Bull ring

Dry, hot, no humidity, a breeze. All along this part of the Mediterranean down to the Spanish border and beyond, this was the weather, every day. The beach, where we had spent several hours earlier, was now 20 minutes away.

Our tickets were designated ombre, or shade, to distinguish them from seats designated soleil, or sun. It was a custom left over from the days of bullfights, which they rarely had now – except during the feria, the festival when they revived the Catalan past. The upper crust used to guard their rights to these seats jealously; the bullfights were a major occasion in the town, when women wore their finery, and asserted their standing. No longer. Today was evidence of the democratization of our time. Chantal was wearing one of her pretty sundresses, a halter top with a skirt that billowed, gypsy-like. Other women were similarly dressed, many in skirts or dresses. The only obvious distinction between those in the soleil and those in the ombre is that there were many more females in the shade. A subtle remnant of chivalry, I suppose; women enjoyed being spoiled a little, and men enjoyed spoiling them.

Under the word ombre on the ticket, was the designation vomitoire 11. I pointed this out, laughing, to Chantal, and we shared images of ladies watching the spectacle of the bullfights and losing their lunch on the stone floor. In reality, though, the vomitoire referred to the wide arches through which the crowd exited – vomited – at the end of the bullfight. It was simply an easy way of indicating which archway we were to pass through to find our seats.

During the delay before the matches we had plenty of time to take in the ambience: the benches that were really simply curved rows of stone. Some people, in the know, had brought cushions. Finally the tennis started. These were former tour players, who now made their money putting on exhibitions like this, joking with the crowd, and displaying skills that were still impressive, and occasionally quite flawed. We weren’t going to stay for the concert afterward, although it was a good idea; some entrepreneur had figured that a tennis exhibition followed by a rock concert would be a big draw. Unfortunately, it didn’t work out that way, but the tennis, at least, suited us.

The drive back to our villa was easy, much less traffic than the drive in. The last bit was along a scenic part of the basin that flowed into the Mediterranean. In the fading last light of the day we pulled off the road and onto the wide gravel path that ran along the edge of the basin for the entire 20 mile circumference. It was quiet. A few gulls were straying into the sky; the rest had retired for the night. A cyclist pedaled at a leisurely pace toward us, then past us. A few minutes later another came along. A somewhat severe-looking older woman walked at a forced pace with her little terrier on its leash. Apart from these brief intrusions, the scene could well have been entirely ours.

Just off the gravel path the sand began that eased down to the water. High clumps of pointy grasses like sawgrass were spaced up and down the basin. The sand was soft; Chantal found it easy and comfortable to kneel, her dress pulled up past her knees. When she took my cock out of my pants and into her mouth, my responses were a battle of serene calm and high arousal. The warm breeze curled around my face, around my cock and balls. She loved doing this; she felt proud of herself when she sucked my cock. Some distant past ago she had perfected the action of opening her throat and pushing my cock past that tight opening. Every time she took me in, I awaited that sensation of the head of my cock squeezing into her throat. Her inner muscles had the habit of contracting at that moment, a well-suppressed gag reflex I suppose, that felt like small warm fingers squeezed my shaft. After a short while she gasped for air, and stroked my cock in her strong, small fingers, licking the head. The breeze actually felt cool, even though it was hot out, still. She had learned a rhythm, once my cock was fully inside her, of bouncing on the base of my cock, fucking it back and forth about an inch, before needing eventually to come up for breath. This was what aroused me most.

When I came I had to place my hands on her head for balance as I arched over, and thrust my cock into her mouth, down her throat with abandon. Cum spurted down her throat, into her mouth, over her lips, onto her chin as she licked and sucked and bobbed furiously.

She licked me clean. I caught my breath. She stood up, smiling, her face shiny, a glint in her eyes and in her smile. So pleased with herself. On the rest of the drive back, she sat in the passenger seat, her skirt pulled, up, fingering herself in the dark. The sound of her cumming was music over the sound of the car’s engine. Afterward she just sat back, her skirt still pulled up, so that the light in the yard shone down on her glistening thighs as I parked. We sat for a few seconds, and I laid my fingers on her cunt, feeling the wetness, feeling her little twitch as I sensitively touched her aching clit. I licked her flavour from my fingers, kissed her on the mouth. Our bed beckoned us.