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Message-ID: <41123asstr$1046718603@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: DrSpin <drspin@newsguy.com>
Subject: {ASSM} Rondo a la Turk (MF, MF, MF) ~ by DrSpin (NEW to ASSM)
Date: Mon,  3 Mar 2003 14:10:03 -0500
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

Rondo a la Turk (MF, MF, MF)
by Neil Anthony aka DrSpin

---------------------------------------------------------
* This story is published here by kind permission of Ruthie's 
Club, where it appeared illustrated by Sergio Hugo Castro 
under an exclusivity period for six months. Ruthie's Club 
(http://www.ruthiesclub.com) carries about 50 more of my new 
stories. 

* The author welcomes comments and opinions from readers 
and is invariably motivated to respond. Write to:
drspin@newsguy.com or neilanthony@austarnet.com.au

* DrSpin's Standard Disclaimer: 
I write and you read, if you care to. That's all there is 
to it. Any reader who is offended should not have been here 
in the first place.
---------------------------------------------------------

First Movement:
 
In 1986 I slung a pack on my back and randomly toured the 
world. I had nowhere to go and nothing to do. At the age of 
nineteen, like many young men, I didn't have a clue. Life 
stretched interminably in front of me and I couldn't make a 
plan beyond the next time I was likely to be hungry enough to 
eat.

In an introspective state of mild depression brought on by 
past events and current lack of purpose, I drifted aimlessly 
from place to place, imagining romantically I was gaining some 
sort of life education. But I was just drifting. Filling in 
the days. Fortunately I could afford this indulgence. I had 
parents not so long dead and an inheritance that would last a 
while but not forever. At nineteen, however, three years seems 
like eternity.   

In September I wandered into Turkey, instinctively following 
the sunshine as warm days became less frequent in middle 
Europe. That's where I stumbled across Esra Bedir.   

She looked cross, but it was just the way she looked. Her 
black eyes were set deep in her face and her thick, dark 
eyebrows dipped towards the sharp bridge of her nose. But I 
didn't know that the first time I saw her. I remember very 
well the lightning-strike intensity of the moment. It will 
never leave me.

I was in Kekova, a little way off the main track for tourists 
but popular enough to have its own guidebook. I was thumbing 
through it as I sat at an outside table at a sidewalk cafe. A 
shape loomed beside my chair. I looked up distractedly, 
expecting to see a waitress. She was a waitress, but she was 
also Esra Bedir.

I swear my heart stopped.

All women are female but not all females are women. This was a 
woman, and so much woman the raw force of her blanked out my 
brain, tripped like overloaded circuitry. Jesus. I sat 
transfixed at the small, round table, staring.

She looked cross. More than cross. She looked down at me 
thunderously, I thought. "Yes?" she snapped. "You are English, 
yes?"

No. But my voice had vanished and I didn't want to disagree 
with her, so I nodded affirmation.

"Yes? You want coffee? Turkish coffee? Small, black, yes?"

Yes. I nodded affirmation. That sounded good.

She stood longer than she needed, sweeping her eyes over me, 
measuring and calculating, taking me in. Then she turned 
abruptly and went inside the cafe.

I fingered away a line of sweat from above my top lip. God's 
mercy. Where did she come from? She was fantasy, surely. Not 
real. I was imagining things on a hot day. I was seeing what 
was not there.

Certainly she was beautiful. In her own kind of way, that is. 
Not technically, not classically, not perfectly beautiful. 
That wasn't the right way to describe Esra Bedir. But she had 
power. She had such immediate and intimidating sensuality it 
was like a sudden confrontation with evil.

That's a retrospective view. That day at the cafe, waiting for 
my coffee, I knew only that I was out my depth.

She returned with two cups, one for me and one for her, and 
dropped heavily on a chair opposite. She leaned forward with 
her forearms on the table and fixed me with an insistent 
stare. "I learn English," she said. "I go to England one day, 
soon I hope. You speak to me, help me get better."

I coughed and found my voice. "Okay," I said. "What do you 
want to talk about?"

Two groups of people arrived and were settling at tables. She 
looked at them quickly, grimaced, and spat out an obviously 
uncomplimentary word in Turkish. "I must work," she said. 
"After two on the clock I am finished. You come back for me." 
Her black eyes flashed at me. "Yes?"

"Uh, sure. I will be here at two."

She switched on a fierce smile for a micro-second, then 
switched it off. She rose from the table and headed back into 
the cafe.

I drank the excellent coffee and her cup as well, watching her 
bustle about. She was wearing a light and loose cotton dress, 
and sandals. Her body rolled freely around beneath the dress. 
She looked impatiently dressed. I knew with great certainty 
she would rip off that dress in one swift and uncaring sweep. 
Esra Bedir was a naked woman forced to wear clothes.

I finished the coffee and left. In the town square I posted a 
perfunctory postcard to some relatives to show them I was 
still alive, and found a money-changer to get some local 
currency. I was back at the cafe at two and she was waiting 
for me. Just her, in her dress and sandals. No handbag, no 
purse, no wrap. Just her, standing with arms crossed under her 
breasts, waiting.

She turned on the sunburst smile. "We walk, we talk, yes?"

At nineteen I was a young man of accustomed independence. I 
could look after myself. I had been doing it since my parents 
died when I was eighteen. I was not afraid of the world. I 
could handle most anything, but I was struggling to handle 
this expressive and intimidating woman. I was not wise about 
the ways of women. Three girlfriends, and they were all good 
girls, more or less. Polite girls. Well brought up. A good 
girl never takes the lead.

We walked, talked, and I found out her name was Esra Bedir. 
But nothing else, because I was grilled. She had everything 
out of me rapidly. She made me nervous. She made me reveal 
personal details that surprised me as I heard them spill out 
of my mouth. I babbled and she took my arm. I was overwhelmed 
by the close presence of her body. It made me babble all the 
more.

"We will go to your hotel," she announced, breaking into my 
torrent of conversation, swinging to the right direction and 
taking me with her.

The concierge, a man with a polished bald head and a heavy 
moustache, looked at us and narrowed his eyes. But he was 
looking at her, not me, and he frowned. She turned away from 
him quickly, deliberately, and we climbed the stairs to my 
room on the first floor. In the room she shut the door behind 
us, leaned her back against it, and laughed delightedly.

"You look like a man," she said, "but you are still, I think, 
a boy. If I wait for you we will waste too much time."

She advanced on me, smiling with her eyes, twirling her dress 
with her hands like a gypsy dancer. As I had known she would 
from the instant I first saw her, she seized the hem of the 
dress and snatched it up her body in one violent motion. She 
drew it over her head, gathered it in a clutched fist, and 
hurled it carelessly to the floor behind her.

She wore nothing under it. I had known that with feral 
instinct.

She was all free swell and curve. Everything about her was 
ready and willing. At a museum in Budapest I looked for a long 
time at a stone idol from antiquity. It was of a naked woman, 
with breasts and belly offered to all men. Esra Bedir was like 
that.

She threw herself on the bed, grabbing my arm as she went, 
pulling me down on top of her. "Ha ha ha," she said, 
triumphantly, not laughing. "He looks at me and his eyes fall 
out of his face."

The afternoon was hot and close, and her skin felt damp. There 
was a smell on her-of cooking pots, spice, sweat, salt, and 
coffee. And something else I didn't know about, but that I 
came to know intimately and will never forget. It was the own 
smell of Esra Bedir, aroused and impatient to be fucked.

Her fingers scrabbled at the waistband of my trousers. 
Together we scrambled them down to my knees, and that was 
enough for her. She wrapped her fist urgently around my cock 
and guided it directly into her. I was half inside her almost 
before I knew it, and she urged me further with her hands at 
my hips.

I was too excited to be other than a rutting and humping dog 
of a lover. I fucked at her feverishly, in a mad and reckless 
sprint, and lost both energy and emission in much too brief a 
time. I slumped on her body, emotionally and physically 
exhausted.

"Crazy fuck," she said, not unkindly, in my ear. She gurgled 
with soft laughter. "Okay, English boy. I will teach you to be 
James Bond."

I tried to get off her body but she held me tight. Esra Bedir 
liked to touch and be touched. She liked to hang on to her 
possessions and keep them close.

She stayed with me. It was never a possibility she would leave 
and go back to the café, or wherever it was that she lived. We 
didn't discuss it. It was never even a possibility.

Early the next day, while it was still dark, she shook me 
awake. "We go now," she said. Half-awake, I dressed, slung the 
pack on my back, and left more than enough cash on a chair to 
cover the hotel bill. We left by the hotel's back entrance. 
Esra Bedir knew where to find it.

Not long after dawn we caught a bus. It carried only two other 
people besides the driver. I had no idea where we were going, 
but Esra Bedir knew. That was okay. I was dazed and bedazzled, 
still not wholly awake. I had fucked her four times. Four 
times. Twice they were marathons, unbelievable. I hadn't known 
fucking could be like that.

I sat in the bus beside her and looked out the dusty window at 
dry farmlands. I scratched my fingers across my unshaven face. 
My fingers smelled like sex. I was very tired. Esra Bedir took 
my hand and held it. She allowed me to rest my head against 
her soft body, and I fell asleep as the bus chugged down the 
road towards a place I didn't know.

I woke when the bus lurched, brakes screeching. It was two-
thirds full of passengers. I lifted my head from her breasts. 
She was still smiling at me in her intense, cross-looking way. 
She didn't look in the least tired. "We are here," she said. 
"We are on our way to England."

England? I didn't live in England. But I stumbled off the bus 
with her, slinging the pack on my back. She had nothing but 
the dress she was wearing, and nothing under that. It was a 
much larger town than where I had been. It looked to be late 
morning. Busy people were everywhere, and cars honked in 
narrow streets. She seemed to know where she was going. She 
had a firm hold on my hand, and I followed her.

We arrived at the sort of hotel I usually avoided, a Holiday 
Inn. She tugged me inside. It was where she wanted to be. I 
booked a room and let the reception desk take an impression of 
my credit card. We took an elevator to the ninth floor. Esra 
Bedir led the way. She seemed excited.

In the room she pressed me down on the bed. She lowered my 
jeans, fished out my cock, and slipped her mouth over it. My 
cock grew hard in an instant. She was magic. My stomach 
muscles contracted and I shot stuff into her mouth for so long 
I thought it would never stop.

I fell asleep on the bed, legs dangling over the edge. I woke 
after a while and heard water splashing in the bathroom. I sat 
on the edge of the tub and watched, enchanted, hypnotised, as 
she slid the soap seductively over her wet body. Jesus. She 
was amazing, and she was mine.

She took me out to eat. Christ, yes. I realised I was 
ravenous. Since I met her I'd forgotten about eating. 
Clutching my hand, she led me through more crowded streets 
and alleys to a sprawling, noisy, rambling establishment half-
indoors, half-out, that was packed with patrons. There was 
eating, drinking, music, dancing. It was more like a festival 
than a restaurant.

I ate like a wolf, bolting down spiced lamb carved from a huge 
vertical spit, and drank frothy Turkish beer. It was a heady 
place, teeming with activity. I never felt better in my life. 
Esra Bedir ate little but she drank plenty of beer. She leaned 
across the table, watching me. I craned my head forward to 
look down the front of her dress and she flashed her eyes and 
smiled at me.

A three-piece band wandered among the tables, and they stopped 
and played for Esra Bedir. She was delighted, and she swayed 
her shoulders as they slipped into a faster rhythm. One of the 
musicians, grinning, took her hand and lifted her to her feet, 
and she was instantly whirling and dancing. Nearby people took 
up the rhythm, clapping in time with their hands. The music 
got faster and so did she.

She climbed up on the table, swirling her dress around her 
thighs as she danced on, madly. I saw flashes of her pubic 
hair, but I was sitting directly beneath, and maybe others did 
not see it. She seemed bewitched. People stood and crowded the 
table, clapping and calling out to her.

The dress twirled ever higher in her hands. All the watchers 
could see her. She bared herself in flashes, all the way up to 
her belly. Then she dropped the hem of the dress and switched 
her hands to the shoulders and sleeves. The crowd urged her on 
hoarsely as she dipped the neckline of the dress 
provocatively.

She exposed a breast briefly and slipped the dress back to her 
shoulder. The spectators cheered, and she repeated the 
gesture, exposing the other breast. She was laughing, 
dancing, tossing her hair, stamping out the rhythm with her 
bare feet on the wooden table. With flashing hands she dropped 
the dress to her waist, pressed her palms together above her 
head, fingers pointing upwards, and shook her bare breasts so 
they quivered as the music built to a crescendo.

Suddenly it was over. She stopped and slipped the dress back 
over her shoulders. The band took the cue, finished the set 
triumphantly, and moved on while applause crackled and crashed 
throughout the restaurant.

She sat down opposite me, panting through open mouth. Her eyes 
were wild, unfocused. I had the hardest erection of my life. I 
was certain every male in the place had one just like it.

Immediately a tough-looking man, older, appeared beside her 
and put his hand heavily on her shoulder. He looked at me with 
slate-coloured eyes, and he was not friendly.

He bent down and talked into her ear. She laughed 
contemptuously and pushed his hand away. She pointed at me, 
said something to him, and held her hands out and apart. The 
language was Turkish but the meaning was clear. That is my 
man, she told him. He has a cock this big and I love it. Fuck 
off.

It wasn't that big. Not nearly. But I guessed that wasn't the 
point.

The man looked at me with cold and hostile eyes. I could read 
his expression. Him? This soft and skinny foreign boy? He 
wasn't buying it.

She rose swiftly from the table and took my hand, and we left 
the restaurant quickly. I kept looking over my shoulder to see 
if we were being followed. The tough guy looked the type who 
would want to follow. He looked like he wanted to slash my 
face and cut my belly open.

She was running, pulling me along the street behind her. She 
wasn't afraid, though. She was happy, excited, exuberant. I 
knew what she wanted. She was hurrying back to the hotel so we 
could fuck.

She attacked me in the elevator, and we stumbled entangled to 
our room. The dress came off in a blur and she ripped 
impatiently at my clothes. She pushed me down on the bed and 
sat astride me, ingesting my cock effortlessly. She hummed and 
moaned, eyes squeezed shut, and then began pumping frenziedly. 
She bounced to a rapid orgasm in just a few seconds, shouting 
in Turkish. Then she slumped forward, her mouth slack and wet 
on my chest.

Christ Almighty. Esra Bedir was the sexiest woman on earth, 
and she said she belonged to me.

Four times again that night. I didn't know where it was coming 
from. Every time it felt like it was the last there could ever 
be. I slept late, and it was well into the morning by the time 
I was trying to open my eyes so they'd stay open. Esra was up 
and in the bathroom, splashing around. I was ravenous again.

The door to the hotel room opened without warning and two men 
entered. I sat up straight in the bed. What? Breakfast? Room 
service?

No. One of the men was a policeman, wearing a khaki uniform 
and a braided cap. The other was wearing a white shirt 
buttoned to the neck. He looked grim, long-suffering, and 
weary.

The policeman's moustache wavered slightly in a token attempt 
at a polite and apologetic smile. "Relax," he said to me 
calmly. "Just stay where you are."

The other man went into the bathroom and slammed the door 
behind him. I heard raised voices. He shouted at Esra Bedir, 
and she shouted back at him.

He re-emerged, bringing her with him, pulling her like a 
resisting mule. Her dress was wet on her body. She'd put it in 
on hastily.

The man looked at me closely for the first time. Then he swung 
back his hand and thumped Esra on the side of the head, 
felling her. She wailed in protest but did not attempt to get 
to her feet.

"Take her to the car," the policeman said to him. "Wait for 
me. Do not hit her again."

He dragged her out of the room. She struggled to her feet and 
threw me one last look before he took her away. I watched her 
helplessly, paralysed by indecision.

The policeman took out a cigarette and lit it. "She is not for 
you," he said. "She is that man's wife, and she has two young 
children."

The moustache wavered again. "She probably did not tell you 
that. She has done this before. She is lucky she is not dead."

He picked up my jeans and took my wallet and passport out of 
the back pocket. He flicked through both, and took off his cap 
for a moment to run his hands through his short, bristled 
hair. He dropped the wallet and passport on the bed beside me.

"Go away," he said. "Do it today. Go to Istanbul and get a 
flight home. If you stay in Turkey you will not be safe." 
 
He left me, but stopped at the door. The moustache twitched. 
"She is something, eh? But she is both heaven and hell -- 
heaven to have and hell to keep." He snorted at his joke and 
left, shutting the door.

I sat in the bed where I had fucked her four times the past 
night. Four times. 
  
That was all I could think about.

* * *

Second Movement:

In 1994 I married Evie Vincent. She looked, dressed, and 
talked like a good girl, but she was a bad girl. That's why I 
married her.

Evie Vincent had a hunger for sex. On our first date she sat 
on my lap in the back seat of my car parked in the driveway of 
her parents' house, gripped my shoulders, and wriggled herself 
fully-clothed on to my cock. Well, almost fully-clothed. She 
wasn't wearing pants. Never did.

I hoped we were going to neck. She never had the slightest 
doubt we were going to fuck.

Evie Vincent bowled me over. She had bouncing blonde hair, a 
sunny disposition, courtesy, charm, intelligence, and 
excellent table manners. Also long legs and perky tits. She 
was the second daughter in an admirable family. She was out of 
the top drawer -- an impressive package, and exactly the sort 
of young woman to gladden the eye and lift the spirits of a 
young man's grandmother, which she certainly did. You could do 
a lot worse, my grandmother told me, which was her way of 
dispensing highest approval.   

My grandmother didn't know about Evie Vincent's itch and 
scratch. It took me a long time to come to terms with it 
myself. When I married her I thought I was just lucky.

We went from first date to marriage in fourteen weeks. We 
looked a model couple. I was twenty-seven, a successful 
businessman. She was twenty-one, bright and pretty. We 
honeymooned at a resort island on the Great Barrier Reef. The 
weather was superb, the scenery awesome, and the sex fast and 
furious.

By heavens, I counted myself lucky. I'm introspective. Friends 
say reserved. Others say boring. I've never found it easy to 
develop a relationship with a woman, and especially I've never 
found it easy to develop a sexual relationship. I'm just not 
the sort of man who will push to make it happen. I don't force 
issues. Dating for me was agony. When Evie came along she 
saved me from more of it, and I was mightily grateful.

By heavens, Evie loved to fuck. It was her answer to 
everything. If you were happy, you fucked. If you were 
unhappy, you fucked. Laughing or crying, well or ill, hungry 
or sated, you fucked. If you happened on a blank time of the 
day or night, you fucked.

I can look back on it now and see the whole truth. Evie was 
not a finished woman. Somewhere along the way she stopped 
growing. Despite the glossy presentation, she was jerkily 
insecure, as terrified as a teenager of her status and her 
appeal. She didn't believe in herself. Sex was reassurance, a 
quick fix. As any junkie will tell you, a quick fix leads to 
more quick fixes, and still more, until the quick fixes blur 
into an unbroken pattern.

The signs were there from the start. She jumped me on our 
first date, and she jumped me on every other date after that. 
I wasn't the first guy she'd been with. I never asked about 
that and she never told me, but by the time she got to me she 
certainly knew everything there was to know. She spent our 
honeymoon jumping me in every possible way. 

I don't think Evie was unfaithful while we were dating. I 
can't be sure, but we had such a whirlwind courtship it's hard 
to imagine she had the time.   

When I returned home from my world wanderings in 1987, I began 
a love affair with coffee. Turkey had taught me many things, 
and one of them was a deep appreciation of coffee. I became a 
connoisseur, then an expert, and then I opened my own place. 
You could get coffee in infinite varieties and styles at my 
understated little cafe. I knew them all.

I also knew about coffee aroma. Let's face it, and I'm still 
an expert, coffee smells better than it tastes. Even great-
tasting coffee smells greater. I installed in my little 
coffee house a vent that ran outside the cafe and into the 
street, and under the vent I brewed the best-smelling coffee I 
could find in the world. Surprisingly it came, by the way, not 
from Turkey or Brazil, but from Indonesia. It didn't taste so 
great, but it smelled like coffee nirvana.

It was a busy city street, and I opened every morning at ten 
minutes to seven. By ten minutes past seven the cafe was full. 
People could not walk by the vent without turning aside and 
coming in.

Within two years I had two shops. Within three I had fourteen 
in various cities. Within five I was selling franchises. Later 
I sold the whole deal, but that's for another part of the 
story.

When I married Evie Vincent I was successful. I was also under 
great stress. My native reserve prevented me taking in 
business partners, which would have been sensible. I ran the 
business alone, and it took its toll on me. Every waking 
minute away from it had to be chiselled out of granite. That's 
not a recipe for a happy marriage, and it's certainly not the 
way to keep and hold a woman with an itch that needed 
scratching.

I suppose she fell from fidelity pretty early on. I'm pretty 
sure she did. I don't know, because I never asked and she 
never told me. It was a long time, years, before I knew. 
I may have suspected earlier, but I didn't know for sure until 
the first time she ran away.

We'd been married four years. The relationship had become 
increasingly tense because of the amount of time I didn't 
spend with her. It wasn't sex that was the problem. Not 
really. The unhappier Evie became the more she tried to fuck 
me, and her sexual athleticism grew ever more innovative and 
desperate.

She seemed to me to lead a full and interesting life. She had 
no money concerns, and she was involved in a large number of 
charities and organisations. She was a social whiz and she had 
loads of friends, so many I could not keep track of them.      

She was an official prison visitor. It was a good girl job, a 
worthy thing to do. One of the people she visited was Steve, 
doing seven years for armed hold-up. Steve was released on 
parole, and Evie met him at the prison gates to help him get a 
fresh start in the world. She did this by fucking his brains 
out at the nearest motel.

I know this because I found out. The night she ran away I rang 
the police, but they didn't give a shit. They took details but 
I could tell they didn't give a shit. The next day I rang a 
private investigator on the recommendation of a business 
colleague. It took him four days to track her down. I went 
with him to get her. 

They were holed up in a hotel room in a part of town Evie 
shouldn't have known. The investigator got a pass key from the 
desk and we went straight on in. Steve had trousers on and he 
was sitting at a table, drinking hard liquor. Evie was naked 
in bed.

Steve was no trouble. He was fairly drunk, anyway. Evie 
behaved badly. She screeched and screamed, flailing at me with 
her fists. She didn't want to go. She sat on the bed, naked, 
and refused to budge.

"Hey, Evie, just fuck off," Steve said. "This is bullshit. Get 
the fuck out of here, you stupid slut."

Only a hardened criminal could be that cruel. Rejected, Evie 
came home. Once there, she was all over me like a rash. She 
needed to be fucked more than ever.   

Seven months later she was gone again, and this time it took 
nearly three weeks to find her. She latched on to a rock band 
on tour. She met somebody in the band through one of her arts 
organisations, and she didn't come home.

When we found her she was horrible. There was a rehearsal at a 
concert hall. We asked for her and a guy pointed us towards a 
room. I opened the door and she was sucking on some guy's 
dick. He looked at me blankly. She swivelled her eyes, still 
sucking, and looked at me blankly.

The private investigator made a face at me. Drugs, he said.

We got her out of there because she was docile. A couple of 
band people shrugged but nobody said goodbye.

Evie came home ratty. Something in her had changed. She 
slammed the door on me. She didn't want to look at my face.

Three days later she disappeared once more. This time I let 
her go, didn't try to find her. Maybe she'd come back when she 
was ready. 

Lots of money started vanishing from our joint account. Far 
too much money. I let it go for a time, but at two hundred 
thousand dollars in three months I had to pull the plug on it. 
I closed the account.

Evie came home, but only to beg for money. She looked like 
shit. Drugs had got her.

I gave her the beach house and transferred half a million 
dollars into her own account. She said thanks. I filed for 
divorce.    

You don't fight a lost war.

* * *

Third Movement:

In 2001 I bought an Audi allroad quattro in Frankfurt and 
drove it from the showroom in a general south-easterly 
direction. I was touring Europe in style and comfort. I had 
nowhere to go and nothing to do. I was alone, divorced, 
business interests sold, flush with more cash than I could 
spend, looking and hoping for a signal about what do next with 
my life. I was independently wealthy, but that wasn't enough. 
There had to be more to it than that.

I intended to go where the car took me, but I drove more or 
less directly, without thinking about it, to Kekova in Turkey.  

It was a bigger and busier place. Tourism now ruled. The 
streets were crawling with nineteen-year-old backpackers. 
There was a newish Holiday Inn, and I booked into it.

There was no Bedir in the telephone directory. I wasn't 
looking for her. It was just curiosity. She'd be over forty 
now. If she'd survived.

The cafe was still there, but tarted up a bit. I sat at an 
outside table and drank Turkish coffee, short, black, where it 
all began. The coffee was excellent and I had another.

A well-dressed woman with hair short, black, almost mannish in 
style, sat two tables over, drinking coffee, short, black, 
looking through a guidebook. She had elegant hands with long 
fingers and red nails. She looked up and saw me looking at 
her. She gave me a hard look back, and then she picked up 
sunglasses from the table and put them on. I finished my 
coffee and left.

I strolled the streets for a while and saw no prophetic 
signals. Kekova 2001 was just another town. It was pretty 
enough, but there was no magic for me. I decided to move 
on, go somewhere else. I would leave the next day.

I had dinner at the hotel. Two tables over was the woman with 
the short hair and the elegant hands. As women do when they 
travel alone, she read a book while she ate. She was a little 
older than I was, by maybe three or four years. She had an 
interesting, intelligent face with strong planes.

A waiter approached and she asked for coffee, and I did 
something uncharacteristic. I stood up and walked across to 
her table. "This is a Holiday Inn," I said to her. "It knows 
nothing about coffee. If you allow, I will take you on a short 
walk to a place that serves excellent coffee."

She looked up at me with smoky-grey eyes, measuring, 
calculating, taking me in. A wisp of a smile bent the shape of 
her mouth. "You wouldn't hurt a fly," she said to me with a 
Scottish burr.

I blinked in surprise. It was an extraordinary thing to say to 
a stranger. But she gathered her things and rose from the 
table. She had accepted my invitation.

Her name, she said, was Eleanor MacIver, and she lived in 
Edinburgh. She was in Turkey partly to work, partly on a brief 
holiday. Kekova was the holiday part. The work part had been 
completed in Ankara. She was an academic at Edinburgh 
University, and when she wasn't lecturing in ancient studies 
she translated ancient texts.

I took her to the Esra Bedir place, of course. I didn't 
mention that I had already seen her there and she didn't 
mention it, either. I admired her manners. It was a good start 
for us both.

The night air was balmy and the coffee a master stroke. I 
talked about coffee for a little while but stopped short of 
being tedious. She rested her long-fingered hands on the 
table. I looked at them frequently. Too frequently. She broke 
into my conversation.

"Why do you keep looking at my hands?" she asked. Her eyes 
were sharp and inquisitive. There was more to the question 
than the question.

"They are beautiful hands," I said.

She had that odd little bent-mouth smile on her face again. 
"Mostly I get it wrong, but tonight I think I've got it 
right," she said.

"You mean, Eleanor, that I wouldn't hurt a fly?"

"Precisely," she said.

We walked back to the Holiday Inn. She told me she'd never 
been married, that she'd had a number of relationships, and 
that at this time she was alone. When the entrance to the 
hotel was in sight, she stopped, took hold of my arm, and 
turned me to face her directly. "I would like to test this," 
she said. "You will come to my room with me."

It wasn't a request. She had made a particular point of not 
making it a question.

"Of course," I said.

The light was not bright but I could see that little smile 
again. There was a play within a play happening and I was not 
yet caught up with it. Once more, in Kekova, I was feeling out 
of my depth.

The difference between her room and mine was the clothes 
hanging in a wardrobe with a door swinging open. That, and the 
faintly powdery smell of a woman's room.            
   
She took my hand and held it. "We do this my way, or not at 
all," she said.

"Of course, Eleanor."

"Good. Take off your clothes."

I began to comply. "It is said that nice girls don't take the 
lead," I said, but gently.

She watched me with her arms folded. "I never told you I was 
nice," she said. "Get on the bed."

She sat on the edge of the bed and ran a hand lightly across 
my stomach. "You have a good body," she said. "I am thrilled 
about our prospects."

She didn't look thrilled. She looked controlled, contained, 
even aloof. She wrapped her fine long fingers around my erect 
cock and leaned her face close to mine. "Do you trust me?" she 
asked in a whisper.

"Of course."

That smile. "Maybe you shouldn't."

She let me go and stood up, looking around. "I didn't expect 
this on a quiet holiday," she said, as if to herself. "I'm not 
prepared." She opened a drawer. "Damn. Pantyhose are so 
expensive."

She returned to me, ripping pantyhose apart with strong hands. 
She took my left hand, held it against the bedpost, and began 
to tie my wrist tightly to it. I looked a question into her 
eyes. This had never happened to me.

"Shush now," she said. "You said you trusted me."

She tied my other wrist similarly and looked down my body 
critically. "I would tie your ankles as well," she said, "but 
I can't spare the pantyhose and this bed is all wrong for it." 
She looked back at my eyes. "It will have to do. Anyway, I'm 
sure you'll behave perfectly."

Eleanor MacIver took off her dress and hung it on a hanger in 
the wardrobe. She was wearing a mid-thigh-length slip, and it 
was a long time since I'd seen a woman in a slip. It was 
silvery-white, looked expensive, and had thin shoulder straps.  
Nipples poked expressively through the top. No bra.

She stood beside the bed and lifted the hem of the slip slowly 
up her thighs. Black pubic hair, free, bushy, untrimmed. No 
pants.

She held the slip at her belly. "This is me," she said. "It's 
time for you to be formally introduced."

She dropped the slip back to her thigh, climbed on the bed, 
and sat carefully on my chest before letting her weight 
settle. Her pubic hair was wiry, and it tickled scratchily at 
my skin. She eased her body up to my face, lifted the hem of 
the slip, and let it flutter gently over my head.     

I was in a silk tent, and at point blank was Eleanor MacIver 
herself. Above me, unseen, she laughed softly. "Don't you dare 
shut your eyes," she said. "If you do I'll know."

Aroma. It was so much part of my life. Hints of perspiration, 
faint suggestions of urine, soap, even perhaps the slightest 
whisper of Turkish coffee, overlaid with the strong, musky 
smell of eager woman. This was the core fragrance of Eleanor 
MacIver. My nose would never forget her signature.

Tentatively I stretched out my tongue. She sighed deeply at 
the contact, as if waiting for the signal, and pushed towards 
my mouth.

I had no skill for this. I had done it before, but not a lot. 
I probed with tongue and lips, knowing I was clumsy and 
blundering, but the sighs and wriggles kept happening. It was 
damp and humid in my tent, and I felt strain at the back of my 
neck as I craned forward to do my best for her.              

I got some things accidentally right, probably, and maybe she 
was sufficiently excited by the occasion. She clamped her 
thighs around my head. I heard little grunting noises from 
above. Then she relaxed, sighed once more, and eased away from 
me. The hem of the slip drifted off my face. She looked at me 
with her crooked smile.

"Not so good?" I asked

"Oh, not so bad," she said, amused. "First class application. 
You just need tutoring and a firm, guiding hand."

She slipped down my body and bumped across my achingly hard 
cock. She took hold of it, held it upright, and looked at me 
sharply. "Penetration is not a right," she said. "It is a 
privilege and a reward."

She lifted her body and slipped my cock into her. I pushed up, 
greedy for all of her. "Shush," she said. "We do it my way." 
She began to rock on me, gently, slowly. 

"You could take off the slip," I suggested.

"I could, but I won't," she said. "Not yet. First I need you 
to trust me."

Rocking gently, slowly. "This is the way I am," she said. "I 
have to dictate the terms. It's the only way it works for me. 
I need a man who understands that, and they are very few and 
far between. I think you could be such a man, but I could be 
wrong. I've been wrong many more times than I've been right."

Rocking gently, slowly. "It's not all there is," she said. "I 
can give a great deal to the right sort of man. I can bring 
him pleasure to black out his brain. I can also bring him 
exquisite pain that is deliciously better than the pleasure of 
simple relief and release. I can do all this and more -- for 
the right sort of man."

Rocking gently, slowly. "I am always looking for that man, and 
I have never quite found him. I have an instinct you have been 
looking for that sort of woman, and just didn't know it."

Rocking gently, slowly. "Sex is all in the brain," she said. 
"Cocks and cunts merely follow orders."

I hunched, bucked my hips, gritted my teeth, and lost myself 
inside her.

"Don't give me an answer yet," she said. "Right now your brain 
is prejudiced."

"Right now," I said, panting heavily, "I'd give you three of 
my toes if you asked for them."

She laughed. "You are a lovely man, and I hope to goodness we 
can make it."

Curled up in the bed, seeking sleep with each other, she took 
off the slip. She was quite a small woman, slightly built, but 
she was svelte, smooth, and wonderful.

"Sometimes I allow missionary sex," she said, her mouth 
against my chest. "But I promise you will have to earn it, 
young buddy."

Young buddy. I chuckled silently. For some ridiculous reason, 
it sounded like the silliest but nicest thing anybody had ever 
said to me.

I didn't sleep a lot, and as the day broke I held her close 
and waited for her to wake. She stirred, and then cuddled up 
to me. "I have an answer for you," I said.

She cancelled her flight home and we drove through Europe in 
the immaculate Audi. We drove slowly, meandering, staying here 
and there as the fancy took us. She began the demanding task 
of teaching me to be her lover.

I will live with Eleanor MacIver when we get to Edinburgh, but 
for how long I cannot say. I don't know if I am the man she is 
looking for. I don't know whether this is a life I can lead. 
She is part of the answer, but what is the question? 

I have spent my adult life looking, but for what? A strong-
minded woman? Excuse me, but that's a solution too shallow.

Huh. Who am I to talk about shallow? For half my life I 
thought the answer was coffee.

ENDS 

Edited by Ruthie and Nat.

* It is preferable to write to me at 
neilanthony@austarnet.com.au

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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