Hannah sighed with relief as she pulled into the driveway of her home, the wheels of her Range Rover crunching the gravel and the headlights picking out the familiar coursework of the brickwork, a moment’s glimmer of light reflected off the windows.
It had been a long journey from the Randall family’s holiday home, set on a wooded escarpment that looked out over the village below and the Bay of Biscay beyond. She had again felt emotionally charged to be in Quinta Virgia, a large stone-built property with its shuttered windows, sheltered gardens and swimming pool, its orchard, and narrow driveway that led up from the village road and to her front door. It had become a ‘home from home’ for her and Edward, her late husband, along with their sons and extended family, and nothing could persuade her to sell after so many years of faithfully restoring the property and grounds to their former glory. There was space enough, separated from her quarters, to fashion holiday accommodation and so earn an income and defray some of the running costs.
She had too many cherished memories of the house and its gardens to let it all go and, to these, she could now add the raging, passionate, moments of comfort and renewal that she had succumbed to; to times spent in the arms of her young Spanish lover, Manolo Fuentes. It was he who had finally persuaded her to let go of the past and reach a rational decision; to move on but never to forget.
Dismay at her reaction on first seeing his strong body, and penetrating gaze, had given way to his seduction of her over the days of his army leave, the son of her house guardians seen as a moments diversion from the path she had set for herself in a new life without Edward. But those five days had been but the beginning of an affair that they had lustfully pursued a second time, and for only two days before his leave was again at an end.
Her strongly voiced denials that they could not repeat their liaisons had again been broken and now here she was, so many miles away from Quinta Virgia, but with the memories of her times with Manolo again ragingly real. The sea crossing from Santander had allowed her time to reflect, to rest in her small cabin, and to discover just how much her body ached from his loving of her; the pursuit of tempestuous moments that she had been dismayed to discover had left a visible mark on her skin. There was a small, rosy wheal on the inside of one thigh, so close to her sex, placed there by his sucking lips and without her then realizing it. The love mark would remind her of what she had succumbed to and pursued with him.
Yes, how the older woman had become someone else in his arms, and in the pursuit of only too carnal and lustful pleasures, that she had now to set against more restrained ways in her home village and in the society that she kept. Her times with Manolo had become more than just a holiday fling, but it wouldn’t do to think it could ever have become anything more than that. To his credit, Manolo had understood when they had finally said their goodbyes. The hint of a smile, on his wonderful lips, had suggested to her that they had spoken of this before, only to succumb when they caught sight of each other again.
“Yes, I know, we’re home!” she called out to the dogs who had begun to bark and scratch at the metal frame of their safety cage. Not for the first time she realized just how far she had travelled from the days of gnawing loss, and the prospect of an empty future, to where she now found herself, hopeful and determined to make a new life and the way shown to her by a younger man. Manolo had surprised her with the heady mix of raw passion and then tenderness as if he had understood her raging doubts that she could have succumbed to him; that she had become a woman unrecognizable to her darling Edward.
A lustful young lover had turned her into another woman, or perhaps she had lived in her now tended body all along and it had been Manolo to see the real woman that she was; uninhibited, passionate, the giver of love as well as the recipient of it. She had shared in acts that now made her blush as they were recalled.
“Yes, I know girls!” she called out once more to the dogs, their whines of frustration impossible to ignore.
Her mind was far from settled. Could she simply shrug her shoulders and move on from all that had happened? She had her friends, here, and she had her art, but she had yet to rediscover enduring tenderness and companionship with someone else and keep him in her life. Having been pursued and taken by an ardent lover was only a distraction from that new goal in life, but how wonderful it had been to have a young man make love to her and to arouse lustful feelings as he had done; to have her blood humming in her veins and her body yearning for the attention that he had brought, and she finally reconciled to what she had done and had surrendered to, once more, at his hands. Manolo had catalogued every curve and dip in her body, every crease and wrinkle, yet he had loved her to a standstill.
It would take her some time, and a special man, to have her feeling this way once more, let alone for her to forget their last night together before he returned to duty, the barracks half a day’s travel away.
She had thought of him after Manolo had left her side, how it had been for the last time…
♥
She was no longer embarrassed to have him see her naked body, that of an older woman with her skin dusted with freckles to the curve of her breasts, in her cleavage, and with a scattering of them on her arms and face. It all made her the woman she was, to his ways of seeing her and she had discovered, once more, just what she could arouse in him.
Most of her day had been spent painting a favourite local scene that captured the ruggedness of the coastline, its cliffs, and the breaking of large Atlantic rollers as they finally reached the rocky promontories and swept up a sandy beach of a secluded bay, the water a translucent azure blue as the waves rose and tumbled over.
When not diverted by Manolo’s presence, and she reserved their trysts for the hours of the evening, or through the night, she had time all to herself. At such times she made contact with local galleries, sold some of her pictures, and kept back only a few, her favourites or those she wanted to display at art fairs back home. All of this she managed, along with seeing to it the Quinta Virgia was always ready for guests, while she accommodated the demands of a lover whom she simply could not turn away.
The telling word was and had been ‘simply’, for Manolo had his contacts, locally; traders who took off him the ornate carving of a strong walking stick that he chose to make. To her dismay, she would see him working, silently, as she painted and marveled at his dexterity. But, in her presence, it was often a temporary distraction and so it had proved one afternoon when the weather had been sultry and the banks of faraway clouds heralding a thunderstorm.
“Aren’t my people here to help you?” he had asked to know as by sheer coincidence, it seemed, Manolo had stepped onto her patio after being away most of the day and he had seen her hurriedly gathering up her paints, work in progress, and easel as the first heavy drops of rain began to fall and bounce off the stone slabs that formed the patio and the edges of the swimming pool. The dogs had barked in nervy excitement and in response to the crack of thunder that followed the first of many brilliant flashes of lightning.
“No, they’re not here. I’ve been alone and used my time to finish some pictures…”
“Well, put them away in the house then come outside and be with me?” he had urged, his hold on her arm so insistent and his appraising look upon her unmistakable for what he was thinking.
Manolo had taken in her choice of clothes for what had been a hot day, a sleeveless blouse with a frilled hem hanging loosely over a short, floaty skirt. It had showed off her legs and her feet, the straps of gladiator-styled sandals of particular effect, so flattering when the crimson red of her painted toenails poked through. The colour matched what she had varnished onto her fingernails, round and feminine. Nothing she had done or had worn could have kept from him the signs of her aging, in the wrinkled softening of the skin of her hands. She was not a conformist and dressed to please herself, yet she was careful not to appear that she was trying too hard. Manolo’s attentiveness had only confirmed that she had been right to set that particular bird free in her.
How wild and promiscuous the afternoon had become, the risk of discovery as they swam naked in her pool inciting their behaviour with each other, Manolo’s hands on her hips the moment she stepped outside and she was met by the sight of his naked body, the easing away of her dress before he had knelt down before her and trailed kisses to skin made wet by the downpour, a torrent that they were all but oblivious to.
The tip of his tongue licked, and flickered, into her navel then down her belly and she had squirmed on feeling her tummy muscles tighten and the first flush of wetness in her pussy as his touches, and her thoughts of what would surely follow, had brought her on.
“Lie down for me,” he had asked, but the deep sound of his voice had been more of a command.
She had lain back on the mats, rested on her elbows, and watched as he drew down her panties after she had lifted her legs to help him in the task. She had awkwardly tugged loose her thin bra until she was naked, her skin glistening from the rain, her hair slicked on her face and onto her head, but his eyes desiring and his fingers caressing her thighs as Manolo leaned down and began to trail kisses over her skin, to make slow love to her body from her feet up to her tummy, then over and into her waiting pussy. He kissed each outer lip before slipping his tongue into the gap between them, until it had moved upwards to slick over her pussy’s lips, found her clitoris, and lingered.
When he had made contact she had been unable to prevent the sharp inhalations of breath, the quick snaps of longing that coursed through her body, and her gasps of dismay at what they were doing, and she had done nothing to prevent; quite the opposite.
“I want to love with you, wherever we are.”
He had kissed, leaning over her as fingers and thumb worked into her and she had known how wet she was, aroused beyond controlling as she bucked her hips to meet the claims of his fingers, then tongue, the rain beating down into her face and onto her closed eyelids. She had felt no need to see what her lover was doing to her It was all about feelings, and she had drawn up her knees as far as she could, kept breathing irregularly as he tortured her, deliciously, with his tongue, his fingers soon joining in with the sensory mayhem that he was arousing in her, their plumbing, circular motions opening the way to what she knew he wanted to bring to her, and that haste would spoil.
What he had done kept bringing her on, aroused the irresistible climax that she had felt building up inside her and that had needed release. Hopes and reality had again been made as one.
“Come for me, then I will be in you, as we want, you passionate woman.” He had kissed, Manolo’s caresses and words had brought her to a spine-rattling, hip-jerking, buttock-clinching, and crushingly intense orgasm.
“I can’t stop them, any of them!” she yelped, moaning as if she was a wounded animal and she gave voice to groans of pleasure. Her body had jerked from the rage of orgasms that she had no control over and before he had taken her in an insanely intense rut. She had kept on wanting more, her feet scrabbling on the unforgiving surface of the mats they lay on and he plumbed her; their bodies slamming against each other’s, and their arms and legs entwined. She had been oblivious to the discomfort.
That domed tip of his long and arcing penis had caressed her as if for the first time, so energetic was he, riding her, slamming into her without reprieve and she clinging to him as best she could.
Her words of earlier, that these trysts had to be ended, had seemingly been taken to heart and their movements had become as if they were one, became faster, and despite the noise of the rainstorm, they had been able to make out the sounds of their slapping and slipping skins, the snatches for breath and snorts of effort that came along with their kisses.
She had used the right word, that she was fucking with him, her legs now in the crooks of his arms until he had shuddered and she had clamped her pussy’s walls around that pole of invading flesh. Lustfully, she had milked him, felt each wad of his semen spurt into her and she had been thrilled by the aftershocks of her climax.
“It has been important to me, every moment we were together and we loved,” he had told her after they had loosened the hold they had on each other and they lay on the mats, playfully trying to swat away the torrent of rain with their outstretched hands.
“And I will remember them too…” she had replied on meeting his look, the drift of his eyes over her body that she had again felt she did not quite deserve. He was too good-looking, strong, and young to be involved with her in the ways that he had been, but it had mattered to her, and her decision to concede to his seducing ways was now fully justified.
She and her body had been made love to.
♥
She looked at the picture of him on her iPhone, her lover from another time and place. They had each known that their tryst in the rain, then in the swimming pool not long after, were each passionate steps in their farewell.
Memories of them together would linger, but what she had found with Manolo had been a manifestation of a lustful, physical love. There was never a chance of an emotional bond as she had, still had, with her Edward.
Nothing could get close to that, and she wondered, again, if she would ever meet the man who would bring that to her. Some things only happened once in life; others could be repeated if she chose for that to happen. Perhaps it would be for the best if she erased all traces of her lover from her iPhone.
Deleting an image was easy, but not so the memories of what she had discovered with him and had learned of herself.
♥
