It was a warm summer, and a bright one. In the south of Spain that year, the sun shone and the evenings were mild and moonlit. It was a time, not for long, sleep-filled nights, but for living through to dawn with good food, good wine and romantic interludes.
The women wore as little as possible. Though romantic with other men's wives, husbands tended to be careless with their own.
I saw her early in the evening - and I knew early on that she saw me, I hoped favourably. She was quite small in stature, slim in build and she had a certain demureness which often - if it does not always - mean an intense, sensitive and discreet addiction to physical as well as sentimental pleasure.
Our meeting was not entirely fortuitous. She and her husband were friendly with a couple who had invited me to dine with them that evening.
As always in that part of the world at that season, the evening started late, at about ten o'clock. The dinner was in the open air, the tables surrounded by tropical and semi-tropical trees and plants. The music was live and the dancing hot and steamy.
I wanted her from the moment I saw her. I loved her lively and beautiful face, her dancing eyes and the shy humour of her smile; but that wasn't all. She had beautiful slim legs and I couldn't resist imagining how it would be - to put it crudely - to grope my way to the marvellous point at which they came harmoniously together, and touch her as a prelude to slipping my instrument of love into her most secret place. Whether my lusts – even as concealed as I tried to make them - reinforced a similar passion on her part to be with me, I could not tell but I could not help but wonder: did she dream of having my joystick between her legs, rubbing her most sensitive spot before making its joyeuse entrée into and up what I imagined to be her eagerly receptive love nook? I didn't know; but, early on, I noted her husband's neglect of her. If that did not cause her to look elsewhere, at least it did not, I speculated, discourage her from imagining delights with other men.
Perhaps that was how he always behaved. Perhaps she had become accustomed to look elsewhere for her entertainment but my guess was that, within her marriage, she was, in fact, still chaste and "virginal." She looked as though she was waiting - wanting to "know" another man - know in the only way that matters, that is, carnally; but she hadn't yet taken the plunge - or found the just-right lover yet with whom to take it.
He was a big man, heavily built and clumsy. I imagined that, as a lover, he would be urgent - unrestrained - and as clumsy in the delicious, private act of love as his clumsiness in public suggested. Towards the end of the evening, he completely disappeared.
"He's gone up to our room," she said.
"Alone?" I asked.
We were dancing. She was so lovely and graceful that, by now, I wanted her desperately. To the soft music and the sensuous rhythm of the dance, I couldn't resist pressing her lower body against mine. She must have, very explicitly, interpreted my message.
She responded with her own message - sensitive, discreet but unmistakeable. She slipped her arms around my lower back and gently squeezed. As she felt me hold her more tightly, she looked up, into my eyes, smiled and -
Quickly kissed me near, but not quite on the mouth.
"Perhaps she's taken him to her room."
"She?"
She hesitated.
She looked at me wonderingly. She was asking herself, "Should I?"
At length, she decided, yes, she should.
"Perhaps you'll take me to yours. Would you like to stand in for my absent husband?"
"Stand in?"
I smiled.
In one activity, yes, I certainly would be more than prepared to act for him.
I let my hand slip down to fondle her neat little bottom. I had seen earlier, as she walked on to the dance floor, how she had wiggled it. I imagined how it would move in the ecstasies of lovemaking.
Discreetly - I didn't want to frighten her away - I kissed her back.
"That I'd love," I assured her.
She took my arm and, in the darker spots, we cuddled on the way to my room, squeezed and kissed. Her lips had a "bedroom" flavour; her body tingled with the expectation of pleasure.
Discreetly, in a darker, more private nook, I gently brushed her upper body through the thin silk stuff of her dress. She wore no bra and her breasts were small and neat. They were firm under my touch, the nipples standing up, excited and expectant.
It was her legs especially that I loved. With her beautiful face, her young breasts, they were an irresistable temptation to romantic adventure. They were made for loving. I wanted to slip my prick between them. I wondered what it would be like, the ecstasy of those first moments in headquarters territory. It would be, I imagined, like the first time I had ever made love to anyone.
I held her tight, pressed myself against her.
Was she ready?
I slipped my hand under her skirt...her short evening skirt, meant to reveal - and to inspire attempts to have her reveal more... .
I heard her gasp - I hoped with pleasure.
She was a curious mix of the eager virgin, linked with a reticent sensitivity. She responded to my careful touching of her breasts and her bottom by briefly seeming to caress my behind and, slyly, as though by accident, the area of my groin. She gave a little sigh of pleasure when I slipped my hand around from her bottom to caress between her thighs. I touched...fleetingly ... her most secret lips...
"Ooh," she whispered.
She moved her legs apart...
It was her consent....her "Yes" form filled out perfectly...her "love me" body language...
"Oh, darling," she whispered; but she made no attempt to touch me again more intimately than by hugging and kissing me, quite fleetingly, on the lips, as though she were still a little afraid of what was happening - happening so quickly and unpredictably. The touching of my lower body was as though by inadvertence - though a gesture perhaps - and she quickly withdrew. She left the going to me: allowed me to feel inside her pants, again touch the soft and, I imagined, pouting lips...
It couldn't go on like that for long. I had to take her some place where I could love her - love her all the way - before I burst.
Inside my room, we embraced immediately and kissed. Her lips were soft and yielding.
She wanted me - wanted me to love her.
I half carried her to the bed, hugging, kissing her on the way....
I wanted to see her: her face, her legs. I'd discovered she wasn't wearing pantyhose but more viable pants, with her stockings held up by a suspender belt. Rather old-fasioned; but it made her "available" and "accessible." She could make love, if need be, without any undressing.
Had she planned it so deliberately? If so, I wondered for whom? Her husband or some lover? She couldn't have planned it for me. Until a couple of hours ago, she hadn't known I existed.
I lit a low-powered bedside light.
Her room - and her husband's - was only a few steps along the corridor. So we had to be quick - and careful.
Her suspender belt and stockings framed her delightful niche, decorated with a modest bush of blonde hair. She was wearing wide-legged pants. I wanted to take them off; but speed and discretion decreed otherwise, so I pulled their crotch aside. I touched her and felt the moistness....
I didn't undress but undid my zip...
Her eyes were closed. She'd lain back across the bed, with her legs hanging down over the side. She'd kicked off her shoes.
As I came to her, she spread and raised her legs.
It was the consent form, filled out again...fully and without reserve...
Throughout these preliminaries, she remained silent but, by her movements, she was saying, "Yes...yes....please!...take me...however you want..."
I slipped my prick easily into her, the way moist and ready, thrusting slowly and deeply. I felt the warm hug of her soft, sweet honeypot.
As I entered her, her eyes stayed closed. She began making little squeaking sounds. Like a child. At first, I thought it wasn't a very happy sound. But it certainly was not a squeak of pain. It was more a squeak of anticipation perhaps, or even of release - of freedom really to love and be loved - and of relief that it was happening. It was too a giving of herself to me - a submission to me but for her own delight.
I thrust more deeply, in and out...
Her movements - her responses - were lively and elegant. She gave herself wholly to the rhythms of our dance of love. Whether she intended to encourage me to more or different effort - or just to please me - is hard to say. She was probably just trying to get as much spontaneous feeling as she could, for herself, from the motions of her slim, mobile body, by rubbing her pleasure centres against the welcome intruder as it thrust its way inside her. Whether that gave pleasure to her partner might, I guessed, be by the way.
I had no reason to complain.
I was being massaged lovingly in her perfect niche. It was as though she could expertly control the hugging and squeezing of her swollen visitor in her body's loving embrace.
She had small and nicely rounded buttocks.
They were exquisite, each cheek sweetly sculpted, divided by a line as perfect as an artist ever drew...
So, in the euphoria of our congress, I imagined from my touch...
Soon - some other night, I prayed, close at hand - I promised myself, I would see them, squeeze each lovely cheek. Kiss them lovingly, one after the other, mould them gently in my hands, before turning her over to abandon myself to the delights of my joyeuse entrée into her sweetest of honeypots...
For now, I could only hold them naked, by slipping my hands under her loose pants. She moved her bottom even more to my rhythm as I did.
Gradually, her squeaking faded.
She began making sounds more like an almost vocal whisper. Less a sound of communication or submission to her lover than surrender to an intense joy of feeling.
She saw nothing of what I was doing. Once, her hand came down to touch me where our bodies joined; but she did not want to look. Her eyes stayed closed. To her, ours was a union not for sight, but for feeling - for passionate sensation. She felt my swollen penis as it glided inside her and she responded by clutching it, rubbing it, squeezing it, wanting it; but only as to feeling - she did not want to see it. She wanted only to draw it deep into her body, to luxuriate in the delicious tremors that flowed through and took possession of her whole being..
For me, it was different. I could see - and wanted to see - our physical union. It excited me. I saw our union more crudely than I imagined she did: I could see my prick embedded in and snugly embraced by the portal to her tunnel of love. I delighted - gloried - in watching it: watching the rhythmic stroke of my pulsating stem of pleasure as it slid in and out... in and out; the way her vaginal lips clasped it; the sense of ultimate joy it gave and promised. I had too a male sense of "mastery" in observing, not only the rapture I could take from her, but, even more exciting, her own rapture from my part in our dance of love...
I knew I must come soon. The ecstasy was too much - or soon would be. My whole body was pleading for relief - in the ultimate delight of delights.
I wanted to kiss her, hold her, feel her arms around me, but that wasn't possible and she seemed not to need it. The intense pleasure that began in her loins was enough, as it flowed through her and created a wonderful world of feeling. Just feeling; all her other senses were in suspense; only passionate sensation had any role or reality.
For me, since I was standing and fully clothed, all physical sensation derived only from the immediate area of our genitals. It was almost only there that we touched; though I could see her entranced and lovely face - and her legs, holding me...
It was probably what went on in her mind - the meaning she gave to my loving her - to my wanting to love her - to which she attached most value.
