tagRomanceThe Gypsy and the Vagabond

The Gypsy and the Vagabond


As they sat in the cave, sheltered from the rain, the gypsy looked at the man she'd come to love, a foreign man she hardly knew; only that he had saved her life. He rarely spoke to her and even then it was in often in a quiet, shortened mumble. Only twice had he said more than two sentences to her in the five years she'd known him.

She was thirteen, then, a beautiful young girl from a traveling family; entertainers for hire. They were in Caracas making the folks laugh, clap, cheer and the money was good. One night her uncle was caught in bed with an affluent man's wife and the family was attacked and driven out of town in the middle of the night. Unfortunately, in the turmoil and confusion, the girl was left behind.

She had depended on her parents all her life for what she had and knew few skills aside from dancing and singing. She did what she could, but in those days, a young singer and dancer was a dime a dozen and she took to stealing food where she could. The only problem was, she was a horrible thief and almost always was caught. So, for two years she traveled the streets, tried different towns looking for her parents, but to no avail. Eventually she ended up in Bolivar City, destitute, starving, and wearing nothing but frayed, burgundy-colored satin wraps, the only thing she had left of her family.

One night, she sat at the entrance of an alleyway and watched as a man effortlessly stole an entire bag of food from a street vendor. As he turned to flee, he noticed her watching and aware she might turn him in, walked over and said, "Say nothing and you can have some," and handed her an apple. That was how they met.

Over the next year they became traveling companions. The gypsy entertained the man, who often smiled, but spoke little, and in exchange he provided her with the food she needed to carry on. She found him to be good company, even under the circumstances, and looked on him with admiration and desire, a newfound emotion for her. He was very attractive, with sandy brown hair, large brown eyes, wide shoulders and a perpetual smile always ready to form on his lips. From the lightness of his skin he was obviously a foreign man, but spoke Spanish flawlessly and aside from his rag-tag clothing, could be mistaken for a well-off businessman.

And so they traveled around the city and parts beyond, but always ending up in the city where they first met. As these years moved on, the gypsy became older and her body more defined. No longer could she convincingly pass herself off as a boy for the cons she would pull as a younger girl. When she would walk the street, she could feel the eyes of men follow her down the block and she knew they were undressing her with their eyes. The thought both excited and scared her because she felt the longing for a man's touch, but knew not how to get it. She wanted the vagabond to look on her the same way, but if he did, she never saw it. He always seemed preoccupied with other thoughts that were his own.

Over the five years of their friendship, it was common for the two to take a trip to Angel Falls, where they would swim in the pounding surf near the waterfall's base. Always they had to do this at night, lest they get arrested. Since this was a popular destination for foreign tourists, security was tighter than in the grocery stores they often stole from and they always needed to be on guard.

This time, however, when they arrived there was a much larger crowd than normal, and instead of the usual tour groups clumped together, there were men and women walking arm in arm, sometimes gazing at the falls, sometimes kissing. Never before had she seen so many couples in one place and acting so in love. Most were watching with rapt attention the cascade of the highest waterfall in the world, awestruck with the lush tranquility surrounding so tumultuous a creation of nature. Gradually the shadows lengthened as the gypsy and the vagabond walked round the park, ever watchful of the foreign couples.

Finally, her curiosity got the better of her, and she asked one of the women nearby the only English question she knew, "You speak Spanish?" The woman turned, surprised, and said, "A little." Encouraged, the gypsy came right out with her question, "Why are there so many men and women here together today? Normally this is a place for groups of tourists."

The woman replied in stilted Spanish, "Today is Valentine's Day; the day for lovers. Men give women flowers and presents and the women remember why they fell in love with the men. It is very romantic if you have someone on this day." She looked back at the falls and said in a dreamy air, "And that waterfall is the most sexy, romantic thing to share," as she leaned over and kissed her husband. The gypsy looked around admiringly at all the couples and young lovers wishing she could be one of them, held tight while the mystic falls pounded down and the sun set from behind the cliff. The vagabond, as usual, said nothing, but only looked on.

That night, the two swam in the river, acutely aware of the rapidly cooling night. The vagabond left the water and dressed first. "We need food," he said. "I'll be back shortly," and with that, he disappeared through the brush. The gypsy swam to the other side of the river again and back before getting out. When she waded out of the river, she saw atop her clothing a single red rose. Quickly she ran over, held it in two hands and inhaled its alluring fragrance. She loved roses, so this holiday was, in her mind, perfect. She couldn't believe this country didn't celebrate it like these tourists, who seemed to have a much better idea of what romance was. Her heart pounded thinking of who could have watched her swim and what he could have done to her while her protector was away. She dressed quickly and waited for the vagabond to return.

After about ten minutes, he arrived with two large loaves of bread and two legs of chicken. She never bothered asking him how he obtained their food; she knew he was an excellent thief. As he sat down on the rock opposite her, he glanced at the rose still held firmly in her hand. In the faded moonlight, she could just make out a small grin tug at the corners of his mouth, but the sight of the food made her realize her hunger and she quickly forgot about the smile.

Just as they gypsy finished eating, the vagabond stood up and said, "It's going to rain. We should go." With that, he took her hand and they jogged along the bank, looking for some sort of shelter against the coming storm. But they were too late and with a crack of lightning and thunder, the rain came down in torrents. The rainy season had started.

They found a shallow crossing and ran across the river toward the cliffs. With the rock face as a buffer, the rain was lessened, but it was still biting cold and stung their soaked bodies. Amid this harried race against the weather, somewhere the gypsy dropped her rose. She didn't even know until she moved to wipe her hair from her eyes and it wasn't in her hand. The thought of her first Valentine's rose lost forever made her eyes sting more than the cold could have ever done.

The gypsy continued running blindly, until the vagabond grabbed her arm and yanked her sideways and the rain stopped. He had found a cave, small, but adequate to keep away from the rain. He managed to build a fire from the few sticks that were lying around, but it was too small to provide anything other than light. If they wanted to warm up, they would have to share each other's bodies. The vagabond lay on the ground and the gypsy put her head on his chest as he wrapped his arms around her shivering body.

As they held each other tight, slowly regaining warmth, the vagabond sighed loudly and said, "This is the one place I've always wanted to be: completely alone with you, away from prying eyes and feeling your body against mine. Because I love you. I have always loved you." She sat up in shock, partly from what he said, and partly because that was the most he'd ever said to her at a time. She looked into his eyes and where before they had been stern, measured and lost, now they were wistful and deep. And very beautiful. "Did you like the rose?" he asked.

She twisted around so that she was facing him and drew her lips toward his, intent on kissing him, but he leaned back. "Not yet. Though I love you, I don't think either of us are ready to commit ourselves this far."

"But I am ready. There are things I've wanted to do to you for years." She squeezed her arms tighter around him.

He looked at her for a moment with one eyebrow arched and said, "Oh yeah? Like what?"

With that, she gently placed her hand on his stomach, then slowly slid it down into his pants, grabbing his penis in her delicate hand. She knew sex, the mechanics of it, from watching couples through open windows and sometimes drunken rendezvous' in the alley, but had yet to experience it for herself. Still, she had not expected the feel of his member in her hand, or how warm it actually was. He was already stiff just from the thought of her, but as soon as he felt her hand, he jerked slightly and she felt a rush of blood to completely harden the rod in her hand. Slowly she pumped back and forth, feeling the power she held in her hand, and the power she had over him. She leaned in and kissed his penis, which thrilled her with the feeling. The gypsy lowered her open mouth down over his member and moved her tongue in slow circles. The gasping groan she heard from the vagabond excited her and made her want to touch herself in response. Which she did. Lying there, pleasuring him and playing with herself, the gypsy thought there could be nothing greater, until the vagabond placed his hand lightly on her head. He leaned forward, kissed her softly, then rose up.

The vagabond stood her up with a gentle push of his arm and entwined his fingers with the ends of her satin wraps and slowly began removing them one by one. They slipped through his fingers and slid down the ever shivering body of the gypsy. She was far from cold, but the absolute excitement of the moment, and how close she was to feeling his love inside her, was almost more than she could bear. There was a flutter of butterflies in her stomach and an extreme warmth radiating from her inner core, outward.

The satin wraps dropped from her body more quickly, forming a wine-colored pile around her feet. As soon as she was bare, the vagabond stepped back, admiring her body, and every inch of her blushed. He undoubtedly was imagining how many men had fantasized about her, how many men had pleasured themselves just with the thought of her perfect form. Her hair drooped past her shoulders and stopped just above her pert breasts, nipples rock hard and waiting for the vagabond's caress. A life on the move had made her legs shapely, her hips full, and her butt solid and tight. Oh, she was a Venezuelan goddess if ever there was one.

He looked into her earnest, sea-green eyes, pulled her in and kissed her hard, pressing his body up against hers. He was still fully clothed, but he rocked his body in rhythm with hers as she wrapped one leg around him. An animalistic urge overtook the vagabond and he ripped at the rags he used as clothing, the gypsy helping as quickly as she could. As soon as his clothes were scattered on the ground around him, he picked her up, laid her on the ground, and climbed on top of her. The gypsy's heart was pounding, waiting, yearning to feel him inside her. Without warning, he plunged.

The gypsy had to bite her lip to keep from crying out. This man filled her up completely as she had never imagined before. He thrust in her again and again and the gypsy let go a low moan. She was completely in love with the pain and the pleasure of it all. As she opened her eyes, she could see the vagabond react to the surprise he saw. Gradually, he slowed his rhythm, making each thrust longer and slower. Her mocha body writhed on the rough cavern floor and her coin bracelet jingled in unison to the pelt of the rain outside and heavy breathing coming from the vagabond. She barely even recognized her own voice, pitched high as she gained in the moment towards ecstasy. She wrapped her legs tight around the vagabond's back and squeezed. He increased his rhythm.

Outside the cave, thunder cracked and rumbled and the entire mountain vibrated with the impact of the sound. On the floor, where lay the gypsy and her vagabond lover, the vibration rippled through them like an earthquake, but if they felt it, it was only in passing. All their attention was on each other and the intense inner heat they now shared. The vagabond thrust insider her, deeper and deeper, his powerful hips pushing again and again and again, until she felt like she would burst.

Suddenly, he grabbed her and rolled onto his back, carrying her around until she was on top of him. She looked at him surprised, for a moment, unsure of what to do, but he squeezed her hand, gently, and looked deep into her eyes. He put his hands on her hips and she slowly began to rock back and forth. He penetrated her deeper than she could have thought possible and it seemed he filled her up completely. She heard him lightly moan and as it excited her even more, she rocked harder and faster, letting her own moan escape her scarlet lips. It was a deep moan, a primal moan that originated from the very core of her being. She had never imagined a feeling like this and this man, this drifter, was her salvation. All of a sudden she let out a scream as she arched her back and, panting, fell into his open arms, pressing the length of her body against his. He enveloped her with his strong, yet tender, embrace and they remained that way as the night outside continued its inevitable journey towards the dawn.

The morning shone with a brightness rarely seen except after massive rain storms. The skies were cleansed and the air was pure with a heady aroma of tropical plants and damp soil. The gypsy awoke with her head on the vagabond's bare chest and looked down at her own naked body. The events of the night before came back in a rush and for a reason she couldn't identify, she felt embarrassed. Perhaps it was the sudden release of emotion she had kept suppressed for five years, or maybe it was the realization that a man she hardly knew, a drifter, had taken her virginity. Either way, she carefully wriggled out of his arms and began to dress. She was sore, to be sure, and wondered if she could even make the walk back to the city.

The vagabond sat up, then, and asked her where she was going. She turned, startled and excited to hear his husky voice, still heavy with desire for her. He came toward her with an animalistic glint in his eye and grabbed her arms. As soon as he touched her, she melted into him, feeling herself become wet almost instantly, and kissed him hard. He pressed his body tight against hers and backed her up against the cavern wall. The cold rock sent a shiver through her body as the vagabond thrust inside her without warning. She cried out in surprise and wrapped her legs around him and he cradled her hips in his powerful hands as he pushed harder and harder. Dimly she could hear the dull thud, thud, thud, of her back against the wall, but it was no match for her screaming, or that rush of intense warmth from deep inside her. Without warning, she came, much more quickly than she thought possible, but still the vagabond didn't stop. Her shouts of pleasure only encouraged him more. With a supreme act of will, the gypsy pushed off the wall with her hands and the vagabond staggered backward to sit down on a flat rock, still holding her, still inside her.

With renewed vigor, the gypsy began to rock back and forth in the vagabond's lap. She put her arms around his neck as he put his arms around the small of her back and began to suckle her breasts. The gypsy tried to bite her lip to keep from crying out, but it was no use. They both grunted and panted in the midst of their fevered shouts. This was not passion. This was lust. And they both wanted nothing more than to satisfy their basest carnal urges. Each time the gypsy came and the vagabond did not, she thrust her hips harder. His stamina was incredible and it only made her more lustful. Suddenly she felt the vagabond jerk just as her entire body became glowing hot and she came for the fifth time that morning, harder than she ever thought possible. Clutching the vagabond's hair, she threw her head back and nearly shrieked, listening to the mingled echoes of their lust rampage up and down the cavern. They collapsed once again on the floor, panting. Their sweating bodies were streaked with dirt from the cavern floor and a musky odor filled their nostrils.

The two cleaned up as best they could, dressed, and began the journey back to Bolivar City. They were lucky enough to stow away on a tour bus and what would have normally taken them a few days, only took a few hours. The vagabond was still as quiet as ever, but there was something new in his touch and a look in his eye, that told the gypsy he didn't regret a minute of the night before. She, however, still had misgivings and though his touch thrilled her in a way she always wanted, she wondered how this now changed the relationship. Would they continue on like they had, wandering from town to town, or would they try and make an actual life together. These thoughts and more occupied her the entire way back to the city.

They arrived in the late afternoon and in their usual ritual, found a place for the night and the vagabond went off to find food for the both of them. He searched in one direction, then took a series of alleyways and side streets in the other, throwing off potential pursuers. Within an hour he had obtained a good sized meal for their dinner with maybe enough left over for breakfast in the morning.

He was crossing a market square on the way back to the gypsy when he noticed a crowd of people cheering. Curiosity got the better of him and he moved in closer. The exotic woman dancing in her satin wraps was seducing the ever willing crowd and when she finished, they threw handfuls of money at her. She thanked them with a demure bow and two men stepped in with a juggling act, but the vagabond's eyes were fixed firmly on the woman. There was no mistaking the similarity in features: the eyes, the hips, and that self-possessed, smoldering sexuality. He sighed lightly, turned around, and hurried toward his waiting lover.

The gypsy had just finished laying out some blankets she had found, which would be a nice change from the cold cave floor from the night before, when the vagabond walked up behind her. He took her hand in his and kissed it with a smile, but there was something sad in his eyes. He said, "I have one more present for you. Come with me," and they walked hand-in-hand down the street toward the square. They were in the middle of the street when the gypsy spotted the woman the vagabond had seen and she stopped cold. Her hand dropped from his, her jaw dropped too, and she moved slightly closer to make sure of what she was seeing.

Just then the woman turned around and their eyes met. They stood motionless for a long while before running to each other's outstretched arms. The gypsy's mother grabbed her daughter and spun in circles as they both cried shamelessly in the middle of the street. The rest of her family came running over, coin bracelets jangling, and cried too. They hugged and cried for a long time, none of them as yet quite believing this was real.

As the tears ran dry and the emotions quieted a bit, the gypsy looked around for her protector turned lover, but he was nowhere in sight. She continued to look for him over her shoulder as her family dragged her back to their shelter, talking excitedly all the while. She figured he would join them soon, or that she would see him near the camp at night, watching her and protecting her like always, so she happily joined her family in catching up on the last seven years apart.

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