I.
I was driving home from work when my phone rang. Rosa Flores. Crap. I'd been avoiding her, but I decided to answer and get it over with.
"Go for Christina." I put on my work voice. Keep it impersonal. That would make it easier when I told her I was kicking her out.
If I have to listen to one more week of her sexual moans floating across the garden at night...
"Tina!" Her voice was hushed in my ear, like she was whispering. "You have to see him. Puta de madre, he's so hot!"
Her words threw me. The speech I'd been preparing for the last few weeks slunk back to the basement of my mind. I was intrigued. Despite my resolve I found myself responding. "Who?"
"The new gardener. He's gorgeous! Curly dark hair, enormous eyes, pretty lips. Dios, Tina, you have to see him!"
I'd barely seen Rosa for weeks. She rented my guesthouse, on the far side of my walled garden, and when she first moved in we'd spent most evenings together. She came round after I got home from work and we drank wine and gossiped and laughed.
Rosa had a filthy mind, and she was bold about what she wanted. I was just coming out of my last attempt at a relationship, and she'd regale me with tales of her sex life. About men who made fools of themselves, or about nearly getting caught - or about actually getting caught. And she never hesitated to go into detail.
Often after our sessions I'd draw myself a bath, or just crawl into bed, and play with myself as I recalled Rosa's adventures. I'd picture her riding a stranger in the back seat of his car, or sucking an unknown cock in some alley, or letting unseen hands slide up her skirt in the club or on the train.
What aroused me about her stories wasn't just the acts she described, but the idea of not caring about what people thought. Rosa was unashamedly sexual. She enjoyed sex, too much to let anyone dictate the terms, and she did what she wanted, when she wanted. And who she wanted.
How had that all ended? When did we stop being friends?
It was the memory of those stories that paused me now. Instead of telling her I wanted her to move out, I found myself saying, "I'm nearly home. How long has he been there?" I paid the gardening firm for an hour.
"He just got here. But hurry, you don't want to miss a second."
"I'm nearly home," I replied, turning the last corner into our street. "Let me call you back in a minute."
Rosa had been a breath of fresh air when she first moved in. She was everything I'd wanted to be when I was younger: confident, uninhibited, full of life. In appearance, she could have been the baby sister of my closest friend at uni, but Rosa was wilder, more passionate.
Not that my youth had been all prim and proper. I'd had my share of excitement - well, nearly my share. But it had become hard to balance a career with a love life, and more and more I'd found myself preferring my career. It was more interesting, more challenging, more fulfilling.
I hadn't had sex with anyone besides myself since Rosa moved in. My last lover had been enjoyable, and we'd had fun, but there was something missing. Not love, as I'd thought at the time. Something more ephemeral. Respect, perhaps. He hadn't respected me for who I was, and so I couldn't respect him.
In the end I'd cancelled a dinner date - we'd been together for seven months or so - and neither of us had bothered to reschedule. The void it left had been filled with self-respect, so I wasn't unhappy about it.
I thought having a lodger for the guesthouse would give me some company while I enjoyed being a successful single woman. And for a while it had worked out. It was as if I'd outsourced my sexuality to Rosa and she reported to me on the highlights.
But I'd started to come home later and later, and I'd been tired, and I had little energy to drink wine and laugh with Rosa. Then my consultancy firm tendered for a big contract and won it, and after that I had no time or energy at all.
For the last few months, I'd heard her more often than I'd seen her. I'd lain awake at night, listening to her moans and cries as she experienced yet another adventure, until I'd had enough. She had to go. No room for sex in my life, even if I wasn't the one having it.
Today had been another long day at the office - a long week, in fact - and I'd promised myself a break from being the boss. If there was an emergency, my team could handle it.
All I wanted was to get home. Kick off my heels, free my boobs. Pour myself a glass of wine. Park myself on my lounger and let the late afternoon sunshine melt my problems away without anyone talking to me.
So I parked the car and went inside. A few minutes later, barefoot, I'd grabbed a bottle from the cooler. I was about to walk to the garden when I remembered Rosa, the gardener, and how I'd felt for those few seconds in the car. I changed my direction.
Taking a glass and the corkscrew, I climbed the stairs to where the back room overlooked the garden. Living by myself, and working six or even seven days a week, I rarely came up here anymore. It felt odd now, like I was revisiting the town where I'd grown up.
I removed the cork from the bottle and poured myself a glass. The tart liquid filled my mouth before it slithered down my throat like burning ice. I took another sip, smaller this time, and put the glass down.
By this time my boobs were reminding me of my promise. Pulling my blouse from the waist of my trousers, I slipped my hands round my back and undid the clasp. My boobs gave a sigh of relief as they fell free. Careless of my sweater's stretch I pulled the lacy prison through the sleeves and tossed it onto the floor.
The smooth wool of my sweater felt good on my skin. It brushed across my nipples, reminding them that it had been an age since anyone but me had played with them. They sent a memo to my brain, and to my libido, to do something about that.
Taking up my glass again I placed the bud in my ear and called Rosa. "Is he still there?"
"He is," she whispered back. "But his shirt isn't. You're just in time."
The guesthouse stood across the grass and flowerbeds, beyond the apple tree that lived by itself in the centre of the lawn. Careful not to disturb the gauze drapes, I positioned myself by the window to get a good view. And what a view it was!
I could only see the boy from behind, but he was as pretty as Rosa had promised. The curls fell across his back, which rippled with muscles under his olive skin. The arms were long and sinewy, gleaming with a sheen of sweat in the late afternoon sun. And the arse...!
Despite his slender form, he filled his cotton shorts with a shapely roundness. The material hugged his cheeks and highlighted the firm thighs beneath. To my surprise I found myself wondering what they looked like from the front.
"Very nice," I murmured. I took a sip of wine, and a sudden thought struck me.
The cupboard in this room held a box of holiday gear. Including a pair of small yellow binoculars. A moment later I had them pressed to my eyes, running them over that tanned, toned body like a lover's fingertips.
Rosa was still whispering in my ear. "Yes baby, reach for that branch."
He was stretching up to prune a rosebush. I let the binoculars caress his legs, noting the short curly hairs and a drop of sweat running down his thigh. Without looking away I groped around with my free hand until I found my wine glass.
"How old is he?" I asked, taking a sip.
"Twenty, according to his profile on their website. Name's Roberto." Rosa's whisper was sounding decidedly breathy. "Mama likes Roberto."
The old me surfaced from its deep hibernation to tell me that I liked Roberto too. He had a scratch on his arm, presumably from a thorn, and it just highlighted how perfect his skin was. He was wearing a pair of heavy gloves that hid his hands, but I could imagine his fingers: strong, agile, capable.
He bent down to pick up a roll of string. In my ear I heard Rosa moan. "Look at that arse! Have you ever seen anything so perfect?"
I didn't reply. I was busy staring through the binoculars. My tongue, I discovered, was licking my lips.
