Victoria Is A Free Spirit
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Cuban Free Spirit free porn video
Professor Charles Fernside sat alone in the Champagne Bar of London's Eurostar terminal at St Pancras Station, awaiting the announcement of the departure time of his train to Lille. Once in France, he would catch the night sleeper to Venice.
The connection was seamless and unhurried and he was surprised to find that, at 8 o'clock in the evening, the train's dining car was barely half-full. He took a seat at a table laid for four and reflected that most Europeans aren't interested in eating evening meals until at least 9.00 pm. And the Spanish consider even that to be rather early. He watched the suburbs of Lille merge into the dark French countryside bathed in moonlight.
"Excuse me, monsieur, but would you have any objection if I seated another passenger at your table?" The head waiter hovered expectantly. The well-mannered Englishman reluctantly acceded to the request.
"Thank you, monsieur."
The professor's dining companion turned out to be a dark-skinned beauty, aged about thirty (Latino, he guessed), impeccably attired in a cross-pleated black silk dress. She wore a pearl necklace and emerald ear studs. He saw no wedding or engagement ring and her long fingernails were varnished in dazzling emerald green. Her side-chignon hairstyle was secured by a tiny lime green Zinnia flower behind one ear and her perfume was unmistakeably Chanel. She placed the key to her sleeping compartment (number facing downwards) beside her on the table and slowly unfurled her serviette.
He gave a nervous cough. "Good evening. Charles Fernside," was the shy man's clipped self-introduction.
She gave him a lovely smile, batting her eyelids modestly. "Esmeralda Valdez."
A waiter appeared with menus and a wine list and they both concentrated on selecting their food in silence. After their orders had been placed, Professor Fernside felt it would be only courteous to discover a little more about his dining companion.
"So, Miss Valdez..."
"Esme, please."
"So, Esme, are you from South America?"
"Cuba. Havana now, but I was born in the town of Trinidad. It's on the south side of the island."
"I've always wanted to visit Cuba."
"Well, you should go, senor. And now is the perfect time."
"Why now?"
Esme gave a pouting grimace. "Since the dreadful Trump has overturned nearly all of Obama's relaxations, the yankees can no longer visit Cuba. Last year we had one cruise ship dock in Havana's port every week. Now we get one ship a month!" She nodded her thanks as the Englishman poured her wine.
"Salud!"
They exchanged pleasantries over their shared dinner, with the professor anxious to advance their acquaintance further before the waiter brought the bill.
"Perhaps you would care to join me in a digestif?" he suggested.
Once again, the eyelids came down like a slow-speed camera shutter. "Yes, I would like that very much... Charles. Especially if the bar stocks Havana Club. But most certainly NOT Bacardi, if you please," she added disdainfully.
The wine waiter returned to assure the couple that the bar did indeed stock Havana Club. When it arrived, Senorita Valdez regaled her companion with the nationalistic legend of the Bacardi family's flight from Havana in 1959. "No self-respecting Cuban would EVER be seen drinking Bacardi rum!" After a pause, she asked: "So tell me, Charles: what precisely takes you to La Serenissima?"
"The architectural Biennale." He fumbled nervously with his tie. "For my sins, I am a member of one of the juries."
"I'm impressed."
"Don't be, Esme. There are hundreds of us - panel judges, that is."
"And what is the subject of your particular jury's deliberations?"
"The new pedestrian link to be built alongside the Rialto Bridge."
She shook her head and clicked her tongue in a dismissive 'tut'. "A very tall order, senor, believe me. Venetians will NEVER accept it." After slowly sipping her rum she asked: "And where are you staying in Venice?"
"The Cirriani."
"Wow - well that's impressive too!"
He shrugged. "The Biennale's organisers go overboard with all their luxury accommodation, then pay us a pittance in honorariums. I'd much rather have it the other way around: a generous honorarium, sufficient for me to rent a garret overlooking St Mark's Square. Then I'd happily eat out each night at a local pizzeria."
She gave him a lovely smile. "And I could join you."
"So why are you travelling down to Venice, Esme?"
"Adventure." She followed up her cryptic one-word answer by tipping back the last of her rum.
They accepted the wine waiter's offer of a second glass of rum. Just before reaching to lift her glass, Esme flipped over her key fob, revealing the carriage and number of her sleeper compartment. "I have really enjoyed our dinner together," she whispered to the bashful Englishman. "I hope that you won't in any way consider this forward of me..." - Charles Fernside raised an eyebrow - "...but I have a bottle of Havana Club in my compartment. Perhaps you would care to join me for what I believe you English call a 'night cap'?" His heart missed a beat. The gracious invitation was delivered with elan, though the inference was obvious. Once again, the green mascara-clad eyelids slowly fluttered down.
"I should like that very much, senorita."
Compartment 17 was located at the far end of the corridor adjoining the dining car. He tapped twice and Esme immediately opened the door. She was now wearing a floor-length emerald green satin robe. She gave the timid Englishman an inviting smile.
"Please come in, Charles." The aroma of her Chanel perfume was almost overpowering as he slipped past her into the compartment. "I'm afraid we'll have to sit on the bed," she giggled as she moved to the adjoining bathroom. "Would you like me to fix you with a Mojito cocktail - it's the national drink of Cuba?"
"That would be delightful. But where on earth did you get the mint from?"
"I persuaded the barman to let me have a couple of sprigs after you went back to your compartment," she called out. After a pause, she proudly re-emerged, bearing a pair of tall coasters clinking with ice cubes in one hand, while with the other she gently pulled the collar of her robe open a little, revealing a tantalising glimpse of a beautiful tanned breast. "Salud!"
Sitting beside Charles Fernside on the edge of the bunk bed (they were so close together that their hips were touching) the beautiful Cuban woman cautiously probed a little into his back history. He told her he'd been married, but was now divorced and lived alone in an apartment in the Barbican, in the City of London, a mere 15 minutes walk from the school of architecture where he taught.
"I've visited the Barbican Arts Centre several times. And been to Cuban film seasons in their cinema."
"Well, you must let me know the next time you're planning a visit and..." he paused, uncertain how to complete his rather fumbled invitation. Which she finished for him: "And I could stay with you?" He blushed and gazed down into his half-empty coaster. "Something like that."
He felt her hand gently brush his trouser leg. "I do find your 'English reserve' terribly attractive, you know. Not at all like brash Cubans." She took his glass and made a move towards her make-shift bar in the bathroom. "Well... reserved at first, that is," she added mysteriously as she stood in the bathroom doorway bearing two more Mojitos.
"How d'you mean?"
She pursed her lips into a sultry smile and resumed her seat beside him. "It's just that all their inhibitions seem to evaporate once they're between the sheets!" Her hand returned to sensuously stroke his thigh, at the same time resting her head lightly on his shoulder. The train suddenly lurched violently over a rail crossing - throwing them even closer together. She used the diversion to part the bottom of her robe, revealing her shapely legs clad in dark green silk stockings. "You like?"
"Very much, senorita - especially if you're wearing suspenders."
She slid her robe open some more, to reveal black suspenders with green ribbons. "Only tarts wear hold-ups" she scoffed dismissively. Chares Fernside boldly pulled her robe open, simultaneously stroking a hand across her taut belly and then down to the edge of her skimpy green lace panties. Esme helpfully lifted its elastic edge and guided his hand inside. "Feel how wet I am?"
Their love-making was unhurried and rhythmic, seeming to move in time with the train’s steady motion. Esme was now laid flat along the bunk bed, with a cushion under the small of her back. With her eyes closed, her head was turned to one side. She moaned and whispered several Spanish profanities of encouragement, especially when he slid inside her for the first time, digging her fingernails into his back.
They changed position, so that she could sit on the edge of the bunk bed, her legs spread invitingly wide, so that her English lover could kneel on the compartment floor to pleasure her with cunnilingus. She gently pressed her hands on the back of his head to push his face deep into her opening. “Comer mi coño,” she implored. This new sexual thrill brought him close to the point of ejaculation – an urgency which she quickly sensed. “Let me lie down again, darling, before you finish. I so want to receive a special present from you.”
“Present?”
She lay along the bed and smiled down at him squatting on the floor. “Yes, Charles, a present. Come and sit astride my torso,” then adding with an impish grin “give your Esme a lovely pearl necklace!”
He did as he was instructed, sitting astride her slender figure. Now she had moved the small cushion up to support her head to better watch as he eagerly masturbated himself in front of her. He closed his eyes moments before the end, feeling five or six strong spasms jerking from his cock. When he opened his eyes, he saw half-a-dozen ropes of his semen glistening across her breasts and up to the nape of her slender neck.
“As good as your necklace in the dining car earlier?”
She smiled with delight as she stroked a single ‘bead’ from one nipple and licked her finger. “Better! This one’s edible!”
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The Professor breakfasted alone. Though he had made sure to occupy the same table in the dining car, and had seated himself in the direction of the connecting door to her carriage, Senorita Esmeralda Valdez failed to appear. An electronic display panel indicated that the train would be arriving in Venice’s Santa Lucia station in 20 minutes. Barely time to exchange mobile phone numbers and possibly arrange to meet up in the city.
The overnight express was briefly delayed beside the lagoon which is the impressive rail approach to the Venice terminal. The professor caught the attention of a passing train manager, who had a full passenger manifest tucked under one arm.
“Carriage 3. Compartment number 17. A Senorita Valdez. Could you tell me whether the lady has already taken breakfast?” the professor inquired.
“One moment, monsieur.” The man scanned the clipboard then shook his head. “Last night compartment 17 in Carriage 3 was unoccupied, monsieur.”
The English professor walked disconsolately towards the station’s exit gates, nodding his thanks to the train staff who were lined up on the platform. He handed the head waiter a folded high-denomination Euro note in gratitude.
Outside, his first glimpse of the Grand Canal bathed in early-morning autumnal sunshine, lifted his spirits a little.
Opposite the station’s crowded piazza, with its gondoliers hustling for customers, perched high up on the balcony of a faded Venetian palazzo, Esme watched the forlorn figure step alone into the Cipriani’s motor launch. She gave a rueful smile and resolved to visit her new lover in his 5-star hotel. With her shapely legs dangling over the stone balustrade, she kicked off her suede pumps. They tumbled down through the air, exploding as puffs of green smoke, to the amazement of a group of Chinese tourists who were queuing to board a ferry back to the mainland. Then the beautiful fairy unfurled her emerald-green wings and flew off in the direction of the Doge’s Palace.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
“The Professor has not yet returned, madam,” the courteous Reception Manager at the Cipriani told Esme when she called in the late afternoon. “If you would care to wait in the cocktail bar, I will notify him as soon as he returns.”
Esme Valdez took a window seat and ordered a Mojito. Half-an-hour later a jubilant Professor Fernside stood before her. “What a lovely surprise!”
She gave him a warm smile as he bent forward to kiss her hand. “Well, you said that you would like to eat in a local pizzeria. So, in return for our dinner on the train last night, I have come to invite you out to supper. I know a splendid place – well off the tourist trail – up by the old Arsenal.”
“That would be wonderful.”
“So, tell me: how was your day?”
“Terrible!”
After he had signaled to the barman to bring two more Mojitos, the young woman asked: “And why was that?”
“The chairman of our jury is an arrogant German architect who isn’t interested in anyone’s opinion but his own.”
“Oh, dear. Can nothing be done?”
“In what way?”
“To remove him?”
Charles Fernside slowly shook his head. “I’m afraid not, my dear. Like the US Supreme Court’s judges, these Biennale jobs are lifetime appointments.”
“And is your obstinate German staying here too?”
“No, he’s at the Gritti Palace. Hermann doesn’t socialise with his jury members!”
After their Cuban cocktails had arrived, Esme whispered: “Let me see what I can do. I have a neighbour who may be able to help. An aged Venetian lady who is a herbalist.”
“I’m not sure what a herbalist would know about architectural design competitions.”
“Oh ye of little faith! La Serenissima is imbued with occult mysticism. Has been for centuries. Since Phoenician times.” She finished her cocktail and stood up to leave. “Now I shall pay old Serafina a visit. I will call for you at 9 o’clock.”
The stooped old lady seated in her rocking chair in the window, slowly turned the pages of the huge leather-bound tome which was set on her lap. Esmé, seated at a table, watched in silence.
“You say he’s German?”
“Yes. An architect.”
Several more pages were turned as the herbalist hummed quietly to herself. “Here we are, my dear – this should do the trick.” She stood up and slowly hobbled to an ancient dresser. “Just so long as I’ve got some dried frogs’ spawn. Haven’t used it for years. Only trouble is, it has to be marinated in crème de menthe.”
Clutching a small glass vial, Serafina shuffled across to the kitchen table. There in the middle was a miniature green glass bottle of the peppermint liqueur. “Now wherever did that come from?” the old lady asked.
“I found it in my bag.”
Crossing St Mark’s Square, Esme headed in the direction of the Gritti Palace Hotel.
Seated on a bench in the window of the Cipriani’s cocktail bar, the professor was checking emails on his iPhone, awaiting Esme’s arrival. He wore a freshly-pressed beige linen suit, a white shirt, and his MCC tie. He sensed her cologne and there, as if by magic, she was seated beside him on the bench.
“I didn’t see you come in.”
“Probably because you were so engrossed in your messages. I’m sorry I’m a few minutes late but I had to make an urgent delivery.”
“How about a couple of Bellinis before we set off?”
“What a lovely idea.”
She moved closer to him on the bench and he inhaled the Chanel. Once again green was the dominant colour of her ensemble. Her diaphanous green silk dress (with a revealing neckline) was fastened at the waist with a belt of silver coils, inset with oval jade stones; she wore green high-heeled crocodile leather shoes; her side-chignon’s fastening was now a tiny spray of green Hydrangea and she had even had emerald highlights added to her hair.
The pizzeria the young woman guided the professor to turned out to be a revelation, with its candle-lit interior decorated with sections of the original ships’ timbers from some of the mighty men-of-war which were once built in the Arsenal. The pizzas - and the accompanying chianti – were quite the best he had ever had in Italy. And there wasn’t a tourist in sight.
As they finished their meal Professor Fernside eyed his iPhone on the table suspiciously as it signalled an incoming message. “I should check that one if I was you, sweetie,” Esme whispered.
He flipped its leather case open. The phone’s message read: ‘PROFESSOR HERMANN NAUHAUS, TAKEN SERIOUSLY ILL WITH A HEART ATTACK, HAS BEEN FLOWN BACK TO BERLIN. I AM PLEASED TO OFFER YOU THE POSITION OF JURY CHAIRMAN.’
With a smile, the elated professor swivelled his phone around so that his companion could read the message. She pursed her lips in a mischievous grin and squeezed his hand affectionately. “Well, WHAT a surprise!”
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