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'He parted her legs further, and tilted her bottom up so he could see her sex. It was obvious by the thick redness of her sex-lips and the gleam of juice around her quim that, for all of her sobbing, Lucila had been aroused by her thrashing. I had been correct that Lucila would take great pleasure in being disciplined.

  '"So, you have enjoyed your pain, Lucila," Father Stefano said, snaking a finger around the folds of her quim. "This means that you are a more sinful girl than I had thought. We must beat that out of you!" Lucila looked up to him with her doe eyes, but said nothing. He turned to me, and grabbed the cane from my hand. "Remove your clothes!" he demanded, as he lashed the swollen cheeks of Lucila's buttocks.

  'I pulled the cotton blouse over my head, and then removed my T-shirt in the same manner, my erect nipples meeting the priest's eyes. I pulled down my panties and my skirt also, then stood obediently, wearing only my white ankle socks and my plimsolls.

  'Father Stefano was sweating. I stood before him naked and trembling, fearful but more excited than I had ever been in my life. This time, the cane descended on the top of my thighs, hard and fast. I thought that I would die with the pain that he was causing me. Again, his aim accurate, he thrashed me one more time in exactly the same place, an incipient red mark from thigh to thigh, stretching across the thin wisps of my pubic hair. The pain was so acute, my whole body seemed to ache. My nipples throbbed excitedly and the taut skin of my upper thighs stung with an intensity I had never known before. He thrash me across my breasts so forcefully it cause me to stumble backward.

  'Then he turn his attention to Lucila. "Stand up! Remove your clothes!" Lucila's eyes were puffy with tears. Tentatively, she removed her top to reveal the fullness of her beautiful breasts, two hard brown nipples riding on the crest of her porcelain-white flesh.

  'Father Stefano lashed her every bit as hard as he had lashed me. Lucila jerked backward with the force of the blow, her delicate skin reddening immediately, her nipples extending under the stroke of the cane. She gasped in her agony, unable to prevent a shriek emitting from behind her pursed lips. Another thwack, the hard clear sound reverberating around the small room. I looked at her face: her mouth was contorted in pain, her eyes shut tight. This time she manage to stay silent.

  'While her eyes were still tight closed, the priest walked up to her and tugged down the panties that Lucila, protecting her modesty, had pulled up once she was allowed to stand. "You are an evil girl," Father Stefano said, crouching down so his eyes were at the same level as her pubis, his forefinger feeling the moistness between her legs before he trail it up to her bottom. He press the surrounding flesh of her anus before inserting his finger in the tight opening.

  'Lucila look at me through the mist of her tears, incredulous at the multiple indignities that had befallen her, as the priest push his finger further inside her, then slowly slip it out. He grab the girl firmly by the wrist and toss her violently onto the white sheet of his bed.

  'He stood behind me, threading his arms under mine so that his hands could clasp my breasts, his forefinger and thumb grasping my nipples tightly and then squeezing hard. It felt like electricity was coursing through my body. There could be no pretence that this had anything to do with Christian admonition or school discipline. He was giving free rein to his own sadistic perversions.

  'He flung me onto the bed beside Lucila, then squatted between our two naked bodies, his manic eyes staring at our flesh.

  'He alter my position so I face Lucila's black pubic hair, then forced my head between her legs, pressing my mouth against her clitoris. I licked it. He move to the other side of the bed, forcing Lucila's mouth onto me. I felt her moist tongue lick me. Father Stefano went from me to Lucila, giving instructions to suck hard, to use all our tongue, to take the clitoris between our teeth and bite.

  'As my body still smarted with pain, my breasts burning red, the top of my thighs tingling, I concentrate on the delightful sensation that Lucila's tongue was bringing me. At first it was gentle and soothing but soon I feel an intense sensual itch spreading from my clitoris. It make me lick Lucila harder. I could feel the bud of her lust growing under my attention.

  'Father Stefano watch us avidly, clearly pleased by our act. Suddenly he leap up and retrieved his cane. "Whores of Babylon!" he wailed at us, as he viciously lowered the cane onto my sore hip. The pain seared through my skin. Lucila sucked my clit hard. I could feel the sweet pleasure of her tongue and the burn of the lash at same time.

  'Roughly, the priest rotated our bodies, so Lucila lie under me, her hands gently clasping my bottom, her neck craning up so she can continue sucking on me.

  'I never been so aroused before, the exquisite mingle of pain with the sensation of pleasure.

  'Father Stefano continued to cane me, as Lucila licked and sucked. My whole body began tensing, seeking orgasmic release, each thwack of the cane intensifying my need. The sting of the rod, the heat between my legs, stiffened my body. I start to jerk my hips down onto Lucila's mouth, to feel the pressure of her tongue and teeth on me, as the priest lash me and lash me.

  'I was coming, and the fear of what would happen if Father Stefano saw me only intensify my pleasure. There was white heat burning inside me. I could no longer feel either pleasure or pain, but something else, something more, a burning and suffocating need that surpassed all sensations. I could not resist. My body spasmed in my orgasm. I was no longer in the room, removed onto some transcendental plane beyond either my present circumstance or my previous knowledge.

  'This sensation went on and on, as Lucila was not allowed to stop sucking on me, and as the priest continue to lash me. One orgasm follow another, until there was an unbearable surfeit of pleasure, until my body was racked with it. I want it to stop. I begged Lucila, but she could not, too fearful was she of what Father Stefano would do to her.

  'Then something click in my head, something protective. Unable to stand either the pleasure of my pain or the pain of my pleasure any longer, I lost consciousness.

  'When I awoke, he let us both get dressed, telling us that we must tell no one, but that both of us must bring other sinners to him for purification. We knew that what he meant was that he wanted us to procure fresh virgins - young women, the same age as us - to satiate his sadistic desires. He let us go back to our dormitories separately.

  'I did not speak to Lucila after that. She look hurt and frightened every time that our eyes meet but, one week later, as I was waiting outside his room, having escorted another girl for Father Stefano, I see Lucila exit, a serene look about her.'

  'You mean she went back for more punishment?' I asked, having been riveted by the story.

  'Most certainly, Jonathan. I told you, I could tell from that first time I notice her staring at Father Stefano. Is my special talent. I can always tell those who like to be disciplined, who seek satisfaction in pain and punishment.'

  'How?' I swigged back the last of my wine.

  'Oh, I am not sure. But you, for example, I know straight away even in the airport, the way you look at my body, even the tone of your voice. I know what your pleasure is. You don't believe that I have this gift of knowing? I will show you the next time we meet. I promise you.'

  Chapter 3

  Andrea dropped me off at my hospedaje in Palermo. She pecked me on the cheek as we said goodbye and promised me I would be seeing a lot of her, as much as I wanted to, while I stayed in Buenos Aires. She would ring me soon.

  After she had driven away and I had checked in, I clambered up to my rooms with my suitcases. My residence was a humble enough affair, just on the right side of spartan: a tiny kitchenette, a spacious living room, and a small bedroom with a largish double bed. The rooms were not expensive and they were more than adequate for me. They were clean and luminous, the big window of the living room looking out onto a sycamore-lined cobbled street.

  I put my suitcases down, climbed onto the bed and fell into the most satisfyin
g of slumbers.

  When I woke up, dragging my mind to consciousness from a sensual dream about Andrea's luscious body, a question haunted me: why had I come to Buenos Aires?

  To escape.

  Isn't that why most people cross continents? I was not a political or an economic refugee, but maybe an emotional one. In truth, after splitting up with Marie, I found the idea of putting a continent between us extremely desirable. I felt that she had cheated me out of five years of my life, especially my sexual life, which had withered to non-existence while I was still being faithful and soft. Any feelings of love or even magnanimity that I had once had for her had drowned in the acrimony of our separation and in my own bitter sense of betrayal.

  She hadn't made love to me for months before we parted, but she had been screwing others at every given opportunity. It had all come out that night after the garden shed affair, culminating in her malicious confession: our swan-song, a crossfire of barbed digs, of slanders, of vicious lampoons that laid bare once and for all the sheer antipathy we felt for one another and the grim predictable sham our marriage had become.

  These things leave scars that aren't so easy to forget; that explains why, behind the surge of liberation I had felt once untethered from my wife, there were still remnants of anger and disillusionment.

  Andrea had already gone some way to dispelling them, to making my sense of freedom a palpable resource, a necessary prerequisite of my new life. I believed that sexual liberation could be my saviour, the core of my regeneration, and every encounter I would have would take me further away from the still painful memory of the separation, of my wasted years with Marie.

  But there were other reasons to take a sabbatical in Buenos Aires. For one, my career was up shit creek. In the heady days when I had worked with David in London, I had dreamt of being an investigative reporter, of writing a column in a Sunday supplement, of orchestrating ground-breaking docudramas. There seemed to be so many paths to take.

  David had a high-powered job working for a monthly glossy. As his career had progressed in leaps and bounds, mine had stagnated. My last job in London was researching for a middle-brow encyclopaedia, and occasionally freelancing for the local press, which largely entailed mind-numbing trips to flower shows and garden fêtes, and reviewing a couple of books here and there for the likes of the Hammersmith Gazette or the Walthamstow Echo.

  And yet somewhere inside me I still had this crazy idea that I could write something worthwhile, something personal, something publishable. Argentina might provide some necessary stimuli. I believe - I needed to believe - that a new place could change my life.

  Another reason: David was here. I did want to see him again. We had been best friends. Had, past tense, because it had been two years since we had met, although he was good for an Email every other month, usually imploring me to visit him. The last time I had seen him in London I had sensed, though, that he had changed. Not only had he physically aged, paunchy and balding, but he seemed to have lost any interest in what he had left behind or who he had left behind - including me.

  Our meeting, nostalgically arranged in one of our old haunts, on nostalgic hunting ground, had been constantly interrupted by the electronic bleep of his mobile. With frequent apologies he would growl or bellow into the streamlined plastic, conversing in a rapid Spanish that was far too advanced for me to understand, and then he would drift back to our shared memories, distracted and seemingly uninterested.

  This seemed a far cry from those old days when we were still apprentice journalists working in London for an international news agency. David, though we weren't to know that then, was springboarding his career, racing up the greasy pole where I was to slip and slide.

  A seminal memory was one that I often recalled when I thought of him. And now I'd met Andrea, it made me realise why she was - in theory, at least - such a compatible partner for David.

  It must have been the mid-eighties. Both of us worked very hard then, but we also spent hours on the town together. It was almost a matter of principle for us to burn the candle constantly at both ends.

  It was early summer; the light night still stretched before us. We left our city office accompanied by Victoria, our new office temp. We had both spent the whole week trying to chat her up. She had seemed reluctant to go out with either David or myself alone, but comfortable at the prospect of going out with both of us together. Or that's what we had thought at the time, as we bantered together by the coffee machine. A light bit of joshing, a little bit of a competition, we had decided that we would both try our luck with her and may the best man win.

  Victoria was posh - alarmingly posh. Too good for me, David had joked. He saw himself as a more cultivated Lothario than I. Victoria spoke of her country home, called her parents 'mummy' and 'daddy', said 'gosh' a lot, without irony, and dressed rather primly in white blouses and knee-length patterned skirts. Even in the heat of summer, she always wore some kind of chiffon neck-scarf that - to me, at least - seemed the height of aristocratic chic. In the nomenclature of the day, Victoria was a Sloane.

  She was certainly not without her attractions. She had bobbed hair which left the pale nape of her neck exposed; her breasts were small but firm, as was her bottom; and her legs were marvellously long and shapely. She laughed easily, too, often repressing a natural tendency to giggle by reaching a hand up to her mouth as if to smother her mirth.

  For an hour she had kept us entertained with tales of the horsey set, her twenty-three or so years hidden behind a more knowing self-deprecation and the cheerful cynicism that peppered her comments. We were sitting either side of her, both of us trying to impress by employing our wit, embroidering our experience, bluffing our knowledge and exaggerating our education.

  Our competitiveness might have been light-hearted, but I wanted to win. I wanted to grasp those tight buttocks with my hands, wanted to see her naked, pull off that white silk blouse, pull up her mid-length skirt and stick my cock in her wet, aristocratic pussy.

  'Oh, boys, you're such a larf,' Victoria said, chortling, after David had told us a racy tale involving Victoria's present boss and his last PA.

  'We like you too, Victoria,' David said, leaning over her, ten inches from her face.

  'Some of those men in that office are so ghastly, so - so fuddy-duddy. But you two really brighten up my day, although sometimes you're a little too rude for me.' Victoria giggled into her white wine, her clear blue eyes resting first on David and then on me.

  'You find us a bit coarse, not Hooray Henry enough, Victoria,' I said, teasing her a little.

  'No, a breath of fresh air - but you can get a bit too near the knuckle sometimes. Remember, I've led such a sheltered life.' She was mocking herself, joining in the fun at her own gentle expense.

  'Oh, I'm sure you country girls aren't so naïve,' David said.

  'Oh, David, yes we are,' she insisted, laughing.

  'Would you like another, Victoria?' I asked, pointing at her empty wine glass.

  She hesitated and then looked at her watch. 'My goodness, is that the time? I really must dash.'

  'Oh, what a shame! I was going to suggest we all go up town for a meal. I went to a very good French restaurant last week in Soho, Le Marseille. Do you have some special plans, Victoria?' It was David again. I knew he hadn't eaten in any French restaurant at all last week. The closest he had got to Gallic cuisine was picking up a local from Mile End where he lived and successfully enticing her back to his flat with the promise of a Chinese takeaway.

  'Well, I haven't got anything so special, but you know I have to work tomorrow.'

  'All expenses paid. On the company, Victoria. We'll have you home by eleven.' I added a nod in support of David's suggestion. This was going to cost; neither David nor I had an expense account.

  'Well, it might be a whiz, I suppose. My flatmate has gone out tonight so I don't have company, and I suppose it would mak
e a change, and it is Thursday and nobody seems to do any work on Fridays, anyway.'

  'That's the spirit, Victoria,' I said, lightly stroking her hand, close enough to smell her expensive French perfume.

  'But I have one condition.'

  'Yes?' David and I blurted, almost in unison.

  'I couldn't possibly go out in these clothes. This is office wear, not fit for French cuisine. Would you mind escorting me back to my flat and waiting for me while I change? My flat is just round the corner. Or if you prefer, you could wait for me here. I won't be more than twenty minutes.'

  'No, we wouldn't dream of that - would we, Jonathan?' David flashed a lascivious smile across at me.

  'We certainly wouldn't. We're firm believers in chivalry.'

  We walked back to Victoria's flat, both of us taking her by the arm. My spirit of competition grew more fierce, fuelled by the several glasses of wine I had consumed. Victoria chuckled away as we lightly bantered and mocked our drab office colleagues, inventing ludicrous gossip about them to amuse her. David and I were both trying to outdo the other.

  'I'm afraid the flat is a little poky, not exactly bijou,' Victoria said as we climbed the two flights of stairs and entered her apartment, more spacious and lavish than the cramped bedsits that we both rented.

  The flat was decorated with the tastes of the time: brightly coloured patterned carpets, Monet prints on the wall, primary Habitat colours, wicker chairs.

  Victoria invited us both to take off our jackets and tidily placed them on a coat stand in the corner of the room. Beside the wicker chairs and a couple of enormous bean bags there was a large sofa big enough to seat three people. David and I plumped down on each end. Victoria went to the kitchen and returned a moment later with a bottle of the finest Scotch malt whisky.

  'I suppose we could have a little drink before I get ready.'

  'There's plenty of time,' I said, taking the bottle and doing the honours.