Chastity Chronicles Pt. 06

Welcome to the final part of the Chastity Chronicles. These short stories will follow a forty-year-old woman as she discovers her true sexuality. They are an exploration of complete freedom of embracing sex in all its many forms.

These templated stories are going to be wild, completely unrealistic, flights of fancy, but a fun journey. This final sixth story continues to follow Chastity's as she comes to terms with who she is and want she truly wants.

Chastity is struggling to find herself just when she thought she knew who she was.

Sure hope you enjoy.

Love,

Lana Ocean (Estcher)

Content: Erotic coupling, anal, oral, young and old, love, and closure.

P.S.: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. All fictional characters engaged in sexual acts are eighteen or over.

And Now the Time Has Come

My name is Chastity. I'm forty-years-old, fit, good-looking, a redhead, and I have an insatiable desire to bed young men and now young women and teach them the ways around a woman's body. I had the pleasure of teaching five students to discover their sexual prowess. The first was Petey, a virgin eighteen-year-old skinny boy from my condominium who now attends Berkeley and has a threesome going with his girlfriend. The second is Ben, my burly well-hung superhero, who loves me and knows I love him, but I can never commit to him. The third was Billy, a drug addict who's now in jail. I should probably remove him from the list. My last students were Sean and Priscilla, a boyfriend and girlfriend couple. I was with them for months until I took Priscilla to New York for a job interview with my magazine. I left them there and we parted ways. Badly.

February was fast approaching and so was my forty-first birthday. Ben had come to me when I needed him after New York. He told me I had been selfish and childish with Priscilla and Sean. I had left them in a huff in New York after they had abandoned me to go partying with Marcie LaGrange, the owner of the magazine. I flew home, leaving the love birds alone in New York. I wallowed in self-pity until Ben shook me out of it. Then Priscilla and Sean came to see me, yelled at me, called me names, and left.

It was all my fault, apparently. I hadn't wanted them to experience what I had. New York had led to me descending into drugs and alcohol and I only stopped when I was gang-banged by all the male executives of the magazine. I checked into rehab, and fled to Centreville, USA.

But Ben pointed out Sean and Priscilla were young and needed to experience these things for themselves to learn from it and grow.

All I knew was they had abandoned me. They had dropped me when they had gotten what they wanted from me. I was no longer useful. I was old. And soon about to get older.

I didn't see any happy endings for me. Ben, despite my love for him, was too young for me. He could only ever be a dalliance. Even his father Adam had warned me away from him. I was depressed. I needed to get away. Escape everything and find me again. I had been happy in Centreville, USA until my libido rose, roaring in defiance. I had to get back. I just didn't know to what.

This final tale starts where we left off. Ben was leaving for work...

* * *

"Don't go, Ben! Please! Just one more day!"

Ben gave me a long look, hugged me, opened my condominium door, and left.

I sank to the floor and lay there until I got cold. I roused myself, showered, dressed, made tea, and sat looking out my windows to the blustery cold morning in Centreville, USA, nineteen floors up.

The river was a white barren stripe through the city. The park I ran in was obscured by snow with the occasional pine tree giving any hint of colour. The downtown billowed white steam from heating plants, the buildings grey and desolate looking.

My emotions felt much the same.

Everything I touched turned to ashes. I looked to my future and saw nothing but this view. I would have cried but I was fresh out of tears. Nothing remained inside me, just a hollow. A dull, aching hollow. I'm not usually this melancholy. The over-the-top excitement of taking my former students to New York had buoyed me more than I knew. The down from how it all ended was the lowest of lows.

Looking back now I could see the path of self-destruction I had led myself down. I had preyed on the young men around me. Convinced myself I was teaching them valuable lessons. But in the end, I had nothing to show for it. I even loved one more than I thought possible. I loved Ben, deeply. When I was with him, I felt safe and where I belonged. But that could never be. I was barren. He wanted children born of his seed and the egg of the woman he loves. That can never be me. No matter how selfish I thought I could be in life, I could never be that selfish. One day his looks of love would wither looking at me, the person who denied him the chance of having children. That look would come and I would die when it happened.

I sat there, my tea growing cold and untouched, until my bladder forced me to move. I peed, washed my hands, and then went to the kitchen and opened the fridge. It was empty. I had cleaned out the fresh food and milk before New York. I needed replacements.

I booked an Uber and went downstairs to wait for it.

Just as I entered the lobby, Petey's mom was just coming in from the outside. She stopped and stared at me.

"You!" she declared.

"Yes?" I replied, not wanting this on top of everything else. Last time I had seen her she had seemed okay with me. I had made her son a man, after all.

"Do you know Petey is sleeping with two women? At the same time?"

"Um..." I did, because I had fucked them all upstairs in my condominium on New Year's Eve. And New Year's Day.

"You disgust me! This is all your fault! WHORE!"

She spat on the ground in front of me and headed for the elevators. I stood in stunned silence. No one had ever called me that before. Or yelled at me with such anger.

Am I a whore? I asked myself, trembling. I looked back at the past year and realised that perhaps I was. Grief and shame struck me, and I almost doubled over. A car horn sounded, and I looked up to see my Uber had arrived. I tightened my winter coat and straightened my hat and gloves and opened the door to the outside. The wind fought me, but I managed and then almost shrieked when the biting cold struck me physically. I got to the car and then ran out of will.

I turned around and headed back inside, ignoring the car horn blaring at me. I found myself in my condominium, shivering, but not just with the cold soaking into my bones. I was done. Nothing was left. I sank into my couch and sat there for a long time, numb of everything.

Finally, I looked up and spied the latest edition of my magazine on the coffee table. On the cover was the picture from Spain for the article inside about the rising new art found there. I fished my phone out of my winter coat pocket, then stood up and pulled off my hat, gloves, and the bulky jacket I was still wearing, and opened my travel app.

Within minutes, my travel was booked, including a bed and breakfast.

Four hours later I boarded my plane for Seville.

* * *

Seville is gorgeous. It has the Andalusian Center of Contemporary Art located in a 15th century monastery, and I love the acronym CAAC, for obvious reasons. The city is steeped in history and culture, and home to a vast selection of contemporary art. The architecture is unique, not that I care about architecture, but it gives the city a wonderful mixture of Mudejar, Moorish, and even Gothic styles. I had to look those up. I have no idea what those are, except maybe the Gothic one.

But it is the vibrancy of the city that offers young artists the inspiration for their art. Beautiful intertwined streets circle buildings and historic venues which makes Seville a true bucket list place to go. Seville is also the origin of Seville oranges, not that I like the bitter taste.

The author from my magazine had written a beautiful piece that described the city so much so that I now exited the Aeropuerto Diego Valazquez, with my carry-on dragging behind me, eager to see Spain. The temperature was 18 degrees Celsius which my phone translated to only 64 degrees Fahrenheit, but that was much better than the 5-degrees Fahrenheit I had just left behind.

I found the taxi stand and showed the driver my phone with the displayed address I was headed to. He nodded and off we went. Thirty-minutes later he dropped me off in the centre of Seville at the bed and breakfast I had selected purely on its rating. I didn't know what to expect, but walking inside I was pleased by what I saw. Pajaro Rebelde was perfect. It looked so perfectly Spanish to me. I checked in and found the two hosts to be a perfectly charming married couple. The hostess was easily ten years older than the host. They showed me to my room and I found it exquisite. I had a private bathroom and a terrace. I couldn't ask for more. I unpacked in thirty seconds and flopped on the rather high and thick double bed. At least it was a double by European standards. I was asleep in seconds.

When I woke it was dark. I checked my phone, saw texts and a missed call from Ben, but more importantly, I saw it was nine at night. I had left the doors to the terrace open, and the room was a little chill. I rose, closed the doors, and realised I was famished. I couldn't recall the last time I had ate.

I had a nice Fall jacket with me and pulled it on. Jeans, blouse, and sneakers were my only clothes for this trip. If I needed more, I would buy it. I needed food and started to leave before I stopped. I pulled out my phone and sent a quick text to Ben. He deserved far more than silence from me. He had done nothing wrong.

[I'm in Seville, Spain. I needed to get away. We'll talk later. Miss you.]

I hurried down to the front entrance and asked the hostess where the closest place for food was. She quickly recommended Ricardo's, a short walk from the B&B. I thanked her, got directions, and walked over. The streets were gorgeous even at night. Streetlights splashed soft glows and created beautiful shadows. Spain has an atmosphere about it that is unique to Spain. It's true! This isn't the Hispanic look of Puerto Rico, Mexico, or south Florida. Spain has a rich history you can see and feel.

Ricardo's had only just opened, and seating was plentiful. I found a table in their small outside patio out front and settled down. A waiter was quickly there, beaming down at me, and I admired his svelte looks for a moment. He had that beautiful Spanish look about him. The kind that breaks hearts. He spoke very good English, as most do in Spain due to the abnormally high tourism from England. When he learned I was from America his whole attitude changed. He was pleased I wasn't English. That was a first for me as an American travelling the world.

I did notice he was constantly looking at me strangely. Like he knew me or recognised me. You know that look? When you just can't place the person?

I asked him to bring me a few of the tapas he liked the most and a carafe of red wine. He disappeared and I settled in. Spanish music played on speakers, but at a lovely low volume that didn't intrude. The colours of the restaurant outside were subtle and beautiful reds, oranges, and browns. For the first time in days, I felt at peace, even though I truly had no idea where I was in the world. I didn't even know where Seville was on a map.

But I felt in charge again. Stronger. Didn't I?

The arrival of wine interrupted me, and I sipped the dry and bold red wine. It was perfect. Flat water was provided and the moment the water touched my lips, I gulped it down. I was so dehydrated. The waiter saw that and placed a bottle of water at my table. I knew he was spying on me from somewhere. I drank half of it before returning to the wine.

My tapas arrived and I stared at them in awe. Spain does one thing perfectly right and that's tapas. You can order food that arrives in delightfully small portions allowing you to sample everything without stuffing yourself. The best we can do in the United States is order off the appetizer selection.

The first small plate was sirloin steak drenched in a pedro jimenez sauce (which is a simple thickened wine reduction made from a sweet wine of the same name), with raisins and cinnamon. It was amazing and soon devoured. My appetite surged hard and furious, and I saw the waiter watching me, amused. I indulged him and didn't hold back. I was secretly pleased I didn't have to share with anyone.

The next plate was a grilled tuna fillet with an aioli. Delicious and soon gone.

The next plate was a fried crispy camembert with cream and a berry sauce. Delightful and also soon gone.

The waiter appeared and placed one more plate in front of me. "Senorita, on the house. Please enjoy."

I looked down and saw fried aubergines drizzled with cane honey. Yup, eggplant. I didn't think I would like it but once it touched my tongue I couldn't get enough of the surprisingly sweet treat.

It had been the perfect meal. A new carafe of wine arrived, unrequested, but thankfully now in my possession. I was full and a little tipsy. I felt better than I had in days.

The waiter reappeared with who I assumed was the owner, who beckoned to the seat across from me at my table.

"Senorita, may I?" His accent was thick.

"Of course. Please. Can I offer you some wine?"

He nodded and the waiter put down another glass and filled it. The waiter disappeared again. He was good at that.

"You are new to Seville, I think?" he asked.

"Yes. My first time. I just arrived a few hours ago. I woke famished. The B&B recommended you to me."

"Ah, yes. They called me and told me to expect you. They said you were beautiful, but truly there are no words."

I blushed. "Such a charmer. Thank you. I have to thank the hotel."

"Ah yes, it is not often women show up alone in Seville. They merely wanted to assure your well-being. I hope you are not offended."

"No, far from it. Thank you. Your food was beyond delicious. I have eaten in some spectacular places all around the world and this is easily one of my top ten."

"Thank you, thank you. That pleases me to hear. I am Ricardo, the owner. Are you in Seville long?"

That caused me to pause. Not because of the prying nature of the question. I could see he was merely making small talk. But I hadn't considered how long I would be staying. I had booked the B&B for a week. I didn't know if I would stay that long or longer.

When I took too long to answer he apologised. "I am sorry. I didn't mean to pry."

"No, no! I don't think I know the answer."

"Ya veo, veo." Then he then looked worriedly at me. "Are you okay, senorita? Do you have troubles?"

"No," I replied and looked out over the street and the odd car passing bay and the few couples walking hand-in-hand. Spain woke up at night. I knew it would soon be busy. "I just need to escape for a time."

He leaned back, suddenly with a knowing look on his face. "Amor, siempre es amor..."

I understood that, but not how I did. He said it had to be love. He wasn't wrong. "Si." I replied and then laughed. "Men can make life difficult."

He laughed then, a deep and hearty laugh and suddenly I liked him. He leaned forward toward me and whispered conspiratorially. "Esa es la naturaleza de las mujeres, no amar cuando las amamos, y amar cuando no las amamos."

"What does that mean?"

The waiter reappeared, the sneaky cute bastard. "If I may translate. He said, 'That's the nature of women, not to love when we love them, and to love when we love them not'."

I smiled at the owner. "Who wrote that?"

He smiled in return. "One of our greatest writers. Miguel de Cervantes." He gestured to the waiter. "This is my son, also called Miguel. He studies literature at the Universidad de Sevilla."

"No, papa, I study the Fine Arts."

My heart took a skip. "Fine arts?" I asked.

"Si. It is my passion. I am in my second year."

"How old are you?" I shouldn't have asked but I had to know.

"Twenty-two. I started late."

The father chuckled. "He insisted he keep working for me. I told him the restaurant life is not for him. He paints. Beautiful paintings. So, he works here part time. During the evenings or on weekends. Otherwise, when not in school, I insist he paints."

"Can I see your work?" I asked.

Miguel blushed and his dad pounced. "Si, of course you can. Follow me. We have some of his work inside. Come!"

I followed both Ricardo and Miguel into the restaurant. Inside it was modern with white marble. I spied his art right away. Two beautiful oil paintings, in a contemporary style, of Spanish landscapes. His work was exquisite and unique. I studied them and lost myself in my study, examining his brush and palette strokes and colour blends. After a time, I sensed a disquiet and turned to find the two men looking worried.

"Is something the matter?" I asked them.

"No, but you are really looking at them," answered Miguel. "Is there something wrong with them?"

I laughed at their worries. "No, far from it. This is exceptional work. Are they your best?"

Miguel shook his head. "No, they are upstairs in the loft."

His father explained. "We live above the restaurant. Up in the roof is the loft. He paints there."

"Can I see more?"

Miguel looked at his father who shrugged. "Who am I to deny a beautiful lady the pleasure of seeing your art? Go. I'll hold your table. We will be quite busy soon. Don't worry Miguel, I will manage without you for a moment. Go. I know you want to show her."

Miguel led me through the kitchen, and I was amazed at the hustle and bustle and noise. Then we were in a narrow staircase going up. We emerged inside his family home, and I felt intrusive seeing the family furniture and belongings. This is where they lived, and I was a stranger. A young girl, maybe ten years old, sat at a rustic dining table drawing pictures with a woman I presumed was Miguel's mother sitting next to her.

"Mama, I am bringing this woman up to see my art."

The mother frowned and came over. "Who are you?"

I blushed. I had never told them my name. "I'm Chastity, from the United States. I'm visiting and was eating at your restaurant and Miguel said he painted. I saw his work in the restaurant and had to see more. I can see I am intruding. I should leave."

"Mama! Papa said I could!"

She smiled then and held out her hand to me. "It is okay. Go on ahead. I am Lena. This is my daughter Nadia. Pleased to meet you. My Miguel paints wonderfully. Perhaps you might want to purchase one?"

"Mama!" complained Miguel.

The sister giggled at the table but kept drawing her pictures.

"Go! I am joking," she smiled.

She didn't look like she was joking. I didn't mind. She should push her son's work.

Miguel led me through the house to another set of stairs. We went up and I felt the heat at once. We emerged into a dark loft and after Miguel turned on the lights, I could see just how perfect it was. It was a painter's loft, with blank canvasses of different sizes stacked against the angled roof interior. He had a station with tubes of paints, organised by colour. His finished works were stacked on an opposite wall. I smiled at the stack of my magazines piled in a corner. I went over immediately to the finished paintings and squatted.

It was better than the ones downstairs and I felt giddy. I asked him to move them and looked at one after another. He was consistent. He had found his style and was all the stronger for it. There were no hesitations in his technique. He was sure of himself. Confident in his art. It didn't take me long to realise my excitement at finding a new promising artist was being overtaken by my desire.