Latin Submission Read online

  Just as I was about to leave I saw the chambermaid again, bounding nimbly down the stairs to the reception desk. She caught my eye and smiled.

  'Hasta luego, señor.'

  'Hasta pronto,' I responded.

  What a city: a city crammed full of desirable women. I followed a delectable thirty-something, dressed in a tight and officious-looking business suit, ogling her curvaceous rump as it wiggled its way to the SUBTE, Buenos Aires' underground, but I lost her somewhere on the crowded platform.

  I was certainly an early bird this morning. I was plainly in the middle of the morning rush hour as commuters thronged the platform, including another splendid array of female beauties in their formal short skirts, breasts bulging from diaphanous white blouses, bestockinged legs tottering on four-inch heels, make-up expertly applied to highlight their exquisite facial beauty.

  So crowded was the platform that I let the first and then the second train pass, before impatience got the better of me and I crammed myself into the nearest carriage with a Black Hole of Calcutta density.

  As the train sped into the city centre more and more people clambered onto it. I was forced into a corner by the door where, unfortunately, a miserable business-suited gent insisted on trying to read his paper, obscuring my view of the heaving, sweating mass of desirous women in the process.

  I alighted from the train at Catedral on the Avenida de Mayo and entered the first café I could find.

  I was pleased to be sitting down after the SUBTE crush. A big-breasted waitress wearing a short black skirt came to take my order and, as she provocatively leant over the table to wipe it clean, her breasts undulated enticingly before my ardent eyes.

  What was this city? Latin America was fabled for magical realism, but this was sexual magical realism. The morning was not an hour old to me and I had already been presented with the glorious rump of a chambermaid, dallied with two English girls - one of whom had clearly offered me the potential of sexual encounter - and I was now being given a delicious view of bouncing breasts. And as I reluctantly tore my stare away and turned to the city streets there was more, as slick city women strode past my window, as pram-pushing mothers ambled, as teenage girls and students dressed casually in jeans and T-shirts flitted by.

  The signs were good. The signs were very good.

  Everything seemed possible; everything that would normally appear fantastic, seemed potentially plausible.

  After my coffee and a couple of the sweet croissants porteños call media lunas, I strolled down the pedestrianised street of Florida, ogling every woman in sight, following rumps and legs and breasts, undressing women in my mind's eye. I sat in cafés drinking more coffee than was good for me and lusted after the clientele and the waitresses in their skimpy skirts and their high heels, alluringly pushing out their already pert rumps.

  An hour later I met Andrea in the Tortoni again, but she couldn't stay long. She was covering for another teacher, as a favour, and she only had an hour.

  She looked as beautiful as the first time I saw her. This time she was dressed in a simple white cotton dress, her hair held up in a chignon. The craving I had for her was a hundred times worse when I was actually in her presence.

  After we ordered, Andrea fixed me with her dazzling eyes and reached over to place her hand in mine. 'Remember, Jonathan, I promised you. I told you, I can tell a man or a woman who likes those special things.' Her voice was light, jocular.

  'It's a little difficult to prove, Andrea, if you only have an hour.'

  'Yes, today it is, but not impossible. I can show you. You can prove it for yourself.' I looked at her, a little perplexed. 'Come with me.'

  We walked around the streets, the sun beating down, making the city's inhabitants look bothered and a little fractious. Andrea's eyes scoured the streets as diligently as my own had done an hour before.

  'It's difficult in the street; let's try here,' she said motioning me into a bookshop. We entered El Ateneo, the most famous bookshop in Buenos Aires. It was a serious bookshop, silent and imposing, with an atmosphere something between a library and a church - a little in that respect like the Tortoni where Andrea had first taken me, and the last possible place I would have thought to go to pick up women.

  Andrea left me for a moment and I began to flick inattentively through the pages of a slim Spanish novel. She returned a couple of minutes later and, pulling me by the arm, led me to the back of the shop.

  'Look there, Jonathan. I am sure. I watch her. I see how she reads. I see how she moves. I am never wrong. Prove me right, Jonathan, prove me right.' She smiled at me, then kissed me gently on the cheek and disappeared out of the door.

  I would have noticed the woman Andrea had pointed to anywhere, she was so beautiful. She wore a decorative white sleeveless top that showed off her lightly tanned arms and shoulders, and tight bottle-green slacks. Her cheekbones were high, her mouth abundant, and her lips rosy. A splay of freckles mottled either side of her nose. Her eyes were hazel, and her dark copper-red hair, tied in a clumsy bun, showed off the slender nape of her neck. She was just my type. An air of sophistication and experience hung around her. I observed her from above the novel I had absent-mindedly plucked from a table and watched as her eyes scanned along the bookshelves.

  Andrea had left me with a challenge and, as I looked at the beautiful woman, I wondered how I was going to get anywhere close to meeting it, to proving anything. But sometimes - goodness knows why; I suppose it's what we call luck - things happen for us. Events make our desires possible, an opportunity momentarily presents itself and we would be crazy not to take it. The woman selected two Borges novels in bilingual editions and went up to a young teenage shop assistant who - like me, I had noticed - had been perusing the beautiful woman who now approached him.

  'Excuse me. Do you speak English?' she asked.

  Oh, even better. She was neither a native speaker of Spanish or English. Certainly European; I suspected French.

  'Yes,' the shop assistant lied.

  'Which book would you recommend?'

  The shop assistant hadn't understood. 'Borges is fantastico. You take.'

  She tried again. 'No, I want to know which is the best.'

  Yes, that was definitely a French accent.

  He looked nonplussed. Placing his hand on one of the books, he tried to gently tug it from her grasp.

  I felt like some fantastic role was being offered to me. This was truly unbelievable. I walked up to the shop assistant's desk and offered my services to the Frenchwoman. As I was asking if I could help, she stared at me straight in the eye, wantonly almost, her lips creasing into a faint ironic smile.

  'I think I have, er, some problem here. Have you read Borges?'

  I hadn't. 'Yes, of course.'

  'Which book would you recommend? You see, I want to read a little about Argentina, the soul of the place. I would like to know where to start.'

  I glimpsed her shoulder. I could see the merest edge of her peach bra-strap peeking from the broader white of her blouse.

  'Well, Borges—' I was making it up as I went along. I had discarded the convoluted prose of Borges in English, let alone in Spanish '—is a fascinating read, but I would say his territory is less the city where he lived than the more temporal location of literary fashion.'

  Where was all this coming from? I was probably plagiarising some dour literary account I had pilfered and bowdlerised for an encyclopaedia entry. 'Really, if I were you, if it is Argentina you want to get to know, I would try Sabato. Start with El Tunnel.' That was the only book I had read by the man. 'Sabato is quintessentially Argentinean, even porteño. He deals with all the essential Argentinean themes: love, betrayal, passion, deceit, cleverness and an obsessiveness that can border on perversion.' I was now plagiarising what Andrea had told me about the tango, the first day I arrived.

  She smiled when I concluded my sp
iel. I was pleased with my little speech. I had sounded - however pretentious - quite erudite.

  'Sabato. I have not heard of him.'

  What a language French is! What an accent she had, drawing out her sentence to twice the length that it would have taken an English person to say it.

  I searched along the shelf and plucked El Tunnel from it, and then handed it to her.

  She studied the cover of the slim text.

  'It's a bilingual edition,' I said.

  'Oh, fantastique,' she enthused, as she read the blurb in English. 'Thank you very much...'

  'Jonathan, Jonathan Rose.'

  'Jonathan,' she repeated my name pensively, before turning to the shop assistant who was still gazing at the sexy Frenchwoman. 'I'll take it, please.'

  'And Borges?'

  'No, no - just Sabato.' She looked into my eyes again and smiled, while the shop assistant took Sabato to the cash till.

  'And your name?' I boldly asked.

  'Beatrice.'

  Beatrice, wonderful! Beatrice taking me out of the inferno of my sexual hunger to the giddy heights of sexual bliss, or so at least I hoped.

  The shop assistant returned with her change and we left the shop together.

  Over an aperitivo, I got to know a little more about Beatrice. She was here with her husband, who had just landed a job in the newly privatised rail company. He was - a necessarily unnecessary piece of information to add - away for a couple of days on business in one of the northern provinces. Beatrice was an academic by trade, but had given up her post to come to Argentina with her husband.

  She talked brightly and asked me a lot of questions about myself. I gave her basic scant details, although I embroidered my journalistic experience, talking vaguely about my column in a national paper in England. I said I was on sabbatical here visiting friends, trying to write something.

  Beatrice was of that generation who were still impressed by bookish men, by writers. I could see I was scoring points with her. We talked about books I hadn't read. I pontificated on literary theories I barely understood, on ideas I had only half-learnt, regurgitating what I could dredge up from memory from my days as the literary sub-editor of a dismal exam crammer I worked on several years ago.

  I ordered a bottle of wine and, over lunch, we chatted some more. I seemed to be on automatic, because my mind was not engaged on the words that emanated from my mouth. I was thinking of Beatrice's firm breasts, of her fabulously small but rotund bottom, of placing my aching cock between those rosy lips and watching her fellate me.

  'You must read Cortazar, a fascinating writer,' I babbled, all the time thinking of getting my tongue between the lips of her quim...

  'Really?'

  'Oh, yes. He lived in Paris, you know, but he is also very much an Argentinean writer, universal in theme, but very underestimated...'

  ...and then letting her sink her quim onto my cock and ride me while I pinched her firm breasts...

  Beatrice listened to me intently as I spoke about Cortazar, occasionally sipping on her wine, her chin resting on her interlocked fingers. I focused on the apex of the triangle her arms made, her elbows resting on the table; that glorious mouth showing her beautiful small teeth, the tiniest of tantalising gaps between the front two that she would occasionally press her tongue against.

  As we were finishing our steaks, Beatrice again took up the theme of writing.

  'So, Jonathan, what exactly do you want to write?'

  'A novel, perhaps.'

  'Oh, really?' Beatrice was fascinated, turned on by the rubbish that spewed from my mouth. 'And what do you want to write about?' Still that fantastic French accent, words elongating in her mouth as my prick lengthened under the table.

  'Something beautiful.' I audaciously placed my hand on hers, brushing her knuckles lightly with my fingertips.

  'Ah, oui.'

  'But it's hard.'

  'Why is it so hard to write about the beauty?' She took an encouragingly long gulp of her wine. I refilled her glass.

  'Because it's hard to think of anything as beautiful on paper as this afternoon has been in reality. Good food, wonderful wine, and a beautiful woman to share it with.' I was self-ironising, jokey, but there was a hefty element of truth in what I said. What could be more beautiful than the things I had mentioned, with all that sexual promise hanging in the air?

  'You're a smooth talker, Jonathan,' Beatrice said, laughing.

  'No, I mean it.' I squeezed her hand.

  'And how would you like this wonderful afternoon to end?' she asked, tantalisingly.

  'With you as my postre.'

  She laughed.

  We took a taxi back to my hotel. We barely spoke, but we entwined fingers, my imagination working overtime at the delights that seemed to be in store for me, but still not wanting to tempt fate by taking too much for granted. Postre! Beatrice was to be my dessert. And what if Andrea was right? What could be more delicious than spanking her firm buttocks with my hand?

  I wanted the taxi to go faster. The anticipation was agonising. I looked at the creases her tight pants made around her quim as she sat, her leg teasingly touching mine. I longed for my bedroom and the closed door, longed to bury my mouth in her juicy sex.

  At last we were here. I tipped the driver generously, not wanting to wait for change. I took her by the hand and together we climbed the stairs, passing the chambermaid on the way. She looked Beatrice up and down and then half-smiled at me. And then we were there in my room.

  Now I could take my time. The urgency was over. I wanted to savour everything, and now the anticipation was bearable because she was in my room.

  As soon as I closed the door Beatrice pressed her body against me, her mouth firm on mine, her tongue seeking, probing my lips, my eager mouth awaiting hers.

  I pulled her further up towards me, buried my tongue deep inside her parted lips, and grasped her derrière in my greedy hands. She kissed me avidly, snaking her tongue around my mouth, then dragging it slowly along my teeth.

  I pulled away from her. I did not want a quickie. I did not want this moment to be over so soon and then for Beatrice to disappear into the anonymous streets of Buenos Aires.

  'A glass of wine?'

  'Oh, yes.' She seemed to understand my hesitation, to share my feeling that an afternoon of carnal pleasure stretching before us should not be rushed.

  I went into the tiny kitchenette, retrieved an already open bottle of red wine and two glasses and sat down beside her on the sofa. I filled a glass and passed it to her. Silently she took a sip, and sat quietly as I stroked her tanned shoulder.

  Slowly, gently at first, I pulled down the halter-straps of her white blouse, exposing the peach bra. She smiled at me, her hand reaching up to stroke the side of my face, as I freed her firm breasts from the lacy cups and caressed them. I took her glass and placed it with mine on the side table, and then dipped my head and nibbled her already erect nipples.

  How fantastic it was! I barely knew this glorious example of womanhood. A light lunch, a little literary banter, and there I was sucking on the pertest of French breasts, Beatrice gasping above me as only French women can gasp.

  I retrieved my glass of wine and dribbled a little onto her left nipple and watched the rivulets of ruddy liquid trickle down and disappear from sight beneath the underswell of her mouthwatering breast. She shivered and giggled a little nervously.

  I sucked the nipple into my mouth and chewed it lightly, tasting the rich tincture coating her soft and creamy flesh. She stroked my head languidly as I suckled like a baby. I caressed her free breast, rolled the nipple between thumb and forefinger, and was rewarded as she gently shivered again.

  'Ah, oui... oui,' she moaned as she cupped and lifted her breast for me to feed all the more easily from it. I could feel the passion pounding in her chest. My cock strained uncomf
ortably inside my trousers for release.

  So far I had been gentle, but as she fed more of her pliable flesh into my mouth I couldn't resist a firm nip on the swollen pink teat. She squealed from the shock and inhaled sharply. She arched her back and squashed her flesh harder against my face.

  How fantastic! Andrea had been right. She could only be David's wife; both of them sharing an uncanny knack of being able to recognise those amenable to their own particular sexual practices and pleasures.

  I rolled my tongue over the erect nipple, soothing the stinging sensation I had caused by my bite, before clamping it firmly between my teeth once again. This time I held it captive for much longer, long enough for me to squint up and relish the confusion of bliss and discomfort on her lovely face.

  I squeezed a hand between her thighs and felt the outline of her humid quim through the flimsy green material. She softly moaned her encouragement. I could wait no longer. I wanted to see how far she would go - how far I could take her. Still fully clothed, I lifted her up and got her to kneel on the sofa so her bottom faced me. I slipped my hands around her trim waist and blindly unbuckled her suede belt, unfastened her trousers, and then tugged them down to expose a pair of peach-coloured panties that protectively hugged the firm cheeks of her bottom.

  I pulled the delicate underwear aside and licked her white buttocks with long broad sweeping strokes, my tongue flattening on the pliable curves of her rump. Then, crouching lower, I pushed my tongue between her wet labia.

  She murmured and ground her hips as my tongue flicked in and out of her tight quim. Her murmurs grew louder as I found and stimulated her clitoris. I could feel her body tensing; an orgasm approaching. This was too quick. I wanted her aroused and I wanted her to stay aroused for as long as possible. I pulled away, leaving her panting heavily on the sofa. The belt was on the floor where it had been discarded. She looked over her shoulder dreamily as I picked it up.