Miguel: Part 1

I stood at the airport terminal with my overly large bag in hand. I looked up to see the carabinieri on the catwalk patrolling the Leonardo da Vinci international departures terminal in Rome Italy. My eyes were wet with tears, as I walked away from the Man who had taught me everything about love and loss.  I was sure I wouldn't see Him again. I had already decided, this was the last time. If he didn't want to come with me this time, he would never want to come with me. I needed him to be mine, as much as I needed to be his. That painful word between us, mine, his promises, his excuses, but I was about to graduate now, with a Masters in Art History, my entire life in front of me, my visa was about to expire, i needed to move on, i needed to be more than just his.  We had spent the last 2 weeks traveling on our Eurail passes from Scotland, to London, to Paris, to Amsterdam, to Barcelona, to Porto, to Milan, Florence, then finally to Rome where I had booked a flight home to New York. This was my swansong, it was the final trip. I had hoped to convince him on this trip to come home with me to meet my family, then we could come back in the fall and stay together in Porto or Milan.

Three years prior, I was accepted on a grant to study at the prestigious Glasgow School of Art (GSA) in Scotland. I was overwhelmed that my entry was accepted and that I was the one applicant from my college in USA who would be given this honor.  We first met at the foreign exchange student luncheon hosted by the Glasgow School of Arts Alumni and Professionals. It was held in the prestigious Macintosh library. I think I was a pretty typical looking girl in those days. I was slightly overweight with large breasts and not used to the dreary wet of Scottish winters. I didn't have much in my wardrobe to combat the murk. Snow, I could handle, wet cold, I wasn't used to.  It was pissing rain on this day, as it does most days in winter in Glasgow. This was a professional occasion; I was dressed neatly in a long plain fitted olive green button front dress with a turtleneck under. Nothing about my appearance was sexy, bookish perhaps, but in hindsight not my best to make an impression. I wore brown knee high calfskin riding boots. The only outfit I brought for such an occasion. I arrived at the luncheon early excited to see the famous Macintosh library which I had read so much about in my art history texts. When asked to be seated I chose an original Macintosh chair at the front of the library where all of the foreign students were assembling and chatting in mixed languages. I was able to speak to the native Scots hosting the event, but couldn't understand many of them, which made them laugh at me. I felt quite self-conscious in that room that morning. The chairman in his broad Irish Accent welcomed us, followed by a convocation by the president of the school, a native Glaswegian, I couldn't understand a word he said in his thick accent. I sat perched in my seat excited to finally touch the part of history I was here to study. The chair was brutally uncomfortable, after about 15 minutes I wished I had chosen a modern practical chair. I lost focus on the events as I peered around the room, hoping to find someone to make friends with. 

It was there that he first caught my eye. He had a very charming smile, very unassuming, but confident. He was in a modern chair on the other side of the isle. He relaxed comfortably and appeared to be listening with astute attention. While daydreaming about his smile and shifting uncomfortably on the rigid Macintosh chair, I noticed all at once, everyone was applauding and standing and starting to make their way to the back of the library where a small buffet was laid. I lagged behind and stretched my back twisting from side to side to ease the cramp of sitting so upright for 45 mins of the introduction and welcome in 4 languages. 

The young man with the lovely smile walked over to me. In his broken accented English he pointed to my back and said "I was warned about the chair. He told me not to sit on you, only to admire you. Much like your backside." I looked at him agog and smiled broadly, not knowing if he knew what he had said. I giggled self-consciously and he laughed a little, not understanding my reaction. 

"What is it? Why do you laugh at me?" I tried to explain, but I was too embarrassed. I blushed and became tongue tied. His stare was disarming. But he asked again, "Please, do help me to improve my English, please explain the joke" thus he made me explain the difference between backside and back and sitting on me, and sitting on a chair. I blushed crimson and wished the floor would open to let this handsome stranger fall away from me. He smiled knowingly and thanked me. We exchanged names he said “Belle, this means beauty in my language” His name is Miguel which means nothing but Michael in English, so I was at an awkward loss for words. We learned we were staying at dormitories near to each other on Sauchiehall street. We both laughed awkwardly neither of us knowing how to pronounce the name of the street we were staying on. We commented on everything being so odd in this country where the sun never seems to shine. He told me he was from the south part of Portugal, an estate he said, near Porto. I felt warm in the cold drafty room. I felt my insides light with a flame I never knew I could feel. 

We became friends. Not only because we were two similar souls left to drift in a strange place, but we found we had things in common. We were both studying Industrial Design with the intent to design furniture. We had many of the same classes and lectures booked. We both were here on a grant and it seemed we just had a knowledge of each other. I always felt warm when He spoke to me. He made me flush embarrassed. He would treat me so familiarly and talk to me like I was already His lover but I ached for Him to kiss me. His English was improving but he still deferred to me many times in public to explain to Him what was meant by some idiosyncratic phrase. 

We decided to go to the north to Skye to see the Castle there. We had a mutual friend, Gavin, a Scotsman who had a car. He would take us when he went there with his girlfriend for a long weekend. Miguel and I sat in the backseat of Gavin's small car, for the 6 hour long journey. The couple in the front of the car seemed to chat about this and that with each other with no effort. But Miguel and I were lost in our own worlds. We looked out our windows keeping to ourselves in silence. About two hours into the trip, we had settled to our own sides. I remember looking out the window at the barrenness of the landscape and marveling at a bright red phone box where nothing was around except sheep and  a lone shepherd's croft. Miguel tapped my thigh and showed me the same thing I had noticed. I smiled and nodded vigorously at him, at a loss for words. He surely could read minds. He pulled me close and tucked me to his shoulder and told me in his lovely sweet accented voice "rest, querida" He pressed his lips to my hair and I slept in a state of aroused flux.

I started to obsess. "Does He like me? Is he just being nice? What is his deal? I can’t read this man, he will break my heart" When I woke and looked up at Him he was still sleeping with His head on mine still holding me tight to Him. We arrived at the small hotel we booked in Skye. Gavin, said us he would pick us up on Sunday afternoon for the ride back to Glasgow. Miguel and I went to check into our room in the quaint little hotel and found although we had booked two beds, there was only one bed available. The clerk assured us it was a king size. Miguel, as always with his light romantic air said "good, Belle, we will know each other better this way." I'm sure when I blushed crimson the clerk winked knowingly at Miguel.  

We walked to the crest of the cliff that falls about 40 feet in a drop to the ocean and had our picture taken. His arm around me, we really did look like lovers. We went to the pub below the guest house we stayed at for dinner and we were both tired from the long cramped journey. We agreed that a walk would be nice after the long car ride. I was studiously avoiding the topic of the sleeping arrangements. We walked back and forth the short main road and then back to the inn for the night. 

When we got back to the inn, the air was charged. It was like the tight quarters and the romantic setting was seeping into our veins. We were just friends, nothing between us, nothing at all. I kept telling myself this but I felt myself blush at Miguel’s every movement. He moved about the small room like a panther and I was his prey. I ran down the hall with my sleeping clothes in my hand to change. Miguel was in his underwear when I returned in my sweatpants and t-shirt with my bra still intact. I was gasping for breath. I couldn't look at him or talk to him. He seemed completely at ease in his state of undress, I had never seen him without his shirt before. I couldn't help admiring his bare chest and taught muscles.  In his very southern European way he just sauntered around the room adjusting this or that, as if He were wearing a parka and boots. We hadn't discussed the sleeping arrangements, the room still only had one smallish bed, and an upright chair. I looked from him in his underwear to the bed blushing, afraid to move or sit or do anything. He said in his airy confident way. "Querida, you will sleep with me in the bed, I do not want to sleep on the floor or the chair, I am sure you do not want either." So it was settled. I was to learn, that is how all decisions were made with Miguel, pragmatically, and to his benefit. I sat on the bed, and pulled back the white crewelwork covers and slid into the sheets in my sweats t-shirt and bra. He stood in his underwear so his crotch was so close to me I imagined I smelled it. 

He looked down at me boldly, "This is not how you sleep, cher, you take off your brassier, surely." I squeaked embarrassed and wriggled out of my bra with the covers pulled up around my ears and dropped it over the side of the bed. He smiled and pushed his body against mine as he got into the bed. The bed was small, what we would call a double in the USA. In Scotland it was a King. The side light was left on. Miguel removed his glasses and set them next to the stoneware ewer. He lay facing me, I was disarmed and couldn't move any farther from him without literally falling out of the bed. He laughed seemingly to himself.

"What?" I whined.

He just smiled at me. Then after a long pause "Have you never laid in a bed with a Man?" my jaw must have fallen open, because what he did next has stayed with me in my mind as the most erotic thing anyone has ever done to me. He leaned over and put his index finger on my tongue. He stroked my tongue once slowly and languidly then put the finger into his own mouth. My breath stopped, my heart stopped, my brain stopped and my pussy oozed. He smiled at me slowly and asked again. "Querida, am I the first man you have lain with?" 

My brain started racing, of course he wasn't my first, but what the fuck... I mean really what the fuck, 20 minutes ago I thought you only wanted to be my friend, now we are in a tiny bed together stranded on this romantic as fuck island, in this romantic as fuck room, in this romantic as fuck bed, and you want to know if I'm a virgin?!?!?! I shook my head and mouthed the word "no."

He smiled instantly, a look of I don’t know what crossed his face, but only for an instant; was it relief or disappointment, or arousal? I don’t know to this day. But he leaned in and whispered close to my ear “good.” He lifted his hand between us and put it on my shoulder, very gently, he touched my neck and it sent a shiver through me. He skimmed my neck and shoulder and the base of my skull with his hand. I was already panting and wet and hot and blushing and awkward and stiff. He cooed confidently in his accent “sweet querida, I do not hurt you. Relax, it is okay, I like to touch you. You are beautiful.”

I melted at that moment, I was sure I would become a puddle of gooey syrup under him if he touched me anywhere else.  He did touch me elsewhere; he rose on his elbow and looked down at me, submissive to his touches, I was afraid to move. He moved his hand over my chin held my neck in the most possessive way and leaned over and kissed me gently on the lips. It could have even been a friend kiss, but it wasn't.  Not now, not like this, not here, not on this bed, in this inn, on this island on this night. He moved his lips away and then he skimmed his hand down my chest where his hand rested on my clavicle between my breasts, still over my t-shirt. Then down between my breasts to my belly. I let out a breath and a tiny gasp. I was afraid I would burst into flames, but I daren’t move for he may stop. He smiled down at me, and kissed me again, his breath tasted like the strong beer from the pub and I craved more. I kissed him back this time, harder and he teased me with his tongue. He lifted up and looked down at me, “Querida, you will be mine, won’t you.” It was not a question, it was a statement of fact.

In that moment, I knew I already was his. I nodded, I would say anything at that moment for more of his lips on mine. He stared down at me deep into my eyes.  I felt awkward, uncomfortable at being looked at so carnally. “Please say so, querida, I won’t touch you again until you say you will be mine, only mine. He lifted away from me only slightly, but that shift made me shiver with cold or fear. I nodded again, and croaked in a tiny stilted voice “yes Miguel…. I am yours….. only yours, there are no others.”

My words had some magical power over him. He looked at me, hungrily and he said softly “you do not wear things like this to bed with a Man, you wear night dresses or nothing”

I blushed hotly. I had not packed for this. I had not expected to share a bed. I had not expected anything, I had hoped, wished maybe, but this eventuality never crossed my mind as a reality. He stared at me, like a hungry wolf, while my mind raced, I squeaked my excuses “I didn't expect to be in bed with you or anyone for that matter.  I don’t have any night dresses, I have nothing else to sleep in.”

He laughed, breaking the charge between us and said flippantly “then you will sleep in nothing.” He pulled back the covers in a flip and tugged off my gray sweats and my cotton knickers. “Sit up” He barked. I was blushing again, my face on fire, I could feel the blush to the bottom of my feet and the tips of my ears. He smiled at me, He knew what he was doing to me. He knew how off balance he made me. He pulled the hem of my t-shirt up over my head and left me like that for a moment, sightless as I wriggled, feeling my breasts sway without confinement. I heard him gasp, in my insecure state I assumed it was with horror. I freed myself from my t-shirt dropping it on the floor. I reached for the blanket to hide myself. He pulled it away from me more forcefully than I expected from him.

“You are mine are you not, querida? Then please let me look at what is mine.” He was always polite, always confident. I did as he directed. I felt myself squirm under his frank appraisal. I was feeling awkward, and exposed, insecure and almost angry now. I thought myself fat and unpleasant to look at. I didn't want to be mocked or teased. He leaned forward, covering me with his body he cooed into my ear like a sweet dove “You are very beautiful to look at, cher, you do not know that do you?” I wanted to cry, I wanted this to stop, I wanted him to let me curl into a ball to hide the raw, sensitive, pink heap, which I felt like I was. That was never his way. He liked to see me exposed. He moved his hands over my body. Over all the parts I was most insecure about as if his hands were called to my flaws like a beacon. His hands cupped my too large breasts that swayed side to side with his touches, over my soft belly and to my too thick thighs. He pinched my puffy nipples and watched them harden for him. He looked directly into my eyes the entire time, making me feel even more exposed and on display. He parted my legs and dragged his fingers through my downy fluff. My body betrayed me as always, I was wet and he felt it. He put his fingers into me, and examined my dewy folds. I was on fire, aroused, embarrassed, insecure my entire body blushed a hot pink.  

He looked down at me, and covered me with his body pulling me into him, engulfing me in his embrace, soothing me after his harsh examination. I could feel his rock hard erection on my thigh as he hugged me close. His English becoming lost with his arousal he murmured in Portuguese.  He wriggled out of his underwear and placed my hand on his manhood. His English was gone now so he reverted to gestures.  He moved my hand back and forth over his phallus showing me what he wanted. I eagerly obliged. I used my fist and stroked his cock, I wanted to make him cum, I wanted him to be happy with me. I gripped his cock in my small hand. I milked him, making him even harder, I could feel his cock starting to throb, I knew he was close.  I wanted more than anything to make him cum. I felt his precum ooze and he his cock became slick. I wanted him so badly to cum. 

He had different plans. He pulled my hand away from his cock forcefully by my wrist and then kissed my palm gently. He placed my hand gently beside me on the bed. I started to panic, I thought he was done with me. I looked at him in near agony. But he just smiled silently. He reached over to the bedside table, fumbled with his valet case. I watched and became fearful, not sure what he was doing. He found a packet of condoms and rolled one on in a business like way, not hurrying. He climbed over me slowly, not asking my permission, just parting my legs with his thighs, never losing eye contact he slowly entered me.

I closed my eyes. He called to me gently, “querida, Belle, olhe para mim.” The Portuguese words meant nothing to me, but I understood. I opened my eyes and watched him, he looked at me directly as he took me slowly, entering me, opening me, filling me. His hard cock thrust over and over again inside of me. He brought me so near to cumming, but then let me relax. It was agony, sweet bloody hell. I do not think I screamed but he lowered his mouth to mine and kissed me. He raised up pumped his hard cock into me bringing me to the edge over and over again. Thrusting his hard cock into me, wriggling his hips up and down more quickly and then slowing, until he brought me to the moment, the crescendo, and held me there, not rushing, not eager to cum as all my previous lovers had. Miguel just held me at the moment of agony, my body attuned to him until, I fell over the precipice, gasping, panting, I clung to him, as I let go, spiraling into an orgasm I never thought would end. I whimpered and shuddered clutching to him as if he were a lifeline and I was adrift at sea. He waited for me to be finally sated and find my way back to reality and him.

Then he thrust hard and fast and violently, my tender insides sensitive to the nuances of his cock. I felt him throb bigger one more time and then he grunted and thrust in jerky motions filling me with his purging cock. He rest on top of me, for a moment, I dared to curl my fingers into his hair and he lifted up and smiled weakly at me.

We lay like that sated, him still inside of me for what seemed like forever or just a moment. As he softened inside of me he swore in Portuguese and rolled off of me into a standing position on the floor next to the bed.  He turned away from me, I heard the condom fall wetly into the bin with a splat.

He went to his rucksack and got a bottle of water and offered it to me. He climbed back into the bed, gathered me beside him and tucked me into the crook of his arm. He kissed my lips so gently and said in Portugese then translated into English for me “Belle, you are mine, I don’t share and I won’t take no.” I closed my eyes to hold back my tears and fell into a fitful sleep in his arms.