Sex and the Stranger. Justine Elyot

needed to be immaculate, as in order to conceive she would have to have sex almost immediately before her wedding night and somehow conceal from Tom the fact that she had already surrendered her supposedly sacred virginity.

      Yet she was nothing if not determined. Her choice was made and her plans laid. To celebrate the final days of freedom she would choose a weekend of riding in La Mancha, sat astride the magnificent Spanish palominos, which would allow for a tear-stained explanation of how she had come to ruin her hymen while providing the perfect excuse to visit a rather different destination, the villa of Vicente da Silva near Valdepenas.

      Da Silva was perfect, a brilliant, fiery writer during his early years in Cuba and Central America, a man who’d fought time and again for what he believed in. He was also a composer, an athlete and, if rumour was to be believed, a dedicated lothario. Now in his seventies, he had spent the past two decades living the life of a recluse, alone in a great, decaying mansion surrounded by vineyards and olive groves, at least if the information she’d gleaned from the internet was accurate.

      Amelie had no doubts at all of her ability to seduce him. A man was a man, and she had taught herself well, always ready to take in what would arouse a male, to the point at which she’d made more than one frustrated admirer come in his pants without so much as touching him. Da Silva would be no different, and if his age was a trifle off-putting, then it would be a sacrifice well worth making.

      She would stay with him for a week, carefully timed to give herself the best chance of conceiving, then leave as suddenly and mysteriously as she had arrived. A day of riding and she would have the horsey photographs she needed to show Tom when she returned to England, now pregnant with the great man’s child. Only she would ever know.

      Everything went smoothly. Tom fussed a little when she told him she was going to Spain, but he soon gave in, as usual. The night before she left she allowed him to come in his hand as she knelt naked on the bed, then made him promise to behave himself while she was away and not to get up to any mischief on his stag night, a night in the pub with a handful of old friends. There was worship in his eyes as he swore he’d never so much as look at another woman, and Amelie had no reason to doubt his word.

      The flight to Spain and journey south in a hired car were uneventful, although Amelie could feel her tension growing with each passing mile. La Mancha was as she had imagined it, and seen it in pictures, a great open plain baked brown by the sun and giving way to more broken country in the south, where da Silva’s villa stood in a secluded valley. It took a while to be certain she had the right house, but she was sure of the man disporting himself in a great weather-beaten wickerwork chair. He’d been twenty years younger in the most recent photograph she’d been able to find. His famous mane of black hair had turned to silver and his lean body showed his seventy years, but the set of his limbs still spoke of confidence and strength, while his eyes burnt bright with intelligence.

      Amelie watched for a while to get over her nervousness and just in case there was anybody else about, but the only sound was the hum of cicadas and the occasional call of a bird among the vines behind the house. Finally she stepped through the tall gateposts and up the short drive to where the great man was taking his rest in his chair. He saw her, looked up and said something in Spanish. Amelie put a finger to her lips and with a single motion shrugged the loose cotton dress that was her only garment from her shoulders. It fell away in a puddle of pure white cloth to leave her nude, her breasts exposed to his eyes, and her belly, with just the faint down of her hair concealing her virgin cunt.

      His eyes went wide and again he spoke, but again Amelie put her finger to her lips, motioning him to silence as she stepped forwards, naked and ready. All he had on was a pair of sun-bleached shorts, the hems ragged and the crotch showing a conspicuous bulge. Amelie knelt down and reached out, taking hold of his cock through his shorts and massaging him gently, making her intentions even more obvious than before. He took a moment to respond and then his hand came out and made tentative contact with her back. She didn’t resist, and his hand slipped lower, first to her hip and then to the turn of her bottom.