Madeira Wine
NOTE:
This story explores themes of anal sex and golden showers. If these topics are not to your taste, then hit 'Back' on your browser and move along.
Not long after meeting Tracey, the legal clerk with the Sri Lankan heritage, in everyone's favourite Yorkshire holiday spot of 'Scarbados', my father, a friend of his and I spent a week vacationing on the island of Madeira.
On the day of departure, the UK weather was appalling, and we were delayed. The European weather system reached down to the north-west coast of Africa to the extent that foul winds proved tricky to land planes at the Cristiano Ronaldo Madeira International Airport. Yes, that footballer's face and likeness are plastered across the island. Our pilot, a real Dan Dare type, boasted that he was experienced in such landings but judging by the looks on the faces of the passengers, mine included, we were planning of swimming back to the UK. However, Dan Dare was as good as his word, and we smashed into the tarmac at a 45-degree angle.
The island of Madeira is a second most prosperous region of Portugal after Lisbon, and it shows. An elevated volcanic speck in the lover North Atlantic Ocean whose central spine reaches insane heights, the island is lush and beautiful and blessed with a temperate year-round climate. Madeira held an interest for me because of its history as a way station for British ships spreading out across the globe and bringing back to the Sceptred Isle Madeira wine and cakes, among other fine imports.
It was decidedly low season when our party arrived, and the hotel we booked into was as expansive as it was empty. Gearing up for Christmas meant the endless repetition of UK festive "hits" performed by cover bands to avoid royalties, piped across the hotel's public facilities. In contrast to the UK, Funchal's weather was dry, sunny and mild (except in the hills) and feeling the warmth against my skin rejuvenated me no end. Only a few weeks it was left before I returned to my beloved Australia and its summer.
Our hotel was located about 500 metres from the centre of town and was a leisurely stroll that took us past a plethora of bars and restaurants. And it was on one such pleasant journey that I witnessed an unusual event. At the time of our visit, tourists were light on so that allowed the locals to let their hair down, and as it was football season too, lots of them did.
One evening, our party went out for dinner. We stumbled across a restaurant that allowed patrons to cook their steaks on a "hot rock" which was a unique dining experience. Next door was a bar that was filling up rapidly with locals because of a highly anticipated football match between two top teams in the Portuguese league. The Iberians are mad for the game, and no doubt many such taverns across Madeira were equally filling up tonight. Being in such proximity to a bar with a passionate crowd of supporters was a little off-putting to us. Still, the compensation was the fantastic meal, and several bottles of quality Madeira wine.
After we finished our meal and settled the bill, it was time for the two old buffers to return to their hotel rooms. I, on the other hand, decided to stroll next door and watch the game. Who knows what possibilities might present themselves, even with my limited grasp of the Portuguese language. It was a better prospect than going back to my hotel room and doing nothing.
About the only seats available in this bar were in the rear close by the toilets, next to a cobbled alleyway. The access lane ran from the rear to street front and allowed for beverage deliveries. The bar wall facing the alley was made of brick to a height of perhaps 1.2 meters, after which there was an intricate lattice of iron or steel that connected to the ceiling. The latticework was covered in a creeping plant of some variety that gave off a pleasant aroma. Given the evening was humid, the window by the seat I chose was open, and I could see the beer kegs and stacked crates of drinks. Every now and then, staff would occasionally rack a crate of empty bottles or stack exhausted kegs.
Darkness descended the island which signalled that the match was about to begin, and the excitement in the air was palpable. The crowd was predominately young with a good mix of men and women. The position I occupied precluded me from watching the game, which was fine because I was not particularly keen on the game, per se, but the female eye candy. My concern was ensuring a steady flow of high-quality alcohol was within easy reach, but, given the crowd, I would be fighting my way to the bar. Best get two, no three drinks each time.
With my first round, I took my seat, attached my headphones and browsed YouTube on my iPad. It was hard to become entirely absorbed by content published by my favourite authors because of the crowd noisily reacting to dirty tackles or near misses.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed someone in the access lane. Natural light had given way to the electrically generated kind, and as I turned my head, I squinted to see what was happening.
There was a woman sat on what appeared to be an empty beer keg, babbling into a phone in her native language. She was skinny with a small chest, slim legs but with a sporty body. Her face was ordinary, with a buzz-cut of black hair. Her skin was olive-brown, and I estimated that she was in her early thirties, maybe ten years younger than me. She sported a short denim skirt with a white top, frilly white socks and teal-coloured Nike running shoes. At first sight, she was not my type.
But then she was!
Looking closely, the skirt was hitched up as far as etiquette would allow, legs apart with a hand lodged deep inside the waistband, the dim light was sufficient to show this woman fiddling with her clit and getting off from it. Seconds later, she threw her head back in ecstasy, and I could just make out the song of orgasm as her body shook in pleasure.
Such an opportunity was too good to pass up, and I secretly recorded this impromptu masturbation session by discreetly positioning my iPad by the window. This mystery woman either ignored my leering or was unaware of my presence as she eased the pressure on her clit, and that is when it began.
A few dribbles at first gave way to a powerful stream of piss that speared down onto the cobbled laneway not too far from the exterior wall of the bar. I could see lust and sluttiness in what she was doing. A cheeky wank and an outdoor toilet experience combined!
When the stream exhausted itself, mystery girl stood up, shook her hips, obviously squeezed her pee hole, fixed her skirt, admired the mess she made and walked confidently back into the bar.
I craned my neck for a glimpse of her as she re-entered the bar, but I could not locate her. Sure as shit though, I was going to search her out when I next needed beers. In the meantime, I reviewed the footage, crystal clear evidence of water sports performed in the alleyway. I felt my cock harden inside my shorts at the show.
When came the time to order more beer, I grabbed my gear and negotiated my way to the bar that was almost at capacity with fans watching the game on the big screen, the small screen and on personal devices. I searched high and low for that mysterious alleyway pisser but failed to locate her. After completing my purchase, I struggled back to where I was sitting previously, fully expecting my table to be occupied by now. To my surprise, however, it remained vacant, and I resumed my occupancy. There was no way to see the on-screen action from my position, but it was the off-screen possibilities that interested me.
I glanced towards the alleyway, but there was nothing afoot, so on went the headphones. Maybe twenty minutes later, my peripheral vision alerted me to someone in the alleyway. It was the same woman as before. I took off my headphones and leeringly craned my neck to watch the next instalment with hardening anticipation.
This skinny Portuguese girl rested against the empty beer keg, hitched up her skirt and casually took a piss while looking at her smartphone. I grabbed my iPad and again filmed this nasty action with the intention of wanking over the footage later.
But then, she busted me.
This local waif, with a penchant for publicly pissing, looked up and right into my eyes.
The blood in my veins froze, and I dropped the iPad.
"I'm sorry," Came a mumbled response from inside me.
A kind of piercing laughter emanated from this tiny woman, breaking the tension.
"Inglês?"
"Sim," I replied using what little local dialect I knew.
This dark-haired pervert shook her hips and adjusted her skirt before glancing down at the puddle made. Seemingly pleased with the mess, she walked over to me.
"You like my pee-pee?" She asked in a heavy Portuguese accent.
"Yes!"
"You record me?"
"Yes," I replied, "You want to watch?"
"Sim!"
I retrieved my iPad and replayed the video. This mysterious woman leaned in through the window so close that I could feel her breath against my ear.
As the video of her public pissing ended, she uttered something in her native language. While the words were nonsensical to me, the tone indicated a sort of pleasure and admiration.
"My name is Ines," She abruptly said.
"Jason," I responded, "Nice to meet you."
I offered a hand to shake, but Ines grabbed my head and kissed me on each cheek.
"I like your home movie," She said, "Show me the first one!"
So, Ines knew of my indiscreet attempt to capture her filthiness earlier.
"Yes," She breathed as the video sadly finished, "That was nice."
"I like it," I replied using simplistic English in a vain attempt to carry on the conversation.
Ines lunged a thin arm over the wall and crudely grabbed my crotch. I was semi-hard after re-watching two pissing videos. Her roughness caused a rapid intake of breath which caused Ines to giggle.
"Yes, I can feel it," She said, so close that I could kiss her cherry ripe lips.
I had nothing to offer in the reply, given my crown jewels were held hostage, except a smile.
That was enough. Ines smiled back, released my manhood and pecked me on the cheek before departing like a phantom.
