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Phew, it's finally done. I teased this story some time ago on my profile page. It took a little longer to come to fruition than I expected, but it has been worth it.
Literotica member Middleson contacted me in early July, asking if a story could go missing from the site. It transpired that he was trying to find something he had read years before, with no luck. Like a prize eejit I offered to re-write it for him, based on his memories of the original.
He described a brother and sister with a larger age gap than I've seen before. That concerned me, but otherwise I was hooked on the premise that he laid out for me. He liked the set up in the original story, but felt that the characters lacked depth. So he asked if I could give them a bit of a build up, flesh them out so to speak. And boy, did I ever!
I got wrapped up in their story, in their lives. The narrative reflects that, so if you've come here with your pants down around your ankles -- pull them up again. This is a love story, an homage to a treasured memory, not a spank and yank fuckfest. So please take that into account as you embark on this journey with Mateo and Francesca.
[UPDATE -- Middleson actually tracked down the original story. It was called Fighting My Desire by MaggieSparrow and it has indeed been removed from the site. It is very different to this version, but nevertheless it was fascinating to read it after the fact. Spoiler alert -- Middleson's memory is hopeless ?.]
No1Ukno has been through this with a fine tooth comb as always and left it spick and span. Any errors remain mine alone. Everyone involved in sexual activity is of course, over eighteen.
This has been a labour of love -- I hope you enjoy it. If not, feel free to tell me why. If you do like it please give Middleson a shout out or DM too, as it was all his idea.
Nobston -- August 2021

July 1978
Jorge Martin let his gaze wander towards the distant horizon. The sea was the deepest azure blue that he could remember. The light onshore breeze was teasing up the pristine white caps. They in turn eased across the bay, only to disappear as they broke upon the golden sand of the beach below. His daughter Francesca stirred in his arms. It was a hot day, and she was getting restless. His son Mateo was at his side, scuffing the dry dirt with his shoe. The ten-year-old boy hadn't let go of his hand since they had left the house that morning. It was an unusual display of affection for his quiet, reserved son. But Jorge had welcomed the simple contact. He just wished that his beautiful Maria could have been here with them to enjoy the cooling breeze.
But she lay dead in the hard, dry ground at their feet.
Gone at thirty-one. The light of his life, and shade of his heart. Torn from their little family by a brutal, mystery illness. The doctors in Albufeira had been stumped. They had treated her for pneumonia, but her lungs had still filled up with fluid. They had raced her to a specialist unit in Lisbon, but even there, no answers were found.
Maria, his whole world since he was a callow youth. She had passed away alone in choking agony, while he was stuck on a stinking bus in Coina. When he had finally arrived at the hospital, it was too late, she was gone. Their children had been left with his mother in the village of Punta del Arias, where Jorge had grown up. But she had no phone. So, it was dark before the broiling, rattling coach dumped him back in the village square. The four hours of crying and moaning he had endured as it chugged along, had felt like ten. And that hadn't begun to scratch the surface of his grief.
As he walked the final yards to their modest family home, he began to wonder. What would his life be like now? What did the future hold for him and his children?
Today, in the small, public cemetery, he wondered the same thing. The intervening days had provided no answers, just more darkness, and pain. His mother, Nelinha was helping with the children because Jorge had to work. His boss had told him he could take a morning for the funeral, but that was it. So, he had no time to think or to deal with it. But his subconscious didn't know that. It had been inundated with a maelstrom of powerful emotions. And it was coping by throwing up an endless stream of agonising memories.

July 1967
His job was difficult and dangerous. He was a crane operator. It was better than the physical exertion of laying bricks and digging foundations. But it took all his concentration, all the time. One slip could drop tons of equipment onto his friends and colleagues. One misjudgement could topple the whole thing, hurling him hundreds of feet to the ground.
He had never wanted to do it, hadn't looked for the role at all. He was a simple man, mamak escort good with his hands and with no fear of heights. As a boy, he had climbed trees and scrambled on the rocks and bluffs outside the village. He had walked along the cliff tops to torture his mother. But he was always sure-footed, never anxious. And that one thing that set him apart? Had set his course for the rest of his life.
The hotel building boom of the late 1960s had changed both Jorge's life and that of his entire country forever. Before that, most of the buildings in that part of Portugal had been simple affairs. Brick walls, tiled roofs, easy. Jorge could build them in his sleep. He had earned a deserved reputation for his skill among the builders in his village. Which led to him becoming a foreman when the hotel chains had come seeking their labour.
They wanted concrete monstrosities. Coastal land was at a premium, so the sites were small and the buildings tall. They went up like a child's tower of wooden bricks. Fast was always better than good. If there was a corner, it would be cut if it saved money or time. His friend Jose had been the first to learn the tower crane. He had been taken to Madrid in Spain to be trained. To the men of Punta del Arias, it might as well have been Mars.
When Jose had fallen, Jorge was the one who had climbed up to retrieve him. He had hit his head and was caught on the ladder, two hundred feet above the watching crowd. Jorge had taken some ropes and secured his friend's body, before lowering him to the ground. The onlookers had been stunned at how nimbly he had clambered around while he worked. Jorge had never even heard of a safety line.
Word had got around of his exploits and the next thing he knew he was in Madrid, learning Jose's job. He had travelled there by train. His boss had arranged for him to get a passport. At nineteen, he hadn't even known what that was. He could remember little of the journey since he had been so nervous throughout. But while his papers had been inspected at each stop, he had made it in one piece. The training had lasted a week. Physically it was simple, the controls were responsive and easy to master. But the mathematics?
Jorge had left school at fourteen. His father had been a coal miner and died spewing up black blood when Jorge was a little boy. His mother needed him to work to support them. And he had, willingly. But he was not an educated man. Algebra was like Ancient Greek to him, calculus the same. But mechanics made sense. Angles, weights, and forces. These were the things he understood and figured instinctively on building sites. And now he discovered that they had names. And that he could appreciate them and manipulate them.
The other students toiled over calculations which Jorge performed without conscious thought. The safety limits of the cranes were clear in his mind. Factoring wind, load composition, weights, and distances, he could figure them out instantly. And always got them right, coming out top of his class. His mother would be so proud, he thought.
He was proud of himself too, as he boarded the train for home. He had never compared himself to other people before, had never needed to. But now he had a rare skill, which was valuable. As he found a seat, he was busy making plans for how he would change their lives when he got back to the village.
And then his life was changed by someone else. An angel flew down from heaven and alighted beside him. She sat on the hard wooden seat of the Sevilla Express, barely acknowledging his presence. A cantankerous old biddy pushed past them muttering under her breath.
He returned his gaze to the girl sitting at his side. She was a slim woman, her chestnut hair tied in a severe bun. She had a rosary in her hand, nimble fingers flashing across it. He couldn't see her face, so intent was she on her prayers.
"Miss?" Jorge said, the hesitation obvious in his voice. "Are you alright?"
She paused her dexterous ministrations before looking up at him. Her face awoke something deep within him. He had dated girls from the village. There were always church picnics and fruit picking expeditions when he was younger. Mixed affairs, where adults could chaperone, and teens could mingle. They were fun but frivolous. Jorge's life was about his work, money, and looking after his mother. Or so he had thought.
Because now, as of that instant, those things were no longer a priority for him. They no longer held any interest for Jorge Martin. Because Cupid's arrow had hit him right between the eyes.
The girl looked up at him and her lips twitched in a tentative smile. The sun rose in Jorge's heart, suffusing him with its warmth and wellbeing. His worries and fears melted away, his foolish peacock pride evaporating too. She was beautiful, and she spoke Portuguese.
"Yes, I am a little nervous," she said, her voice light and musical. "I have not travelled by myself before. mamak escort bayan And Albufeira is very far away. I must change trains in Sevilla, but I'm not sure how to do it. My aunt gave me a piece of paper with the details. I was hoping that I would find someone to help me there."
Indicating her beads he said, "I think your prayers may have been answered. My name is Jorge, and I too am travelling to Albufeira. And my father was Spanish so I can speak enough to manage in Sevilla. Would you like to travel with me? It is a long way to talk only with... Jesus, yes?"
"Yes," she laughed, a delicious, addictive tinkle that sent shivers down his spine. "He is quiet today. I don't think he knows the station in Sevilla very well either."
Jorge guffawed. A loud barking laugh that shocked them both. He lowered his head in embarrassment as they both giggled behind their hands.
"Then may I be your saviour, just for today, Miss?" Jorge continued, hoping that this angel had a name to match her beauty, her radiance.
And of course, she did. "I am Maria Antónia Monteiro, pleased to meet you. And you are?"
"But a humble builder my lady," Jorge continued. "Although I have recently acquired the ability to raise great burdens high into the sky. Jorge António da Silva Martin, at your service. With our chance meeting today, I hope that we can share more than a name and a destination."
Maria looked at him, with his strong, tanned face and earnest brown eyes. She had little experience with boys and none at all with men. But her instincts told her that this one could be relied upon. That she should trust him, so she did.
"I would like that, Jorge. I have been dreading this journey for a week and the Lord's silence this morning has not helped. But I should have known that he would guide me true and set me down beside a friend."
Jorge was not religious. He followed the traditions of his world and his family. Not because he believed, but because they did. He was a practical man who relied on his wits and his hands. He had never received outside help from anyone, perhaps because he had never asked for it. When he looked across at Maria, Jorge's heart swelled. He was willing to thank the saints, the mother, and the holy trinity themselves. And poor Jose of course. The friend whose untimely demise had led him to this storied place and time.
Thank you, my friend. As your life has ended, so mine has begun. And if you are up there, put in a good word for me. Help out an old friend in his hour of need. Please?
As the ancient steam train began to chuff and snort its way out of the Atocha station, he began to relax. She was still there, and she was talking to him. Miracle of miracles, she was even listening to him as well.
Thank you, Jose, I will be forever in your debt.
They talked and talked. Maria was from a tiny fishing village, a few miles south of the capital, Lisbon. She had been living with her aunt in Madrid while she was at school. But that was finished, and she was returning home, for the first time since she was a child.
She was fascinating to listen to. She had read books, seen plays and movies. There had even been a television in her aunt's home. She had a portable wireless and loved to listen to music. Songs from across the sea were her constant companions. The Beatles were her favourite, she said.
Jorge was astonished, trying to nod in agreement and mutual interest. There were radios which played music on the building sites where he worked. But he wouldn't know a beetle from a rolling bone. But he was swept away listening to her talk. She knew the history of the Algarve region. She told stories of ancient Spain and Portugal. She talked about wars and England. About the new giants of Russia and America. She told him how the Americans were planning to go to the moon.
Jorge felt so high that he thought he might beat them to it.
She treated him to lunch in the buffet car. For the journey to Madrid, his mother had prepared two bifana for him which he had eaten with a bottle of warm beer. He had never been to a restaurant before. The annual church picnic was the closest reference that he had.
Someone seemed to have placed the contents of the entire cutlery drawer on the table. Jorge began to panic when a waiter arrived and asked what they would like. He was staring at the menu, reading the words, unable to picture the dishes they described.
"Maria," he said, scrambling for an air of calm confidence. "I shall treat you to lunch, in return for the wonderful education you have given me this morning. Perhaps I could ask you to order for me. I do not see my mother's Jardineira on here."
His fervent hope was that she would understand his predicament. That she might take pity on this hapless yokel, saving him from further embarrassment. And as she would until the day she died, Maria Antónia Monteiro read his mind. She smiled escort mamak and ordered seafood paella for them to share. With a cheeky grin, she asked for a white Rioja, chilled if possible. The waiter nodded and strode away.
"Thank you," Jorge said. "I was not confident that I would pick something I would like. If I am going to spend a week's wages, I would hate to make a mistake."
"My ticket includes our lunch, Jorge," she said. "Do not worry about money, my aunt has given me plenty. What better use could there be for it than treating my new friend?"
The food was indescribable. Jorge knew what all the ingredients were, simple things really. But they had been seared and tossed together and cooked with consummate skill. Jorge could not believe that this was food meant for the likes of him. His mother had always kept him fed. Every week she received his father's meagre pension from the coal mining union. Sometimes she might earn a few escudos darning their neighbours' socks and underclothes. More often than not it would be a bottle of wine or a few slices of ham.
The food she made was by necessity, simple. It filled him up and kept him healthy. But it didn't excite his taste buds like this. He was used to eating mechanically as if he was fuelling up a truck. But this? This was an adventure. Every bite held new mysteries and delights. He chewed slowly, luxuriantly. Wishing that every mouthful would last an hour.
And then there was the wine. It was cold, like spring water in the winter. It nipped at his tongue and throat, before soothing his flesh and warming his soul. And throughout it all, he fell deeper and deeper in love with Maria Antónia Monteiro.
Afterwards, they took the wine back to their seats. The waiter had put it in a bucket full of ice, in the summer! They had each sipped from the same glass since he had forgotten to bring his back from lunch. As he had risen to go back for it, Maria had held his arm, saying, "No, we shall share."
And thus, had begun their life together. Maria had come to live in the village that summer. She had taken a job teaching at the elementary school. She lived in the convent up on the hill, but she didn't take the nuns' lessons to heart. By Christmas, she was pregnant with Mateo. The day she told him, Jorge had proposed. His mother had given him her engagement ring. She said his father would have approved.
They were married only a few weeks later, on New Year's Day 1968.

February 1978
Jorge looked down at the headstone at his feet. It hardly seemed real to see her name and dates there. That was his Maria, from whom he had never been parted even for a day. Ever since that fateful moment on the Sevilla Express in the long, hot summer of 1967.
But now she was gone. She had left him bereft, despite the precious gift of their wonderful children. Francesca was too young to understand. Much like Jorge had been when his own father had passed. But for the boy, this horror was all too real. His Mama was gone, and she was never coming back from that wooden box in the cold, hard ground.
His father was still here though, with his tanned skin and rough hands. But he was not a real part of his life. Jorge left for work before dawn every morning. He rarely returned before the children were asleep. He would join them at church on Sunday but was always tired in the afternoon. When his boy yearned for but a moment of his father's time.
I must change that, Maria. I must find a way to be there for them. Does your friend from the train have any advice? I don't know how to contact him.
With a short bitter laugh, Jorge António da Silva Monteiro Martin turned on his heel. There were no answers here. He would continue to work and rely on his mother to look after his babes. It was all he could do, he knew nothing else. Cranes and lifts and concrete. What use were they to a lonely little boy and a crying angel? With a leaden heart, he led his son back towards town, humming to Francesca as she whimpered in his arms.

July 1978
When salvation came it wasn't from above, rather the exact opposite. Down under to be precise. Jorge's boss's boss needed a crane operator, for a big opportunity on the other side of the world. Someone to train other men to do what he did, faster, safer, and better than anyone else. They needed a teacher, and they wanted him.
There was a boomtown out there somewhere. A place where buildings couldn't be put up quickly enough. Where skills were valued more than history or personal baggage. A place where lives could be changed, and where dreams could come true.
When Jorge had explained the offer to his mother, she had shaken her head. His heart sank, as his hopes and dreams of a better future for Mateo and Francesca went up in smoke. But she looked up into his crestfallen face she was chuckling.
"Jorge my boy," she said in her dry, gravelly voice. "When you married that beautiful girl, who Jesus sent you on that train, I rejoiced. But nothing changed. When first Mateo and then Francesca came along, my heart soared again. Surely, I thought, this will be when it happens. But no, my wonderful son and his beautiful family stayed at my side. Stuck in the shithole that is Punta del Arias."