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El Tablado is on the east coast of Tenerife and I was living there because it was cheap. Tenerife is a Spanish island off the coast of north Africa, so it has its own identity and is not sophisticated like Madrid or Barcelona. It was the weirdest town I had ever lived in, so small it was almost a village, with one small shop that was like the focal point and a little, cramped, dark, unattractive bar that was open only when the landlady had nothing better to do.Tenerife is a volcanic island, which means it has a volcano, and although it’s not active, the evidence of its past is everywhere. The landscape is dry and ugly, inhospitable, and, on the part of the east coast where I was, there was usually a cold wind blowing in off the Atlantic, although the capital, Santa Cruz in the north, and the touristy parts down south were sheltered and hot. El Tablado was originally a fishing village that had been converted into a resort of sorts during the tourism boom of the 60s and 70s. It had no beach as such, but claimed to have. There was a slope of black pebbles down and up which little boats must have been pulled, and a sort of breakwater had been built to keep out the worst of the Atlantic swells. On this stubby dark stone structure were attached stainless steel ladders with which swimmers could climb back up after they had either leapt into the sea or negotiated the perilous, slippery steps.After a few weeks I came to realise that this place was a magnet for a particular kind of sun-worshipper, an undemanding kind who was not bothered about golden sand or indeed any sand. Access to the sea was all that was required; that and the possibility of lying in the sun and getting baked. Around the corner was an even wilder stretch where the waves thundered in and which was so hard to reach and so uncomfortable when you managed it that it was secluded. That made it attractive to naturists, so generously-fleshed couples could be seen there, their private parts pointed out to sea. I watched them sometimes from the promenade.Meanwhile, back at the “beach” the local young women would blithely go topless. I can only imagine what they think of people like me. Do they seriously expect us not to look when they are displaying body parts that may have a practical purpose but are also very attractive as physical features? Another thing I realised after a while there was that Tenerifean women don’t seem to mind being looked at.Women don’t all over the world, in fact. I have remarked before how it is possible to enjoy a mutually-enjoyable show experience as long as the woman seems to feel comfortable with you as the observer – and if she doesn’t, you just stop. Just as importantly, no one else must know she knows she is being watched. To argue that this arrangement is wrong is to attempt to deny that women are interested in sex at all. It has been prudified over the centuries and of course we are now almost at a stage where written permission is required for one person to be granted access to another in any way at all. Of course bahis şirketleri there are a lot of good intentions involved, and vulnerable people are being protected. But let’s not forget that sex is also fun and as long as respect is shown, we can all enjoy it and should enjoy it without being terrified of the consequences.So, back to the women of Tenerife. I think many of them actually enjoy being watched. I spent half an hour on a bus looking at a nice but unexceptional middle-aged woman one day and when I got up to leave, she thanked me – and not with relief or sarcasm. We had passed a boring journey with a little harmless fantasy.The women there tend to be plump; it must be their diet, I suppose. In mainland Spain that is not necessarily the case, but Tenerife is a law unto itself. So the females of El Tablado tend to be on the buxom side, crammed into stretchy bathing costumes and bikinis, some of the late teen and 20-something ones on the trim side of full-bodied but nowhere near skinny, and a few like to go topless to get some sun on their nipples. The older ones, and some of the young ones who have yet to decide to get in shape, are roly-poly and apparently proud of it.Which brings us to Miranda and her daughter Lita. Miranda was in her forties, divorced and apparently carefree. She had a menial job and not much money but owned a small house that had been in her family for generations. The house wasn’t in El Tablado itself, which was a good thing, as we will get to in a while. El Tablado had a population of around 100. The streets were narrow and the houses were close together. Everybody knew everybody else, apart from the vacationers who came for the weekend or a week, and even then, within a day or two they were part of the furniture.One Saturday afternoon I was down on the sea wall, grabbing some rays and reading one of the few print books that remained from what was once a nice little library but had been replaced by Kindle and the internet. This roly-poly woman kept walking past, going for a swim, coming back cool and dripping, going to the shop and coming back with ice creams. She and her daughter had taken up residence on large stone step away from the wall. I must have been looking at Miranda, because when I glanced at teenage Lita she gave me a look that seemed to say, “Stop having salacious thoughts about my mother. If you want something to look at, here I am.” It wasn’t a friendly look, but a scolding one. Miranda was sumptuous, not just big. She was a Harrods hamper of a woman, packed with unseen goodies and unspoken promise. Her long curly dark hair cascaded down her brown shoulders and her back, while her bright blue swimming costume was under pressure. When she laughed, which she did often, she exposed a gap where she had lost a tooth just right of centre – not one of the front ones but close. It gave her a piratical look, as if she were about to swing across the way on a rope and hurl herself into the sea. She was a jolly, rollicking woman who knew how to have a good time.Lita, bahis firmaları on the other hand, was quiet; she was not fat but overly-well upholstered, her pale skin barely kept in check by her polka dot bikini. Her thighs were creamy, smooth and inviting, even while her facial expression was forbidding. Her breasts, which recently must have been magnificent, were now a shade overinflated, although there are plenty of men in the world who would see that as a good thing.Lita had long dark hair too, but hers was straight.It’s hard to ascertain a girl’s age, but from the way she looked and acted, I guessed 18. I certainly hoped she was, because I wanted to lick my way up those thighs to the fork and nuzzle her springy sexual buns before reaching up and pulling her briefs down and off. She stared back at me defiantly, as if reading my thoughts and daring me to try to make it happen. Whatever happens, she snarled silently, you won’t be having my mother because for one thing she has had her day and now it’s my generation’s turn, and for another she is my mother and as such she’s not eligible for having sex.The two began an animated conversation that included gestures and glances in my direction. Then Miranda marched over to me.“Hola. You the English teacher?”“Buenos dias. Yes, that’s me.”“My daughter need lessons. You want to show me how you work?”“Sure. When can I do that?”“Now. We are going home. You get your books and come with us.”“I don’t need books at first,” I said. My initial class was always the same: going through the basics of alphabet, numbers etc, and seeing how much the student knows.“Muy bien,” Miranda said. “We go now.”We piled into Miranda’s beaten up old SEAT and chugged across the bridge over the autopista to the steep hill inland. Not far up it, she turned off onto a rocky track and pulled up outside a simple little concrete house that looked as if someone had got bored or run out of money and just stopped building it once it was wind- and watertight.We sat in the kitchen and Miranda got some beers out of the fridge. I declined because I was working, which seemed to surprise her, and Lita said no because she was going out soon, although I suspected she was just in anti-parent mode and anything the so-called adults were going to do was a corny idea. So Miranda sat alone outside while her daughter and I ran through some elementary English. Miranda had spent a year in England in her 20s, working as an au pair, hence her command of the language, but Lita had only had the sort of tuition Spanish youngsters get at school. Her knowledge of grammar was sketchy and her accent was terrible. But she wanted to learn and with the maternal presence out of the room she even smiled once or twice. We just did half an hour, enough for me to assess my student and for my student and her sponsor to assess me.Then, with the sun dipping and the wind making it as far as this hill, Lita got ready to go out and Miranda made herself and me a baked potato with cheese on a dilapidated barbecue.A friend came to pick kaçak bahis siteleri up the girl and they headed up to the one-horse nightlife furnished by two rudimentary bars and some people’s houses, where generations of no good had been got up to.Miranda kept the beer flowing and became increasingly loud and salt-of-the-earth, the Spanish music pouring out of an old CD player in what seemed to me an endless stream of the same thing. She was good company, though, and eventually we were dancing cheek to cheek in the warm, smoky dusk. Miranda was warm and womanly. She cuddled and rubbed herself against me and her hands roamed my back. She certainly wasn’t playing hard to get and I wondered if that was because we had escaped from the tiny confines of El Tablado and the public gaze. Here at her hillside hideaway it was as if we were in a desert village miles from civilization.All of this rubbed off on me and soon we were kissing, then fumbling with underclothes (she had changed out of the bathing suit into a long, baggy, dishevelled linen dress) while I was just wearing my daytime shorts and a t shirt.Before I knew it we were in Miranda’s bedroom, me naked and flat on my back on her big, soft bed and her also naked, crouched above me with her crotch stationed above my face. With steady, deliberate movements she would rub her slit up and down my nose and over my mouth, whereupon I would lick her as best I could before I grabbed her by the hips and held her still and I ploughed her ravine with my ravenous tongue. Her very quick shower had removed the sweat from her armpits and back, but she had adjudged her crotch sufficiently washed by the sea, and I was only too grateful to suck up her natural salty juices. The occasional pubic hair in my mouth reminded me that this was a wild, unsubtle country woman who treated sex like an adventure rather than a page from an instruction manual. I grabbed her more strongly and brought her undercarriage further back to see if she liked having her arse licked. She gleefully readjusted her position to allow me better access and soon she was bucking and lurching and grinding herself against me in the utter abandonment of orgasm. Then she climbed off and went down on me, sucking my cock and stroking it with carefree confidence until I spurted and she moved like a snake to catch my semen in her mouth.We made circuits of each other’s body for several hours until the heat and the exertion and the after-effects of the sun hypnotised us into submission and we fell asleep, wrapped around each other, to become untangled as we tried to sleep and then entwined again as we remembered things we wanted we do or returned to favourites. We managed to talk just enough to arrange that I should stay the night and relax in bed after she got up for work.So it was that I was awake in a sweaty, aching pile as I heard the outside door slam and the car fire up and drive away.I had forgotten all about my new student until I was sitting outside, eating cornflakes, when the screen door slammed and there she stood, wearing just knickers and a t-shirt. She didn’t look surprised to see me, just world-weary, as if her life had disappointed her yet again. The t-shirt gave her body a mystique which bikini-clad near-nakedness did not.
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