#3036: Ordino, Andorra
Original photo: @housecatstudio_fabian
Seeking peace in the quiet village of Ordino, a woman finds more than just solitude among the mountains—she finds Ferran, a grounded, intoxicating man who turns her escape into an unforgettable sensual retreat. Sometimes, the calmest places awaken the wildest desires.
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Transcript
Ordino amazed me from the moment I arrived. Towering mountains stood like ancient sentinels, their jagged edges softened by scattered pine trees that perfumed the air with something crisp and sweet. I inhaled deeply, already feeling lighter, though I couldn’t have known just how much I would leave behind.
Barcelona had worn me down—deadlines, constant motion, the endless noise of city life. I came to this quiet village to reclaim something: a sense of self, a breath of calm. I had no itinerary. Just a longing for stillness, for peace, and for a few nights of uninterrupted rest.
The hotel was tucked at the village’s edge, small and unassuming. My room overlooked a rushing river, the sound of water slapping stone a soft balm to my nerves. It was peaceful, but I knew I needed more than quiet. I needed to feel something again.
That first evening, I wandered the cobbled streets and eventually found myself drawn to the Casa d'Areny-Plandolit, a grand historic mansion surrounded by elegantly kept gardens. Inside, every creak of the floorboards and whisper of antique drapery spoke of stories—love, betrayal, time passing in hushed reverence. The late sunlight streamed through tall windows and flickered through the trees, golden and soft.
That’s when I saw him.
Beneath an orange tree, partly cloaked in shadow, stood a man. He looked like he belonged to another time—dark curls, sun-warmed skin, white shirt clinging damply to his chest as he clipped branches overhead. Light filtered through the leaves, catching in his hair and illuminating him like a figure from a dream.
He noticed me watching. I smiled. He reached up, plucked an orange from the tree, and tossed it to me. I caught it by reflex. It was warm in my hands, sun-kissed and fragrant with citrus.
We walked together through the gardens, his presence quiet but grounding. He told me about the estate, its history, its lingering ghosts. I listened, but my attention drifted to him—the roll of his sleeves, the way his forearms moved with each gesture, the sweat glistening at his brow. The silence between us grew heavier with something unspoken.
As the sun began to slip behind the mountains, the garden dipped into shadow. Our steps slowed. He glanced toward the path leading back to the village but paused. A soft invitation followed—an offer of something homemade and warming, just a small indulgence before walking me back.
I accepted without hesitation.
He led me through a narrow grove to a small cabin nestled at the estate’s edge. Inside, the space was intimate: one open room with rough wooden beams, a wide window, a bed in the corner. He poured us each a glass of amber-orange liqueur. It smelled like citrus and sunlight.
As we sipped, I spoke of city life, the weight I’d carried for far too long. He listened, eyes steady, hand eventually resting over mine—strong, warm, assured. The touch was simple, but it shifted something in me. I leaned in and kissed him.
It started soft, exploratory. But quickly deepened. Our mouths opened to one another, tongues sliding, breath catching. I pulled him closer, hunger mounting. His hands slipped beneath my shirt, and I moaned as his touch sparked against my skin.
He led me to the bed, but I stopped him before he could guide me down. Instead, I turned him gently, pushed him onto the mattress, and watched him fall back with a smile.
He understood immediately.
I undressed slowly, letting my dress drop to the floor, then my bra, then panties. I stood bare before him, entirely exposed—and completely in control. I instructed him silently, with a look, and he obeyed, holding still.
I touched myself in front of him. Slow, deliberate strokes over my nipples, down my stomach, to the aching heat between my legs. My fingers circled my clit as I moaned, watching him struggle to stay still. His cock twitched, his breath shallow, restrained.
The tension was intoxicating.
When the teasing became unbearable—for both of us—I found a condom, opened it, and rolled it over his thick, ready cock. His eyes never left mine. Still silent. Still aching.
I straddled him, guiding him into me with one slow, deep thrust. The stretch filled me perfectly. My body clenched around him, pleasure blooming as I began to move. Every motion sent ripples of heat through my core. He held my hips, then reached for my breasts, worshipping me with his hands.
I allowed him to moan now, and he did—low and desperate. Our rhythm grew faster. Harder. I leaned forward, pressing my body to his as he thrust up into me. My climax built like fire rising, until it broke open, flooding me with warmth and shaking release.
He came just after, clutching me tightly, gasping as his body trembled beneath mine.
We stayed that way—entangled, skin against skin, the world falling away.
The days that followed blurred into something soft and golden. We worked in the gardens together. Shared long mornings, easy silences, and tender afternoons tangled in sheets. I hadn’t come to Ordino seeking romance or desire—but I found both. Or rather, they found me.
When it came time to leave, I felt the weight of departure in my chest. Still, I carried something with me. Not just the peace I’d hoped for, but a memory that burned bright—a man, a moment, a quiet kind of passion etched into the stillness.
And it was enough.