He was supposed to be a personal challenge. A Spanish lover – younger and sinfully attractive. A daring, wild experience for one night.
My liberation from my self-oppressed lifestyle was planned out carefully down to the last detail.
Everything except . . .
I didn’t see it coming, not by a long shot. My plan was safe. I was going to quit my job, say goodbye to the restraints of the life I had known, and follow my dreams.
I rented a house halfway across the globe in an exotic Spanish town on the coast. I made some new friends. I reveled in luscious food and a stunning landscape. Most of all I savored my new found freedom.
That is until I met HIM.
It was supposed to be a night of lost inhibitions, soon to become a sweet memory. That was my plan.
“Say, do any of you ever feel like your sex life is a bit dull, you know, with everyone online bragging about extraordinary kinky stuff?” Alma sends us a flit, flushed glance and turns to observe her bitten fingernails. I gape at her first, and then join the rest of the ladies as we trade stares back and forth between us. That is until, abruptly, Vivian yanks our attention toward the kitchen work area.
“Oh, I have had enough with this thing!” Vivian turns, frantically cleaning her hands on her white apron, her eyes a manifest of aggravation. “I blame the media for that, and everyone who thinks they have to follow new trends,” she says, her tone more livid; “trends” comes out with a spike of disgust. “Come on, if you are not trussed up like a roasted turkey, have someone calling you slut in bed, treating you like his sex toy, or better yet, slave! It’s not good enough? Sex needs to involve pain now, eh? Spanking, spanking, really? What in the name of God . . .” She stops for a minute, murmuring, “Forgive me Dios mio for dragging you into this one but higher powers are needed these days to bring back logic to some women’s brains.” She huffs. “What in the hell has happened to enjoying plain ol’ sweet romance, loving gestures, and oh, the dreadful missionary?” Her hands fly to the ceiling at the latter part of her words. She eyes us all as if we were the founders of the Kinky-Sex-Without-Borders Organization. “It seems like women’s sexual expectations have been pumped up to an absurd degree. Poor men, I say, poor men! If you don’t end up in intensive care after sex, it’s not thrilling enough, eh?”
The silence in the room is so blatant we can hear the sound of the yeast dissolving in the water. I think everyone’s afraid to speak. I know I am.