It became a ritual for me to grab Jeanine in her uniform and make love to her right there on the sofa in the sitting room. Sometimes I forget to lock the door.

My younger sister, Bibish, has happened on us a couple of times. She would retreat and close the door, lock it and go round to enter the house from the kitchen.

Sometimes I will see Jeanine conversing with Bibish without looking at her, after we have just been caught pants down. Me too, I usually feel ashamed to look at her directly into her eyes.

From the way I have seen Bibish look at Jeanine, I can guess she is thinking – may my brother finally end with this one. I can read that in her face.

Jeanine is as good in the kitchen as she on the bed. Usually, we would have some kind of starters in the sitting room, before going for the main course on the bed, and sometimes the afters in the morning before dawn – sometimes after dawn, especially within the weekend.

Jeanine was the kind of girl you could make love to her several times. She is the sort of girl, each time you look at her, after making love; you would want to make love again.

Just lying there naked, with the sheets off, her fair and soft skin, her contours and curves, her boobs and bumps; are titillating. Then, when she gives me that warm wet kiss, sends shock waves through my system. It is a dose for instantaneous arousal.

She had been in Buea on mission for one week. She returned on Friday morning while I was already at work. She called to say she was at her own place preparing to go to work and write her report. She said she can’t wait to see me. I said I was longing for her.

Dave and I agreed to give her a treat that evening. He would come to my place and we will pick up his own girl friend and give them a treat.

I got home at about 5.30 pm. The rain had behaved itself for three days. It had been a very hot day. It was a relief when the sun took its orange glow behind Mount Cameroon in Buea as can be seen from our seventh-floor office on Boulevared de la Liberté in Douala.

I switched on the TV as I was preparing to shower. CNN was running a report on how President Donald Trump had attacked the press again – with his pet phrase of “fake news”.

There was a knock. I said open and the door swung ajar. In her military uniform, in the door frame, she looked like a framed painting of someone’s dream woman waiting to be hung on his wall after their wedding day. Or did she look like the famous American actress, Angelina Jolie, playing cop in a movie?

She broke a smile after I virtually scanned her in my admiration from head to toe. In a shrieking voice, she shouted: “Cherieeeeee!” and stepped in kicking the door with her heel. I swept her off her feet, first unto my shoulder, then unto by back the way some people carry children.

When I stood her on her feet, and held her by the waist, she virtually shot at my mouth with hers and gave me a kiss that took my tongue into her mouth and she sucked it as if to rip it off from my throat. My body caught fire. I fidgeted with the buckle of her belt as she simultaneously fiddled with mine.

Our trousers and underwear were hardly down to our knees when I spun her round and she grabbed the armrest of the sofa bending over.

Without any ceremony, I got in and we were at the game, her uniform almost coming off her shoulders in my grip.

The yearning for the goal came out in different sounds from both players. I was now sweating like a horse.

We were almost at the triumphant end when there was a knock and, without looking, I said, almost unconsciously: “Co co-co-co-come innnnnn! We both groaned.

I heard a sigh. It was Dave. He stepped out closing the door and laughing. I thought of how I had virtually chastised him when his nurse girlfriend complained that Dave would not let her remove her uniform before making love to her.

It was my turn to explain to Dave why I was making love to my own girlfriend in her uniform.

The Collector