I studied Latin at school … but my secret is not about that
Latin Love Lessons
A tale of innocence lost, & lessons learned, but perhaps not in the way you’d expect
Poppy acted as ‘guide’ because we were staying in her family’s apartment, she’d spent several previous holidays here. For all three girls it was our first holiday without adults. But it was my first holiday abroad so, although I was trying for cool and sophisticated, in reality I felt wide-eyed the whole time.
I had only been to three clubs in my last year at school, here we averaged three clubs a night. Sexist maybe, but females had free admittance, often with first drink ‘gratis’. Tickets were handed by good looking PR people in the commercial centre where we shopped for groceries. The clubs wanted to be populated with girls; our gang’s age ranged from Poppy’s 18 to Kerry’s 21.
He had pursued me determinedly since we first arrived at the resort. He worked at the Pink Flamingo, the club on the hill, with a rocky location which made it the beacon of the resort. Most people ended the night there. We began our drinking at the apartment, then progressed to dancing in clubs and bars dotted around the centre of town.
His cousin Marco was tall, dark and rather flashy. His type made me nervous, but my friend Poppy was hot for Marco, grading him off limits. He was quieter than Marco (his English wasn’t so good). I sensed him watching intently, before he made a beeline for us girls when we entered the club. He sat by me, the smoldering heat from his leg was pressed against mine. I was conscious of his gaze; it raked over my body, which already tingled from the day’s sunbathing.
My friends would nudge me whenever he came over, I enured a lot of teasing about the smouldering looks he gave me. They would give us space when we sat or stood together.
“This song’s my favourite,” I told him one night.
After that, he ensured it was played soon after I walked into the club. I was flattered by his attention, but confused how to deal with it.
We girls were dancing together, as we did most nights. All the best music came from the UK; we knew all the songs and were singing as we danced. Marco came over — peacocking around us, in trousers that were obscenely tight. On this occasion, Poppy was sulking with Marco, turning her back to ignore his slick, practised moves. She was jealous about the attention he’d paid to another girl.
Kerry and I had tried earlier to reassure her it was part of his job — he provided PR for the club! So we continued dancing while Marco took Poppy aside for one of their frequent rows. We watched out of the corner of our eyes, it was a repetitive soap opera.
His cousin joined us and started to dance, making my heart beat faster. He danced well, sinuous and fluid, without the showy element Marco had. He moved in close, reminiscent of a flamenco dancer. ‘Allure’ was coming off him in waves. This was nothing like the boys back home who lingered at the bar until the end of the night, eventually selecting a girl for the final slow dance.
He beckoned for me to follow him. What about the others? It seemed Marco and Poppy had made up, they were heading to the bar. Kerry was dancing with a mixed group we’d met earlier at beach volleyball. I could leave the dance floor without feeling I’d ditched them.
He led me to the back of the club, through a door marked “staff only”. It opened into an atrium or hallway, well lit but deserted. A massive staircase climbed to an upper floor and wound to another below.
“What?” I asked, expectantly.
He pulled me onto a plush velvet sofa against the wall. As we sprawled, my short skirt rode up my thighs, showing off a golden tan.
“I never get you … lonely” he said. I’d always found his broken English endearing, now his look was intense.
I swallowed, suddenly aware of just how far away I was from my friends, in a staff area where they could not follow. Anxiety made my pulse kick up a notch then he gently cupped the side of my face, closing the gap with a deep, tongue dancing kiss. I relaxed a little, my libido beginning to assert itself, kissing is powerful foreplay. My mouth responded and my tongue danced back. I still felt nervous of the contract I might be entering into. My virginity was still very much in tact.
“You are so beautiful,” he breathed, as we broke apart.
I felt giddy from our embrace. My insides were liquid lava and my breath caught in my throat. Not sure how to respond I looked into his mesmeric brown eyes.
“I have to see you,” he gazed at me, “I must touch you.”
He ran his hand down the side of my neck, his burning gaze settling on my cleavage. Continuing a downward journey, his fingers opened my buttons. He dragged at the fabric to hook it under my bra, feasting his eyes on my breasts, which almost swelled out of the lace.
He didn’t speak, just looked, and that’s when I realized the power of my breasts. This guy was bewitched by them — reverently cupping them in his hands before burying his face between them. He began to kiss me, his stubble chafing the soft flesh, until I tingled to my core. Weighing one in each hand, his thumbs rubbed insistently back and forth over my nipple tips. Unfamiliar sensations of delight raced around my body.
I was shocked to realise my pussy was getting moist. I only knew the thrill of sex from reading racy passages in popular novels, had never allowed things further with boys. Alone I’d touched between my legs, but it had never occurred to me touch my breasts. That night I learned more of their power.
He pulled down the edge of my bra and freed one nipple. I almost froze with shock, no boy had ever seen my bare breasts. The untanned triangles left by my bikini made a frame around aureola, which had become hard and dark, responding to his teasing. I was experiencing a pleasurable ache in an area of flesh which, until now, I hadn’t associated with desire.
I could only observe the top of his head as he bent to his task, licking and nibbling at each tight nub of flesh, he unleashed flashes of sensation which hot-wired excitement to my pussy. In languid fascination I watched. He licked and sucked, moving his attention from one nipple to another, while I floated on another plane with lust.
It was both exciting and strange to feel so detached from what was happening, anchored only by the yearning sensation which built between my legs. A slickness grew evident, alongside a pulse which pounded against my gusset. I longed for more but was unsure of the next step, or how to take it. My previous experience was my own questing fingers, rubbing over the top of my knickers.
My breasts felt heavy and swollen, his ministrations awoke my heat and I couldn’t get enough. I parted my thighs to draw him closer. His hand grasped my legs, hot and heavy, like a branding iron. I squirmed lower, hopeful of further caresses.
“Touch me,” my subconscious shouted. “Keep pleasing me.”
The nerves I had felt earlier were trampled underfoot by the onslaught of yearning now beating at the cleft of my thighs. Without structured thoughts about what would happen next, I craved more.
His roving fingers brushed over the bare flesh of my upper leg, climbing higher, to slip into my panties with ease. They sank into my warmth like it was melted wax. I had no time to feel bashful that I was soaking wet from his caresses, although I cringed to hear the squelch of my fleshy folds against his delving fingers. He did not seem concerned, instead it seemed to delight him.
Pressing and stroking under my skirt, his hand became buried in the heat between my legs. He was groaning his pleasure as he continued to suckle my breasts.
“I don’t even know how many fingers he has in me!”
I marvelled as this thought registered, as my pussy clenched and pulsed around them. I was hurtling inevitably towards a giddy climax.
At that key moment a door nearby slammed, followed by footsteps pounding down the stairs. A harsh male voice flung a remark to my companion in Spanish. He lifted his head to hurl back a response.
I opened my eyes blearily, returning to sanity with a most painful bump. What was I doing? This was a communal space where anyone could (and did) see us. The mood was broken, I felt humiliated and ashamed. What had that other guy said? I’d bet he’d called me a slut or similar.
I smoothed down my skirt and hastened to re-buttoned my top to cover my breasts. I wiped a hand across my mouth. I suspected my lipstick had smeared then ran fingers under my lashes in case my eyeliner was smudged. I could barely look at him, although he’d seen more, and been more intimate with me than any person, ever. He seemed to feel similarly awkward.
He briskly led me back to the main nightclub, which was now fully populated with dancers, its music pulsing as bright, strobing lights twirled and hit the obligatory mirror ball. I rejoined my friends and he disappeared into the crowd, reappearing quickly in the screened DJ booth, where I couldn’t reach him.
My friends hadn’t thought anything odd about my absence, and I wasn’t inclined to share what’d happened. I still trembled from my earlier arousal, while feeling frustrated to have been denied the climax I’d been on the knife edge of achieving. Long ago, I’d learned to make myself cum with my fingers, although it took a lot of rubbing and and stroking. This encounter had been more intense. With another person touching me, I’d galloped towards the delight which I would usually only tease out of myself slowly.
I was in a daze the rest of the night, disinterested in drinking or dancing with my girls and the volleyball crowd. I withdrew into myself — torn. On the one hand I’d discovered the thrill of someone else touching me intimately. On the other I’d hit rock bottom with a bitter feeling of shame, worried that my actions were those of a slut.
When later we left the club, my friends giggled and stumbled. They tried to hold each other upright as we navigated the steep steps. It was dark, with only pools of light at the foot of each lamppost. I almost didn’t see him — tightly clasped against another holidaymaker. A girl of a similar age, with a curvy body, was pressed against him while his hand roved under her frilled skirt.
He glanced briefly our way, then buried his face in the girl’s long hair, pretending not to see me. The cruel stab and twist of rejection I endured made me heart sick, but I kept walking. My friends saw too. Poppy gasped, evidently stunned he’d switched his attentions to a new girl.
“Bastard!” she said hotly, taking my hand.
“Bloody gigolo,” shouted Kerry with a tipsy hiccup.
“Ssssh!” I told them, “keep on walking.”
The last thing I wanted was a scene to add to my humiliation. Kerry muttered that guys like him probably latched onto a new girl each fortnight, with every influx of new holidaymakers. That observation did zilch to reduce the pain or dull my shame.
“He’s persuasive, skilled at getting what he wanted Anna — you were just a girl in the revolving door of his lothario life.”
I stopped on the stone bridge and dry-heaved over the parapet, contemplating the dark water with anger. He had cheapened my first shared sexual experience, but he’d wised me up to the way some men behave. I wouldn’t be fooled so easily again.
In future I’d take care, shelter my feelings from getting invested. Instead I’d strive to keep things casual, formulate a new plan — take my pleasure and avoid being used. Innocent Anna had learned her lesson, look out future lovers!
Find more of Posy’s writing here
It’s a Kind of Magic (3) Fine Day for a Picnic
Submitted:#EroticFictionDeluxe:“Whispers”
I love highlights and comments — reader feedback helps me write. Using my link to get membership to Medium directly supports me, plus you gain access to thousands of writers’ great content. Subscribe to my email so that new stories I post come directly to your inbox.