The warm, exciting atmosphere of Mexico gave Angela a very big appetite-for men, wine and song. The musicians playing in the hotel where free-spirited and wild. Each had a strong sexual appeal, which made Angela tingle.
Juan and his friends were practicing for their evening performance in the large but empty dance hall. Angela was wearing high cut shorts with a halter top. The music excited her. Juan followed her into the curtained section of the hall. He grabbed her tits out of the halter and began to suck on her nipples. She pulled his large manhood out of his pants.
An idea occurred to her-she wanted to fuck him in front of the other musicians. She pushed away the curtain and pulled him on top of her. They began to fuck wildly. Each of the other players had huge hard-ons. They began to quicken the tempo to the music as Angela and Juan screwed harder and harder. Her cunt bubbled with delight as the drums and cymbals trembled. Juan began to murmur something in Spanish-his climax was as powerful as the music!
CHAPTER ONE
Ben and Angela Brinkman, unhappily married couple, scrunched down in their seats on the Boeing 707 flying them to Mexico City with the airline, Aeronaves de Mexico, all bullfight-bright with sexy Mexican stewardesses and all the wild colors of that sun-drenched land splashing in their faces from the decor and the ambience and the syllables of the stewardess asking them, "Would the Senor and Senora like another cocktail before dinner?"
They would.
"Two tequila margaritas," Ben said, his boyish tenor complete with a quaver of uncertainty, almost betraying a hint of fear, a feeling of fright. "Is that okay with you, Angela?"
Angela gave him the barest of glances, no more than a tenth of a second, and said, her liquid soprano languid with indifference, "Yes, dear, that will be fine."
The stewardess smiled, her white teeth gleaming as if simonized. She was a tall, well-busted Mexican girl whose Spanish birthright showed in her high cheekbones and finely sculptured features, her olive-dark skin and glittering brown eyes, her well-manicured hands with their slender pianist-practiced fingers, her luxurious black hair as discreetly tucked into her stewardess cap as her magnificent body was subtly concealed beneath the trim and tapered folds of her uniform.
As she walked down the aisle to satisfy the Brinkmans' liquid requests, Ben watched her buttocks jiggle, almost in tune to unheard mariachi music, shifting from side to side like the waves on a hurricane-menaced sea. He told himself, That's very nice, she's just a little too friendly, it seems to me. I don't know, maybe all Mexicans are that way, so the tour brochures tell me ... maybe she's just being natural ... but it seems more like a personal than professional interest that she has in me ... she's been like this all through the flight ... I don't know, maybe I'm just imagining things.
He turned to look at his wife, who had resumed the position she had assumed since takeoff an hour or so ago. A straight-ahead staring at the seat in front of her position, a mood of almost complete indifference to her husband, a near-catatonic state of trance-like unconcern. There was only Ben to observe this: His wife sat on his right, he occupied the aisle seat, and the window seat was empty.
He kept looking at her, and thinking, Wow, she is really such a beautiful girl. I hope this Mexican vacation works out. I just can't take a divorce. I don't want to lose her. Why, we've only been married for two years ... it's just got to work out for us, that's all.
Angela Brinkman was five-four, a blue-eyed blonde who carried her 115 pounds with all the pulchritude necessary to garner wolf whistles wherever she would go. Her breasts, as prominent and projecting as a pair of Buick bumper guards, were 34B, her waist a trim 21 (add one to that number and you had her age), and her juicy cantaloupe-shaped buttocks bounced in at 35. Skin the color of cold cream, Doris Day cute-type features that artfully concealed the clever and calculating mind behind the pretty face, eyes the color of the Caribbean Sea, Beatle bangs over her forehead while the rest of her beige-gold hair fell loosely halfway down her shoulders ... those were but a few of the reasons that Ben loved her dearly (except for his job, which he now realized he loved just a little bit more than his wife).
He thought, She looks so sexy in that silver-black pantsuit ... the way it wrinkles right between her legs ... no one would ever guess that we haven't made it together for months.
He instinctively moved his hand to her lap; it slipped between her legs. She was not addicted to either bra or panties, and he could feel the thickness of her beautiful blonde bush, the fleshy folds of her outer lips-he could almost imagine his cock slipping into that tight little vagina of hers, as it was once allowed to do so often that he was then almost convinced that she was a sex-starved nymphomaniac.
But that was then, and now was now. For she gave him no response, just sat and stared, moving not a muscle, not changing her blank expression one iota.
He withdrew his hand. He thought, I hope this Mexican trip works out. Mr. Waywright seemed so sure that it would. I sure hope he's right.
Richard Waywright was the Accounting Manager at the multi-million dollar corporation where Ben Brinkman worked as an accountant. Located on New York's Fifth Avenue, in the upper 50s, the company had a policy that varied little from most other corporations in the country-bluntly stated, to get ahead you've got to produce, to produce you've got to put in plenty of hours, to put in plenty of hours means you might have to give everything else second shift and devote prime time to the corporation.
Ben Brinkman knew this, not so much from what he observed but more from what he was told. Waywright made sure that Ben was informed of what was expected from him in Waywright's department. Waywright had made sure of that ever since he saw Angela Brinkman at an office party over a year ago, and decided that if any girl was the girl for him, she was, and he was going to get her for himself someday.
But Richard Waywright, forty-ish bachelor, suave and sophisticated, was not about to start an affair with the wife of a company employee. Promotions worked both ways; he could really get his ass in trouble playing around with an employee's wife, for the corporation frowned on such things as that. No, he thought, better to break up the Brinkmans first, then come on as the older man that Ben Brinkman is not ... the experienced man who knows how to handle a younger woman ... especially a younger woman who needs strong, assured handling and occasional rough treatment that she is not getting from her present spouse.
Waywright had analyzed Angela correctly. He understood the reasons for her occasional flashes of temper, her sometimes bitchy moods, her comments to Ben that often began with "Dear, I want...." He knew his Freud and Adler and Jung and Ellis and the sado-masochism duality of the female-her type of female especially-and the concept of the flagellation complex. Yes, he knew that Angela needed some tough treatment, both mentally and physically, to straighten out her psyche so that she would be the perfect companion for him. And she would make a good corporation wife too, he thought ... When I finish with her, she'll be practically saluting me ... she'll do exactly what I tell her, come on as a sophisticated company wife in the presence of the executives ... maybe I'll even have her work out on the president or the chairman, to make sure I've got something to hold over their heads ... yes, I believe Angela is just the girl for me ... as soon as she legally sheds her husband....
And he congratulated himself on the expedient of suggesting Mexico as the country for the Brinkmans to vacation in ... assuaging Ben's fears by mentioning that Ben had really been working too hard and putting in too many hours for his health ... telling Ben that he needed a vacation for himself and his wife (Ben had already talked over his problems several times with his boss, so Waywright knew the exact situation of their marriage) ... pointing out that Mexico was such a romantic, charming land.
"Yes, Ben," he said in that confident baritone, with Johnny Carson timing, "Mexico is such a romantic place to take your wife. I've been there many times myself. I can recommend several hotels, various tours, many points of interest ... no, don't thank me, it's my pleasure to help out one of our most trusted employees. Yes, I think it's the best solution to your problem, and that when the two of you return to New York, everything should be nicely taken care of. Yes, of course ... good-bye, Ben ... good luck, Ben ... my best of wishes for a happy marriage...."
Yes ... romantic. And also ... a country of machismo.
That was especially why Waywright had recommended a Mexican vacation. Once Mrs. Brinkman had been exposed to the brutal power of machismo, she would be easy handling for him upon her return. He thought, Dr. Waywright prescribes a strong dose of machismo brutality and Acapulco romance ... that will bring Angela into my bed better than anything else.
Machismo, by definition, is the cult of excessive masculinity that is found, to some if not all extent, in all the Spanish and Spanish-derived cultures, and Mexico is one country that is a prime practitioner of this philosophy. It is part of the same extremism that makes many Spanish men regard a woman as either a virgin or a whore, with no gradations of any kind in between those two positions. It is implemented, rather than described, by such incidents as: a husband shooting his wife because she "looked at another man"; a husband killing another man because he spoke to his girl "in a compromising manner"; a male lover physically assaulting his female partner with almost deSadian methods just to show her "who is in charge"; a man who shouts at the top of his voice, dresses in the loudest clothes possible, tells his woman off in public, and challenges any male within a mile to a fight with whatever weapons he chooses. Those are prime examples of machismo in action.
As, smiled Waywright, the Brinkmans will soon discover for themselves what lies below the sunny surface romanticism of Mexico ... especially lovable little Angela.
"Here are your cocktails, Senor and Senora Brinkman."
The stewardess had returned with their margaritas on a tray. Angela scarcely glanced up, while Ben smiled his gratitude and said, "Gracias," as the stewardess handed one cocktail to Angela-Angela had not even bothered to pick the drink from the tray, so what else could the stewardess do?-and Ben reached for his drink, the tray dipping closer and closer.
Splash!
The drink spilled over Ben, right onto his pants, the heady mixture of Triple Sec and tequila and lemon and salt-rimmed glass soaking into his crotch, wetting both his shorts and his penis, which began to erect. Ben's penis often became erect during embarrassing situations, and this was a prime example of one of those situations.
The stewardess smiled for just a brief second; then, her expression changed into a flush of embarrassment, as she said, apologetically, "Senor, I am so sorry! Please forgive me!" Then, almost as an afterthought, she added, "If Senor Brinkman will please come with me to the galley, I will apply some spot remover myself. If that does not work, we will be happy to reimburse you for the cost of cleaning your clothes. Again, I am sorry. I am ashamed for being so clumsy. I cannot apologize enough to the Senor and Senora Brinkman for my foolish action."
The Senora Brinkman gave a brief shrug, and said, in a tone of studied indifference, "Yes, dear, I think you should do what the stewardess suggests. Though I didn't have any trouble picking up my drink...." Then, she sipped her cocktail, and again turned her attention to the seat in front of her.
The stewardess again smiled, her white teeth gleaming as brilliantly as lightning in a dark sky. Her eyes turned warm rays toward Ben, as she scrutinized him again, this time more closely, and more calculatingly, than when she had first spotted him in his seat, at the beginning of the trip, and he had appeared to be the innocent American tourist who was in need of some expert Mexicana tutelage.
She guessed him to be in his mid-20s-he was 26-and a nice, halfway-bumbling sort of fellow who did seem just a bit conservative (what accountant isn't?), especially wearing that dark and somber suit, which almost offended her sense of Mexican colors. His hair was brown, a sort of autumn and nut-brown, slightly thinning but worn in an Ivy League cut, shaped close to the skull and combed straight to the side from his left-hand part. She took him for about five-nine and no more than 150, but was pleased to notice his broad, sloping shoulders that appeared muscular enough to almost break through his tight-fitting suit and button-down shirt. His eyes were almost as brown as hers, though his were set deeper into a high sloping forehead below thin trimmed eyebrows. His nose, she thought, was so rounded that it looked as if it belonged on a circus clown; so, too, were his ears. But she liked the pencil mustache that he wore above his thin, twitching lips; it reminded her of Marlon Brando in a movie role, the title of which she had forgotten. In sum, she liked his looks, thought that he could be sexually responsive if sufficiently prodded, and had a particularly adventurous plan that she wished to try out on him (she knew her men, and she had taken plenty of chances with strange men before; the odds, she thought, were sufficiently in her favor for the fun she had in mind).
"Oh, you're still a little wet!" she said, before Ben could say anything. "Let me wipe you off the best I can...."
She pulled out a clean white handkerchief, and proceeded to pat his crotch in quick, deft strokes ... quick and deft enough to feel his growing erection between her kneading fingers. Her expression did not change as she tweaked his cock a couple of times; she was pleased to notice that he almost jumped out of his seat the first time, but that the second time she touched him he only fidgeted slightly ... and the third time his face framed itself into an expression that seemed to say, "I don't know what this is all about, but I'm willing to find out."
"Thank you, Senorita," he said, the words tumbling out in a sigh, almost of relief. "Yes, let's see what we can do about drying me off. Back at the galley, you say?"
So she had said, and so she led him there. One of the four stewardesses was still in the front section of the plane; the other two were dawdling in the galley, engaging in trivialities when the two approached. They immediately exchanged knowing glances, as if to say, "Well, our star seducer is at it again. I wonder how she will handle this one?"
The stewardess spoke to the other two in Spanish, and they produced a bottle of spot remover. She gave it to Ben, pointed at a vacant lavatory, and said, "Perhaps Senor Brinkman would like to freshen up?"
"Huh ... oh, yes, of course," Ben said, opening the door and entering the lavatory.
What happened next was one of the most surprising incidents that had ever occurred in his well-ordered, almost depressingly humdrum, life of facts and figures.
Fact: before he could close the door, she insinuated her way inside, and quickly locked the door.
Figure: she pressed her voluptuous body against his, causing him to drop the bottle of spot remover into the sink, while her passionate lips pressed against his with all the force of sliding doors closing on each other, her well-trained tongue snaking into his amazed mouth and tangling tongues with him as her teeth slowly sketched some bite-size patterns upon his upper lip.
He tried to back away, but she pushed him up against the wall, flattening his back like a bookmark, as her mouth pressed hard against his like a lovely moving weight and her deft fingers unzipped his fly....
And there it was, now exposed to the pressurized air in the lavatory ... his long lean cock, erect as a steel rod, its tip red from the pressure it had been getting, its foreskin almost all peeled back like a banana.
Abruptly, she stopped kissing him, and he began to catch his breath. Long enough to think, Why this girl's a nymphomaniac, I've never had a girl attack me like this before ... what does she want from me ... oh, whatever it is, it feels so good ... it's been so long since I've had some good loving ... 50 long....
Long enough to say, in slightly startled tones, "Excuse me, but just what is it you want from me, Senorita?"
A rhetorical question, that ... if not a superfluous one as well.
The stewardess was paying no attention to his mouth now. Rather, she was paying plenty of attention to her mouth and his cock, which were now interconnected, the latter halfway inside the former. She was simultaneously licking and sucking his very extended penis, which she estimated was close to seven, if not eight, inches; she thought, Another example of proof for my theory, the leaner the man, the meaner his instrument ... oh, I can feel this monstrously long piece of equipment sliding so sweetly into my throat ... a few drops of his seed are already seeping out ... oh, Virgen de la Macarena, what a delicious sword this is, carving its way into my throat ... and into my heart....
Suddenly, Ben began to come alive, to realize exactly what he was participating in. Her mouth on his cock was ever so professional, ever so personal ... and it had been such a long, long time....
He grabbed at her head, knocking her stewardess's cap onto the floor. Her hair was bound up into a bun, a thick black mountain of hair; so, hairpin by hairpin, he pulled them loose from that thick black cap of hair until her ebony mane was swinging loose over her shoulders and almost all the way to her waist. He ran his hands through her free-swinging hair now, exulting in the softness and sheen of her tresses, tenderly touching her ears and squeezing the back of her neck....
But she suddenly broke loose, leaving his cock jutting forward like a drawn gun. She stood up now, and unzipped her skirt, stepping out of it as swiftly as a bird flies. She tried to drop her panties as well, but she seemed to encounter difficulties; she was so excited, so wet inside that her vaginal juices were leaking out in sufficient volume that it caused her panties to stick to her skin.
Irritated, if not enraged, she raked the offending white fabric with her fingernails, and tore the panties right from her flesh. Some patches of blotched skin and a few drops of blood were left behind, but no matter, she thought, Now I am free and ready for action!
Her vagina was throbbing so hard that the outer lips, almost the size of a baby's hands, appeared to be moving of their own accord, as if she had a mouth between her legs that was carrying on a conversation. A mouth almost buried beneath a thick, bristly beard not unlike Fidel Castro's, but without his omnipresent cigar, a mouth that had a different kind of cylindrical object in mind to place inside itself.
Ben reached for his pants, but she placed a 'restraining hand on his, and said, "No, please do not bother to undress. I want you now, clothes and all." As she spoke, she moved her pretty pussy into position directly opposite his still-stiff prick, and slowly began to manipulate his cock inside her vagina, inch by inch.
"Before we begin, let's introduce ourselves," he said, in such a matter-of-fact tone that he almost laughed himself when he heard his own voice speaking. "You know my name, I believe, but I don't know yours. What is your name, Senorita ... for the record?"
She paused long enough in her exertions to reply, "Maria. Not the Maria from West Side Story, but Maria from South of the Border." Then she kissed him again, at the same time scratching him behind the ears with those blood-drawing fingernails and manipulating her pelvis so that a few more inches of his cock slid into her vagina.
Now, he was becoming more interesting in making love with this energetic and energizing girl. He placed his hands around her waist, pulling her hard into him, and another few inches of himself slammed inside her until she could feel him almost coming out of her derriere and he could feel the hot pulsating warmth of her vaginal walls slowly enveloping him, a passionate vice pressed hard around his prick until he could feel his juices start to flow ... his cock was like an orange caught in the squeezer ... he was beginning to pump as she continued to hum.
His cock was enveloped in come juice, as her first orgasm started. She arched her back, her face twisted into a torturous expression that combined the pleasure and pain she was seeking into one life-affirming muscular gesture ... her vagina pounded like a hammer against his cock, crying for his release ... her second orgasm started, and she slammed her body hard into his, so hard he could feel the cold steel of the wall pressing against his backbone....
He came ... between her vagina and the lavatory wall, he came ... shooting out great numberless bursts of sperm ... his cock twitching like a dying animal, his hands clutching at her gyrating back ... and the months of frustration and malaise seemed to melt, almost as his cock softened, in her powerful pulsating vagina ... her sweet, swinging vagina that wanted him so badly and sucked his manhood until there was no more, no more drops of juice to strain, no more sperm to squeeze out ... just sweet, blessed relief.
She kissed him again, he returning her passion mouth for mouth, tongue for tongue. Then, she whispered something in his ear that made him feel twenty feet tall ... made him feel like a man again, after those long months of deadly doubt.
She said, "Senor Brinkman ... I am so pleased with you ... because you are ... a very fine fuck...."
CHAPTER TWO
Mexico City is a cosmopolitan, cultured, classy metropolis of more than six million Senors, Senoras, and Senoritas that sits 7,000 feet up in the south-center of the country. It is in the Federal District, the seat of government, and no Mexican calls it Mexico City ... rather, simply Mexico.
The actual downtown area, which can be roughly compared to Times Square in New York, has as its Broadway the Avenida Juarez. For its Upper East Side, located approximately one mile away, there is the Paseo de la Reforma, a magnificent double-laned thoroughfare -lined with trees and populated with some of the smartest-and most expensive-hotels, restaurants, and shops.
For most American visitors to Mexico, there is only one hotel on the Reforma at which to stay ... that is, for those who wish to take America's luxurious living habits with them and who are willing to pay $30 and more a day for that dubious privilege. That hotel is the Continental Hilton ... and all one needs to say about any Hilton Hotel is simply that this is a Hilton Hotel, and that's that.
Naturally, it was the Continental Hilton where Ben Brinkman and bride (used bride for the past two years) were staying on their first evening in Mexico City. A warm, summery evening in late October, with the temperature hovering in the upper 60s. A very romantic night as are most nights in Mexico.
And, as befits an American couple in a foreign country, they were spending this first evening in Mexico in a typically American way.
They were having an argument.
Ben was reclining in a chair, still wearing his suit, but with his tie loosened, his only compromise with casual living. Angela, on the contrary, was bouncing herself upon the bed much like an accomplished gymnast, and she was quite naked, almost shamelessly so, as her delightfully rounded buttocks connected with the bedsprings. Her eyes were dancing, her smile was infectious. And she was feeling the best she had felt in months, since finally she had gotten her husband away from his all-consuming job, and here they were in romantic Mexico on a two-week vacation.
That was why they were having an argument.
It had started an hour ago, when Ben had left her to go to the hotel desk to make some sightseeing arrangements for tomorrow. After half an hour had passed, Angela had become concerned-she did not like to be kept waiting for anyone or anything-and had looked for her husband. She had located him in the manager's office, where he was engaged in a long and engrossing conversation with the night manager, whose English was flawless, concerning a subject quite dear to Ben's heart-that of double-entry bookkeeping. Always the accountant, Ben was discussing a particular item in the liquid assets column when Angela appeared, took quiet note of the proceedings, and proceeded to shuffle her husband back to the room but fast-by the simple expedient of making a play for the assistant manager.
"Angela," Ben said, his voice flat as a window ledge. "I wish you'd remember that Mexico is a very conservative country, and someone might be looking in our window and see you naked. Why don't you pull down the shades?"
Mischievously, her eyes glittering with a touch of the teaser, she replied, "If you're so worried, pull them down yourself. Anyway, I'm on vacation ... even if you aren't!"
"What do you mean by that? Of course I'm on vacation, too."
"Oh, yeah? Call that personal audit of yours with the night manager a vacation? I've spent better vacations in school!"
"We were just discussing a little business...."
"Business? That's your trouble Ben-you can't ever seem to forget business, not even on vacation. Especially a vacation that you promised me would be our second honeymoon."
He frowned, then shook his head. "I guess you're right. I'm sorry...."
She laughed, her voice mocking and ironic, and said, "Well, I'm sorry too." Then, she sat on the edge of the bed, her bounteous breasts just a few feet away from her husband's close-watching eyes-he could not help but notice that her nipples were almost tumescent-and said, her expression suddenly serious, "You know, Ben ... if I can't have my second honeymoon maybe I'll pick up my first divorce instead."
Like window shades on a tight spring, his eyes popped open, and he clasped his hands together as if in prayer. "Divorce? Now, just what brought that up?"
Her mouth pouting, she replied, "Well, we've all heard how easy it is to get a Mexican divorce. Just get a Mexican lawyer, stay in town for a few days, have a judge sign a piece of paper-and that's all there is to it." She threw a pillow at him; he instinctively opened his hands and caught it, and she got up from the bed and climbed on her husband, her dampening pussy pressed against the pillow, her thrusting breasts resting on top, now just inches from his staring eyes and perplexed expression, as she opened her mouth into an "O", breathed on him a few times, and murmured, "If I get a Mexican divorce, I can seduce the assistant manager-you talk business with him, I make love with him." Pause. "Of course ... I don't really need a divorce to seduce him ... do I?" She bounced off her husband, threw on her black negligee-the one with the "V" slit in front that reached right down to her navel-put on a pair of pink slippers, and winked suggestively, saying, "Maybe I'll just pay him a quick visit right now ... I've heard that Mexican men really like to fuck...." Her voice began to rise, an instrument tuning up, each scale sounding higher than the previous one, " ... and I really feel like fucking ... fucking all night long ... and if I can't get it at home ... I'll get it somewhere else...."
Like two notes played on an instrument with intense vibrato, these last two words hovered in the room for several seconds before the sound died away.
Ben, twisting nervously, thought, She's right, she's really right this time ... but it was only a few hours ago that I made it with the stewardess ... I don't know if I can get it up now or not ... and I certainly can't tell her about the stewardess ... not now ... not ever.
Ben was usually a one-time-a-night kind of husband ... twice on rare occasions. Where business was concerned, sex always took a back seat with Ben. That was always his problem.
Angela could see indecision written on his face-and perspiration forming on his forehead. She walked over to him, shaking her ass in the sexiest way possible, and when she reached him, she pulled up her negligee so that her thick blonde bush, damp with desire, was just a few inches from his wide-staring eyes. She purred, "I think I've got a beautiful cunt, Ben ... don't you think I've got a beautiful cunt...." Pause. " ... but first ... wouldn't you like to eat my beautiful cunt...."
She pushed her pussy lips directly over the lips of her husband's mouth, her vaginal hairs intertwining with the hairs of his mustache. It tickled; he sneezed.
She grabbed him by his hair, her fingernails scratching his scalp, and said, "Don't you sneeze in Angela's cunt like that! That's not nice, Ben, not nice to Angela at all. Ben ... kiss and make up ... lick those nasty nose germs out of Angela's beautiful cunt ... please...."
Ben was feeling electrical shock waves pulsating throughout his body ... his penis was now growing stiff and straight ... the musky odor of her vagina was permeating his nostrils, even the very pores of his skin.
His tongue snaked out as if released from a spring, and he dipped deeply into the soft, wet membranes of her vagina, tasting the sweet nectar of her sex, rolling the juices on his tongue and gulping them down like a fast cup of coffee. At the same time, his thin lips, the lips of his mouth, were pressed like suction cups against her thick lips, the lips of her vagina, sucking softly, his hands now gripping the smooth, rounded surfaces of her buttocks.
From her loving cup, her loving vagina, he drank deep draughts of her love liquor, letting the beautiful brew sluice down his thirsty throat. It had been so long ... so, so long.
When he was finished, many long minutes later, she pulled her pussy away, and he licked the last drops from his lips. His hands automatically dropped to his crotch; his cock, like a young adult, was now full grown, ready to strike deep into her vagina.
Amazing, he thought, I'll be making it twice in one evening ... Mexico is turning out OK so far ... maybe this vacation will turn out to be the best thing that's ever happened to me ... maybe our marriage will be saved ... our marriage must be saved.
He stopped thinking. He let instinct take over, as he slowly, meticulously undressed himself. He hung up his jacket and trousers in the closet; yet, uncharacteristically, he allowed his shirt and tie and underclothing to lie right on the floor where they had fallen.
Tripping over the chair, he fell into bed next to his awaiting wife, who had removed her negligee. She grabbed him and kissed him full on the mouth, her long blonde hair covering his face like a yellow-gold shroud, her pliant lips pressing firmly against his, her tiny tongue tickling his. This time he did not sneeze, not even when her Crest-brushed teeth bit into his lower lip and left almost indelible marks thereupon.
They broke their kiss; she climbed on top of him, shoving her vagina over his cock, pushing down hard yet with such an assist from gravity that it was only seconds later when she felt his full length inside her hungry, insatiable mouth that lived between her legs.
She was moaning softly to herself, riding him like a child on a seesaw ... up and down ... down and up ... over and over and over and over.
She felt her orgasm begin, and the waterfall flowed within her ... she covered his face with kisses and blonde hair and blue eyes, her fingernails digging bloodily into his shoulders ... her vagina walls expanded and contracted, squeezing her juice all over his still-stiff penis ... she thrashed in the throes of her orgasm, and cried, "Ben ... come on, Ben ... come ... come with me, Ben ... Ben, you bastard ... fuck me ... fuckmefuckmefuckme...."
Beneath her, he strained, fighting gravity all the way, forcing his sperm to flow. By the time he got himself going, she was just starting her third orgasmic chain reaction, and she was perspiring so much that she almost slid right off him.
He grabbed her buttocks, his fingers pressing deep into her yielding flesh, holding her firmly as an automobile steering wheel. Finally, he exploded, ramming his cock hard and deep into her vagina, until she felt as if he would break right through her ass and come right out her rear, like a pin placed through a butterfly. She moaned incoherently, and clutched her husband even more tightly, squeezing every last drop of sperm that she could washrag-wring from him.
For several more minutes, she continued to lie on top of him. His penis was flaccid now, but it was still buried deep within her, and she loved the feeling that it was still there, soft or not. She mumbled, "Oh ... that was a good fuck ... oh Ben, I'm glad I finally got your mind off business ... oh, I'm so glad we came to Mexico ... oh, Ben, you were beautiful...." Pause. "Ben ... Ben, are you listening ... Ben...."
Her answer was a snore ... slow, steady snoring.
CHAPTER THREE
University City, where Mexico's National University is housed, is located about 15 miles from the center of Mexico City, and is one of the country's top tourist attractions. One reason for this is the architecture-stark, ultramodern, put together from a variety of materials to give it a mosaic appearance. Another reason is the murals-huge, sprawling themes that splash across the buildings like thunderstorms, their passionate colors reflected even more intensely in the hot Mexican sun.
Ben and Angela-he in an electric blue tropical suit, she stuffed into a red minidress that left little of her legs unshown-were wandering around the campus, their guide being one Juan Lopez, a 21-year-old senior at the University majoring in political science and revolution ... political science being his official major, revolution his real goal. , Juan was pobre, a poor boy on scholarship. His temperament was particularly Latin ... clever mind, quick tempers, but plenty of youthful-sometimes startling naive-charm when he wished to turn it on. His clothing was as mod as possible, and he was wearing bell-bottoms and a velour shirt with a high collar. In short, he looked just like a Mexican Beatle-quite like John Lennon, soft brown eyes and un-lined face, mouth set in a sort of permanent pout, movements slow and fluid, black Mexican hair that rivaled a Mexican evening in its essential dark shading, and of course worn with bangs, Beatle style. His favorite record: the Beatles' Revolution. His favorite musical instrument: guitar, not the acoustic of traditional Mexican temperament, but the amplified instrument that the Beatles and other rock groups naturally used. Second only to his revolutionary activities-"Down with this disreputable fascistic unrepresentative government!"-were his sexual ones, for he specialized in converting gringas, especially foreign tourists, to his way of loving as well as politicking, and his loving ways included no small element of good old traditional machismo. All of which, being a part-time guide, he kept concealed until the moment to strike a blow for freedom, sexual and govern mental, was at hand, or so he felt that it was.
He pointed out one mural in particular, his thin forefinger, which he had bitten to the quick in a fit of nervousness (hypersensitivity and hypertension coexisted quite naturally in his psyche, like non-identical twins) the previous evening, gesticulating like a gun. He said with an odd mixture of whine and winsomeness, "That is a mural of Juan O'Gorman, our great artist and patriot." The massive mural he was referring to was a rainbow dream, covering all four sides and ten stories of the library building, which depicted the entire history of Mexican culture. It was, to say the least, most impressive.
They stared for a few minutes, then Ben said, "That's a funny name for a Mexican, O'Gorman." Pause. "Is he Mexican?"
Juan replied, his voice edgy, "Of course, Senor Brinkman. He was the son of an immigrant from Ireland, just like many of your countrymen came from other countries to America."
"Sort of an Irish revolutionary?" asked Angela.
"Yes, exactly," Juan replied, and gave Angela one of his special smiles, the kind that showed the tip of his tongue as it protruded from a place on his lower gums where one of his front teeth was missing (knocked out by a policeman during the 1968 Olympic Games riots).
Juan was standing between them, a few inches in front, and Ben did not notice that Angela suddenly touched his hand with hers. Juan noticed, and touched back, thinking, The Senora's skin is as smooth as a chihuahua puppy, and so warm and feeling for a North Americana lady ... perhaps she is trying to tell me something ... maybe I will return the favor and show her something ... something she will like very much ... something very revolutionary....
Angela thought, Ben still isn't paying enough attention tome ... I'm going to have to shake him up a little more, I can see that ... and maybe Juan may prove willing to help me out ... he seems like such a sensitive, aware young man ... he might be very good in bed ... perhaps it might be fun to see what he can do ... just to worry Ben, of course.
And Ben thought, This is a nice tour so far ... I'll have to give Angela some romance tonight, maybe take her to hear some mariachis ... then give her some attention in bed ... I really think this vacation is doing wonders for us in the romance department ... but right now....
Aloud, he said, "Let's go inside the library. I want to see what books they have on accounting."
Angela's mouth opened in surprise; she cried, "On what?" Then, she stomped her right foot, crying, "Can't you ever get business out of your mind? We're here on vacation! Oh, I don't know what's the matter with you, Ben. All of Mexico to be enjoyed, and you want to look at an accounting book."
"I'll just be a minute, dear."
Juan had remained silent so far, but now, with Mexican politeness, he interjected with, "Senor Brinkman, if you will permit me to offer a suggestion."
"Why ... all right."
"If you wish to look at a few books in the library, why not do so, and in the meantime I will show Senora Brinkman a few more murals? Then we can meet you in the music building a little later, and then we can go to lunch."
Ben checked his watch. It was almost 1:30, and he knew that all meals were late affairs in Mexico. He gave his approval-after clearing it with his wife, who joyfully agreed-and suggested a 2:30 rendezvous in the main lobby of the library. Then, Ben walked toward the library, his shoulders straight and his posture erect, thinking to himself, Well, that was nice of Juan to handle the situation like that ... certainly saved an argument with Angela ... I know I should devote a little more time to her ... I'll start tonight with dinner and music and dancing ... but now to those accounting books....
As they watched Ben disappear, Juan moved his hand behind him, palm upturned, pointing at Angela, a quick deft movement that could be used to scratch his back if she did not make a countermove or....
Angela moved.
She moved both her body and her hand until she was standing just inches away from Juan. Then, she placed her palm in his, and squeezed it gently.
He turned around; their eyes met, his burning brown with residual machismo, hers blazing blue with exuberant passion. With her free hand, she brushed her hair back from her forehead-her bangs were so long they almost covered her eyes-and winked at him, closing first one eye and then the other.
Juan thought, Yes, I think Senora Brinkman will do just fine ... my friends, mi amigos, will be pleased to meet her ... very pleased.
Still holding her hand, he said, "Senora, if I may make another suggestion...."
Her eyes smiled, yes....
"Some friends of mine have a band here at school, a band that plays for dances and concerts. They are studying at the music school, and they usually rehearse most days at this time. If you would like to hear them...."
She would.
Still holding hands, he led her past the library building and a few hundred yards distant, over gently sloping hills covered with fresh green grass, as the Mexican sun warmed them with its caressing beams. Past the cafeteria, where the smell of aromatic Mexican cooking-garlic, spices, refried beans, charcoal broiled steak, even Mexican pizza-permeated their nostrils like a savory breeze. Through the music building, out a back door into an outdoor patio, a cobblestone and mosaic-tile courtyard where, on a wooden stand in one corner of the walled patio-conveniently walled so that activities in the courtyard could not be observed from either outside the walls or inside the building; an overhead helicopter was the only way-several young Mexican men were clustered around the usual instruments, not for Mexican mariachi music but for making loud, amplified rock that could, if all the amplifiers were used, easily out blast a dozen Beatles in sheer volume alone.
On the bass drum was painted, in psychedelic lettering, the name of the band: THE MADMEN, in English; LOS LOCOS, in Spanish. The musicians were dressed from casual to sloppy; bellbottoms, chino shirts, love beads, some scattered Mexican jewelry, and a couple of dashikis. When they saw Juan and Angela, they shouted several cheers in Spanish, then looked Angela up and down and sideways in their typically Mexican fashion-and let out such a chorus of wolf whistles that Angela did not hear the "Click!" of the bolt that Juan drew on the door behind them, thus effectively locking them all inside the courtyard-and locking all others out.
"Buenos dias, amigos!" Juan called cheerfully to the assembled musicians.
"Buenos dias, Juan. Buenos dia, senorita o senora," the musicians replied. One picked up his trumpet and played a few runs of a mariachi melody, with appropriate flourishes ... a romantic, typically Mexican melodic line that made Angela's blood run warm and brought a touch of blushing color to her cheeks.
"May I introduce a lovely lady from America?" Juan said, pointing to Angela, who, feeling in her warm I-love-Mexico (and especially Mexican men) mood, curtsied, her minidress sliding up her thighs so that much, much flesh was exposed. A couple of Mexican wolf whistles-and a few comments about Angela's country, such as "America sucks!" and "Uncle Sam eats shit!" which, fortunately for Angela, were spoken in Spanish-answered her generous gesture.
Juan gave her a lengthy introduction in Spanish, then switched into some Spanish slang that he knew she would not understand. What he said was, "We are going to fuck the living shit out of this American female, for the revolution ... and for fun!" His comments were returned by much shouting and stamping of feet, by wide Mexican sombreros being tossed from one to another, and by a couple of chords on electric bass that boomed out with enough vibrations to shake the walls.
There were a few small wooden tables and chairs in the courtyard. Juan motioned Angela to sit down in one of them, chivalrously wiping off her chair before she settled herself.
"Senora, would you like to try some authentic Mexican tequila? In our country, we usually drink it straight from the bottle."
She smiled, hesitatingly. "Well ... I don't know...."
"It is our way of breaking the ice, as you Americans might say. Like your Indians passing around their peace pipe for all to smoke. It will not hurt you, Senora, that I guarantee. I think you will like it very much."
He casually nudged her knee beneath the table. She nudged him back, just slightly, but strongly enough for him to figure out her meaning. She was thinking, Juan Lopez is a most magnetic and good looking Senor ... he might be fun to spend some time with ... he certainly knows the lay of the land ... let's just see....
She nodded her head. "All right ... Juan ... I'll try some tequila. From the bottle. Provided that you join me, of course."
"Of course." He called for the liquor, then said, "While we are waiting, just sitting and relaxing, would you like to hear some music from my friends here?"
When she nodded approval, her honey hair seeming to float over her shoulders like a yellow colored cloud, he signaled the band to play. At the same time he rubbed kneecaps with her, ever so quickly, and he was pleased to note that she responded in kind. He also noticed that her bright blue eyes were growing warmer; they seemed to be shimmering with heat, like the reflections of the midday sun on a quiet lake.
Ah, Senora, he thought ... if you only knew what we have in store for you today ... you might run away screaming for the policia this very moment ... and then again, you might not ... well, we shall see ... and we shall screw, too ... screw you, gringa.
The band went into a soft Mexican lullaby, mostly bass and guitars, the guitars muted and sensuous in sound, the drummer laying out. The music wafted into Angela's pores like air into her lungs ... it was insinuatingly Mexican, and gave her flashes of hot electric charges throughout her body. She realized then, if she had not before, that it was quite possible to simply get drunk on music alone ... as she had often done with, say, sex. She softly tapped out the time on the table with her fingers; she was beginning to like Mexico very, very much.
The tequila arrived, with a couple of glasses made of Mexican pottery. Juan poured for them, filling both containers. He raised his cup, she did the same. He said, "To Mexico!" and she agreed.
He gulped his tequila down in one long chugalugging motion, his head snapped back and his hair blowing in the slight breeze like laundry hung on a line. She took a long sip of hers.
The fiery liquid burned her throat almost raw. She spit out the remainder in her mouth, the remainder that she had not swallowed, and began to cough. Juan quickly came to her aid, and slapped her on the back, repeatedly, almost in time to the music, which was still being played. He slapped her a little harder than necessary, thinking, this is one way to test her machismo quotient, her American MQ ... and, as she felt the harsh pressure of his hand on her back, she found that she did like its masculine strength and no-nonsense aggressiveness. Nothing at all like Ben, she thought ... he'd always ask permission just to hold my hand ... then she thought of the Beatles tune, "I Want to Hold Your Hand," which for some reason the Mexican music reminded her of ... and she touched Juan's hand with hers, feeling his smooth Mexican skin and its warming clasp ... as his other hand continued to pound at her back until her coughing finally ceased.
"I am sorry, Senora Brinkman, that I did not properly warn you about the tequila. It is not wine, and just because I drink it all down in one gulp does not mean that a foreigner unused to our liquors can do so too. Please accept my apologies. And now, if you would like to try another taste...." He picked up her cup, poured it half full, and handed it to her.
She placed the cup to her lips, sipped a few drops ... feeling the liquor burn her throat again ... but nevertheless, thinking that anything he could do she could do and better, began to chug the fiery liquor, slowly arching her back and tilting her head back, as if in slow motion, letting the cup empty into her guzzling throat. It was like drinking hot water; but, she drank it, breathing hard like a dog that has run several blocks after its master, and turned to face Juan as she put the cup down. Her nostrils were flaring, her eyes were blinking and had a wild, untamed look, as she said, "That was very nice, Juan. I like tequila ... I like Mexico ... and I like you...." She winked seductively. "I feel ... like dancing ... let's dance...."
Juan's returning smile was all her heart desired as he signaled the band to change tunes. This time the drummer joined them, and the jolting strains of the highly rhythmic "Hey, Jude" came blasting out at top volume from their amplifiers. Angela shuddered as the full force of the sound waves hit her small, unprotected body. Then, letting the hard, driving beat of the wildly flailing drummer dig into her, she began to dance.
But ... not before she had filled her cup with more tequila, and gulped at least half of it down. She held the cup while she danced, and that Juan could not help but observe, as he thought. Oh Senora, we are going to have one wild fucking time this afternoon ... fuck you, Angela Brinkman ... I and my friends will fuck you so much that you will come back screaming for seconds and thirds ... oh, baby doll, have we got plans for you.
Juan kicked off his shoes and removed his velour shirt, dropping the shirt on the table, revealing his rippling brown muscles and a heart-shaped tattoo on his left arm muscle that said, in Spanish, J like to fuck. Angela watched him half-strip, and kicked off her own shoes, dancing barefoot on the cobblestones, but feeling no pain whatsoever, as her bare feet skipped over the cobblestones like a ballerina with the Royal Ballet. She flung her arms and swiveled her hips Presley-style, her pelvis going into manic gyrations, her blonde hair streaming out in all directions from her head, her entire body twisting and turning almost spastically ... The combination of tequila, loud music, Mexican sun, and Juan was broiling her brains and beating her body. She was out of it, into a world of sheer sound and sensation ... and the best sensations, she in some way realized, were yet-and soon-to come. As was she....
Juan was dancing at a slower tempo, his body moving like a matador, sizing up the situation, leading the bull that Angela represented in his symbolic logic to her confrontation with machismo power. As he undulated over the cobblestones, he removed his bell-bottoms in a sort of sophisticated strip, never missing a beat or a movement as, within seconds, his pants were off. In another minute, he had done the same with his shorts, discarding them with a casual flick of his wrist ... and now, his semi-erect cock juggling like a policeman's club and his balls bouncing, he was dancing naked and unashamed. Unashamed ... and proud, as he thought of an American cigarette commercial that was running on Mexican TV. He thought, If you've got it, flaunt it ... baby, I've got it ... and you, Senora, are going to get it ... right in your juicy vagina.
Some of the musicians were clapping and shouting, stomping their feet in time to the music ... even dancing slightly on the bandstand themselves, at least shaking their asses in rhythmic provocation. Angela could see, could hear and feel all this, but her comprehension was considerably slowed down by the tequila flowing through her system. What she saw seemed like slide projections flashed against a screen ... click, one slide dropping into place, one scene ... click, another slide, another scene....
Juan waltzed slowly over to her, and, still dancing, touched the zipper on her dress with one hand while holding the dress with the other. She felt him unzip her, felt the cool breeze suddenly waft through the unzipped dress ... then she was bodily lifted right out of her dress, and again deposited on the cobblestones to continue her dance, not missing one step, as Juan draped the red dress-but first waving it at her with a few matador impressions in a humorous vein, which brought a few knowledgeable smiles and some raucous laughter from the musicians-over a chair. And then he resumed his dancing.
And Angela began to finish the strip job herself.
Her hands, moving like the messages of a hula dancer, snaked behind her back and unsnapped her black bra. She waved it in front of Juan like a trophy, then flung it to the ground in front of him, like a gauntlet. She reached for her panties, her black panties, black as Juan's hair, and deftly removed them from her thighs, sliding them down her legs while keeping time with her feet, standing in the same spot yet moving at the same time. In short, she simply stepped out of her panties, and when they were dropped on the cobblestones, she shoved her breasts, her firm projectiles of motherhood unrealized, almost in his face, while moving her pelvis so that her vagina with its downy-soft blonde bush was thrust but a few inches by his ever-stiffening cock. A thrust, an invitation so she felt, as he interpreted.
The musicians roared their approval in Spanish, with such shouts as "Beautiful fucking cunt!" and "Juan sock it to her, baby!" and "Let's all get laid!"
Angela was feeling her vagina becoming wet, feeling her juices beginning to flow ... and, unconsciously, realized that she wanted to fuck. To fuck Juan. Actually, with this feeling running rampant within her ... any reasonably attractive man would do ... even her husband Ben, now looking through those dusty old accounting books in the library, would do ... if he would do it ... or could.
Juan danced closer ... his face a smile of triumph, his eyes mocking and knowing, saying to her that he was going to fuck the living shit out of her. Her eyes responded in kind, daring him to try ... and wishing him success.
He touched her shoulder ... and she felt a jolt of electricity flow through her body, her nerve ends tingling with released excitement. He ran his hands down her back, stopping at the cheeks of her ass, squeezing her buttocks hard enough to leave fingerprints. Still dancing ... the two of them ... together.
She reached down and grabbed his cock, placing the tip between her thumb and forefinger, gripping it like a club. It was completely erect now, and a good seven, if not eight, inches long, swinging Mexican meat. When she touched the hole in its tip, he felt shivers of anticipated pleasure dart through him, and thought ... Ah, Senora, I will show you how the Mexicans fuck so beautifully .'. . I will let you know that we do things the machismo way in my country ... I will fuck you so rough and tough that you will scream in your sleep, scream soundlessly, for more.
She drew his cock to her vagina. His cock tip touched her vagina lips, and the electricity flowed from one to the other, in perfect coordination and complete comprehension. She wanted him, he wanted her ... and the musicians, suddenly stopping the music for the few seconds it took them to shout out a heartfelt "Ole!" sensed this communication also.
Again, back to the music, the drummer especially louder than ever, dropping bombs and slamming down a harsh backbeat on his snare and tom-toms ... the bassist throbbing with power and passion ... the guitarists getting into wah-wah, fuzztone, and reverb with the pounding, malevolent sock-in-the-chops of the Rolling Stones.
Juan's cock penetrated Angela's vagina ... just an inch, but he could feel her vagina lips opening, being peeled back to receive the member that signified his manhood. She could feel the elongated tip of his cock pressing inside her, slowly making its laborious way up the long tunnel that was her vagina, touching her every membrane and her wetness with his dry, driving, hardedge cock. She could feel her liquid begin to flow, that wonderful wetness that she desired so much ... feel it flowing like a river as his cock stabbed and jabbed into her, as the rocking raucous music encircled her and pounded its hard-driving beat into her every membrane as Juan pounded his hard-driving cock also.
Juan could feel his sperm rising, his cock becoming stiffer and stiffer as it touched the very mouth of her womb. He, too, felt the music pounding into his senses, electrifying his psyche as she was, turning his nerve ends into sensitive receivers of the sexual impulse. He could feel her orgasm beginning, as her body trembled and vibrated as if she were being electrocuted, while her vagina lips closed upon his cock like a vise.
He slammed his mouth against hers, shoving his tongue deep inside that orifice, reaming the roof of her mouth as her tongue clashed with his. Her orgasm was coming hot and fast, and he could feel that his cock was drenched with her come ... her fingernails were digging deeply into the skin on his back ... her lips were locked onto his, ever so tightly.
She came so violently that she almost knocked his cock right out of her vagina. He responded by firing his rounds in short, spastic spurts, like emptying the firing chamber of a revolver shot by shot. His sperm sprayed the inside of her vagina, and he could feel her receive the jolt as she clutched him even harder than before. She was perceiving-not so much thinking as perceiving, receiving his manhood into her womanhood-that he was much better than Ben, much stronger and longer, and that she liked, she liked that so much that she intended to stay in Mexico for as long as she could and really get to know and understand that lovely, sad, romantic country through Juan, through Juan who was fucking all the sexual spirit of Mexican machismo through her.
Meanwhile he was perceiving that this gringa was a goddamn good fuck, a fine fuck, a fantastically fine fuck right here in this courtyard in front of the band still playing, still blasting away, and in front of anyone else who might be watching-if anyone else was watching, which was doubtful. He might offer his services to her as a guide, so to speak, in the after-hours as well as during daylight. Ah, he thought, think what sights I can show the Senora while her estupido husband is tending to his business, his silly accounting and ledgers. I can really introduce her to the real Mexico, where a man is a man and not someone who quivers and shivers every time a woman hikes her skirts. I shall fuck her and fuck her until she is ready to exchange her citizenship for my country ... my fucked-up country with its rotten repressive government ... maybe I can even use her to further our holy revolution and overthrow that government of PRI Party pigs ... maybe I can even get her to make me some money by helping me smuggle marijuana, that lovely weed, out of the country and into America for some very large amounts of dinero that will enable my comrades to continue the struggle ... viva la revolucion ... viva la cunta Angela!
The band stopped playing.
They stopped, because they had become so engrossed in the sexual tango spread out before them that they could no longer concentrate on their music. Besides, most of them were getting erections, and they wished to do something about that enjoyable fact. So they stood on the bandstand, instruments put away, watching Juan and Angela continue the dance of love, oblivious to their hot burning eyes and soundless music as they fucked and fucked until both were ready to collapse.
Finally, Juan pulled his cock free from Angela, and, now observing his friends and the way they were watching the coupled couple, grinned as he thought of what they wanted and motioned them to come forward. They moved toward Angela, stripping themselves as they walked, dropping articles of clothing on the cobblestones as they came, until by the time they were there they too were naked. Angela was still spinning, top-like, by herself, her blonde hair swinging in the breeze, so sexually engrossed that she did not notice the musicians take her by the hands and lead her to the bandstand where, behind the drums and between the guitars, they took her at their pleasure while Juan stood still in the courtyard, watching and smiling as he dressed.
Their pleasure involved a multi-sexual attack upon every orifice of Angela's body. As she lay behind the drums, on her side, she felt a long and limber cock enter her vagina from the front and, at the same time, another equally strong male member push roughly through her rear entrance. The rear jab hurt, and she jumped, which only pushed her vagina forward and, in effect, her vagina swallowed the cock of the man in front, which made the man in back drive that much harder until his quivering cock was jammed deeply in her asshole. She tried to scream, but that was impossible-not with another cock jammed into her mouth so deeply it was touching her throat and roughly pushing her tongue against the floor of her mouth. Had she been able to scream, she would not have heard herself, for two other cocks were engaged in entering her by the ears. Another two cocks were even fucking her under the arms, two more were involved in making it with her toes, and yet two more were being clutched fiercely in each of her hands. She was being fucked in several different places simultaneously, as Mexican cock after Mexican cock rammed into every opening that was available, and her glowing eyes, unseeing with the sexual light shining from them like lighthouse beacons guiding ships at sea, burned with insatiable desire and arousement as she barely perceived that she was being group-fucked as she had never been group-fucked before ... and she liked it, loved it, wanted more and more and more of it!
She came and came like an erupting volcano that has an inexhaustible surplus of lava buried deep within its crater. The Mexicans came and came as if they had never fucked an American gringa before ... which, in a few cases, was true. They came all over her until her body was wet and sticky with sperm, and the smell of male seed was like a stench of tropical plants that had started rotting. Her body convulsed and twisted under the multileveled attack of the musicians, until she became nothing more than an unthinking fucking machine, her body giving and receiving pleasure and nothing more, her brain numbed by this sudden and totally satisfying exposure to the sexual syndrome of Mexico.
When the musicians were finished with her, they removed their cocks from her orifices, bringing hot water, soap, and towels with which to wash her off. They dressed her, and brought her some hot Mexican coffee to drink. The steaming brown liquid burned her throat, and brought her benumbed brain back to reality. The musicians had also dressed, and it was Juan himself who combed her hair as she reapplied her makeup, until the scene was exactly as it had been when the two of them had entered the courtyard.
So it was that Juan and Angela were calmly sitting in the courtyard, drinking coffee, when Ben Brinkman returned. The musicians had left a few minutes before, and there was no trace of evidence to inform Ben what had taken place in his absence.
As he spotted them sitting together, chastely separated by an acceptable distance, he said, delivering his lines like a straight man, "Well, did you have a good time together?"
CHAPTER FOUR
Senor Ricardo Sanchez sat in his air-conditioned office on the Paseo de la Reforma, a few blocks from Chapultepec Park, dressed in the conservative dark suit of a Mexican businessman and musing about his operations that were working very successfully and bringing much money into the family coffers for the betterment of all the Sanchezes-and especially Senor Ricardo.
The Sanchez family was one of Mexico's older families, having been descended-so the family tree proclaimed-directly from Cortez, the conqueror of Mexico, himself, as a son of Hernando Cortez was believed to have married a daughter of Armando Sanchez, and thus started one of Mexico's most illustrious families.
Illustrious enough-and intelligent enough-to usually find itself on the right side of whatever government was running Mexico at the moment. A family cooperative enough to count El Presidente as a friend to be called upon, as he did them, when needed-and calculated enough to make sure that they were paid off, and plenty, for whatever services were rendered.
Now, Ricardo was running the family business, which earned in the millions of pesos annually from a variety of sources. Investments in the Mexican petroleum and electrical monopolies were some of the sources of the Sanchez family income, as were imports. Imports was a euphemism for smuggling, and the smuggling that was done consisted of about 99 percent marijuana shipments to America, where the wild weed of Mexico would earn for the Sanchez family a considerable sum and bring much happiness to its users-unless they were busted, which was, of course, no concern of the Sanchez family.
Ricardo's office was tastefully furnished in Mexican modern, with the bright abstracts of several leading Mexican muralists adorning the walls. He especially enjoyed looking at his bullfight painting, which showed an overeager matador getting ready to be gored by the bull-right in the ass. Done in brilliant reds and yellows, with a sobering touch of earth brown, it was his favorite painting because it had a subtle message-if you want to fuck around with someone who is bigger and stronger than you, make sure that you and not he is doing the fucking.
He glanced out the window. His office over looked the Reforma, and he watched the bustling noontime crowds for a few minutes. Many American tourists, he thought, many more American tourists this season ... more money for Mexico, more money for Sanchez ... I can always tell the first-time tourist, he is the one who is walking with his wife into the Hilton across the street, carrying some cheap gimcrack that proclaims MADE IN MEXICO. El estupido!
Ricardo Sanchez was in his mid-forties, and had the classical face of a Spanish grandee, with elongated oval features and thick black hair slicked straight back and revealing a pencil mustache beneath slightly thickened lips. His eyes were deepset above his slanted nose, brown and luminous but unblinking and emanating an unshakable authority, the appraising eyes of a man who is used to getting what he wants without any arguments from anyone about the matter. He was not overly tall, just barely five-eight, and his weight was proportional with the exception of a slightly thickened midriff, which he kept concealed by hand-tailored suits with a built-in girdle around the waist. He always stood straight and erect, his broadened shoulders and solid legs giving him the appearance of a sophisticated football lineman, perhaps guard or end, who had become successful in some kind of non-athletic business.
He stared at the bullfight painting again, his eyes narrowing and a smile creeping onto his lips. The painting was done in oil on velvet, a technique that was much favored in Mexico, and had the richness of a tapestry. It reminded him of someone getting fucked-which, in turn, reminded him of the lovely blonde lady that he had spotted a few days ago coming out of the Hilton with her husband, or so he assumed, who had immediately caught his eye as he was watching the crowds. He had a fondness for lovely blonde ladies-despite the demands of his wife, Ramona, who had born him three lovely children and who was as handsomely Mexican as himself and a perfect mother and wife-for, the exotic pull of opposites always attracted him. The blonder the lady, the better he liked her and, with her Beatle bangs and long flowing hair, Angela Brinkman was to be next on Senor Sanchez's list of conquests. For the Senor had immediately dispatched some of his most trusted assistants to compile a dossier on the lady, and that they had done with their usual efficiency. The Senor was already thinking of ways to introduce himself to her, and he was certain that there would be no trouble, once that simple matter was accomplished.
He was also, in his own way, religious. Religious, in a peculiarly Mexican way of being religious.
For Mexico is perhaps the most basically anti-Catholic country of all the Catholic countries south of the border. Mexico once underwent a religious war, in which many priests and nuns were killed until the Church and the government came to a truce, and religion was de-emphasized and removed from influence over the state. Freedom of, as well as from, religion was written into a new Constitution, resulting in members of religious orders being forbidden to appear in church garb on the public streets and the average Mexican middleclass man-not the women, who remained attached to their God and his adornments, nor the majority of peasants, who clung to their simple superstitions by the blessing of blind faith-giving lip service and superficial observance to religion, but in reality living his life as if God was not only dead, but had never existed.
Senor Ricardo Sanchez had a crucifix on his wall, directly over his desk. A visitor could observe it easily, and the Senor could always swing his chair around if he wished to take in its piety also. But, it was a different kind of crucifix, for it showed not Christ but the Virgin Mary secured upon the two crossed poles of wood.
Senor Sanchez worshipped the pure, unsullied virginity of the Virgin Mary in his own slightly mad Mexican manner.
He always hired, for his own personal secretary, a girl by the name of Maria (the Spanish version of Mary). That was one qualification; the second was that she was a virgin, and was to remain so while in his employ. Should she lose her maidenhead-and the Senor had enough spies to make sure that he would know almost at that very instant of some Mexican male's cock penetrating her sweet vagina-she would be discharged, and blackballed with every other employer in town, at once.
So, Ricardo Sanchez, thinking of Angela Brinkman, suddenly realized that it was time for his cock break, and summoned his secretary Maria for that purpose.
Not coffee break. No, nothing so banal as that.
But cock break. That was what he liked to do when he needed a few minutes rest and relaxation.
Maria arrived.
She was petite, a trifle plump, with thick black hair parted in the middle and tied in a bun at the nape of her neck. Her face was round and friendly, her smile warm and natural, her eyes brown and innocent. For a small girl, she had big breasts, big enough to need the support of a strong suction-cup bra, for they announced her arrival seconds before she actually came into sight. The rest of her body was fine, her legs slender and tapered, though her thighs were a little thick.
But Senor Sanchez did not concern himself with her thighs. It was her mouth he wanted, her thick-lipped, sensuous mouth, with its appealing cleft and clear white teeth and sensitive pink tongue that knew just what to do and how to do it.
"Yes, Senor Sanchez?" she said, her voice a clear contralto of eagerness to please.
"It is time for my cock break, Maria. If you please...."
"Of course, Senor. Do you want the full treatment, or just the mouth?"
"The full treatment, Maria. Gracias." His voice a smooth, almost syrupy baritone, with the soft sibilant S of the Spanish word making him sound like a hissing, sensuous snake.
Maria, who was wearing a chiffon white blouse and a navy blue skirt, began to remove her blouse. But, she was suddenly stopped by a stern look from her employer-stern enough to remind her to close and lock the door, and to pull the drapes over the windows before she again began to unbutton her blouse. She laid the blouse, along with her black bra, on his desk, and stood before him with her breasts elongated, curved like mortar shells with long taut nipples pointing at him like bullets.
He swiveled his chair to the side of his desk, but still beneath his Virgin Mary crucifix, and she knelt down and unzipped his fly. His cock she pulled out next, gently touching the tip; it was already beginning to become erect, the tip looking like a giant mushroom ready to be devoured. She massaged his cock gently with the tips of her fingers, as a pianist might tune up with a piano, and he began to feel shivers of delight spreading throughout his manly frame.
Now it was nearly half-erect, and she placed her tongue right on the tip, and began to lick his cock. Slowly, with the touch of the professional, deftly and delicately, she licked him from tip to base, in long soft strokes as a child might suck a lollipop. With every touch of her tongue, he straightened his back as if he was having posture problems, flexing his muscles as the sexual current flowed through them. As Maria continued to lick ... and lick ... and lick....
"Maria ... the hair, if you please," he reminded her.
Still licking, she untied her hair, until it hung like a curtain halfway down her back and, falling also over her face and cheeks, touched his cock like a silken brush. When her hair touched his cock, he felt even more hot flashes of pleasure burn through him.
She began now to suck his cock.
She placed her hands at the base, and slowly, her mouth opening full like the petals of a flower, she drew his cock inside, inch by quivering inch. Her mouth seemed to swallow his cock, as the warm and soft membranes closed about it like a glove and it slid over her tongue and toward her throat. She sucked and sucked, and his cock began to become almost fully erect, his sperm slowly stirring from their dormancy, the foreskin on his cock pulled almost taut to breaking. He placed his hands on her head, running his fingers through her hair, and began to hum a few snatches of the "Virgen de la Macarena," his favorite song of the corrida (bullfight), music which seemed to inspire her, for she was sucking harder and harder....
Until he realized that she had forgotten something.
Sternly, he tightened his grip on her hair and pulled sufficiently enough to stop her sucking and cause her innocent brown eyes to look at him in questioning. He said, sternly, "Maria, the napkin ... if you please."
She pulled his cock from her mouth, got up, said, "I am sorry, Senor Sanchez," and pulled out a napkin from a filing cabinet in his office. The napkin was Mexican lace, embroidered with the same kind of scenes one might see on a Greek vase-various heterosexual (and a few homosexual, as well) couples in a variety of imaginative positions. Carefully, she placed the napkin on his lap, beneath his cock, while he wondered if it might not be time to think of getting a new secretary. Once more, he thought, if she fucks up one more ... that will be that ... and another Maria will be brought into my organization ... another La Virgen Maria.
His cock was now completely erect.
She again placed her mouth over his cock, this time drawing its entire length into her mouth in one continuous motion. He felt the tip of his cock slip into her throat, and she felt its power as she began to suck and suck again, her breathing becoming harder with her exertions, while Ricardo remained cool and calm yet enjoying every succulent second of her sucking until....
He came.
His cock exploded like a shotgun, discharging its pellets of sperm into her sucking mouth. He came so hard that he actually knocked her head back by several inches, but so tightly was she gripping his cock with her mouth that it remained as deeply imbedded there as before. He fired round after round into that sucking, swallowing mouth, hearing her gurgle with pleasure as she swallowed millions upon millions of his swimming sperm, feeling his cock being sucked another inch into her throat each time she gulped down the delicious feast. Finally, when he had no more sperm to shoot, and she had swallowed all, she slowly withdrew his cock from her mouth, wiped it off with the napkin (and her mouth as well), unzipped, or rather zipped, his fly tight again, put up her hair, and bowed, or rather curtsied, in front of him.
"Gracias, Maria."
"De nada, Senor Sanchez."
She departed, her ass wiggling provocatively as she opened the drapes, unlocked the door, and wandered out of his office.
Senor Sanchez felt good, goddamn good. It had been a very good suck, despite the minor mishaps, and it had made him feel, naturally, a trifle hungry.
So he went out to lunch.
CHAPTER FIVE
Ben and Angela Brinkman were dressing for dinner, dressing in their room at the Hilton.
Not for dinner at the Hilton, or anywhere else in town. For dinner at the home of Senor Ricardo Sanchez.
The invitation, delivered in person by one of the Senor's retainers, had been a complete surprise to both of them. But there it was. Ben was again fingering the expensive card with the medieval printing, requesting their presence for dinner with the Sanchez family as part of the Mexican-American Institute for Cultural Relations continuing programs for cooperation and understanding between Mexico and America.
Neither of them had ever heard of the organization-most probably because it was entirely a creation of the Senor's imaginative abilities at getting the women he wanted when he wanted them-but they knew that several European countries had similar programs for greeting the locals on their own turf, so they suspected that this was of a similar nature.
"Ben," Angela trilled, a trifle petulantly. "Please zip me up in the back, will you darling?"
To Ben, she sounded positively sexy-especially since he had, not more than an hour ago, made love with her and had had no difficulty in getting his own equipment into service. She had been positively passionate with him, more so than ever before, and he had responded with a few savage thrusts that were not necessarily in his bourgeois nature but were sharp shafts of hard cock coming that had caused her to scream with joy and bite him on the earlobes. He was pleased, because that was a good sign that the vacation, now almost a week old, was working, as far as saving their marriage was concerned. He was even paying more attention to her and less to his eternal accounting quests into the business structure. He did not know, of course, that her passion was directly related to her aroused sexuality by Juan Lopez, whom she was now having a good fuck with daily, on various pretexts. Nor, of course, did she know that his apparently increased sexual interest in her was due to his disappointment with Mexico's particular accounting system, a system that was built-in and an integral part of doing business-of any kind, and pleasure as well-yet much more venal and ruthless than even capitalistic America had ever shown him, including his own corporation. The system was called: corruption. . Probably as a result of the Spanish feudal system, or even light-years before, the practice of greasing the palms of whomever you wished to do business with had become so widely accepted and practiced in Mexico that most people did not even look upon it as tips or gratuities but as the natural way of doing business, as part of their actual salaries. Ben had discovered this fact in many ways, even during his short stay, and it disgusted him, even to the point of taking his mind off business and bringing it down to the business at hand, the reason why he and his wife were here in the first place-to salvage their marriage.
Thus, Ben's renewed interest in fucking his wife. And her renewed pleasure in fucking everyone. Including Juan's musician friends again, if she so desired; though, as Ben's passion increased twofold, hers increased fourfold or better. It was as if he was increasing his sexual interest arithmetically, while she was into the thing geometrically. Thus, the logical result, if not changed, could only be insatiability for her and frustration for him.
Ben zipped up the back of his wife's white dress of Mexican lace and silk, floor length and cut low enough so that her cleavage would have no difficulty in being seen by anyone no nearer than six feet or so. Her hair was twisted and coif fed into a complex Mexican hair style that wound it around her head in multilayered tiers, like an elaborate birthday cake, and it looked like a crown, a beige blonde crown complete with a small jeweled tiara that Ben had purchased for her in Taxco, the city of silver and gold located just outside Mexico City, where the tourists always traipsed to purchase their jewelry and kitchenware and other such items. She was, in a word, striking.
He was wearing a blue, navy blue, mohair and worsted suit that hugged his slim frame like a second skin. He, too, was ready to meet and eat with the Sanchez family, and was glad that his wife was feeling sexy enough to grab his cock in a playful manner, just before they left, and whisper into his ear, "After dinner, give me a little honey, will you honey?" He certainly would.
They left when Senor Sanchez's chauffeur arrived. He was a squat, swarthy fellow whose cap was pulled so low over his face, and whose uniform was worn so high on his neck, that the only thing that showed was the part of his face from mouth to eyebrows, and that part looked like something out of King Kong. Angela shuddered when she saw him, and Ben held her even more tightly than usual as the man drove them to the home of Ricardo Sanchez in the black Rolls Royce that allowed them to lean back comfortably in the back and get in a little finger-fucking on the way.
The home of Senor Sanchez was located near University City in the section known as Jardines del Pedregal. Rough translation: lava beds. The lava came from an extinct volcano called Xitle, and in recent years only the most affluent Mexicans could afford to build homes there, homes literally carved out of the beds of hardened lava, all designed by a leading, architect and featuring, swimming pools and indoor gardens ripped right out of the lava itself. It was the Beverly Hills of Mexico City, and that was where the Sanchez family made their $200,000 home.
The chauffeur, it seemed to Ben, was possessed of a vocabulary that spanned only one word. That word was "Si," as Ben discovered, when he asked, "Are we near Senor Sanchez's home?"
"Si."
"Will we be arriving there soon?"
"Si."
"Is that the only word you know?"
"Si."
Angela laughed, and kissed Ben on the ear, grabbing his cock and working at it so furiously that, by the time they arrived at the Sanchez home, Ben had a semi-erection. It took him a good two minutes to beat it back into submission again, while Angela continued laughing and the chauffeur continued to say, "Si."
The Sanchez house was like nothing Ben and Angela had ever seen before.
It looked like what people claimed flying saucers are supposed to look like-all symmetrical and silver (that's what it was, pure silver coating on the outside, Taxco silver that had heavily taxed the Sanchez treasury), with windows that seemed like spaceship viewing, and an observation deck on top. There was a silver-coated swimming pool nearby, and an enclosed veranda in front. It was enough to make both Ben and Angela open their mouths in astonishment.
The chauffeur escorted them to the door, and Senor Sanchez himself greeted them. He was dressed in a black formal, streaked with silver, and beneath the double-breasted ensemble was a white silk turtleneck. He greeted them, and ushered them into the living room, where the Brinkmans were seated on the sofa, the Senor on a chair facing them.
Ben and Angela looked around. The house was furnished in Spanish colonial style, with Mexican murals and other artifacts abounding, yet all blended as tastefully as the many ingredients of a stew. The silks, silver, tapestries, rugs ... all looked, and were, of the costliest material. Class all the way.
The Senor ordered tequila margaritas for all.
Then he told them, with a note of apology in his voice, "I am sorry that my wife and children are indisposed at the moment. I hope they will be here in time for dinner, but if hot, then I shall still be most happy to enjoy your company and to learn much about your country. And, of course, show you as much of my country as possible. I want nothing more than to have the best of relations with Americans."
As he said this, he smiled, his teeth gleaming as if polished by machine, at Angela, showing the front of his face to her and his profile to Ben. The relations he meant had nothing to do with all Americans; only with one in particular, and that was Angela. He also did not mention the fact that, if his wife and children were to appear for dinner, it would be a surprise, if not a miracle. They were visiting relatives in San Cristobal (near the Guatamalan border), and were not due back for another week.
The margaritas were brought, cool and glistening and the glasses, as traditionally required, rimmed with salt. They had several apiece, until Ben felt bombed, literally bombed out of his mind. There was a reason for that; the Senor had instructed his bartender to give Ben a triple, his wife a double and himself a single. Angela was feeling rather high-flying herself, and she was not slow to notice the gazes the Senor was casting at her, nor the condition of her husband. She also had calculated the cost of the Sanchez home and furnishings, and she was not averse to considering what he might do for her (she would later discover what he would do would be to, not for, her). She liked the idea of having, at the least, a rich and suave lover, an older but not colder man, especially a man of the world as Senor Ricardo Sanchez seemed to be as they discussed the worlds of literature, culture, Mexico and its customs, America and its customs, sex and its customs....
Then, it was time for dinner. As in the traditionally Spanish countries, Mexicans dine late, and it was ten in the evening before the Brinkmans and Senor Sanchez sat down to the table.
The first course was gazpacho, a cold Spanish vegetable soup that was heavily spiced. Angela's more heavily than Ben's; Angela came alive fast when she tasted her first spoonful, and ended up by following it with a glass of cold water.
The next course was a salad with Mexican vegetables, including red peppers. Angela was practically breathing fire now; the hot, heavily spiced foods were having an almost aphrodisiac effect on her, as Senor Sanchez had calculated. She started to play footsie with him under the table, removing her shoes and trying to get her still-stockinged feet up his pantsleg. She managed to touch a few inches of skin, the oily smoothness of his Latin epidermis exciting her more and more as she rubbed her toe along his skin as she might check out the material in a dress she was considering for purchase.
Mexican steak was the main meat dish, charcoal broiled with some of the savoriest spices and peppers the Brinkmans had ever encountered. It would make a traditional pepper steak seem bland as bologna in comparison. Several bottles of Carta Blanca beer were used to good effect in washing down the fiery meat, thus adding further to the alcoholic content of the Brinkmans.
Now Senor Sachez had removed his right shoe and sock, and was attempting to shove his big toe into Angela's vagina, but not having much success because she still had her panties on. His toe was tickling her clit, through the panties, and Angela's eyes were burning like beacons in a lighthouse, guiding the Senor on and on as he coolly and suavely enlightened them on the many varieties of Mexican customs. Ben was nodding, nearly passed out, his head held between his hands, hardly hearing a word that was spoken and contributing nothing of sonic quality himself except the sound of his increasingly heavy breathing. His eyes were bloodshot and half-closed, and he was fondly waiting for the final coffee to wake himself up and equally fondly hoping that he could last that long.
Now the Senor was turning on a very clever trick. With his toe, he had managed to pull Angela's panties down about her legs, and was attempting to stick his toe inside her vagina. His toe was fondling her outer lips, causing her to shiver with pleasure and reach her hand beneath the table, where she slipped the panties off, and her stockings as well, so that his toe could enter unhindered as she spread her legs as wide as they would stretch. Her liquid was starting to flow; she thought, What a fantastically sexy fellow this Senor Sanchez is ... oh, I'm so glad Ben brought me to Mexico ... I don't care about any second honeymoon any more ... I just want some first-class fucking, and judging by the Mexican men so far, they're great ... oh, Senor Sanchez, just fuck me with your foot, your fingers, anything ... I don't care, just fuck me.
Ben was too bombed to notice his wife's facial expression changing, like the running of a film, from smiles and wide-eyed appreciation to openmouthed admiration and eyes burning with insatiable passion. He did not see Senor Sanchez's very busy toe under the table; he could barely make out the room in which he was having dinner. All he could remember at the moment were two things; one, they were still on the steak, and two, Senor Sanchez's mustache looked very much like his own, only darker and thicker.
The Senor's toe had just worked itself into the opening of Angela's vagina, and the Senor was feeling sharp thrills of satisfaction, when the servant arrived to clear away the dishes. He asked the Senor what kind of dessert the guests would like. The Senor dismissed him with one word, "Flan."
A few moments later, the servant returned with three dishes of flan, a caramel/custard pudding that is a very traditional Mexican dessert. He set them before the diners, then departed as softly as he had come.
Senor Sanchez and Angela exchanged wistful smiles as he withdrew his toe from her vagina, and she made every effort to stop from coming until she could finish her dessert. Her body trembled and her vagina was dampened with desire, but she struggled and finally forced her muscles to stop their inspired palpitations.
Next to her, Ben was slowly passing out. Like a film in slow motion, his body slowly sagged, as limp as a wet washrag, until he slumped to the table. His face fell into the flan, and the thick pudding splashed onto his suit and into his hair.
"I guess my husband can't take tequila," Angela said, her face reflecting, c'est la vie. She shook him by the shoulders, but to no avail. Ben was out, and that was that. "I'm sorry, Senor Sanchez. Please forgive my husband, will you? It's not entirely his fault. I should have stopped him from drinking so much...." She paused, a quizzical look appearing in her eyes. "Except that I don't really remember him drinking that much...." She was feeling the tequila herself, and it burned like fire throughout her system. For a brief moment, she had to shake her head to clear the liqquorous fumes away. "Funny, but I don't remember that I drank that much, either...." She was now beginning to wonder just what was going on, with a touch of suspicion penetrating her brain ... but, she was tired, she was sexually aroused ... she just didn't much care, at that moment, what had really happened previously ... she knew what she wanted to happen now.
Senor Sanchez applied his toe to her vagina lips again, and she gave out a slight gasp of delight, as he said, smoothly. "Eat your dessert, my dear lady, and afterwards...." He smiled a cool, knowledgeable smile. "I shall show you a piece of art work that will make you very happy. It shall be the highlight of your visit, I promise you."
She settled back in her chair, and took a taste of the flan. It was smooth and thick, and slid easily down her throat. She licked the spoon clean, and said, "Delicious. Absolutely delicious."
He shoved his toe an inch inside her vagina. She felt the pressure of his foot and jumped slightly.
Then she laughed a knowing laugh, saying, "Yes, absolutely ... delicious ... the very best ... Senor Sanchez...."
She continued to eat, as did he. He continued to shove his toe inside her vagina until it would go no further; when he knew that his toe was all the way in, he began to twist it in her vagina like a corkscrew, and she began to squirm with delight, feeling her liquid running freely again. He was fucking her with his toe, and she could feel the manicured toenail scratching slightly at the membranes of her vagina.
She began to moan, softly. Her liquid was really flowing now, and her body began its sexual spasmodic movements. She was now so agitated that she could no longer eat the flan.
Senor Sanchez was getting an erection from his exertions. He was sweating slightly, too, and he could feel her liquid flowing onto his toe as he lubricated her vagina membranes with his ever-probing toe. Ah, he thought, things are proceeding well ... soon she will come ... soon after that I shall show her something different ... something that she will like and thank me for ... I can tell about this woman ... she loves machismo ... she wants it very badly ... she shall get it ... macho all the way.
Angela was coming now. Gripping the table for support, she arched her back and let her lovely liquid flow out of her vagina, covering Senor Sanchez's toe as if it had been dipped into some sacred river for ritual bathing. Her moans came in gasps, as if she were running out of breath, and her vaginal lips were palpitating as she came and came and came ... and let her orgasm transport her to the heights of ecstasy. She was gripping the table so hard she could almost feel her fingers biting into the wood ... while the Senor sat stiff and straight, feeling her body responding to his toe, and thinking that not long from now she would be responding to his whole body ... but in an entirely different way from what she might think.
Through some minor miracle, Angela's dress was not harmed in this encounter. The Senor, due to the way he was holding his toe, had opened her dress so that her liquid did not fall on it, but merely onto the floor below her feet ... and some on her now bare feet, of course. That, naturally, was one of the basic considerations about the Mexicans-their politeness in all situations.
Angela let the hot flashes die down, and slowly released her grip on the table. She was perspiring profusely, and her dress was damp with sweat. She could even feel that her scalp was wet but her hair was still bundled together in her complex coiffure, and was holding fast.
Senor Sanchez smiled, a soft smile that barely showed the whites of his teeth, and said, "Thank you, Senora Brinkman, for a lovely time. Oh, in case I did not mention it previously ... I think that your hair looks exceptionally lovely tonight. It is to you like a crown to a queen ... if you know what I mean."
Angela, now dazed by both the drinks and the exertions of her sexuality, smiled back at him and nodded her appreciation.
The Senor summoned his servant again. He rose from his chair, and walked over to Angela. He motioned the servant, who helped Angela to rise. The servant noticed that both of them were barefoot, but he said nothing and did not let on that he had noticed. He had been with Senor Sanchez for many years, he knew his employer's penchants and preferences, and it was none of his business. He was well-paid and well-treated, and that was enough for him.
The servant helped Angela into another room, not too many feet away, with Senor Sanchez following. The room was high-ceilinged and sparsely furnished, though the floor was covered with a multi-colored Mexican carpeting that was as bright and bold as any mural at the University. The walls and ceilings were like the Sistine Chapel in Rome, in that they were covered with murals and carvings that were exquisitely detailed and precise in their delineations of their subject matter.
But the centerpiece of the room was something unlike anything else. The Senor and the servant could, of course, observe it quite clearly, even in the diffused lighting and with the background of soft Mexican sounds that were coming from concealed speakers. Angela, though well-lubricated with liquor, was not so drunk that she did not notice exactly what the centerpiece was ... and, her eyes suddenly open, she let out a gasp of shock.
The centerpiece was a crucifix.
A gigantic cross that nearly reached from floor to ceiling, a cross with its crossbars extended perpendicular to the main post and parallel to the floor. The main post was straight up and down. But, unlike a traditional cross, there were two additional wooden bars that stretched out from the main piece like an inverted "V" and gave the odd impression that the crucifix had legs and might walk away at any moment.
On the cross-as well as the walls and ceiling, and in the pattern of the carpeting, too-was carved and recreated a multitude of sexual scenes, situations, and positions, as if in a direct delineation from the Kama Sutra and Kama Shastra, the lovely Indian manuals of love. There were boys being buggered by men, women together in attitudes of lesbian love, men and women in that lovely lotus position with loins against loins, women in coition with animals and reptiles and fishes and even insects ... and all executed with such marvelous and miraculous detail that it would take many hours to fully appreciate the subtleties and permutations that were depicted.
While Angela was still gasping, the Senor slipped behind her and began to remove her dress, with the assistance of his servant. Angela continued to stare at the figures and carvings and patterns, almost oblivious to the fact that she was being stripped. She had not worn a bra this evening, so that, when her long flowing white robes were removed, she was completely naked.
The servant departed, while Senor Sanchez removed his clothing piece by piece. The servant, as if watching all the time, returned at that moment and departed again with their clothing.
Angela and Ricardo faced each other. Angela could feel her vaginal lips twinge in anticipation, as she noticed Ricardo's cock, erect and straight before him, and as finely detailed as the carvings-a long, limber rod that would prod and pierce her right to her very core. She was not unhappy with what she saw ... though she had a vague feeling of malaise concerning the cross, and its relationship to the forthcoming sexual situation.
She was not incorrect.
The servant returned again, this time with a brace of silken cords. The Senor motioned Angela to position herself against the cross.
She hesitated momentarily. In her mind, strange fantasies were forming ... of martyrs bound to stakes ... of women forced to perform strange tasks at men's command ... of slaves being ordered to obey their master's every wish....
And then, her hesitation ceased. She knew that she needed a strength imposed upon her from outside herself. That was why she and Ben, why their marriage, was so precarious. Ben was not strong enough ... tough enough ... mean enough....
She recalled a line from one of the songs from The Three Penny Opera. It went like this: "He was a lean man ... he was a mean man...."
Yes, she thought ... that's what I need ... exactly what I need ... and perhaps ... Senor Sanchez can give that to me ... oh, I must be mad ... Mexican madness ... but ... it's what I need ... now.
She moved so that her back was against the cross, and stretched out her arms so that they paralleled the crossbar of the crucifix. The servant bound her wrists against the crossbar; now, she was in the shape of a "T" against the crucifix. Then, the servant bound her ankles against the inverted "V" so that she was, in effect, spread-eagled against the crucifix. She could feel the cool smoothness of the silk against her limbs ... the I security of being bound ... that delicious feeling of helplessness ... of her destiny, her fate, perhaps even her life being under the control of another ... of Senor Sanchez....
And she liked it.
Jolts of electricity shot through her frame as she struggled slightly to increase the ecstasy. When she felt that the bonds were secure, could feel the silken cords tighten against her limbs with the smooth wooden back of the cross against her holding her erect, she stopped struggling and just relaxed her body, awaiting the Senor's next move.
The next move was made by the servant, who departed for the last time.
The Senor approached her.
He noticed that her nipples were tumescent, like tiny fingers beckoning him on. He stood now directly in front of her. His head moved in the direction of her right breast; his tongue lashed out like a whip, hitting her on the nipple with enough force to make her suddenly tense her body. Then, she instinctively relaxed again, realizing that that was exactly what she wanted.
His tongue stabbed at her breast like an ice pick, not so much licking as thrusting like a cock at her. At the same time, his erect cock nuzzled at her vagina like a dog with a bone, and she could feel her liquid begin to flow again. His tongue moved in and out like a snake, dabbing at the base of her breast here, the side there, now and then connecting with the nipple. She began to perspire again, and waves of feeling pulsated throughout her body. This was ecstatic ... this was what she wanted ... she was into the machismo syndrome ... and loving every marvelous minute of it.
Now he moved over to her left breast.
And the other side of her body thrilled to the touch of his tongue, for several long and delicious minutes.
Sweat was pouring down her forehead, salting her eyes. She closed them momentarily, retaining the images of what was happening in her mind. She felt as drenched as if in a rain shower.
Then, she discerned his tongue in another place ... her vagina, licking the outer lips, gently probing inside the wet membranes ... then, he jabbed her as if his tongue were his cock ... she came briefly, a sweet short burst ... he licked the come into his mouth, tasted it like wine, then swallowed it ... he thought, Delicious, my American housewife, so delicious ... I shall teach you the Mexican madness that we call machismo ... and you will love every minute of it ... just as you are now doing, my dear Angela ... viva machismo.
Angela began to twist her body, to struggle against the silken cords. It was such a strange, unusual feeling for her, to be so bound, so helpless before a man. She could feel the cords at her wrists and ankles, digging into her flesh as she twisted and squirmed. Not so much to be free, but to feel the silk pulling at her flesh ... she was beginning to love that feeling ... of being helpless, secured a slave to the desire of her captor.
Ricardo continued to lick for a few more moments, probing, this time a little harder and harsher, using his tongue like a knife to jab into her delicate membranes, making her arch with tension and satisfaction. Then, he withdrew his tongue, tangling it in her vagina hairs purposely on the way out and sort of pulling them a little. She could feel the pressure as the hairs were pulled by his tongue, and it felt as if the hairs were being plucked from her with a pair of tweezers. She liked that.
Now he stood in front of her.
He said, his eyes locked on hers, his voice almost reverent, "Ave Maria ... Viva Angela...."
She said, with agony and ecstasy in her voice, thrusting the words from her throat, "Ricardo...." This was the first time she had called him by his first name. "Ricardo ... I want you ... I want you very much ... you're an experienced, sophisticated man ... I want you to fuck me ... fuck me...." She hesitated momentarily, then continued. "I want you ... to fuck ... the living shit ... out of me ... fuck me...."
In the background, the lights were still dim, the music was still playing ... and the mood was still set, still there. She said no more.
Because he placed his lips upon hers, and at the same time moved his cock into position at the outer lips of her vagina. His sharp, well-cleaned white teeth closed around her upper lip, and his mustache tickled her nose. She felt his teeth clamp down upon her lip ... felt the teeth bite deep into her flesh ... felt a few drops of blood form ... felt the pain, the sharp searing pain that jabbed through her body from its source, her sore-bitten lip....
And liked it.
Welcomed it ... appreciated it ... relished it ... and wanted more. He released his grip.
He placed his teeth on her lower lip, and his cock moved an inch into her vagina, her vaginal lips thirstily welcoming it as it began its ascent up her vaginal cavity.
His teeth bit deeply into her lower lip, and more blood flowed. Her body jerked back, fought him again ... then acquiesced in his pain-infliction, submitted to his teeth, welcomed them again.
He withdrew his mouth.
He licked the blood from her lips, swallowing it like wine. His tongue caressed her lips, easing the swollen, bitten places, soothing her sore lips. He often did this with his women-though not with his wife so much, for she controlled too much money and power to cavalierly submit completely to him; and in Mexico, marriage is usually for keeps, and for this he had and was paying his price which was worth it for the moment-and, if they were sufficiently oriented to his particular brand of machismo, they enjoyed it. If not, he converted them-it was not hard, usually.
Especially with Angela.
His cock slid another inch inside her vagina.
His tongue now darted between her lips, caressing the roof of her mouth, then stabbed at her tongue and reamed it like a lance. He used his tongue like a sword to slash into her mouth membranes, and into her throat, his lips pressed now hard on hers and pushing her head back flat against the wood. Another inch of his cock slipped into her vagina ... then another ... and still more.
Until his cock was now all the way in.
Jammed tightly, like a key in a lock.
His cock was longer than Ben's, and Angela had often complained of Ben's inability to completely fill up her sexual crevice. They had had more than one argument about that, and now she was so happy that, at last, a cock was completely jammed inside her welcoming vagina. Even Juan Lopez, that sexy young student, she recalled, could not get all the way in. Poor Juan ... she liked him ... she liked him very much ... even though she barely remembered the gangbang he had instigated with her ... he was so young, yet so experienced ... oh yes, he was good ... but Senor Sanchez was better
... Ricardo was so right for her....
As Ricardo sucked at her mouth, he also fucked with her vagina.
He began to push-and-pull his cock inside her vagina, a sort of give-and-take operation that at one moment yanked her back and at another pushed her hard against the cross. He was using his cock as a battering ram, ramming it into her until she could feel her womb almost collapse from the power and pressure he was putting on her. She was into one orgasm after another, her back arching, her limbs struggling at the silken cords, sweat pouring from her as if the temperature was over 100. She was one monstrous vagina, she thought ... just one complete vagina, nothing to me but vagina ... nothing to him but cock ... oh, darling Ricardo, fuckmefuckmefuckme.
She came and came, orgasm after orgasm, jolting explosion after jolting explosion, liquid pouring from her like a waterfall. She was drenched in her own sweat and come, as he rammed and rammed her again and again, finally culminating in a monstrous, gigantic come of his own that spurted like machine-gun fire into her quivering vagina-spurted again and again until there was no more sperm left to spurt, and no more hard erect cock to come into her vagina. He was dry, now drained, so hard had he fucked her. And she, she was like a piece of meat that a butcher had pounded into submission, had cubed and shaped into another form for ultimate consumption.
She did not even know who, much less where, she was any more. She was a vagina ... his vagina ... that was all that mattered.
And, as he finally withdrew, he whispered so softly into her ear that she did not perceive what he said for several seconds.
"Angela de la Crucifix...."
CHAPTER SIX
"Come on, Ben ... you can do better than that!"
In their Hilton Hotel room Ben was balling Angela. Ben not balling Angela hard enough, apparently.
Ben was on the bottom, Angela on top. Angela was getting bitchier, he thought ... where did she pick up this take-charge bit ... oh, I'll let her have her fun for a little while longer ... then I'll straighten her out ... show her who's boss around here.
The problem was that Ben's hard-on just didn't seem stiff enough for his wife. Not after Senor Sanchez's stellar performance of the preceding evening. And, Ben was still getting over the monstrous hangover he'd gotten that same evening.
"Ben ... I want you in me, darling, all the way.
I'm your wife, not a subway station, you know."
Nagging, thought Ben. Nagging worse than ever before. All day touring Cuernavaca and Taxco, enjoying Mexico's sights and sounds. I bought her a beautiful silver brooch in Taxco, and all she could say was, "It's nice."
"Ben...."
You bitch, he thought, is this marriage worth saving? Is it? I'm beginning to wonder. The nicer I am to her, the bitchier she gets. I haven't even mentioned business for the past few days, trying to give her the best time I can ... and all I'm getting is nag, nag, nag.
"Ben!"
This time her voice was a command, not a complaining. And it almost made his eardrums shudder, because, lying on top of him with her breasts jammed into his chest and his cock jammed-he thought all the way, she thought otherwise-into her vagina, it was very close quarters indeed.
He was sweating from her weight on top of him. She was not, fitting herself comfortably on top of him. She was beginning to prefer herself on top in their sexual relationship. She thought, if he's not man enough to keep me under control, then I'll run the show myself, if I have to. Oh, do I miss Ricardo tonight!
She could feel his cock inside her vagina, touching the membranes very gently, much too gently for her. In addition, his cock was all the way in but not all the way up; in short, she still felt as if there were a few spare inches of vaginal tract that she would like to have filled. Ricardo had no trouble, she thought ... but this husband of mine ... of course, if he hadn't taken me to Mexico, I would never have met Ricardo ... I guess I can thank him for something ... but he's just not as rough as Ricardo ... I never met a man like Ricardo who could be such a gentleman and such a Humphrey Bogart at the same time ... oh, Ricardo,, I miss you!
"Angela...." Ben said, somewhat hesitatingly.
"Yes, dear?"
"Do you think you can move over a little to the left? I think I'm getting a cramp in my leg."
"Well, I think you're cramping my style, too." She spit, almost snarled, out the words, in an expellation of breath that made her voice sound like the hissing of a snake. Then, she brought her head down, and bit him on the side of the neck. He jerked back his head, and then she bit him on the upper lip, just as Ricardo had started the previous evening. She was certainly not a vampire, but Ricardo had turned her on in some strange, inexplicable way that made her mad that her husband was so docile, so absolutely bourgeois in comparison.
But, she did not realize that her husband did not like being bitten. Especially when it shocked him enough to lurch away, and in so lurching he pulled himself out of his wife and fell over the side of the bed, a tangle of arms and legs and torso hitting the floor. His skull met the floor first, and the blow was enough, not to stun him, but to shake him into some sort of awareness, some sort of knowledge that things were taking a turn for the worse, not the better, in their relationship.
She looked over the side of the bed, her facial expression reflecting the coolest sort of indifference. She did not even say she was sorry, or ask him if he was hurt. All she said was, again in a commanding tone, "Ben, please get back in bed and do your husband's duty right now ... or we'll just forget about the whole thing this evening."
Ben had had enough.
He locked eyes with hers. In hers, he saw cool blueness to the point of freezing; in his, she suddenly observed a pupil that looked very dilated, black as night, surrounded by a cornea that was turning reddish-brown, fiery in color, almost hostile in expression. Before she had sufficient time to analyze the increasing hardness in his eyes-something happened to her, something totally unexpected, something that her husband had never done to her before.
He slapped her.
He slapped her, first on one cheek, then on the other, swiveling her head back in first one direction and then the other. Anger flowed through her body; she slapped him back, right on his nose, her sharp fingernails scratching him just by his mustache.
By now, Ben was too temper-ridden, too totally disgusted with her behavior, to be in a compromising mood-or to put up with her striking back.
He balled his right hand into a fist, and clipped her right on the jaw. The blow knocked her head back by at least several inches, and the upper portion of her body followed-for a few seconds. Then, stunned, she fell face down on the bed.
"Enough of that stuff, Angela!" Ben said. He did not shout, but each word sounded as if it had been hammered out of his mouth on sheets of steel. Stunned though she was she heard every word beat into her brains.
Slowly, a trifle painfully, he climbed to his feet, and edged himself back onto the bed. She was still lying still, face down, her blonde hair splashed all over her back and the sides of her face. He grabbed her by the hair, where it met the scalp on the top of her head, and roughly jerked her head back, thrusting her face just a few inches from his. He gave her a murderous look, until her eyes registered the level of fear he was looking for. He was not, at this moment, concerned with respect-he just wanted her scared shitless enough to remember who was boss. Then he let go and her head flopped down on the bed again. He rolled her body over, grabbed her by the breasts, and squeezed her tits as if they belonged to a cow. She gave a shriek, and tried to crawl away from him, to bring her hands into attack again. He released her breasts and socked her another one on the jaw; she collapsed, half-unconscious, on the bed.
He lay there, looking at the prone body of his wife for a few more minutes when an idea struck him like a body blow. He thought, So she wants to play rough ... well, two can play that game ... and right now, I'm in charge here.
He got up out of bed, and rummaged in the clothes closet for several minutes. He returned with a couple of his less-than-beloved neckties, a few belts and sash cords from her clothing, and a large kerchief. He used the kerchief to gag her in the mouth; then, he methodically tied her arms and legs to the four corners of the bed, effectively spread-eagling her. He did not, of course, know that the same thing, only vertically rather than horizontally, had been done to her on the previous evening. All he knew was that he wanted to teach her a lesson-and show her who was the tougher of the two.
When he had finished, he looked down on her, standing over the bed. Her eyes were half-closed, so he slapped her on the ass a few times. She began to stir; he slapped her on the cheeks, short stinging slaps that brought the color of red to her flesh, the color of a bruise. She opened her eyes; she tried to speak, but the gag held firm, and all she could manage was a few muffled gasps.
Now she was awakening, like Snow White, as if from a long induced sleep. She tried her limbs, discovered that she was bound to the bed. She shook her head in uncomprehending fashion. Could her husband, Ben Brinkman, have done this to her? It was not possible. She tried to move again, tried to speak. She could not. Slowly, the information penetrated her brain. Her husband had indeed done this to her. He was not putting up with any bullshit ... not any more. He meant business ... he was boss man in his house.
Her mind became like a split TV screen. On one side, Senor Sanchez loomed, sophisticated and worldly; on the other side, Ben Brinkman, bourgeois and business-oriented. Was this possible? Was her husband becoming machismo? Was Mexico working on him in some peculiar manner, as the country was on her? Just what was happening to her husband?
"Angela ... can you hear me?" Ben asked, his voice loud enough to penetrate her consciousness. "If you can ... well, I want you to nod your head. I mean ... now!"
She nodded.
He continued, "OK, that's fine. I'm sorry I had to go to these extremes, but you've been asking for it ever since we came to Mexico. I've just gotten tired of your hang-ups, we're down here to straighten ourselves out, and all you've been doing is bitching. For all I know, you've been going out and getting yourself some extra-marital action, too. Well, I won't ask you about that ... but I'm telling you that I'm your husband, I'm running the Brinkman household, and I won't put up with any more bullshit from you. You understand?"
Still angry, he waved a fist in her face. She instinctively sensed that, for once in his life, he meant business. But not as far as business was concerned. As far as she was concerned.
She also could not remember the last time that he had used the term "bullshit." It was rare for him to swear, and she sensed that only extreme provocation could make him do so. She shuddered inwardly; her husband had picked up far more machismo, it seemed, than she thought possible. Still, that was all to the good, even though it would be a long time before he could even come close to Senor Richardo Sanchez, as far as she was concerned.
"Now, Angela, I'm going to show you some things that had better straighten you out. You just let me lead you along, and don't give me any trouble, because I won't put up with it any longer. You understand?" For emphasis, he put his fist right on the edge of her jaw, with enough pressure so that she knew he would not hesitate to sock it to her again.
She nodded, her jaw pressing hard into his fist. He felt her response, and removed his fist.
He moved his hand to her vagina, and thrust the thumb of his right hand against her vaginal lips. He toyed with her hairs for a few seconds, then jabbed his thumb inside her vagina. She was dry, dry from terror. He pushed his thumb in further, until his entire thumb was buried inside her vagina. With his free hand, he began to twist her breast, his hand gripping the nipple between his fingers. She could feel the pain, both on her breast and inside her vagina, and her body twitched and made a silent protest that he was hurting her. Which, of course, was exactly what he wanted.
He screwed his thumb inside her vagina, and began to probe her innermost recesses. He noticed that her vagina was dry; he thought, The more I work out, the faster she'll get wet. He moved his thumb inside every area of membrane that he could, one of his fingers at the same time tickling her clit, which was erect and ready for satisfaction. He could feel her body reacting, first with fear, then with acquiescence. He moved his thumb more and more, probing and pushing her vaginal membranes until he could feel her liquid begin to flow, even though slowly. Ah, he thought, it doesn't take much to get to Angela ... when you know what to do ... and now I know just exactly what she likes ... and that's exactly what she's going to get.
He jabbed his thumb deeper, until he was almost at her womb. She was palpitating like a butterfly on a pin, and her back was arching, more in protest than in pleasure. She did not like having her vagina probed with a thumb; not the way her husband was doing it. He was rough, but really too rough; Senor Sanchez, she thought, would have been much more sophisticated.
And his other hand was hurting her breast, turning it red with bruises under his grinding palm and fingers.
Abruptly, he stopped, withdrawing both hands from her body. His thumb had told him she was wet enough.
Wet enough for what?
For further probing with something else.
He left her, rummaging in his suitcases for a few moments, then returning with an obsidian statue.
Not obscene, though some would call it that, but obsidian-a hard, well-polished piece of lava that was cut in the shape of one of the ancient Mexican gods. Who happened to have a phallus that was, in many respects, far longer and stronger and more erect than most men would get in a lifetime of fucking.
He shoved the cold cock inside her vagina, and she almost jerked her way off the bed. It was cold and stiff, and the way he jammed it inside her made her feel like a machine, not a woman. Which, of course, was partially his intention.
He used the obsidian statue and phallus like a divining rod, to probe her innermost responses. He shoved it deeper until she was arching with both pain and pleasure, her body taut and in a semicircle, like a sculptured bridge over a quiet stream. He jabbed her and stabbed her until she felt her liquid flowing again ... felt an orgasm begin ... could not understand why this cold stone statue could inspire her juices to flow so freely.
Again and again, he shoved the cold stone cock inside her, watching her expression change from fear and pain to pleasure and enjoyment. He watched her come and come with that cold stone cock stuck inside her vagina. He enjoyed watching her screw a statue, for that was exactly what she was doing. He knew that he was showing her who was boss and what was what. He studied the terror in her eyes, watched it turn into desire ... then fulfillment, as she came in a great liquid onrushing of orgasmic bliss with the stone statue still jammed inside her vagina. Arched her back and tensed her body against her bonds. From beneath the gag came gurgles of satisfaction.
Ben could not help but admire her.
How many women, he thought, were ever screwed by a statue? Just look at her dig into it. She's having a ball! Unbelievable!
No reason, he further reasoned, for her to have all the fun.
He withdrew the statue, yanked it right out of her vagina and threw it on the floor. From the look in her eyes as he pulled it away, he knew that he had made his point. Hurt, anguished, disappointed ... her eyes told him that she wanted something-anything-in her vagina.
"Like some good fucking, Angela?" he said, mockingly.
She nodded.
"Think I can fuck you as good as the statue?"
She hesitated. He read it in her eyes.
He slapped her on both cheeks, never breaking the motion of his arm, short stinging slaps that made her gasp with pain.
"Think I can fuck you better than the statue, Angela?"
No hesitation this time. She nodded vigorously. "That's better."
He leaned over her, so that his mouth was just inches from her ear, and said, with no hesitation, matter-of-factly, "Honey, I'm going to give you the best fuck of your life. Now, I don't know if you've been getting any action on the side-and I don't particularly care. Right now, I'm going to give you so much great loving that you'll never want it from anyone else again. Are you ready?"
She nodded. He could not see the tears forming, for just a few seconds, in her eyes, for they were gone as fast as they appeared. In Angela's mind, the split-screen TV technique was pounding at her brain cells, showing three separate and conflicting images-Juan, Ricardo and Ben. On and off, off and on, these images would flash, with a movie montage effect, sometimes one overlapping the other. She was becoming confused; she did not know whom, or what, she wanted. Juan-a beautiful young boy who knew how to handle her with the charisma of a rock idol? Ricardo-the most sophisticated gentleman she had ever met, a man who was, in some respects, so far superior to her that she did not know if she could hold him? Ben-her bourgeois husband for the past two years, boring but steady, suddenly discovering new sexual reserves and masculine toughness that she had never brought out in him before?
Which one?
But-must she choose?
Why couldn't she have all of them-at least for the remaining week of their vacation?
In her mind, she accepted, for the moment, this dilemma. She decided, to let her husband make love to her, now, to see what he could really do. Perhaps he had really found his masculinity, his machismo; perhaps Mexico had opened him up. She would see, and, if so, perhaps a new and better relationship between them was in the offing. She would see ... she would let him fuck her ... she would fuck him back as strongly as she knew how. She had no choice.
Bound and gagged to the bed-what else could she do but submit?
He climbed on top of her.
Then, he noticed that his erection was down, his penis flaccid. He laughed; it was funny, all this bullshit about who's fucking who, he thought, and here I'm so engrossed in showing my wife who's boss that I forget about my erection and it goes away.
"Well," he said, aloud, "We'll fix this up fast. Won't we, wife?" She nodded.
He began to slap her in the face with his flaccid cock. He slapped her first on the nose, then on the forehead, then on the ears. He swung his cock like a tennis racket, hitting her head as if it were a tennis ball. He finally concentrated on hitting her cheeks, slapping her from cheek to cheek, the "splat" sound echoing through the hotel room like a mournful cry. At each "splat," he could hear her exhalation of breath, feel her body cringe-until he could detect that she was liking it, enjoying it, responding with her eyes and body. She could feel her liquid flowing again, and she thought, I can't believe it ... my own husband ... giving me an orgasm without even being inside me ... he's really getting better ... he's really giving me what I want ... maybe there's some hope for our marriage after all.
It was not long before Ben's cock was stiff and hard again. He waved it in front of her eyes like a baseball bat, and she thought, If I didn't know better I'd swear it was at least an inch or two longer.
He placed it between her breasts. She liked the feel of it there. No one had ever done that to her before, least of all her unimaginative husband. Resting in the cleft between her breasts, it felt cool and comforting to her. She moved her breasts so that, like a hand, they could fondle her husband's cock. He noticed her movement, smiled, thinking, That's much better, baby, much better.
He pressed his cock against her breasts, feeling her body respond, her skin itch with desire. He liked that.
He pulled his cock from her breasts, placing the tip between her eyes, sort of threatening her with it as if it were a gun. He watched her eyes open wider and wider in both amazement and desire. He didn't really know where these ideas were coming from, but he felt sexually secure and unassailable, totally confident in what he was doing. He was going to show her, all right!
He positioned himself over her vagina.
But not in the usual way.
He lay at right angles to her body, their two bodies forming a cross. When she saw what he was doing, she gasped beneath her gag, remembering Senor Sanchez and his crucifix. He, not knowing, assumed that it was a gasp of surprise, not of recognition.
Getting on his knees, sort of holding his body over hers, he came down on her like an oil drill stabbing into hard Oklahoma earth. He cut into her like a knife, his cock stabbing directly into her open vagina-open, because he had one finger in each of her outer lips. His first thrust got him halfway in, and she squirmed beneath him as the force of his stiff cock hit her full in the vagina.
"Like some more of that, Angela?"
She nodded vigorously, her eyes saying, "Sock it to me, Ben-sock it to me!"
He withdrew, and did the same thing again.
This time, he got three-quarters of the way in, and felt her body give like foam rubber. From the muffled sounds that came from beneath her gag, he knew that she was enjoying his thrusts. He could also feel that her vagina was wet as a washrag, and that, while he was causing her a certain amount of pain, he wasn't really hurting her all that badly either.
He raised his cock again and, for the third time, came down hard on his wife. This time, he made it all the way in, thrusting so deeply that, for the first time in their marriage, she could feel the tip of his cock all the way inside, right at the very edge of her womb. He was in all the way-balls and all.
He began his motions, moving his cock around inside her vagina, making sure that his penis touched all the walls of her membranes. He could tell by the way she was responding that it was going to be the best fuck ever of their marriage-or, for that matter, at least for him, outside of their marriage.
A recent memory came back to him, a recollection of the stewardess Maria, whom he had first fucked on the plane to Mexico City. He laughed inwardly, as he thought of making it with her in the cramped conditions of the aircraft lavatory. What a contrast-between a cubicle of a washroom and a huge hotel room like this one!
He thought, I wonder if I'll ever see Maria again?
He put the memory from his mind, and returned to the business at hand-fucking his wife.
Now, his sperm was rising to the fore. She, too, was flowing freely, her body racked by the spasms of sex. He dug his cock deeper into her vagina, using his weight, his strength-anything to penetrate, to ram and slam and jam his cock inside her, to push it out the back of her flesh and through the mattress and the floor-he was driving like a truck driver, straight ahead with no nonsense.
While she was coming and coming, orgasm after orgasm tearing her body apart, not thinking but feeling that her husband was really making her respond, making her come alive at last, at long last.
He drove deeper, ever deeper, into her, until he could push his cock no further.
His cock ached, literally screamed to be released.
He came.
CHAPTER SEVEN
It was their last day in Mexico City-tomorrow they would fly to Acapulco for the final week of their vacation-and they were touring the Pyramids just outside Mexico City.
Juan Lopez was, as usual, their guide.
Only-it was not just Juan and the Brinkmans in their party. There was, this time, one addition.
Senor Sanchez.
He had insisted, when he had been informed of their plans-Angela had not forgotten him, nor Juan, for that matter-on offering them the pleasure of his company and hospitality on their last day in his city. He had told them that it was no problem, he would be happy to take them wherever they wished to go. Angela had played their meeting very close to her chest, since Ben had arranged with Juan to guide them to the Pyramids.
So, what happened was this-Senor Sanchez had put his Rolls Royce at their disposal, hired Juan as driver and guide, and at this moment all four of them were walking around the Pyramids, the weather being sunny but just a trifle cool from a faint breeze. All were dressed informally, sports shirts, slacks, and jackets for the men, and light jackets over blouses and skirts for the ladies. Pardon, lady-Angela Brinkman being the only female in the party. And, the reason she was wearing a skirt, was that, on the advice of Senor Sanchez, she had not worn her bellbottoms or slacks.
He had told her, "Senora Brinkman, Mexico City is a very conservative metropolis. Even at the Pyramids, it would not look good for a lady to be seen wearing pants. Save them for Acapulco. At that resort, no one will care, and you will be right in style there."
So, she had done as he had advised.
And now, with the late afternoon sun beaming down on them from a blue sky edged by scattered cumulus clouds, enjoying the late afternoon loneliness of the Pyramids-all the other tours had left by now-they kicked up the dust of centuries as they inspected one of the wonders of man's imagination.
The Pyramids of San Juan Teotihuacan-as they are correctly called-were built more than one thousand years ago by an unknown civilization, well before the Aztecs arrived on the scene. There are actually two Pyramids, the Pyramid to the Sun (with 248 steps to climb before reaching the top) and the slightly smaller Pyramid to the Moon. The former has been completely excavated, its reddish brown stones reflecting the ingenuity of its builders (no cement or mortar, just blocks tightly w-edged together), while the latter is less impressive and more dangerous to explore.
They stood at the base of the Pyramid to the Sun, its flat roof looking like the top of an aircraft carrier. It was, at the least, impressive.
"Just think, Senora," Senor Sanchez said, nudging Angela gently. "These Pyramids are more than a thousand years old, but no one has ever been able to uncover any information about the people who built them. It is a remarkable engineering feat, and one of Mexico's most famous unsolved mysteries. Do you feel the grandeur they represent? The creative results of a now-lost civilization? These monuments make me so proud of my country, I could almost cry."
Juan thought, Bullshit, you capitalist cocksucker, you may fool these idiot gringos but you do not fool me ... as soon as La Revolution comes to pass we shall put you on top of these Pyramids and execute you ... Perro (dog).
The vibrations between Senor Sanchez and Juan Lopez were not the best. In fact, they had hated each other on sight, Juan recognizing the very type of individual he hated most about his country, Ricardo sensing that Juan could be one of the dangerous student radicals that wanted to destroy his established and establishment position. As Mexicans, they were nothing if not polite and formal on the surface. But, beneath the surface-well, that was something else again.
"Very impressive," Ben said, his arm around his wife. He hugged her waist, making sure that he did it in full view of the other two men.
Perhaps he was getting suspicious, perhaps not. At any rate, he wanted to make sure that, no matter where he was, everybody around him knew that she was his wife, and belonged to him exclusively. He had his possessive moments, and this was one of them.
He was also thinking of last night, how fantastically responsive she had been, when he had untied her and they had made love violently-if not a trifle viciously-until dawn. Their marriage seemed reborn, as it were-almost as if they had just become man and wife the day before. It was a good feeling, and he was not about to let it go.
Angela, however, was still torn by doubts and conflicts concerning the three of them. At the moment, Ricardo was still, at least by several points, top man on her list. She would roughly rate Ben and Juan as tied for the number two slot; but Ben, she remembered was still her husband. And was Ricardo really married? He had said so, and from the looks of his home it was pretty big for just a bachelor, even one as rich as he appeared to be, to be living there alone. She had not, of course, had time to check the place out for traces of wife and children, in that one brief drunken evening there. And, he had certainly not invited her back. So ... who knows?
"Do we have to climb all those stairs?" Angela asked, petulantly. "There are so many of them...."
"Senora Brinkman, I am sure that the view from the top of the Pyramid will astound you, once you are there," Senor Sanchez said, with a touch of condescension.
"Yes, Angela, let's go," Ben said, authoritatively. "And, besides...." He gestured at Juan. "We have some sangria to drink when we get there."
Sangria was that lovely Spanish combination of claret wine and lemonade, spiced with particles of fruit. A truly delicious beverage, a delightful custom-and much less rough than margaritas, though almost as potent, if consumed in too great a quantity.
Juan was carrying a jugful.
They started the climb. Ben, hand in hand with Angela, went first, taking it step by step. Senor Sanchez offered his assistance to Angela, and she eagerly grasped his arm for additional support. Ben made no objection. Ben on the left, Ricardo on the right-Juan bringing up the rear.
But, Juan had one advantage that the others did not have.
He could observe Angela's lovely ass, could watch the breeze blow at her skirt and lift it like a kite, revealing her well-rounded buttocks beneath. He could watch her ass jiggle from side to side, her long blonde hair waterfalling down her back, her well-tapered legs lift from one step to the other. He could plan on taking advantage of whatever situation might occur; perhaps he might be able to outscore them all. He brushed a hand against his Beatle bangs, enjoying the touch of his hair and its smooth and soft textures. He thought, If Juan Lopez is not a match for that stupid gringo and that establishment pretty boy-then I shall move to Cuba tomorrow!
Step after step, they climbed, until they were about halfway to the top, when Angela objected.
"I'm not climbing another step until we rest for at least fifteen minutes!" she declared, stopping so suddenly she almost threw the two men off balance, and Juan himself almost ran his cock into her ass. For Juan, from watching her rear advance, had gotten a -, and was doing his best to keep the matter concealed from those in front of him. When she stopped so suddenly, he quickly covered his cock with the jug of sangria. But not quickly enough; Angela had felt the jab, brief though it was, and was thinking, Well, Juan, so you've got it up for me again ... you're going to have to do more than that, though, to keep me interested, young man ... yes, much more than that.
They sat down on the steps, rested, drank sangria from plastic cups. The wine was still fairly chilled, it tasted good, not too sweet despite the fruit particles, but dry and smooth, almost like sherry.
They all had several cups each.
Ben, noticing that the other two men could not keep their eyes off his wife, decided to show everyone who was running the show, in his own particular way. He placed one hand over his wife's vagina-but not over her skirt. Instead, his hand snaked inside, beneath her skirt, and his fingers slipped beneath her panties, touching her clit with both toughness and delicacy. While Angela wondered exactly what her husband had in mind-a quick, sharp look from him told her, in effect, to "just do what I tell or show you, baby, because I'm the boss!"-she was still a trifle annoyed at such a display in public of her pubic area. Yet, his hand did feel good on her vagina,, his finger on her clit, and she soon found herself moving her torso in rhythmic appreciation of her husband's fast-moving finger. It was a strange situation, but after what she had been through in just one short week in Mexico-and liking very much most of what had happened-she reconciled herself to whatever might occur further.
Juan could not help but allow his eyes to open wide in wonderment at the scene unfolding before him. Ben was handling himself so coolly and casually, making no effort to conceal where his hand was, yet not being obvious about showing off what he was doing, either. Juan was more impressed with Ben than he had ever been before; he wondered what had caused the American's sudden enlightenment. He wondered whether Senor Sanchez might not have had something to do with it. He was beginning to dislike Ben less and Ricardo more. At least Ben had treated him decently, even considering what he had done to his wife; however, Senor Sanchez had been condescending from the very second they had met.
Juan thought, Fuck Senor Sanchez ... maybe I can fuck him up in some way today ... maybe I can fuck the gringa, too ... we shall see.
They rested, and they drank.
No one said anything.
It was as if they were all actors in a silent film. No speech, little movement-except for the filling and refilling of the cups with sangria.
Finally, Ben removed his hand from Angela's vagina-which was now so wet that her panties were damp, and she was not feeling especially happy about walking around with wet panties; but, she still said nothing, feeling the power of her husband's newly found machismo flowing into her, realizing that he meant business in whatever he was doing with and to her-and said, commandingly, "Let's make it to the top."
They started for the top.
Step by step by step.
It was a long climb, and they were very tired when they got there. But, as the Senor had said, the view was worth it.
They all stood at one edge of the roof of the Pyramid, looking at the tranquil valley below. Several villages of a few hundred inhabitants at the most were scattered along the otherwise brown sandy area-interspersed with bits of greenery and shrubs-like spilled groceries from a shopping bag. It was a vast panorama of space, of which Mexico has plenty, and the land was flat and awe-inspiring with its vast empty spaces. It was not difficult to imagine some primitive ceremonies in homage to the God of the Sun taking place here. No, not at all.
Angela spoke first. "It's ... really magnificent," she said, the awe creeping into her voice. "It makes you ... think. We're so ... alone up here."
She was right. There was not a soul in sight. In the villages, of course, there were; but, from that great distance, the villages looked like toy building blocks.
Ben, standing next to her, still holding her hand-and she still responding to his strong grip-said, "Yes, I can see why Mexico is such a lovely country. So much space, so close to nature. I rather like it here."
"So do I, Senora," Juan said, sarcastically. "That is why I hate to see so many Americans and other foreigners coming down here and ruining it for us Mexicans."
He was mad, Juan was, and he had not meant to say it in quite that way. But his hostility toward foreigners had finally slipped out-and his hostility toward the Mexican establishment that he believed was ruining his country also, especially for those of his generation. And Senor Ricardo Sanchez ranked high on that latter list.
"Yes," Juan continued, with increasing fervor. "You come into our country, spreading your money like manure, as if money can buy us. You take over Acapulco, for instance, and turn that lovely bay into an ugly collection of American-style hotels sitting right on the water, and there you make hustlers out of happy Mexicans who are envious of your great wealth and try to get some of it away from you. You Americans are fucking up Mexico very badly ... and you are even cheating us on the marijuana we grow so that you can smoke pot and forget your troubles ... while we remain poor, with nothing but tequila to drown our troubles in. Fuck America!"
"I suggest, Senor Lopez, that you watch your language in the presence of a lady," Senor Sanchez said coldly, turning to Juan, whose face was distorted into a mask of fury, his eyes blazing hatred beneath his Beatle bangs. Juan was so angry that the veins on his forehead were standing out like ropes, and his blood was running like boiling water throughout his body. He was slightly drunk, too, for he had been carefully belting down a few extra shots of sangria when the others were not looking. That was Juan's problem. He did not hold his liquor well. No, not well at all.
Angela was surprised, but also pleased. She liked men with spirit, and that Juan certainly had. She said, the sangria also affecting her slightly-for they were at a height now of approximately 6,000 feet, and liquor works faster the higher you are-but with a touch of mockery, "Well, Juan, your sentiments are well put. But, what do you mean by-fuck America? Fuck the country? Or-fuck the women?"
Ben's mouth opened a few extra inches. He had never heard Angela use that kind of language before-at least, not in public. He held her hand a little tighter, and said, somewhat harshly, "Let's knock off this silly talk right now. I didn't come to Mexico for any political science lessons. I'm here to enjoy the country, I'm not exploiting the people that I know of. I don't need this kind of discussion at the Pyramid to the Sun ... and I'd appreciate everybody just shutting up about fuck this and fuck that. Angela and I are on vacation, we're leaving the country in another week-and I'm just not interested in those kinds of problems right now. Now, I think we should all sit down and have another drink and enjoy the view...."
"View of what-of my people working like slaves for your benefit and amusement?" Juan shot back. "Maybe I should start La Revolucion right now!" He reached beneath his bellbottom pants, quickly sliding up his pants leg and revealing a long, vicious machete strapped to his leg. In seconds, the machete was in his right hand, and with his left hand brushing the hair out of his eyes, he swung the weapon toward Ricardo with a couple of vicious, short strokes that caused Senor Sanchez to move back a few paces from the edge and Ben and Angela to move a few paces sideways.
Very coolly, his ambience unperturbed, Senor Sanchez said, in a voice that hinted at authority far beyond the comprehension of the student he was addressing, "Please, Senor Lopez, put that weapon away and do not disgrace Mexico by such a shabby performance. You are frightening the Brinkmans, and they are just a tourist couple trying to enjoy the fragrance of our lovely country. You do Mexico a grave disservice by such a chauvinistic display of base emotions. Now, if I may have your machete...." He extended his hand, but very gingerly; something in Juan's eyes, that fevered look as if he had been downing a gallon of pulque (a Mexican product of the cactus plant far more potent than tequila) made him not move very far in Juan's direction.
Angela was now clinging to Ben, and she was scared. She had never seen Juan like this before. He had always been such a polite young man-and such a great young lover-that this extreme side of machismo coupled with his own peculiar brand of patriotism made her shiver with cold. Ben, for his part, was not getting any closer, but continued to caress his wife tenderly and to slowly move her away from Juan.
'"Fuck all of you, worthless ones!" Juan shouted, brandishing the machete at Senor Sanchez. "I think I will destroy the enemy of my country first-the capitalist who squeezes the workers dry-the master of deceit and corruption-Senor Sanchez, pull out your cock!"
Senor Sanchez narrowed his eyes, stared hard at Juan. Juan's hot brown orbs burned into Sanchez like laser beams. The Senor immediately sensed that Juan was not kidding, and at once regretted his stupid mistake in not at least bringing his own chauffeur along for protection. He made a mental note to never make such an oversight again ... that is, if he got out of his present predicament alive.
"I beg your pardon?" Ricardo said.
"You will beg for your life, Senor, if you do not at once pull out your cock and kneel down and lay your cock right on the edge of this Pyramid-so that I can have the pleasure of cutting it off!" Juan shouted, waving his machete wildly like a drunken bandleader trying to conduct his orchestra.
The Senor thought, How can I humor this madman until I have a chance to outwit him ... I cannot trust him with my cock as he demands ... I must do something else.
Now Angela gestured toward Juan, her face distraught, saying, almost hysterically, "Please, Juan ... put away that thing ... it frightens me ... can't you and Senor Sanchez settle your differences ... some other way ... Juan, for my sake ... please put it away."
Juan, in reply, raised the jug of sangria to his lips with his free hand, and chugalugged a good thirst-quenching draught down his throat. Then, he put the jug down, looked at Angela with a sardonic expression and, shaking his head so that his long hair whistled in the wind, said, mockingly, "Fuck you, Senora. That is what I plan to do when I finish cutting off the cock of my capitalist cocksucker here. I shall fuck you again, as I and my friends did before...." He winked knowingly. "Only, this time I am afraid the only music I can provide will be my machete beating time on the skull of Senor Sanchez."
"What's that?" Ben spat out the words, his face a mask of black rage. He yanked Angela toward him, looked her right in the eyes; she flinched, tried to avert his gaze. "Angela, is this true? Or is this some grisly Mexican joke?"
Angela kept averting her gaze. Then, she started crying. Ben pulled her close, put his arms around her; his anger was abating, but he could still feel the rage roaring through his body. Cuckolded, he thought ... that confirms my suspicions ... and with this Mexican boy scout!
He had conveniently forgotten about the incident with the stewardess, of course.
Angela was still crying; Ben hugged her all the more.
"While the lovely American couple are comforting each other, I again remind you, Senor Sanchez, that I will have your cock and I will have it now!" Juan stepped forward a few feet toward Senor Sanchez, who did not move, but did not take his eyes from the machete, either.
Senor Sanchez said nothing.
Juan slashed with the machete. Juan knew how to handle his instrument well; in a second the machete had slashed a long slit down the right trouser leg of Ricardo. Another slash, and his left trouser leg was likewise slit, so that the two parts of his trouser legs were blowing in the wind, revealing his hairy, chunky legs. Juan said, "That was just a preview, a demonstration. The next time will be the real thing, Senor Sanchez, and if you do not lay down your cock voluntarily, I shall cut it off from you anyway, balls and all. Be prepared to part with it, for I shall have it, and I shall hoist it on my machete as a banner of our revolution. Viva la revolution!"
"Wait!"
Angela pulled herself from her husband, and now was standing just a few feet from Juan. She began to remove her jacket in a Mae West tantalizing style, spinning on her shoes, twirling this way and that, as the jacket dropped to the ground. Then, she unbuttoned her blouse. She was not wearing a bra, and her breasts practically popped right out, their nipples taut with tension. She said, in all seriousness, "Juan ... take me ... do anything you want with me ... but, please spare Senor Sanchez ... don't hurt him ... I'll do anything you want ... please!"
"What are you doing, Angela-compounding your original interest?" Ben said sarcastically, every word registering contempt as his face became a mocking, grinning skull. "You liked it so well that you're going back for seconds? Can't get enough of these young Mexican studs, is that it?"
"Ben!" Now Angela turned on her husband. "A man's life is at stake...."
"A man's cock, not life," Ben corrected her. "The Senor is not going to die if his cock is cut off, I assure you. I'm sure he'll live through the ordeal ... won't you, Senor Sanchez?"
Senor Sanchez said nothing. He stood there, impassively looking at the tableau being enacted in front of him, as detached as a spectator at an execution. He didn't even shrug.
Meanwhile, Juan, while still watching the other two men and controlling the situation with his machete, let a leer pass by Angela's way. Angela, angered, tore off her blouse and kicked off her shoes. She stood there, naked from the waist up, defiantly thrusting her breasts in Juan's face, and said in caustic tones, "Since you're so good at cutting things off ... why don't you start with these?"
"Angela!" Ben's startled cry leaped from his throat like a bullet.
"Please, Senora Brinkman, do not trifle with the boy in a situation such as this. This is no time for demonstrations of this nature." Senor Sanchez's voice was world-weary, fatherly, like a professor explaining a simple lesson to a difficult student. "I do not wish anything to happen to you, Senora, so please get out of the way and I will accept my fate. As your husband said...." Pause. "I shall survive."
Juan was laughing, laughing so hard he was almost doubled up and arched as if he were fucking. Waving his machete wildly, he chortled, "Oh, Senora ... you are too much ... I do not want to cut off your breasts...." Again, mocking, shocking laughter. "I just want to suck them off...."
"Well, fuck you then, Juan!" Angela shouted, in a pique of frustration. She kicked angrily at the ground, adding, "On second thought, I won't fuck you, you ... you ... Mexican bandit!"
She had not watched where or what she was kicking, and in the process, her foot came in contact with one of the shoes she had just dropped. The shoe was propelled forward, and perhaps by coincidence, or perhaps by some mad design of the Deity Himself, it struck Juan in the crotch.
He dropped his machete, and toppled backward by a few steps. These few steps were enough to put one of his feet over the edge of the Pyramid and, when that foot found nothing solid to stand upon as it descended, it threw him off balance and, backward, he toppled off the edge. His dying scream still lingered in the air as the survivors, on top of the Pyramid, looked over the edge, shocked at the sight. Ben held Angela very tightly, for she was crying and sobbing uncontrollably as she pressed her breasts against him, while Senor Sanchez looked calmly at his dead antagonist and said to the Brinkmans, "If you are going to Acapulco tomorrow, I think we had better get back to the city." He paused, then added, "There is nothing more we can do here."
CHAPTER EIGHT
On the Playa Hornos, the afternoon beach of Acapulco, where the Hilton Hotel is situated in all its transplanted American splendor, Ben sat quietly in the sand, watching the beautiful people flitter and flutter all over the beach. It was mid-afternoon, and the breasts bulging through the mini-bikinis of a variety of girls were holding his attention, as well they should. From time to time, he would gaze at the deep blue water of Acapulco Bay, punctuated by high-rise hotels plunked down at the water's edge, bringing an ugly commercialism into what had once been a beautiful, unspoiled setting.
He noticed that the beach boys, as usual, were hustling the bathers for drinks and umbrellas and blankets and other beach paraphernalia. Sometimes, he observed, it was the other way around; horny American secretaries or aging dowagers were also hot for the beach boys' athletic, browned bodies. To him, Acapulco was a Mexican version of Miami Beach; instead of New York Jewish, the accents were definitely sibilant Spanish.
He was in his bathing trunks, brief European style, with an oversized pair of sun glasses covering most of his face. He was drinking a coco loco, a popular beach drink at the resort, made with gin and coconut milk, and served in half a coconut shell and sipped with a straw. It was very, very good; a few more, he thought, and he would go loco from coco.
Angela was not with him this afternoon.
She was in the hotel room, resting. She had been in a slight shade of shock ever since the death of Juan Lopez. Senor Sanchez, however, had urged both of them to complete their vacation as planned-as he had put it, "It is just the death of another surplus student, and you did not know him well anyway. It is just one of many tragedies that take place in Mexico every day. You are here to enjoy my country; do not let this unfortunate incident ruin your holiday. Go to Acapulco as you have planned, and if I can get away from my business, I may join you before you return to America and offer my good-byes in person."
If I can get away from my business-that, translated, means; if my wife and children do not return unexpectedly, I shall be in Acapulco to fuck Senora Brinkman a few times before her bourgeois husband takes her back to the United States ... unless I can persuade her to stay in Mexico as my mistress.
Ben had not said much to Angela about her liaison with Juan. He had said little; he had simply worked over the flesh of her buttocks with the back of his hands until she had found it necessary to sleep on her stomach for the first few nights. He did not know if she and Senor Sanchez had also enjoyed each other intimately, but he suspected the same. The thought did not make him happy; even his newly discovered machismo did not make him happy. He did not like having to physically work over his wife to keep her straightened, and that was the way their relationship was going now. My God, he thought, when we get home I'm going to have to chain her in the closet or something, otherwise how do I know who she'll take up with next?
And, as for himself, he had only had one transgression, that was with the stewardess on the flight into Mexico City. That, of course, was not his fault. He had been seduced by her, not the other way around. Who could blame him?
So he sat quietly on the beach, watching the girls jiggle their asses and thrust their breasts forward and put on their pouting sensuous expressions whenever a desirable man was near. He was watching one in particular, whose bikini top was as flimsy as a piece of string. Her cleavage was already half out, as she lay on her beach blanket tanning her voluptuous body. She was a long-haired blonde, like his wife, and her movements and expressions reminded him of Angela, as he stared at her breasts, watching them slowly inch out of the bikini top until he could see the nipples, taut with excitement, as through her thick shades she observed one of the more erotic of the beach boys wandering by. The way her breasts strained at the bikini top fascinated Ben ... he watched, his tongue dry in his mouth, an erection forming beneath his bathing trunks ... slowly, ever so slowly, the girl's provocative movements were forcing her breasts out into the open ... if these movements continued, it would only be a matter of minutes before she would become topless....
"Are you enjoying the view, Senor?" said a voice in his left ear, its sibilant Spanish syllables-even though she spoke in English, the girl's voice retained that smooth Spanish-Mexican quality of liquid flowing of words-whispering like a soft breeze into his ear.
He turned around. A tall Mexican beauty with jet black hair hanging to her waist and a flimsy white bikini covering her vital areas was bending over him, her olive skin dark with desire, her brown eyes peeping mischievously over a pair of circular sun glasses. He stared at her for a few more seconds, wondering who she was, trying to place her in his life.
"Senor, do you not remember me? We shared a particular airplane compartment together not so long ago. If I mentioned the fact that I am a stewardess for Aeronaves de Mexico, would that help you to remember me?"
Ben did such a fast double-take that his glasses almost fell off. "I can't believe it!" he exclaimed. "Are you ... are you...."
"Yes, I am Maria. We had a very good time together...." Now, she moved closer to his ear to whisper these words...." ... in the washroom together, did we not? Did I not fuck you as you have never been fucked before?"
A sweet smile of recognition flooding his face, Ben had to agree that she had.
"What are you doing here, Maria?"
"Well, I am on holiday, I have a three-day layover in Mexico City. But I felt like seeing a beach again, so I just flew here this morning. And, since this is the afternoon beach in Acapulco, where better could I spend my time? Where better, as luck would have it, could I meet you again, my charming American Senor?"
She reached out a finger and tickled him on the mustache. Her touch was gentle as a breeze from the bay, and he felt his cock growing even stiffer than it already was. The way her eyes glanced down at his crotch from time to time told him that she was not exactly oblivious to his sexual situation.
"As I remember, you were traveling with a woman, whom I believe was your wife. Where is she?"
Ben told her-not about Juan's death but simply about his wife's "resting"-and she cluck-clucked her sympathy. Then she said, conspiratorially, "Would she miss you very much if we were to take a little drive around the bay? Could that be arranged?" Ben queried her further.
It seemed that Maria was staying at the Las Brisas Hotel, that collection of cottages that hang on a hill overlooking the bay, not far from the airport, where privacy is assured and each guest has use of a pink jeep for transportation purposes. The idea of a jeep ride around Acapulco was sufficiently appealing to Ben-plus, of course, the added attraction of Maria's presence-to move him in that requested manner. But, as he told her, "No more than an hour or two, Maria; then, I'll have to get back to my wife. You understand, don't you?"
Of course she did.
Ben thought, What a strange situation ... Angela's made it with Juan, probably with Sanchez too ... now I'm getting involved with this Mexican hot pepper ... and I came down here to save my marriage, not break it up for good ... plus I seem to be catching a strong dose of Mexican machismo as well ... what a weird vacation....
He began to shake his head, wondering just what the hell the end result was going to be. In a few more days, he would have to return to New York. Back to work ... back with Angela ... he hoped.
"What is the matter?" she inquired solicitously. He shrugged. "It's all right. Nothing special.
Just hate to leave your lovely country when my vacation is over, that's all."
"Do you have to?"
"What do you mean?"
"What I mean is that you do not have to do anything that you do not want to do. If you wish to stay, stay. There are ways that Mexico can accommodate Americans who wish to establish residence here."
"Establish residence?"
"Yes. It is not impossible. Nothing is impossible for he or she who wishes and works to make it come true."
He did not like the philosophical mood she was putting him in. To break the round of question-and-answer, he ordered each a coco loco. They took the drink with them as they climbed into the jeep.
She drove him along the Costera Aleman, and they made a complete circle of the peninsula, merging into the Gran Via Tropical and the Avenida Las Playas before reconnecting with Aleman again. She showed him the houses of the rich, newly and otherwise, stuck on the sheer cliff drops like pimples on an acned face. The homes were spectacular in the Mexican coloristic tradition, like those in the Pedregal in Mexico City where Senor Sanchez lived. One of them belonged to John Wayne, and she pointed that one out. Ben was not a fan of John Wayne; besides, he was on his third coco loco, and they were very potent drinks. He was feeling the alcohol content building up in his bloodstream, and he was glad that she and not he was driving.
"Fuck John Wayne," he said, as if he couldn't care less whether he did or not.
She looked at him, her drink nestled between her knees, a look of limpid love, and said softly, "I do not wish to fuck John Wayne. I just wish to fuck you, Senor Ben."
Just like that.
And now it was Senor Ben. Soon, he thought, it would be just plain Ben ... then sweetheart, lover, darling ... and then ... yes, and then.-....
He felt a hand on his cock.
Rather, not so much on his cock as on his trunks, right over his cock. She had placed her right hand there, and gently slipped a finger beneath his trunks, tangling it in his pubic hairs, fondling his balls, tickling his cock. She looked at him with the seriousness of a woman who has one thing in particular in mind, and intends to let nothing stop her from getting it.
He said, finishing his drink and flipping the coconut shell out of the jeep, "Let's get back to your hotel."
"Why did you throw that coconut shell on the road? That is littering. You should not do that in Mexico, even if you do it in America. You should...."
He grabbed her by the arm, pulled her body close to his, and kissed her hard on the mouth. When her tongue instinctively rose to touch his, he bit it on the tip-not hard, but just enough to let er know who was in charge. Then he crushed his lips hard against hers again, until he knew she could feel at least a twinge of physical pain, and quickly withdrawing his mouth, said, "Well, I'm sorry I was a litterbug. Now, I understand I'm a guest in your country, and I won't do it again. But one thing I'm going to do again and again is to fuck the living shit out of you when we get back to the Las Brisas. And we're going there now, right now, do you understand?"
She said nothing. She nodded in acquiescence, and drove in silence. He could not see, beneath her sunglasses, that a few tears had fallen. He probably would not have cared one way or the other.
About fifteen minutes later, they pulled into a parking area near her cottage. Like the jeeps, the cottages were painted pink, that subtle yet shocking pastel pink that some Mexicans seem to love to hit the tourists with, like a blow between the eyes. They entered her room; it was a twin-bedded room, and both beds were pushed together to form a double bed. He noticed that, and smiled at the thought of her ingeniousness.
Without another word, they both undressed. She pulled back the sheets, and climbed inside. He followed her.
To again remind her who was boss, he grabbed her hair at the scalp and pulled, forcing her head back against the pillow. Still holding her hair-it was thick and lustrous, with the texture of silken rope-he kissed her on the mouth and slammed his tongue inside, over hers, to ream out the roof of her mouth. She responded readily, her lips sucking suggestively at his, her tongue struggling to return his tonguing. He did this for several minutes, finally letting her hair and mouth go.
When he did so, she went down on his cock.
By now, his cock was completely erect. She stuffed it inside her sucking mouth, drawing his instrument over her tongue and into her throat. Before he could stop himself, hold it any longer, he came, practically ramming his cock down her throat as she gurgled and gulped down his sperm, his white hot liquid sperm that came into her throat like a flowing river. She swallowed and swallowed as if dying of thirst, and did not release his cock from her mouth for what seemed like the longest time.
It happened so fast, and was over so quickly-or so he thought-that, in one way, he felt cheated. She had not even tried to place his cock inside her vagina.
But, there was a reason for that.
She whispered to him, her hair tickling his face, "I wanted your sperm so much ... I wanted to swallow you first ... do not worry. I will have your friend up and inside me very shortly ... I will make you happy to be fucking me ... Ben, I will make you so very happy...."
So, he thought, now it's Ben.
So, OK. Let's get with it, Maria ... let's make it.
They went into the 69 position.
Even with the air-conditioning on, it seemed hot to Ben, so he threw off his part of the sheets. So did Maria, leaving his head at the head of the bed while she dove for the foot of the bed.
He sniffed her pussy. She had daubed it with a touch of perfume, the perfume of a Mexican flower whose name he did not know. It was pungent, aromatic, and, mingled with the natural smell of vagina, it was thoroughly intoxicating. He sniffed it in her thick black bush, pushing his nose past her quivering vaginal lips. Then, he withdrew his nose, placing his tongue just inside her lips, parting them with his tongue. His tongue snaked inside, and he could feel, taste, inhale the wetness of her membranes, their softness and pliability enveloping his tongue like a fragrant mist. She shuddered as his tongue stabbed into her, and he could feel her vagina expanding and contracting as he licked and licked. She tasted so clean, he thought ... I just know she's clean ... I think she's even cleaner than Angela, and Angela's a freak about cleanliness ... oh, Maria, you're some Mexican tamale, all right....
Maria, in the meantime, was licking his cock.
Holding his balls in her hands, she was sweeping her tongue along his stiffening instrument in long yet gentle strokes that covered his cock from tip to base. She nudged his foreskin, dipping her tongue underneath it, then moving on and tangling her tongue in his pubic hairs. She licked his cock as lightly as a feather brush, almost tickling it so that he would jump a bit from time to time. She herself was moving a bit, as she felt the bite of his tongue in her vagina, feeling her liquid beginning to flow as his tongue set her sex on fire.
Now, she commenced to suck his cock, drawing it inside her lovely lips like a cock inside a vagina. Inch by inch, she pulled him inside her wonderful sucking mouth. His cock slid past her teeth, across her tongue ... and almost inside her throat, as she drew his stiffening instrument inside her mouth ... inch by inch ... until all of it was inside. She let her mouth membranes come down on his cock, chewing it with her gums, pressing it like the meat in a sandwich ... using all of her prodigious technique to get it hard enough to come inside her vagina and jolt her into the highest level of sexual thrills. She sucked and sacked ... his cock grew stiffer and stiffer.
Meanwhile his tongue, still probing the innermost recesses of her vagina, was causing her liquid to flow like a waterfall. Gleefully, she surrendered to her orgasm, letting her vagina membranes grip his tongue in a vise, palpitating wildly as she caught his tongue in her vagina. He was amazed; Angela had never been this wild with him, and his tongue was feeling as if something was biting it, holding it inside her firmly. Has she got teeth in there? he wondered ... wow, her vagina is something else....
He tasted her come, intoxicated by the total sexuality of this woman. But, he could also feel her tongue and mouth on his cock, and he knew that he was as ready to fuck her vagina as he would ever be. So, reluctantly, he pulled his tongue out-almost scraping some skin off-and, as gently as possible, removed his cock from her mouth, again with difficulty. It was as if her two orifices were -lined with adhesive; they simply did not want to let go of him, and that was that.
On her part, this was true. He was so unlike any other men she had ever known. He was, to her, just a nice guy and, after all the hustling she had had in her 23 years of life and two years of flying, that was more than enough reason for her to become interested in him. Besides, she had seduced him for a lark, on a bet from one of her co-workers. Yet, she had enjoyed her sojourn in the washroom with him, he was good in the sex department, and she sort of liked his serious looks, especially with the mustache, and his meticulous attention to details. He was intelligent, too, she thought ... I do not care if he is married ... I want to love him anyway ... and I want him to love me ... the marriage we can worry about later ... mafiana....
Mahana, however, does not necessarily mean that everything in Mexico is put off for the morrow.
Right now, Ben had moved Maria's position so that she was parallel to him, head to head and foot to foot. He climbed on top of her in the traditional position, pausing only to bite her on the breasts as he settled on top of her. She winced, thinking, Oh God in Heaven, is machismo getting to him too ... Oh I hope not ... please dear God do not let him become as rough and rotten as the rest.
But he had not bitten her hard; just a few "love" bites, that was all.
He dropped his cock on top of her vagina. Eagerly, she moved his member inside. It slid in as if greased, for her vagina walls were wet as the water in Acapulco Bay. Ben did not have the world's biggest cock; far from it. Yet, even though her vagina was also far from the world's smallest, they both felt that the fit was snug and full. She could feel the tip of his cock at the edge of her womb, and he could feel her vaginal walls enclosing it like a finger in a tight glove.
Moving rhythmically, he turned on his cock power, and her vagina responded. Her breasts burned concave holes in his chest, her lips fastened upon his, her arms grasped his shoulders ... and he humped and pumped her, feeling his cock and her vagina coalescing together.
His sperm was screaming for release, his balls bursting. From her throat, he could faintly hear her moans of delight, as his cock drove deeper and deeper inside her vagina. They were both perspiring, even in the air-conditioning, and stuck to-each other's bodies in an adhesive of sweat, as he drove into her....
She was coming now, her body racked by the sporadic and spastic rhythms of orgasm ... her back arched, cat-like, and her fingernails dug deeply into the flesh on his back ... she silently screamed for his release, to relieve her orgasm, to fulfill her womanly function.
He could hold it no longer. He came.
His sperm roared out of his cock like racing cars at the Grand Prix. With the impact of an automatic pistol recoiling, his sperm slammed into her vagina, and she received them as a thirsty person receives a large glass of refreshing liquid. She swallowed his cock ... his sperm ... his body ... himself ... more and more and more.
For him, this was one of the best fucks he had ever had. He was amazed at the completeness, the oneness she gave him. It was like nothing he had ever experienced before, even in the two years of his marriage. This was one hell of a woman, he told himself ... I mean, is ... let Angela fuck around with Lopez and Sanchez and the whole fucking Mexican Army if she wants to ... I'll fuck Maria instead ... I'll fuck Maria every day and night.
But ... I'm still married to Angela. When will this madness ... this Mexican madness ... end?
CHAPTER NINE
Senor Sanchez, his bags packed and his airline ticket for Acapulco in the pocket of his suit coat, was just stepping out the door of his home when his servant suddenly called from the living room, "Senor Sanchez, you have a telephone call from your wife!"
He did not even break stride, but whispered a few words to his chauffeur, who was waiting for him in the garage with the Rolls Royce. Senor Sanchez sat down in the front seat, as usual, while his chauffeur went into the house to talk to his servant. There were the sounds of a few brief blows landed, a couple of whimpers ... then, the chauffeur returned, and informed his employer that the servant had told Mrs. Sanchez that he husband had been called away on "urgent business" and would let her know later where he was and when he would return.
"Did you express my indignation with him, for calling me by name instead of checking with me first, as he was always instructed to do?" Ricardo asked his chauffeur.
"Yes, Senor Sanchez, I reprimanded him for you. He assured me that he would not make such a foolish mistake again."
"That is good. Well, I will not give him his Christmas bonus this year for such a foolish mistake. That will teach him a lesson. If I were not so softhearted, I would discharge him on the spot."
"Si, you are a wonderful employer, Senor Sanchez."
"Gracias." He frowned, reached inside his coat pocket for his airline ticket. He had just had a change of mind. He handed the ticket to the chauffeur, telling him to give it to the servant and have it returned to the airline for credit. He had decided, instead, to drive, rather than fly, to Acapulco.
Several minutes later, the chauffeur returned, with a traveling bag of his own. He told his employer that he had done as ordered.
They took off. Senor Sanchez switched his position to the back seat for the long drive. It was not quite noon, and the drive took at least six or seven hours to cover the 250 miles from Mexico City to Acapulco, over a concrete four-lane highway and through some of the most beautiful mountain scenery in Mexico. It would be a pleasant drive.
The air-conditioning was the loudest noise in the car, and Ricardo ordered the chauffeur, whose name was Hernando, to turn on the portable cas sette recorder that he had recently had equipped in the vehicle. Soon, the romantic music of Mantovanni and Jackie Gleason, with shimmering strings and old standard melodies, filled the car. Ricardo leaned back, and mixed himself some Kaluha on the rocks, Kaluha being the coffee liqueur of Mexico, smooth and potent, as easy to imbibe as creme dementhe. He let the thick liquid flow down his throat; Soon, he thought, we shall have lunch in one of the suburbs on the way. No hurry ... just a pleasurable drive. But ... even though I shall soon be seeing the SeHora Brinkman again, it would be even more pleasurable to have a companion for the trip ... a female companion.
He sipped some more Kaluha.
He wondered what Angela would say when he arrived. He knew where they were staying, even the exact room number. He had ways of finding things out.
He wondered what Ben would say. Well, he would handle Ben as he had handled him before. That young man is no match for an experienced fellow such as myself, he reasoned ... if I want to take his wife away from him, I will have no trouble from him ... I think I will see if I can persuade her to remain in Mexico a little longer ... as my mistress, of course ... she is certainly in the throes of addiction to machismo, that is for sure ... perhaps she will come down with some disease, and I will have to arrange a "rest cure" for her ... her husband cannot protest to that ... well, we shall see.
The car continued its traveling. Hernando was an excellent driver, fast but efficient, no jerky stops and starts, everything smooth as Senor Sanchez liked it. They were approaching the outskirts of the city....
Then he saw something that made him quickly call to Hernando, "Stop!"
The car stopped, pulling over to the side of the road.
What Senor Sanchez saw was a who; a young, long-haired blonde girl dressed in simulated buckskin, the latest fad of the hippies-he thought indeed she was a hippie, a species that, due to a particularly unique form of Mexican harassment, was not too welcome in Mexico at this time-who had her right thumb jerked forward in the traditional gesture of bumming a lift. Something about her innocent-looking countenance, her easy manner, reminded him of Angela Brinkman.
When she saw the car stop, she hurried forward, her coltish gait bringing her to the rear door in a few seconds. In a breathless girlish voice, she asked, in tourist Spanish, "May I have a ride to Oaxaca?"
"I speak English fluently, better than you speak Spanish," Ricardo chided her.
"OK," she cheerfully replied. "Are you going to Oaxaca?"
"By a fortuitous circumstance, yes. Would you like a ride?"
"Uh ... yeah, sure." She glanced over her shoulder, her face turning slightly red with guilt, as a long-haired young man, also dressed in buck skin, climbed from behind a road sign and clambered toward the car. She said, apologetically, "Can my boy friend come along?"
So that is it, thought Senor Sanchez; the old "girl on the highway" game, flagging down a car by herself and then suddenly producing a "boy friend" or two ... or more ... who was hidden all the time. Using sex to sell the unsuspecting driver that he would have her company all to himself....
Senor Sanchez quickly decided that he wanted the girl's company-all to himself.
He grabbed her by the wrist and, yanking her off her feet with a sudden show of strength, pulled her into the car, slamming the door and ordering Hernando to drive away. Hernando, cool in emergencies, stepped on the accelerator and pressed the button that automatically locked all the doors. The Rolls pulled away in a cloud of dust, as the hippie youth, several feet too late to catch up, grabbed some loose rocks and heaved them at the rapidly-disappearing vehicle. The rocks too fell short, and in a few seconds his raging figure was a speck of dust in the distance.
The girl, too frightened to scream, just huddled in the opposite corner of the rear seat, her head in her hands, crying softly. Her legs looked neatly tapered, though covered by the buckskin pants; before she had hidden her face, Ricardo had observed that it was of a pleasing oval dimension, with a few girlish freckles and twinkling blue eyes and long, pursed lips that were not pouting but were still thick and long enough to make her look like a sexy teen-ager. Which he thought she was; however, he didn't care. He knew that she had no time to check his auto's license, nor had her friend; she would not know his name, and recognition out of the millions of Mexico City inhabitants would be almost impossible. No, he was clear; and, she was here. Beside him, a desirable female, and he meant to fuck her but good.
"My young sweet girl, please do not carry on so," he said, his voice almost grandfatherly in its solicitous syllables. "I mean you no harm. I simply wanted a traveling companion for the day, and you conveniently came along and made my day complete. Besides...." He paused for a grand effect. "You were not being scrupulously fair, since you had a young friend concealed behind a sign. That, I think, was most unfair of you. In fact, I think that you owe me an apology for such gross deception ... and I want that apology ... now."
The girl looked up from her crying, her face still wet with tears, her eyes open in amazement. "Me ... apologize to you ... for kidnapping me?"
He smiled sadly, as he slapped her on both cheeks, his hand one continuous circle of motion.
"When I say, apologize, I expect you to apologize."
From the look in his eyes, she realized that he would not hesitate to use more force, if he thought it necessary. And she was not unfamiliar with machismo, having been an American student at the University of Mexico for the past year. She remembered the code, much like that of the Mafia, and, also realizing that she was indeed his prisoner if he chose to keep her in that status, said, her mouth drooping in resignation. "All right ... I ... apologize...."
He pulled a silk handkerchief from his suit, and gently daubed the tears away from her face. His touch was firm but gentle, and she did not draw back. He offered her a drink of Kaluha; she thought it would help her nerves, accepted, and sipped the smooth, chocolate-brown liqueur.
They talked for a while, as the car sped through the beautiful Mexican countryside, its fall colorations of brilliant reds, amber browns, and golden yellows-plus the still green grass that grows almost everywhere in the verdant country-and soon the girl was full of Kaluha, full of no less than six large, delightful glasses of the smooth liqueur-and the time was close to mid-afternoon, as they drove up and down the magnificent mountains. As she felt the liqueur affecting her bodily responses, so also did she hear the romantic music spreading into her ears, feel the sophisticated hands of Senor Sanchez undressing her-until, her voluptuous body was nude on the seat beside him, and her small but firm conical breasts were revealed to have nice taut nipples pointing right at him. She no longer hated him, if she ever had; indeed, she was looking at him with increased interest, and respect as well. It was amazing how well machismo worked in Mexico, even upon foreigners who had been but little exposed to it, Senor Sanchez thought, as he watched the girl's smile deepen while he played with her nipples, flicking them with his thumb as if he were snapping his fingers upon them.
He had not even removed his necktie. He was still fully clothed.
"Undress me, Martha," he said (that was her name-she had mentioned it in their previous conversation).
Almost automatically, like a robot, she reached for him, and removed his coat ... then his shirt and tie....
She stood, rather sat, gazing at the thick mounds of black curly hair on his chest. She tangled her fingers in them, as if she were a child who had just discovered a new toy. She stuck her nose in them ... then began to lick at his chest, without his prompting, like a dog desiring affection from his master, while Ricardo thought, That is the American female all the way ... break them in properly, break them down the right way ... and they immediately start crawling all over you ... ah, these American females ... they are made for machismo.
"Please finish undressing me," he said.
She unzipped his fly, unbuttoned his belt, and pulled off his pants ... until she got to his shoes, which she removed, then finished pulling his pants off. Next his socks ... his shorts ... and there he was, as naked as she, his cock dangling loose like a piece of rope.
There was a reason for his lack of an erection. For he had willed it so. He wanted her to really work for it, to bring it up to its fully erect length herself.
She needed no prompting on that score. She took one look, and was on it in a flash.
But he had moved. Now he was lying stretched out on the full length of the rear seat. To suck him off, she would have to kneel on the floor. That was the way he had planned it, and that was the way he wanted it ... and she understood.
She knelt down, her hair falling over his stomach, dusting him like a finely tailored cloth, and put her lips to his cock.
"Tongue, please," he reprimanded her.
She moved her mouth back, sticking out a short tongue that darted, almost bird like, over the tip of his cock. She licked around the tip in a circular motion, and his penis began to rise to the occasion. Her tongue was soft and wet, and it felt very, very good. She came down to the base along the foreskin route, and tenderly kissed his balls when she got there, one at a time, sniffing his bush and rubbing his scrotum with her rabbit like nose.
"Very nice, very nice," he said, approvingly.
Moving back to the tip of his prick, she opened her mouth and began to suck his prick inside her sucking mouth. Inch by inch, she sucked him inside her mouth, his cock scraping the roof of her mouth as her tongue helped him slide inside. Her mouth began to move like a vagina, up and down, side to side ... sucking, always sucking ... he could feel his balls getting fuller, his cock getting harder ... her throat made strange little moans ... she was getting him ready to go, and so was she....
He lay back, relaxing, enjoying her efforts. So fine, he thought ... that is the way I like it ... let her do the heavy work ... then I collect the prize....
She instinctively sensed when he was ready, and looked at him, questioningly. In reply, he stretched, moved his body so that he was sitting up in the seat now, spread his legs, and motioned for her to join him in a variation on the lotus position. Having studied some Zen at one time, she understood what he wanted, and was soon squatting in front of him, slowly pushing her bristling vagina over his vibrating cock....
His hands gripping her buttocks, squeezing the juicy flesh between his appraising fingers, he pulled her body, her vagina, into him, and his cock slid past her lips with a minimum of difficulty. He did not even have to check the temperature to know that she was wet enough; he was long experienced in such matters. She placed her arms around his neck, her hands gripping him on the shoulders, and pulled herself into him so that his cock slid easily, inch by inch, inside her waiting vagina. It was nice and snug, very tight, yet he felt no pain at getting inside; the girl, and gravity, were working in his favor. He could feel her breasts pressing against him, and he let her put her head on his shoulder, like a niece getting a gift from her uncle for being a good girl.
He bit her on the tip of her nose.
She didn't even flinch, and he thought, Very good indeed, I have her well trained now.
"Orgasm, please," he said, in an authoritative tone of voice.
As if on cue, she began to let her liquid rush down upon his cock, her vaginal walls palpitating violently as they closed about his cock. She began to swivel her hips as if dancing, her motions pulling his cock this way and that, as his sperm began to rise, ready to explode in a short time....
She came in a fiery burst of liquid, moaning and breathing simultaneously, her body thrusting itself and rubbing him, her vagina crying for his cock to explode and join her in orgasmic bliss. Her mouth was kissing him all over his shoulders, cheeks, ears ... she was begging him to come, to come join her.
But he waited for what he thought was the climatic moment. It was a tribute to his self-discipline that he was almost always able to do it this way, and this was not one of the exceptions.
When he was ready to come, he came, releasing his sperm in a jolting, jabbing burst that nearly knocked her right off the car seat. He stabbed her with his cock like Jack the Ripper taking care of his female victims, driving deep into her vagina, hitting her so hard that his cock almost punctured through her backside. It was a hard-driving, almost brutal fuck that he gave her; but she took it, absorbed it like cushioned springs, and even cried for more ... and more....
But she received no more. They were less than a hundred miles from Acapulco now, and he had no further use for her.
After she dressed, he simply barked some brief orders to Hernando in Spanish, such rapid-fire Spanish that she could not follow it, of that he made sure. At the next small town-actually, more of a roadside catina than anything else-he placed enough pesos to equal $25 American in her hand and, when Hernando stopped the car, he propelled her hard against him. He waited, patiently, perhaps longer than usual, for her to get into, not her second but her third orgasm. He really wanted to give her something to remember him by.
She was all over him, her arms and legs fondling him, but he extricated himself and pushed her outside, not hard but firmly so that she had no choice but to jump out or fall on her ass. He said, "Adios, muchacha-you were very good, and now you may rejoin your boy friend in Mexico City and tell him that you have been thoroughly fucked by a real man, for a change." Then the Rolls drove off, leaving the startled girl, still staring dumbly at the dinero in her hand, her face shocked and incredulous in its expression.
He dressed, reclined, drank another Kaluha. Soon, he would be seeing Senora Brinkman again.
To that, he waved his Kaluha, as if in a silent toast, and drained the glass.
CHAPTER TEN
"What the hell's going on here?" Ben murmured as he opened the door to their hotel room. He had just returned from his assignation with Maria, expecting to find his wife still "resting" from her grief and other matters, as he had left her.
Resting, however, was hardly the right word.
True, she was lying in bed, all right. But she was naked, her breasts and vagina were pointing skyward, her arms and legs were outstretched, as if to receive perhaps some form of manna from heaven.
What she was about to receive, as Ben opened the door, was the definitely masculine body of one of the La Quebrada divers.
The La Quebrada divers are two, sometimes three, individuals who put on a twice-nightly show at the restaurant by the same name. Below the restaurant, which is situated on a cliff a few hundred feet in height, lie a few small breakers and sort of cove into which the divers, carrying lighted torches in their teeth, swan dive for the amusement of the well-heeled patrons. It is a chilling, terrifying sight, and one slight mishap-and you're dead.
This particular diver, a slim, elegant-looking guy no more than 22, with moderate-length black hair and slender arms and legs, was perched on the chest of drawers, ready to dive off and onto the bed-and, presumably, onto Angela as well when Ben uttered his surprised query. Which was sufficient to surprise the diver, almost in mid-dive, for he seemed to change course in mid-air, missing the bed entirely and crashing in a heap on the floor, where he lay quietly.
Ben walked over to Angela, grabbed her by the shoulders, turned her over, and proceeded to beat out a harsh rhythmical pattern on her buttocks with the knuckles of his hands. She tried to scream, and he shoved her face into a pillow, at the same time continuing his beating until her ass was redder than an Acapulco sunset. He quickly slipped her bruised body beneath the covers, told her to shut up or he would strangle her. From the violent tone of his voice he could tell that she believed him, for she immediately did as she was told; the way he felt at that moment, he also realized that he himself was perfectly capable of carrying out that threat, and he called the desk, saying, "Hello, this is Brinkman in 314. There's a strange body on the floor of my room, and I want it removed immediately. No silly questions from you, just get up here and get rid of it at once! Yes, that'll be fine. Thank you very much."
Sighing, he dropped himself into a chair, placing his hands behind his head. He was beginning to wish that he had never taken Angela to Mexico, much less himself. He thought, This is such a beautiful country ... but there's sure something strange in the air ... I'm not a mean guy or anything like that, but I'll be goddamned if this machismo syndrome isn't starting to get to me ... I shouldn't have to beat Angela up each time I have to show her I'm a man ... this marriage is getting worse than I ever dreamed ... I don't know what the hell to do anymore.
Angela, cowering beneath the sheets, said nothing.
A few minutes later, two bellboys arrived, asked no questions, picked up the body, and left. Ben sighed again. He walked over to the bed, pulled back the sheets, looked at her ass. The bruises, like knuckle-prints, were still showing. He placed the palm of one hand on one of her buttocks, squeezed gently, patted her, removed his hand and placed it on her neck. His other hand automatically joined it, and before he realized what was happening, both hands were around her neck, their fingers almost joining.
Suddenly, the impact of what he was doing hit him like a blow from somebody's fist. He hurriedly yanked his hands away, looking at them in fear and concern. He could not believe it ... his mind staggered at the impact of this new knowledge ... he had just tried to strangle his wife.
He asked himself, had it come to that?
"Why don't you just kill me and get it over with?" his wife asked laconically, with no trace of emotion in her voice, sounding as bored as Bette Davis in one of her injured wife roles. "I'm no damned good, Ben, and now you know it. I've been fucking everybody since you brought me to this sad beautiful country. And I just don't want to stop ... I like fucking everybody ... I like everybody treating me with machismo ... I like it very much...."
He walked over to the bed again and, placing his hands on her shoulders, rolled her over so that she was now lying on her back. He kissed her breasts, sucking them gently with his mouth; she did not respond, but merely lay there, quiescent and uninvolved. He kissed her on the mouth; same reaction, or lack of it.
He pulled a chair over to her bedside, sat himself down, and reached over to hold her hand while he was talking with her. Her hand felt as limp as wet liver; she was passive in the extreme to him.
Before he could say anything, she said, again in those flat monotones, "You've got a dose of machismo too, Ben. That's what I've done to you ... that's what Mexico has done to you, too ... I wish you'd hit me again ... good and hard ... why don't you break both my legs ... then I can stay in Mexico for that much longer ... and then when my legs heal, you can break them again ... and we can start all over again ... why don't you hit me, Ben ... hit me good...."
He began to wonder if he should call a doctor.
He said, "Please, Angela, don't talk that way. We've had a wonderful marriage for the past two years, even though there have been some rough spots. I think we've managed to get along fairly well. But ever since we've been in Mexico ... well, it just seems like something in this country itself is getting under our skins, tearing our marriage apart. We can't go on like this...."
The telephone rang.
They let it ring for perhaps a dozen times, before Ben finally crossed to the other side of the bed and picked up the receiver.
It was Senor Sanchez.
Ben thought, Who else? Why not? That's all I need.
Nevertheless, he invited the Senor to their room. He thought, What the hell, maybe Senor Sanchez can help her get out of this strange mood. Chances are he'll probably start fucking her right under my nose ... but what can I lose now? ... I may have lost her already ... to Mexico ... to machismo ... oh, fuck it all.
Senor Sanchez arrived a few minutes later.
He was surprised, for one of the few times in his life, to discover Angela in such a corpse-like state. He thought, This is too much machismo for'her, she simply cannot handle such an abrupt transition ... if I had realized that she was this delicate ... yes, I can see why her husband is so worried ... something must be done ... something must be done at once.
He walked over to the sick girl and, uncharacteristically-it just occurred to him on the spur of the moment-he began to hum a Mexican lullaby, then singing the words to her in soft sibilant Spanish, like a member of a mariachi band. Her face began to take on more color, and her eyes brightened. She became more animated, more alive ... and all Ben could do was walk out of the room, go downstairs to the bar, and order a drink.
He ordered the strongest, tallest, most expensive rum drink on the bar menu.
He was halfway through his first drink when an idea occurred to him. Perhaps he should extend his vacation for another week ... figure out some way to keep Senor Sanchez from taking complete possession of his wife ... give Mexico, machismo and all, another week to get straightened out and his marriage with it ... and if that didn't work, just get the hell out and go back to New York alone and try to start a new life with Angela.
What else could he do?
He asked the bartender to save his seat for a few minutes, then went back to the front desk and asked them to place a call to New York for him, and to page him in the bar when the call was completed. Then he went back to the bar, gulped down what was left of his drink, and immediately ordered another.
Telephone calls from one point to another in Mexico are strictly manana, as far as speed goes. But, from Mexico to another country ... well, time often stands still before such calls are completed.
Ben was well into his fifth monstrous concoction, the liquor running through his veins so strongly that, as his phone connection was announced, he almost fell on his ass as he clambered off the bar stool and went back to the lobby to take his call.
It was lucky for Ben that Richard Waywright was working late that evening, and that the switchboard was still connected (as per his instructions, in case he wished to call out). Waywright had picked up the phone immediately; although, Ben was in such a combined state of panic and inebriation that it took his boss several seconds to finally understand who was on the other end of the connection and where he was calling from.
It took Ben several straining minutes to describe his situation-leaving out the more sordid details-to Waywright, finally getting around to requesting the additional week of vacation. Since two weeks was all the authorized vacation Ben had coming, he offered to take the extra week as a leave of absence, without pay.
Waywright, however, had other ideas.
It had not taken him long to figure out that the Brinkmans' marriage was indeed in trouble, even in more trouble than he had suspected would befall them and their initial encounter with machismo.
And, a sudden jolting idea had charged into his brain.
He could use a vacation himself, or at least a few days off. He had been working too hard, especially since Ben was gone. He thought, I'll just tell the vice-president I need a few days off because of a sudden recurrence of an old war wound or something ... have to bask in the sun for a few days ... we're all so far behind anyway that it really won't make any difference ... and this is my chance to really get Angela Brinkman straightened out as to what I want from her ... I may never get a chance like this again.
Especially with Senor Sanchez, as described by Ben, breathing so hard down Angela's neck. He knew Mexican men, and Senor Sanchez sounded dangerous to him ... dangerous for his own plans for Angela.
Ben almost dropped the phone when Waywright told him that he was catching the next plane for Acapulco, and would be there tomorrow, if not sooner. He vainly tried to protest, but Waywright would have none of that. Richard the Good told Ben the Distraught that he, Richard, was doing it for his own benefit as well as Ben's-as he put it, "Ben, you are just too valuable an employee for us to let this horrible thing happen to you. I feel that it's my personal responsibility to help you out in any way that I can. That's why I'm flying down to Acapulco on the first plane out tomorrow. Goodbye."
As he hung up, Richard could not help but chuckle softly. Tomorrow, he would waste no time with anyone except Angela. In her state, as he imagined it, she would be ready for someone new to move right in and take over ... some familiar face from her own country ... him.
He was getting a monstrous erection just thinking about it, and he decided to leave the office at that moment. He was no longer in any mood-or shape-to work.
While Ben, at the other end of the connection, could scarcely believe his ears as he hung up the phone.
His employer, his supervisor, his boss....Richard Waywright ... coming all the way to Mexico to help him out.
It was so fantastic that he found it hard to take. How magnificent, he thought, of my boss to do that for me ... what a great guy he really is.
On the way back to his room, Ben paused briefly to look outside. It was dark now, the moon was a silver globe in a star-sprinkled sky, and the reflection of moonlight on the water was indeed lushly romantic. The sensuous sight almost put him in a pleasant frame of mind.
Until he opened his hotel room door....
And saw, in the dim light from the hall, two figures huddled in the bed, snuggled beneath the sheets, making some rather animated and passionate love.
He did not need to rip the sheets off to find out who they were.
He knew.
He was closing the door, wondering where he would sleep that night, when a sudden inspiration rang a bell in his brain.
Why should he sleep somewhere else? This was his room, it was he who was paying the bill (at the Hilton, a most expensive bill, for sure), and no one more than himself had a better right to be there.
He opened the door, walked inside the room, closed and locked the door, and pulled the chair over to the bedside again. Still dressed, he sat down, reclined, and prepared to sleep in the chair for the rest of the evening.
He watched Senor Sanchez and Angela making love. It seemed to him that they were taking their own sweet time about it, almost as in a film being played in slow motion ... yes ... they weren't moving ... too fast ... not now ... why not ... I can ... do better.
Then he fell asleep.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Richard Waywright and Senor Sanchez loathed each other on first sight.
Sanchez, because he immediately recognized in Ben's boss a very hip gringo, one who knew his way around the world and its women, one smooth and sophisticated enough to take care of himself with no problem whatsoever. And therefore, dangerous to him.
Waywright, because he saw in Senor Sanchez the prototypical Mexican male with the machismo syndrome, forever on the prowl for new female flesh to work over, uncompromising and unforgiving when it came to slights about his masculinity, deadly as a cobra when cornered.
Ben sensed the immediate hostility that passed between the two men, like invisible daggers being thrown at each other. He was pleased; Waywright was in his corner now (so he mistakenly thought), and things could not help but get better.
Angela was of mixed emotions, to say the least, about this unexpected turn of events, the addition, so to speak, to her stud stable. Here she was, the center of attention from not two but three men (four if the late Juan Lopez was counted). She had never paid that much attention to Richard Waywright before, having seen him only a few times at company parties or similar affairs. Yet, Waywright's smoothly aggressive, sophisticated masculinity, more subtle than Ben's but more direct than the Senor's, was a refreshing change from what she was discovering was a sticky situation.
And Waywright was clever enough to ingratiate himself with Angela from the very first.
For, he so arranged things that Ben and Ricardo were absent on various errands at the same time. While they were so absent, he slipped several tequila margaritas down Angela's throat-by room service, of course-and, under the guise of helping her husband "straighten out his sex life," slipped her something else.
Before Angela realized what was happening, she found herself in bed with Richard. As he calmly told her, "Just pretend that I'm your husband, who loves you truly, and who is the best man of all of us. I'm doing this for your husband, who is the best accountant we have in the company. His well-being means that much to us, so you can see the personal sacrifice that I'm making myself, to fly all the way to Acapulco and try to extricate you and your husband from this untenable position. Do you understand, Angela?"
All this he said, while he was giving her a straight-ahead fuck, him on top of her, his cock jammed tightly into her vagina, her breasts jabbing him in the chest, his face buried in her hair and whispering such words into her shell-shocked ears. Her vagina was wet with come, she was having an orgasm just as casually as if anyone's cock was stuffed into her vagina, and as her arms tightened their grip around his back, she was not sure just what was happening ... she didn't really know who he was ... or even who she was.
She was just fucking. She loved to fuck.
And she loved it when Richard rammed her with his cock, twisting it inside her vagina like a knife, making sure that she felt a brief sting of pain before he came, before his sperm screamed out to mingle with her orgasmic bliss.
When he did come, it was with the power of an oil drill, driving deep inside her and pinning her helplessly against the mattress. He fucked her until she was ready to collapse, before finally pulling out and helping her get dressed again, in preparation for the return of her husband and Senor Sanchez.
Fucked her with finesse. ... And machismo....
CHAPTER TWELVE
It was Senor Sanchez who suggested that they all visit Yucatan and the Mayan ruins.
There were but a few days to go in the Brinkmans' vacation-Waywright had suggested to Ben that they get Angela out of Mexico as quickly as possible, thinking that it would do neither Ben nor himself any good to leave her in the country of machismo any longer-and they were all sitting on the beach, just one big happy family (or so they seemed), when Ricardo had said, as if he had not planned it previously, "Senors, before you take leave of my magnificent country, you should expose yourself to one of the architectural wonders of the Western world and one of Mexico's greatest cultural heritages. I want to invite you to visit the Mayan cities of Chichen Itza and Uxmal, in the state of Yucatan. Once you look upon these ruins and comprehend that we are the direct descendants of the great Mayans, you will have a better understanding of what makes us Mexicans what we are. I strongly urge you to join me. I can have my private airplane put at your disposal at once, and we can leave tomorrow morning, or even tonight. What do you say?"
Richard thought the speech too well rehearsed to be spontaneous. With his presence complicating Senor Sanchez's planned conquest of Angela, he figured that the Senor would try a slick Mexican trick to outwit him. He was well versed in Mexican history, had traveled many times in Mexico, knew the Mayan ruins well. He thought, Why not ... we can all get things settled in Yucatan ... I have some ideas of my own about taking care of El Senor Sanchez.
He said, "Well, Senor Sanchez, I don't know. It seems to me that we would be rushing it too much. After all, the Brinkmans only have a few days left before they have to get back to New York. Both Ben and myself are sorely needed at our firm, as you, being a businessman yourself, can surely understand. No, I don't think we should."
Richard and Ricardo exchanged staring, searing looks. Fuck you, Ricardo, Richard thought ... you bet we're all going to go to Yucatan ... and then I'm going to take care of you but good.
Angela said, her voice eager, her eyes shining, "Well, I'd like to visit Yucatan." Turning to both Ben and Richard, she said, very pointedly, "There's really no problem. The two of you can go back to New York, and I can go to Yucatan with Senor Sanchez, and return to New York a few days later, that's all. No ... I don't really see any problem. Do you ... Ben?"
Ben was undergoing such a torrent of beneath-the-surface emotions that he could barely see anyone in the gathering, much less his wife. He was nearly blind with fury, and all of them had been putting away more than a few coco locos. He said, his voice tinged with emotion, "It's not that simple!" He paused, then continued, "If Richard and I are needed at the company, well, we're needed, and that's that! We have responsibilities to our firm ... they're paying our salaries ... we have obligations to be on the job ... and Richard flew all the way down here to help us out ... not many guys I've worked for would do that!"
Senor Sanchez, always the diplomat, smiled, sipped the last of his drink, and said, softly and smoothly, "Ladies and gentlemen-I mean, my lady and our gentlemen-let me propose my own humble solution to this dilemma, so that no One has hurt feelings."
He paused. They gave him their attention.
He continued, "I think that we can all visit Yucatan and you can still return to New York at your scheduled times. I shall call Mexico City right now, and have my private aircraft here early in the morning, ready for our departure. We can spend tomorrow afternoon at one of the cities, and the following day at the other. You will be there no more than one and a half days, and then I shall put all of you on the next plane for New York. In the meantime, you will be my guest, anything you want will be on your good friend, Senor Ricardo Sanchez. And when Senor Ricardo Sanchez gives you his word, you may be assured that his word is his bond. Now, it would please me so much if you would all give me your consent to my proposal. Will you ... please be ... so kind?"
Richard thought, It's working out fine ... I'll take care of El Senor when we get to Yucatan ... I've brought the necessary equipment to do just that ... all I need is the opportunity ... and if that doesn't present itself, I'll make it happen.
Ben thought, I guess I'll have to chance it ... I've got Richard on my side, anyway ... the two of us can take care of Sanchez ... sure, let's accept this offer ... then we'll give him something else he hadn't counted on.
Angela thought, The attentions of these three men are tearing me apart ... I've got to get my feelings straightened out ... I've got to get myself straightened out ... maybe that's what Senor Sanchez has in mind ... what can I loose ... except my sanity ... and maybe I've already lost that.
So it was that the three Americans accepted the proposal of Senor Sanchez.
Each thought that the Yucatan experience might be the final solution for their problems.
Senor Sanchez, on his part, was quite certain that, after Yucatan, he would have no further problems with any of the three Americans.
How right he was.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Now it was their second day In Yucatan, and they were all driving in Uxmal, 50 miles south of Merida, capital city of Yucatan. Yesterday, they had driven 80 miles east to ChichSn Itza, where they climbed the crumbling ruins of the cementgray pyramid and wandered over the small area that the ruin city had provided. Which was small indeed; besides the large pyramid and one smaller edifice, and a few cracked walls, Chichen Itza was not much.
Uxmal, though, the Senor assured them, would be different. And much better, much more spacious an area to explore, much more interesting buildings to inspect. He was driving, too, driving the car that they had rented. Senor Sanchez had his reasons for driving himself; among them, he wanted no witnesses, in case he had to do some thing drastic. He was, as always, taking no chances.
Neither was Richard Waywright, who sat next to him in the front seat. He had noticed the reticence of the Senor to hire a driver with the car, a gray Volkswagen that was ideally suited to the narrow roads of interior Mexico. He had ascertained, and correctly, that a man of Senor Sanchez's means was rarely to be seen doing his own driving, and that there must be a goddamn good reason for what he was now doing. He had, therefore, made his own counter-preparations in case El Senor had some specific plans that might not be to his liking.
In the back seat were the Brinkmans-sitting on opposite sides of the vehicle, she sulking, he musing.
What was interesting was that while the Brinkmans and Waywright were wearing Bermuda shorts-as befits the climate, in disregard of local customs and prejudices-the Senor was dressed in suit and tie as if he were going out for an evening at a theater or restaurant. That was, however, his way; he was just naturally a dress-up kind of person.
It was hot, but fairly dry, though dusty on the road to Uxmal. The Senor drove carefully, concentrating all his attention on the wheel and the road ahead. Waywright stared out the window, watching the flat fields of Yucatan stretch before him, remembering some forgotten bit of folklore about the Mayans and their magnificent civilization, now of course long dead. It had to do with sacrifices to their gods, human sacrifices as he remembered ... there was quite an elaborate ritual about it.
The Brinkmans continued to ignore the existence of each other.
Then they reached Uxmal.
It sits on several acres, and though most of the buildings are crumbling ruins, there is much courtyard and open space in which to wander and get an idea of their particular civilization. The buildings are smaller, with only one pyramid that was almost covered with moss and other jungle vegetation. Unlike Chichen Itza, the color of the buildings was an attractive, dark-beige sandstone, which added color and contrast to the green carpeting the city now stood on. In addition, there were some exquisite murals on a few walls that were quite well preserved, and while not of the level of exotic and erotic Indian carvings, they were nevertheless interesting in depicting Mayan life.
They parked the car, got out, gave the guard their tickets (Waywright wondered about the guard, thinking that that could be a hindrance to Senor Sanchez's plans, for Waywright assumed that the Senor had some kind of plan or he wouldn't have taken them there in the first place) and entered the central area of the ruined city. Angela, recovering from her blue funk of a mood, sauntered along happily, her hair blowing in the breeze-but she walked next to Ricardo, not her husband. Her husband made no objection; at this juncture, he didn't much care. He just wanted to get the whole Mexican scene over with, get back to New York with his wife if she would go back voluntarily. If she wouldn't, he'd take her back anyway if he had to stuff her inside a trunk and have her shipped by Railway Express.
Even so, his countenance was mournful, downcast as a basset hound. Even his mustache seemed to be drooping.
Richard was his sophisticated self, as was Ricardo. Richard had let out a brief laugh when he had first met Senor Sanchez, recognizing their similar natures, manners of thinking, level of sophistication ... and exactly the same interest in Angela and getting her into their machismo syndrome. The Senor had similarly recognized Waywright for the dangerous opponent he was. The odd bit of the whole thing was ... Ricardo is Spanish for Richard.
Ricardo versus Richard ... Richard versus Ricardo.
Ricardo led the way, showing them the pyramid and several of the buildings, the murals, a few other points of interest ... and then, conveniently steered them to the last building on his list, the Nunnery. Richard noticed that, conveniently or otherwise, they were the only visitors in the area that afternoon. He wondered about that....
Ricardo said, almost solemnly, "This building is called the Nunnery. Not that the Mayans had nuns, no, not at all. This was simply the building where the Virgins who were to be sacrificed were kept until their time had come."
Richard said, drily, "I'm surprised that the Mayans let them remain virgins. If they were such a superior race and civilization as you claim, Senor Sanchez, they would have made love to them first and then killed them. Otherwise they were simply wasted by being put to death without being properly utilized."
The Senor's eyes became cloudy, shifty; his face grew stiffer, almost as if he was personally insulted, as he said, with great dignity, "Senor Waywright, the ritual calls for the sacrifice of virgins, not whores."
"Screwing them once wouldn't make them whores any more than driving a new car around the block makes it used," Richard replied. "But then, sometimes I forget ... we're in Mexico now...."
"Yes, Senor Waywright ... sometimes you do forget ... that you are in Mexico now...."
A sudden, abrupt "click" called their attention to Senor Sanchez ... and to his right hand.
In his right hand, looking as natural as his fingers, was a Luger. It was pointing at the three Americans. The Senor said, "I brought all of you to the Nunnery for a particular reason, so, as you say in America, let the show go on."
The Americans stared at him ... Ben sort of shoulder-shrugging as if nothing could faze him anymore ... Angela with a mixture of pleasure and pain expressed on her lovely face, waiting with expectation for his next move ... Richard, his expression cautious, his eyes watching Senor Sanchez like a mongoose checks out his bitter enemy the cobra, waiting for the proper moment to strike....
The Nunnery was closed on three sides, one side open but now in shadow, and against the far wall was a long altar-like ledge in fair condition. The Senor motioned them to stand by the ledge.
Richard said, "The guard has a gun too, Senor Sanchez."
Ricardo replied, "The guard also has a family to feed and an empty wallet ... the latter until yesterday, when I made certain both his belly and wallet were filled."
"That's ... bribery...." Ben muttered.
"That's Mexico," Angela laughed, her tone mocking. She looked directly at Ricardo, her eyes zeroing in on him like a bombsight. "Do I have anything to do with this sudden Humphrey Bogart escapade of yours, Senor Sanchez?"
"You, my dear Angela, are both the cause and the result," Ricardo smiled, bowed his reply, the gun never leaving his hand, the direction never changing. "And now, my dear Angela, if you will be so kind ... as to strip...."
"What?" from Ben, with indignation.
"Well," from Richard, with irony.
"Why not?" from Angela, with laughter.
She was wearing a simple, pullover sweater, and it took no more than a few seconds for her to remove it. Her bra was Mexican lace, a new addition to her lingerie, and, as she unsnapped it, she waved it in her hand in a tantalizing manner. She made a playful pass at Ricardo, as if she were the matador and he the bull-which Ben noticed and disliked immediately-and her breasts, their nipples taut with teasing excitement, beckoned like witch's fingers at Ricardo. Now shifting her hips, she dropped her shorts, stepped out of her shoes, and left just her panties hanging on. She looked at them all, from Ricardo to Richard to Ben-again, Ben was the last to be looked at-as if to say, "Are you sure you want me to go all the way?"
No one said anything. But the gun of Senor Sanchez continued to point at the other two men.
With exaggerated energy, Angela slipped the fingers of both hands inside her elastic waistband. Slowly so as to prolong the suspense, she slipped her panties down around her hips ... her thighs ... her ankles ... and finally, off!
One did not have to have one's nose in her bush to tell that those delightful blonde curls were damp with desire. Her clit was stiff for touching, her vaginal lips slyly open for entrance, and she was prancing like a colt in heat. She took a couple of end strands of her hair and draped them over her breasts, so that only the nipples showed through, making her own sort of peep show. She laughed, a throaty tantalizing laugh, pushed herself on the altar, where she sat on her haunches with hands on hips, her breasts thrust forward like Buick bumper guards, her tongue sexily slipping out from between her lips, her eyes mocking and mischievous.
"What's next?" she said, very matter-of-factly. "We are going to have a virgin sacrifice," said Ricardo.
"That doesn't bother me," replied Angela, laughing. "I haven't been a virgin for the longest time...."
"I can name two places where you are still a virgin, Senora Brinkman."
"So ... name them, Senor Sanchez."
"In the ears ... and under the armpits."
"Now wait just a minute...." Ben started to protest, but Ricardo waved his gun in Ben's direction to silence him. Richard said nothing ... watching ... waiting ... for the Senor to make one false move.
Angela's composure was slightly shattered. Her eyes watched Ricardo warily. In his eyes gleamed the expectancy of fulfilled desire, soon to occur. He said, "Senora Brinkman, that does not mean that you will only be fucked in the ears and under the armpits, of course. No sacrifice is complete without full obeisance to the gods. In this case, I am going to allow your husband and your husband's employer to fuck you simultaneously, on the altar, of course. And then...."
"I won't have it!" Ben shouted angrily, taking a step or two toward Ricardo, who thrust his weapon forward several inches and said, his voice hard as hell, "Senor Brinkman, do you not observe the silencer on the end of my weapon. No one will hear the shot, the guard is in my employ ... and what will you gain by forcing me to shoot you before the show begins? You can only lose ... your life. Now, I must insist on my will being carried out ... or all of you will be carried out, feet first. No one will be harmed if all of you do as you are instructed. Is that clear?"
Richard nodded, and Ben fought back the raging desire to jump Ricardo, before he too gritted his teeth and nodded his acquiescence. Angela still sat on the altar, her mood now slightly pensive, but not morose. She brightened up considerably when Ricardo said, "Of course, after you gentlemen are through with the lady, it will then be my turn...." Again, he had to wave his gun in Ben's direction to keep the angry husband from a second confrontation. "And I will demonstrate why we Mexican men are superior in every way to anyone else in the world."
"Excuse me," Angela said. "But before we begin, I'd like something to lie down on. I can't see having my bare butt dragged around this stone...."
"What else but your bare butt, fair lady, is now reclining on the bare stone of the altar?"
"Well, really...."
"If you insist."
Ricardo removed a silk pocket handkerchief with the other hand, and handed it to Angela with a flourish, still keeping the gun trained on the other two men. She placed the handkerchief beneath her buttocks ... and waited.
"Now," said Ricardo. "If you gentlemen will be so kind as to strip...."
This time, there were no angry denunciations by Ben, and Richard simply said nothing, as he had been doing. The two men stripped as ordered.
Neither of them had an erection.
"I believe that an erection is necessary for intercourse, do you not, gentlemen?" joked Ricardo. "If you cannot get your equipment erect by any other means, I suggest that you beat it...."
"Why don't you beat it yourself, and leave us alone?" Ben shouted angrily.
In reply, Ricardo pulled the trigger, and a bullet passed but a few inches from Ben's nose, burying itself in the sandstone wall just beyond him. Ricardo gestured with the gun.
"Wait a minute," Angela hopped off the altar. "As long as I'm the one who's going to get fucked, I'm going to have something to say about how these guys get it up for me." She smiled at her husband, then turned to Richard. "Let's see what I can do for you ... oh, wow, you are well hung, aren't you?"
She dropped to her knees, cupping Richard's balls in her hands and began to lick his dick. Her tongue darted over the tip, meandered along the foreskin, ended up at the base, tangled with his bush and balls for awhile, then began its return journey, reversing its course. She licked and licked, and slowly Richard's cock began to grow stiffer and harder, while her tongue continued along its chosen route. When his cock was half-erect, she pulled it into her mouth, inch by inch, and softly sucking sounds were heard emanating from her throat. It was not long before Richard's cock was ... long and strong, and ready for action. Yet, throughout the exercise, Richard maintained a curious detachment ... which, naturally, only aroused Angela that much more.
While Ben, burning with jealousy and hatred, was hard put to conceal his feelings. His teeth were gritted, his hands clenched into fists, and his feet were pawing the ground like an angry stallion.
When Richard's prick was in its fullest bloom, Angela turned to her husband, a mischievous look in her eyes, and said, "Well, dear, I guess it's your turn...." She almost laughed when she saw that Ben's cock was about one-quarter erect ... not so much from sex as from rage. She bent over, taking her husband's cock in her hand.
And then, she pulled it like plucking a flower from the earth, dragging her startled husband next to the altar, where she slammed his cock again and again against the unyielding stone. He was too surprised to do anything but stand there while she beat his meat against the hard stone altar until his cock was as hard as Richard's. It must be said of Ben, however, that he took his medicine like a man ... he didn't even flinch.
Richard, however, was laughing ... laughing loudly, the first time any of them had ever seen him laugh. Between chuckles, he blurted, "Well ... in America ... I guess that is what is called ... beating your meat ... is it not?"
When Angela was finished, she released her husband, his cock now swollen red and bruised but still erect enough to do a proper job. She climbed up on the altar again, lay down with her juicy ass on the handkerchief, and said, "The lady in waiting is waiting ... who'll be the first to satisfy my thirst?"
Ricardo laughed again. "Now you are suddenly a poet, Senora ... I mean, a poetess. I shall make a poem too. It shall go like this ... one will suck, and the other will fuck; the one who does worse, is a no-good schmuck. Ha ha!" He beckoned the two men with his gun. "Now, gentlemen, you may begin ... by fucking the dear lady in the ears. I shall use my Luger to direct you, as a conductor uses his baton to direct the orchestra. Let us begin!"
With Ben on her right, Richard on her left, Angela felt the twin cocks drill into her ears. She could feel their cocks advancing and retreating, penetrating as deeply into her ears as they could get. The sensation was strange, yet very sexy, for her, and her hips began to gyrate slightly, her hands to pound upon the stone of the altar. Her vagina began to respond, letting its sweet juices flow and lubricate her inner membranes.
The two men worked away, careful not to come; they knew that they might have trouble getting it up again, and especially after Ben's bad experience, neither was willing to risk any more imponderables.
"Time!" said Ricardo.
They stopped, drawing back from Angela.
"That was very good, gentlemen," said Ricardo. "Now, I want you to move on, all over the lady, until you have fucked her from head to toe. Then, one of you will have the glorious pleasure of fucking her in the cunt ... and the other, in the ass ... all at the same time."
Neither man made any comment.
Angela giggled, then was quiet again.
Ben and Richard tried her armpits next, slipping their cocks between her arms and her body at the shoulder connections. She squeezed her arms against her body, deftly imprisoning their cocks, as they banged them against her body. The sensation for her was so weird, so unusual, that she began to have an orgasm, her liquid leaking and spreading over her already wet bush, with even a few drops dripping on the altar itself. The men worked away, silently, almost without emotion, each keeping his thoughts, if any, to himself.
When they had done this long enough for Angela to be twisting her entire body in passion, Ricardo moved them on, area by area, his gun always directing their movements. They pounded their cocks on her stomach for the longest time, rubbing their balls against her perspiring flesh. Then, it was at her knee joints, which she bent in such a way that their cocks were caught, as in a vise, as they had done with her armpits. She alternately opened and closed her knee muscles, and now she was really coming, a veritable waterfall of liquid roaring, geyser-like, from her vagina.
While the men did their duty, still holding their come on orders from Ricardo, and from their own minds too. Neither could afford to fuck up now ... not until Ricardo gave the order.
Finally, they got their cocks between her toes. She almost breaking her toes as she strained to accommodate them in this unusual place. Again, she was all sensation, all sex ... all woman, now moaning and mumbling with sexual agony. And frustration, from not having a man's cock in her vagina, where she really wanted it....
Ricardo watched, and observed.
He allowed himself a brief glance at his crotch.
Yes, his erection was beginning to come to life again, and he mentally fought it down for the moment. Later, he said to himself ... later, when my plans for the gringos are finally brought to fruition ... then, my friend, you and I will go wild with the Senora Brinkman.
He again turned his attention to the two men.
"Do not come yet, gentlemen. It will not be long now, but please finish with the toes of the lady, and then we shall get down to the best part of the business."
They gave her toes one final fling, then withdrew their cocks and stood, as if army privates, at attention awaiting further orders. Their cocks, of course, were still, as ordered, also standing at attention.
"Now, gentlemen, we are going to have some fun."
They said nothing ... watching, waiting...."Both of you are going to fuck the Senora, one in the cunt, the other in the, shall we say, rear en trance. I shall let the Senora choose which one she wishes in each orifice. Senora Brinkman ... what will you decide?"
Angela stirred, raised her head slightly, and looked at the two men. She pinched her forehead in thought, then said, "Well, I think rank has its privileges sometimes, so I believe that I shall allow Mr. Waywright entrance to my front door ... and to my dear husband who's had me there so many times, for a change he can use the servant's entrance. Is that all right with you?" For a brief second, Ben thought she was addressing him, but her eyes were focused elsewhere, " ... Senor Sanchez?"
Senor Sanchez could not have been happier. To him, this meant the final degradation, the cumulative downgrading, of her husband. The Senor Waywright was no problem, of course ... but now, with the Senor Brinkman so disgraced, so cuckolded by his own wife in front of all of us ... well, he was one of los muertes, the dead ... a pity, a shame, too bad ... but, that is life.
Ricardo bowed, saying, "Of course, my dear. This matter is your decision, and you have made it. And now, gentlemen, if you will please begin...."
Ben was too shocked to move, while Richard climbed on top of the altar and began to descend into Angela....
"Please, Senor Waywright ... wait for your companion to get into position." Ricardo waved the gun in Ben's direction. "Senor Brinkman ... if you please...."
Ben, almost shuddering with grief, slowly climbed on top of the altar. Angela moved so that she was lying on her side, while Richard positioned himself at her front, Ben at her back. Angela waited expectantly....
"Go!" said Ricardo, waving the gun.
Ben thought, Reduced to fucking my wife in the ass ... in the ass ... I'll make her pay for this ... she'll see ... she'll pay, and plenty ... I'll get out of this mess some way yet ... and Senor Sanchez will pay too.
Ben pushed his cock to the entrance of Angela's ass. He'd hurt her asshole a little, too; that, he would do for sure. He was beginning to feel more than a touch of machismo now.
As Richard shoved his cock inside Angela's vagina, Ben jabbed his prick at her asshole, getting inside a few inches. It was tight, and his cock hurt as he pushed it inside. But, he thought, Angela dear, it's going to hurt you more than it hurts me.
Angela was squirming like a butterfly on a pin, more in pain than delight. She had never had two men screwing her in both the vagina and the ass before and, while she thoroughly enjoyed the double attention she was getting, it was nevertheless painful to feel two cocks jabbing into her so roughly. For Richard was not particularly interested in being gentle with her, either; he had plans of his own to fulfill, and he was going to make sure that Angela was fucked as she had never been fucked before.
The pressure of Richard's cock was pushing Angela against her husband's prick, and Ben's prick was really hurting as it slowly moved its tortuous way up her asshole. It hurt him, but he gritted his teeth, thinking of, hopefully, better times ahead ... and hurt her so much she could feel him in her sphincter muscles, and she was trying to swivel her hips, move her haunches to ease the pain. But she could not ... not with Richard's cock ramming into her in front. Though she writhed and squirmed, she was held fast; while she was enjoying it, the pain was intense. But, that was what machismo was all about. She had asked for it; now, she was getting it, and good.
Yet, in the midst of all this searing physical pain, the pleasure was there also, for she was coming like a river that had burst its damn, her body convulsing like an insane person, her face contorted into an ecstatic mask, her eyes burning with desire.
"Come, come!" she cried. "What's the matter with you men? Aren't you men? Come on, come ... come with me before I run out of juice ... come ... fuckmefuckmefuckme...."
All right, Richard thought ... you are really going to get it now, Mrs. Brinkman ... your vagina is mine forever, cunt.
His cock was right at the edge of her womb, rammed deeply into her vagina, its tip scraping the edges of her vagina, its length so tightly pressed against her vaginal walls that if her vagina was her throat she would have been choked to death. She was in the middle of an uncountable number of orgasms, and Richard, waiting for the moment of maximum impact, decided that the time was now. His cock, in fact, decided for him, for it could no longer contain itself.
There, on the cold bare stone altar, Richard Waywright fucked Angela Brinkman.
Richard came like a jet from a fire hose, his sperm exploding inside her vagina, his cock driving like an express train inside her. He pushed hard against her, her breasts boring holes in his chest, his cock cutting into her like a knife. He had spasm after spasm, orgasm after orgasm, pushing her almost right off the altar. She felt his glorious cock detonating inside her, and her screams of pleasure became intense, almost loud enough to shatter eardrums, including her own. Richard kept driving, harder and harder, even after his cock began to grow limp, almost pushing the Brinkmans off the altar.
Until Ben finally came.
He came with a mixture of love and hate, love for his wife and hate for her recent attitude toward him ... and with a strange pleasure and thrill in discovering the power of machismo for himself and in transmitting that power into action, in transmitting that power into his wife in the roughest, toughest ways possible ... he was beginning to like hurting his wife ... why not, she was asking for it.
His cock blasted away like a machine-gun, firing round after round into her rump, her roasted rump ... he nearly split the cheeks of her ass open like a ripe melon, as his driving cock, charged with fire power, pushed deep inside her asshole, and pushed hard against both Richard and her ... Richard's foot slipped over the edge of the altar ... now his other foot ... Ben drove harder and harder inside Angela ... with a scream of intense pain, Angela wrenched herself loose from both of them.
And all three of them toppled off the altar, to fall into a squirming, tangled pile in front of Senor Sanchez. Arms and legs flailing wildly, each fought for support, found none, collapsed again.
Ben was the first to get up. His eyes seemed glazed, fuming. Then they cleared and a strange calm came over them.
"Gentlemen, I have learned a great deal in your Mexico. But I am tired of this game of Mexican roulette. Somewhere I will find something that at least resembles sanity. That somewhere certainly is not here. Good-bye, Angela. And good luck. I am sure you will all work it out very neatly." Then he turned and walked away, hearing Angela's screaming voice: "Ben! Where are you going? COME BACK HERE YOU SONOFABITCH!"
Ben never even looked back.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The young couple boarded the Aeronaves de Mexico flight at the Mexico City airport. He was an American of medium height, with light brown hair and a thin pencil mustache, a rather bland-looking fellow with his mouth line set in almost a straight line. He looked like what he was, an American businessman. She was a tall, olive-skinned Mexican girl whose Spanish antecedents could be discerned by the fine sculptured lines of her face and thick black hair worn in a bun at the nape of her neck. Her occupation was not easily discernible, but she was a stewardess on the same airline that they were traveling on.
They took their seats in the first-class compartment, right behind the pilot's cabin.
"It seems funny to be flying when I am not actually on duty," she said.
"It seems funny for me to be flying to another part of Mexico," he replied.
"Well, I think you will like Puerto Vallarte. It is almost like Acapulco, only nicer, less commercial. You know, Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor filmed The Night of the Iguana there."
"Yes, I know."
"I'm so glad you called me when you returned to Mexico City. Because I have this time off, and we can really have some fun in Puerto Vallarte."
"I'm looking forward to it, too."
"When do you have to return to New York?"
"I don't ever have to return there."
"Never?"
"Never."
"Well, ... if you do go back ... would you take me with you? I would like to visit New York again ... with you."
"I'll be glad to."
"Thank you. Listen ... I have a wonderful idea ... let us go take a walk to the back of the plane ... where the washrooms are...."
"Are you suggesting...."
"I think that I need some freshening up. Would you like to help me with my makeup?"
"As we once did in another Aeronaves de Mexico airplane ... about a month or so ago?"
