An Erotic Romance

Paulo was tall and dark and from a faraway land. Aha, a prince perhaps. A hero from some fabulous fable. A fairy tale about to burst into song. But she felt all of the above to be very unlikely.

At first, Jen found him too large and his English not so much difficult as stodgy. He spoke slowly, as if thinking everything through before he spoke. He seemed hesitant as if he found her, like she did him, not to his taste. She looked around the pub where they had agreed to meet, wondering if people could tell that they were meeting for the first time, that this was an illicit meeting. Rolling the word around in her mouth, she savoured the syllables, tasting the sibilant sounds that echoed in her mind. She focussed back on his face. Was he attractive? He had deep set dark eyes. A broad nose. A short beard and moustache. He wore a pink short sleeved business shirt. No, Jen thought, he's not for me. The hour would soon be up and she would go on to her appointment. She was glad she had only allocated an hour. Longer and she felt they would have nothing to say.

And yet she was drawn into his voice and his seemingly diffident manner. His voice was darkly nuanced and deep and he did not react to her as if he was a drowning man who had been thrown a lifeline. Other married men seemed over-glad to have met a normal woman, their previous experiences unspoken but apparent in the desperate way in which they gushed at her. When she heard their stories, the women they had met online in their search for someone who was looking for something similar, to preserve the life they had but which had lost that indeterminate spark which is different for everyone – to enjoy a bit of drama, excitement and compatible sex - she felt sorry for them. She wasn't the one for them either but at least she didn't have expectations that were set so high the men couldn't reach them. Nor was she a stalker. Nor was she looking for someone to release her from a tormented marriage or to buy her things. She had everything already. She just wanted a bit more.

Jen liked how Paulo stroked his moustache a little. The movement drew her eyes to his mouth. It was of average size but the lips were full. And he didn't have the awful teeth of the English. That was at least a plus.

He was interesting too. Using his hands to save lives. Not just a GP for whom she had little time as they seemed unable to diagnose, preferring instead to hand out prescriptions for antibiotics as if they were sweeties. No, here was a man who seemed to care about humanity. He didn't make jokes about it. He seemed to respect it. She looked at her watch. She finally had to cut him off mid-stream which later struck her as funny because she had so wrongly thought they would run out of things to say long before the hour was up.

He offered to walk her to her appointment. She accepted. And they spent another easy 10 minutes in each other's company. They parted, kissing each other on both cheeks. She ran into the building, hurried down a corridor and entered a rabbit's warren. He slipped away from her mind.

He sent her a text and an email – nothing explicit, just a few words saying that he had enjoyed the chance to meet. She debated telling him it was nice but no bananas. The earth hadn't moved for her. She was seeing someone else. Which was true although Robert was not really moving the earth for her either. He was an energetic lover but a sloppy one. He was like a puppy dog, all tongue and cock, and not sure quite what to do with either. And he laughed every time he came which put her off. The first time it happened she had thought he was laughing at her. He assured her he wasn't; he was just excited. She had initially found that excitement and his endless bounding energy endearing but it was wearing now. Now, instead of enjoying the trysting lover, she found herself hating the way he ate – food invariably sitting in the corner of his mouth, lurching down his tie, dribbling on his chin. It was putting her off – a lot. It was hard to fancy a man who dribbled.

But Jen had to admit that she had enjoyed the drink with Paulo and so she stayed in touch via email. The emails from and to her were matter of fact – asking questions, giving answers, talking about daily things and issues more global. And he was clearly in no hurry to move things along and she couldn't tell if he fancied her or not and actually she found she didn't mind. She wasn't sure what she thought of him and figured their interest would just fizzle out. Or he would find someone much more suitable and email them instead. After all, what would a Latino find interesting in a pale Anglo Saxon? Their temperaments were different for starters. As far as he would be able to make out, she would be limp and ineffectual like most Anglos. But then again, perhaps he preferred his lovers like that. No doubt in his Latin marriage there was much passion and throwing of things and shouting at each other. Maybe he was looking for some peace, a little oasis. Anyway, emailing took little time and a new person was like a new discovery – full of interesting things or different ways of looking at life.

They met again a couple of weeks later for a drink in a cellar bar on a cold early summer's day. Cold and wet. He was going to work afterwards so he could not drink alcohol but she figured that a small glass of something alcoholic would be useful for her. Dutch courage or just a loosening of inhibitions. After all she didn't really know him. And she didn't know if despite the emailing, she wanted to spend any time with him. She almost didn't remember what he looked like. But he remembered her.

They talked for two hours this time, discussing so many things although always the subject of why they were meeting was skirted around. It was not so much that they actively ignored the shades of their spouses but rather that they didn't include them. To talk about the reasons for meeting would be to invite the spouses in and neither wanted the reminder. Jen found herself really liking him. Ok, he didn't always get her jokes but she didn't mind. And when towards the end of their time together, she found Paulo's hand on her leg, she was grateful that she had shaven her legs that morning. He did little but stroke the bare part of her leg above her knee. Just the one leg that was closest to him. He didn't try to touch anywhere else. Or to kiss her. She remembered meeting another man in this same bar weeks before and within an hour he had wanted to kiss her. She had declined, pretending shyness. What made someone think you would want to kiss them when you'd met them only an hour before? No, Paulo was different. He was showing gentleness, kindness almost. Jen liked too that there was no expectation, no pressure on her to respond in any way. She especially liked the stroke of his hand on her leg. Then her alarm rang and she had to run off.

But now the texts and emails were very slightly suggestive. Just hints dropped among many other lines about life in general. Hints responded to in a light hearted way. Nothing dramatic, but sweet and slightly tempting in their own small way.

Their next meeting took place a week later. Lunch in a village pub. This time though, allowing the gin and tonic to soak into her, she relaxed more and before they finished up, she felt loose enough to ask him for a hug for no particular reason other than she felt like it. As she spoke and before waiting for a response, she put her arms around his neck. And perhaps she wasn't as surprised as she made out to find his lips on hers. Ah, that kiss. It was the most honest kiss she had felt in a long time – it was perfect. The tension in the lips, the pressure, the tongue a little hesitant, not bearing down on her tonsils, the smell of the skin of his face. Having started, she didn't want to stop. She couldn't quite remember when she'd felt a kiss like that before.

He walked her to the station where he left her to take the train home and here he kissed her on both cheeks. Two friends saying goodbye. She walked home with a smile on her lips.

Later there was a text from him – "I want more."

"More?" she text back. "You need to be specific."

"How specific? Can I be dirty?"

"If you want to...." She imagined him hunched over his secret phone, getting excited like a little boy about to tell a secret.

"I want to kiss your cunt."

This completely floored her. It was not at all what she expected to hear from him. Not yet at least. Oh, yes, please, she thought.

The following week they met again – this time for a picnic in a city park. Paulo read her poetry written in the language of his birth country and then he translated it. She thought about the intensity of the language, how much more romantic and rounded and tense were the words used to express feeling. Somehow the hard rawness of man in woman was made tender and lush. Could an Anglo write like that Jen wondered. The strangeness of this unknown language was like liquid falling on a parched soul.

They sat in the park for hours, during that working day, people dotted around them like sheep, sunning themselves or chatting, and yet the sounds were absorbed into the peace of the place. Sometimes she would look around and watch others, wondering what they were doing, and thinking. A squirrel slid down a nearby tree and crouched, nibbling at a strawberry lying at the tree's base. Only its cheeks moved, its eyes still like black stones as it concentrated. It was as if in that strawberry it had found the most important thing in the world.

A man further away had spread out a picnic blanket and was opening a back pack as his phone rang. He answered as he removed food and wine from the bag. Then glasses. Was he doing what they were doing? Preparing himself for his affair? A little while later, when she surfaced again from beneath the luscious lake of words that Paulo bathed her in, she saw that the man had been joined by a woman. They drank from their glasses, she gesticulating about something, he staring at her. Was she nervous? Was this their first meeting? They didn't seem like lovers nor even friends. Jen decided it was their first toe-dipping date.

When Paulo kissed her, she found herself unaccountably nervous. Knowing it was going to happen did not prepare her. The skin around his mouth smelt woody and she drank that scent in as they kissed. His tongue was broad and filled her mouth. He put his arms around her and she was able to let go, relax into his grasp. She closed her eyes and thought of nothing but his mouth. She let herself drift away.

The afternoon was interspersed now with more poetry and more talking and much kissing. How did they fit in all of that in one afternoon, she wondered later. That first kiss had broken through her nervousness – not nervous because he was unknown but nervous because she knew that every time they met it was another step towards an outcome she wanted but preferred not to think about.

The sun dipped and shadows crossed and re-crossed the park grounds, as the day wore on. A chill bit into the flesh and Jen and Paulo packed up and walked down Piccadilly to a café. He took her bags and she liked how he did that without asking her if she needed or wanted help. They sat in a semi secluded area of the café and drank tea and talked some more but now they were tiring and she was winding down, preparing to meet some friends. The sun and the use of their mouths and lips to talk and to kiss had taken it out of them both. And they both had much to think about.

Later that evening, amongst her friends, Jen's mind drifted back to the park. She felt the sun warm on her arms and his lips hot on her mouth. The thought of his tongue tingled through her. It tantalised her. On her way home, she found a statement from Paulo that showed undeniably that whatever she wanted he was ready to give it to her.

The following week the two of them took in an art exhibition. A French painter of the late 19th Century whose work and life she had always found particularly interesting. A sad little man who wanted more than he could have. His own imperfections were overcome by the sheer beauty he wrought on canvas. How did a woman sleep with a man whose desires outweighed his masculinity? Beside her paced Paulo whose masculinity was solid and whose energy she could feel even when all he did was stand behind her, enjoying the art. Jen allowed herself some time to just stand there, blinded to what was in front of her, so that she could feel his presence. It was an interesting experiment, changing her awareness, become attuned to only one person apart from herself, blocking everything else out, wanting the public space between them to become private. Knowing the time was not quite right.

They sat in a courtyard later and ate and talked. His whispered foreign words sent flickering tongues through her mind for if she could not understand what he said, she still knew exactly what he was saying. He kissed her hands, her cheeks. He was gently demanding.

Paulo walked with her to her meeting and kissed her lightly on the lips in a laneway nearby. Jen didn't even care now though she knew that anyone who knew her could see her here. It was the strangest feeling, as if she was slightly out of control and bubbling over.

In the week that followed, Jen found herself thinking about Paulo more than before and wondering what fucking him would be like, what he looked like naked. She couldn't tell really what shape he was, only how tall. She wondered if he was hairy, or smooth. She imagined his cock, which only twice she had felt through his trousers. She imagined him over her, sliding into her, and she would groan into her pillow. Several times, she woke in the night, wanting his cock so much that once she woke her husband and, to his delight, fucked him hard. She masturbated every day, sometimes twice, using fingers and vibrator, wanting to be fucked, to be licked and sucked, wanting to come on Paulo's face, to see the look on his face, any look.

The following week, they spent a day in each other's company, exploring the countryside and going one step further than they had before.....

Jen was staying at her and her husband's house in the country. She picked Paulo up at the local station and they drove to a seaside town. She'd not driven there before, in fact had explored little of the county she and her husband had moved to some months earlier. Jen had chosen the town because it was an hour away from their home and she was sure no-one she knew would see them there. The journey down was jolted about by the satellite navigation system losing signal and then sending them on wild goose chases.

Throughout this wild and woolly ride, Paulo chatted, unconcerned with their destination or the erratic driving of his companion. They talked and laughed and she tried to concentrate on many things – the conversation, the sat nav, the road signs, other vehicles , her growing excitement, his hand on her leg.....

Finally they arrived in the village and looked for a place to park. They drove down the narrow cramped roads, looking for a car space, until Jen thought they would drive out the other side. Just as despair threatened to topple her, they found a street. She was relieved to pull up and get out. She barely remembered the trip at all and hoped they would find their way back, because it was obvious that most of the journey would be made without the hopeless sat nav.

The two held hands for the first time and walked like lovers do down streets that twisted this way and that, until they came to the pebbled beach. Here they sat at a picnic table and chatted and here they kissed as the wind howled around them, as if wanting to help them rip the clothes from their bodies. The beach was virtually empty. Paulo moved around on the seat to protect her from the icy winds rushing up the Swale. The kisses didn't stop, but grew more passionate as if by being so they could make a furnace between them and keep the wind at bay. His hands twisted in her hair and cupped her face. She stopped noticing anything but themselves and all that was there in the narrow gap between them. Time stood still for long moments. His body was shuddering -both from the cold and from the strength of his ardour. After a long while, by which time the ice was breaking through their heat, they arose and walked to a pub not far from where they sat. They ordered drinks and struggled to keep their hands away from each other. They were not altogether successful.

Yet on the whole they were well behaved and they talked, heads close together, a great deal more than all the other patrons of the pub put together. If they were obvious in their desire, neither cared. Restricted to kissing hands and stroking cheeks, only a blind man would have thought they were just friends.

When it was time to leave, to take Paulo back to the station so that he could return to his life in London, their movements slowed and Jen felt something not unlike treacle invade her movements. They wandered down the windy streets and in a quiet alley, he took her in his arms and kissed her like this was the only time they had, this time, this day, right now. It was breath-taking to be reminded yet again of what kissing could be like when it was done properly, not just as pecks on the cheeks or a closed kiss on the mouth. Of course it was intense, time was precious and fleeting but it was the reminder more than anything that stirred her mind and whipped up desire. And she, who worried about people seeing her in states of disarray or indulging in activities she always relegated in her mind to teenagers and young adults, flung herself wholeheartedly into this latest discovery.

The wind pressed Jen's long silky dress against her and she felt her nipples harden. She, in turn, pressed against Paulo's body, his armour of shirt and trousers getting in the way. She pushed against his legs, wrapping her arms around his waist, felt the cold air plucking at the hem of her dress, then slipping like chilled fingers up her legs and swirling against her bikini bottoms. The cold fingers played with her clit, slid into the crack of her arse. Despite the cold, or perhaps because of it, she felt her clit enlarge, felt it as if it was something so physical it nearly had a voice. It throbbed beneath her, demanding to be satisfied. She wanted to feel his fingers inside her. As if this was possible, here in a public space, she spread her legs a little, imagining as he kissed her that his fingers were rubbing her, sliding slowly into her wetness. The feeling and the image was so strong, she gasped against his mouth. She knew that too much more of this and she would orgasm without any need for him to touch her at all.

He released her, stepped back, looking at her out of dark sleepy eyes. She knew what he was thinking. It was possible right then for only one elastic thought that took them both, she knew, to the same place. Only one place, one moment. The ground on which they stood was losing solidity at the same time that the future was setting itself in stone. Oh, yes, they could both stop where they were. She could drive him back to the station, send him on his way, return him to his wife, say no hard feelings but let's not. But there was no chance that they could do that, any more than there was the chance of hell turning into a land of ice.

They walked back to the car in silence. She had questions to ask but she didn't want answers really. She was prepared to be utterly selfish for them both. She cared not one whit about the moral obligations of either of them. And knowing what she knew of his past, he would be in complete agreement.

Jen set the sat nav system to take them off the motorway and along country roads, to give them both a chance to cool down. She could pretend to herself for now that they were both out for a jaunt, to take in the beauty of the county, to let a part of England show off its glory. Several minutes later, down a narrow crooked lane, he asked her to find somewhere to stop the car.