I was a student living abroad in Madrid when we met. I had no classes that afternoon and decided to walk along the Gran Via. The oversized yellow umbrella I carried provided more than adequate cover from the Spanish afternoon sun.
My fair skin, long brown hair and blue eyes surely stood out among the native Spaniards. Perhaps that's what captured Javier's attention. He was walking a small, unfamiliar breed of dog. "Very European," I mused to myself. An American man wouldn't be caught dead walking such a dog. A Doberman, Rottweiler, or German Shepherd perhaps, but not a little dust mop. And wearing jeans, boots, a short sleeved white t-shirt and a chic pair of tinted aviators that accented a salt and pepper coloured, well trimmed beard. I had to admit that despite his mature-metro aura he was still curiously attractive.
The little ankle-biter scurried toward me until it came to the end of its leash and was yanked backward. It's tailed wagged excitedly and it yipped rather than barked at me. What else might a small dog do? I chuckled as Javier apologised then introduced himself in Castallano.
We exchanged pleasantries and walked on together. He was born and raised in Barcelona but studied photography at NYU for one semester. He was making his living as a portrait photographer but longed for something more artistic. His English was marginal at best, as was my Castallano. It didn't really matter. We would both soon realise that there were some activities that didn't require fluency in any particular language.
He invited me to his apartment to see a photography project he was working on.
At first, I felt uncertain. I didn't know him and could not say for certain what his intentions might be. I assumed his invitation was part of his seduction and I was feeling adventurous, so I agreed.
The walls of his apartment were lined with stunning black and white close ups of local captured during intensely emotional moments, like stories without words. Grief, sorrow, joy, hope and ecstasy poured from the walls, filling the room with dozens of gorgeous, gray ghosts.
I had always found creativity sexy and Javier's talent was undeniable. He had an uncanny ability to see into people's souls and extract their thoughts and emotions. I wondered how he saw me. If he captured my emotions in print, what would they look like? My gut churned with desire. I wanted him to take me there, under the watchful eyes of gray strangers. I wanted him to photograph me and add me to his wall so he would remember the adventurous American that made love to him on the hardwood floor. As if he were reading my thoughts, he pressed himself up behind me. I felt his mounting erection pressed hard against me.
"Do you like them?" he whispered into my hair.
I nodded, but remained speechless.
He placed his hands on my hips and slowly ran them up my sides until they came to rest on the underside of my breasts. His breathing became shallower as he caressed them.
"Do you like them?" I repeated his question, but I wasn't referring to the art.
"Si," he replied, caressing me with gentle caution.
My body melted into his and I pressed my curvaceous bottom against his mounting erection. I reached behind my head and dragged my fingers through this thick black hair, pulling his head into the crook of my neck. The feel of his rough lips against the tender skin of my neck sent shockwaves coursing through my body, causing my areolas to tighten. My nipples ached under the weight of their engorgement and my pussy throbbed relentlessly. A low, husky growl spilled from my throat, betraying my desire. I removed his right hand from my breast and placed it between my thighs.
He rubbed and squeezed me for a few seconds, sending me into fits of ecstasy. My knees nearly buckled as I tried desperately to lean into his touch.
His hands travelled back to my hips and he strummed his fingers against me, slowly drawing the light linen dress I was wearing into his palms. Gooseflesh erupted over my exposed thighs. He was soon running his fingers along the seam of my panties, kneading the inside of my right thigh in his trembling palm. As he caressed my inner thigh, he slipped his thumb into the side of my panties. His forefinger followed and he was soon dipping into my pool of thick, hot wetness. I could feel the walls of that cavern tightening around him, clutching at him in a desperate attempt to force him to continue.
The growl in my throat gave way to panting as he fingered me; in and out, slowly, tantalisingly. I could hear my juices lapping against his hand. My clit had blossomed into a painfully swollen hard knot. He stroked it gently with his forefinger; coating it with my wetness and making it ache unbearably. It was so powerful that I simultaneously wanted it to stop and to go on forever. When I could take it no longer I spun around to face him and frantically pulled his t-shirt over his head. My hands greedily stroked his chest as my tongue foraged about his hungry mouth. His pecs felt strong, the hair that covered them course in my hands.
"Now you," he panted, "take off your dress."
I reached anxiously for the hem, but he interrupted.
"Slowly," he purred. "Tease me."
A wicked yet pained grin curled into the corners of my mouth. This was a sensual proposition, but I was aching with desperation. It took every ounce of self-control I possessed not to plow ahead recklessly. A tiny whimper of protest escaped my throat, but I indulged him.
I let the dress fall back down and placed my trembling palms on my thighs, rocking slowly back and forth as if to a provocative rhythm that only I could hear. My head tipped back as I swayed in seductive silence.
My sex was pulsating, convulsing, twisting into a painful knot. I needed relief. I needed the pain to stop; I had to take matters into my own hands.
The notion of masturbating in front of a complete stranger might have seemed completely ridiculous only an hour before, but I had no choice. The pain was so intense that I felt I must touch myself or die. With my dress held in one hand, I cupped the other palm over my engorged clit as if to extinguish the searing flames that were licking at my pussy. I was delirious with longing as I dropped to my knees, furiously rubbing my rock hard nub back and forth. I gulped for air like a drowning woman searching in vain for one last, elusive bolus of oxygen.
