We toured the castle at Skye, hiked the moors, holding hands and acting like long time lovers. At the pub the next night the barman asked how our honeymoon was going. I was not sure Miguel understood the implication of the word Honeymoon. He answered in his Portuguese accented English “better than all expectation” and smiled at me.
The ride back to Glasgow was much different than the ride to Skye. I was happy and so was Miguel. The couple in the front were equally happy with their mini-holiday at Gavin’s home. We played a game on the way home, translation. Everyone in the car spoke a second language, Gavin was a highlander and “had the Gaelic” his girlfriend spoke some French, I knew some Italian. So we took turns pointing to something in the landscape and naming it. The couple in the front friend in the front became bored of this game so Miguel and I continued a more intimate version. Miguel put my hand on his thigh and whispered the word for thigh in my ear. I didn’t have the same breadth of Italian as he did in Portuguese so it was a one sided game. He put my hand on his chest and spoke the word. Then he put his hand on my breast and whispered the word in my ear very softly, as if it was a conjuring. Then he pointed at something out the window, it was a sign for a trappers pub, on the sign there were old fashioned looking manacles. He said the word in Portuguese which meant nothing to me. I had no idea the word for handcuff in Italian and just shrugged. “Belle, in English, please, what is the word for that” He held up his two hands as if handcuffed. I looked at him and said “handcuffs or manacles” He smiled slowly and repeated the word manacles in my ear as if he was telling me a very, very, dirty secret. “I want to see you in manacles minha Belle” I laughed and punched him in the ribs. I knew he was teasing me.
It was now late February about eight weeks after my first arrival and GSAAP luncheon and 2 weeks after our return from Skye and 10 weeks before my flight back to New York to go to graduation at my College in USA. Life had changed. I was Miguel’s. Miguel and I already close, became closer and more contained to each other. Our mutual classmates started to refer to us as Mig-Belle. A silly moniker that I didn’t particularly care for, but Miguel didn’t mind. He seemed to be proud to have me as his girlfriend. He didn’t mind what we were called. I did not have many friends in Scotland. I did have some girls in the dormitory I became friendly with. From first days we the did nearly everything together so our routine only varied a little. He was offered a room in an apartment of another Portuguese graduate student. He moved out of his but dormitory walked the extra few blocks to my dormitory after breakfast every morning we had classes. He would take my hand and ask me how I slept.
Days rolled into nights. Miguel was a brilliant student, but had a hard time writing in English. I was a good writer but needed to pay more attention to my design work. Our skills complimented each other. We spent our days doing schoolwork together, during the evenings I would go to his shared apartment where he would cook for me traditional Portuguese meals, of fish and vegetables. “Americans do not know how to cook fresh foods,” he explained and proved this truth to me by cooking for me. He taught me how to cook rice properly. “Querida, Belle, do this, always wash the rice. See that which washes off into the pot, it makes it taste bad, you wash then cook the rice, much better that way, more delicious, more healthy.” Everything he said or did, was with grace and confidence. He was always right, there was no discussion or controversy.
After our meal, we would sit outside sharing a bottle of cheap wine watching the cold grey Scottish sky turn from slate to ash, to purple then to blackness. He would comment about how the arts and craft style gas lights looked like a set of testes hanging from above, glowing and needy as the shaft of light it cast into the darkness. He had to stop to gesture to his crotch for the words in English to make me understand. I laughed, and debated this with him until he offered to show me his testes to be sure He was correct. He pulled me close and said things to me in Portuguese that made my skin ripple from the tone, even though I had no idea what they meant. I pretended to pout. He said "Come to bed with me, menina doce, you will not be unhappy with me in the bed, Belle."
He had the touch and soul of an artist. He handled me slowly and gently, then turned me onto my belly and bit at my ass murmuring in Portuguese. As his fingers slowly moved in and out of my oozing sex, I writhed and shuddered. He always took his time, not letting me get to the point of such urgent need that i needed to cum, he always worked me like a composer building to his crescendo. He worked me slowly and skillfully using his entire body to make me putty in his hands. His stubble raked my smooth belly and then lower to my inner thighs, teasing me, lapping ad my dewy folds until I arched and quaked whimpering his name begging and promising and swearing until he would hover over me and thrust his hard cock so deeply into me I would hurtle over the precipice of lust, bring me to the point of no return where I’d whirl into a vortex of lost need as my orgasm took all control from me. He always left me sweating, panting and shuddering in completion. I was sure this is what love felt like, it was total agony.
One Saturday in bed, when Miguel’s flat mate was away for the weekend, He slid his fingers into me, lying beside me, he cooed softly into my ear in His mixture of English and Portuguese, "Preciso dar minha querida dor – I need to have you in a way you have never been taken... say Yes to me, por favor, Belle" The smell of his skin, the confidence in his voice, the sound of his words in Portuguese, that I didn't understand, everything making me scream "YESSSSSSSS" even though I knew in my soul it should be NO!
He turned me over onto my belly tied my hands behind my back with his belt and slapped my bottom hard with his hand. I screamed.
He leaned down over me and put a hand over my mouth "Minha querida, My Belle you will wake the neighbors, quiet now." I bit the pillow and he slapped me again, I wriggled, winced, and begged, "NO, NO, NO please...No" My Darling Portuguese lover frowned, looking deeply into my eyes with his dark expressive eyes. He looked so sad and disappointed, " linda menina, you do not trust me, you make me so sad. Belle, you want me to go away forever?" His breath warm and sweet made me want to cry, and I begged this time for Him to stay.
He bound me up. While tied to his bed, he inflicted pain, he slapped me, my breasts, my pussy, my ass. Over and over using the pain as a counterpoint to the pleasure he gave me, bringing me close to orgasm with his mouth then stopping to slap my cunt again. At first the pain seemed wrong to me. Why should sex with someone I love hurt? But the hurting made the pleasure so much greater. As always he worked me slowly. His lips on my nipples bringing me to a sweet needy pulsing want, then, he spread my legs wider, slapping my inner thighs. He knelt over me, straddling my face letting the tip of his cock dangle into my lips. "suck" he ordered, then he pulled his cock from my lips to watch me arch up toward him. He laughed down at me and slapped my breasts watching them wobble, he grabbed my nipples and tugged hard. When I said this was wrong, he asked "why Belle, is it because the pain hurts or you think it is wrong to enjoy it?"
He mocked my cries for him to stop by pressing his cock deeply into me, stirring his hips in and out, always when I was at the cusp of cumming he inflicted some small pain, which tipped me over the edge, bringing me to gut wrenching orgasm after, after orgasm. He was mocking my pain by making it result in agonizing pleasure. When I was wrung out, my body sweaty, exhausted and livid from the slapping, then the forceful fucking he made love to me slowly, in the most vanilla way. He caressed all the places he had slapped soothing all my aches. He brought me to the point of orgasm again, but this time it lacked the intensity of earlier. He was playing with my mind, making me wonder if it was the pain I craved to make the intensity of the orgasms that followed more meaningful. He made me know that it was ok to feel things that were taboo, it was okay to do things which were "wrong" because for us in his bed, they were so right.
The ride back to Glasgow was much different than the ride to Skye. I was happy and so was Miguel. The couple in the front were equally happy with their mini-holiday at Gavin’s home. We played a game on the way home, translation. Everyone in the car spoke a second language, Gavin was a highlander and “had the Gaelic” his girlfriend spoke some French, I knew some Italian. So we took turns pointing to something in the landscape and naming it. The couple in the front friend in the front became bored of this game so Miguel and I continued a more intimate version. Miguel put my hand on his thigh and whispered the word for thigh in my ear. I didn’t have the same breadth of Italian as he did in Portuguese so it was a one sided game. He put my hand on his chest and spoke the word. Then he put his hand on my breast and whispered the word in my ear very softly, as if it was a conjuring. Then he pointed at something out the window, it was a sign for a trappers pub, on the sign there were old fashioned looking manacles. He said the word in Portuguese which meant nothing to me. I had no idea the word for handcuff in Italian and just shrugged. “Belle, in English, please, what is the word for that” He held up his two hands as if handcuffed. I looked at him and said “handcuffs or manacles” He smiled slowly and repeated the word manacles in my ear as if he was telling me a very, very, dirty secret. “I want to see you in manacles minha Belle” I laughed and punched him in the ribs. I knew he was teasing me.
It was now late February about eight weeks after my first arrival and GSAAP luncheon and 2 weeks after our return from Skye and 10 weeks before my flight back to New York to go to graduation at my College in USA. Life had changed. I was Miguel’s. Miguel and I already close, became closer and more contained to each other. Our mutual classmates started to refer to us as Mig-Belle. A silly moniker that I didn’t particularly care for, but Miguel didn’t mind. He seemed to be proud to have me as his girlfriend. He didn’t mind what we were called. I did not have many friends in Scotland. I did have some girls in the dormitory I became friendly with. From first days we the did nearly everything together so our routine only varied a little. He was offered a room in an apartment of another Portuguese graduate student. He moved out of his but dormitory walked the extra few blocks to my dormitory after breakfast every morning we had classes. He would take my hand and ask me how I slept.
Days rolled into nights. Miguel was a brilliant student, but had a hard time writing in English. I was a good writer but needed to pay more attention to my design work. Our skills complimented each other. We spent our days doing schoolwork together, during the evenings I would go to his shared apartment where he would cook for me traditional Portuguese meals, of fish and vegetables. “Americans do not know how to cook fresh foods,” he explained and proved this truth to me by cooking for me. He taught me how to cook rice properly. “Querida, Belle, do this, always wash the rice. See that which washes off into the pot, it makes it taste bad, you wash then cook the rice, much better that way, more delicious, more healthy.” Everything he said or did, was with grace and confidence. He was always right, there was no discussion or controversy.
After our meal, we would sit outside sharing a bottle of cheap wine watching the cold grey Scottish sky turn from slate to ash, to purple then to blackness. He would comment about how the arts and craft style gas lights looked like a set of testes hanging from above, glowing and needy as the shaft of light it cast into the darkness. He had to stop to gesture to his crotch for the words in English to make me understand. I laughed, and debated this with him until he offered to show me his testes to be sure He was correct. He pulled me close and said things to me in Portuguese that made my skin ripple from the tone, even though I had no idea what they meant. I pretended to pout. He said "Come to bed with me, menina doce, you will not be unhappy with me in the bed, Belle."
He had the touch and soul of an artist. He handled me slowly and gently, then turned me onto my belly and bit at my ass murmuring in Portuguese. As his fingers slowly moved in and out of my oozing sex, I writhed and shuddered. He always took his time, not letting me get to the point of such urgent need that i needed to cum, he always worked me like a composer building to his crescendo. He worked me slowly and skillfully using his entire body to make me putty in his hands. His stubble raked my smooth belly and then lower to my inner thighs, teasing me, lapping ad my dewy folds until I arched and quaked whimpering his name begging and promising and swearing until he would hover over me and thrust his hard cock so deeply into me I would hurtle over the precipice of lust, bring me to the point of no return where I’d whirl into a vortex of lost need as my orgasm took all control from me. He always left me sweating, panting and shuddering in completion. I was sure this is what love felt like, it was total agony.
One Saturday in bed, when Miguel’s flat mate was away for the weekend, He slid his fingers into me, lying beside me, he cooed softly into my ear in His mixture of English and Portuguese, "Preciso dar minha querida dor – I need to have you in a way you have never been taken... say Yes to me, por favor, Belle" The smell of his skin, the confidence in his voice, the sound of his words in Portuguese, that I didn't understand, everything making me scream "YESSSSSSSS" even though I knew in my soul it should be NO!
He turned me over onto my belly tied my hands behind my back with his belt and slapped my bottom hard with his hand. I screamed.
He leaned down over me and put a hand over my mouth "Minha querida, My Belle you will wake the neighbors, quiet now." I bit the pillow and he slapped me again, I wriggled, winced, and begged, "NO, NO, NO please...No" My Darling Portuguese lover frowned, looking deeply into my eyes with his dark expressive eyes. He looked so sad and disappointed, " linda menina, you do not trust me, you make me so sad. Belle, you want me to go away forever?" His breath warm and sweet made me want to cry, and I begged this time for Him to stay.
He bound me up. While tied to his bed, he inflicted pain, he slapped me, my breasts, my pussy, my ass. Over and over using the pain as a counterpoint to the pleasure he gave me, bringing me close to orgasm with his mouth then stopping to slap my cunt again. At first the pain seemed wrong to me. Why should sex with someone I love hurt? But the hurting made the pleasure so much greater. As always he worked me slowly. His lips on my nipples bringing me to a sweet needy pulsing want, then, he spread my legs wider, slapping my inner thighs. He knelt over me, straddling my face letting the tip of his cock dangle into my lips. "suck" he ordered, then he pulled his cock from my lips to watch me arch up toward him. He laughed down at me and slapped my breasts watching them wobble, he grabbed my nipples and tugged hard. When I said this was wrong, he asked "why Belle, is it because the pain hurts or you think it is wrong to enjoy it?"
He mocked my cries for him to stop by pressing his cock deeply into me, stirring his hips in and out, always when I was at the cusp of cumming he inflicted some small pain, which tipped me over the edge, bringing me to gut wrenching orgasm after, after orgasm. He was mocking my pain by making it result in agonizing pleasure. When I was wrung out, my body sweaty, exhausted and livid from the slapping, then the forceful fucking he made love to me slowly, in the most vanilla way. He caressed all the places he had slapped soothing all my aches. He brought me to the point of orgasm again, but this time it lacked the intensity of earlier. He was playing with my mind, making me wonder if it was the pain I craved to make the intensity of the orgasms that followed more meaningful. He made me know that it was ok to feel things that were taboo, it was okay to do things which were "wrong" because for us in his bed, they were so right.
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