The tiny restaurant in Barcelona was busy.
Conversing diners, shouts and calls to waiters, popping corks from bottles of wine, the clink of glasses, drinkers’ long bouts of laughter. Chefs cooked the favorite local foods and let the timeless scents of Spanish paprika, heavy garlic, and saffron waft from the kitchen.
In the middle of everything was Christy.
Christy and her friend, Marsala, ate under an awning strung with red and yellow and blue lights, that put the patio under a warm glow. Christy nibbled on her Paella Valenciana and Gazpacho and sipped her Sauvignon Blanc. Yet, among all the wonderful food and the joviality of the dinners, Christy was trapped between depression, joy, and a fear of missing everything. In two days, she would be heading back to Williston Falls, North Dakota. Tonight, she was attempting to soak in as much of Barcelona as possible.
“I am going to miss this city,” she told Marsala in a sad voice. “What I need is a last ride through Barcelona.”
“I’ve been telling you for weeks now to rent one of those electric bike thingies. They’re everywhere. Then go wherever you want.” She raised her glass of red wine as a salute to her smart idea. “For me, I’m here for another few bottles of wine.”
“No, no.” Christy waved off the idea. “I can’t go on a bike alone.”
“Well, I’m not going with you. I’m going to be too drunk.”
“I need Gregory Peck, that’s who I need. To have him whisk me away, like in Roman Holiday.” She set down her glass and stared at the worn underside of the awning.
Marsala shook her head, the red wine sloshing in her glass. “You should not have watched that movie. Here’s a reality check: There is no Gregory Peck in Barcelona with a Vespa scooter to take you around the city. And by the way, you’re no princess and you’re not Audrey Hepburn—but just as pretty.”
“You talk a lot when you drink.”
“I know. I have trouble closing my mouth. I have these urges to say whatever comes to mind. Things come to mind and they just come out of my mouth. Drinking makes conversations with me—for me—funner. For now, I will keep quiet. I won’t talk for as long as I can. Warning: I will have a really hard time.” She zipped her lips but started giggling, which turned into all-out laughter. “Drinking and not talking is so impossible. Okay, okay, okay, let me gather myself. Deep breath. No talking—starting now!”
In Marsala’s momentary silence, Christy heard singing. She looked over her shoulder and saw a man walking down a side street. He was the singer. In spite of the noise and joviality of the eaters, Christy heard his voice. The rich tenor voice sliced through the sounds—and even the scents—around her.
His song echoed between centuries-old buildings of the street. “Amor, Amor Amor,” he sang, with an operatic vibrato, “Nacio de ti, nacio de ti, de la esperanza!”
Christy put down her fork. She twisted in her seat toward the voice.
“Hear something?” Marsala asked, holding her half-empty glass.
“Amor, Amor, Amor.” The man came into the streetlight. He walked toward the café. Finally, diners’ conversations ebbed to a low gurgle. Mainly, the men continued their table talk, not interested in the handsome singer.
He sang briefly at different tables, making intrigued women smile with their lips and leer with their eyes.
In a few moments, he came to the girls’ table. He simply continued to sing.
“Amor, Amor, Amor, nacio de dios, para los dos, nacio del alma.”
His voice was savory, like Spanish cuisine cooked and plated by a gourmet chef—something to be savored.
Christy could not take her eyes off him, and she didn’t stop smiling. He had a lean build in simple dark slacks and shirt. He had not buttoned the top buttons, so his smooth chest showed. She was drawn to his narrow nose and black hair. However, she believed his deep eyes might have divulged, in a flash, a dark devilry.
At the table, he rested his hand on the back of Marsala’s seat but sang to Christy. Christy was enamored with this attention. Yet, she felt jittery and overwhelmed and excited and awkward at being the center of his attention among the café full of diners, especially the women who now had a seed of jealousy budding inside of them. But, inside of her, that concoction of emotions swirled and could become, at any moment, an explosive.
She took her cool wine glass into her hot hand. Her pulse thumped in her palm against the condensation.
The glass was protection. By holding it and hiding behind it—although impossible—all the people might not see her as the central figure in the tenor’s art. At the same time, this is what she had wanted and had hoped for.
Marsala tried to get his attention by turning in her seat and leaning back to see him better. She tightened her arms to balloon her breasts, but there was no distracting the man.
Christy soon was gripping her warm glass of wine and fanning her overheated self with the wine list. This man was too much for her. Never had she been so charmed.
Finally he held out the last note of his song, and then his operatic vibrato disappeared into the clamor of the café. Everyone—particularly the women—clapped and cheered and leered at the gentleman.
He waved and nodded briefly to everyone for their praise. He returned to Christy though.
He thanked her first with a simple word. “Salazar.” But his presence continued a different, wordless thank-you.
“Christy.” Her name fumbled from her lips.
He took her hand and kissed the top of it.
“Come with me. Let me show you my city.”
Christy suddenly became skeptical and shocked. She scolded Marsala like a mother. “You set this up. You did this,” she whispered a shout.
“No, I didn’t.” She raised her hands—including her empty wine glass—in innocence. “If I did, would I have let him take you away? I want him.”
Salazar tugged Christy’s arm to remind her that he was there, no matter who had brought him.
“What about you?” Christy asked Marsala, setting down her glass.
“Go, be a princess. Maybe my prince will show up with a full bottle of wine.”
“I can’t …”
“Live it up,” Marsala urged. “Soon you’ll be stuck in nowhere North Dakota.”
Despite a look of concern for leaving her friend, she allowed herself to be taken.
Salazar zestfully led her away from the café and into the dim street from where he had first appeared. At the other end, the street opened to a nice avenue. It was not lit with the glowing lights of street-side cafes or the florescent lights of late-night dance clubs. Instead it was dimmed with daily life. And, at this time of night, the street was calm and quiet. People likely were nestled in at home. Possibly tired from today’s work or preparing for tomorrow’s tasks.
Salazar stopped at a nondescript square building. He rolled up a narrow garage door. Inside was a small Fiat.
“Have you seen more of my city than the tourist spots?” Salazar asked.
“I haven’t seen too much. I’ve been working over the past two months. I haven’t had a car either.”
“Tonight, we go.” The car’s lights flicked on and off.
“Where will you take me?” Christy asked.
“I know places to love and never to see again if you leave.”
“Do we have to go in a car? I would love a ride on a Vespa. Can we?” Christy patted her hands like a little girl about to get a birthday present.
Salazar paused to work out some logistics. “A Vespa, yes. Then we go.”
A few minutes after a text from Salazar, a large man pulled up alongside the curb. The motor scooter looked tiny in comparison to the giant man. He made even Salazar seem petite. The scooter squeaked when he stepped off.
Salazar thanked him.
“Meet Christy. Christy, meet Brutus.” Brutus gave her a friendly kiss on each cheek.
His cheeks were rough with his stubble, and his lips were plush. To her surprise, Christy liked his piercing scent. It was different than Salazar, who had fresh ocean cologne. Brutus reminded her of horsemen back in North Dakota. A wholesome smell of a hard-working man.
She climbed onto the scooter after Salazar had steadied it. She wrapped her arms around him.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Where are we going?”
“Somewhere only I know of.”
“Then let’s have at it.” She whirled her arm like she was riding a bull at a rodeo.
Salazar sped off. Christy was jarred back, so she hugged him tightly, hoping not to fall off and ruin their getaway.
He drove fast and without regard for other vehicles or pedestrians. He wasn’t one to let a visitor get a tour or see the sights of the everyday side of the city. But to Christy, sights were secondary to the excitement of this Roman Holiday in Barcelona. Christy enjoyed the warm wind in her face and the buildup of humidity in the air. Her hands slowly loosened around Salazar. She stretched out her arms to be free, flying on the ground, just like Audrey Hepburn. But she grabbed hold when Salazar touched the brakes at an intersection.
Waiting at the stop, she noticed how black Salazar’s hair was, how he kept it trimmed to a perfect fade. She caressed his hairline, drawing her fingernail along it, and then let her fingers glide through the thick hair.
He reached back his hand and gently patted her thigh. Then he sped away.
The pair zipped across the city. The Vespa struggled up the hills as Salazar drove above the lights and buildings of the city.
“Where are we going?” Christy asked again.
“To see Barcelona. To Bunkers del Carmel. Hear of it?”
“No.”
“A Spanish military fortification,” he fumbled at saying the word clearly. “Build in 1937 as my country fought in civil war.”
He roughed the poor roads until the scooter was near the fortification. A quick walk and Christy took in Barcelona like never before.
“This is spectacular.” Christy leaned on Salazar’s shoulder. “The lights of the city go everywhere.” She turned a full circle with the city all around her. Far out though, it became suddenly dark.
“The Mediterranean,” she said. “That must be the coastline. The city just stops. Amazing.”
“My city, Ciudad Condal.”
Salazar put his arm on her shoulders to direct her toward the mountains, then to the neighborhoods, and other notable sites.
But people began to show up and appear from dark places. Lovers, tourists, evening hikers.
“Not the secret place that I thought it would be,” she said. “Seems like a lot of people know about this place.”
Salazar didn’t want to be by all these people, so he led her to the Vespa and headed back to the city
“The next place better be as good as this,” she said, settling on the scooter behind Salazar. “I want to stay here.”
“We go to Parc de Les Aigües.”
“Where is—” she started to speak, but when he zipped off, she quieted and held on to him.
On the steep decline, Christy felt the air warm and smelled the salty breeze blowing in from the sea. She spread her arms again and shouted wildly. Salazar laughed. He darted and sped throughout the city. He took side streets, cut through intersections, drove onto sidewalks to pass stopped cars, ignored the speed limits. Christy loved this excitement, her freedom, his unconstrained attitude for living. She nuzzled her chin into the base of his neck.
“I love this,” she said into his ear.
At the next place, he maneuvered the scooter up more hills and then around some barricades, forcing it to become an off-road bike. Soon, he was riding slowly down an ancient road, Carretera de led Aigües. It snaked through the mountains to another overlook of Barcelona.
Salazar again pointed out sights, as best as he could in the night. He placed his hand on her shoulder to show the neighborhoods and the Basilica of Sagrada Familia.
She put her head on his shoulder. “Thank you for tonight. I needed this.”
“I will show you my city from the secret places.”
“These are pretty much secrets, although I have already heard of them but never had time to … Did you feel that?” Christy put out her hands, palms up.
Salazar put out his hands too. “Rain. We go before the storms come.”
They hopped on the Vespa and rode to the city. Before long, the rain came down heavily. The ground gave off the refreshing scent of pavement and earthly perspiration. Salazar sped up. Christy let go of him and spread her arms once more. She basked in the raindrops that pelted her face and neck. Soon, her shirt was wet, and, as the storm grew all the heavier, hers and Salazar’s clothes were soaked and their hair was de-poofed by the rain.
Salazar pulled onto the sidewalk at the building where he and Christy had zipped away. He reeled open the garage door in a metallic roar. Christy leaped into the garage, out of the rain. She rested against the Fiat. Salazar came next to her. Christy felt his hands snake across her waist and his warm lips touch her cheek, her ear, and then her lips. Christy let him move as he wished, enjoying him and the whole evening.
His hot breath felt wonderful on her face and her neck as he dragged his mouth across her body. Her hands first spread over his back, and finally, she interlocked her fingers at the base of his neck. She pulled him close. Christy kissed him.
Salazar broke from her. “Let’s go inside. I have clothes to change into.”
He led her into the apartment above the garage with the Fiat. It was a cramped place. A wine rack, a tiny kitchen, a small television with antennas, a loveseat. He opened a bottle of wine, and they drank and talked as their languages would allow. She thought he had lived an amazing life in the city. One she had missed in her time here. After another bottle, she snuggled against him and kissed him again. They began where they had left off an hour ago.
Soon, in their passion, Salazar led her into his bedroom. He unbuttoned his shirt and dropped his slacks.
He opened the closet door. Christy remained dressed, unsure about taking off her clothes. But she could not take her eyes off Salazar’s lean body. He was covered with only a thin pair of boxer shorts.
“I has a large shirt for you.” Salazar turned to Christy. “Take off your clothes, so we can get dry.”
“But I …”
“You need help?”
He didn’t wait. He lifted Christy’s blouse over her head. Before pulling it off, Christy had concerns about getting fully naked.
“Wait. I can’t do this. I mean …”
“Off, your pants. I can dry them, so they will be warm and dry to put them back on.”
Salazar gently pushed her onto the mattress. He slid his hands over her thighs and down her legs. He grabbed the bottom hem of her slacks. She undid the buckle, and he pulled them off.
Despite being wet, she decided to stay in her bra and panties, after shedding most of her clothes.
Salazar took hers and his clothing to the other room. He tossed them onto the loveseat.
“Salazar,” Christy called, “can you bring me a towel? I need to dry my hair.”
He grabbed a towel from the bathroom.
In the bedroom doorway, he asked, “How much is a towel worth for you?”
“Come on, give it here.” She held out her hand.
Salazar stepped into the room and walked slowly to her, keeping the towel behind him.
Christy tried to snatch it, but Salazar easily kept it at bay.
Christy gave up after a few futile attempts.
“Fine. Keep the towel.”
“Let me dry your hair.” Salazar put the towel on Christy’s head. He rubbed and shook and lifted her long, blond hair to dry all of it.
Her head wiggled and rocked back and forth as he dried her hair.
Sitting there with her head bouncing all over, she bumped into a stiffness in his pants. She noticed it was long and outlined against the thin fabric of his boxers.
Christy apologized. “I didn’t mean to, you know, touch it.”
“No matter, no apology. Put your hand on me. I can dry your hair better.”
While he rocked her head again, she happened to touch Salazar’s erection. When she did, Salazar’s hands jolted and jerked her head once under the towel. With an intent only to tease, she patted his dick and again felt her head jerk at his hands. She stroked it with the palm of her hand, and Salazar moved her head at her touch.
Salazar pulled her face closer to his hips.
“Kiss me,” he said. “We will both feel warmer.”
Christy tried to glance up at him, but his hands would not release her head. She then understood his “kiss” was not what she, at first, thought. Keeping one hand on her head, he fiddled with the fly of his boxers, until his hardness appeared before Christy.
It was a stiff snake set in a well-groomed garden of black hair. Christy was shy about kissing his dick at first. But she let herself go, deciding to do it once. She was leaving Barcelona soon.
Christy listened to him speak to her in his native language, unintelligible to her but lovely nonetheless. He tossed aside the towel. She smiled at his deep, dark stare.
She placed her lips on the underside of him. Hearing the moan of pleasure, she decided another kiss or two wouldn’t be too much. She continued to place her lips along the length, down to the base. The texture changed from hardness to his dangling balls. The black hair tickled her nose. She sneezed.
“Salud,” he said. He cupped her chin and kissed her.
He pushed her backward, flattening her on the mattress. He maneuvered over her and kissed her again. First, a gentle peck. Then, a glaze along her lips. Christy grabbed him for a long kiss. The pair continued on, exploring and exciting each other.
Suddenly, Christy paused. She heard a door close. Salazar took her chin to draw her attention back to him. She gave in and kissed him harder. She rolled him over to be on top of him. She paused again though.
“Brutus,” she said between her deep breaths.
The large man remained silent. He only sat on the loveseat in the living room but remained within view. Salazar nabbed Christy’s attention. He rolled her over to her back, smothering her with kisses.
As her hands held onto Salazar’s body, Christy could not shed the idea of another man—Brutus of all men—watching them. Salazar moved his lips to the base of her neck. In the briefest moment, she glanced through the bedroom door. Brutus was there, watching. He had a wide grin.
An odd thought shot through her mind. It made her up shiver. Christy’s mother came to mind. She was wearing that old apron of hers and was in her kitchen. She was washing dishes while the potatoes boiled on the stove behind her. She was telling Christy, “One man, one woman.” However, now Barcelona was telling Christy, “Two men, one woman, just once. It will never happen again.”
Christy didn’t want to become an old woman who had turned sour because of a lifetime of missed opportunities. She disagreed with her urge and her mother. Instead, she rested beneath Salazar to bask in his amazing attention to her body.
Yet, her attraction to Brutus was unyielding. And he was right there. She turned her head toward him, as the thin man over her kissed her neck and collarbone. Then her sudden gasp startled Salazar. He rose up over her.
Christy’s stare brought Salazar’s gaze toward Brutus. She still had not unlocked her eyes from the cock in the giant’s grip. His hand rose to the peak of the cock’s head, covering it and then letting it reappear. It was massive. A rod. A sword. A spear. It matched the size and type of Brutus’s form. It outmatched Salazar’s. She suddenly thought about giving and getting, of wanting and having.
Christy’s heart thudded and a desire grew in her belly. Salazar could sing and bathe her in his passion. But she was drawn to Brutus. He was gruff. He was hairy.
Christy sat up, which moved Salazar aside.
“Brutus,” she said. Her voice was sweet and sounded oddly entranced.
The man stopped his slow strokes.
“Brutus,” she said again, “come here.”
When he came over, she slid her hand over his strong forearm, her fingers running through the wiry hairs. She placed her cheek against the arm. Then her other hand moved directly to his bared erection.
With her delicate touch, she stared into his black eyes to make sure he was pleased with her. “Do you like this?”
She knew he was enjoying her hand when his eyes closed as she sped up her touches.
“Lay down.” She patted a place next to her.
When he sat on the mattress, she almost fell into his lap as the mattress slouched inward because of his size and weight. She guided his mouth to her breasts, feeding them to him. “They’re yours, Brutus. All for you.”
And he feasted. She felt nibbles and then bites on her other breasts. Salazar had returned to the action.
Christy had two men enjoying her body at once. They enjoyed her heartily. These were no longer gentlemen. They had slowly morphed into animals that were banqueting on their willing prey.
She could feel their different hands move over her. Brutus’s were calloused and meaty. Salazar’s were stringy and fast-moving. Brutus’s hand shifted her leg, having taken hold of her small thigh. Christy enjoyed the sandpaper roughness of Brutus’s arms against the soft skin of her thigh.
Meanwhile, Salazar’s fingers crept into her most intimate parts. Along her waist, over her hips, just south of her navel, into her kinky bush. Then she jolted when his fingers crossed her clit. The touch may have been as light as a mere ghost’s passing, but it shook her body, curling her toes. The next glaze-over was so nice, and her mouth cooed. Salazar further massaged her into luxurious sensations.
In spite of her closed eyes, she saw a dark shadow appear above her, as if blocking the midday sun. She felt a different brush against her pussy. Not ghostlike this time, not lanky like Salazar’s fingers. She opened her eyes to see Brutus, the giant, grazing the tip of his dick against her narrow pussy. She smiled, knowing he was ready to enter.
“Come on inside,” she said. “Just do it slow. Don’t hurt me.” She had only been with one other. He was a boy from high school, tiny compared to Brutus, tiny even compared to Salazar.
As soon as she warned him, she winced, her neck strained, her mouth taut, eyes ballooned. She tried to plead for mercy, keeping Brutus at bay with her hand, or at least from charging inside of her. He kept moving in, urging his cock further, going deeper. Christy heaved and hissed in her pain. She was ready to beg him to stop, when his dick slid back slightly. It eased her pain. She caught her breath, but the sizzling pain flared once more as Brutus pushed forward.
Salazar’s hand grabbed her face and bent it toward him. Suddenly in between her eyes was the tip of his cock. He shifted forward.
In a moment, Christy realized two men were on her. A dick was in her mouth, and another was rocking slowly faster against her dripping, wet pussy.
Three of us—me and two others? she thought, worry flooding around her. What am I doing? I can’t do this. But Barcelona kept its urging.
She began to halt them when Brutus fully entered her. She didn’t stop him though. It felt wonderful, a complete drenching of sparkles over her body, submerged in a steaming, hot bath. Then in her glee, she sucked Salazar’s dick.
Salazar pulled back and Brutus dragged himself out of her. They exchanged places. Salazar laid down on the bed, and Brutus remained steadfast. Suddenly, Christy became what might have been the sweetness between the two hard cookies. The two men covered over her, putting her on her hands and knees on the mattress. She enjoyed them both.
They attended to all parts of her body. Her mouth and her earlobes. Her chest and nipples. A trail down her torso. To her surprise, Brutus took her gently. She loved it when he kissed the warm flesh of her inner thighs. He placed kisses on her knees of all places. Then the tops of her feet. Despite her giggling from his stubble brushing the soles of her feet, he focused on her feet and sucked on her toes. As he attended to her feet, Salazar buried his face deeply in her pussy. He gobbled her, tugging on her labia, slurping deep inside. Best of all, she loved hearing his exhale as he rose up and then the immediate deep gasp as he went down again, like an Olympic swimmer in a furious race.
Her body absorbed the affection until the tingling and a lingering fuzziness had overtaken her senses.
The two men pulled back. She thought they had let her be and rest. Their hands and mouths were off of her, and she didn’t feel their four hands or twenty fingers either. Nevertheless, their presence was above her, gigantic towers surrounding, vertical and parallel. She lay still on the bed. Her eyes closed, and her mouth in a smile. Eventually, her breathing eased, and she noticed a slurping. The sound confused her, but she didn’t want to move—or think about it, for that matter—because doing so might interrupt her inertia. But the slick-slap kept on steadily. It was garnished with grunts and a drawn-out groan. She finally opened her eyes to see Salazar jerking his dick. It was lubed, glistening in the overhead room light. His face winced and twisted. His teeth were gripping his bottom lip. He gave another groan. Suddenly, a warm splatter of wetness landed on her upper cheek and forehead. A second heavier glob hit her face over her eye. She wiped it from her face and flung it to the floor.
Brutus was still stroking his dick above her. She looked at his changing guise. He was handsome in some North Dakota way. A brute, a wild man—rough-skinned, hairy. Thinking of home, she urged him.
“Come on, big boy.” She put her hand on his thigh. “Don’t hold back. Give it to me.”
Salazar’s hands moved Christy’s hair from her face. He urged on his friend in Spanish. Brutus’s hand sped into a blur. There was an uproarious sob—long, low, primitive.
“Brutus, please. Right on my face.”
Christy lifted her gaze as if toward the light of the summer sun. And she urged him.
“For me, do it. I know you want to. From the moment you met me, you’ve wanted this.” She shimmied her hair free from Salazar’s hands, and ran her fingered through it, tucking the damp strands behind each ear.
Brutus released another gargantuan groan, followed by a gritty rumble in his throat.
Christy was hit hard with a splattering stretching from her eye over her eyebrow to her hairline. Brutus gave another smattering that landed on her cheek and the corner of her mouth.
She looked up with her one eye to see a happy Brutus, still holding his stout dick. A relieved body.
She dabbled with the cum on the tip of her finger.
“Want me to taste it?” she asked, teasingly.
She didn’t actually mean it. The taunt was just that, a bit of teasing in the midst of the craziness. When his face brightened at the comment, the idea made her rethink the tease. Just as she didn’t consider her banter, she didn’t consider putting her two gooey fingers in her mouth smoothly.
He then reached forward to the cum at her lips and push the clump into her mouth.
To Christy, his oversized fingers had a taste of saltiness and the feeling of a callousness. She sucked his fingers clean, just as he had kissed her toes with his lips.
Later on, Christy found Marsala in their flat, asleep, after an obvious drunken state. A man, in boxer shorts, lay on the floor next to the couch. Three empty bottles of red wine were on the kitchen counter.
Christy stood over her roommate. “You had a good night too.”
She laid a light blanket on Marsala. “At least, I won’t have a hangover.”
For years after, Christy never forgot Marsala, her crazy roommate in Barcelona, or Brutus, the monster of the bedroom. Christy always wondered what happened to him. She had thought about asking Marsala, but, each year that she got older, the idea seemed dumber and more absurd. Maybe though, like that unconsidered tease at the foot of Brutus, she might blurt out the question to Marsala someday, asking if she knew of a giant rough man there, where he was, would she look for him. Truly though, he was with her. She never let him go.
