This is a fantasy, needless to say – you may like it, or not. I never know where these stories are going when I start to write them .I don't know about you, I prefer fairly straight sex, but it's boring to read and write about, so here goes!
*
My name, for many long years, sounded to me like a joke. It sounded so sexy, so sophisticated, the name my parents had chosen, when they had decided to bring me up like a 'Mary' or a 'Joan' – that style of thing, you know what I mean. At school, I was the last to wear short skirts, never allowed make-up, and as for boy-friends, well, they had to wait until I'd finished my studies, didn't they?
But then, after some athletic success in my mid-teens, I discovered that academia wasn't for me, and rebelled. Well, I mean, who doesn't? I left school at sixteen, went to work in a shoe-shop with a fellow high-jumper from the local athletics club, and caused my parents so much grief that they almost disowned me. It all revolved around a boyfriend, of course, who, looking back, was about as much use as a chocolate teapot. My own age, he was sexually naïve, gauche and awkward, and my first amorous encounters were disastrous, fumbling affairs, invariably terminating in premature ejaculation and acute dissatisfaction.
But whilst working at the shoe-shop, I started to look at the sophisticated ladies who came in to try on shoes, and, on Mondays and at other quiet times, I took to people-watching, and wondering if I could somehow aspire to be like one of the beautiful people I saw walking about town.
I can even put a precise time to my transformation. My parents had gone away for their summer holidays to a French campsite, something I had long since stopped wanting to accompany them on, and I was alone in the house. I was just eighteen, and had finished with Tim, had an unsatisfactory flirtation with a slightly older biology student, Kevin, and was generally at a loose end. I arose late on the Saturday morning after my parents' departure, and took a long, hard look at myself in my mother's full length mirror. Looking back at me was a surprisingly nicely-put-together woman, I thought. I had matured into a tall, slim, long-legged young woman, with a small, heart-shaped face and a nice even-toothed smile, long, thick, honey-blonde hair, narrow waist and smallish, firm breasts. I saw no reason not to try and improve my own prospects, and resolved, there and then, to do something about it.
As soon as my parents returned, I announced my intention of taking a few months off, and immediately raised a storm of protest, but I wasn't to be diverted, and two weeks later, I was on a flight to Madrid, armed with my savings in the form of credit cards, for no better reason than that I got a cheap flight, and had a few words of school Spanish.
Once in Madrid, I thought I should take a few days to do some sightseeing, then try to go to one of the wine-growing areas, and see if I could find casual work. From Barajas airport, I took the Metro into the city and found a cheap hotel near the centre, booking in for three nights. It was four in the afternoon and hot, so I changed from my travelling outfit of jeans and tee-shirt into a cotton miniskirt and an off-the-shoulder cotton blouse, slipped on a pair of comfortable shoes and went out into the blazing sunshine.
It was uncomfortable walking, even so scantily clad, so I stopped and ordered a pineapple juice at a café and sat outside, watching the world go by, wondering if I had done the right thing.
'I think you are English,' said a deep, cultured voice, with only a trace of a Spanish accent, half behind me. I turned and was looking into the brown eyes of a man in his late forties, I guessed, even early fifties – yes, early fifties, I revised my opinion. He had wavy grey hair, and chiselled features. He wore a cream linen suit, complete with jacket, despite the intense August heat, and a brown button-down shirt with an open neck.
'May I?' he asked, taking a seat beside me, as if I had concurred already. 'Rafael de la Fuente.'
'Vanessa Carden,' I replied, 'pleased to meet you.' Though I wasn't too sure I wanted to meet anybody at all – not just yet.
Rafael insisted on buying me another juice, and was disappointed that I would take nothing stronger. He spoke excellent English, and when I told him I was interested to know how he had picked me out as being English, he became a little coy, then laughed gently and said, 'Spanish girls look a bit different, and almost always....er, wear bras, you know.'
I looked at him, not sure whether to be annoyed that he had noticed I had not been wearing a bra, then burst out laughing, and the awkwardness between us was gone. I could scarcely believe it when he invited me to dinner that evening, and even less so when I accepted. My God, Vanessa, I thought, what are you doing? A dinner date with a man older than your father?
As Rafael took his leave of me, after arranging to pick me up at the hotel at eight-thirty, (eight-thirty, I thought – now I know I'm in Spain!) he said, 'Wear something beautiful.'
I was in a panic. My rucksack, back at the hotel, contained jeans, shorts, tee-shirts, underwear – nothing else. OK, then, desperate measures. I headed for El Corte Inglés, and raided the sales, currently in full swing. In a couple of hours I had found a dress the like of which my parents would never have approved, a long electric blue, backless halter-neck shift. Rafael had noted my lack of a bra, so he wasn't going to miss one tonight either, and the skirt was so tight and of such thin material that panties were out of the question too. I needed shoes to go with it, and Spain is well supplied with shoe shops. I was surprised at the cheapness, when compared to the ones I had been selling, and bought a pair of outrageously high black stilettos.
When I had bathed and washed and brushed out my long hair to a silky sheen, I slipped into the new dress, and looked at my metamorphosis in the mirror of my tacky room. I didn't recognise this Vanessa. When Rafael rang my room phone at precisely eight-thirty, I slipped on my new shoes, and hoped I shouldn't have to walk too far in them. He was waiting for me in the lobby, dressed in a white tuxedo and black tie – was I glad I had bought the new dress!
'Vanessa. You look quite stunning,' he said, and led me out to a shining black Lexus parked illegally outside, opening the passenger door, and helping me arrange my dress before closing the door.
We drove for a surprising thirty five minutes, running into leafy suburbs, then parkland, before turning off up a narrow track and stopping in a car park full off very expensive cars outside a castellated restaurant, with a uniformed attendant at the door. He seemed to be familiar with my escort, greeting him and nodding formally to me as we entered.
The Maitre d' showed us to a corner table, sumptuously set for four, and I took in the surroundings – and very elegant they were, with well-dressed people conversing quietly, as soft music played. I expressed surprise that our table was for four, and Rafael told me he had taken the liberty of inviting friends to dine with us. 'I think you will enjoy their company, my dear,' he said.
We ordered drinks, and no sooner had our gin and tonics arrived than our fellow diners joined us. Juan was, I supposed, in his thirties, and darkly handsome, wearing a black
dinner jacket and white polo-neck shirt, whilst his partner, Alicia, was petite, with flashing black eyes, and jet black hair piled elaborately on top of her head. She wore a ruinously expensive-looking long white silk gown, open at the front right down to her waist.
When introductions had been made, I said laughingly to Rafael, 'I thought you said Spanish girls wear bras.'
Alicia said, 'We aren't all Victorian, you know. Some of us are quite liberated.'
I must have flushed bright red: 'I'm so sorry – I didn't realise you understood English so perfectly, and I didn't mean to.....well, you know........'
She was smiling, and put a cool hand on mine. 'Don't feel bad. I do understand,' she said, 'and I know why Rafael brought you. You are very pretty.'
This did nothing to lessen my embarrassment, but the waiter came and took our order, and a delicious meal ensued, washed down with ample quantities of good wine.
A little unsteadily, I stood up to go to the toilet, and Alicia volunteered to accompany me, guiding me to the sumptuous bathroom. When I had used the loo, she came and stood with me as we repaired our make-up, and took my hand in hers.
'Vanessa, how long did you plan on staying in Madrid?' she asked.
'Just about three days,' I replied.
'Rafael has asked me to put something to you,' she said.
I turned to her in surprise. I had wondered at the dinner invitation. Things like that just didn't happen to me, and suspicion was now filling my mind. Then again, I had never had a meal like that in my life before, nor been in such a restaurant, in the company of such elegant people. I decided to hear her out.
'Come and live with us,' she said, looking directly into my eyes, 'stay as long as you want, enjoy our lifestyle, and leave if and when you wish.'
I looked hard at her, wondering if alcohol was clouding my judgement, as I was on the verge of agreeing. For the sake of argument, I asked, 'What's the catch?'
'I said, we have our own lifestyle. You will soon know whether you like it or not. If not, you leave. There is no catch. Come, let us join the others, then you can decide.'
In truth, I had already decided. I liked Alicia instinctively, and was, I suppose, a little bit in love with the urbane Rafael already.
'Well?' he asked, simply, 'what do you think?' when we returned.
'Very well,' I said, 'just so long as I can leave whenever I want.'
He leaned over the table and kissed me softly, full on the lips, and I found myself opening my mouth instinctively in response.
Whether it was the effect of the wine or not, my hand crept into his lap as he drove us back into Madrid, and I found myself gently massaging a considerable erection through his trousers by the time we had entered the traffic flow of the city centre.
When we arrived at the hotel, he parked the Lexus in an underground car park, and accompanied me to my Spartan little room, which he viewed with ill-concealed distaste.
'Tomorrow, we'll put you somewhere much nicer,' he said.
