Mirage

My nails dug deep in his arms when I exploded and collapsed against his shoulders; the grinning gardener catching me and smothering my body with wet kisses all over, whispering hot in my ears. "I want to fuck you with my lips and tongue, Omma," he said. And I obliged, undressed for the man, not once but for the rest of the week—or whenever I found him free and alone in the tools' shack—rimming my asshole for the first time as I convulsed and buckled with pleasures melting my flesh, stopping my breath as he licked.

The driver came next, pulled out his erection to show me how long and thick and hard it can get. He put my hand on his cock, persuaded me to play with it, to stroke it, until I kissed and sucked the whole length. "Oooh, you're good, Omma—you're sooh good, ooh!" the driver gloated and allowed me to swallow his cum, my first taste of the hot creamy liquid. I acquired a fondness for it, the pungent milky flavour swilling inside my mouth and tongue—swallowing as much as I can get—that I visited him in the garage often to give the man blowjobs he will never forget.

But the cook only listened to the gardener and the driver, smiled indifferent when they boasted of their stolen liberties with me. Yet unknown to them, as the old man threatened me of his knowledge of my sexual escapades—embarrassing me, scaring me he'll tell the master unless I agree—he planned something for himself.

He dropped me a note one Sunday afternoon, when everyone in the family was out, together with the driver and the gardener who took the day off:

Let's bake your cake, Omma.

Take a bath and meet me at the pantry.

Your oven is hot and I am good—

You must come nude.

It was something I begged him before to teach me, and was surprised and shocked at the frankness of his request. We were in the pantry gathering the ingredients, and I giggled in spite of his threat. I came down to meet him, wrapped only in a large bath towel. I had nothing on underneath, not even an extra apron to hide my sex.

"Come, Omma—help me prepare a cake," the cook said, tying a clean starchy apron around his waist, already naked with the bulge of his erection pushing clear on the cloth. In a long bare wooden table, I lied down without being told, and heard the cook's rambling monologue.

"What's important, Omma, are the decorations," the cook said, giving me lessons in baking, unmindful of my nudity, unwrapping the towel from my glistening body. I rubbed myself with fragrant natural oil before coming, my skin supple and smooth, tempting to touch and devour. "First, I'll decorate what's so succulent and ripe with icings," he continued, and squirted luxuriant creams and syrups in circular fashion on my breasts and nipples, hands trembling as he scattered chocolate shavings, my breasts heaving indecent in my aroused, deep breathing.

The cook spread icing on my body down to my legs, careful not to touch me yet. The engorged head of his cock nudged me a few times already, sending jolts of excitement quivering all over me. "What I'll put down here—this virginal centre piece of your altar—are fresh cherries and strawberries, mixed with delicious whip cream and pure honey almond syrup," the cook continued, sprinkling my body with chopped assorted nuts, tickling my sex. I moaned, unable to resist anymore the warmth of wicked desires titillating my flesh.

With my wanton plea, the cook in a sudden ravenous spurt tore away his apron and mounted me. He mashed my breasts with savaged eagerness with his face, his mouth, his hands, eating me until I trembled and doubled over, screaming, whimpering. He went down on me, devouring away my sexual insanity, the old man all sweaty and tense.

I gripped his massive cock and squeezed hard, stroked up and down fast the length from the hilt to the roundish head, encircling my fingers at the engorged crown, tickling it with my nails. He burped, shuddered, and squirted his hot, abundant cream—with me, slurping everything.

These simmering recollections come vivid to shroud my life as the month of May ends. The kids, noisy and boisterous tossing ideas for their planned trips, only heightened my anticipation and hunger within, while the atmosphere outside grew hotter, scalding my skin. It's summer, opening wide its wings, unfolding the warmth of its caress, ensnaring with eagerness the sizzling lasciviousness of my thoughts, demanding delirious self-indulgences for my dirty daydreams.

During these lustful moments of solitude, I savour the intense arousals woken in my lurid memories. Yet pushed the seductive experiences down my belly as it uncoil—writhing, twitching, titillating me—everything familiar and impure rising unbidden, burning my body, exploding relentless as soon as I cave in.

Yet, in the heat of my passion I would cuddle and isolate from the fire a delicate romantic interlude, where I became vulnerable and inadequate, yearning for love, hoping like mad. It happened then so unexpected, coming back to my life like before—alive with its seductive secrecy and intimate awkwardness, each and every year hence—six summers ago.

"Omma! Omma, where are you?" called the strong, familiar voice, surprising me since everybody already left. Sir Dino de Belen, the youngest brother of Mrs Marco, waited in the driveway, his bags at his feet, the roar of the cab driving away.

"Sir Dino?! They already left, sir! There's no one here!" I shouted, agitated and shocked, peering at a small window in the cellar fronting the house. I went down that midday to fetch some wine to fill the supply cabinet in the upstairs bar and did not expect any visitor, vendor, or collector to come by.

It was rude for me, a servant, to shout and welcome Mrs Marco's brother that way. I was aware of my shameful, disrespectful reaction, yet hesitated to come out. I was dirty, all sweaty and soiled in my work clothes, a loose housedress worn and old, for I planned to clean the basement after filling the stocks upstairs. And worst, as anxious perspirations trickled down my front and back, I wasn't wearing any undies—I was alone, after all—hoping to lessen the discomfort of cleaning the cramped cellar.

"Hi, Omma! May I come in? I'm sorry if I disturbed you but—"

"Yes, Sir! Please do! I'll be up in a minute!" I said, shouting again, almost distressed, my mind spinning for a possible excuse for the delay. I cannot come up! My dress soaked, sticking to my skin, too revealing as my breasts swelled and the nipples sprouted, teased by an unrequited forbidden desire insisting to be expressed this time.

Sir Dino, only nineteen then to my sexually experienced twenty nine, made me feel more guilty and irresponsible with my embarrassing behaviour. Haven't I noticed with delicious excitement the youth's stolen glances at me when we first saw each other a year before in this house? An affectionate, infatuated demeanour still nervous whenever our eyes met uncovering my fragile heart—understanding, loving the real me? Unknown to him, the feeling is mutual...My body shook, shivered with uncanny glee whenever I think of him.

A quiet, unassuming youth pursuing higher education in a strict and cloistered religious college in another city, as Mrs Marco once told me, Sir Dino has no girlfriend ever since. "Can you believe that—and no sex up to now?" Mrs Marco said with a giggle, emphasizing the sex. "Dino might not be able to marry someday, Omma...And I pity him," she continued, unaware of the tremor she awakened in my body. "And he's good-looking, isn't he?"

The sexual suggestions of our provocative situation that afternoon, six years ago, encouraged my secret arousals more, enflamed my mischievous desires to follow my heart.

Worried that some neighbours saw the young master arrived and kept waiting outside, I wiped my perspirations fast and tried to fix myself. I guessed my soaked dress would not reveal much to cause any awkward moment of embarrassment. At least, I can cover myself with the bottles and my hand towel. I closed the lights and picked up the basket of wine, ready to open the cellar door, when I froze. Sir Dino stood in the doorway.

"Omma, so you're here," Sir Dino said, standing a few feet from me, the door ajar allowing some light, his hands extended to greet and help me.

True, he is a gentleman, looking as young and handsome as we first met, and not even the gloomy shadows inside the basement can hide the sincerity and warmth of his enthusiasm to see me again.

"Sir Dino! You shouldn't—it's dirty here and—oh!" I said, stumbling for words. The boy stepped closer to me in the dark, grateful it seems of our privacy from anyone's ears or eyes...Snaring an immediate intimacy only lovers often perceived and recognized, stoking the unspoken suggestions of burning libidinous desires, restrained and yet alive.

I must admit I did not expect it. I must confess the incident played and repeated itself in anxious wonderment in my feverish mind, sweet and real happening in my flesh. For how can a woman at my age and position in life—a domestic help without education or money to survive—still find true love in the arms of a rich, handsome young man? Does he know? Does he have any idea the she in me is not for real?

"What's this—for me?" Sir Dino said, smiling, grabbing the basket of wine from me, picking a bottle and opening it, savouring the aroma first before tasting it. "Brandy...this is good—you want some?" he said, proffering the bottle, flirting with me, coming closer still in the near dark.

"S-sir Dino, can we—" I whispered, almost in his ears. My heart thumped faster than when I ran for Pico when the boy had an accident and yet, felt thrilled this time. The warmth of our closeness smothering my resistance, scorching the fear in my flesh, stripping my objections to satisfy an amorous desire long kindled and felt.

"Have some, Omma," Sir Dino said, and poured the wine to my surprise on my chest—abundant, sumptuous, malicious, unmindful of content. "You know I don't drink...but with you, I will."

I gasped, more dumbfounded than aghast. The cold wine glided merciless down my flesh, dripped at my distending nipples while an intimate, wicked sensation shattered my senses to resist, squashing my compulsion to run—the twin globes of my ample breasts swollen and firm, pointed high with ticklish arousals and feminine pride.

Ooh, how my body quivered! I folded inwards with a jolt as the young master's strong hands held me steady on the shoulders, straightened and braced me against the rough, damped walls...Our intimate closeness mere inches away from igniting our desires.

His lips found mine not in eagerness or wanton lust but with delicate caress. His kisses wandered soft around my face, nipping along my jaw, sucking slow the brandy in the pulsing length of my neck, tracing the drops with his tongue down to my yielding, quivering cleavage—his strong face sandwiched in the heaving softness of my breasts.

"Oohh! S-sir Dino...no—oohh, oohmm!" I moaned, my flesh melting with his lips.

The young master did not stop but continued downwards instead, as if relishing the wine trickling on my trembling flesh. My housedress felt loose, untied and already falling on my feet. The sexual excitement I had long suppressed spread copious and warm deep inside my thighs, persistent—as I my legs opened wide.

Indulgent and submissive to his desires as he hugged me tight, the gap between our bodies evaporated, crushing me in his embrace. His hands curled and slithered free cupping the roundness of my swollen breasts—squeezing, mashing and pulling—while his lips sucked, licked, and swallowed unhurried the yielding warmth of each. My body burned, my breath on fire as I obliged, indulging him with the purity of my love.

Both my feet rose—high, higher from the floor, a dazed marionette dancing without strings—my legs scissoring up on his neck as he lifted my whole body and positioned me. I trembled, my butt offered, exposed—spreading my anal hole in all its anxious splendour, fingering, tickling, poking. "Sir Dino, noohh...Oooh, please—"

I smelled the fragrance of his luxuriant hair, his shaving lotion, the cleanness of his shirt, the freshness of his breath. I seemed naked and small, unveiled and revealed all the more. My body glistened indiscreet in sweltering lasciviousness, every pore exhaling whiffs of my arousal, while my uncontrolled wetness dripped luxuriant, streams of delicious pleasures. I rose above the clouds glittering and bright when he inserted his rigid cock with tremendous might.

"Omma...My dear Omma...My darling Omma," Sir Dino said, confident, loving and sincere.

I exploded in massive orgasm in seconds, and then several more. Shuddering, my fingers clutched hard his shoulders and back. My mouth clenched tight in muffled screams, biting my lips. He was leaning against me on the wall, pumping in fluid expert motion lifting me off the floor, taking control of my mind, my physical being, my captive soul. His cock sliding, grinding in swirling waves, pushing with all his weight against my asshole.

Sir Dino's hands wandered along my body, more eager than the gardener, masturbating my engorged clit. His mouth, more ravenous than the cook, sucked, gobbled and played with my elongated nipples. His cock, bigger than the brute, tore me apart—in and out of my ass, while he ate my breasts, swallowed the softness as far as his mouth allowed, slurping loud without let up.

"Unh! Unh! Ummh!!" Sir Dino groaned, pounding deeper and harder, simultaneous with my moans. We were moving as one, our joys and passions merging with the obscenity of the sounds echoing in the dim silence of the cellar. "Squish! Squish! Splosh!" went the rhythm of his cock again and again, sliding in and out of my slippery hole, lubricated by his oozing hot cum. Our immoral symphony resounded only for our pleasures—urging us, burning us, accompanying our forbidden union—dissolving all our sacred inhibitions.

We wallowed in the dark of the cellar, two individuals hungry for one another, enjoying our stolen moments together. No more words spoken or exchanged, no surprises or explanation exhaled...Every grunt, every whimper, every moan and pursed scream embraced, forgiven and understood.

I was thrilled by his expertise, consumed by his sexual skills. I became a slave, enthralled by his frank and immediate acceptance of my sex, fucking my asshole without doubt or question. I did not expect him to be this good, especially coming from a religious college and what Mrs Marco also disclosed.

"Did you learn all these too in your school?" I said, teasing him, snuggling to him, embracing me tighter as if I am a blanket that comforted him. We lay on a work table, unmindful of the damp, the dark, or the rough wood, our naked closeness sustaining our passions.

He stroked my hair, kissed me tenderly on my brows, my eyes, and cheeks, then whispered hot in my ears: "When you love someone, Omma, there's no need to learn or to question anything."

We kissed, we fucked again...We were lovers, and no one can take my privilege away.

For the past six years every summer, the rituals of our union repeated itself in more amorous and unforgettable indulgences, more lustful than the last, more deviant and perverted each time.

"I can only come and see you once a year, Omma...My studies—I have only one vacation," Sir Dino said before we said goodbye the first time. "Wait for me, my love—for I will always come," he said, and I believe him as I know deep in my heart what he said is true, no questions to ask, no answers to learn.

Now, at thirty five, I wait...expectant, enamoured, impatient; an obedient pet tied to my young master's peck and whisper. And I heard his cab approached the driveway.

Without feeling uncomfortable or conscious of myself anymore—I had no undies and wore only a skimpy, revealing night dress—I hurried for the main door, elated to welcome my lover in our temporary home, our sexual playroom. For tomorrow, we would rent a beach house, our usual practice through the years. We'll go separately at the place to avoid gossips and sneers from the neighbours and the townsfolk wary of malicious hints. And we'll enjoy our summer, free and uninhibited for two weeks.

Oh, how I wish there are more summers in a year! Then again, it would not make our meetings special at all. I giggled like a little girl at the foolishness of my selfish, indecent thoughts.

Today, I am so happy, more than exhilarated as I bounded the steps towards the driveway. I planned to tell Dino I would quit the household and prepare for our union. I'll find a job in the city and we'll live together as husband and wife, adopting a child as soon as we're ready for a family. My heart overwhelmed with passion and joy to see my Dino once again...the love of my life, for all eternity.

"Omma...How nice to see you!" Dino said, soft, calm, sincere.

Like a blast of wind, his words slapped my face—"How nice to see you?"—what the fuck?! No tone of elation slipped from Dino's voice, but held only a transparent, enormous affection for me. A sincerity I felt extended far beyond what love transpired between us, what carnal pleasures we've learned and shared for one another. A feeling of uncompromised honesty for adoring me—"You're God's beautiful creation in my eyes, Omma"—as he would often whisper.

Yet a flash of blinding reality stabbed my eyes as I crumpled, slumped on my knees. My heart ached, empty, hollow and cold. A dreadful keening of unbearable sorrow escaped my lips. A sense of helplessness drowned my tears, suffocating my screams, shattering to dusts all my plans and dreams.

Sir Dino de Belen, too numb and dumb to say anything, stood in his white priest's garments in the driveway, while the other priest driving the car watched us, unable to say or do anything.

"I love you, Omma...I love you," Dino said, over and over again. Three little words devoid now of its heartfelt promise, the wavering intentions obscured, irreparable, scattered to oblivion by the simmering wind.

I did not hear it. I did not notice it...I did not even realize when Dino or Sir Dino or Father Dino or whatever the fuck calls himself now drove off some time ago. My face reflected what's in my heart, a strong feeling of indifference, upholding my pride. My eyes set straight against the sun, quietly sifting the truth from the false, absorbing without regret the illusory thrills of my sexual misadventures and love affair—deceptive reflections now all barren, hollow, and dead, drying in the bright, afternoon light.

I felt fragile though, shaken and weak in an almost violated way. I blamed no one but my stupid trusting heart for believing, my ignorance for giving all of myself, for being honest with it. I had been foolish to confine myself in this house, a place not my home that stunted my fulfilment for a meaningful life. I was bounded here, thinking everything is for real and all right.

Didn't my amoral experiences showed me enough already? Are my pleasures so forbidden I am not allowed to love? I felt resigned to my fate as I sighed, regretful and oblivious of my surroundings—the lengthening shadows moving, once more shrouding, enclosing me in.

The driver honked twice, excited and loud, startling me from my sad reveries.

I thought it was the brute, yet felt and saw Dino came back, waving, smiling at me.

But it was the other priest driving the car, alone this time—grinning, waving, flicking his cigarette out the window, stopping fast the car.

The gush of warm wind lifted the hem of my dress. It billowed wide and unabashed—revealing, exposing more than my sultry, silken flesh—titillating what sinful eyes always covet. Yet I am no Marilyn and eked out a squeak—impish, immoral, and impure, squealing out a long suppressed giggle. I caught the priest's wide-eyed stare, enthralled, opening the passenger door, beckoning, inviting me in.