Freedom

Sitting in the sunshine, the remains of an excellent lunch is scattered on the table in front of me. Salad, crusty bread, paella, and a bottle of fresh white wine, all polished off with café con leche. The menu del dia is, as ever at this bar, excellent.

Tablet in hand, I start to tap out the day's blog post.

"Sitting under a matchless blue sky, in this medieval square, swallows gyrating and screaming above me, there is a sense of timelessness. Had I visited here fifty years ago, it would not have looked too different, or even five hundred years ago……."

Cyclists, in a scattered line, freewheel into the square, pulling up by the bar and gathering around a table. A waiter appears almost instantly, taking orders for bocadillos, tapas and beer.

I can't help but notice the divine physiques of the cyclists; athletic, lean and muscular. In this area, their sport is not for weaklings. Powering up the local steep, zig—zagging mountain roads on a cycle, means that only the fittest can succeed. The exercise gives them strapping figures, sculpted thigh and calf muscles, and butts that could crack walnuts. Their lycra'ed outfits leave little to the imagination and, trying not to be too obvious about it, I enjoy the eye—candy on offer.

Spring is well underway, and April is a lovely month here. There are hundreds of the cyclists in the area, following the famous local tourist routes, slowly climbing up the mountain roads, and free—wheeling, at eye—watering speeds, back down to sea level. Sipping at my wine, still well chilled even in the warm sunshine, I eye them casually, 'people watching'. I love doing this. It is anyone's guess what, or who, I might see or hear.

One of the cyclists, falling on his beer with the air of a man in a desert, glances towards me, chocolate eyes holding my gaze for a long moment. He is young, early thirties perhaps, and with a mass of curly black hair, currently plastered to his scalp with sweat. He smiles, his teeth very white; an intelligent, attractive smile that is sheer catnip to me.

I could eat him alive, but mentally slap myself down. Appealing as he is, I am perhaps a little old for this younger man. However, to my surprise, he continues to lock eyes with me until, interrupted by his friends shouting him to a table, he tips his glass to me in a small toast, then turns away to join them.

His look was admiring. I know this. I have no false modesty about my appearance and I can still 'pull' young men if I choose to. I am not pretty. I never have been. One past lover described me as 'handsome' and that is perhaps a better description. Tall, with a slender figure, kept firm by much walking, and the kind of tan that comes from an outdoor life, not a sunbed, I have looks that appeal to a certain kind of man. If I want company for a night or two, it is never a problem for me to find a willing partner.

And a night or two is always enough.

I continue with my blog post.

"Here in the Spanish mountain villages, the rules of living have changed little, despite the fast pace of modern life elsewhere, and the trials and tribulations of the Spanish economy over the last few years. The people still hold to old values. Family is important. Friends are important. And the villages are friendly places where passing strangers are always made to feel welcome……"

Sitting here, in these pleasant surroundings, I have no reason to move on. A morning's hike over the mountains with my two dogs has left me feeling pleasantly exercised and ready to relax.

I continue my blog post, writing an account of the hike, with descriptions of views of a medieval monastery, glorious vistas over the blue, blue Mediterranean Sea and comments on the lovely and diverse local plant life. For a lover of the wild, there are few places better than this and I come to the area every year at around this time. My posts from this region always look beautiful, with wonderful photo panoramas of sea and mountain, beach and dune, ancient relics and buzzing towns. My readers respond well and always I receive lots of feedback and compliments from my readers.

The group of cyclists, one by one, finish their lunches, gather their equipment and leave. However, the curly—haired stranger dawdles over his beer. As his companions move on, he stands, looking at me, speculatively eye—pointing the other chair on my table, requesting permission. I wave him an invite to the seat.

He sits, still sipping his beer. "Hola Senora," he says. "Inglés?"

"Hola," I return. "Si, soy de Inglaterra."

He smiles, then haltingly says. "I speak a little English, but not very well."

"No. Your English is very good. Hardly any accent at all." I speak in the clipped, carefully enunciated tones I use when talking with someone for whom English is a second language. My own Spanish is not particularly good, and I always appreciate the courtesy of native speakers speaking carefully and slowly to me in their tongue. I try to return this courtesy when I can.

He shrugs depreciatingly. "You mind that I sit here?"

"Not at all. It is pleasant to have company."

He grins. "Good. When I see you here, I think, you should not be sitting alone, such a woman. You are on holiday here?"

"Sort of. It is a working holiday."

His smile is polite but a little doubtful. "You do not look as if you are working."

"I am a writer."

He arches an eyebrow. "A writer. Really? A writer of what? Libros? Sorry, I mean, books? You write books?"

He seems surprised, but I'm used to this response. "Yes, some books. Other things too. I have a travel blog and I write of the things I see, the people I meet. My readers enjoy it and I have a good life doing it."

"A good life? You travel all the time? You do not go back to England?"

I head—point to my camper, parked in a lay—by down the road. "I pretty much live on the road. I enjoy it."

"You do not have a home? A family?"

"I have a house back in England, but I don't use it much. Perhaps I will go back one day, but right now, I like to travel."

I always get one of two responses to this; enthusiasm or incredulity. I wonder which one it will be.

"You travel alone? You have no—one? A woman solo?"

"That's right." He looks shocked, unconvinced, as I continue. "It's no big deal. It's how I like it."

I decide it is time to change the subject. This talk is getting too close to the nerve for a casual chat with a stranger. "And you? You are de vacaciones? On holiday? With your friends?"

"Yes. We ride together. We see the country. The nature." He waves expansively at the magnificent mountain scenery all around us. "We are riding the… what are the English words? Ruta dels Monestirs?"

"The 'Route of the Monasteries'." I fill in for him. It is a tourist route, famous in the area for its linking together of half a dozen Medieval monasteries, some very beautiful, and all in spectacular settings.

"… and we see new places," he continues. "New people…"

A voice interrupts him, one of the cyclists shouting down the road at him. "Hola. Cristofer. Vienes?"

He drains his beer and nods to me. "I must go now. Perhaps we will meet again as we travel."

"Perhaps we will." I stand, to shake his hand. "Cristofer, was it? Nice to meet you Cristofer."

He takes my hand, but instead of shaking, lifts it to his lips and kisses it. "Y tu. Encanta…?"

"Anna."

"Encanta, Anna. Hasta la proxima." He smiles and leaves, joining his friends as they mount up and ride away.

*****

Back in the camper, that evening, an image of a dark—haired stranger follows me.

I slide between my sheets but a nagging warmth between my thighs will not let me sleep. I would really like a companion for the night but, except for the dogs, I am alone.

The moon, shining bright, slants over mountains silhouetted against a silken dark, casting beams over my blankets. It is spectacularly beautiful and I have never grown tired of watching these wild, dark heavens. Away from city lights and reflected glare, the night skies here are clear and sharp; velvet studded with diamonds. But right now, I cannot glory in the beauty above me.

Fingers sliding down over my belly, through red curls and beyond, my sex grows moist. Warmth smokes up through me, and I think of chocolate eyes, watching me naked, warm lips caressing me, a tongue lapping at my warming folds.

Seeking my clit, I stroke gently at the swelling bud. Enjoying the sexual hinterland of my growing arousal, I work myself, nudging the hardening nub one way and the other, gently stirring it into life. Growing slippery, it swells, standing proud, and I slip back the hood to deal with its growing demands.

Dreamily, I think of a head of dark, tousled curls which I would like to caress, as it dips between my thighs.

My pussy beginning to throb, I work my clit more intensely, before deciding that I need to carry this through all the way. Reaching into my bedside drawer, I grope in the dark for the vibe I keep in there. Much of the time, the vibe is just what I want. Tonight, it is a substitute for what I really need.

Nudging it onto a low power setting and slipping it inside me, my pussy hums in pleasure as the vibe works its magic. I caress my g—spot, pressing flat—handed against my belly on the outside to increase the pressure. Heart beating faster and breath quickening, juices flowing, I pleasure myself, seeking the rise to climax.

But good as my self—pleasuring is, orgasm escapes me. For some time, I try to climb the peak, working myself fruitlessly in my wish for release.

Frustrated, I give up, and spend a restless night, tossing and turning.