This story is set abroad (for me) and involves a relationship where neither of us spoke much of the other’s native tongue. As such it contains less dialogue than I would normally include. But I hope that it still appeals.
In my late 20s I was recovering from a messy divorce. We’d only been married a few years and it had, with hindsight, been a mistake from the outset. But the split had been acrimonious and had taken its toll on me: psychologically; physically; and financially.
Luckily we hadn’t had children. So we didn’t have that to unpick. But everything else had been tumultuous. My life was a mess and I needed to take stock and rebuild.
Fortunately I had a good job, as a software engineer. And when my company offered me the chance to work on a project in Portugal I jumped at the opportunity. I saw it as a chance to get away, lick my wounds and use the time to reflect on the mistakes I’d make. Plus I knew from a holiday there a few years earlier that it was a lovely country, with friendly people, good weather and great food.
I’d be there, initially, for three months, with an option to prolong the term if the local customer needed more input and I wished to continue. Lisbon was my base, though with occasional trips out to other sites across the country. But I was placed, at the company’s expense, in a serviced apartment in a nice part of the City. Close to the bars and restaurants, but quiet and safe.
That said, in the first few weeks I had neither the desire nor confidence to go into the City. So I kept very much to my self. I was working flat out in the day but, as a contractor, worked largely on my own. In the business word most of my local colleagues spoke excellent English. So I was able to operate in something of an insular bubble. And that suited me in those early days.
Outside of work other than the odd exchange in the lift or lobby I had little or no interaction with the other residents in the apartment block. In fact, away from the office, the person I probably interacted with most was the cleaner/housekeeper who looked after the whole complex.
She wore the ubiquitous cleaner’s uniform of white overalls and trainers. The uniform always seemed just a little too tight, showcasing her well built, curvy, figure. She wasn’t fat (in my opinion anyway) but the embodiment of “womanly”. With perfect black skin, cropped hair and a smile that, when she graced you with it, was utterly dazzling. Though I noticed, quite a lot of the time, that she looked quite glum. But I guess working for minimum wage, cleaning other people’s floors and lavatories, can do that to you.
Initially I had no idea what she was called but over time we began to exchange pleasantries. I established that she was called Consuela and was, originally, from Mozambique, one of the old Portuguese colonies. Her English was poor and my Portuguese not much better. Though I was making an effort to improve it, via an app on my phone. And with a little practice in the workplace, plus local shops and cafes, I was becoming a little more proficient.
She’d overheard me one day practicing my Portuguese on my phone.
“You learn well. Good boy,” she encouraged. “I help you?”
“God, yes please,” I agreed immediately. I really did want to improve. And I knew regular conversations with a local would enhance that. But also, if I were honest with myself, I saw it as a further chance to spend a little more time with Consuela.
So most days, whilst she was in the flat, or even if we passed in the corridor, we’d converse – or at least I’d try to – in Portuguese.
Consuela seemed pleased that I was making an effort to learn. But took great delight in teasing my clumsy pronunciation. Laughing at me as I cursed the app when, despite my best efforts, it misunderstood what I was saying.
“That’s what I said, you stupid machine,” I’d groan, as it failed to register that I’d repeated (in Portuguese) “I’d like a room for tonight with a shower,”, or whatever (slightly ridiculous) phraseology I was practising.
Whenever we’d meet I’d greet her in Portuguese, “com es tas (how are you)?” I’d inquire. “Tutu ben (very good)” she’d answer. Invariably breaking into a huge smile at my clumsy, but well intentioned, efforts. A smile that I was beginning to realise was one of the few bright spots in my rather grey, featureless, days.
I’d always been fit and active. But over the last few months I’d let myself go. Drinking too much (on my own in the lonely evenings), eating poorly and neglecting the gym. But as I settled into a routine in Lisbon I began working out regularly. Running through the streets and parks in early morning and doing a series of exercises in the apartment on my return. I cut back on my alcohol consumption and ate more fish and salad. Soon feeling a lot better for it.
In fact, my limited time with Consuela, coupled with a general improvement in my mood and fitness as I was getting Kartal Escort over the trauma of my divorce, saw my libido (which had taken a knock) return with a vengeance. I found that I was masturbating daily, if not multiple times a day. And I was aware that my internet searches increasingly included, “ebony”, or “African.”
One evening, as I returned from the office, I passed Consuela at the door of the apartment block, as she knocked off for the day. She’d changed out of her cleaners uniform and was in jeans and a vest top, both of them tight fitting. They illustrated further what an attractive figure she had. In fact, it was a knockout figure. She also wore a little make up and looked extremely attractive.
“Wow,” I exclaimed, “you look terrific, really gorgeous.” Which was a lot more forward than I’d planned to be. I’m not sure she understood exactly what I meant. Though my body language I’m sure gave a good illustration.
My language app didn’t have a section on chat up lines, or complimenting hot women. Or if it did it was a mastery level that I was quite some way from achieving. So I then, in my faltering Portuguese, explained that I thought she looked really good. Though I was just a little less emphatic than I’d been in English. But I did say, “voce esta lindinha.” Which I think meant, “you are pretty.”
Whether I got the tense or pronunciation right I wasn’t sure. But Consuela understood enough to be flattered by the compliment.
“Muito obrigado, thank you,” she responded, with her skin, dark as it was, colouring at my obvious appreciation of her looks.
She explained she was going off to meet some friends for drinks. And further disclosed that, “my friends are fun. My husband old and boring.” Causing her to grimace slightly at this description.
“Well,” I reassured her, in my faltering Portuguese, “you are not old or boring. Voce parece chique (you look chic).”
“You smart too,” she murmured in response. “But hair not,” she giggled, tousling it lightly.
I was unusually taken by the gentle intimacy of this simple interaction. But also the heave of her ample chest as she carried out the act.
“I know,” I agreed, blushing a little. “I need to get a haircut. I’ll try to find a barber this week.”
“I can do,” Consuela replied, shyly. “I cut good hair.”
“Ok, if you’re sure, that would be really helpful,” I agreed. Surprised by how excited I was at the idea of. it. We agreed she’d call by the next day after she finished her cleaning duties and I bade her a good evening with her friends.
The following day in work I found myself in an unusually good mood. And I realised I was looking forward to spending a little time with Consuela, albeit in a functional capacity, as she gave me a much needed trim.
Around 5.30pm there was a knock on my door. Consuela was there, not made up this time, but still clad in her “mufti” clothing of jeans and a vest. I thought, for the umpteenth time recently, that she looked really hot.
I probably spent just a little too long admiring/staring at her breasts, encased in her tight vest. And this was, perhaps, not unnoticed by Consuela. Though the smile she gave seemed to be wry, not accusatory.
After some idle chat, where I tried not to leer further at Consuela’s tits, she directed me to a chair in the kitchen.
“Time for cut,” she suggested, pulling out a scissors and comb from her bag.
“Take off shirt and sit,” she directed. “No hair on clothes.”
Strangely affected, once again, by the suggested intimacy of disrobing, albeit just taking off my shirt, I hesitated slightly. Then swiftly pulled of my polo shirt.
It was now, it seemed, Consuela’s opportunity to leer. Actually, leering was most certainly a product of my over fertile imagination. But I certainly felt an appreciative nod.
“You fit,” she smiled, “good body,” confirming this appreciation by reaching out to squeeze a bicep.
“Thank you, I’m trying hard to get back in shape,” I responded, blushing once more. “You look good too,” I followed up, shyly, though this time not trying to hide my own appreciative glance at her body.
Then, nervous that I may be overstepping the mark I looked away and busied myself. Making myself comfortable and positioning myself for Consuela to get to work.
For the next few minutes there was little communication between us, with the silence punctuated only by the clip of the scissors as she trimmed my unruly locks.
As Consuela was behind me I was aware of her breathing on my neck and her closeness to me as she snipped away. This awareness heightened as she moved around in front of me and leaned over me as she worked on my fringe.
Her heaving breasts were no more than a foot away from me. And her firm thighs were occasionally rubbing against my side.
Having had so little physical contact for several months the proximity of such an attractive, Pendik Escort womanly, figure got to me. Or rather, it got to my dick. It went from flaccid to erect in no time flat. I was wearing quite loose fitting chinos. But, looking down, surreptitiously, I could see that they were tenting. As brief as the glance had been it seemed to have directed Consuela’s gaze downwards too.
She said nothing, but it seemed clear she’d noticed as, even with her black skin, it was apparent that she was blushing.
I considered whether I should apologise, but feared this might bring further embarrassment, as I tried to explain my unruly member away.
I’d imagined that, knowing she’d spotted the state I was in, she may be more careful about brushing against me. But the opposite seemed to be true. If anything she was more pronounced in rubbing against me.
It wasn’t sexual. Or at least I didn’t think it was. But it certainly seemed she was less concerned about maintaining a “safe” distance from me, as most – in fact all – hairdressers would do.
The rest of the haircut passed without incident. Though my erection showed little sign of subsiding. Eventually Consuela was content with her work and asked me to stand and check her efforts in the mirror.
“Very good,” I pronounced. And it really was, she’d done an excellent job.
“How much for the haircut?” I asked, in my halting Portuguese, wanting to reward her for her efforts. Plus all the work on a daily basis keeping the apartment clean.
“No, no money,” she replied, waving her hands to emphasise the point. “Happy to do,” she smiled.
“No way,” I insisted, “you’ve done a very good job. And saved me finding a barber.”
Retrieving my wallet I grasped her arm and pressed 20 euros into her hand.
“No need, no need,” she said, adamant once more that she did not want payment.
But I held on to her – not roughly but gently – and insisted that she closed her fingers around the notes. With this act, once again, an opportunity/excuse, to have some physical contact with her. God, I was acting like some gauche, cunt-struck, virgin.
After further protestations – allowing me to maintain my gentle hold on her – she finally relented.
“You kind man,” she suggested. “Very nice man.”
As she prepared to leave Consuela paused at the doorway and now reached out to grasp me.
“Now you look smart,” she suggested, gently tousling my freshly trimmed hair. “But fit too,” she grinned. This time running her hands over my pecs. Causing me to shudder as her hand ran over my nipple, which was erect.
“You like,” she laughed, tweaking the nipple once more.
Then she surprised me further by pulling me to her for a kiss and a hug. Not sexual – though in my heightened state it almost felt that way to me – but very affectionate.
“Thank you for money. You good man,” she opined, quietly. “I like you.” Before she rushed out of the apartment and down the stairs.
Almost as soon as she’d left I was shucking off my shorts, pulling out my still hard cock and wanking myself to a shuddering orgasm. As I exploded over my abdomen it was Consuela that I was imagining fucking.
The next time I saw her things were just a little awkward (though clearly I didn’t think she was aware that I had been wanking whilst fantasizing about her). But I did my best to overcome this by thanking her for the haircut and continuing to work on my language skills with her. And we soon returned to the comfortable familiarity that we’d been enjoying.
Emboldened by her approval of my physique I now took every opportunity when she was around to have my top off. Then, as I grew more confident, sometimes padding around in my boxer trunks.
Initially Consuela, whilst clearly not uncomfortable, did not remark on this any more than she had previously. But, over time, as I would pass her she would sometimes lightly stroke my back or laughingly grab a bicep and make comment on it. And when she was being extra playful some further gentle nipple tweaking. Which, looking back, was a sexual act. Or certainly one with sexual overtones. And clearly a green light for me to become more overt myself. But, perhaps scarred by my divorce and mindful of the fact that I “employed” Consuela (albeit just for a few hours/week) I was reluctant to move too swiftly.
However, after a week or so of this I became bold enough to reciprocate a little of her tactility. After she might grab an arm, or stroke a pec I would put my arm around her and cuddle her.
“You naughty boy,” she would giggle, “always grab me.”
“Just being friendly,” I assured her, with a blush. But, as I met with no real opposition I did this more frequently and with more full on contact. I would place my arms on her lower back, inches away from her full buttocks. I was oh so tempted to reach down and fondle her arse fully. But I still resisted.
There was most Göztepe Escort certainly an undercurrent of sexual tension. It also seemed apparent that Consuela was spending more time in my small apartment than was necessary to keep it clean. Not least as I had few possessions and kept it quite tidy myself. I’m certain it would take no more than 10-15 mins for her to conduct her daily cleans. But, increasingly, she was there for more than half an hour. With much of this time chatting.
Late one afternoon I’d returned from the office and did some press-ups and kettle bell sets in my living area. Consuela arrived as I was finishing off. And made comment, once more, on how hard I was working. Putting the kettle bells away after my last set I sat down to get a glass of water. As I did that I arched my back and groaned slightly after the exertion. Possibly over exertion as I guess I’d been “showing off” to Consuela.
“Oh my goodness,” I informed her. “I think I’ve done too much. I’m aching all over.”
I’m not sure how much she understood of this (and my Portuguese, improved as it was, wasn’t yet up to translating “aching”). But it was apparent what I meant.
“Poor man,” she opined. “You work too hard. I give you massage.”
Acquiescing immediately I stripped off my vest and sat, as she directed, in a kitchen chair. A similar position to the one we’d been in when she cut my hair. Initially she stood behind me and began, more expertly than I’d expected, to dig in to the over-extended muscles in my upper back.
As she’d done when she’d cut my hair she was brushing herself – in fact more than brushing – against me.
Consuela was now in front of me, massaging my upper pectoral muscles. She was standing just inches away from me. As my legs were spread she was standing between them to allow herself maximum purchase. She was inches away from me. In fact, as she began kneading the muscles on my upper chest our legs were touching, with her chest at eye level with me.
I placed my hands, initially, on Consuela’s hips. It could, conceivably, have been seen as a means to steady myself as she pushed hard into my sore chest. But then, becoming bolder – and removing any modicum of doubt – I moved my hands around and began, gently at first, to grasp her bum.
Time seemed to stand still and I was almost frozen into inaction. But, having met with no repercussions I started to really fondle her arse.
Oh my goodness. It was so full and so firm. I was torn between ravaging her and continued terror that I’d overstepped the mark. Still fearing I’d be met with a slap on the face and a torrent of abuse.
Thankfully, that didn’t happen. Though, at first, neither did she respond positively to my groping. Instead she said nothing, but continued to massage me. Though a little less forcefully.
Taking this as a signal that I could proceed I moved a hand around to her front. Gently raising the hem of her overall I began inveigling a hand between her firm – though fleshy – thighs and moved it higher. There was now no doubt at all that this was a sexual act. And my confidence grew as Consuela’s firm massage halted, turning to a caress of my back and neck. And she opened her legs slightly to give me greater access.
“Yes, yes, sim, sim, good, good,” she grunted, in verbal encouragement.
I was now rubbing my hand against the gusset of her knickers and snaked a finger inside. Where I found a clean shaven, already wet, pussy. As I started to finger her Consuela was writhing against me and seemed as I eager as I to progress matters swiftly.
Pushing off me briefly she tore open the buttons on her overall so that she was standing before me in her underwear. Clearly cheap and functional, not erotic. But still allowing me to see the wonderfully sexy figure that I’d increasingly been imagining – and indeed fantasizing – about.
Pulling me up from the chair Consuela wrapped her arms around me and drew me in for a kiss. After I had taken the early initiative it was now Consuela’s turn to set the tone. This kiss was deep, passionate and full of raw, sexual, energy. Consuela was the instigator, with me happy – ecstatic in fact – to respond to her lead. Her tongue was buried deep in my throat and she was grinding herself against me.
“Oh God yes,” I managed to stutter, in between kisses
I ran my hands through, or more accurately across, her tightly cropped hair. I didn’t understand why, but I found this incredibly arousing. All of the women I’d ever been with had long, feminine, tresses. But her closely shaved head – amongst many other things – was making me mad with desire.
But then, in a further display of Consuela’s own desire, as well as her dominance, she dragged me to the bedroom. Her need, it seemed, at least as great as mine.
I swiftly pulled down my shorts and boxers and stood proudly before her, my dick rearing up before me.
Pointing to my cock, she mimicked rolling a condom down it.
“You have?” she inquired, with hunger in her eyes.
“No, I’m so sorry,” I had to respond sheepishly.
“Aaarh, no fuck then,” she insisted, albeit it seemed reluctantly. And, frustrating as it was, I agreed with her.