Roula arrived recently in a neighborhood with automobile workshops.
Her full name, Roula Sideri, according to her ID card.
Roula with her blond hair and her fine shaped legs. Roula, with her mannerisms and charm, changed the atmosphere in the shop-floor, one of motor oils and dirt, of daily wages, of an immature youth and far away voyages. She walked and her every step troubled the lads. Her grace numbed their body parts. She had inherited her charm and a pair of diamond earrings, as well as her name, from her Vyssiotissa grandma. The latter irritated adorable Mr. Socrates, her husband. It reminded him that 15 years of marriage were not enough to tame the wild woman of his life.
Roula and Mr. Socrates differed in age by a mere 30 years. As a police sergeant in the village, he seduced her, or so he thought, and made her his at the age of 15. He wasn't aware that Roula had already made a vow since she became 12 to escape from the village in every possible way, with a teacher, a career military, a policeman or a miller, that would be merely a detail.
They wondered around the prefectures of Thrace and Eastern Macedonia where he got transferred, also matching some of Roula’s dazzling love affairs.
She became swiftly /span>familiar, and even more speedily she built relationships. The age difference with Mr. Socrates proved disastrous in their wedding. Panting heavily, he permanently followed her in her whims and tantrums. He was continuously indebted to her.
Lately he owed her, he’s been saying, a new automobile. Roula visited the workshops in the area and got increasingly irritated. Until that Saturday.
As soon as she entered the store she saw him.
- The boss is out.
My Gosh, what a gorgeous lad! What a pair of legs, and his eyes, to tear you apart.
- Your teeny-weeny name, please.
- Lakis.
- My Gosh, why Lakis, it’s Triantafyllos.
- What would the Lady desire?
He looked at her intensely and stampeded like a horse.
All of Roula’s candy parts kept rolling over.
Juicy like a fresh peach, he thought.
Maybe owing to the heat, maybe as a result of solitude. He fancied her and she’s been nailing him with her eyes.
She fluttered her eyelids and responded with lust.
- The oil cooler's leakin' again...
- I see. Everything in under control. What else for are we the expert? Are we gonna wait for the boss?
- No need. You’re just fine.
You’re much more than just fine, she thought.
Lakis bent over the cooler and she enjoyed looking at his legs and buttocks.
Some follow-up unnecessary visits to the workshop took place until that last one, when Lakis was absent from the site. She looked disturbed.
The boss says,
- Mrs Roula, did you want anything? Something wrong?
- Yeah... no, you’re too busy, I gotta go.
Where to?
-I’ll come over another day...
- As you wish, Mrs. Roula.
Roula walked towards the asphalt road, ready to throw herself to the wheels of the passing vehicles. An abysmal despair.
Roula, you got screwed big time, seems to me.
Keep cool.
Absorbed in her thoughts she saw, she felt a wave of breeze and a bulk at her side, stopping along with the breeze.
It was Lakis riding his horse. And what a horse this is, an Africa Twin, and him, as an African too, with black shorts and a lava heat surrounding the rider and his motor.
Roula froze into stone.
Do what next? Adore him, hug him, chew him, what?
It seemed her gaze looked more than inviting and stayed quite expressive, because, how can anyone explain Lakis’s overall courtesy about a ride.
The answer remains unspecified.
Her body took again the initiative and she moved behind him.
Her skirt pulled higher, her legs hugged the seat firmly, and with her arms she gripped him on his waist. She leaned her body onto his, initially from lust and the desire to become one, and then from the thrust of the motor spurt. Her bosom obstructed him, it kept her at a distance, but with a little nudging, he glued himself as an oyster onto her.
The sound of the engine, and the wobbling shook her guts. The breeze brought to her the smell of gas, of sweat, of after-shave and saltiness.
Her body vanished. Lakis, the motorcycle and her had turned into an air stream.
A flirtatious wind, a powerful wind, a blazing wind, a fierce wind.
A flaming accelerating mass they had become. A mass moving out of bounds. The constraints were gone. There was only one dimension left, a straight line - and they almost became one with it. Their speed and momentum obliterated the volumes.
The light of the April sun flashed in the mirror and it was there that Roula looked at him. She saw his gaze. He turned, and kissed her. When exactly did it happen? She hasn't realized. Did she simply watch it in the mirror? Or did he actually turn around and offered her his lips in a swift kiss, like the wind.
-We arrived. Shall you get off?
Go where to? She had become someone else. A daughter of the wind. It wasn’t Roula anymore. Roula of flabby Mr. Socrates. She was Roula of the African. Roula with the experience of a 750 cc and a 22 year old rider with crimson lips, goldenblond hair, free and untamed just like his own "Queen".