Latin Submission Read online

  LATIN SUBMISSION

  by

  LEO BARTON

  Published by Chimera Books

  ISBN 9781907753886

  Chimera (ki-mir'a, ki-)

  a creation of the imagination, a wild fantasy...

  New authors are always welcome, or if you’re already a published author and have existing work, the rights of which remain with or have reverted to you, we would love to hear from you.

  This work is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. The author asserts that all characters depicted in this work of fiction are eighteen years of age or older, and that all characters and situations are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.

  Copyright Leo Barton. The right of Leo Barton to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This novel is fiction - in real life practice safe sex.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Also by Leo Barton

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  Chapter 1

  'Welcome to Buenos Aires.'

  I had been expecting David to meet me, my old friend from the days when we were novice journalists in London, not the beautiful full-figured blonde who stood in front of me, a cardboard sign held chest-high with my name scrawled on it in black felt-tip.

  After thirteen hours on a plane and several more gin and tonics than were good for me, I was a little bewildered to be offered the black-gloved hand of this gorgeously sexy woman, and not one of those casual little back-slaps that David would habitually give me when we met on one of his increasingly infrequent visits home. My first reaction was that it was some kind of joke, a little set-up, like that time in Convent Garden when he had... Well, later, maybe.

  'I am David's wife, Andrea. I am sorry, he is not here. He is on business in Santiago.'

  It took a little time to take her all in: the bouncy shoulder-length hair, the almond-shaped eyes, the full rosy jut of her mouth. She wore a black leather skirt cut two clear inches above the knee and dark vampish tights showing her full thighs and the delicate curve of her calves. It took a little time to take it all in but, like most good things in life, it was - she was - well worth it.

  Through my jet-lagged haze, my first inklings of arousal were counter-blasted by the realisation that she had just told me she was David's wife.

  So okay, this wasn't a moral issue. I had dumped sexual morality on the aeroplane. The fact that she was David's wife or anybody else's wife would not have stood in my way. After five years of fidelity, of nobly and loyally refusing to let my cock stray from the conjugal bed, and then discovering that my lover and partner of those drearily monogamous years had been putting it about with anybody and everybody who wanted it; then any sense of those devotional requisites - like not betraying your husband by giving a blow-job to the next door neighbour in your very own garden shed - were out. But that was me: commitment, a thing of the past; honesty in relationships, kicked into touch; faithfulness, never to be tampered with again.

  This had all been decided whilst perusing my manhood in the aeroplane toilet, after the first of my complementary gins. From now on I wanted sex - wild sex, hard sex. I wanted to exorcise all those long years of pain and bitterness by doing anything I desired, however fantastic or perverse - and to do it with as many willing women as I could find. That was all. Simplifyingly, glorifyingly, I would seek carnal enjoyment as merely a pleasure in itself, not some kind of adjunct to a mutually rosy-coloured concept of connubial bliss.

  But that, as I said, was me. I might as recently as six hours ago have dedicated my life to pleasuring my cock. I might have been, as David had indicated in a call only forty-eight hours previously, fresh. But I was not Andrea. Andrea, even if there was the faintest possibility that she could be attracted to me, may not have discarded all the antediluvian marital myths that I had done. She might be - and God, what a waste of those glorious breasts and those wonderful thighs - still in love, and still faithful.

  As she walked me to her car, I observed the pleasant plumpness of her bottom and the highly seductive way she moved on three-inch heels. Now, so close to her as we headed to the centre of the city, I could see what a delectable smile she had, especially when her eyes strayed from the road to meet mine. And how delightfully arousing she was when the tip of her tongue jutted from her lips in an overly conscious demonstration of concentration, as she focused her attention back to the maniacal drivers in front of her, the taxi-drivers maddeningly lane-hopping.

  'So why is David in Santiago?'

  She shrugged dismissively, alluringly. 'David is always away. Is a contract with cable television.'

  My God: after all those days living with an English girl with precise Home Counties diction, it was such a turn-on to be stuck in traffic with a beautiful Latin woman who forgot the necessity of using impersonal pronouns at the beginning of her sentences.

  'Is a contract.'

  Fantastic! Andrea's English was good, very good, but this little mannerism, this little linguistic tic, was enticing; as was her sensual Argentinean intonation which seemed to add syllables to English where they should not exist.

  'What do you do, Andrea?' I asked as I glanced at her long slender fingers, then up to her nails coated with deep scarlet.

  'I am a dance teacher.'

  'Classic?'

  'Classic and modern.'

  'Maybe you can teach me to tango, while I'm here,' I said jokingly.

  'You must come to visit my studio,' she said, turning her eyes once more away from the road to look at me, momentarily displaying a dazzle of perfectly formed teeth. I imagined her leotard-clad, the rounded hips, the bare expanse of flesh between throat and breast.

  'Love to.' I would have loved doing just about anything with Andrea, but the prospect of a rendezvous in the privacy of her dance studio was certainly high on my list of potential shared activities.

  She smiled again. The smile was at first open and warm, until her lips slightly twisted to the most tantalising of smirks; I hoped that perhaps she was thinking about the carnal possibilities that might occur if I took up her vague invitation.

  As I tried to make conversation with her, I was frequently distracted from my genial line of interrogation by the delightful bulging of her breasts, or the occasional swaying of her hair as she would answer a question in the negative, or by the sheen of her black tights - did I dare dream stockings? Yes, I did.

  'How was your flight?' she asked after a brief lull in the conversation.

  'Long, very long.'

  'And how was England?'

  'Cold, very cold. Have you been?'

  'Never. I never been,' she said sadly.

  'You must go.'

  'I will. I went to Paris and to Rome, but not to London.'

  'Why doesn't David take you?'

  'David - huh!'

  I was beginning to be encouraged, especially by the dismissive, almost parenthetic expellation of air that h
ad followed her retort. It did not strike me that their relationship was going so well, as Andrea shrugged and further sighed her seeming disillusionment with her absent husband. 'David is always too busy.'

  From the air, Buenos Aires had impressed me, at least in its regularity; the tidy rows of streets that formed the grid pattern of the city had sprawled way beyond into the distance. There seemed little of the ramshackle about the place, none of the higgledy-piggledy growth of London streets. Buenos Aires looked planned, orderly, precise: a city that knew what it was about. A city that knew where it was going.

  I was wrong.

  As we sped through the broad avenues of the centre, the assumed horizontal precision of urban planning gave way to vertical chaos. A mess of architectural styles bludgeoned my sight; traces of Paris and London and Madrid competed in the grandeur stakes, while modernistic skyscrapers dwarfed quaint colonial-style buildings.

  Needless to say, any profound consideration of architectural style or the niceties of urban planning were totally subsumed by my interest in the sexy blonde beside me, although they did offer subject matter for our increasingly amiable chat.

  'Yes, Buenos Aires is a mess, a big mess. No planning, nada. This is not Europe, señor. We have the rules, but nobody pay attention. Money is the language and the law here.'

  I liked the passion of her little diatribes; they added another element to the appeal of this ravishing woman. During the first twenty minutes of our journey to town, I was favoured with robust criticisms of the police, the army, the judiciary and, of course, the government.

  By the time we had been driving for half an hour, Andrea was joking with me like a long-lost friend, interspersing a light-hearted history of the city with lengthy anecdotes from her domestic life, telling me how she often found David's business colleagues dreary and boring. 'What do you English say, so stick in the mud? Especially, maybe I shouldn't say this,' but she did, 'some Englishmen. Dio mio. They need to relax, I think.'

  I laughed. 'I know.'

  'Not all, eh, only some. Not you, I think.' I was graced by another glancing smile. 'Maybe, Jonathan, we can have a good time together. I like laughing. You make me laugh already.'

  The morning streets were virtually deserted of pedestrians, but cars thundered down the broad six-lane highways that dissected the centre of town. I had thought it was only the cavalier taxi-drivers at the airport who drove like madmen, but everybody drove like crazy here, even Andrea - especially Andrea. I was torn between the delicious looks she would throw me, and my desire that she concentrate her attention on driving. I was relieved when she haphazardly parked the car in a narrow, deserted side street.

  'I take you for coffee, yes?'

  We walked along the street, my eyes taking everything in around me; the pompous grandeur of the wealthy tenements, the slick brightly lit cafés, all called confiterias here, the multitude of banks and offices, the tiny kioskos, shuttered and locked.

  The street opened onto a broad tree-lined avenue, the recently risen sun already making the asphalt shimmer, even though it couldn't have been much later than ten in the morning.

  'This is the Avenida de Mayo. To the north is Congress. To the south, Plazo de Mayo,' Andrea said, gesticulating with her arms. 'That is where the pink house is, where the President lives. You are in the very heart of Buenos Aires.'

  'You should have been a tourist guide,' I joked.

  'Oh, you think so? Maybe, but I prefer to be a dancer.' She made an elegant little semicircle with her left foot. 'Maybe for you, Jonathan.' A little impish smile passed across her lips.

  'You can take me anywhere,' I said, flirting.

  She took my arm in hers. 'And now I take you to the most famous café in the whole of Buenos Aires - maybe in the whole of South America - the Tortoni. Famous for the tango, for literature and lovers and, like many people and things here, famous for being famous.'

  The café was huge and sparsely populated, a few porteños - the name used to describe the people of Buenos Aires - were spread out among the round marble-topped tables. The atmosphere of the place was sombre, the maroon waist-coated waiters serious and, to me, a little foreboding. Huge thick pillars pompously lined the centre of the café and the dark wood panelled walls did not brighten the ambience. It seemed a café consciously aware of its own importance and its reputation, more church or library than drinking establishment. I didn't like it much, but I didn't care. I was more interested in my companion.

  We took a seat near the main door.

  'This is the Tortoni,' Andrea said, glancing at me. 'What would you like?'

  That was obvious. What I would have liked was Andrea, naked and writhing above me, slapping down on my stiff prick. I settled for a coffee. 'Un cortado,' I responded, attempting my best Spanish pronunciation.

  'Bien.' She perused the glossy menu, her tongue brushing her upper lip as she deliberated on what she would have.

  'So tell me about the tango,' I said, after a portly moustachioed waiter had taken our order.

  'Ah, the tango! You ask the right question, because the tango is Buenos Aires. The tango, how to explain the tango,' she mused to herself. 'Well, is showy, obsessive, passionate and a little perverse.' Here her eyebrows raised slightly. 'The tango is about suffering and joy, and many porteños don't seem to know the difference between pain and pleasure. The tango wants to be seen, wants to be watched. Is about loving and not being loved, about loving and hurting. Is about nostalgia, about not having what you want, and losing what you once had.'

  'There doesn't seem to be much joy in it.'

  'The joy comes, I think, from being miserable. Porteños like to be unhappy, can only be happy being unhappy, especially when they have somebody to speak with about it.'

  'You don't seem particularly unhappy.'

  'I'm not,' she said, laughing heartily, 'but I am not a porteño, not really. I come from Cordoba, a city in the north. We are different. We prefer to be happy getting what we want. I always try to get what I want. Don't you?'

  'Yes, I do.'

  Her eyes looked piercingly into mine, and then she glanced away. 'We are not so, so self-obsessed in Cordoba. Buenos Aires is a city of egoistas. Listen, I have a joke for you, yes?' Her hand leant over the circular marble table, her fingers lightly resting on my knuckles. 'Well, in English, maybe it's hard. Okay, I try: how can you get a porteño to kill himself?'

  'I don't know. How do you get a porteño to kill himself?' I repeated with mock pantomime intonation.

  'Get him to jump off his own ego.' She burst into laughter. I laughed too, as much at the infectiousness of Andrea's laugh as at the actual joke.

  'Unlike most women here,' Andrea continued, 'I am not an egoista. I'm not self-obsessed. For example, I do not go to the psychoanalyst.'

  'Why should you?' I asked, bemused that Andrea would even mention herself going for therapy. She seemed an advertisement for mental health.

  'Everybody else does. Psychotherapy is the porteño's biggest indulgence. The English collect stamps, we go to the - what was the word that David told me? - yes, we go to the shrink and tell him all our problems and how unhappy we are.'

  'You're not a believer, then?'

  'I believe in different kind of therapy, señor. Cosas mas natural.'

  'Your therapy?'

  'No, I joke. My therapy is getting what I want, so I am not dissatisfied. Not always, but then perhaps it is not always good to get everything that you want. But I get enough, that's all.'

  Her eyes looked into mine again, then she broke into laughter. 'Oh yes, and fact number two. Did you know that the women of Buenos Aires spend more money on their underwear than in any other part of the world? I told you, we are a little perverse, the women of Buenos Aires.'

  I imagined Andrea in a basque, in a chemise, in silk and satin and cotton, in decorative panties, in lacy bras. I imagined rolling my tong
ue along her stockinged legs, tugging her breasts free from the lacy cups of her bra, of pulling aside the gusset of her panties and nibbling on her quim.

  It was all happening so quickly. Sex seemed to hover over us, our every word imbued with its scent, every sentence loaded with innuendo, potential... I wasn't totally sure. I was never totally sure, but I began to think that I was going to have this woman before the day was over; especially when she said, after we had finished drinking our coffee and she was driving me north from the centre of the city, 'Your hotel is here, but first I take you home.'

  Her apartment was in what I was later to learn was the district of Belgrano. It was a lavish four-bedroomed affair with all mod cons, the essentially slimline and discreet, a blend of modernistic minimalism and classical chic: vertical blinds, red leather sofa, antique chest of drawers, glass-topped coffee-table.

  She poured me a large whisky and sat on a chair to the right of me. 'So why did you come here?' It sounded like a genuine question, as if it puzzled her as to why anybody would uproot themselves and travel across the world to Argentina.

  'I deserved a long holiday. I wanted to see David; he's always inviting me, and I wanted to meet you.'

  Again our eyes met.

  'What did David tell you about me?'

  'Only good things.'

  She looked quizzical.

  'Not much.'

  'Good.'

  She sipped on her whisky. I couldn't take my eyes off that fabulous chest, the slight heaving of her breasts as she drank, the gratifying pinpoints of her nipples visible beneath the thin stretched wool of her black polo-neck sweater.

  'You separate from your girlfriend?' Andrea was resting her whisky glass on the arm of the sofa with her right hand, while her left hand hugged her legs below the knee.

  'My wife, yes.' I looked at her eyes. Again the silence, but no discomfort. How could there be with that radiant face beaming across at me? Nor did the question sound intrusive - more conspiratorial.