This story is, like others of mine in this genre, a fantasy. I have had much fan-mail, mostly favourable, but there have been those who misunderstand the true nature of BDSM – even one who thought I ought to have learned something from Nazi death camps! I think of myself as a feminist, and anti-violence, and believe that the receiver of punishment may well dominate the giver – per Pauline Réage (whoever she was!)
I was brought up in a closed, Catholic community, in a mountain village, where going out with boys was unthinkable, until one became your
novio,
or 'official' boyfriend, when it was permissible to be seen together without a chaperone – just about. At eighteen, an attack of claustrophobia finally got the better of me, and I caught the bus down to the big city, ignoring the pleas of my entire family, and got a job in a department store.
I have this problem, you see. I am beautiful, and I know I am. The local boys all wanted to take me out for years, but I wanted more, wanted something they couldn't give me, maybe something no Spanish man could give me.
Back in my village, my one and only sexual experience was when my cousin Jordi from Barcelona came to visit us, the summer before I left – it may even have been part of the reason I left.
We were sat around the table one evening, having a quiet dinner of
buñuelos de bacalao en salsa
when I felt pressure against my ankle. Surprised, I looked up, and saw Jordi looking at me intently. Then his leg slid up mine, and I felt a tingling which ran right through me, and a nice moistness started to build between my legs. I also became aware that my nipples were hardening uncomfortably. It seems strange, now, to relate this, but I had turned eighteen, and really had absolutely no clue what was happening to me, or how I should react.
What I did know was that I was tremendously excited. After dinner, I went for a stroll down to the canal at the bottom of the cherry-orchard, and there, all alone, was Jordi. He pretended to be surprised to see me, but I suppose he was waiting for me. When I sat next to him, he took my wrist and placed my hand on the front of his trousers. At first I recoiled at the shock of what I found there, tenting his trousers, but he was breathing hard, and pulled down his zip, so that I had his rock-hard cock in my hand.
'Oh, Helena,' was all he said, then his whole body stiffened and he closed his eyes, his face went bright red in the twilight, and his trousers and my hand, were covered with slimy goo. He muttered something, grabbed at his trouser-front and hobbled awkwardly off. I was both thrilled and frustrated by the occurrence. I knew from that moment that I needed more – I needed real, fulfilling sex.
To get back to my story. I started work in the department store, in the fashion department, where I got along very well, loving the nice clothes I was selling every day. On the floor where I worked, several international boutiques were represented, and the manageress of one of them approached me, when I had only been working there a few weeks, and asked me if I spoke English.
'A few words I picked up at school,' I said, 'why?'
'Because I think you're just what we're looking for to go and work in our store in New York,' she said.
The upshot of all this was that I found myself sharing an apartment with two other girls in a so-so area of New York, but working in a wonderful environment of high fashion, and only weeks after leaving my village behind. My flatmates were Mitzi, the languid, attractive daughter of Jewish Hungarian immigrants, and a coffee-coloured Costa Rican called Paula, who seemed to like to keep her distance. My story really begins one Friday evening in May, when I had just turned nineteen.
****
I had no plans for the weekend. Paula was spending it, as was her frequent custom, with rich friends out on Long Island – Mitzi said she thought she was 'selling it' there, but it was no concern of mine. Mitzi herself hadn't yet returned from the photographic studio where she worked as a part-time model when she had finished at the bank. I'd just arrived from work, and should have liked nothing better than to crash out on the sofa for a lazy couple of hours, but thought I'd better make use of the one and only bathroom before Mitzi came in and claimed it.
I am not, by nature, narcissistic, but taking a pride in my body seems OK, and a long session in the bathroom always includes taking a good look at myself. Nineteen, I thought, and still a virgin – am I the only one in New York? Listening to the talk at work, it certainly seemed so. In the big mirror, I looked at my slim body in profile, and noted, with smug satisfaction, the way my firm breasts, with their protuberant aureola, stood out, unsupported. I raised my hands and cupped them tenderly, loving the way my nipples responded by instantly hardening under my fingers.
I let a hand trail down across the flatness of my stomach, through my dense black bush, until I found the lips of my pussy, just faintly moist with my secretions now that I had toyed with my nipples.
With an effort, I returned to the business in hand. Mitzi would soon be home. I popped on a shower-cap, took a quick shower, and then brushed out my long, straight, jet-black hair until it shone.
I was just finishing off my careful make-up job when I heard the door, and Mitzi's cheery greeting as she clattered in on her trademark high heels.
Slipping into a robe, I came out of the steamy bathroom and into the lounge to say hello.
It was just as well I had put on the robe, as Mitzi wasn't alone. With her was a distinguished-looking man of perhaps forty-five, immaculately dressed in an Armani suit and tie, with black hair, just greying at the temples.
'I'd like to introduce you to Don Vicente de Alcaráz,' said Mitzi, and I noticed that she herself was dressed more-than-usually formally, in a two-piece grey suit with a slim skirt, over a white silk blouse.
I felt completely flustered, standing there in a robe and bedroom-slippers, but the new-comer put me at ease, apologising for having come unannounced, and airily dismissing the two of us to our shared bedroom, while he lounged on the sofa, picking up a holiday brochure that had been on the coffee-table.
'Who the hell…….?' I whispered, when we got safely into the bedroom. It was the first time a man had been in our apartment.
Mitzi smiled, and put her hands on my shoulders, 'I've brought him to meet you, darling. He's a Venezuelan nobleman, or something, I think. At any rate, he's gorgeous, isn't he?'
'But…….but……..' I began.
'Look, darling, get dressed, in something pretty, and I'll tell you what I can. Trust me!'
I was in a panic, and I didn't know why I should trust Mitzi at all, in fact. This Don Vicente, even if he was Hispanic, was way too old for me. What
was
I getting into?
'Mitzi,' I said, as I fumbled around in my narrow wardrobe, going through my few clothing options, 'I don't want to go anywhere with somebody more than twice my age!'
'Please, Helena,' she said, as she stepped out of her suit and hung it on a hanger, 'do me a favour, and make up a foursome. Don Vicente's friend Mariano is waiting for us at the restaurant.'
'OK, as you put it like that,' I agreed, reluctantly, still unhappy to be forced into the situation.
I noticed that Mitzi was sliding into a black cocktail dress, and said to her, 'Is that all you're going to wear?
She looked at me quizzically, 'I don't wear panties,' she said, 'and have no need of a bra.'
I could see that was true, as her breasts were smaller than mine, and needed no support, but when she buckled on her stilettos, I thought she must feel very naked without panties. It was the first time I had seen her change, and I had also noted that she was devoid of any pubic hair. I looked at her, and saw her looking back, a slight smile on her lips.
The moment passed, and she helped me pick out a dress from my sparse collection – a blue cotton sundress with a halter-neck and a flared skirt. There was, of course, no question of wearing a bra with the backless top, but I slipped on a pair of white silk panties under the mid-thigh length skirt, and found a pair of medium heels, of which Mitzi more-or-less approved. 'You'll do,' was her comment, as we went to join Don Vicente.
His dark eyes bored into me as we entered the lounge, and I had to admit he was gorgeous. It actually felt rather good to be arm-in-arm either side of this tall hunk as the three of us walked along a New York sidewalk on an early May evening. We got into his magnificent Lexus, with soft leather seats, and again, it felt good to sit beside him, as we sped out through the Lincoln Tunnel into New Jersey.
After a good half an hour, we arrived at a large country house, which had been tastefully converted into a high-class restaurant. The Maitre d' showed us to a table overlooking the spacious lawns, where a tall man about the same age as Don Vicente rose to greet us. Don Vicente introduced him as 'El Duque,' but he laughed disparagingly and said, 'No, no, Mariano, please, Vicente, we don't want any of that nonsense.'
He kissed me on both cheeks, but I noticed that Mitzi took his hand and kissed his ring, very deliberately, as if it were some kind of ritual. Then we all sat down to a delicious meal.
After the meal, I felt Don Vicente's hand on my knee – I was back in my village, and Jordi playing footsie with me under the table. But he just stroked my thigh, causing that delicious tingling sensation, and when I excuse myself and went to the toilet, my panties were wet through. I looked in the mirror and closed my eyes tightly, got a grip on myself and went back into the restaurant, where Mariano was just paying the check. Mariano and Mitzi peeled off and got into Mariano's Porsche, leaving Don Vicente and myself to drive back to New York alone. I suppose I more than half-expected that this was the point at which my virginity was going down the pan, but we drove back along the turnpike and through the tunnel, chatting amiably enough about this and that, and then, when we got to my door, he came around the car, opened it for me, and, when I got out, he said, almost like a formal request, 'May I kiss you, Helena?'
'Yes, of course,' I said, and he took my head in his hands and kissed me long and gently on the lips. I found my lips opening readily under his, and felt his tongue explore quickly between my teeth, then as rapidly, be withdrawn.
'I shall be in touch, my dear,' he said, and walked briskly around to the driving side, got in and was gone. I walked up to an empty apartment, his kiss still warm on my lips, his cologne all about me.
Mitzi got home at about nine next morning, as I was fixing coffee.
'I'm fucked,' she said, 'is that coffee I can smell?'
'How've you got home?' I asked, 'Did Mariano bring you?'
'No, I've got his Porsche outside.'
'He lets you drive that?'
'I've just dropped him at the airport. He's gone off to Los Angeles.'
I poured her a coffee, and she dropped into a chair and accepted the steaming cup gratefully. She looked all-in.
'I'll just have this, and then I'm going to crash,' she said, but after a few sips, she decided that sleep had a higher priority, and headed for the bedroom. I went with her to close the curtains, and make sure she was comfortable.
'Help me out of this, darling,' she said, turning her back to me, and lifting her heavy brown mane out of the way off her zipper. I pulled down the zipper and gasped with astonishment.
