TIA MARIA
Published by Severin Rossetti at Smashwords
Copyright 2011 Severin Rossetti
Smashword Edition, Licence Notes
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All characters depicted in this work of fiction are 18 years of age or older
Paul had tired of the cities, of the hustle and the bustle. He had had his fill of culture, more than enough to excuse his trip and justify taking these months out before college. He had seen Gaudi's Barcelona and Dali's Figueras, had visited the Prado and the Alhambra and the Escorial.
Wanting clearer air and an offshore breeze to make the heat less wearying he had moved to the coast, made his way leisurely south, worked a week here handing out flyers for a bar, worked a fortnight there washing dishes, just enough cash in his pocket that he could afford to extend his stay.
Eventually sky and sea seemed to become one, flat blue expanses which mirrored each other, and the incessant glare of sun on sand made his eyes smart and his head ache.
He grew restless again, caught the first bus inland, and then again when the town it brought him to proved to be no more than a smaller version of the cities he had already visited.
A third bus took him deeper inland, not asking of the driver 'where?' -¿donde?- but rather 'which direction?', pointing to the west.
'Si,' the driver nodded.
A two hour journey, and finally the sign they passed matched the destination on the front of the bus, this was as far as it would take him, but when he alighted no more than minutes later it seemed such a nowhere place that he wondered why it should merit a bus service at all, let alone deserve to be the terminus for that route.
A church at one end of the square was perhaps the most unremarkable he had seen during his months in Spain, the small hotel at the opposite end seemed clean and welcoming but could have been anywhere. There was nothing to distinguish the buildings and the town struck him as more a place to pass through rather than arrive at.
Arrive he had, though, for the moment he could go no further, so with his rucksack slung over his shoulder he strolled around the square, glanced in the windows of a shop or two, smoked a cigarette as he sat by the fountain in the centre of the square. There were quite a few people about, but not so many that they needed to compete for space, as they seemed to do in other places he had been, and none who were obviously tourists. Most seemed unhurried and contented, some smiled a silent greeting at him as they passed, and it occurred to him that the town's charm might be in its very anonymity, that the most remarkable aspect of it was that it was so unremarkable.
On an impulse he picked up his rucksack and walked briskly across the square to the hotel.
They had a room for him, the price was reasonable, within minutes he had deposited his things and changed into fresh clothes, was back out on the square again.
There were a number of bars, restaurants, cafes dotted around the square, and he chose one at random, sat at a table outside.
The young woman who came out to him wore a long flowing skirt which was a little too old-fashioned for a person her age, it might have been more suited to her mother, if her mother had been a flamenco dancer. The blouse, too, was a little unflattering, a few too many frills about it, is if the fashions of ten years ago had only just reached this backwater. The way she moved, though, made any complaints about her dress immaterial, for she walked as other women might dance, her hips swaying, a gentle fluid motion making her whole body seem to undulate as she moved towards him.
'Buenas tardes,' she smiled.
'Buenas tardes,' Paul replied. 'Un cerveza por favor, y un...un bocadillo?'
She sensed his hesitancy as he searched for the right word, asked in English which was better than his Spanish, 'And what would you like on your sandwich?'
'Erm...ham? And cheese?'
'Bueno. Jamon y queso.'
The beer was cold, her smile was warm as she served it to him, she brought him a dish of olives while the sandwich was prepared, there must have been few people inside the for she was attentive in her service, unhurried.
He had a second beer, a third, and each time she served him she lingered a little longer at his table.
'Me llamo Paul,' he introduced himself, and she said her name was Yolanda. He congratulated her on her English and she teasingly said that his Spanish was...understandable.
Paul laughed and invited her to sit a while, if she had the time. She narrowed her eyes to peer into the dark interior of the bar, decided that no one needed her so took the seat beside him.
He told her of his travels, of the places he had visited and the sights he had seen, thinkg to impress her with the sophistication, but though she listened with an interested smile there was no hint of envy in her soft brown eyes, no obvious yearning to visit these places for herself.
Finally she said, 'Pah! These Madrilenos and the like, they are all very well with their fine clothes and their boutiques, their galleries full of art and libraries full of books, but still they are a little bit backward.'
'Backward?' laughed Paul, first looking at the clothes she wore, then around him at her tiny town, and seeing not an iota of sophistication anywhere.
If there was any place that was backward in this country then he had surely stumbled upon it.
'You doubt me?' Yolanda demanded, getting quickly to her feet, fists on hips and glaring down at him.
'No, I'm sure your small town has much to recommend it, and its people-'
'Do not think to condescend!' she cut him off, backing from him like a dancer, with a twitch of the hips and a single step. She spat a curse at him: 'Bruto campesino! Ignorant peasant!'
The fire in those eyes now, the lushness of the lips as she spat her curse! Her whole body trembled with anger, with passion, and before she could back further from him Paul reached out to grasp her wrist.
'I'm sorry Yolanda, truly sorry!' he said. 'I didn't mean to offend you! It's my English sense of humour I suppose.'
'Unsophisticated?'
'Unsophisticated,' he agreed, smiling. 'Tell me, what time do you finish work here?'
'¿Porque?' she asked.
'We might meet for a drink?' he hoped.
'I finish at eight, the house is at the back of the bar,' she pointed, snatching her hand free, turning on her heels and flouncing off.
Yolanda greeted him more amiably than they had parted, with a smile and a kiss to each cheek.
She had changed from the skirt and blouse of earlier, wore a tight dress of black silk, its neckline low, its skirt short. Her hair had been drawn up, was held at the back with a large silver comb, her eyes had been darkened and her lips glossed a dark red. She looked stunning but still...a little out of fashion.
She stepped aside to let him enter, closed the door after him and then led him into the house, her arm linking through his. The blinds were partly closed in the room he was taken to, keeping the air cool, the light soft. He cast his eyes around the room, making out objects in the muted light; the sofa and chairs, furniture of rich wood which might have antique, the small table in one corner at which sat the dark shape of a woman.
Paul looked inquiringly at Yolanda, saying nothing but his puzzlement obvious.
'My aunt, Tia Maria,' Yolanda grinned, and at the mention of her name her aunt's head lifted from the book she was reading.
'¡Hola!' she said, regarding Paul sternly.
She was perhaps ten, fifteen years older than her niece, somewhere in her thirties, and dressed like a woman in mourning. The long black skirt came to her ankles, her blouse was buttoned to the neck, and hair has dark as Yolanda's was tied back from her face, though more severely than her niece's.
'Er...hello,' said Paul, for the moment forgetting the little Spanish he knew, thinking that in her monochromatic harmony she resembled a portrait by Whistler. The artist's mother, maybe.
'Some wine?' Yolanda invited, crossing to an ancient cabinet.
'Just the one,' her aunt said.
'Great,' Paul said, without enthusiasm, wondering if Tio Pepe might be lurking somewhere in the background.
Yolanda nodded to him to sit on the sofa, poured two glasses and joined him there while her aunt returned to her book, her back almost, but not quite, turned to them.
Paul took a stiff drink, then asked in a whisper, 'What is your aunt doing here?'
Smiling slyly over the rim of her glass, Yolanda said, 'She is here as my carabina...my....how would you say? My chaperon?'
'Remind your young man that carabina can also mean carbine, gun,' Yolanda's aunt said, without looking up from her book.
'Look, maybe I'd best leave,' said Paul uncomfortably, setting his glass down, wondering how she might now dare challenge the idea that this town of hers could be anything but backward.
'No, please don't,' said Yolanda, resting her hand on his knee to lean towards him, and in the instant before she kissed him he was offered an enticing view of her breasts, a sight which made him gasp, as if he was about to drown in them.
What Yolanda offered this time was no simple kiss of greeting, no light peck to each cheek, but a kiss as passionate as the Spanish sun was hot. He had never known lips so soft, her tongue when it slipped between his was caressing rather than abrasive, and it felt as if his whole body was melting, sinking into hers.
When Yolanda broke the kiss, their faces inches apart, Paul cast an anxious glance over her shoulder, in the direction of her aunt. She was still seated as before, her back mostly turned to them, head bent over her book.
'Don't go?' Yolanda asked softly, her hand caressing his thigh.
If there was any temptation to leave, any cowardly impulse to run, that vanished the instant the tip of a finger reached his groin. A tingle that was electric coursed through his body and he leaned forward to resume the kiss, his eyes still fixed on Yolanda's aunt at first, but soon feeling the lids flutter shut as he gave surrendered himself to to the power of her kiss.
There was more than just the tip of a finger at his groin now, Yolanda had the palm of her hand pressed hard against his cock, her fingers were digging and probing beneath, clutching at his balls through the fabric of his trousers.
'Yolanda!' he hissed, softly but urgently.
'¿Si?' she asked, her face pulling back to give him the sweetest the wickedest of smiles, and her fingers pulled his zip down, searched around for his cock.
Paul bit his lip, closed his eyes, fought to keep his breathing even as Yolanda pulled out his cock, thinking 'Oh shit! Oh shit!'
Her fingers curled around him, she had him large enough to fill her and then some, and she squeezed him tightly, studying his face to enjoy his reaction, grinning to see him grimace as she tugged at him.
'No! No! No!' her aunt suddenly cried out, slamming her book shut, and Paul's eyes flashed open to see her striding across the room towards them.
'Oh Christ!' he groaned, trying to rise from the sofa.
Yolanda kept firm hold of him, but only until her aunt reached them and slapped her hand away.
'No! No! No!' she said again. 'Not like that, niece! You grip it like a club when you should be holding it like a brush, like pen, something to be creative with!'
And before Paul had a chance to cover himself she was kneeling before the couple, taking hold of the cock Yolanda had relinquished.
'Take it as a conductor might take up his baton,' she told her niece, gripping him with the lightest of touches. And to Paul she simply said, 'Be still!'
As if to help keep him still Yolanda wrapped an arm around him to hold him to her, casually stroked his cheek as she gazed with interest at his lap.
Paul was astonished, aghast, he was lost for words and...growing harder than ever under the soft caress of this older woman.
Her fingertips ran lightly along the underside of his cock, from base to tip, at which point her nails grazed it, her thumb stroked once over the head.
'You see, Yolanda, how responsive a man can be with the right treatment?' she said, as Paul's cock danced and pricked for.
'Yes, Maria,' Yolanda nodded, her gaze rapt, like a student attentive to her tutor.
'Right, you try,' Maria said, releasing his cock, slipping her hand beneath his balls to lift his genitals for her niece.
Yolanda's touch was as feather light as her aunt's this time, the soft pads of her fingers barely seemed to touch him as they ran along his shaft, the briefest brush of her thumb across the tip of his cock was such an exquisite delight that it brought an audible sob from him.
'You see, Yolanda? You can make him sing, you can make him dance, you can make him do anything you like,' said Maria, moving her hand around in small circles so that his balls rolled about her palm.
Paul's eyes shivered open, to check that what was happening was no dream, saw Yolanda looking down with longing at his ever-growing cock, her aunt Maria gazing directly into his face, her expression still a little stern, a little cold.
But then, as if she had just been waiting to get his attention, her face softened, she smiled at him and raised her free hand to the neck of her blouse.
'Of course, it is also possible to excite a man by exciting ourselves,' she said, speaking to her niece but her eyes never leaving Paul's, burning into him as she slowly, almost fastidiously.
Maria's bra, inevitably of black lace, and in contrast to this and the parted blouse which hung like a jet curtain to either side her pale flesh took on the stark translucence of marble. She ran her hand over one breast, the other, until he was aware of the nipples pricking against the fabric, then rose up on her knees, slipped one hand inside her bra to bare a breast.
Paul was now so hard in her niece's tender hand that the young woman began to make a low purring noise as her hand slid back and forth, as if pleased with herself, as if pleased with him.
'Tia Maria,' she said, looking up from his cock at last, switching her gaze to her aunt.
'¿Si Yolanda?'
'Io deseo, Tia Maria.'
'Entonces tomalo, sobrina.'
The meaning of the words ('I want him... then take him') was lost on Paul, but not the intention, as the aunt slid up onto the couch beside him, her fingers scratching up his balls as she released them, and the niece rose to stand before him. As if seen in a dream, as if the air was thick between them, Yolanda slipped the silk dress from her shoulders, pulled it down her body, revealing her nakedness inch by tantalising inch. Her fingers then crept down her belly, between her thighs, splayed to part them until he could see her moist cunt.
'Slowly now niece, take your pleasure slowly,' said Maria, as Yolanda rested first one knee, then the other, on the couch astride him.
Hands wet with her own juices then moved from her groin to his, took his erection and held it upright, positioning it carefully.
'Slowly! Despacio!' Maria repeated, and Yolanda rubbed the tip of his cock against her, then held it there and smiled down at him.
'So, my arrogant Englishman, who has shared the sophistication of all our cities...you still think we are backward here?' she asked.
'No!' gasped Paul, as her body dipped slightly, taking just the head of his cock inside her.
'And the idea of a chaperon, a carabina, is not so old-fashioned after all?' she said, turning a moment to grin at her aunt.
'Not at all!'
Yolanda's body dropped lower, her cunt embracing his cock as she asked, 'You speak from the heart?'
'The heart!' he promised.
'Not from the groin, but the heart?'
'From the heart! The heart!' he assured her, needing to be deep inside her, and then let out a scream as she sank hard onto him. 'Ai! Ai! Ai!' he cried.
'Oh see, aunt, his Spanish is quite good after all!' Yolanda laughed, beginning to rise and fall with a steady rhythm.
Aunt Maria directed her niece as a maestro might an orchestra, conducting her movements, her rhythms, alternating the speed and the tempo until finally Paul was pleading, begging, asking them to put an end to his delight.
The first time he entreated them Maria silenced him by pressing her bared breast to his mouth, the second time Yolanda brought a halt to his sobs by holding her body poised above him, making him ache for her, and the third time....the third time Yolanda's glance to her aunt was as pleading as as Paul's to her.
'Yes, take your pleasure of him,' Maria nodded, and Yolanda brought her body down on his.
Just the once was enough for them both now, her muscles clenched around him, his body tensed beneath her, he gushed inside her and it seemed that she flowed over him.
But even as her body was softening against him, preparing to take him in her embrace, her aunt was gently but insistently easing her away.
'A drink I think, Yolanda,' she said.
'Aunt?'
'Tia Maria!'
'Ah yes, Tia Maria!' Yolanda understood, beginning to laugh, and Paul opened his eyes to see her aunt lifting her long black skirt and baring her cunt, lowering it towards his face.
'Drink long and deep of the Spanish drink, Englishman,' she said. 'So smooth and sweet. Drink long and deep of Tia Maria!'