This is a spin-off of Sofia's story, the teacher who was sentenced to 7 years of slavery and 500 lashes for negligent homicide. The story takes place in contemporary Portugal but in an alternative reality where slavery and corporal punishment are substitutes for fines and prison. This story happens after the events described in "Back to Skool" It is not necessary to read all of my works, but I would appreciate it if you did.
All characters engaging in sexual activities are at least 18 years old at the time of the events. I would appreciate it if readers could provide some feedback, as this is my first attempt as a writer in English.
One thing I notice is that the story seems to have a life of its own, and I end up writing things that were not planned and probably this story will have more parts than I originally intended.
Thank you for the time you spent reading.
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It was 5:30 on a Monday afternoon, and I found myself in an unfamiliar area of Lisbon. Checking Google Maps for the address written on the sealed envelope: Rua do Olival, Graça.
I caught the number 28 tram up to Largo da Graça. This time of year, Lisbon is swarming with English, German, and American tourists: noisy and obnoxious. The number 28 tram is their favorite mode of transport, from Jardim da Estrela all the way to St. George's Castle. They roam around aimlessly, shooting photos of everything and everyone. "Very typical," they say.
On the tram, I found myself seated next to an English tourist, a blonde girl with a round face and blue eyes. Beyond her blue eyes and blonde hair, I noticed she wasn't wearing a bra beneath her white t-shirt with blue stripes. I caught myself trying to catch a glimpse of her breasts or one of her nipples poking through the shirt - as if I didn't already have enough problems because of my taste for breasts. The girl caught on to what I was doing and gave me a conspiratorial smile that left me feeling embarrassed. Fortunately, it was my stop. I returned her smile and departed from the tram to continue my search. The district of Graca in Lisbon was a poor neighborhood inhabited by sailors, laborers, and soldiers from the famous Sapadores regiment. Several factories had built blocks of houses for their workers. Villa Berta, Villa Candida, Gold Star District--these villas once housed real people but are now being transformed into Airbnbs, hostels, and luxury condominiums for tourists and yuppies.
Google had directed me down a narrow street, lined with two-story houses and grocery stores run by Nepalese, many of those shops were just fronts for human trafficking networks. There was also an older tavern and a fado house. Finally, I arrived at No. 17. It was a two-floor house with a tiled facade, its windows adorned with lively green-painted wooden shutters.
A heavy cast iron knocker shaped like a fist hung from the center of the wood door, I used it to rap on the door while I pondered what might be behind it and what the letter could contain.
"Coming! Just a moment!" I heard from inside the house, it was a woman's voice, at least I was not going to be beaten up by some thug. But I was pretty sure I was going to be punished for my behavior in the classroom. I was carrying my sentence in the back pocket of my jeans.
A woman around 40 years old partially opened the door of the house and asked, "How can I help you?"
"I have a letter for Carla... from my teacher, Sofia Santos," I said, hesitant.
"A letter from Sofia! Please hand it to me." Her eyes lit up upon hearing the name of Miss Sofia. I handed her the letter, she grabbed it, and she was about to close the door when I said.
"Miss Sofia told me to bring back a response," I told her.
"Huum. Come inside then. What is your name, boy?" When she opened the door, I could get a better look at her. She was wearing a black silk kimono with red birds embroidered, her short brown hair was wet, and she was barefoot.
"Vasco, Vasco Miguel Gabriel dos Anjos, at your service," I said as I continued to observe my hostess and her home.
"Come on then, Vasco dos Anjos, let's enjoy the late afternoon in my courtyard. It's very pleasant." She used an ironic tone when she said my name (Anjos=Angels=Miguel=Gabriel). She showed me the way through a narrow corridor, the floor made of aged wood, and the high ceilings with ancient exposed beams, highlighting the building's structure. The walls were decorated with paintings, I noticed two; one was a poster of three girls on a beach. I recognized my teacher and her, plus a third girl. The other was a nude portrait of her.
The corridor ended in a very large room, It was a living room, a kitchen, and also a sleeping room. The wood furniture made the transition from one space to another. The room was a mix of modern design and old architecture, and I noticed that there were almost no plastic objects present. The south wall was made almost of glass and granted access to a garden.
She led me to the garden, which had a small infinity pool facing the river Tagus.
"Take a seat, Vasco dos Anjos. While I read the letter, there is beer if you want some, or take a dive." She said, mocking my name again.
I sat down on a garden chair, feeling somewhat awkward. I watched her as she ascended to a small wooden deck and took a seat at a table to read the letter. She was not a slim woman; by the contrary, she was somewhat on the fat side, not fat, voluptuous would be more accurate, and she moved in a very seductive way, almost like a cat, every move requiring no more effort than the minimum necessary.
I took a beer; it was an imported wheat beer. As I drank the beer, I observed all the expressions and movements she made while reading the letter. What could be written in that letter? What would be my punishment? Another thought popped into my head: was this woman naked under the kimono?
"You're a dumbass, Vasco," I scolded myself. "What does it matter if she's naked or not? She's old enough to be your mother, and you already have enough problems."
She stood up and approached me, holding the letter in her hand. I swallowed hard as my eyes fixed on the kimono's neckline, the cleavage confirming my suspicion that Carla was naked underneath it. She was probably swimming naked in the pool when I knocked on the door, hastily throwing on the kimono.
"Have you read this letter?" She asked. I nodded.
"No, ma'am," I responded, lowering my eyes. She walked over to the barbecue, struck a match, and set fire to the letter. Whatever my teacher had written was now ashes and smoke. She turned back to me, moving like a cat.
"You know how to swim?" she asked.
"Yes, Ma'am," I answered.
