She is 26 years old, descended from gypsies, of which she is quite proud. She is tall and slender from the waist up, and below her hips and thighs are strong, but tentative. Her ass is a thing of glory, round and soft and perfectly smooth, a flower at full bloom. Her dark, enormous eyes show storms brewing from one moment to the next, and her passion for love, art, music, people and life are plentiful. She is a woman trying to hold fast her life as a girl - she plays and dances and screams like a rock star when it suits her, but seems somehow terrified at the coming on of time.
She stayed with me in Paris and we roamed the nights sharing stories of controlling fathers and the cruelty of boys. Into the small hours we dressed and posed for each other, thrilling ourselves with our brave innocence. I spoke little French, and she little English, but together we formed a very exciting bond full of wonder and unspoken longing.
During the subsequent and somehow obligatory 12-hour trek to Barcelona in her little Citroen, we bucked in the face of propriety time and again discussing lovers and technique.
It was here that I began to ache for her - the tension between my thighs, wet from wanting, palpable.
She finally asked me in broken English how many women I had been with, and the discussion was candid but shy, excited and breathless. Women are loathe by our natures to express our desires, and we spoke haltingly, with innuendo, until the Citroen screamed from the speed.
Two days passed in Barcelona with the attentions of J****a, an older, fiery Spaniard in love with Angelique. The young can rule the old with a fist made of air, and Angelique held her fist with all her might.
The hot and long hours in Spain were filled with a metaphoric array of lovemaking; from dancing with each other until the sweat dripped onto the plank floors to choosing fresh, wet, slippery calamari at the markets, to the preparation and enjoyment of our meals - all was done with such attention to detail and desire designed to thrill the others...I had, at this point, maintained a state of constant humidity between my legs as would be wont to grow orchids.
On Saturday evening the air was extraordinarily musky with the bottlenecked longings - the food we prepared so diligently was difficult to enjoy, and the fine Loire wine - vulgar. We spent an hour on the floor in the afternoon - me seated between her thighs, her between J***a's, giving and receiving massages that screamed through the body the desire of the fingers. Blueballs of the soul resulted for us all, and stayed.
J***a fell asleep after tequila and Las Ramblas, fatigued from the constant feel of his skin bursting at the seams.
Angelique & I slept in J***a's bed many nights in a row, falling into slumber only at the beckon of exhaustion.
This night, instead, we lay awake whispering about boys and their simple ways. I had decided early on that I had imagined her attraction to me; I am 37, beautiful, but tentative and spent after nearly a decade in a loveless marriage to a man with an enormous cock.
But here - on the white sheets in the hot Castillian night, I noticed Angelique's speech growing faster as she spoke about sexual ambiguity and I realized, clearly and fully, that she was searching for a way to connect with me.
My actions from this point forward surprised me to the core.
In one moment, a moment I will remember with the smell of musk and Gitanes and coffee, I myself became the lover I have always dreamed of having.
As we whispered and giggled, I asked her if I could kiss her. Her dark eyes flashed. She said yes, and it began.
I think a large part of maturity is the patience that comes from knowing the memory of a taste will linger far longer than the feeling of being full.
I savored the moment and let it drag on for a bit. I touched her face and traced my fingers along the taut lines of her long neck, finally cradling her head in my hand and lowering my lips to hers. I stopped to feel her heat and her breath and felt her work to meet my expectations while at the same time fulfilling her curiosity. Her lips were full and wet, her body trembling. Her tongue darted in and out of my mouth, exploring, wanting. The tension grew to the tipping point as I sucked her tongue.
Dear god. I wanted to gorge myself on her, to bite and eat and suck and thrust until I was spent. But maturity does have its perks. I stopped. I, a white girl from the middle of America, hovering above a dark and panting French girl, my nipple touching hers, my thighs dripping from the ready wetness of expectation.
I stopped and smiled and told her that as a part of her education, she must find a way to approach me - I see it as it one of the more awkward moments in making love to a woman that you're uncertain is receptive.
I laid on my back and put my arms over my head and posed for her, and we giggled at the imposing challenge I presented. I told her that I was open, and that any curiosities she wanted to explore were hers for the taking.
She bent over me, excited and tentative, her long brown arms shaking from her weight and pulse.
She kissed my mouth fully but softly, just for a moment before allowing her hunger to take her. She kissed my neck and allowed her long dark fingers to trace down my chest, until she carefully cupped my breast and lowered her head to suck.
My body arched towards her with an ache I forgot I could own.
We somehow rose at the same moment, facing each other on our knees, gripped in a one-armed embrace; her small hand holding tight to the small of my back, my hand grasping her ass, our fingers rhythmically sliding and exploring the secrets of our wetness. We kissed wildly and slid our tongues along our necks, we screamed silently in our passion. She sucked my nipples and grabbed my thighs, then bent her head down and tasted me.
My skin exploded and turned to fire. I nearly came in her mouth but couldn't stop the overwhelming feeling of gluttony and passion that took over me. I grabbed her shoulders and threw myself back, and my lovely Gypsy ground her cunt against mine in a rhythm that absorbed the heat of the long Spanish night.
I reached under her thighs and took hold of her ass with both hands as I flipped her onto her back. I held her there, her breathing shallow and fast. I exhaled a long, hot breath onto her pink, swollen sex, and turned my head to suckle her thighs.
Her body arching towards me will stay with me as a scene from one of my finest hours. Each bite I took from her thighs sent her shivering, her hands instinctively pulling at her nipples, and grabbing at my hair.
I looked for a split second at her pussy, at the tangle of thick and damp dark hair and the glints of wet, pink, swollen flesh, and at this point lost all coherent thought. My last memory of the evening is thrusting my face, my soul, my life, my entire being into her, lapping and sucking and teasing and kissing and licking her clit, her lips, her ass, her unbelievable wetness, until she came and came and came in waves. Wave after wave, as strong as the Spanish sea.
We lay together, still thrusting until our aches subsided, for untold moments before sharing a French cigarette on the balcony, welcoming the weak light of dawn.