Emmelia (2/2)

Urban fantasy romance. A man meets an odd artist-hippie girl in Barcelona. Then things get stranger. There aren't many actual sex scenes. Part 2/2

We didn't go far. Emmelia led me through a maze of narrow streets into the depths of El Raval, so different from the bustling Las Ramblas. These were old, cobblestone alleys, lit by the warm glow of street lamps that cast long, dancing shadows. The sounds of the city faded away, replaced by the quiet hum of nocturnal Barcelona. I held her hand, her small, paint-stained fingers fitting perfectly into mine.

"Be careful," she warned as we navigated a particularly dark patch. "There are potholes. Però sóc acostumat, I walk barefoot all the time. The stones, they know me."

I watched her feet, thin and delicate yet moving with such confidence on the uneven surface. She moved through the dark like a cat, her body fluid and sure, while I stumbled in my expensive leather shoes. She never stumbled or slipped up.

"Aquí." We stood before an old, dilapidated house – but a still inhabited one, there was light in the tall windows. "¡A lo más alto!" she said. "My studio is in the attic. The stairs here are steep, ho sento."

When we reached the top, I had to stand for a while and catch my breath. Emmelia, on the other hand, looked fresh as if she hadn't just run up eight long flights of stairs. She unlocked the only door on the landing with a key from her pocket and, with a theatrical flourish, threw it open.

"Benvingut al meu món."

Her studio, her world... it was chaos, but the most beautiful chaos imaginable. The large room was steeply sloped on both sides, its peak nearly two stories high. There were canvases everywhere – on easels, leaning against walls, stacked carefully in corners. The room smelled strongly of oil paint, turpentine, weed, tobacco, and something else, something wild and elemental that I could only attribute to her. Paintings in various stages of completion were scattered about – a breathtaking study of a stormy sky, a portrait of a woman with piercing eyes, a surreal landscape with floating islands. This is where she lived and worked.

There was a mattress on the floor, covered with a mess of colorful blankets and pillows, and a small, low table with two chairs. On the table, there were empty wine bottles and coffee cups, an ashtray overflowing with cigarette and joint butts, and a few dirty plates. A mini-kitchen in the corner. A single naked bulb hung from a cord, casting a warm, intimate glow over the scene.

It was exactly what I expected. And more than I expected.

"Beautiful," I said, and I meant it.

"És clar!" she said proudly. Then she threw her clothes to the floor. Right, she didn't wear panties either. "First dibs on the shower!" And she hurried to the shower stall at the far end.

I followed her with my eyes. The shower was more of a partitioned corner, surrounded only by a translucent plastic that hid nothing. She didn't bother to close it behind her; I was watching her silhouette under the running water. She sang something, a low, throaty Catalan tune, and then, for a minute, all noise ceased as she washed her hair – a quick rinse, no shampoo, just with water. Then she was out.

I was mesmerized. She was beautiful. Slender and firm, her tattooed skin seemed to have a glow of its own, even under the dim light. She looked both a slender teenager and much older at the same time, more like a timeless entity that had witnessed centuries. But the smile on her face was still a playful girl's one.

"Your turn, cavaller," she said, drying herself with a rough towel and throwing another at me. "And don't forget to get naked while you're at it. It's more... comfortable to sleep, no?"

My clothes joined hers on the floor. When I emerged, I found her lying on the mattress, naked, exposed before the floor-to-ceiling window, not caring about possible eyes in the windows across the street. She propped herself up on her elbow, her hair still damp and tousled, a sly smile on her lips. Her soles were still black.

"What are you thinking?" she asked as I sat on the edge of the mattress, suddenly unsure of what to dare next. My cock, though, had no doubts about it.

"You are beautiful," I said, looking at her. "And... shit! Condoms!"

"Forget them!" She wrapped my neck with both thin arms and pulled me to the mattress, on top of her.

"But... What if..."

"No et preocupis. Tot anirà bé," she whispered.

Everything will be okay.

I stopped thinking.

***

We kissed passionately, pressing our naked bodies against each other. I squeezed and crushed her in my arms, and she did not yield to me in strength. It was a wild and passionate kiss that tasted of wine and marijuana, and I wanted to get deep into her so much that it hurt. Emmelia pulled away slightly, breathing heavily.

"You're a good kisser," she said. "I feel how much you wanted this. I wanted it, too."

"I want you so much," I admitted.

"Bé. Then show me how much."

No more talk. Our hands explored each other's bodies, a frenzy of touch and taste. Her hips bucked against me with a primal rhythm. Then I took her. We didn't waste any more of our energies with foreplay: we were both ready from the dinner and the climb up the stairs. My cock, already hard, found her opening without any guidance. And... I have to admit, that girl, that hippie artist girl, the one I met on Las Ramblas this morning, took me with ease, sighing something in Catalan, her nails dug into my shoulders. She was unbelievably wet and open.

"You are... wow," I said as I pushed deep.

"Tu també," Emmelia's hips started to move under mine.

It felt incredibly natural and incredibly right. My cock was sliding in her with ease, rubbing against her tightening inner walls, and our movements soon found a perfect harmony. Her legs wrapped around my waist. I grabbed her shoulders. We did not care to talk or to caress; our common focus was to get deeper, closer. I looked at her face, but her eyes were closed; her head was thrown back; a look of pure bliss on her face. I'd never seen such total abandon. And I loved it.

"Bé... bé..." she whispered as our motions got faster, our skins slapping against each other's and the mattress creaking underneath us. Her moans were getting longer, her breathing hoarser.

"Vine... Vine, Daniel... Avant... Avant," her whispering became louder as her body shuddered in a spasm of a powerful orgasm. Her walls convulsed around my dick, and that drove me crazy, too. I thrust a few more times – hard and deep – before exploding inside her. I cried out something unintelligible and just let go. My whole body, the whole world, the whole universe went in a flash of a single, powerful, blinding white explosion behind my eyelids. I collapsed onto her, my head on her heaving chest. She held me tight. I'd never experienced anything like this.

When I came to my senses, lying on my back, she was humming under her breath by my side.

"Mmm," I whispered, looking at her with a question.

"És boní." She reached my chest and began caressing it with her thin fingers. "I needed it so much. Catch your breath, and we'll do it again."

"What? Melia, I love you, but I just can't..."

She laughed.

"Tú puedes, y lo harás."

Her hand slid down to my crotch, still soaked with her juices, and I felt my cock hardening again under her touch.

Our second time was slower. No more frantic thrusts; it was long and languid, her body moving beneath me in waves of delight. She rode me as well, her feet planted on either side of my hips, her head thrown back, her small breasts bouncing. Then she tensed and gave out a hoarse cry, while I held her tightly in my arms, feeling her convulsions deep in her core. Then I entered her from behind, gripping her hips, pulling her onto me, watching her back arch and hearing her gasp in sync with my thrusts. Each position was a discovery, a new landscape of pleasure.

"You feel so different from the others," I said later, when we were lying together, her head resting on my stomach. "Especial. How do you do this?"

"It's a complicated story." She turned on her stomach, propping her chin on my belly, her gaze fixed on mine. The look in her dark, deep-set eyes was no longer playful or sly, but more intense, as if she was studying me, reading the lines of my soul. "But you are already living it through. Would you like to know it all?"

I bated my breath.

"Yes."

She smiled. "But you'll have to pay for it. You know, there were those putes sagrades in ancient Greece, the Aphrodite's priestesses. You had to fuck them if you wanted something from the Goddess. You must offer me the same tribute if you want to hear my story. I'll be telling you only while you'll be fucking me."

I looked at her in disbelief.

"Is it a long story? I'm not sure if I..."

She put her palm on my lips. I kissed it. "On the third time, you are ready. Tú podrás. Enter me. Slowly. Slowly... Ohhh..."

And she told me her story, interrupted by moans and occasional convulsions.

***

You know, Daniel, I was not always called Emmelia. But I was always about the same, like that, a wild noia jove who liked to draw, to kiss boys, and to run barefoot across fields and through old towns. My parents did not care too much. One day, I've set out on a trip to Delphi. It was too attractive a bargain to pass up. I was only sixteen. So there I was, this boho kid, walking among the ancient ruins, my sketchbook filling up with drawings... I liked it very much there. And I got my tattoo. The one on my shoulder. See it?

(Oh, sí... See me... See how I am shaking... Move a little faster...)

That's the crazy part of the story, Daniel. It was a hot day. I walked down the street where houses alternated with ancient ruins, and I saw that sign, ΤΑΤΟΥΑΖ. I already had a few tattoos, so I thought it'd be fun to get one more from the trip. I entered. It was a small room, and the tattoo artist was a mature, even elderly woman. Strange, oi? It's usually a job for young people. She didn't ask me anything, she just looked at me and said: "Finally, you're here. Let's sit down and get started." I thought she said that. I'm no Greek expert, though.

Her tattoo gun was so ancient, oi? It buzzed so softly, with a strange, musical hum. And the pain... it was sweet, not the usual sting. And the ink she used... I don't know what was in it, but as she drew the lines on my shoulder, something flowed into me. Like a current of warm honey filling up my veins, you know? Something very old and very powerful. It was like a memory... not mine, but one that now belonged to me.

She was drawing so fast. The straight Greek key pattern, the spirals... And the name in Greek letters. ΕΜΜΕΛΙΑ. She put it right in the center of the design. When she was done, she didn't put any bandage on it. Just blew on it. The skin cooled instantly. Then she took my hand and led me to the door. She said, "Να είσαι καλά, Εμμέλια." I only learned later what it meant: "Be well, Emmelia."

(I'm getting so close... I'm almost there... I'm almost there... Deixa'm anar, deixa'm anar... Let me go... Estic...

She breathed fast for several moments, then continued.)

"It's not my name," I said.

"It's yours now."

The ancient Greek letters spelling my name, ΕΜΜΕΛΙΑ, veus? The drawing on my skin is supposed to be an ancient magic diagram, she told me, that turns me into someone divine. I thought she said that.

And that very night, something happened. My body changed. I was no longer... normal. I could not contain my energy. And I had this vivid dream of the Pythia, the Oracle of Delphi. In the dream, she told me that I am chosen to be the tenth Muse now, a new one that the old gods made to guard over painting and drawing. She told me my womb will not bring children anymore, but ideas. Inspirations for new masterpieces, for myself and others. She told me that my purpose, my destiny is to create new things every day... and for this, to be impregnated daily, every day by a new man.

(Impregnated! Oh! That is such a strange word, oi? Don't you think? But that's how it is.)

Two days later, I was back in Barcelona. I took out my old pictures, and I started to paint. It was... it was like I was possessed by another spirit. The pictures were so... so alive. People wanted to buy them. A lot. The money was good, so I was able to rent this studio and live my bohemian life. I was happy. But the inspiration... it ran out. After a few weeks. That's when I understood what my dream meant. No inspiration equals no creation, entendre? And there is only one specific way I can refill it, you know?

(The last piece, Daniel... The final push... Make me come again, and I will be yours...)

I've done it hundreds of times since then. Each day is a new man, a new story, a new baby of art. I don't know these men beforehand, not really. Maybe I've seen them on the street, maybe they just passed by. Not all of them were nice. But the sex must be a surprise, an unknown territory. Like my paintings, each one is a journey into a new world. And the next morning, the inspiration comes back, flowing through me like a river. I take my brush and the canvas, and it paints itself.

Aaahhh... Daniel...

***

We both could not hold it up anymore, and at last we collapsed, our bodies tangled, sticky, and spent. There was no more talking for a long while. I lay on the mattress, Emmelia's warm, naked body draped over my chest, her hair a wild halo around my face. I could still smell her – the wild, elemental scent of weed, and paint, and sweat, and sex. The room was a mess of discarded clothes and scattered art supplies. Outside, the city of Barcelona was sleeping, or maybe it was just beginning to wake up again, but in here, in this little attic studio, it felt like we were the only two people in the world.

I was trying to process it all. A Muse. A real, literal Muse. And she had chosen me. Or rather, my cock had been the chosen one for the night. This was... madness. Beautiful, sweet, erotic madness. The rational part of me, the consultant from Malmö, was screaming in protest. This was impossible. But the evidence was warm and breathing in my arms, her skin still flushed from our lovemaking, her inner thighs slick with my seed.

And she was so... casual about it. As if she'd just told me she was a baker and needed flour to make bread.

"Bona nit..." She rubbed her face against my chest.

"Good night..."

I slept like a log, and my dreams were a mix of Emmelia – in them, she was naked on Barcelona streets, strolling and painting – and ancient Greek temples. I woke up from her lips on my neck and her fingers on my cock, and we had two more rounds of primal sex before the morning light made its way into the studio.

***

The morning was as strange as the night. I was expecting awkwardness, maybe a hasty goodbye, an exchange of promises with a polite but firm understanding that this was a one-time thing. Instead, she acted as if we'd been sharing this attic for years. She hummed while making coffee in her tiny kitchen, the rich aroma mingling with the persistent scent of turpentine and paint.

"T'agrada?" she asked, handing me a chipped mug of strong, bitter coffee. "Do you like the coffee?"

"It's perfect, gràcies."

She sat on the floor, cross-legged, at the end of the mattress. She took a sip from her own mug, her gaze thoughtful. "You'll remember last night, oi? The story I told you. It's real, tot veritat."

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

"The story is told now," she continued. "L'oferta, you know... it has been paid." She winked at me. "So you're free to go whenever you want. No obligation. You've done your service to the gods, and you've done it bé."

I stared at her, my own coffee forgotten in my hands.

"Could I... Will I see you again?"

She shrugged. "Why not? You are a nice man, Daniel. I won't bear your paintings anymore, but I'd love to hang out sometime, i follar, just for fun, too." She smirked.

I returned her smirk. "I suppose you have dozens of men orbiting you that way. Considering your lifestyle."

"¡Pues claro, cómo no!"

We laughed and kissed, for one last time.

***

I went back to my job and my usual routine, but it wasn't easy. After that night and this morning, the world seemed to have lost some of its color. I found a drawing course and started taking lessons, which went surprisingly well and easily for me, since I'd never been able to draw anything more than a stick figure.

Even before my "Old Guitarist on the Beach" has arrived, I've got a message from Emmelia. A photo of the painting. In the same vibrant Emmelia's style, it depicted a couple dancing. A naked, slender hippie girl with hair flying to the sides was being passionately lifted and spun in the air by a strong, handsome man. They were surrounded by darkness, but they themselves, along with the floor beneath their feet, seemed to emit light.

And a small message. "Your baby arrived. És teu."

I didn't think twice. I replied, "I'm buying it. How much? Just give me your account details."

"Daniel! Sempre el professional!" I could almost hear her giggling. "Three hundred, as usual."

And she gave me her account.

Fortunately, my job required me to take regular business trips to Spain in general and Barcelona in particular, so it wasn't our last meeting with Emmelia. But that's another story, to be told another time.