Chapter 6 – Part 13, The Glow of Love

This is chapter 6, part 13 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 6 – Part 13, The Glow of Love

My uneasy arrangement with María continued for a few months, until Terri called María and told her she had symptoms of a disease the doctors couldn’t identify. She was terrified, she had many lovers, including Drew, that may have given her something. Her doctor suggested a series of tests, including for AIDS, and she was afraid to test, afraid to find out.

Now María was terrified, for Terri, for herself, for Drew, for the Pol, even for me. And for two other men, names I didn’t recognize. María didn’t know I had been penis-sucking with Drew. María stopped seeing Drew immediately, and María agonized over her rides with the Pol. The AIDS tests in those days were notoriously inaccurate, slow, and often returned both false positives and false negatives. We went to take the tests, and decided María would cancel her immediate event with the Pol using a yeast infection as her pretext. If the AIDS test came back negative, she would go to the next event.

We did AIDS examinations every two weeks. I studied the lab reports and researched extensively what little was known about AIDS at that time. I used this period to draw her in, to get her back with constant attention, kindness, and gifts. I promised her I’d take care of her no matter what happened – I’d never leave her. It was easy to say, I meant it. The rides with the Pol helped her more than my assurances. Those blasts of raw sex released her tensions for a few days. The coke might have helped also. We continued testing and waiting for Terri’s results.

Terri reported it was lupus and controllable. In relief, we invited Terri and Drew for a blow-out celebration dinner. María’s trysts with Drew never resumed, and we were more careful afterward.

The day of our celebration, Terri came to the house and the women played dress-up with María’s collection until Terri was equally splendid. Terri looked at me with venom, but María’s effervescence bubbled over until we were all maniacal. While they fixed their hairdos and makeup, I wrote out and practiced a small speech for Terri. I put on my best suit, Drew came over suited-up also, but when the ladies came out, we looked like cleaning rags next to them. We stopped by a florist to get corsages for the women.

I had Drew take María to dance. Terri looked at me warily. Slowly, without pausing, I gave my speech, “It’s not your fault. I did it. I’m sorry I did it to you. I’m sorry I did it in your house. I almost lost María with my stupidity, but we’re hanging on. María doesn’t know what happened and never will. You can’t forgive me, but at least you know I’m truly sorry. It’s not your fault.”

Terri started to cry, destroying her makeup with her napkin, and I thought, “puta madre, I’ve done it again.” María noticed and moved to come to the table, but Drew steered her away. Terri blubbered it was her fault, she should have covered Maria, she left her exposed and intentionally brought everyone by to look at her, it was her fault. I assured her it was my doing, I had left her exposed, I had paid my friend to fuck her, it wasn’t her fault. By the time the dance finished, Terri had disappeared into the powder room. María swept by the table and followed Terri.

When Terri returned, I hardly recognized her. I don’t know what kind of miraculous makeup she put on her face, but she looked 15 years younger. Her corsage had been moved to her hair, over her ear, Latina style. She was genuinely pretty, glowing, glowing.

The most brilliant light in the universe is the glow in the eyes of a woman in love.

Terri beamed at us with … what? … goodwill, friendship, love? Maybe part was for me, but the big winner was Drew. She looked in his eyes. She forgave him. She chose him – all he had to do was accept. Drew’s face registered confusion, then panic. He saw in her eyes his carefree life, his fuck-whoever-got-within-reach lifestyle would be finished – maybe he thought about his trysts with María. He blinked slowly and looked at me for help. He blinked again and his eyes said YES. He accepted her. Terri would be his guide for the remainder of his life.

Their smiles broke my heart, for what I had lost with María. I looked down, looked away, turned my chair away from the table, afraid to look at María. But I felt her gaze tugging at me, pulling my face back to her. She smiled, and her eyes sparkled.

I stumbled to my feet and bowed to her, offered my hand, and led her to the dance floor. Then I felt foolish no music was playing, the musicians were on break. Small matter. I took her in the ballroom stance, and we started shuffling to the only step I remembered, la rumba. One of the musicians picked up an acoustic guitar, tried to match our step, recognized the dance, and came in with a soft tune, sort of Spanish guitar with a rumba tempo. María changed to a close-in stance, placed her head on my chest, and the subtle scent of the corsage in her hair mingled with another scent I knew well – Jungle Gardenia. She wasn’t wearing that when we left the house. Miraculous makeup, magic perfumes, los misterios de mujeres (the mysteries of women). I buried my face in her hair, the sweetest scent of all, closed my eyes, and we drifted to the music. I sensed other people around us, other instruments joining in the band.

Applause startled us from our trance. The dance floor had a few couples, the musicians were standing, some folks at their tables were standing also – all applauding us … well, applauding the radiant woman standing next to me.

She looked a stunning 30’s something. She wore a sweet fragrance, Jungle Gardenia, that transported me back to my first puppy love, and a large white corsage in her glowing hair, which undulated down past her waist in thick waves. 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 mythical conjunction of shining dark hair, glowing brown eyes, olive skin, perfect profile, sunrise smile, and a passionate and fiery temperament that stirred any man’s hormones and caused pale-faces to abandon all sanity. I longed hungrily for her, my body pumped hormones at full throttle, and I succumbed again to her presence.

She was María.

And I was an ordinary guy.

I stood there flustered and embarrassed, I didn’t know what to do with my hands, stick them in my pocket or what. I finally found the presence to turn towards her and applaud. She was totally at ease, gracefully thanking the audience with shining eyes and smiles and small nods of acknowledgment for each one. Her grace deepened my embarrassment – I felt like a dirt clod, exploding with pride at María, basking in her presence. Not even the Pol, with all his tax-payer money, could ever have given her this experience.

As we returned to our table, María leaned into me and whispered, “Te perdono” (I forgive you). I stopped, overcome with the terror of the black void I had become. The terror pulled in on itself into the abyss until it disappeared, and the void refilled with María. I weakened, my knees trembled and I steadied myself with María’s arm. Two simple words, te perdono, and she made me whole again. She gave me life again, most definitely not my old life, a new life where my penis was vanquished, where her vulva reigned supreme.

We made love that night. We didn’t have sex, or fuck each other; I didn’t ask for her throat or anus. We made love with passion. Hope surged within me, hope beyond hope she would keep me. I believed, and the world was beautiful, life was good again.

* * * * * * * * * *

In the morning, we both called-in sick to work. María had a date with the Pol in the afternoon, and we decided I should help her get ready and take care of our son. We lazed around the house until noon, and I took María to the hair salon and make-up parlor. With our son on my lap, I watched the entire process of creating the persona of Isabel Velázquez. The process of applying make-up was extremely sensual, especially brushing on the lip-gloss. The makeup artist painted María’s lips with a small paint brush – I envied and hated that paintbrush. I thought this was a skill I should learn.

Back in the house, Nanny and Satyr took Brett out, and I helped María dress. Today was a gallop (ride-only) day, so her outfit was a sexy, casual, skimpy dress. The interior lingerie was wickedly sexy. I dressed her slowly with her bra, garter belt, and hosiery. It was a reverse strip-tease – she ground her hips and shoulders, teasing me as I smoothed each garment on her body. The bra and garter belt had multiple adjustment points, so we adjusted and checked her at all angles, and adjusted again until she said it was perfect. Too tight and lumps appear; too loose and the materials are limp or loose. The dress-up excited us, I pushed her to edge of the bed, opened her labia with my lips and tickled her clitoris while she murmured, “No, no, this is husband tampering.” She lay back and jerked into orgasm, then began the slow rolling of her hips, carrying my face around for several minutes. I lay on the bed next to her, and she whispered, “Please fuck me.”

“No, not now, that’s husband tampering, remember you’re his mistress today. Tomorrow you’re mine.”

I pulled the skimpy dress over her head, and we adjusted it, cinching up the waist.

The Mistress Shop manager had given her a sealed package of six panties – I guess the Pol had a busy schedule planned for her. She took out the panties one-by-one and showed them to me for my approval. Each one looked better than the previous. They had incredible design work, and even from a distance, the materials looked supple and smooth. I knew they must cost a few hundred dollars each – the rich are different from the rest of us. María chose a panty.

She handed the panty to me.

I was afraid to touch it, I asked her if she was sure. She didn’t answer, just held it out for me. She sat and extended her legs to me. The panty was made from a material I didn’t recognize, supple and lightly stretchable, with unexpected seams, wrinkles and bumps. I worked it over her feet and lower legs, and by the time I passed her knees, it was already tight and stretching around her thighs. I felt that tension in my groin, the back of my fingers caressed the designs in her hosiery. Her eyes were closed – she was elsewhere, imaging perhaps the Pol’s black hands on her body. When my fingers connected with her skin above the hosiery, I went fully erect. She raised her hips, and I wiggled the panty onto her hips. Then she stood, and I began to tug the panty over and around her derriere and hips, and adjusted it over her vulva. My hands shook. Now I understood the wrinkles and bumps. The front molded perfectly over the sphere of her vulva like a second skin. A line in the design, a seam, parted her exterior and interior labia slightly, just enough to promise the paradise within. The line went under and flowed deeply into the valley between her buttocks, another promise of ecstasy. I traced my fingers through the valley from front to back, it was tight against her clitoris, vagina, and anus. I smoothed out wrinkles and over-stretched fabrics around the hips until the panty lay perfectly symmetrical on her body. The panty could have been sprayed-on. She turned in the mirror, nodded her approval, and said it felt delicious. My blood started boiling. I smelt her scent of woman – she was wet again. I had never seen a panty that erotic, just looking seared her vulva on my brain. The panty was a weapon designed to drive men mad.

I hurt. Hormones, emotions, something evil ravaged my body: lust, envy, jealousy, betrayal, every negative passion shook me. This is why the Mistress Shop forbade men to see and touch the panties. I saw what I was giving away to another man, and it hurt badly.

She had told me, “Thou shalt not covet thy politician’s mistress.”

I pulled her dress down to cover the panty, to cover what another man would have of her. I couldn’t stand to look at it and walked into the kitchen. María came up behind me, put her arms around my waist, and began to speak. The words were not María, I had never heard her talk like this before – it was a rehearsed speech, obtuse and stilted.

“He’s going to take me to heaven for the next few hours. My entire world will be his penis, his mouth, his hands, his skin. I won’t even remember I have a husband or son. I will love him, be in love with him, worship him, worship his penis more than I worship the Virgin María. He will own me, do anything he wants with me. He will be a pleasure that burns me inside and out. He’ll torment me and I’ll beg for the pleasure of him. He may keep me forever.”

She paused for a few seconds as I fully assimilated what she meant.

“Is this what you want? Forbid me to go and I’ll stay here with you.”

María had never before asked me for permission. But she didn’t say, “if you don’t like it” or “if it bothers you”. I had to directly forbid it. I had to forcefully take her sexual liberty from her. I had to make her my property, put her in a prison as small as my own inadequacies.

If I forbade her, she might go anyway. Or I’d cripple her spirit, the essence of María. We probably wouldn’t last together more than a few months. I began to cramp in my groin, in my stomach. I knew my knees would give way at any minute. I thought about her pleasure, a pleasure beyond my understanding, but he gave it to her. I thought about the Pol – he didn’t deserve the pleasure she’d give him, but then, no man did. I thought about my pleasure: pain, torment, humiliation and base emotions no man should have. Knives cutting-up my body, hands crushing my testicles.

Now or never. Forbid her or let her go.

“Does he dress you after your first shower?”

“Yes, he does it slowly.”

“Will he use all the panties?”

“Probably.”

“Do his hands tremble when he dresses you?”

“He can hardly control himself.”

“Can he smell you when you’re wet?”

“Always.”

So the Pol had this special gift too, to smell the heat and desire of a woman. I squandered my gift in perverse humiliation. He multiplied his gift for both his pleasure and hers. I was a fool.

“Does he love you?”

“I don’t know, I hope so.”

“Are you in love with him?”

“Yes … very much.”

“You said he may keep you forever. Do you mean that? If he takes you, will you leave me – forever?”

“Yes.”

“… then go. Please go, with the man you love more than me. How could I forbid that?”

Maybe that’s what love is, giving up your wife to the man she loves the most.

I thanked Isis I was too weak to forbid her his pleasure. I heard the front door close, and a wave of nausea washed over me. My knees gave way and I plopped on the floor. And retched. The black void cracked open again and my last thought was, “please Isis, kill me or make me insane.”

I should have been more careful for what I asked for.

I still sat there on the floor when Nanny and Satyr came in with Brett. She put him to play, while he helped me up and into Nanny’s bed. Her best efforts to animate me failed, so they left me to sleep alone.

End of book content.


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