On an impulse I picked up my rucksack and walked briskly across the square to the hotel.
They had a room for me, the price was reasonable, within minutes I had deposited my things and changed into fresh clothes, was back out on the square again.
There were a number of bars, restaurants, cafes dotted around the square and I chose one at random, sat at a table outside.
The young woman who came out to me wore a long flowing skirt which was a little too old-fashioned for a person her age, it might have been more suited to her mother, if her mother had been a flamenco dancer. The blouse, too, was a little unflattering, a few too many frills about it, as if the fashions often years ago had only just reached that backwater. The way she moved, though, made any complaints about her dress immaterial, for she walked as other women might dance, her hips swaying, a gentle fluid motion making her whole body seem to undulate as she moved towards me.
“Buenas tardes,” she said with a smile.
“Buenas tardes,” I replied. “Un cerveza por favor, y un . . . un bocacülló?”
She sensed my hesitancy as I searched for the right word, asked in English, which was better than my Spanish, “And what would you like on your sandwich?”
“Erm . . . ham? And cheese?”
“Bueno. Jamon y queso.”
The beer was cold, her smile was warm as she served it to me; she brought me a dish of olives while the sandwich was prepared. There must have been few people inside for she was attentive in her service, unhurried.
I had a second beer, a third, and each time she served me she lingered a little longer at my table.
“Me llamo Paul,” I introduced myself, and she said her name was Yolanda. I congratulated her on her English and she teasingly said that my Spanish was . . . understandable.
I laughed and invited her to sit a while if she had the time. She narrowed her eyes to peer into the dark interior of the bar, decided that no one needed her so took the seat beside me.
I told her of my travels, of the places I had visited and the sights I had seen, thinking to impress her with the sophistication, but though she listened with an interested smile there was no hint of envy in her soft brown eyes, no obvious yearning to visit these places for herself.
Finally she said, “Pah! These Madrilenos and the like, they are all very well with their fine clothes and their boutiques, their galleries full of art and libraries full of books, but still they are a little bit backward.”
“Backward?” I laughed, first looking at the clothes she wore, then around me at her tiny town, and seeing not an iota of sophistication anywhere. If there was any place that was backward in that country then I had surely stumbled upon it.
“You doubt me?” Yolanda demanded, getting quickly to her feet, fists on hips and glaring down at me.
“No, I’m sure your small town has much to recommend it, and its people –”
“Do not think to condescend!” she cut me off, backing from me like a dancer, with a twitch of the hips and a single step. She spat a curse at me: “Bruto campesinol Ignorant peasant!”
The fire in those eyes! The lushness of the lips as she spat her curse! Her whole body trembled with anger, with passion, and before she could back further from me I reached out to grasp her wrist.
“I’m sorry, Yolanda, truly sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to offend you. It’s my English sense of humour, I suppose.”
“Unsophisticated?”
“Unsophisticated,” I agreed, smiling. “Tell me, what time do you finish work here?”
“Why?” she asked.
“We might meet for a drink?” I hoped.
“I finish at eight, the house is at the back of the bar.” She pointed, snatching her hand free, then turned on her heels and flounced off.
Yolanda greeted me more amiably than we had parted, with a smile and a kiss to each cheek.
She had changed from the skirt and blouse of earlier, wore a tight dress of black silk, its neckline low, its skirt short. Her hair had been drawn up, was held at the back with a large silver comb, her eyes had been darkened and her lips glossed a dark red. She looked stunning but still … a little out of fashion.
She stepped aside to let me enter, closed the door after me and then led me into the house, her arm linking through mine. The blinds were partly closed in the room I was taken to, keeping the air cool, the light soft. I cast my eyes around the room, making out objects in the muted light: the sofa and chairs, furniture of rich wood which might have been antique, the small table in one corner at which sat the dark shape of a woman.
I looked enquiringly at Yolanda, saying nothing but my puzzlement obvious.
“My aunt, Tia Maria.” Yolanda grinned, and at the mention of her name her aunt’s head lifted from the book she was reading.
“Hola,” she said, regarding me sternly.
She was perhaps ten, fifteen years older than her niece, somewhere in her thirties, and dressed like a woman in mourning. Her long black skirt came to her ankles, her blouse was buttoned to the neck and hair as dark as Yolanda’s was tied back from her face, though more severely than her niece’s.
“Er . . . hello,” I said, for the moment forgetting the little Spanish I knew, thinking that in her monochromatic harmony she resembled a portrait by Whistler. The artist’s mother, maybe.
“Some wine?” Yolanda invited, crossing to an ancient cabinet.
“Just the one,” her aunt said.
“Great,” I said, without enthusiasm, wondering if Tio Pepe might be lurking somewhere in the background.
Yolanda nodded to me to sit on the sofa, poured two glasses and joined me there while her aunt returned to her book, her back almost, but not quite, turned to us.
I took a stiff drink, then asked in a whisper, “What’s your aunt doing here?”
Smiling slyly over the rim of her glass, Yolanda said, “She is here as my carabina . . . my . . . how would you say? My chaperone?”
“Remind your young man that carabina can also mean carbine, gun,” Yolanda’s aunt said, without looking up from her book.
“Look, maybe I’d best leave,” I said uncomfortably, setting my glass down, wondering how she might now dare challenge the idea that this town of hers could be anything but backward.
“No, please don’t,” said Yolanda, resting her hand on my knee to lean towards me, and in the instant before she kissed me I was offered an enticing view of her breasts, a sight which made me gasp, as if I was about to drown in them.
What Yolanda offered this time was no simple kiss of greeting, no light peck to each cheek, but a kiss as passionate as the Spanish sun was hot. I had never known lips so soft, her tongue when it slipped between mine was caressing rather than abrasive, and it felt as if my whole body was melting, sinking into hers.
When Yolanda broke the kiss, our faces inches apart, I cast an anxious glance over her shoulder, in the direction of her aunt. She was still seated as before, her back mostly turned to us, head bent over her book.
“Don’t go?” Yolanda asked softly, her hand caressing my thigh.
If there was any temptation to leave, any cowardly impulse to run, it vanished the instant the tip of a finger reached my groin. A tingle that was electric coursed through my body and I leaned forwards to resume the kiss, my eyes still fixed on Yolanda’s aunt at first, but soon feeling the lids flutter shut as I surrendered myself to the power of her kiss.
There was more than just the tip of a finger at my groin now, Yolanda had the palm of her hand pressed hard against my cock, her fingers were digging and probing beneath, clutching at my balls through the fabric of my trousers.
“Yolanda!” I hissed, softly but urgently.
“Yes?” she asked, her face pulling back to give me the sweetest, the wickedest of smiles, and her fingers pulled my zip down, searched around for my cock.
I bit my lip, closed my eyes and fought to keep my breathing even as Yolanda pulled out my cock, thinking: Oh shit! Oh shit!
; Her fingers curled around me, she had me large enough to fill her and then some, and she squeezed me tightly, studying my face to enjoy my reaction, grinning to see me grimace as she tugged at me.
“No! No! No!” her aunt suddenly cried out, slamming her book shut, and my eyes flashed open to see her striding across the room towards us.
“Oh Christ!” I groaned, trying to rise from the sofa.
Yolanda kept firm hold of me, but only until her aunt reached us and slapped her hand away.
“No! No! No!” she said again. “Not like that, niece! You grip it like a club when you should be holding it like a brush, like a pen, something to be creative with!”
And before I had a chance to cover myself she was kneeling before us, taking hold of the cock Yolanda had relinquished.
“Take it as a conductor might take up his baton,” she told her niece, gripping me with the lightest of touches. And to me she simply said, “Be still!”
As if to help keep me still Yolanda wrapped an arm around my neck to hold me to her and casually stroked my cheek as she gazed with interest at my lap.
I was astonished, aghast, lost for words and . . . growing harder than ever under the soft caress of this older woman.
Her fingertips ran lightly along the underside of my cock, from base to tip, at which point her nails grazed it, her thumb stroked once over the head.
“You see, Yolanda, how responsive a man can be with the right treatment?” she said, as my cock danced and pricked erect for her.
“Yes, Maria.” Yolanda nodded, her gaze rapt, like a student attentive to her tutor.
“Right, you try,” Maria said, releasing my cock and then slipping her hand beneath my balls to lift my genitals for her niece.
Yolanda’s touch was as feather light as her aunt’s this time; the soft pads of her fingers barely seemed to touch me as they ran along my shaft. The briefest brush of her thumb across the tip of my cock was such an exquisite delight that it brought an audible sob from me.
“You see, Yolanda? You can make him sing, you can make him dance, you can make him do anything you like,” said Maria, moving her hand around in small circles so that my balls rolled about her palm.
My eyes shivered open to check that what was happening was no dream, saw Yolanda looking down with longing at my evergrowing cock, her aunt Maria gazing directly into my face, her expression still a little stern, a little cold.
But then, as if she had just been waiting to get my attention, her face softened, she smiled at me and raised her free hand to the neck of her blouse.
“Of course, it is also possible to excite a man by exciting ourselves,” she said, speaking to her niece but her eyes never leaving mine, burning into me as she slowly, almost fastidiously, began to unbutton her blouse.
Maria’s bra, inevitably, was of black lace, and in contrast to this and the parted blouse which hung like a jet curtain to either side, her pale flesh took on the stark translucence of marble. She ran her hand over one breast, then the other, until I was aware of the nipples pricking against the fabric. Then she rose up on her knees and slipped one hand inside her bra to bare a breast.
I was now so hard in her niece’s tender hand that the young woman began to make a low purring noise as her fingers slid back and forth, as if pleased with herself, as if pleased with me.
“Tia Maria,” she said, looking up from my cock at last, switching her gaze to her aunt.
“Yes, Yolanda?”
“Io deseo, Tia Maria.”
“Entonces tomalo, sobrina.”
The meaning of the words – “I want him, Aunt Maria” . . . “Then take him, niece”– was lost on me, but not the intention, as the aunt slid up onto the couch beside me, her fingers scratching up my balls as she released them, and Yolanda rose to stand before me. As if seen in a dream, as if the air was thick between us, Yolanda slipped the silk dress from her shoulders, pulled it down her body, revealing her nakedness inch by tantalizing inch. Her fingers then crept down her belly, between her thighs, splayed to part them until I could see her moist cunt.
“Slowly now, niece, take your pleasure slowly,” said Maria, as Yolanda rested first one knee, then the other, on the couch astride me.
Hands wet with her own juices then moved from her groin to mine, took my erection and held it upright, positioning it carefully.
“Slowly! Despacio!” Maria repeated, and Yolanda rubbed the tip of my cock against her, then held it there and smiled down at me.
“So, my arrogant Englishman, who has experienced the sophistication of all our cities … you still think we are backward here?” she asked.
“No!” I gasped, as her body dipped slightly, taking just the head of my cock inside her.
“And the idea of a chaperone, a carabina, is not so old-fashioned after all?” she said, turning a moment to grin at her aunt.
“Not at all!”
Yolanda’s body dropped lower, her cunt embracing my cock as she asked, “You speak from the heart?”
“From the heart!” I promised.
“Not from the genitals, but the heart?”
“From the heart! The heart!” I assured her, needing to be deep inside her, and then let out a scream as she sank hard onto me. “Ai! Ai! Ai!” I cried.
“Oh see, aunt, his Spanish is quite good after all!” Yolanda laughed, beginning to rise and fall with a steady rhythm.
Aunt Maria directed her niece as a maestro might an orchestra, conducting her movements, her rhythms, alternating the speed and the tempo until finally I was pleading, begging, asking them to put an end to my delight.
The first time I entreated them Maria silenced me by pressing her bared breast to my mouth. The second time Yolanda brought a halt to my sobs by holding her body poised above me, making me ache for her, and the third time … the third time Yolanda’s glance to her aunt was as pleading as was mine to her.
“Yes, take your pleasure of him,” Maria said with a nod, and Yolanda brought her body down on mine.
Just the once was enough for us both now; her muscles clenched around me and my body tensed beneath her. I gushed inside her and it seemed that she flowed over me.
But even as her body was softening against me, preparing to take me in her embrace, her aunt was gently but insistently easing her away.
“A drink I think, Yolanda,” she said.
“Aunt?”
“Tia Maria!”
“Ah yes, Tia Maria!” Yolanda understood, beginning to laugh, and I opened my eyes to see her aunt lifting her long black skirt and baring her cunt, then lowering it towards my face.
“Drink long and deep of the Spanish drink, Englishman,” she said. “So smooth and sweet. Drink long and deep of Tia Maria!”
A TATTOO FOR JOHN
Melissa, Perth
I love my boyfriend John so much that I’m willing to do anything to please him. My friends think he’s a control freak but I don’t, I think everything he says to me is just because he loves me. Anyway, he has a tattoo of a cobra on his arm and wanted me to get a matching one. I told my best friend, Sarah, and she freaked, told me I was nuts, so I thought I’d compromise by having a tattoo where no one else but John can see it. Little did I know how much that was going to change my life.
I’d booked in with the tattooist who does all of John’s. His name is Marcus. He’s Latin and absolutely gorgeous. We discussed the tattoo and when I suggested I wanted it on my arse so only John could see it, he suggested it would be better in the groin area, said it would turn John on.
“Really?” I asked.
“You bet,” he said. “All guys like their women to have them there and if I could just make a suggestion?”
“Sure,” I said.
“I did one last week for my girl . . . er, my friend. I had the snake’s head, with its tongue flickering out, pointing right at her slit.”
I blushed furiously. I wasn’t a prude but talking like this to him was making me uncomfortable.
“I don’t know,�
� I mumbled.
“I’m telling you, it looks amazing. She’s coming over later, we could wait and she can show you.”
I thought about it. It certainly did sound erotic and the sort of thing that John would probably like, but I didn’t know about
Marcus. I mean, I know it’s his job and I’m sure people are always stripping off in front of him, but I didn’t know if I should.
He was flicking through a book of illustrations as though he was uninterested in pushing it so I thought, OK, why not.
“Let’s do it,” I said.
I thought I noticed a quick smile puckering the side of his mouth.
“You’ll have to strip off, only from the waist down,” he said. “Cover yourself with this sheet and I’ll be back in a minute.”
He was gone so quickly that I didn’t have time to protest about how short the sheet was. It was only about six inches wide. I didn’t want to get caught midway in changing so I quickly whipped off my skirt and panties and lay down just in time.
He burst back through the curtain barely looking at me. He carefully pulled the sheet down and I was sure he’d be able to see my slit completely. I stared up at the ceiling as he drew the sketch pretending I was anywhere else but here.
The bell on the door rang and he excused himself. The curtain was slightly open and I saw a sexy-looking woman talking to him. She lifted her top and he inspected her large breasts. She had a tattoo on one of them. I couldn’t quite make out what it was, but she was laughing as he bent his head to inspect it. She grabbed at his arse and pulled him in close to her. I didn’t want to watch but couldn’t help myself.
His hands roamed up her skirt, tugging it up to expose that she was wearing only a tiny G-string. He yanked the fabric over and I was shocked to see her flaps, exposed for me to see. She lifted a leg and before she wrapped it around his back I got a full shot of her gaping pussy. I’ve never seen another woman’s and my pussy throbbed with excitement.
The Mammoth Book of Erotic Confessions Page 40