This is chapter 2, part 3 of the Pleasing María novel. If you are under 18 years of age, or are offended by explicit descriptions of sexual activity or violence, or by strong language, please exit this site immediately. To view the Table of Contents of the novel click here. To go directly to the first chapter, click here. To read the latest novel post, click here.
Chapter 2 – Part 3 – She was María
A year later, I was still decked-out in bell-bottom jeans and tie-dye shirts, now pretending to be a travel writer and photographer, floating through Mexico and Central America on my way down to South America. My only concern leaving the USA was my “stable” of women. I had developed a voracious appetite for married women, especially women about 5-10 years older and had one or two lined-up continuously. They had several years of experience practicing on their husbands while waiting for me to come along to value their charms. They were as easy as single women, discreet, wanted no commitments other than my discretion, and never used nor expected the L-word obscenity. Furthermore they possessed a warmth and richness of intimacy in the bodies that single women lacked. I wondered what was wrong with their husbands that made them so easy to seduce. I knew this would never happen to me in the unlikely event I ever got married, I was the righteous penis that married women desired. No more vacuous, vapid single sluts for me.
I stopped over in southern Mexico and Guatemala to visit the Mayan ruins, and I was deeply disturbed by the violence and inhumanity of these Mayan remnants: massive temples of stone, carved stone jaguars and plumed serpents, altars for human sacrifice, ritualized death, and blood, blood, blood, dark heavy Male Mayan blood.
Often as I stared at these grotesque artifacts, vertigo and depression seized me, and I lay down to keep from passing-out. My Spanish was passable but the indigenous people babbled in completely unintelligible sounds. Against the backdrop of the ruins, I could have been on an alien world.
Visiting Antigua Guatemala was a welcome change. The town center, a well-preserved collection of 17th century Spanish colonial architecture, was fun to photograph. The colorful indigenous women hawking trinkets to the tourists added color to the cascades of bougainvilleas that splashed over the ancient stone walls. The massive ruins of churches and convents toppled by numerous earthquakes did not threaten me – they were destroyed by nature, not by the evil of man.
I sold my first travel photo article within a month of my arrival. The pay was peanuts, but it was a start. However much I enjoyed Antigua, I was occasionally starved for back-home news, and I entered a film and magazine store looking for the relief of an English magazine.
And there she sat.
She looked a stunning 20’s something. She wore a sweet fragrance, Jungle Gardenia, that transported me back to my first puppy love, and a large pink flower in her glowing hair, which was pulled back tight against her head in thick braids. To call her beautiful would have been an insult – she was far beyond beautiful and obscenely sensual, what we stereotypically called a ‘María’ in Mexico – that legendary conjunction of shining dark hair, glowing brown eyes, olive skin, perfect profile, sunrise smile, and a passionate and fiery temperament that stirred all men’s hormones and caused pale-faces to abandon sanity at first glance. Notwithstanding my macho arrogance and desire to remain unattached, my body pumped hormones at full throttle, and I succumbed immediately to her presence.
She was María.
This moment was the birth of my universe, the ‘big-bang’ that created my existence, the start of my life – María-date: zero.
I asked for a date and María declined – she was already engaged, very soon to be married. I went to see her every day, pretending to look at magazines, complimenting her, taking photos of her, for which she was flattered and eager to pose. I persisted in asking her out and she persisted in declining. She flirted with me shamelessly, keeping my hormones pumping while rejecting my advances.
Because of María, I decided to stay in Antigua so I rented a house. I exported Guatemalan textiles to import houses in the USA, a very hot business in those days. Now with pretensions to be a real travel photographer, I took photos of the beautiful women in town posed in the ruins and markets and arches and plazas. I strutted around town wearing heavy cameras and baggy cargo pants – to hold the lenses and accessories and to hide my frequent erections. María was the hottest of the women, willing to pose in any state of dress or undress as long as it flattered her, a state impossible to avoid. I photographed María playing among the Marimba orchestras; María dressed in indigenous huipiles and wrap skirts; Mariá weaving on a back-strap loom; María back-stopped by the erupting volcano, Fuego; María reclining on the stone arches of the ruins; María, María, María, … I could only shoot her at siesta time four times per week – Wednesday was inventory day at her shop, and her nights and weekends were reserved for her fiancé. I never once saw him and she didn’t talk about him, so I felt no jealousy. I spent a small fortune on film and developing, all in María’s store. Of course, she intercepted and discarded any photos not to her liking, and I didn’t care. I was happy and life was good.
María flirted me intensely, especially during the photo sessions. She borrowed sexy clothes from her friends, and changed in the film shop, swinging and twirling for my approval as she came out. She frequently flashed her panties at me as she changed poses. I don’t know if she did it purposely, but each panty flash, each smile, each laugh and squeal of excitement, each sideways glance of those big brown shining eyes punctured me with barbed hooks. She skewered me, my testicles ached, my body physically hurt with lust for her. She reeled me in relentlessly – I would have crawled to her over glass shards if she would have asked.
María never let me touch her in a sexual manner, but she teased me so blatantly, I refused to believe I couldn’t get in her panties at least once. I wondered if she was still a virgin. Her wedding date was quickly approaching and I thought maybe she’d want a last fling before marriage. And I was intrigued that another man claimed her – what a rush it would be to fuck another man’s bride just before their wedding, maybe the same day as the wedding, to know my penis got there first!
End of book content.
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