Spanish Eyes

"It's just something you have to do, Irene," my mother had told me many times. "If you're lucky, you'll like it. If you're very lucky, Oscar will go off it after a couple of years. But if you're like most of us, he'll be relentless and you'll just have to put up with it and concentrate on the important things in marriage."

It wasn't the most positive advice on sex that a nervous, twenty-five-year-old virgin could have received in the weeks before her wedding but, I sighed, it had proved horribly accurate.

As I walked the through the waking streets that Saturday morning deep in thought, I hardly noticed the beautiful city of Barcelona opening out before me. The former schoolfriend whose birthday it was and who I had arranged to meet wouldn't be in the café for another hour; plenty of time to take in the air and think before the day became too hot to do either of those things well.

Feeling the small but carefully-considered gift in my shoulder bag, I turned the corner onto the long, famous road of la Rambla and began the slow descent to the waterfront where my friend would soon be. The crush of locals and tourists hadn't yet started; kiosk holders were opening up, café tables were being wiped down and the market stalls were still being assembled so my progress was fast, even though my attention was distracted.

Oscar's obsession had baffled me since he had first confessed it four years ago but now it was beginning to annoy me. Hadn't I made it clear enough that I simply wasn't interested? Why couldn't he accept that sex wasn't as important for women and that his performance in bed, whatever he thought of it, was good enough for me?

We had a nice life, in an apartment in a pleasant, middle-class part of the city only twenty minutes' walk from the beach. We had our two girls and were a happy family so why in the name of all the Saints would a man want his wife and the mother of his children, to jump into bed with someone else?

Of course, having had only my husband as a lover in all my forty-four years, I wasn't in a position to know what sex with other men was like but if it was anything like last night's bog-standard penetration, clumsy thrusting and rapid, messy, missionary position ejaculation, I wasn't interested in finding out.

When we were young and first married, when sex was a new and exciting novelty - at least for me - and when the heat of passion was upon us, we had been more adventurous and had experimented with fantasies and positions. But most of these had either failed to provide more interesting stimulation from my husband's erect cock or had made me feel humiliated and dirty afterwards.

Though Oscar seemed to like it, being penetrated from behind on my hands and knees had felt too crude and animal-like for me. Lying at strange angles or sitting in chairs had felt undignified and well as uncomfortable and as for putting his cock in my mouth... yuk!

No way was that happening again! For the last ten years it had been missionary or nothing.

And of the two; preferably nothing.

I do admit that the few occasions I had felt his mouth and tongue on my vulva had been exciting. Okay, it had been very exciting indeed. Okay, okay, I had reached one of my extremely rare orgasms quickly and intensely when Oscar had licked me down there but when the ecstasy had subsided, it had left me feeling dirty and embarrassed.

And afterwards when we kissed and I had tasted myself on his lips, my stomach had turned.

How in God's name a man could find the acrid, fishy flavour of a woman's vaginal secretions arousing was beyond me, but my husband seemed not only to love the taste himself but apparently wanted other men to experience it as well.

And they say we women are hard to understand!

My reflection in the shop and café windows followed me along the street as I went over my husband's perverted obsession in my mind once again.

Oscar and I had been at school together. We had got on well but had never been boyfriend and girlfriend. It wasn't until we got together again in our mid-twenties that the sparks began to fly. Our wedding had followed soon afterwards.

Now, at the age of forty-four, I was still in reasonably good shape despite having given birth to two girls during our fifteen-year marriage. If I had followed the traditional Spanish Catholic pattern, there would have been at least two more children and the damage to my figure would have been much more severe, but despite it being forbidden by the church, judicious and secret use of condoms had prevented that happening.

Contraception made sense in the modern world, but my more traditional conscience was relieved a few years later when Oscar had his vasectomy and the need to sin was permanently removed.

Comfortably over five feet tall but carrying a few extra pounds, I was now distinctly curvy and could no longer match the stick-thin teenage girls who flaunted their figures on the city's streets.

I used to do aerobics once or twice a week and go to the gym too but with my busy job and a demanding family, I'd let this slip in the last couple of years. Oscar was keen for me to get back into the exercise routine again and I knew I should, but there was always something else that needed my attention.

On a good day, I could still attract the attention of men my own age, but those days were getting fewer and were more often caused by my shoulder length red-brown, wavy hair than my figure. Still, I was grateful for my crowning glory which was striking enough to separate me from the crowd. I was a true redhead too, as my neatly trimmed pubic hair could testify.

At that time only my husband knew this. But that, apparently, was something he wanted to change!

There had been a bit of a row about it last night as we lay in bed after having had what qualified as sex in our marriage those days. Afterwards, I had wanted to go and clean myself up then go to sleep but of course Oscar wanted to talk, so I had to lie there and listen while his semen oozed from me and soiled the sheets.

Another job to do when I got home.

After so many years of a happy marriage, I knew that in his post-coital state my husband would be emotionally fragile. So I just lay there and listened while once again he tried to persuade me to at least try sleeping with another man.

To a girl brought up in a traditional Catholic household, the idea of sex without love was unthinkable and outside marriage, doubly so. I knew my husband had slept with a few women before he and I had married, but until that remarkable night nearly four years ago when he had confessed his long-standing fantasy, I had seen little to suggest such thoughts were brewing inside his head.

Yes, our sex life was dull but then weren't most couples' sex lives dull after years of marriage? Conversations with my many female friends had revealed a wide range of sexual frequencies and appetites ranging from total abstention to near nymphomania. Neither of these extremes seemed healthy to me. Fortunately the vast majority of my friends were definitely towards the infrequent, formulaic end of the scale like me, so I believed myself to be both normal and in good company.

If I had expected anything untoward to happen, I would have expected Oscar to ask me if he could see other women so when, after a particularly unenthusiastic performance on my part one Sunday evening, he first suggested I should find a lover it took me a long time to work out whether I really had understood him correctly.

When I finally realised that not only was he serious, but that it was a fantasy he had apparently nursed most of his life, I was truly stunned. Reeling with shock at what seemed to me an extraordinary perversion, I rejected it out of hand. We went to sleep in tense silence, back to back and barely spoke to each other in the morning.

Troubled by what Oscar had said, the following evening while he was out with his friends watching the football, I found a few precious minutes of privacy and got online. It took only a few minutes' research to find to my astonishment that a man wanting to see his wife with another lover was by no means the strange, uncommon perversion I had imagined, especially in couples like us who had been married a long time.

Fortunately for the future of marriage, it usually remained only a fantasy but in a surprising number of cases it had actually happened. I frowned, shook my head and dismissed my findings as something weird that could only happen in Sweden or America where they did everything differently.

Unfortunately, my husband had been consistent in his incomprehensible fantasy ever since. From my equally consistent, negative reactions, Oscar could be in no doubt where I stood on the matter, but this did not seem to have deterred him from his ultimate goal.

Indeed, as I crossed to the wide walkway in the centre of the road and strode towards my usual flower stall to buy a birthday bouquet for my friend, the previous evening's post coital discussion filled my mind.

"What you need is a sexual awakening," Oscar had said as we lay naked in the darkness, both unsatisfied.

"What I need is to get to sleep!"

I had replied angrily, hoping to curtail any discussion of the very average copulation that had just taken place; one in which there had been an almost complete absence of response from me during the hasty, short-lived penetration and almost immediate ejaculation.

I chose a medium sized bouquet from the shop and the young girl took it inside to wrap for me. It took a long time. While I waited, the anger rose up inside me; not at her but at my increasingly incomprehensible husband.

"If you had a lover who could touch those special places I can't reach, it might help you open up sexually," he had continued.

"What if I don't want to be opened up sexually?" I demanded, to no avail.

"A lover would break down your defences and wake up your sexual appetite," Oscar had insisted. "You might find real excitement and pleasure in a way you've never found with me."

"Am I not good enough in bed for you now?" I growled bitterly. "Am I not up to the standard your fourteen other girlfriends set?"

The imbalance in our sexual histories had always been a sore point. I had been a virgin like all good Catholic brides should be. I knew Oscar had slept with other women before we were married but it had taken a few years for the true number to emerge. That revelation hadn't improved my confidence as a lover and I referred to it more often than was good for either of us.

Unfortunately, the shot backfired this time; from the look on my husband's face I could see the real truth; that our sex life really didn't measure up to his previous experiences and current aspirations. Whatever words came out of his mouth and however much he loved me, even I knew it would not be difficult to improve on my reluctance and lack of imagination in bed.

The girl finally reappeared with the flowers. I took them, paid in cash to save time then resumed my journey along La Rambla's central walkway towards the café where my friend would be waiting.

There were two couples walking ahead of me, both around Oscar and my age, both holding hands. Both women were dressed like me too, in colourful dresses perhaps just a little shorter than was advisable for girls their age, but which showed off legs rather skinnier than mine to what I grudgingly had to admit was good effect.

As I watched from behind, one of the men slipped his hand from her waist to his partner's buttock as they walked along. She seemed to be enjoying the sensation more than a little if her heavily sexual body language and the way she moved closer by his side were anything to go by.

My heart ached. Part of me was affronted at this public display of affection by people old enough to know better; another, larger part of me remembered that it was many years since my husband and I had been so loved-up and sexually close.

Had Oscar been this close with his other girlfriends? Had they done for him in bed some or all of the things I now refused even to contemplate? Did the couples in front of me still have adventurous, satisfying sex lives?

Were other couples in the nice, affluent, middle-class part of the city having perverted conversations like ours every day?

And of course, the big worry; was I really that bad in bed?

"It's not like that Irene," Oscar had lied, not answering the question directly. "Okay I've slept with a few other girls..."

I snorted my unhappiness.

"But they were all before you and I got together. I'm not asking you to let me sleep with other women too. You've only ever had sex with me so you've missed out on something that you might really enjoy. I think it would be good for us both if you found a handsome, sexy, well-endowed lover who could..."

"Fuck me properly? You certainly don't!"

My voice had been almost a shout. I had stifled the unfair outburst immediately and strained to hear whether my explosion had woken our two girls. There was a long pause while we both tried to work out what had just happened.

"Well," Oscar eventually continued, surprised and hurt. "If you put it like that, I suppose you're right," he conceded stiffly. "It's not just you. I know I haven't got much of a cock. You can see that when we go to the beach."

How my husband had persuaded us to go to a nudist beach was still something of a mystery but there was no denying we had visited it several times. Oscar and the girls had gone fully naked from the start but I had held onto a little more dignity by keeping on my bikini panties and going only topless.

I have to confess it had given me a bit of a thrill to be so daring, but it had also reinforced the conviction that my middle-aged body would not stand up to too much scrutiny. Though I had never let my husband know this, it had also confirmed his assertion that his cock was indeed on the small side compared with most of the naked men on view.

I had told him many times that shaving himself down there made him look even less impressive, if not actually child-like but Oscar insisted that was the way he liked it. Child-like was apparently how he felt about himself and his performance.

"If you had a lover with a much bigger erection, things would be so different," he had told me many times. "You deserve to know what really great sex is like."

He turned to look me in the eye, and took my hands in his.

"If I can't fuck you the way you deserve, I think it would do us both good if you found someone who can!"

'WHUMPPPP!'

The moped can't have been going anywhere near its full speed but it was fast enough to lift me from the pavement and hurl me bodily through the air. I landed on my side, the worst of the impact absorbed by boxes of tomatoes and lettuces waiting to be brought into a nearby café but even so, the pain that exploded in my right thigh and hip was agonising.

While my head span and my mind tried to make sense of what had just happened, there was the tinny roar of a moped engine and a confusion of concerned voices all around me. In my dazed state I couldn't make out much of what was being said but then a clear, commanding, oddly familiar male voice broke through the babble.

"Come on, don't crowd her. Give her some room to breathe!"

Surprised by the firm tone, the voices fell quiet and the circle of faces surrounding me opened. A tall, muscular man of about my own age approached, knelt alongside me and looked carefully into my eyes.

"Can you hear what I'm saying?" he asked with just a trace of accent.

I nodded, biting my lip.

"Good. Are you in pain?"

I nodded again.

"Is the pain in your head or neck?"

I shook my spinning head.

"Your back?

"A little."

"Where else?"

"My hips and bottom," I whispered, pointing to the places that hurt so much.

"Shall I call an ambulance?"

"No!" I said firmly. "I'll be okay in a few minutes."

There was a pause while my rescuer seemed to assess what I had said before he spoke again.

"Okay. But just lie there for a moment and catch your breath. You've had a shock."

When they saw that I wasn't badly injured and that someone had taken charge of me, the small gathering around my rumpled figure began to disperse. The floorshow over, the concerned citizens of the city went about their business leaving me in the capable hands of... well, just who was it that had come to my assistance?

"We should get you off the street at least," the clear, confident voice asked a minute or two later. "Can you stand up?"

"I think so."

"Take my hands and let's take it really slowly."

The voice was both soothing and commanding. Instinctively I raised my hands. The man took my forearms gently but firmly in his hands then, with a lot of panting and moaning on my part, helped me rise gingerly to my feet.

The bolt of pain in the back of my thighs and buttocks made me cry out loud and totter on my heels but a strong male arm was immediately wrapped around my waist, holding me securely while my spinning head slowly gained control over my battered body.

"Come inside," he smiled, guiding my trembling, unstable legs towards the café's open door.

I limped alongside him, each step accompanied by a jolt of pain but despite that, as our bodies were pressed together, I could clearly smell the man's aftershave; a dusky, masculine aroma so very different from anything my husband might have used.

He guided me through the café's main chamber; at this time only a handful of customers sat having their morning coffee and led me towards a door at the back which he held open for me. Obediently, I limped through into a small room beyond.

"Have a seat here," he smiled, indicating a low sofa against one of the walls.

Wincing, I let him lower me to the couch where I perched gingerly on its edge, trying to take stock of my injuries and the shock of what had just happened to me. I didn't need to be a Doctor to know there would be bruises; large and numerous on my legs, bottom and side but the more I prodded and poked myself, the less serious my position seemed to be.

"Here," my rescuer smiled again, handing me a long glass of cool water.

I took a small sip, then another, then downed half the glass in a single draft.

"Hey! Careful," the voice chided cheerfully. "We don't want you to choke! Or drown!"

I smiled, for the first time looking up into the face of my rescuer.

I found a pair of deep, dark brown eyes, full of concern, staring intently at my face and body. Those eyes were set in a strong, handsome face with a smooth, tanned skin that suggested a little North African somewhere in his family tree; something that would also explain the slightest trace of accent I had already noticed.

For a moment I was taken aback. Though by no means young, he looked tall, fit and athletic and, my still-dazed brain told me, was one of the most attractive men I had ever seen up close.

"Thank you," I mumbled, unsettled both by my injuries and by the strange feeling forming in my belly.

I downed the rest of the water, my whole body beginning to shake as the adrenalin brought on by the accident surged then began to fade.

"You're in shock. Just lie down for a few minutes. Get your bearings," the voice said soothingly.

Again, I didn't even think to argue as my rescuer lowered my upper body to the couch's cushion then raised my legs onto its lower half. I lay there obediently, trembling uncontrollably while he placed a soft, clean-smelling blanket over me.

"Were you going somewhere special?" he asked after a good few minutes of peaceful silence.

I told him about my friend's birthday.

"Do you still want to go? I'm happy to take you in my car if it's not too late. But if you need to rest here, you're very welcome."

I looked at the clock. I had started very early so my friends would only now be gathering for the celebration. If I left now I could just about make it.