I sat, cross-legged, before a pond of water lilies, into which flowed a gentle cascade of water. I had closed my eyes, listening to the gurgling music. I aligned my spine, slowed and deepened my breathing, centred my mind, and let the energy of the place enter my soul.

I had found the quiet square ideal for the practice of yoga. I had performed the postures of the dog, the cat, the eagle and the crane, and once in tune with my body and I had decided to meditate. It was a perfect oasis of calm.

She touched me gently on the shoulder, whispered “Hola” into my ear, and drew me out from my reverie. We sat side by side on the low stone wall that fringed the pond, and she spoke to me, excitedly, breathlessly, as she is want to do. It was a mixture of French and Spanish with a smattering of Catalan, for she speaks all three, but I only the former, so comprehension was at times elusive.

She had offered to provide me with a visit of the university, a handsome symmetrical structure hewn from stone and erected centuries ago, in a time when buildings were meant to last forever. She took me by the hand and guided me into the vaulted interior. She showed me the step on the staircase where she had slept for three weeks during a prolonged student protest. I looked at statues of wise men long forgotten, saw portraits of rectors of lore. In a private ante-chamber she pulled me towards her, stretched upwards on her toes and beckoned me to kiss her upon the lips. Her mouth was full and open and moist and inviting, her tongue darting into mine, the kiss overflowing with the promise of more to come.

Tugging me onwards, she walked me through arcades lined with fine glass windows and massive doors of old oak, studded with bronze, flanked by pillars of marble and crowned with arches gilded in gold leaf. She kissed me again, impatiently, infused with desire, pressing her body close to mine. I felt my hand slide down the smooth fabric of her summer dress, following the curve of her back and then the curves of her buttocks. We looked out over a courtyard, graced with a fountain, where students relaxed on stone benches and chatted peacefully. She told me we were in the mathematics wing, bastion of rationality, where logic and reason ruled, and then took me to the opposing wing. Here we were in the domain of languages and literature, of poetry and dreams and irrationality, where words and sentiments could flow unencumbered by Cartesian rigour.

We entered the library, where walls of bookcases stretched into the distance and rose to the high ceilings, filled with books as ancient as the stones themselves. She smiled at me over her shoulder, and I admired her slight frame, a tender gazelle and I a mature stag. The halls were filled with desks and students, reading, writing, all very concentrated, oblivious to the storm brewing in their midsts.

She beckoned me up a narrow spiral staircase, I matched her echoing steps, gazing upwards at her smooth thighs, during our slow circular ascent. More ancient books awaited at the summit, a tiny desk with an imposing view where she used to work not so long ago. I followed her into another great chamber, where split-levels had been installed, dividing the space into multiple floors. As I walked over the steel grill, I realized that anyone looking upwards would clearly see up her dress. She simply winked at me.

I hadn’t been in Spain very long, but the Spanish women struck me as altogether more alluring than the French. Perhaps I was just intoxicated by the foreignness of it all. I grasped her hand and drew her towards me, kissed her slowly, then ran my fingers down her thighs, lifted up her dress and hooked the band of her panties. I slowly slid them down her legs, extricated them from her heels and stowed them in my pocket. They were quite wet, and I was quite hard.

I bade her to browse the collection, as I descended a floor, wandering through the bookshelves, listening acutely for her footsteps, then finally finding her again. I gazed upwards at her firm white cheeks, fixated. She bent down, providing me with an unadulterated view of her sex, and showed me the title of the book she was reading. The Marquis de Sade. She ran a finger between her lips and then down between her legs and deep inside herself. It was all I could do not to explode right there, furtively glancing around me.

We met in the staircase, kissed like volcanoes, fucked like earthquakes. I hitched her leg onto my hip and took her hard, then turned her around and took her harder. When we heard the sounds of steps we hurriedly ceased, barely enough time to button up before a group of students glided past, a glint in their eyes.

We went to the garden, a perfect paradise, all winding paths and palm trees and hidden fountains. We sat upon a wooden bench, shuddering with aftershocks. We kissed passionately, her hand repeatedly fell past my throbbing erection. I slid my hand under her dress, slipped a finger into her vagina, and then another into her anus. Her eyes flew wide and she gasped “Madre mia”.

Time was against us, for she had another class to teach, a young lad of 10 years old, I doubt he would be receiving quite the same attention. I kept her panties, and slipped my hand into their wetness as I rode the metro home.

Suffice to say, slumber did not come easy on that torrid summer night. I writhed in my bed, haunted by visions of summer dresses, young flesh, inviting mouths and wet vaginas, I tossed and turned before finally relieving myself in spasms of agony and pleasure. Undoubtedly a visit to remember.