occasionally with a new husband or fiancée in tow, with tales not just of phalluses of epic proportions, but of miles of warm, white and deserted tropical beaches. It did not take long for some entrepreneurs to latch on to this and soon hotels were built and package tours organised. Initially they ran during the warm, dry season from late November until May but latterly cut price deals were being offered during the hot, wet season from July until October. Mass tourism brought, of course, respectability and these days few female tourist went simply to sample the local talent, the more so since the spectre of AIDS had raised its ugly head all over Africa. Nevertheless, for the average Gambian layabout, to be seen escorting a white Caucasian women, no matter how old or raddled, represented, to his peers at least, the very pinnacle of success.

After checking in, Mex unpacked and surveyed his new quarters. His room was on the first floor of the long two-storied building and looked inland over the gardens. This suited him well as he had been assured it was much quieter than the rooms overlooking the pool and the beach. He was, after all, here to work. He showered and changed before descending for a pre-prandial sharpener and to inspect the lie of the land. It was late October and while not yet high season he had noticed an encouraging level of activity in the hotel lobby.

The Atlantic Hotel lay just behind the beach and separated from it by a tall wrought iron fence. While the Gambia was undoubtedly one of the safer countries in Africa, and keen to maintain the reputation on which its tourist industry depended, it did not do to tempt fate. The hotel boasted a large swimming pool, several bars and some outdoor serveries dressed up to look like local mud huts or market stalls. One could eat indoors or out and despite being early in the season there were plenty of people about. Mex ordered a large gin and tonic from the pool bar and parked himself at a nearby table. After carefully savouring then swallowing his first mouthful, he lit a cigarette and sat back to absorb the scene as the soft velvety African night swiftly descended.

The clientele, those that he could see, were an eclectic bunch. A few retired couples, groups of middle-aged women, three very distinctive homosexual couples, a pair of harmless looking queers and two pairs of unattractive lesbians. There were no children, while a few single men sat along the bar. One young couple were probably on their honeymoon judging by the way they were groping each other under the table. There was also, much to his surprise a group of about a dozen very large black American ladies. The Gambia, he later discovered, was the setting for 'Roots' television epic and as a result there was a steady and profitable stream of Afro-Americans making the pilgrimage to their homeland until of course the author was discredited and the original book found to be a work of complete fiction.

On a posting of just three weeks Mex did not expect to be so feeling so randy that he would be coolly measuring up the talent on his first evening. But leopards never change their spots. This was a new experience for him, and it promised to be a bountiful environment. He and Caroline had never been on a packaged holiday so it was all very new and he was much intrigued. He ate alone in the main restaurant attracting appreciative glances from several women who, while they might have lost that initial bloom of youth, had not lost their desire and who recognised talent when they saw it. After a couple of leisurely pints of the local lager in the main bar he repaired upstairs to his room where he sipped a large dram of his duty-free whisky as he familiarised himself his newly acquired notebook computer. He had been computer literate since the advent of the PC but had resisted the attraction of some of the early, fancifully named “portables”. He had just bought a very nifty Toshiba notebook, which if basic, was a reasonable weight and did not threaten its owner with a hernia every time he lifted it.

NORAID had very civilly arranged for him to fly out on a Friday so that he would have a couple of days to get acclimatised before starting work the following Monday morning. Thus Saturday morning found Mex liberally rubbing himself down with sun cream before venturing down to the pool to catch a few rays. As a seasoned Africa hand, and one who had never had a day off work while on the Dark Continent, he was constantly amazed by European tourists’ wilful disregard of the damage wrought by the tropical sun. As well as covering his skin with long sleeved shirts over a tee shirt, he always wore long trousers beneath which he wore calf-length socks in stout shoes which offered at least some protection from carnivorous creepy crawlies as well as flying marauders. Yet the pale faces and even whiter torsos that were being flaunted at the deadly sun had to be seen to be believed. That merciless tropical sun could, and did, kill, which was, of course, not something your average tourist wanted to hear. The acquisition of an even, golden tan was of the highest priority, and to hell with the consequences.

Thus he rationed his exposure carefully and permitted himself a few lengths of the pool. An elegant if leisurely swimmer, his aquatic dexterity was but one reason why he drew many admiring glances. Apart from the sun, the other great tropical killer was dehydration. At the poolside this did not pose a problem and he downed several bottle of Fanta before he deemed the sun to be over the yardarm, at which point he got up and went over to the pool-bar for his first pint of the day, the straw coloured local larger called 'Jul-Brew'. While no connoisseur of lager, he found it perfectly adequate and supped contentedly. Shielding his eyes from the glare he scanned the poolside from his new vantage point on a bar stool. He had already decided that the Gambia was going to be a very comfortable little earner.

That first day passed uneventfully and before dinner he made his way back to the pool bar for a sundowner. He found the bar occupied by a convivial crowd of expats for which this was clearly a regular event to celebrate the end of yet another shitty week in Africa. They were the usual disparate bunch; bods from the High Commission and British Council, a couple of businessmen, the odd aid worker (in more ways than one!) plus two colonial types of the old school who couldn’t hack retirement in England and had returned to a (relatively) safe haven in the tropics from which they fulminated at a changing world and pined for another one, long, long gone. He was introduced to the company by the hotel manager who had earlier welcomed him personally as another “long term inmate”. When they started drifting off in ones and twos into the sultry night he made his way to the dining room where he again dined alone.

He spent Sunday keeping very much to himself and confining himself to the briefest of pleasantries to anyone of either sex who had the temerity to engage him in conversation. He well knew that it didn’t do to appear too brazen or forward when it came to chatting up potential targets. Better by far to keeps one’s distance and let a degree of mystique build up. Unless he was very much mistaken, he was now the main topic of conversation in the 'ladies' and not a few bedrooms to boot. Mex had decided to play it long and come Monday morning he took a taxi to work in great good humour.

Work in this instance was the monitoring of a multi-million dollar aid package to a locally owned fish factory located in the port area of Banjul. His arrival was not expected, par for the course in West Africa and he had to be taken along to the head office which was a few hundred yards along a teeming street in downtown Banjul adjacent to the dock area. There, he had to hang about for nearly an hour in a cramped reception area which was located at the top of a rickety flight of stairs which led directly off the street. It was very hot and crowded, the air filled with the overpowering stench of unwashed humanity. Not unused to this, Mex took out a hankie which he had liberally sprinkled with aftershave and alternatively mopped the perspiration from his brow and held it under his nose. The place was a hive of activity with constant comings and goings. He tentatively looked around, taking care to appear harmless and not cause any offence. He later discovered that such prudence was unnecessary in the Gambia, but in Africa one could never be too careful.

A sudden flurry of activity announced the arrival of the company’s owner, a very large and shiny African called Mr Abdou Akkunda. After a few minutes Mex was shown into Mr Akkunda’s cramped office where he squeezed himself into the proffered chair after introducing himself. The Gambian paid scant attention to his letters of introduction and after a few minutes dismissed his visitor with a wave of his hand and left Mex to his own devices. For his part, Mex remained quite unfazed by this seeming discourtesy, which was just a modest reminder that the locals were now in charge of this former British colony. He found the gopher who had brought him and returned with him to the factory where he repaired again to the factory manager’s office.

He was a charming and exceeding well educated Gambian called Timmy Something-or-other. In common with many of his kind he was exceptionally very well qualified on paper. A good degree in fish and food technology followed by an even better M.B.A. from a well-respected Business School. But with regard to hands-on management experience he had zilch, and it was soon obvious that the factory was really run by the supervisors, the best of whom Mex was to discover were two very large and formidable ladies who were real grafters of the 'been there, done it, got the tee-shirt' school of management and who did not suffer fools or idlers gladly. They soon saw that in Mex they had found someone in authority who appreciated their true worth and they took him under their ample wings and ensured that no-one messed him about.

The project was one of the more sensible and well thought-out that he had come across in Africa. Instead of the usual profligate waste of money on inappropriate high-tech machinery which would be impossible to maintain, someone, he knew not who, had formulated a plan which spent money on things pairs of hands could not do, such as ice-making, air-conditioning, quick-freezing and cold storage.. If there was one thing that was cheap and plentiful in Africa it was manual labour, but all too often the International Aid Agencies forgot that basic tenet and went along with the prestige mega-buck projects; practically useless but much loved by African Despots. The Gambia hadn’t completely missed out in such wilful extravagance. It boasted what seemed an Olympic-sized stadium in nearby Serrekunda, gifted by the Peoples Republic of China while later, and on a much smaller scale, Mex discovered a brand new, unused and exceedingly expensive continuous blast freezer covered in dust and bird shit in a long forgotten corner of a neighbouring fish factory, a gift some years back from a another Scandinavian aid agency.

As usual Mex soon fell into a routine. He woke at six thirty every morning, then showered and dressed before being first into the dining room on the dot of seven. He took a taxi to the factory at quarter to eight and returned for lunch at twelve thirty. This tended to be taken at the pool-side buffet or he might indulge in a stir-fry prepared by the head chef in one of the outside kitchens. He went back to the plant at two finally returning to the hotel around six. He then showered and changed while partaking of a very large gin and tonic from the other duty free bottle he had brought out, and which he kept, along with his whisky, water and mixers in the small fridge. The packaged tourists did not have such luxuries, the more to encourage them to drink in the hotel bars. He dined alone before returning to his room for an hour or two’s work before turning in, going down to the main bar for a night-cap around ten if he felt like it.

Unlike him, the tourists came and went on charter flights which arrived and departed every Wednesday and Sunday evening. Each of these evenings was characterised by contrasting feelings; the loss of departing friends and anticipation at the prospect of new arrivals. Mex watched over it with an air of detached amusement while submitting each female arrival to careful scrutiny.

Stella arrived on a Wednesday evening. Mex hadn’t noticed her, not that is, until she approached his table at the pool bar early the following evening. She had a glass of what looked like Pimm’s in one hand and made to pull out a chair with the other, at the same time asking Mex if he minded if they joined him. They, being Stella and her dumpy and dowdy companion. Ever the gentleman, Mex rose to his feet as they sat down, but managed to say nothing. It didn’t matter as Stella immediately introduced herself and her companion, Cousin Rosie. Stella prattled away enquiring about this and that while Mex sat back and tried to keep his answers as non-committal and monosyllabic as possible.

She was quite presentable in a middle-aged sort of way, cuddly running to plump. Her mid-length salt and pepper hair was pulled back from her face and constrained by an Alice band. She had had a weathered complexion, devoid of any make-up. Her small, neat hands had were similarly devoid of jewellery, and sported short, well trimmed unvarnished nails. She wore a cream silk blouse tucked into the waistband of a printed ankle length skirt, her bare legs wearing a simple pair of sandals with cork soles. Twinkling brown eyes over a neat little nose and a generous mouth completed the picture. Mex was interested, not least because he had noticed she wasn’t wearing a bra and the blouse concealed what promised to be a splendid pair of knockers. However, after a more considered appraisal, he concluded that Stella was well past her fiftieth birthday. While it didn’t actually put him off, he did have standards to maintain. No longer the callow youth learning the ropes from an experienced lover, he knew he had the ability to pluck younger and juicier fruit. After half hour or so of Stella’s chatter he excused himself and went to dine.

After a quickly taken dinner he returned to the sanctuary of his room where jotting down a few notes and keeping his work up to date took perhaps forty five minutes or so. He then poured a dram and lay down on the bed to ponder his next move. As usual there were pros and cons. Sex, with a women in her fifties would certainly be something new for him. She seemed personable and well enough equipped for the task. But she appeared rather too eager, or over-enthusiastic, or both. Something wasn't quite right, although he was damned if could put his finger on it. There was also the small matter of Cousin Rosie.

“Oh my God!” he exclaimed out loud, as he suddenly envisaged a downside worse than death. He decided to do absolutely nothing and let events run their course.

As he made his way through the maze of sun-loungers beside the pool on his way to lunch the following day, he became aware of a female voice calling his name. He glance around, his eyes screwed up against the glare and saw Stella beckoning to him from a sun-lounger. He waved and made his way over to her. She sat up on one elbow sucking one of the legs of her sunspecs. He squatted down beside her, noting her skimpy emerald green bikini; three small green triangles more or less held in place by pieces of matching green string. Her barely constrained breasts confirmed the promise that was merely hinted at the previous evening, while several errant strands of dark pubic hair sprang from the triangle covering her crotch, in stark contrast to her blond coiffure. If she was aware of his visual interrogation, she gave no sign and went straight into prattle mode. Mex nodded sagely now and again and let her witter on. Unused to squatting, cramp soon got the better of his calves and he stiffly rose and excused himself. He decided to eat inside that day.

Stella had informed him that she and Cousin Rosie were leaving very early the next morning, Saturday, on one of the many day trips laid on for the tourists. They were going somewhere up-river and would return in the late evening. The news gave Mex the glimmer of an idea.

Firstly, he would invite Stella to join him for dinner that evening, with or without Cousin Rosie, secure in the knowledge that with a very early start the following morning she would, in all probability want to retire early. Then, when they returned on Saturday evening, he would invite her to join him for lunch at the beach bar out by the Kariba Hotel where, he had been told, they did a good al-fresco lunch. It would make a nice change from the sameness of the Hotel and they apparent did a nifty line in sausage, beans, eggs and chips. He wasn’t sure how he would deal with the small matter of transport; he had discovered that short term visitors and tourists could not drive in the Gambia, only the long termers who had obtained local driving permits.

Stella accepted his dinner invitation with alacrity and rather to his surprise he enjoyed it. She had dressed tastefully in an ankle length black dress and once the initial need to prattle had worn off, she made a tolerable companion. He learnt that she was comfortably off after an amicable divorce from a wealthy husband who, as she neatly put it and without rancour, wanted to trade her in for a newer model. She lived in Richmond, west of London and dabbled, lucratively it seemed, in antiques. After they had eaten, she announced her intention to retire in view of her early start, but not before she had accepted Mex’s invitation to lunch on the Sunday. He gallantly escorted her to the stairs where he was rewarded with the press of a smooth cheek on his while she simultaneously had an experimental feel of his bottom. He returned to the bar quietly satisfied, savoured a couple of pints of Jul-Brew and watched several middle-aged couples make fools of themselves on the small dance floor.

As is so often the case for the businessman abroad, Saturday was a long, boring day, highlighted only when he joined a group of resident expats at the pool bar for a lunch-time session. Humour descended into ribald hilarity when one of them had the bright idea of scoring the two honeymoon couples who were disporting themselves in the pool on the basis of artistic impression and technical merit! Two couples soon became four and while they gambolled in relative innocence, they must of wondered what on earth was causing great gales of laughter to waft across the pool. It turned out to be a long and alcoholic lunch. Mex worked off the excess on the tennis court before spending a quiet night in his room immersed in the fat paperback he had brought out with him.

For transport, he had arranged to get a run out to the Kariba beach from the hotel engineer, a large German who had been forced off a life on the ocean wave by flags of convenience. He was now into hotel maintenance and had now gone native and was shacked up with the hotel’s delectable, but very brown, head waitress. As for transport back he decided to ad lib. He met Stella in the hall after breakfast and informed her of the estimated time of departure. They all crammed into a well used Lada Niva, a utilitarian little Russian-made 4 x 4. Its suspension was non-existent and Mex was suffering from a mild attack of graded road bum by the time they reached the Kariba beach some thirty minutes later. They wandered along the beach together for an hour or so before heading to the beach bar for their lunch.

Again they chatted pleasantly and had several beers to wash down their sausage beans and chips. She had, he had now noticed, during this and their previous meal together expressed what Mex regarded as an unseemly interest in every male around her, regardless of their ethnicity. She was nevertheless quite shocked at the sight of two very rotund European women not a day under sixty being squired along the beach by two virile looking locals with dreadlocks and Rastafarian berets each grinning hugely to all and sundry. It was not a pretty sight. After lunch they walked the few hundred yards to the Kariba Hotel itself and were rewarded when a taxi arrived to decant some guests. Mex quickly negotiated a fare back to Banjul and they settled into the back of another tatty 404. It lacked air-conditioning and they drove back in silence with the windows open.

“I suggest,” she said evenly as they ascended the hotels steps to the lobby, “that we adjourn to your room and have one of these large G and T’s you keep talking about”.

He nodded assent and led her along to the stairs by the hand. They went up in silence and padded along the corridor to his room. Mex led the way in and made his way straight over to the small fridge and busied himself making drinks. He heard her shut the door and then use the toilet. When he turned round with their drinks, she was standing by the foot of one of the beds.

She took the offered glass and they toasted each other silently before taking large swigs. They looked at each other for what seemed like ages. Mex broke the silence..

“A penny for them?” he asked softly.

“I rather think I would like a very long and very slow comfortable screw,” she replied, enunciating every syllable very precisely.

“M-mm,” he slowly exhaled, “I think that might be arranged”.

Without another word she reached forward for his glass and put them both down on the dressing table beside them, before slipping forwards and upwards into his body while pulling down his head so that she could kiss him fiercely on his mouth. Her body felt wonderfully soft and ripe beneath the thin material and while her tongue eagerly explored his mouth, she wiggled her crotch around seeking his equipment. It didn’t take too long for her entire body stiffen momentarily as it assimilated the magnitude of her protagonist.

The preliminaries concluded, Stella broke free and, after hauling her blouse out of the waistband of her skirt, unbuttoned it slowly to reveal her splendid breasts, their big, dark red nipples standing out proudly amongst the little lumps in her large areolas, quivering in expectation as her hot blood coursed through them. She kicked off her sandals before slipping out of her skirt and briefs in swift one movement, letting them fall to the floor. It was as though she had just stepped out of a Ruben's painting. Not beautiful in the late twentieth century meaning of the word, but full, ripe and immensely desirable. And didn’t she know it as she slid her hands down over her breasts before reaching forward to help him undress.

She gasped in amazement as Stumpie leapt from the confines of his briefs and immediate sank to her knees to fellate him. He sat down on the edge of the bed then lay back and studied the ceiling with a wry grin while she did her best to bring him off. There were only two women in the world who had ever brought Maxwell Robertson off in their mouths; Maisie Armstrong, of fond memory and his wife Caroline. Many, many others had tried and failed and Stella was about to join that extensive band. After about ten minutes she grudgingly admitted defeat and came up for air and a gulp of her G & T. Mex stretched and put his hands behind his head while a hot and angry Stumpie rose from his thighs and seemed to mock her. For her part, she cupped her glass in both hands close to her mouth as if unsure of what to do next.

“Do you have a condom?” she sort of croaked.

Mex did indeed have condoms, having decided to buy a couple of packets in the relative anonymity of Boots at Gatwick. He had constantly reminded himself since to be sure he got rid of them before he returned home. They were not what a man who had had a vasectomy wanted his devoted wife to find in his toilet bag. He rose to his feet and reached for the bedside table drawer from whence he removed the distinctive packet which he tore open with his teeth before struggling to fit it over Stumpie. Sitting back down on the bed and stretching back, he assumed his previous pose.

While her bald request hadn’t quite punctured his desire it certainly removed some of its spontaneity. Stumpie, however, cared not for these niceties and was still spoiling for some action. With a nod he indicated that she should mount him. She clearly understood and knelt on the bed before lowering herself tentatively down on him. She had been frigging herself as she sucked him and her very juicy pussy accepted Stumpie without demur. Her confidence restored, she began working up and down on him, fingering her clit as she did so.

It was an unsatisfactory coupling. Sure, she had an orgasm and he had shot rather more than 10 c.c. into the confines of the condom but is just wasn’t right. He couldn’t put his finger on it; for once he felt he was not the one in control. Afterwards they lay side by side on the bed, Mex having his customary après-fuck cigarette, Stella cradling another gin and tonic between her breasts. Their bodies glistened with droplets of perspiration although Mex had patted worst gobbets of love juice from their wet genitals with a towel. It was Stella who broke what was fast becoming an embarrassing silence.

“I rather think we’re two of a kind,” she began. “I’m not the first women you have seduced and you are not the first stud I’ve bedded. And I sincerely hope you won’t be the last. I’m not, at least I don’t think I am, a nymphomaniac. They are, so I’m told, absolutely insatiable. But I do like sex, and I do like variety. I especially like young boys in their teens but for someone who is old enough to be their mother that’s a bit difficult, though not impossible”. Mex listened in silence.

“Have you,” she continued, rising up on one elbow to study his reclining figure, “ever indulged in a bit of wife swapping, car keys into the ring, that sort of thing?”

He was instantly startled out of his reverie, shocked by the suggestion she had just made. He just couldn’t begin to get his head round the idea of someone else shagging his beloved Caroline. Yet, as the concept continued to bounce around his muddled head, he couldn’t ignore his own hypocrisy, lying as he did bollock naked beside the equally naked form of yet another conquest.

“I’m sure I could set something up. I recognise swingers when I see them. It would suit us perfectly. I get some nice young dicks inside me while you get some juicy young cunt. Can you think of anything better?”

Mex could scarcely believe what he was hearing but the thought both appalled and intrigued him. He appeared to be a spectator to events beyond his control as he heard himself agree to her preposterous idea. Afterwards they showered together and Mex momentarily regained the upper hand as he took her from behind on the bedroom floor which further delayed her departure.

He saw little of Stella during the following week and they restricted themselves to exchanging the odd pleasantry as they passed by. It was only when she sidled up to him as he leant on the bar supping a pint after dinner the following Friday evening was the enormity of his agreement hit home.

“It’s all set up,” she hissed in his ear, “five couples including ourselves. Noon tomorrow, Saturday. Keep the rest of the day free!” she giggled.

“I’ll come to your room just before then. Dress casual.” Another giggle. “Oh – and bring a bottle of wine or something.” With that she drifted off.

Mex had to admit to a tingle of excitement, of anticipation, before his mind turned to speculating on the identity of the other four couples.

She knocked on his door, punctual to the minute, wearing a white tee-shirt. He presumed she was wearing her bikini briefs under it but wouldn’t have been too surprised if she wasn’t. She was carrying a large bucket bag and a towel. Mex, wearing a tee-shirt over his swimming shorts joined her in the corridor clutching a bottle of wine, and paused to lock his door. She firmly grabbed his hand and led him along the passage.

“It’s room 247!” she whispered as she towed him along and up the stairs. On reaching it, she opened the door without knocking and led Mex inside. He automatically closed the door behind him before inspecting the faces in the crowded room. They were the last to arrive.

He slowly inspected the other couples. Two were in their twenties, one of whom had been taken for one of the honeymooners disporting in the pool the previous Saturday. Two were in their thirties and remarkably similar apart from the colouring of the women, a blond and a brunette. Della and he were by far the oldest. One of the young guys dispensed wine and the nervous chatter which their arrival had silenced slowly started again. After a few sips of her wine Stella placed her bag on a bed and took command.

“Right guys, these are the rules of engagement,” which drew a few titters from her expectant audience. “The boys put the room keys into my bag, the girls pick them out. No screwing your partner. Off to the guys’ rooms, no longer than half an hour, then back here. Names on these labels and she produced self-adhesive labels and a marker pen from her bag. On returning, each will score the other out of ten. After four rounds we’ll have a drink back here then take a break. The guys are going to need it, she chuckled.

“Then we meet here after dinner when we’ll tot up the scores and the top couple will shag, if they can, in front of the rest of us. With a bit of luck it might degenerate into a nice little orgy.” Her sparkling eyes swept round the room while the others self-consciously studied the floor or the ceiling. “Oh yes,” she added, “and condoms are a must for intercourse, optional for oral sex”.

Placing her bag on a bed she started to write names on the labels and stick them on the appropriate key tags. Jeff and Connie were on his immediate left and had been one of the couples cavorting in the pool a week ago. She was always topless by the pool, and had a good if not outstanding figure. She was clearly looking forward to the afternoon’s activity. Along from them were Pete and Trish. She was small but very well formed and was the one person in the room who looked less than happy to be there; she clasped her skinny husband tightly, as if unwilling to be separated from him. He, on the other hand, had his lascivious eyes fixed on Stella's main assets.

The other two couples were remarkably similar, Barry and Gwyneth from Wales and Dave and Karen from Essex.. The men were paunchy with crew cuts and rings in their left ears and wearing little more than posing pouches. Their women were each beginning to go to seed; ample but sagging breasts, some middle age spread and cellulite bottoms a size too large. Gwyneth, a blonde, had a generous mouth and fine cheekbones while the dark haired Karen had a rounder face with correspondingly small round mouth. Mex wondered if their other lips would be in proportion. He was shortly going to find out! After receiving his label from Stella, he stuck it on his key tag and dropped it in her bag along with the others.

The girls pulled out the keys one by one. As luck would have, no-one had picked their partner so a redraw was unnecessary. The unhappy Trish had picked his key, and smiled unsurely at him while everybody else seemed to be having a quick and experimental grope of their partner. As they began to file out of the room, Mex put what he hoped was a protective arm round Trish's shoulders and led her off. By the time they reached his door she was visibly trembling.

“What you need young lady” he said as he struggled to unlock the door, “is a very stiff drink.” The door opened and he nodded towards the room.

“Come on.” She meekly entered and sat down on the edge of one of the beds.

Mex dispensed two large G & T’s and passed one to Trish. She was shaking so much that she spilt some before she could get her glass to her mouth. She drank deeply several times and slowly regained her composure while he lit a cigarette. He sat on the other bed and watched her carefully.

“It’s not you,” she said at last. “It’s Dave and Barry. They’re so, well so big and rough if you know what I mean”. Mex did indeed know what she meant although he had no doubt Stella would thoroughly enjoy her bit of rough. She had drawn Barry.

“But I really rather fancy you, though,” said Trish as she knelt down between Mex’s legs and deftly pulled off his shorts. “Wow!” she exclaimed, “I’ve never seen one as fat as that before.” She gazed up at him with wide saucer-like brown eyes. She suddenly stood up and pulled off her tee-shirt, tossing it aside before bending to remove her briefs. She had quite a body, tiny but beautifully formed. When he too stood up to remove his top he towered over her, the now erect Stumpie nudging her way above her navel. He was very conscious of her fragility and obvious fear of just a few minutes ago. He lay down on the bed and gestured for her to sit astride him. Much to his surprise she placed her knees either side of his head before lowering an exquisitely wet pussy onto his mouth. Any inhibitions he might have harboured suddenly vanished and he tongued her with all the skill he could muster.

But somehow his heart wasn’t in it. After nearly giving her an orgasm with his tongue, she slid down his torso and impaled herself onto Stumpie, taking him in with surprising ease, having first remembered to ask him where he kept his condoms, one of which she applied with remarkable speed and skill. They more or less climaxed together but afterwards he lay back strangely unmoved before they each showered separately.

It was the same with the others. They were much more enthusiastic that Trish; Gwyneth had a sensational mouth and tongue, a perfectly foil for a cunt which possessed a almost vice-like grip. But something wasn’t right. Perhaps it was the clinical certainty of it all, the absence of the hunt, the thrill of the chase, the sense of conquest or even seduction. Sure, they wriggled and squirmed and groaned and moaned, but it was all too artificial. Mex decided he was not cut out to be a porn star. He couldn’t really fuck to order.

Having completed his quota, Mex slipped away, not before he noticed Stella on her way to have an encore with young Pete. Trish was nowhere to be seen. He suddenly found he was ravenously hungry and he anxiously counted down the time to dinner, taking care not to have more than a couple of pints of shandy on his very empty stomach. He was first into the dining room that evening, wolfed down his food and was safely back to his room before anyone else from their little band appeared.

He made his way alone to the appointed room on the dot of eight thirty. The door was unlocked and on entering he found he was the last to arrive. Once again Stella was in command. The atmosphere was much more relaxed, lingering inhibitions long gone. He thought it strange that it was he of all people, who had had more shags than some people had hot dinners, who seemed to be alone in feeling a sense of disquiet. That disquiet was well founded. He had topped the boys score by a considerable margin. Of the girls, Gwyneth had beaten Stella by just one point. The enormity of the situation began to sink in. Shafting Gwyneth was one thing, doing it front of this mob was quite another. He felt himself redden and noticed that Gwyneth too was blushing. There were cries of “Strip! Strip!” and “Get them off!” from the others. Many hands helped each of them comply, and they were brought face to face with each other between the two beds. Gwyneth inclined her head towards him.

“Let’s soixante-neuf for starters,” she whispered, “then take it from there”.

Mex lay down on one of the beds and Gwyneth knelt over him to shrieks of approval from the audience as they guessed her intentions. He grimaced as she lowered her arse onto him but as soon as she began to work some magic on Stumpie he overcame his stage-fright. The atmosphere was indescribable and he found concentration on what he normally regarded as the most pleasurable of tasks difficult. In spite of his tongue operating on auto-pilot it soon brought Gwyneth to the threshold of a climax. She sat up then spun round and to raucous cheers disregarded the proffered condom and lowered herself onto an angry red Stumpie. Vigorous bouncing on Gwyneth’s part soon both them both to a climax. Spent, he lay back with his eyes closed feeling strangely detached from the whole proceedings while Gwyneth flopped forward onto his chest. They lay like this for what seemed an eternity, until she clambered off him and made her way to the bathroom.

He was suddenly aware of the carnal depravity taking place all around him, of the writhing, the groaning and above all the unbelievable smell that permeated the room. He swiftly got to his feet, managed to find his clothes among all the detritus, and taking care not to step any fornicating bodies, fled from the room. He almost ran back to his own and stood panting with his back against the door when safely inside. He soaked himself for ages in the hottest bath the hotel could muster as he tried to wash away every last trace of the previous few hours’ activity. He felt thoroughly ashamed of himself and vowed to remain celibate for the remainder of his stay.