Chapter 29 – Part 2, Marikarina’s Revenge

This is chapter 29, part 2 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. This is a rough second draft.


Chapter 29 – Part 2, Marikarina’s Revenge

The next day, an express delivery boy delivered a small box to my apartment. It was from María’s black guy. My gold wedding band with ‘M’ carved within the square gleamed up at me. I flashed back to that ring stroking up and down over PerfectPenis’s penis, to that same ring cutting up my penis and testicles as he castrated me. Now it was freshly polished. I slipped it on my ring finger–why had María sent it? Perhaps it’s María’s signal we’re forever divorced? Perhaps her acknowledgment we’re still married? There was also a DVD in the box, with a yellow stick-um note from María’s black guy, “Too bad he didn’t kill you.” Charming. Why would he say that now?

From the dining room window, we had a sliver view into the center of Guatemala City. I always hated this city. It was ugly, polluted and dangerous; how did I end up here? Neither María nor I could live in Antigua again for a long time–we were immoral outcasts in that society. Maybe María was right, I should return to Guanajuato. I could wait for her there since her black guy won’t let her see me here anyway.

I’d ask Marikarina if she’d move with me back to Guanajuato. We could leave at the end of the school year, just a few months away. Her heart wasn’t really in medicine. She would become one of the fuck-fodder students, a most popular one, but still fuck-fodder. I’d support her studies in Guanajuato, whatever they might be.

I’d ask María if Marikarina could use her lingerie collection. She had dozens, if not hundreds of pieces there dating back to when we first married. Marikarina was about the same size, maybe a little smaller. I’d promenade her through the plazas, scandalizing the old women busybodies. I had left with a stunningly beautiful woman, and returned with a stunningly beautiful child. Wife, daughter, lover or prostitute? The men that had whored María were the same predators of naive university students. They would lust for her, hustle her, masturbate for her in their bathrooms while neglecting their wives. We’d get revenge for how they treated María.

Marikarina had a good sense of people, she’d know who the women are that were sexually starved by their husbands and might be willing to tryout a woman. We’d befriend these couples, she’d prick-tease the men to desperation and seduce their wives. When Marikarina impaled them, the wives would scream in pleasure. She’d pound them like a horny teenage boy, they be ruined for their husbands–what revenge! Too bad the hormone treatment had kept her sterile, it’d be great to impregnate them too. Then we’d break up their marriages. Marikarina was a María; I was sure she’d be more than willing to do this. She’d enjoy it and had her own axes to grind. It’d be her revenge as well.

She wouldn’t be like a freak there, no one would know she had a penis until she found other sexual partners. Or until she resumed hooking. She’d be a great hit there among men, she would easily find clients among the politicians, lefty professors and all the other morally challenged, confused and reprobates. We’d have a good life while I waited for María and while Marikarina found the ‘one’ for her. I’ll ask Marikarina, but will only go if she wants it too. She’ll have to leave me someday, but I’ll never, never give her away. Maybe love is never giving away the one you love.

I’ll show Marikarina María’s dance club videos so she’ll understand my desperation for María. I’ll show her all the videos of María and PerfectPenis in Guatemala so she’ll see how I lost María. I’ll show her the castration video so she can understand María’s hate for me. There’ll be no secrets, no lies, no hidden agendas with Marikarina. I won’t make the same mistakes with her that I made with María.

And I’ll send María her dance club videos if the Estrella hasn’t already. Won’t the black guy get a kick out of seeing his first encounter with María so many years ago!

That night, my last night with the Estrella, we were both totally upset, making wild promises, crying. My best attempts to suck her clitoris to orgasm failed, we lay embraced, silent. I obsessed about this question until I had to ask, “Who will brush and stroke your hair?” The Estrella answered by crying anew. We finally managed to drift into sleep.

Until I jerked awake. I saw María’s children, my children, laying in white porcelain trays, discarded as hospital waste. I wondered if they … the question I’d never be able to ask, “Were they girls?” María had said they were, but…

My mind kept churning. The Estrella had a new lover that seemed perfect for her, and I still loved her as she still loved me. The estrellitas had me to please them provisionally. They might come to love me, and I would love them until they found their ‘one’. I had just pledged myself to Marikarina, she would be taken care of, and loved as deep as death until she traded me in on her ‘one’. And María had … no one. Many men is the same as none. I had destroyed myself, of no consequence, but I had destroyed María, my woman of a lifetime, the woman I had pledged myself to. She had no one, just an endless series of men she fucked to hate me. She didn’t love them, not even the black guy. She loved me and I destroyed her, left her with nothing but men fucking her, her opiate to ease the pain of what I had done. An epic failure, a failure of an entire lifetime, nullifying even my right to exist.

I had to fix this, I had to get her back. I would send the Estrella to talk to her, to ask her to give me another chance. I would never leave her side, never give her away on pain of death. I would ask Marikarina to seduce her, to bring her back. María knew I could be enough for her, we could work it out, I just needed one more chance. However long it took, I would get her back and be enough for her. In the meantime, I wanted her to be safe, to not get risky with those men.

I fired-up my laptop and wrote María a message, just two sentences, ‘Please be careful, be careful with those men. I love you and want you back.’ I stared at the message, then erased the last sentence. I had tormented her yesterday, why torment her more? I appended, ‘BTW, you are NOT a whore, you ARE a Magnificent Slut. And from my heart-of-hearts, I tell you NO.’ I stared at the message for a few moments, then replaced the last word, NO, with YES. I was still not quite sure of what I meant to say, but it didn’t feel wrong so I sent the message and went back to bed.

The next morning, The Estrella and I followed the same ritual as always, I brushed and stroked her hair, but this time with my parting gift, a beautiful tortoise shell brush engraved with her name. As I stroked her face, neck, shoulders, and breasts, she commented,

“You must always, every day, stroke the hair of the estrellitas.”

“Yes, I’d like that a lot. I wonder if they’ll let me, that’d be nice.”

“No, no, you must always, always, always do that, every day.”

What! Why had she said that! The answer slapped me sideways–it was not for her, it was for me! Stroking her hair and skin was for me, to keep me sane! I thought I was pleasing the Estrella–nothing of that, she was saving me. I hadn’t had a mental regression since I came to live with the Estrella, she knew why and she was worried about me, about me!

My mind slipped towards the edge, I broke again. Her whorepool eyes captured me and I returned into her. I stroked her hair and wondered why she had bothered to save me, what was this old broken man to her, and I couldn’t stop stroking her shiny, soft hair. The mornings were when she was most Female; stroking her hair was my surrender to Female, my promise, my life pledge to her, the slow equivalent of the all-at-once pledge I had made to PerfectPenis. I owed her my life.

She finally gently eased away from my hands, dressed and left quickly without breakfast, I just sat there numb until I heard the door close. I shook myself, I was still together. I dressed, went down to our local grocery store, bought supplies for her for the next two months–it took two taxis to carry them two blocks. I wrote her a check for her expenses, then packed my few belongings, just two medium-sized boxes.

Thirty-five minutes later I entered my new home, found the empty bedroom, and dumped my boxes. I explored the apartment, it was a luxury model with three bathrooms. My bedroom was smallest, no closets, just a dresser. The walls of the room were adorned with crosses and religious paraphernalia, remnants of a previous tenant. My bathroom contained a bathtub-shower combination. I thought I could bathe the girls in the tub, if they let me, wash their backs, their legs, their breasts, their vulvae, shampoo their hair.

Then I thought of massage, and I went to unpack my laptop and did research on the Internet about techniques and tables. I’d go buy a massage table tomorrow, put it in my bedroom, and learn to give them massages–anything to keep my hands on their bodies. I’d spoil these girls for any other man, all others would just be casual penises. I wandered into the girl’s bedrooms, one of them was disorderly with yesterday’s clothes thrown on a chair. I picked up the panty, held it to my face, breathed in the fragrance and tasted its essence–I knew immediately which girl had this bedroom. I thought about an expression I had read somewhere, to the ancient Greeks, wine was ‘the nectar of the gods’. The Greeks had it all wrong, what I savored in this panty was the true sacred nectar.

I retrieved my gifts for the girls, the engraved tortoise shell hairbrushes, and placed them in their respective rooms–I so desired to brush and stroke their hair each day. These estrellitas had three years of residency ahead of them and I wondered how long they’d keep me. I’d give them no reason to tire of me, I’d cook for them, do their library research, help them chose good penises, dress them slutty like María, and I’d give them screaming orgasms. Still, they might tire of me after awhile, I was an old, ugly, broken gringo competing with handsome, fresh, young, strong penises.

End of book content.


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