Sounds of Spanish Passion

Thanks to the inspiration of my auditeur guest writers so far, I've been thinking more about the allure of pleasure once-removed, the way a certain distance, a mystery can fuel desire. Mass media makes us all into voyeurs and auditeurs, but we know that what lies on the other side is a trick, a fabrication. Even so-called reality shows are tainted by manipulation and self-consciousness. And so, when really can spy on someone else doing something private, something real, the thrill is all the more wonderful and strange.

I got to thinking, too, about how as writers we invite our readers to listen to us, through the paper-thin wall of the page. If the reader is awake, ear cocked, she will hear us speak our passions, our obsessions, our secret lives, things we'd never admit to another face to face. Although each story might have its own particular room and decor, its new cast of characters (or renamed versions of the usual suspects), as the passion builds, the artifice falls away and we can only cry out with our true voice, distinctive to us alone--rather like Marina's observation that you can identify a musician's sound through the practice room door.

How odd to think some stranger in Georgia who read my story, "Yes," according to his Amazon review over and over again (and yes, I pay attention to these things), knows more about my soul than the majority of people I deal with in my daily life. Like those show-off couples in hotel rooms who moan and sob and bellow so freely, when I'm caught up in the act, my audience is faceless and hazy to the point of invisibility. But I suppose in my heart of hearts I write because I hope someone is listening.

Our celebration of the power of the auditeur continues today with a visit to sunny Spain--the perfect trip for early May. I'm delighted to introduce a delectable story of passion, revelation and self-revelation by Neve Black who has a special gift for whisking her readers off to sensual foreign terrain. Pour yourself a glass of Rioja and enjoy!

Alone in Granada, Espana by Neve Black

It was happenstance that the hostel I found in Granada had a single room available for a weary cyclist. I was awoken from my sleep in the wee hours of morning by the muffled sounds from the room next to where my naked body lay still. I tossed and turned; trying not to listen. I didn’t want to invade their privacy; their intimate moment; their sultry, Spanish passion.

I didn’t know I was a voyeur.

How could I have known how much I would enjoy peering into soft moans of building pleasure and the slow and steady rock of an old metal bed; speckled in white paint, as it squeaked and thumped up against our shared wall. Before too long, I grew tired of fighting against my growing arousal; my wet pussy and clamoring clit cheered as I closed my eyes and began to imagine -

Her eyes would glint fiery copper each time his tender, wet lips parted and his tongue devoured her golden brown, Andalucían skin. His deeply tanned hands moved across her; exploring her beauty. Calloused finger tips grazed across her breasts, leaving behind the Cantabria Mountain tops that cast shadows from the moonlight onto our wall. Lips sizzled against hot skin; moving down into the Costa Del Sol region of her body. His fingers dipped inside her wet heat; freeing the guttural sound that lay silent inside his throat. I opened my eyes.

I didn’t know how much I would enjoy hearing my own breath; tandem with theirs; rising and falling quickly as my heart pounded in my chest and my cunt whispered its swollen ache to me while I listened. I pressed one hand firmly against the chipped plaster wall, as I slid my other hand between my legs: slippery, flooded and needy, my cunt cried out, “Ohhh, sweet Jesus, please fuck me.”

I didn’t know I was a voyeur, but I do now.