Orphans Of The Storm - Sex Stories

Orphans Of The Storm

... bank. Sometimes the wail of flamenco voices could be heard coming from scratched records, but mostly I remember the songs of Paul Simon. We'd share a glass or two of San Miguel and she'd have a whiskey chaser. 'Just two fingers Pedro' she'd call, as I poured it for her. 'And don't forget, no ice, I'm not fucking American.' She must have told me that a thousand times in my life. She never liked ice in her drink. We'd sing along enthusiastically to Simon and Garfunkel's greatest hits, until she'd fall into a drunken sleep. She was a hippy, a punk, a rebel and a drunk, often angry, very unreliable, but always happy to see me, and I loved her with all my heart. I wiped away my tears and raised my bottle to the sky. "Cheers mum." I was dragged from my perfect revelry by a gentle knock on the front door. "Hello?" A soft female voice called through the fly screen. I don't want company today. I want to wallow in my grief, and for a second or two I think about not answering, but I know the intruder must have seen my car parked out front. "Hello," I reply, "It's open." I imagine if I just sit there without making any effort, she'd know I wasn't the welcoming kind. I hear the creak of the door and the slap of flip-flops as she walks into the lounge. "Hi, sorry to disturb you. I'm Maria." "Yes, of course you are." I say sarcastically, looking straight ahead without acknowledging her. "What does that mean?" she replies abruptly. I'd got to her, I could tell. Maybe she'd fuck off now and ...

... leave me alone? I turn towards her and set my face into a scowl, the pre-requisite of the seasoned teacher. The first thing I see is her long dark hair that's caught in a shard of evening sun, a golden spear lighting up the beautiful colours. Some vaguely remembered T.V. ad comes into my head. A gorgeous brunette with a sexy voice, bestowing a palette of colours that have ridiculous names like midnight lust and cobalt caress. I'm drunk on the lack of sleep and it's hard to focus my mind, but I find the answer I'm looking for. 'L'Oreal', that was it. 'Because she's worth it'. I laugh to myself and wipe my bloodshot eyes, trying to concentrate on the pretty woman in front of me. I stand up and hold out my hand. "Hi, I'm Peter, sorry It's been a long day." A pretty lame excuse for my indifferent behaviour. "Of course, I should have realised, you're Fran's son aren't you." Her irresistible eyes conjure images from my crazy teenage trip around the Mediterranean. Hot sunny days, drinking cheap wine and lying between the legs of some brown skinned beauty. It's as if my rudeness hasn't affected her at all. Ignoring my outstretched hand, she moves between my arms and gives me a hug. Her soft breath exciting the hairs on my neck. I want to return her affection, but somehow I feel foolish and shy. Her bare arms and legs are strangely disconcerting, reminding me of the female students who come to my lectures dressed in miniskirts and vest tops, enough flesh on show to satisfy a coroner. ...