Saturday, September 12, 2009

EXCERPT: The Scorpion's Son

"All I can know is my own time..." - The Author, 1994

By Patrick Alcatraz

Chapter Five

...She had come from a small town on the banks of Lake Managua, to the north of the nation’s capital, some 50 looping miles away, in fact. It was known as part of the larger San Francisco Libre municipality, which wasn’t big at all and really it served as name for a sprinkling of poor pueblos trying like crazy to work together. Nallely’s family lived in a hovel of sorts on one of the dusty roads leading from the lake into the neighboring hillsides. They, and everybody around them, had no reliable electrical power, and it had been a German company pushing solar panels through world relief that had come to something of a rescue. Water came from the rain, and it did rain often enough to make that a steady supply. Her father had worked the usual local jobs, picking coffee beans and cutting sugar cane and, when that fell-off, some fishing in the big lake. It was, she had explained, a hard, hard life. There had been schooling, but there were the myriad of pressing needs that she had stopping going and hit the bean fields with her father and mother.

At fifteen, she had been whipped almost to death by her father, whose name was Nemecio, for flirting in public with a local boy. I had the info and could only re-tell it in boring, staccato style – fact after fact after fact. When Nallely had given me the brief bio of her family, everything had sounded like the falling of a house, the destruction of something that should have lived longer. Her voice is not soft by nature, not one you often heard. I loved its bit of anger, its fight, its specks of gravel, its hoarseness, its heaviness, its tough tones. And when she battled the English language, I was forever driven to smile, not out of mockery, but more out of feeling something for her. When she said “feelings,” it sounded very much like “fillings.” Yes, she had warned me. “Please don’t hurt my fillings,” is what I heard. When she said “money,” it sounded like “mawney.” It was a huge effort on my part not to go along with her pronunciation and say the words just as she said them, my thinking being that perhaps that’s how she heard them. I found it somewhat comical, yes, but it, too, was genuinely charming.

. . .

The curvature of her naked butt as she slid onto her side was immensely captivating, illuminated only so much in the darkened room by the flickering candle on the dresser. I had spent myself making love to her in the traditional way, not my favorite position, but I wanted to see that face as much as possible as I engorged myself in her over and over and over. This second version was about chasing the jillion layers of pleasure. Nallely moved more aggressively, her torso in a sway that was in rhythm with my own action. Eager eyes scanned her like a microscope. Both breasts fell away, the one closest holding its shape, the other one almost flattened by her weight. The left shoulder curved just a tad inward, toward her, with the slope of her back meeting the one for her tummy and the upper round of her ass there, beating against the current, as they say in literature, my own words closer to her butt in synchronicity with beautiful accelerating lust. Below, my manhood rivered in and out, taking all of me inside and bringing back the outer fold of her wet vagina in a warm cupping of short goodbyes. She was somewhere in the sexual neighborhood, I thought, almost fully with me. That would come in my favorite position. She moaned and then took me in a deft roll that had me exactly where I wanted to be – all-behind her, without the needed for withdrawal or slippage. I weighed back a bit and let her arrive at her comfort, thighs spread in an inverted V and roundish butt pushed back in full demand. Her left hand went full-under to cup my balls and then rake them softly as I plowed onward, both of my hands on the sides of her hips, holding on and giving a bit as she reared and bolted. The ancient bedsprings fell in, like some nosey neighbor looking-in, observing, commenting.

In rapid fashion, she would move her head from one side of her face on the bed to the other, and then she would lift it straight back, emit a sound of clear forevermore, pleasure and want and need, all editorial, and lasting barely seconds before she would throw her arms behind her back and have me take her by both hands, as if some stagecoach driver guiding the team of horses doing all the work. Sweat pooled itself on my back and forehead, gravity allowing for an easy roll from there, lubricating the man-engine, making me feel both strong and tropical – the proverbial ingredients to effecting a good coupling. There was a long road ahead. I was glad for that. There are times, I’d known; when the 5-minute lover goes out the door, when you’re called on to navigate the world. I had no idea how this would end. Nallely seemed to be exactly where she wanted to be, taking it and enjoying herself, without mere mention of anything to come. It had been a long time since my cock had found itself on a sexual map with few markings, little to tell you where to go, where to turn, where to gas it up, where to charge, where to fall-back, where to quit, where to land. This was like coming out of retirement. It was a pulsating dick on a forced march, no desire to take the beaten path, to go flaccid, to say this’ll do and tomorrow will be another day, to cheat anyone out of his or her due.

A thousand-plus strokes into Nallely in this rear-entry position and no sign of slacking. She was welcoming each of them as if there would be no more forever and ever following the last retreat. I stayed with it, championing the cause for the entire God-abandoned universe, future mankind included. Nallely, meanwhile, flew on automatic; she looked able to absolutely throttle skyward till dawn. In the middle of a machine-gunned stroking, she lifted her back to rest on her knees somewhat upright, hair and neck thrown back, never losing her grip on me below. We held that position ever-so-briefly, my hands now on her perspired breasts, while she caught her breadth. And then, after a pair of needed deep breadths, we again lit the afterburners, our brightened sky in thunderous battle…

. . .

What she had said about her hometown was that not even iguanas could stand it. The harsh arid climate of the region, endless rains followed by relentless sunballs, delivered a meteorological punishment known only by lost camels and shepherds traveling the unforgiving sand desert in circles. “My mother used to tell us, to me and to my sister, that we needed to find a man by the time we were 15,” she had said a week or so back. “I think that’s how it was that I got in trouble with my father, the fieldworker my father wanted to kill. He was 25 and maybe my father thought he had taken advantage of me. He didn’t, but no one believed me. His name was Juan de Dios. I forget his last name, but I wanted to believe that he was a good man, perhaps because of his first name. I never saw him again after that one time.” I had asked about that and then wished I hadn’t. It was something to hear her say the body tells a young woman when its time for sex has come. It was a frank acknowledgement. Back then, she said, sex had seemed the coming game, pleasure expected and eventually enjoyed, yet associated only with love, true love, the best kind of love. It was that reason that the beating her father had administered had clashed with her feelings. What had been so awful about smiling and talking and laughing with a boy? Her father had never offered an explanation. Nallely told herself she wanted love. The feelings had never left. They were, she believed, the best feelings she had, well, felt. It was mother who’d said what her father would not say. Then, she thought, it had sort of come clear. There was a way to fall in love and one not to fall in love. There was, her mother went on, a time for giving yourself to a man. That time, she lamented, never announced itself in any clear manner; it just arrived as if Heaven-sent, as if everything fantastic had fallen into place.

The rest of the year was spent working the coffee bean fields and because the family needed the additional income, she had been given the okay by her father to work the sugar cane harvest – a back-breaker of the first order. “My beautiful mother, who had suffered all her life, would say I was young and could endure it, but it was hard, hard work for very little pay,” Nallely had told me. “When she died, that year I went to stay with my aunt, we buried her in a grave my father dug-up near the top of one of the hills behind our house. He carved the initials of everyone in the family on her wooden cross, which he made, too. We asked him to paint it baby blue and I don’t know where he got the paint, but he did it. I used to love going up there to be with her, to just sit there on the ground and talk to her, pray for her, tell her we were all okay and that we knew she could see us from Heaven. I know she heard every word. I just know she did.”

Listening to every word was easy. The story was not one I was unfamiliar with, knowing what I knew about countries south of the U.S. border. She was a refugee from pain and suffering, clearly. The sympathy I had for such lives rested deep in my liberal bent, my matured belief that God also accounted for the world’s misery. How do you deal with seeing children suffering from sun-up to sundown? You could find their story in any of a hundred newspapers and magazines, perhaps because it allowed Americans to see just how fortunate they were, who knows? They say it’s easier to look at suffering if it’s across the fence, on the other side, in someone else’s backyard. I knew something about Nicaragua. Nallely was not the only one who’d suffered as she had suffered, which was, unfortunately, to the extreme…

. . .

She exhaled longingly and pushed herself off me, withdrawing in a soft, wet squishing that felt absolutely super, leaving me still erect, then hanging. The idea of a break seemed a good one, although I could have gone on. Anticipation has a long shelf life, I’d heard somewhere. As it applied to sex and that certain woman, it was nuclear and could propel you with ease to the other side of the sky and back. She fell forward; her ass lifted just enough to be dramatic. I held my position and looked down at her back and at her thighs and at her pussy as if looking at all of it for the first time. That pale-white skin before me in full alarm, looking barely reddish but reddish just the same, blood way near the top layers of her working skin. It was almost 4 ayem somewhere. Here, time had stopped and wasn’t interested in moving. She was not done. A tired guy knows.

“You okay?” I asked and she laughed aloud, making me feel stupid. Why do guys always ask that question in bed? Of course, she was okay. She was being fucked, for Christ’s sake. “I’m very, very, very okay,” she said after a few seconds, twisting and then rolling over to rest on her back, sliding back to where the pillow was and raising her upper torso to get her there. I didn’t move, still on my knees, except that I now sat back as far as I could, inhaling in careful measure, wanting her to think I wasn’t tired at all. For a moment, I caught her staring at my cock, which delivered a prompt erection. It was no mystery: she would give that a go for awhile. I steeled to the idea, wanting it, wanting Nallely to suck me until dawn, if need be.

“You have a nice cock,” she began.

“Thank you…”

“I mean it’s clean-looking, not crooked, and it is pudgy enough for its length. Personality, that’s what it has. I could look at your cock for an hour and never turn away. I am sure another woman has said that about it. Right? Have any of them said that?”

“Not that exactly, but something like that,” I replied, looking at my cock and then at her face. “Is it that out-of-the-ordinary, for you?”

She smiled and said that was a trick question, which it wasn’t. “Is it?” I pressed, and she finally said, “It’s the nicest cock I’ve seen, okay? So soft…clean. Attractively Catholic. That’s what I mean.”

“Okay. I’ll take that.”

The thing is conversation and penis erection rarely find common ground. Mine lowered its alert after a few seconds and I felt the need to drop down and slide alongside Nallely, to rest a bit and block her view of my cock as it went from jungle monster to withering grass snake. It was her breasts at my face I found, and I took the opportunity to play with them with my fingers and then with my mouth. They were not big breasts, but proportional with her petite body-type. She angled in and out of my fondling, her upper body reacting to the caressed intrusions, the roller-coaster pleasuring. There was no speaking. Neither one of us had the interest to steal into the mood, on the apparent unspoken synchronicity. My lips enveloped a nipple and Nallely inhaled. I tongued it and she exhaled, all of it sensually, as if to tell me I was where I was supposed to be, doing what she wanted me to do. In the sex act, breasts are the halftime show. It is the between-positions attraction. Men can play with them for hours if need be, petting, mouthing, holding, cupping, squeezing. I love breasts. Normally, I like them a bit fuller than Nallely’s, but these two still retained their fight, their youth, their vibrancy, their true value, their developmental peak. Here, she lowered herself a bit, kissed me before taking her left breast with one hand and dancing it in my face, drawing me in, rewarding me, and treating me to a part of her body not ever dispensed to every swinging dick in town. I tongued it, lifting my open mouth toward it when she retreated a bit playfully, knowing both us liked it. I ran my free arm down her tummy in a rub, to her crotch, and opened my hand to scoop her still-moist pubic hair, which yielded a mid-torso spasm from Nallely. Angled to allow for my next move, I cupped her vagina and slid my middle finger into it as far a sit would go. She smiled and then moved away from me just enough to get her in position to enjoy it fully. “Now,” she said next in a calling voice, turning on her left side, to spoon. I fell in, feeling the fullest of hard-ons coming on as her butt bloomed and her right leg lifted into position. My cock in hand, I went over. I held her left buttock as my dick found the mark, Nallely’s ass back on me and then gone with every stroke. The distance traveled by her butt on the out stroke was less than six inches, but it seemed as if she went as far as the eye could see, my poor cock left waiting on her return. Nallely did not moan any of the fake moaning women learn early-on in sex. She enjoyed the fucking and left it at that. My face told her the pleasure was being shared equally. My hands found her settled breasts and the love sailed onward, focused only on the moment, the fat of the mini-second. I was thrusting; she was enjoying the meat and the lingering effect of its offering. For an instant that felt like an entire week, I wanted her to say fuck me, Patrick, fuck me until you can no longer fuck me, fuck me until feelings evaporate from the planet, and fuck me until we vanish into nothingness. Fuck me for now and fuck me for the rest of my tomorrows. Nallely wasn’t a talker, however, not even to submit her requests. She, I decided, was – and had been – pretty sure I’d perform completely, bringing her the entire ball of wax, the apex and the apogee, the greater love and the meaningless side of sex. It is true: spent is not a word you entertain when making love to a woman you value. Soreness and fatigue would come later.

For now, we kept at it as if to stop would be to cheapen things…

- 30 -

[Editor's Note: The story is a reflective journey and love story of sorts. It is set in the Rio Grande Valley of Texas, a shank of harsh land that grabs at the snakes and scorpions and lizards as if to hold on forever....Mr. Alcatraz is the author of Half The Town and La Zona Final...]

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