Fire fire

There are many beautiful women who delight the eye; Nice, but the picture fades anyway. And then there are indelible phenomena. Two of this kind, have met me in my life so far. One of them I will report here.

This story happened somewhere in the mid-eighties. It is not a novel, but an erotic observation, which has touched me so impressively that I can still remember the magic of the fleeting moment, despite the considerable time. More clearly than some real adventure.

Contrary to my habit, I also choose the role of the narrator in this case. For I was present in that warm summer night …

In those days Cadaqes was still a beautiful, bright little fisherman on the edge of the Pyrenees; Where the end of the mountain range gently flows into the sea. At that time, it was no longer a problem for some young, not so well-paid holidaymakers to camp outside the city in their cramped mobile home. There was such a sleepy landmark, just opposite the remote Dali Villa. The aged painter was probably no longer at home these days.
I spent most of my hot hours with my mates in one of the secluded bays, where wonderful bathing took place, and now and then also a viewable butt, or a blank tourist bosom from the sea. Not infrequently you also got a lovely smile for this optical compliment. Sometimes even an idle chatting came about. I always found these leisure hours very inspiring, so that in these years, we did not just go to that almost paradisiacal place. At that time you did not need much …

For the evening “Shutteldienst” we also had a fire-red moped; Three seats if one counted the luggage carrier. And because we were four, I had designed a light sidecar with quick connection. In Germany unthinkable. But we had quickly made friends with the Spanish village police. They laughed and waved, and sometimes even locked us up for us when we went to breakfast for the only notable crossroads of the place. Only once had we been stopped; To a purely technical chatter in broken English, and with much laughter.
Too much pretending for an erotic story? Maybe. But eroticism is not a pornography. This is simply the mood. And during these summer nights there was certainly every hour on the beach or in the pension beds, exactly what would be described as pure pornography.

Let’s go to eroticism …

The “squadron” had parked their squad directly under the watchful eye of the traffic police, under the first lantern at the entrance. A mixture of fried, bathing oil and sweet perfume was in the air. The sweet blonde, with the long legs and the pretty little breasts, strolled as fast as daily, in the short floral, to shop with her shopping net. She had an affectionate arrogance, and a divine butt to it. At night she sighed in our favorite trolley, and knew how we looked drunk.

First we went down to the small beach. There was a tourist building where you could eat wonderful hamburger. They were different, had a crispy roll, and the insert was made of real flesh. I do not like others. There was also beer, which also deserved the name.

It was dark now. Saturated it went to the beach bar. A rustic, spacious boarding house with a view of the sea. There sat Jana Wunderlich (her name I have freely invented, but found him fit). She was a pretty pretty countrywoman, with black hair and always glimmering glances. Suspect she had a very intimate relationship with a black Afghan. … Sandalentourist with nice knees and firm lower legs. Also very pretty feet and shoulders, but there was more of it never to see. She sat there, deputizing for a whole generation of cool academic stirring-me-not-ans. Certainly she did not want anything more than touching someone. But at the same time a bold demon watched over them; She might even be caught, and only wanted to be defeated. It was too much of a holiday… Besides her, and the good-humored locals, there were at least sixteen representatives of her guild still sitting on the tables. Most even in male accompaniment, but far less pretty. The poor guys …

Well, we were poor guys too; … but at least among friends, and on the hunt …
Suddenly the air was filled with a deep rumble. They could not be seen, but the sound was unmistakable. An old Triumph Bonneville thundered to the village square. Some people noticed. The thundering took course on the “Great station bar”. There was no railway line. As she really meant, I have long since forgotten. But she was really great-sized; Had a train station-like echo, a huge window front, and somehow powerful atmosphere.

The fossil engine fell into gasping gas. About three minutes Later, the monster spits fire again. It moved away from the bar from the street to the bar, … stopped, started, and so on.

Then the monster returned; Finally thundered right in front of our beach. Suddenly it was quiet in the room. Apparently everyone suspected that a bloodthirsty pistolero would go from tavern to tavern in order to succumb to all the horses. But it was different …

Higheels clacked on the wooden stairs. The door leaped open, and a fantastically beautiful goddess staggered in pimpled mini dress, slightly drowned into the tavern. One would have heard a pin fall to the ground. The fire-stretched stretch was not even super short. He wrapped half his thigh, but lay so seductively around the contours of this long-legged woman, that she herself could split, not be naked. A black curl rolled over the free back of the apparition. Truly, a beautiful back can delight … Its sun-drenched nakedness ended only in the pointed V between the nearly wicked-backed cheeks of the fleshy statue. Each step brought movement into the bulging posterior muscles. Also the muscles of the slim luxury legs told wet stories at every step. The beauty was sure of that.

This was not an alcoholic on the road. Certainly it was a local greatness. Maybe actress in Barcelona? … dancer was more likely. Each movement also told me without words what was happening here:
She had lost a bet. Now the proud Spaniard paid her debts: A glass of tequilla in every pub of the place. She had already been heavily shot. Despite the enormous body control, the high heels became a problem. I would have liked to help her out of her shoes. In front of my mental eye I was already licking her calf… But she managed to do it on her own. And still with an incredible elegance. Never before have I seen a woman who could take off her shoes so elegantly. But gratefully, she took the barstool as a support, and parked the stilettos on the counter.

The host grinned at the full width of his nicotine yellow teeth. I envied his prospect. The red fabric sat like a second skin. One could clearly see its belly button; And, of course, the breasts. The proud buds sat like two plump cherries on the spacious hemispheres. Exactly where every sculptor had placed them. Actually, I am on smaller. But these were really model melons …

No man in the room, or even a single female, could resist the sight. This Saracen blade mesmerized us equally with its smooth movements, and the sharp forms. Salt trickled on her dainty hands. Golden tires glimmered at the joints. The wickedly wide mouth opened itself meticulously. A forbidden long tongue passed over the spicy crystal on the golden brown skin. The Machowirt handed her a full glass, and grinned. Then she bit into the offered lemons, and poured the sharp drink. But the black-eyed southern woman did not make a face …
Gracefully, now barefooted, she stood up from the counter. There was a slight uncertainty in the picture-like legs. Her shoes reached her by the straps, and threw them casually, though slightly swayed, over her shoulder. I was given a penultimate look. He rested on a finished madness, and sucked into seductive knee-throats. There was a resounding motor on the forecourt. Through the side window I managed a last look. The luxury legs clung to a bald-headed mid-forties. The full bosom was tightly entrenched in his back. How I envied him. The motorcycle shot off. Now they would graze the other side of the village. The beauty was really sorry for me. Here, too, there was still some pub. The next morning she would suffer terrible pain under the curls. Certainly the bald head would console her. He did not look rude, but he was still a proud winner …
… time …

… The door fell audibly into the lock. The sound level was high again.
“Ne, … ne, … neee”, … grinned Christian, Marco closed his mouth. Jorg raised his glass and grinned quietly into himself. Who knows what he has seen?
I threw my eyes into the round.

Miserable women tore their mouths. … Entered men stared at their birch pole sandals. The locals were more cheerful. They laughed … and I could imagine they were not laughing at the proud beauty …
Only Fraulein Wunderlich smiled wryly; … no, even more remote. Apparently she had found the switch of her wand. At that moment she was the only, envy-free female in the hall. Actually, I found her very cute. But futile … Her senses were circulating right now around the same contours, which also my so deeply busy …

It was probably the deepest night when the headlight of our fire-red moped team flared. O … how shitty the thing sometimes sprang …

Over narrow serpentine roads, the tormented motorbike sailed toward the parked tin-house. We had also searched through some music kinks in order to hunt the fast luck. … Well, that night, none of us found it. But we still had our fun … And in the morning our skull could certainly measure itself with that of the Wetterin …
Two days later, we started the bus engine and broke up to Rosas on a beach holiday. Less landscape, less fishing, but a lot more sand beach, and plump-filled hotel castles. Hairdressers also like to show skin, and are otherwise much more uncomplicated …