Frustration

Vinho verde flowed in the house of Duarte. This year, Lisbon had been something of a disappointment to him, and this one night seemed to encapsulate, for him, the sense of crushing ennui and despair that had lingered for weeks now. He could not quite place the reason for it, and this troubled him further. His finances were as they should be, his private life was equally well ordered. His home in Lisbon was ample and pleasing, a splendid example of Moorish architecture within the ancient Alfama quarter of the town.

A whitewashed building that occupied the corner of an upward curving street, surrounded by terraced gardens of lush trees and other dwellings, Duarte had chosen well. His house was slightly separated from all it\'s nearby neighbors, perfect for a little peace and privacy in the middle of town. The house was two-storied, and enjoyed a delightful curving balcony on the second floor. It was upon the iron railing of the balcony that Duarte now leant, staring out into the Lisbon night. Soon now, this whole area would be alive with dance as the festivals of the saints began, and the entire city would enter a frenzy of celebration. Listening carefully, he could make out the faint strings of some melancholy tune, and he fancied it was some Portuguese sailor lamenting a deeply felt loss. He sipped his wine, and turned back to walk inside.

The room Duarte entered was plastered a delightful creamy yellow which caught the light beautifully. An exceptionally dark and resonant abstract hanging on the far wall from the balcony would catch the fading rays of sunlight, as it did now, and it would seem to glow and effervesce. Duarte slipped off his linen jacket, even the light material was too much on this day. Underneath he wore a neatly pressed shirt which he unbuttoned at his throat down to his chest. He snapped his fingers and pointed to the middle of the earthen tiled floor, and the girl who had been waiting demurely on the end of his bed stood up and walked there, to wait.

Duarte sipped a little of the greenish wine, and then knocked back the remainder of the glass in one swift gulp. He had expected the wine to loosen him up nicely but it had served an opposite effect. The alcoholic warmth made him feel stifled, the easy, slight drunken haze which descended upon him had only made him feel disorientated and claustrophobic. He tossed the glass casually to one side where it broke neatly in half along the stem, and slapped the girl hard across the cheek. Her head whipped to the side and she let out a sharp, surprised cry. Duarte had heard her do the same, the first time he had seen her, and immediately fell in love with that sound. She was almost capable of controlling her emotions enough to remain aloof, but couldn\'t quite ever hold in the beginnings of a yell of pure fear that revealed her true feelings. It was probably because of that sound that Duarte had bought her, although he was starting to wonder if he might not be better served by spending the evening in lonesome contemplation.

The girl had stumbled, but she resumed her position standing before him, looking down. Her shoulders heaved and trembled every few moments, as her control slipped. She was a German, thirty nine years old she had dull blonde hair, a step removed from brown but not quite gold. Duarte had purchased her on a whim, and the alarmingly Teutonic lesbian he had bought her from had been glad enough to get rid of her. The girl was, according to this formidable woman, a slut beyond use. Duarte had not understood enough of her German to appreciate the nuances of the statement, but he believed that was what she had basically said. Duarte had asked the girl, before buying her, whether this was true and she had just nodded miserably.

Duarte sighed and scratched his cheek in irritation. He forgot what exactly had been going through his mind, but when he saw the girl confirm her useless status something in him had desired her. The fact that he could now no longer remember what he had seen in her only served to worsen his mood. Duarte cursed his whimsical nature, yet again. He kicked off his shoes, the night was too hot for them. The girl wore a faded tee-shirt with a slogan in German on it, the only word he recognized fully was Berlin. She wore a similarly faded pair of jeans and trainers.

“Sprechen Sie Portugiesen?” He asked,
“Nein,”
“Englisch dann?”
“Ja, a little I speak.”

He nodded. In his experience when a German claimed to speak a little of anything, it represented at least a decent smattering of fluency. He ran his fingers through her hair. It was cropped and layered, and surrounded her head like the folded wings of a bird, to his thinking. He resolved to do something with it later. He drew back her hair tightly, watching her eyes widen as it beto hto hurt. He bunched his fists, gripping handfuls of hair so tightly that her head began to shake and tremble, and she yelped again. Of course she didn\'t do a thing to stop him, it seemed to Duarte that she had almost forgotten that it was even a possibility to oppose him.

Duarte ran his eyes down her body, they were close enough that her breasts curved visibly under the shapeless mass of her shirt. Thirty nine but well maintained, he observed. That at least was a mercy, and on this night Duarte was in the market for all the mercy he could get. With a sigh he released her hair and tugged on her shirt. Getting the message, she slipped it off over her head. When she raised her arms Duarte saw large sweat stains over her armpits. She was wet with perspiration, fear and the heat of this night had conspired to drench her.

Beneath the shirt she wore a dull grey looking brassiere, which Duarte hated as soon as he saw it. He nodded to her and indicated her breasts, and she slipped it off. Her pale skin almost gleamed in the dim light of the room, from the candelabra on one side that burned merrily and the electric lamp across the room. He cupped her breast in his hand and tested it, teasing the skin under his fingers. They were medium sized, adequately proportioned, and real. Soft as feather pillows, and her nipples were tiny nubs, barely visible and almost matched in tone to the white of her skin. He passed his palm over, and felt her nipple slide listlessly over his skin. He decideat tat the dull grey bra suited her well, for she too was dull and grey. Not for the first time, Duarte wondered if he had wastes mos money. He backhanded her breast hard, smacking it with his knuckles, with a dull thud. She staggered a step backwards with a guttural cry and curled over, hugging her arms across her chest in pain.

Duarte ran his hand down her arched spine, catching a rising tidal wave against the thick skin stretched between thumb and first finger. His hand slid over her with a wet, slick noise. He ran his fingers over her jeans, following the thick seam that traveled downwards over the seam of her ass. Between her legs was almost blisteringly hot, and damp with sweat. They had walked up the hill to get to his house, and it had been a major physical exertion for her in this heat. Lifting his fingers to his nose he inhaled the cloying scent of thick sweat.

The girl remained bent over at the waist, thinking better of standing up while this exploration went on. She didn\'t make a sound, and Duarte detected no sign that she was enjoying it, she obeyed only out of fear of reprisal. He hooked his fingers under the waistband of her jeans and slid them off her hips. The jeans were tight but her skin was well lubricated by sweat and they came down without too much struggle. She obediently pulled off her shoes and stepped out of them, and he had her stand up by lifting her chin. As he looked into her face, he saw a sad tear force its way down her tender red cheek, still stinging from his abuse. Her lips were pale and drawn, and she looked close to emotional exhaustion. Such sadness he felt from her, it was almost too much to be delightful.

Her underwear now consisted of off-white socks, and fairly serviceable panties with a vague blue pattern. He nodded at them and snapped his fingers again, and she took them off, followed by her socks. Her body was unimpressive, but decently put together. He saw here and there a sign or two of age- a dimple of the skin, a slight wrinkle, but all in all he was pleased. The gleaming sheen on her body only improved her appearance, as he watched her shallow stomach rise and fall with her breath. He touched the wismallmall cloud of blonde that attended her crotch, the hairs were noticeably wet too. Again, the smell of sweat. He had her lick off his fingers, which she did without comment.

Duarte frowned in frustration. He was starting to agree, inwardly, with the German lesbian. He felt little if any desire to do anything with this one. He half considered telling her to get dressed and get the hell out of his house but checked himself- that would be neither honourable or sensible, and foolishness inevitably brought consequences. With a sigh he turned away and wandered through an archway to the adjoining small kitchen. He heard her stifle a sob as he rejected her so, but it was too hot for him to care. Lisbon had failed to weave its usual spell on him, and Duarte felt a distinct need to travel again.

From the freezer cabinet he took a tray of ice, which he upended on the counter top carelessly and banged out the ice cubes. He set down a glass and turned to a cupboard where he kept the amontillado. He picked a bottle at random, and wandered to the counter listlessly. Something white in the edge of his vision made him turn. The girl had shuffled into the room and was standing there, shifting from foot to foot in uncertainty. She knew well that to so approach Duarte without permission could well bring intense punishment, but it seemed to him that she had no choice, she was compelled. He saw her throat bob and move as she swallowed, and her hands writhed and knotted fingers over her nude stomach, alternately clenching and smoothing over her skin. He set down the bottle slowly and turned to face her, quite content to see what she intended to do with a detached air of curiosity.

She finally decided that she could contain herself no longer. She looked utterly miserable and dropped to her hands and knees, crawling over to him leaving little prints of sweat from her knees and hands. She nudged her face against his knee with a dejected whimper, that only elicited a sigh from Duarte. If, he thought, she tried to suck him off or something equally predictable he would hit her again and this time he would toss her out sensible or no. She clutched his knees and pressed her forehead to his feet. He didn\'t respond at all. Duarte turned awkwardly to the counter to pour his drink. She stood up immediately, and with her gaze still down nudged against him. Duarte was nothing more than irritated now, his mood was rapidly turning the edge towards darkness.

The girl surprised him then, though. Without a word she took the bottle. She tried to pull at the cork but couldn\'t manage. The bottle had been partially drunk already, he had re-corked it but she couldn\'t get a grip. He took it from her roughly and expertly twisted the cork away from the neck. She was openly crying in desperation, her knees trembled and Duarte could sense her feelings clearly, she felt useless, just as her previous owner had deemed her useless. She bent over the counter and lowered her face. Before Duarte\'s now curious gaze she plucked up a cube of ice in her lips and deposited it into the glass, repeating the process twice more. Then, she just knelt down before him, waiting.

Duarte was surprised, he hadn\'t expected that. He filled the glass with a little amontillado, and took a sip. He walked to the archway, and there turned around. He looked at her expectantly, and with a grateful whimper she crawled after him, a few tears falling from her face. He moved back to the living room and sat down heavily on his couch, sipping his drink. She crawled after him and, without being bid, lay down before him and lifted up his feet, laying them reverently onto her breasts. Duarte looked down at her, staring openly. She stared back at him, a vague plea in her eyes. She wanted to be useful, she wanted to be of use to him. He began to understand her a little, and what had made her so desperate when he turned away.

Duarte drank his amontillado, and set down the glass. He sat there a while, thinking. She said nothing, she just lay under him and casually stroked his feet, holding them against her soft German breasts. Duarte could feel through the soles of his feet that her nipples had become hard little stones.

Duarte then spoke to this girl. He told her in no uncertain terms that he hadn\'t been sure whether to keep her or not, to which she could only bite her lip and nod. He informed her that she was little more then a bitch, a toy to play with at best, and that was the best he could offer, and she agreed wholeheartedly with this. He told her that she could expect nothing more from him, that he was being only charitable. She licked at the soles of his feet and sobbed pitiably, thanking him in broken English as she did. Duarte sighed, and shrugged expansively. After a moment, he told her to stop crying and sobbing, stop her pathetic whimpers, and she shut up obediently though her body still trembled and writhed with emotion.

He closed his eyes to think. Perhaps this year would be memorable after all, and suddenly Lisbon didn\'t seem so stifling. He would stay for the festivals, and then perhaps head somewhere a little cooler for a while. He needed that, he needed to cool himself inside and out after the white heat of the summer. He told this to his girl underfoot and she could only agree, for it was no more than her place. He fumbled in his pocket for his cigarettes. At least, he surmised, he wouldn\'t have to look far for an ashtray now.