Fiorella

I had been living in Havana for a couple of years when I first met Fiorella. I had found myself there on an assignment for one of the Sunday papers back in the UK. I had been dispatched to do a long form piece on Cuba as power was handed over from the Castros and a new age began on the island. It was meant to be a week’s trip, ten days at a push. That had been four years ago. Life on the island suited me, and I think I suited it. I carved myself a comfortable little niche there — knocking out articles for the English-speaking world about this strange, wonderful corner of the Caribbean. It didn’t pay well, but it paid enough. At least for me — a single man whose only real luxuries were a laptop and a digital camera.

I had made myself very comfy in the city and had managed to build a small circle of friends and contacts. They were a broad bunch consisting of taxi drivers, corporals, pianists and street-philosophers. Whenever the well of inspiration ran dry, I would hit one of them up for some story I could sell to the west. One thing that I had always lacked was romance. I had hooked up with few women, but they were always a temporary thing. I think many thought that one day I would hop on a plane home, leaving them high and dry. Some of them on the other hand were more attracted to my passport than me.

It was Fiorella that was the exception. I met her on a September night. It was the middle of the Caribbean hurricane season, and Havana was being battered. Scorching days had given way to wall of rain torrenting from the sky. At the time I lived in one of the comparatively well-to-do areas of Havana. My contacts, some light schmoozing and a fist full of Pesos had gotten me an apartment in a shabby colonial era building in Regla, just south-east of the harbour. I was on the second floor, and had a kitchenette, a bathroom and a main room. It wasn’t much, but thanks to the balcony looking out on the street, I couldn’t have been happier anywhere else.

That night the storm battered the crumbling paintwork, while inside the humidity caused me to sweat through my clothes. I was working on a story for an Australian nature website when the electricity finally gave out and the city was plunged into darkness. This was an annoying but regular occurrence. I closed my laptop to conserve its battery and consigned myself to an evening of doing nothing.

Normally when this happened, I would read a book, or sit by the window drinking and watching the rain. As I rummaged around in one the kitchen drawers for some matches and a candle, I heard a knock from my door. I hadn’t really had much to do with my neighbours, and I doubted any of my friends had ventured out into the storm to come and see me, so this came as a surprise. I opened the door and found Fiorella.

A few things came to mind when I first laid eyes on her. Firstly, she was short. 5’2″ at a push. Secondly, she was beautiful. Although she was at that point in her early 50s she didn’t look a day over 40. She was stunning. Her skin was a deep brown, the colour of toffee and her hair, a riot of black and silver curls, was held back by a jade-coloured headscarf. The most obvious thing I noticed, however, was that she was soaking.

“Sorry to bother you but I need your help,” she said after I had opened the door and stared at her without saying anything.

“Oh, sure,” I fumbled out. My English accented Spanish threw her for a second, a look of surprise crossing her face as I spoke.

“Oh, you’re…American?” she asked

“No. English. Close enough though. You needed my help?” I was eager to know why this beautiful, drenched woman was on the landing in front of my front door.

“I need to borrow a bucket or something. Part of my wall has come away and now my apartment is flooding. I tried to block it with whatever I had but that did not go so well.” She gestured to her clothing. She wore blue trousers and a white top, all soaked. Her blouse had gone transparent, and I couldn’t help but linger on the outline of her bra through her wet shirt. Her nipples were hard, and pressed tight against the fabric of her underwear.

“So can you help?” her tone indicated she had caught me looking and was unimpressed.

“Yes, of course. Come in and I will see what I can find. I’m Nick, by the way.”

I left the door open and started rummaging around the room for what I could find that might be helpful. I knew I had a bucket knocking almanbahis around, and I had a plastic sheet somewhere which I had used as a ground sheet when doing research in the countryside.

She stepped into the room after me but lingered by the front door.

“Thank you for helping me. I am Fiorella. I live on the floor above.”

“That’s no problem. Couldn’t leave you exposed to the elements, could I? Is it just you up there?”

“At the moment, yes. I’m luck it happened tonight. I usually have my grandson staying with me. I’m so glad he is with his mother.”

She was a grandmother. That was… surprising.

With a grunt of triumph, I found the plastic sheet under the chaise-lounge that had come with the apartment and acted as both as my sofa and bed.

“Have you called the landlord?” I asked, as I went to the kitchen to locate the bucket. It was a redundant question, really. Even if the landlord could do something, I doubt they had the time and resources to do so. If Fiorella wanted it fixed, then it would be up to her to do so.

“No, I haven’t. My phone broke and I have not replaced it.”

“Oh! Well, would you like to use mine?”

Her eyes lit up at the mention. Cell phones are still something of a luxury for most Cubans. Without waiting for an answer, I fished my phone out and powered it up. I pulled the bucket out from the kitchen corner, shoved the plastic sheet into it and returned to Fiorella. Without saying a word, I handed the bucket and my phone to her.

“You are so kind. Thank you for this. I need to call the landlord, my daughter and my boss. Is that okay?” She was clearly frayed by the situation.

“That’s fine. Make all the calls you need and then bring it back once you’re done.”

With nods and thanks, she departed from my door and returned upstairs to deal with the emergency there.

I spent the rest of that evening alone, trying to read by candlelight as the rain battered the thin glass in my window frames. My thoughts kept straying back to Fiorella. I considered going upstairs to try and help but decided against it. Barging into single women’s apartments is the kind of thing that would get you a reputation in Havana. And anyway, my construction and repair skills were non-existent. I would probably only make the matter worse.

I must have fallen asleep as I woke to a knock at the door. It was Fiorella again, this time with my phone in hand. She had changed. She wore a beautiful multi coloured skirt and a simple black top. The jade headscarf was gone.

“I am so sorry to wake you. But I have bought your phone back,” she handed it over to me. As I took it, I clicked on the screen and looked at the time. It was 1:30. Outside the storm still raged on.

“That’s fine. Thank you for bringing it back. Did you get hold of everyone you needed to?” I asked.

“Sort of. I called my daughter and let her know. Her boyfriend is an engineer so maybe he will be able to fix it. I called the landlord, but I had to leave a message. My apartment is an absolute mess. Everything is drowned…” she tapered off and gave an expansive shrug. She wasn’t that upset. I had noticed that Cubans were seldom ever upset with misfortune like this. If they were, then all they would do is weep and rage at the unfairness of it all.

“I am so sorry to ask but I need another favour from you.”

“Sure. How can I help?” I responded as I wiped a bit of sleep from my eye.

“I cannot sleep upstairs tonight, and with the storm I cannot get to my daughter’s or anywhere else for that matter. Could I stay here with you tonight?”

The request caught me off guard. Without giving any thought to the logistics of how that would work, I just nodded and gave a bleary ‘Sure.’

Fiorella smiled at the response, which made me smile in turn. I stood aside and gestured for her to come in.

I made Fiorella a bed of the chaise lounge, but we didn’t sleep much if at all that night. Instead, we stayed up talking. Fiorella wanted to know more about how an Englishman had come to end up living in this corner of Havana. I also think she felt a little guilty about kicking me out of my bed. I in turn wanted to know more about her. It had been several months since my last, brief, relationship had ended and frankly, I was attracted to her.

Despite being a grandmother, and possibly being old enough to be my mother, she had something about her. Her almanbahis yeni giriş body was slim and still toned, and her eyes still twinkled a little. We spoke about many things that night: Cuba, the UK, her family, growing up in the afterglow of the revolution. I had a stash of rum in the kitchen and at about 3 am, I cracked one open for a nightcap.

As we drank, the conversation turned to myself. Was I rich and slumming it with the poor? Did I have a girlfriend? Why not? I explained my perpetual singledom to her and she merely shook her head before taking a sip of rum.

“A handsome man like yourself should have a girlfriend, Mr Ingles. It’s not good for someone so young to live like a monk,” she said. The new nickname made me smile.

“Oh, I’m no monk, I promise you. I’m just fussy,” I replied.

Fiorella raised her eyebrows at that and pursed her lips.

“Well, Mr Ingles. What sort of woman is good enough for you?”

“I don’t know. Dark skin, charm, something in her eyes.” I was describing Fiorella. The rum and the early hour had combined to make me bold.

As I finished speaking Fiorella smiled to herself. She wasn’t stupid. She looked around the bare room. Her eyes settled briefly on the open balcony doors. The horizon was turning from black to blue. Soon the city would be waking up. Her gaze then returned to me.

“So where exactly were you planning to sleep, if I have been on this couch?”

“I don’t know,” I responded. “I saw a woman in need and didn’t give much thought to the specifics. Still, I don’t think it was much a problem.” I gestured out the double doors to the tentative signs of the sun coming up. “It’s not like we slept, is it?”

Fiorella shook her head and then patted on the seat next to her.

“No. that won’t do. I won’t evict you from your bed. Come here. We can share.”

I did as commanded. I rose on ever so slightly shaky legs and joined her on the chaise lounge. Our eyes met. I saw a hunger in hers, and she must have seen the same in mine. She smelt sweet, like honey. I took her into my arms and kissed her. She didn’t resist me. As our lips met, hers parted and allowed me to explore her mouth with my tongue. Her skin was soft to my touch. A small, satisfied moan escaped from her. I ran my hand up the back of her neck, and my fingers became entwined with the black and silver curls that fell from her head.

As we kissed, I felt her begin to grow in confidence. At first, she had been passive, but she begun to assert herself. She began to push back against me. I felt her tits begin to push up against my chest, and her arms wrapped themselves around my back. At one point she hitched a leg up and rested her thigh on top of mine. I felt my pulse quicken at that, and a familiar rushing of blood.

She suddenly broke the kiss, and stared deep into my eyes. Her lips were wet and inviting.

“I have to repay you for letting me stay here,” she muttered softly. It was an instruction more than anything else. “I have to repay you. That’s how we do things here.”

“Okay,” I whispered back. “Repay me how?”

She paused for a moment before standing. She began to walk to my front door. As she passed through it, she turned back to look at me, before holding up her finger. I did as I was told and waited. I wondered what she was going for. Money? Unlikely. In Cuba, you don’t repay a favour with money. Mainly because money is a much harder thing to come across than kindness.

As quickly she had left, she returned. She breezed back through my doorway, a half-smile on her lips. In her hand she held a plastic bottle of some see-through liquid. I tried to stand and greet her, but she waved at me to remain seated. She came closer and once again kissed me. Yet again her smell invaded my nose and I wanted nothing more than to remain in her arms.

I felt her hands on my belt. The meaning of this action caused my cock to harden. It had been a while since I had felt the touch of a woman and I wanted to feel that tenderness again.

After a moment of struggling, I felt my trousers open and after a brief, torturous moment, Fiorella’s hand on the shaft of my dick. In that moment I became aware of just how much I missed the sensation on intimacy. Not the sweaty, grunting mechanics of intercourse, but the sensation of being exposed and vulnerable with someone.

As we kissed, Fiorella began to gently massage my cock. almanbahis giriş I reached up and tried to reach under the hem of her top. She broke the kiss and with her free hand pulled one of mine away from her clothing.

“No, no Mr. Ingles. We’re not doing that,” she said. I must have had a particularly dumb, uncomprehending look on my face as she laughed and poked my nose.

“You will see,” she said. “You will see.”

She pulled on the waistband of my trousers, leaving my cock exposed and jutting into the air, before kneeling in front of me. She picked the mysterious bottle up off the floor next to her, flipped the plastic cap up and poured some of into her palm. The clear fluid flowed thickly into her hand, and the smell of baby oil filtered up to me.

The feeling of the oil on my skin made me gasp. It was cold, much colder than the warm palm that it had replaced. Fiorella smirked at my involuntary exclamation. She clicked the baby oil bottle closed and put it on the floor next to her. Then she started to work my cock. The oil was nice and slippery, and her hand ran down the length of my manhood, from tip to base. It wasn’t quick, but it also wasn’t slow. A handjob designed to pleasure the recipient, not something to be got out of the way. She was diligent, her gaze flicking from the task in hand to my face and back again. She was checking to see if I was enjoying myself, presumably. Really, she should have been in no doubt — I was in heaven.

The sensation of this beautiful woman fucking me with her hand caused me to slump back against the cushion of the chaise lounge, and I could feel my hands trembling as she worked her magic.

“Oh, fuck!” I exclaimed at one point. That caused her to smile.

“Is that good for you, Mr Ingles?” she asked, while giving my cock an extra little squeeze.

“God, yes. You’re amazing at this.”

“I know. I’ve had lot of experience.”

I had had handjobs before but not like this. I wanted to reach out and grab the beautiful woman who was working my cock in her palm. I wanted to stand up grab her, pull her clothes off and then fuck her. But every attempt I made to touch her was gently batted away by her free hand. This was a repayment, it seemed to say. She was repaying a debt accrued by my letting her stay. It was also a torture. She knew I wanted her, but I suspect she was taking great joy in keeping me at arm’s length.

She wasn’t silent through all of this. She emitted a constant stream of encouragement to me — telling me how sexy I was, how she wanted to see me cum and how big my dick was. It was all nonsense, I suppose. A little bit of dirty talk to encourage. If I am honest, it quickly became difficult to concentrate on what Fiorella was saying. Her hand had kept a smooth, consistent pace and I was close to finishing. She must have noticed.

“You close, baby?” she muttered. I nodded in response. She smiled.

“Good. I want you to come for me. Can you? Can you come in my mouth for me?” she asked.

I didn’t know what to say to that. ‘Yes’ was a bit too obvious. Luckily, she didn’t wait for a reply. With her hand still tugging me, she leant forward and placed her open mouth about an inch away from the head of my cock. I could feel her hair brushing against the bare skin of my belly and the tops of my thighs. Her warm breath on the tepid oil on my cock made it tingle. I couldn’t hold back any longer. With another gasp, I came into Fiorella’s mouth. With a spasm, my seed released and the Cuban caught it on her tongue. As the flow decreased to a dribble, she extended her tongue and gently scooped it up.

The release left me light-headed for a moment. When I returned to my senses, Fiorella was in the kitchen. She merged from it, dabbing a piece of tissue to her mouth.

“Was that good for you?” she asked, with a grin and a raised eyebrow.

“It was amazing, thank you. Are you sure I can’t…” I tailed off. I wasn’t sure of a gentlemanly way to ask if I could return the favour. She at least picked up on what I couldn’t bring myself.

“Oh no. That was to thank you for your hospitality. That’s it.”

She crossed the room and looked out the balcony window. The sun had just risen, and the rain had stopped. Outside the morning smelt of wet dust and promise.

We didn’t say much after that. I didn’t know what to say, and she was comfortable enough to not need to say a word. I made us coffee, and together we watched Havana come to life. As the streets filled with taxis and buses, she left, but not before giving me a kiss goodbye. As I watched her walking down the street to her daughter’s, I somehow knew that this wouldn’t be my last evening with her.