The “Fulge”,


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Her knee-high translucent skirt was oscillating at the cadence of her purposely slow pace set by the sharp sounds of her high heels. The sweet movements of her model like hips, up and down the popular Madrid street was generating the desired effect on the now transfixed set of on-lookers. Helena’s long wavy hair were almost indistinguishable from the tight, black, interweaved top that was meant to show more of her beautiful olive-tan skin, clear indication of her Mediterranean origins with a hint of distant Moroccan antecedence. Everything about this Spanish beauty’s appearance spoke of her well crafted, sophisticated ways only brought possible by her extensive wealth.

Yet, all the wealth in the world could not bring back the long gone passion and love for her husband. Manuel had gradually started to neglect his wife and his own body progressively over the course of their 11 year marriage to the point where it felt more like a cohabitation than a union, to both. Their intimacy had stopped 2 years ago, after it had deteriorated to the point of being unsatisfying for all parties. Of course they had both attempted to relight the flame, but their vain, uncommitted attempts were frequently shattered by Manuel’s demanding job that took him to long trips away from home.

Manuel loved his job. He was making a great deal of money being a schedule organizer for one of Madrid’s popular soccer teams. He was responsible for organizing trips, hotel accommodation, security and even “night time entertainment” for the spoiled players; a combination of skills that was hard to come by; Skills for which the club organizers were ready to remunerate generously. Beyond the substantial pay, Manuel also had a lot of fun and skills with younger girls from different town who were not lucky enough to land in the arms of a star player. All those skills did not help at home though, as his wife had since given up on ever having an exciting marriage with a boring husband that she tried to convince herself that she still loved.

Helena wasn’t going to leave him though. Any idea of leaving or cheating on her husband were quickly suppressed by her tough religious upbringing and locked away by her strong feeling of responsibility towards her 11 year old son. She did however find passion in other things: Art and “Madrid downtown cat walking” to attract the praise of bold young men and the envy of other women.

With the years, Helena noticed that her body was becoming more and more sexy. Her previously smaller than average breast had, over the years, fully developed into perfectly sculpted contours of delight that defied the logics of aging. The well aged 37-year-old had a cleavage seamlessly transformed into a long, slender, strong abdomen coated with a thin layer of soft flesh which coupled with her naturally tanned body created erotic impulses of disarray on onlookers. Her hips and back, not to be undone by her upper body, were shape to provoke. And provoke she did…

Helena would savor her weekend shopping sessions which enabled her to spend copious amounts of money, while satisfying her sophisticated craving for trendy attire. But beyond the obvious thrills of shopping, these were Helena’s marriage therapy sessions. She would spend hours carefully choosing the details of the clothing, makeup and hair to send an unspoken message to all: “I am beautiful and sexy, and I want you to look.” She especially loved turning down offers from gorgeous Madrilan studs who had no chance of ever seeing her panties, let alone her crusty nipples, hardened by the idea of being wanted by so many. If she couldn’t have sex, in or out of her married life, at least she had a long collection of stained panties brought on her generously humid “entre-jambe” falling to contain the excitement of her platonic courtings. It wasn’t all pleasure though, these open-sky, public flirt usually left some heavy guilt, as she felt that she was, in some ways, cheating on Manuel even if it didn’t involve any sex.

Her confused feelings of guilt and pleasure where usually overshadowed by pleasant reminiscences, of perfectly shaped male bodies and voices courting her in the open, in public, helping sharpen her skills as an “allumeuse” (an expert do-nothing sexual provocateur).

But this weekend was different. This weekend she dressed a little more conservatively and her mind was far away, unable to enjoy the envying eyes. Her head was running multiple scenarios in which she tried to convince Manuel to let her travel alone to Montreal. Manual was always able to find some reason that would prevent her from leaving Spain.

“But I can buy you everything you need” he would say… If she was really pressing he would use his ace. “Who is going to look after our son?”

This weekend she was prepared. No excuses were going to stop her. Manuel tried the usual routine and excuses. He was actually surprised at how well prepared Helena was and finally caved in with a smile.

“Bueno! Bueno! This must be some art exhibit. It has you all worked up.”

“It’s not any art exhibit, it’s Jake Armstrong. This guy is destined to be one of the greatest contemporary ar…” She started with a noticeably excited voice.

“Just bring me a nice painting to replace the one in the main dining room. I never really liked that one,” said Manuel.

Manuel hadn’t seen his wife so excited since their wedding. Deep down he hopped that this trip would bring her joy and maybe reignite the passion they once had for each other. Somewhere he still loved her, he thought, but he had forgotten how to take care of her. But he was also wondering if it wasn’t just the memory of her that he loved and wondered if that this was also reciprocal.
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Helena loved the exotic Montreal from the moment she stepped out of the airplane. The whole city gave her the impression of being a traditional European setting from which cutting edge American style Modernism was bursting out everywhere you looked. She was also fascinated by the ease with which people switched from French to English, two languages that she loved to practice. Helena also fell in love with the “Montrealais” themselves. The city was filled with beautiful unique people, dressed to impress with obviously gym tortured bodies. Helena felt in her element. Even though she wasn’t receiving nearly as many looks, she enjoyed the city and all the beauty it had to offer.

Helena spent the whole week shopping, cat walking and making a small collection of self-soaked panties from the courtings she received of very few men who dared defy the local standards. The exhibit was one day away. She was now boiling with excitement and anticipation to see some of Jake Armstrong most famous pieces in person. She spent the night dining at the “baton rouge” and enjoying the nocturne transformation of Montreal. Even sexier men and women were now flooding the streets in a rush to find a spot in the coveted clubs where flesh met flesh, in a rain of electronic music, draped by dim lights to hide the sins of youth.

She remembered her own youth and how much fun she had had prior to her wedding and her son. Above all she remembered her lost aspirations, how she had had to make a choice between completing her art studies and wedding with a then handsome but still rich Manuel. In some ways she still held it against him. She still saw him as the cause of her failed dreams of becoming an established contemporary artist. She still blamed him for confining her in a life of boredom.

“Madame! Une autre tasse?” asked the server, gently bending down while gesturing to the jar he was holding.

She gladly took a second cup, and summoned all her strength to push away her dark memories to enjoy the moment. It didn’t work, because some moments later she was asking herself why she stayed if she was so unhappy with Manuel. Why not leave him or cheat on him like her friend Consuela. Consuela had confessed to her, a year before that her marriage wasn’t going well either. She had told Helena that she had had twice as many lovers as her and Miguel, her husband, had had fights. Helena had laughed, but she remembered very clearly how hard her nipple had gotten and how much she had been turned on by the dirty confession. She also very distinctly remembered how guilty she had felt afterwards for having encouraged Consuela. May be she had done so because she knew she never would have been able to do the same and was using Consuela’s actions to sooth her pain and also fuel her conflicted fantasies.

“Encore?” asked the server, this time with a charming smile, almost inviting.

“Non merci”, replied Helena.

She wasn’t in the mood to enjoy the scenery anymore nor was she willing to even flirt with the gorgeous well mannered server. She quickly paid her bill and hastily made her way to her hotel while fighting waves and waves of guilt and sorrow. She desperately tried to hang on to the one thing that still gave her pleasure without guilt. Tomorrow she would swim in a sea of people and admire some of the great art work of her time.
——
The following day Helena hurried to the “Place des arts” and was one of the first eager to enter the hall where the exhibit was taking place. Helena spent a great deal of time analyzing in detail art pieces she had mentally visualized for so long. It was pure joy only deterred by the fact that she couldn’t find the three latest pieces from Jake. These were one of the main reasons she had made the trip.

She managed to find the spots on the white wall where the paintings were supposed to be. In their place an LCD display had been mounted. The display was slowly flipping through the missing pieces. A red and white banner was scrolling at the bottom of the screen indicating in English and French that the display was only showing electronic replicas. Upon inquiring, she found out that a very rich private collector had gotten hold of them a couple of hours before the exhibit and was adamant that he didn’t want them publically displayed; His right given the extraordinary sum he had paid for them.

“What do you mean you sold them?” shouted Helena to the exhibit manager.

“Madame, we are very sorry for this unfortunate situation. We would like to refund in full your…” said the exhibit manager clearly trying to maintain his composure.

“No me importa! I came all the way from Europe to see these. Do you really think I care about the ticket?” continued Helena without giving him a chance to finish.

After a few altercations, Helena was now trying to lower her voice to avoid making a scene. But it was a little too late for that. She heard a very deep voice coming from behind her. The voice had an obvious American accent, may be LA. It was as calming as it was deep.

“Madrid, right?” said the voice obviously addressed at her.

“Excuse me?” replied Helena while turning around to face her interlocutor.

“I thought I recognized the accent. You are from Madrid right?” repeated the voice.

It is hard to describe the quick succession of emotions that traversed Helena when she realized that Jake Armstrong was addressing her. She recalled feeling surprised, happy, amazed, ashamed, thrilled and somewhat excited. Above all Helena now felt stupid for starting a scene which meant that she was in disapproval and that Jake represented the center of that disapproval now that he had joined the conversation; a consequence she had not intended. The last thing she wanted to do was to make Mr. Armstrong to feel uncomfortable by being on the receiving side of a rant.

“I am very sorry Mr…” Helena said hastily in a shaking, barely audible voice.”I didn’t mean to offend. I just…”

Helena could not finish her phrase as she needed all strength to hide the multiple symptoms of extreme stress she was experiencing. The website pictures and videos of Jake Armstrong failed to make obvious his handsome, imposing physique. He was dressed in a tight upper body synthetic material that outlined his muscular thorax, hinting of equally developed abs hidden by a stylish vest that seemed to be there to annoy would-be-admirers. His strong jaws and purposely grown three-day beard and short hair came in perfect contrast with the 31 year-old, sweet brown eyes. His charming yet masculine smile radiated an unusual confidence and calm accentuated by his lush flattened-heart shaped lips.

Helena saw his lips move for a while but couldn’t make out what he was saying. She wasn’t sure if it was the shaking of her legs or the view of this expectedly beautiful man that was messing with her senses.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” said Jake trying to calm his visibly shaken interlocutor.”Let me try that again. My name is Jake Armstrong. I am the one responsible for this mess and I feel I owe you an apology.”

That was it… Helena knew that this conversation wasn’t going to last much longer. Already she could feel the moisture developing beneath her tight skirt. She had had similar feelings before in the streets of Madrid, but this time it had a totally different dimension and intensity to it. The fact that the sexiest art world ‘homme du jour’, Jake Armstrong, was now starting to apologize in such a nice way was more that she could handle. The quick succession of emotions culminating with a conversation with the drop-dead handsome Jake in front of the entire art gallery was enough to create a havoc of a flood generated by an equally rapid succession of incontrollable pulses and quakes from her womb to her vagina lips and legs.