Mantequero

   He was dressed in a very old-fashioned style, even for a mountain villager, in knee britches and a waistcoat, with a wide-brimmed hat shading his eyes, and carrying a large leather bag.  He was a very handsome man, as many Spaniards were, with fine-chiselled features and the typical dark hair and eyes. Only his skin was paler than most, and she didn’t find that unattractive. No, not unattractive at all.

   When they reached the little house at the top of the village, she turned to him and said, “This is where I live, Ignacio.”

   He bowed his head courteously, letting go of her arm.

   She felt a terrible disappointment at the loss of his touch, and she thought, This is it, my one chance. 

   She smiled up at him. “Would you like to come in, Ignacio?”

   His face lit up in a broad smile. “You mean it? You are inviting me in?”

   She nodded, and turned her back on him to insert the key in the lock, her heart thudding so loud she thought he must surely hear it.

   As they stepped through the door, he took her into his arms, and, pushing the door closed with his foot, began to kiss her passionately. “Oh, my beautiful goddess,” he murmured between kisses. “You are SO beautiful, SO beautiful.” And then, without quite knowing how it had happened, she found herself in bed with him, her clothes abandoned, and he was kissing her all over with that strange, exciting, sucking kiss. And she felt an ecstasy she had never known before.