Chapter 2
At six o'clock the alarm rang vengefully, Leo, half asleep, leapt from bed and stretched his square-shouldered body. He slept in the nude and out of the corner of one chocolate eye, his guilt-ridden wife eyed the morning erection temptingly dripping with a pearl of pre-cum.
Cagily, he read her thoughts; his eyes traveling down to the jutting pole of naked male flesh that should have been her nectar. Bitterly, she stared at his penis, but said nothing.
"Jesus, I overslept," he complained yawning, knowing that to sink his hardened penis into her neglected belly would have soothed the ruffles of frustration he'd seen flickering in her eyes of late." ... gotta hurry if I'm gonna make my eight miles."
"Leo?" She blinked at him, bracing her head on a crooked arm. "Are we ever going to make love again? I mean-"
A corner of his full mouth twitched lecherously. "Sure, you wanna give me a little head before I-"
Cora blushed as the mushroomed, purple head of his penis disappeared under cotton jockey shorts which he pulled up over his loins. She had never performed fellatio on him, although some of her female friends described it as being a sexual delicacy. Now she wondered how it would feel to bend over his hair-covered loins and draw his throbbing penis up between her soft lips and use her mouth like a vagina. I don't think my jaws would stretch that far, she thought speculatively, wondering, too, when she'd ever see his naked penis erect again.
"Bye, honey," he farewelled, bending over to tie his Addida shoe laces.
"Lot of chance you give me," she complained, dropping her head back onto the pillow in a splash of black on white.
The sexually distraught wife of Colonel Nelson had just stepped into a pair of shorts and pulled a tee shirt over her naked bosom, when the telephone made its morning intrusion into solitude. Cora eyed it as if it were a dangerous animal. Harrassing telephone calls over the Cuban refugee issue rang night and day. In a sour mood, she plucked the receiver from its cradle on the nightstand, ready to give an irate caller a proper sounding out! She was in no mood for harrassment!
"Hello!" she answered aggressively. Cheerfully, she recognized the soft, almost apologetic voice of Mayor Dillon's blonde haired wife. During the holocaust of upset following the announcement of the Cubans arrival and through the stormy days of debating over the Cubans" social welfare, ironically she and Joyce had become amicable friends. Part of their friendship, admittedly, commenced with political intentions. The citizens of Lawrence, Kansas must see that federal government and small town government worked hand in hand (though it was a blatant lie), and that animosities had dissipated.
"Oh, hello, Joyce ... great, enjoying the sun...."
Joyce, a ripe-bodied woman of thirty-eight who worked hard at maintaining once ravishing good looks, had found herself thrust into the public eye not by choice. She, like Colonel Nelson's wife, often commiserated on that turn of fate.
"It's about the Cuban refugees," began Joyce with a sigh. "I've been having a devilish time trying to find anybody who'll let any of those stup-" Here she balked, coughed nervously and amended: " ... those poor people into their homes."
Cora ignored the ethnic slur, with a sharp intake of breath and steeled herself for the predictable.
"I was wondering, I mean you being from Cuba and all, if the community would respond better if somebody from Cuba...." she said, tossing the responsibility for the unwanted 4,500 Cubans back into the damned Colonel Nelson's lap. That her husband's power had been challenged by a newcomer to the army base that caused nothing but problems in town-rapes, drunkeness, was a hard pill to swallow.
Deliberately, Cora let Joyce finish her own sentence...." H-how many teenagers would you like in your house?"
"I really have no need for a housekeeper ... Leo never eats at home...." Cora's sloe eyes flitted through the glass patio door. "Someone to sweep out the patio would be helpful ... the air's so dry here, the plants just don't grow the way they do in Atlanta...."
"Good! I knew you'd see my point, Cora," the raspy voice half-whispered, a voice which according to Lawrence grapevines belonged to an alcoholic.
Delicately setting the receiver on the yellow cradle, Cora's stomach knotted with resentment. Naturally she empathized with the refugees and naturally she wanted to help them mingle in American society ... but dammit, she snapped her fingers, why should she be made responsible for an entire town's duty?
The sun promised another scorching day and, wanting to catch an hour of its goldening light before its charring afternoon intensity, she slipped into her pink jersey bikini and preparing herself a cool Tom Collins with a sprig of mint, a habit acquired in Atlanta, she padded out to the patio and stretched languidly on the sun-warmed blue flowered chaise lounge.
Civic duties melted from her mind and when the dark, brooding eyes of a stranger glared at her through the sliding glass patio door, Cora leapt to her feet in a fright. In a moment, she recognized the tawny Latin features of the Cuban refugee who'd come to clean her patio.
She addressed him in his native tongue: "Hello, I'm Cora."
She blinked when he answered in English. "I not stupid like Americans think," he challenged, cautiously studying her Cuban features with moodiness that hinted at resentment.
Carlos was his name. Fifteen years of age, he claimed, though his eyes appeared far older, experienced, mature. Swirls of black waves covered his head, dribbling down over a tawny forehead with its liquidy eyes. A straight, almost aristocratic nose gave symmetry to his high cheek boned face and delicately chisteled jaw.
His thorough, visual examination put Cora ill at ease. Following the trail of his piercing eyes she noticed she hadn't slipped into a shirt to cover her bikini-stripped, oil-glistening near nudity. Insolently his liquidy eyes raked critically over her lissome bumps and curves. She shivered in the noonday sun.
Cora's lips parted, ready to berate him for entering the house without knocking, but fearing she might isolate the impoverished youth or that he might report her unwelcoming attitude to the Mayor, she invited him into the kitchen for a cold drink.
With dirty fingernails, he ungratefully accepted the can of coca cola and threw it down his throat. She noticed the gold Catholic medallion shimmering like a sun on his golden, naked chest; he wore his garish polyester shirt (no doubt a cast off from some Lawrence citizen) open three buttons down, hinting at a potent masculinity-like the kind that started riots in Florida! Over the rim of the cola can, she followed his intense gaze to the upthrust mounds of her breasts and, with a horrified gasp, she realized the air cooled kitchen air had puckered her puffy nipples into erotic little bumblebees. His blatant stare brought a flush of embarrassment to her face and shooting him a chastising look in desperation to gain the upper hand, she strutted toward the bedroom to slip on a shirt. To fully dress would have justified his rakish stare.
Clearing her throat, Cora stepped out into the patio, the sunshine playing like blue waves over her hair pulled back at the nape of her neck into a ponytail trailing down her rippling spine. The hem of her shirt graced the slender curves of her golden thighs. A red lacquered fingertip pointed to the dead leaves rustling about the corners of the patio against the fence. Shooting Carlos a cold, don't-try-that-again look, she said crisply: "There's a broom in the garage. I want you sweep up the dead leaves and put them in the trash can. Then you can water the plants and give them fertilizer."
As she spoke in a dogmatic voice, she let his curious look pass off as a result of poverty and poor manners. Fleetingly, she wondered how he had managed to land on American shores. Had he spent months on one of those god-awful refugee boats, 'suicide boats' as CBS news called them, witnessing the death of babies dehydrated? What right had she to critize him, came the curdling thought. I was fortunate to have been born into money and become an American citizen. What future has this unwanted soul?
Choking back hypocricy, she walked him to the garage where she pointed out the garbage can, the rake and broom. His eyes never left the golden cleavage, a hand stretch away. When he made no gesture toward carrying them back to the patio, she turned a puzzled gaze on him.
"The peoples warns us not to go touchin' Americans' stuff...."
Slowly, Cora nodded her head. "Of course." When she grabbed the rake, he quickly swept up the trash can and broom and followed her swaying buttocks toward the patio.
Cora concentrated on his low, exact voice. The adolenscent was rife with pride, a kind of self-assurance that develops in youth when the discovery of sexual beauty creeps into the consciousness and childish clumsiness gives in to methodical precaution. Idly, she wondered if he had a girlfriend and wondered, since she'd left Cuba at age sixteen, if what they say about Latin lovers is true.
Setting down the rake, she tilted her head slightly to take in his attractive swarthiness, letting her eyes trail from his golden chest with the chained medallion to the narrow waist and slender hips clad in faded denims. Had he worked in the sugar plantations, she wondered not wanting to demean his pride by asking what could be a condescending question.
He brushed past her, his forearm creating pressure on the mound of her right breast. She stiffened, unprepared for the closeness of a stranger. Agily, she sidestepped, and turned on her heel. "I'll be in the house if you need anything, Carlos."
Busying herself in the kitchen, Cora bent over, perusing the refrigerator for the makings of a tasty lunch. Gathering mayonnaise, yesterday's roast chicken, and onions in her arms, she righted herself and setting the armful on the counter, felt Carlos' eyes on her. Their eyes met for a briefing of unspoken understanding and to break the spell, she boldly confronted him.
"I'm making lunch, if you're hungry. You must be about ready for a break," she suggested, standing framed in the glass sliding door.
A faint smile brightened his moody swarthiness, adding youth to his premature manly looks. Dazzling white teeth flashing in the sunlight, he nodded, his eyes wandering over the oil-glistening swells of the aristocratic lusciousness of Colonel Nelson's wife's body. The smile on Cora's face faded into a cold glare of disapproval, before retreating to the kitchen.
As she diced the chicken and chopped up olives, scallions and fresh herbs, dumping a blob of creamy mayonnaise into the bowl, she stole sidelong glances at his Cuban profile as he swept up the leaves and dutifully deposited them in the trash can. She noted, too, his shirt draped over the picket fence and her eyes trailed progressively to the sweat sheened, nakedly golden chest decorated with the shimmering gold medallion. As he turned, her eyes lingered on the strong, square shouldered back beaded with sweat.
Blinding sunlight causing her chocolate eyes to squint into slits, she failed to notice that he'd turned to watch her eyeing him. The knife clattered to the floor and a tiny fist flew to her mouth. That insolent stare, hungry with curiosity pierced the sliding glass door to jar her consciousness out of its secure homespun niche.
Her rubicund cheeks flushed apple red when their eyes met for that fraction of a second. Quickly she retrieved the knife and kept her eyes peeled on the bowl of chicken and condiments, for fear of their eyes locking again. Her hands trembled. Now why was that? Silly wasn't it? With the back of her clammy hand, she wiped a strand of black hair from her forehead and hastily diced up the vegetables, the tip of her pink tongue determinedly protruding between her pearly teeth, as she worked on the cutting board. You'd think he was a grown man ... he's only a child, she reassured herself, stealing a peek at the golden, glistening back rippling muscularly.
She watched him carefully set the rake against the picket fence next to the broom, and picking up the full trash can with manly ease, he disappeared. Minutes later, she heard the front screen door bang shut.
She felt, rather than saw him approach her from behind. His warm breath steaming heavily over her shoulder, the animalish scent of perspiration flaring in her nostrils. Something honest in that smell, she thought, shocked at her tolerance. Normally Leo's run-inspired perspiration revolted her, especially at laundry time when dirty t-shirts hit the hot suds.
"I filled the trash can," he offered in a heavy Spanish accent. "We take break now?" He closed in on her, hot blasts of sweet breath whistling over her shoulder. "We eat after...?"
After what? the question seared in her shattered mind.
The answer came soon enough!
Then Cora's body shivered as if the temperature had dropped thirty-two degrees and she gasped aloud, fear tingling along her nerve ends. Hands, sweaty, hot hands cupped each breast, caressing, possessing ... She gulped drily, shock rippling along her spine, paralyzing her for a terrifying moment before she managed to rip his hands free.
"How dare you!" she spat, swinging around on her heel, eyes blazing accusingly into his mocking gaze. "Get your hands off me ... you...."
His lips went taut. "You filthy Cuban ... that's what you were going to say!" he challenged, stiffening.
"Nationality has nothing to do with it! I'm as Cuban as you are...!"
In answer, came a sardonic, bitter laugh. His mauling hands shot back up to her straining breasts and taunted the puffy nipples, despite her tiny fingers clawing and prying at his determined hands. "You are a hungry woman," he hissed between barred teeth sensuously: "In Cuba we plantation workers fuck in dirt!"
The passion in his voice, the deliberation of intent, steamed through the anger, leaving her to float on a cloud of unwanted sensuality ... too reminiscent of last night's torpor ... rushed through her warmed veins.
She struggled frantically against his steely grasp, but a weak-kneed fatigue she blamed on the sun seeped her energy. To insult his manly pride could be dangerous, not to mention any negative reports trailing back to the Mayor's office which could abort the carefully laid plan to help the Cubans assimilate into the community. One instance of recklessness could effect 45,499 people ... and it would be her fault!
Cagily, Carlos maneuvered around to face the dumbstruck Colonel's wife, backing her into the L-shaped corner next to the refrigerator. His hands rapidly lifted to her soft, warm breasts, squeezing, massaging, tormenting ... Cora's eyes squeezed shut, trying to shut out the sensations ricocheting around her neglected body. She felt his eyes studying her every twitch of the mouth, the fluttering of eyelids ... and he knew, damn him, he knew!
Carlos had seen that look on many a plantation whore's face, the look of white hot passion. Not love, this ... lust. Grinning, a slight ripple curling his full upper lip, he decided America had more to offer than unemployment lines! Pinning her to the counter, he tried to pull her toward him so that her chin was resting on his naked, hairless chest.
Cora resisted, pushing her tiny hands against his muscled chest and grunting feverishly. Didn't he understand she wasn't a peasant whore ... she was a married woman and responsible, in part, for the good will Lawrence Kansas bestowed upon these unfortunates? But the warmth of his palm insinuating itself under the loose flap of her shirt, probing under the tight elastic band of her bikini top, was downright cause for screaming.
She sucked in her breath. His hot sweaty hand was squeezing the bare flesh of her breast, tracing a tremulous path with strong fingers around the hardening nubs of her nipple. Her heart thudded as his fingers gave a tug and slipped the right cup over the quivering mound. Shivers chilled her as she felt the cool rush of air goosebump the tender surface. Cool flesh against hot skin ... Cora's eyelids fluttered like butterfly wings. A whine broke from her throat as he pinched the hard bud of her nipple torturously between his dirty fingernails.
With a salacious grunt, he mashed his fleshy lips to hers, flattening and spreading his lips open until his tongue jabbed deep into her throat.
"Mmmm ... aggghhhh!" she resisted, twisting and squirming to free herself.
But he held her fast, pinned her back against the countertop.
A frightened hollowness came alive in the pit of her stomach, and one tiny struggling hand fell from his muscle rippling chest to grope amongst the torn lettuce and sliced chives for the cold knife blade.
Carlos had survived the Cuban refugee boat for a reason. As Cora's slender fingers touched the safety of the knife blade when a steely hand clamped over her wrist. "Drop the knife!" he commanded and grabbing it, hurled it into the kitchen sink with a deafening smash of broken dishes!
"P-please, Carlos!" she begged, sensing the danger.
But his hands kept stroking her, moving down the length of her svelte torso, kneading the softness of her belly through the fabric of her shirt. Cora sputtered and fought, but his hands traveled down to the base of her belly, his fingers rotating against the hair-puffed mound of her vagina, teasing through her bathing suit at the narrow crevice between her legs. Cora's breath came in short gasps and the burning sensation was beginning to grow in maddening intensity. Her bikini bottoms felt soaked between her thighs and she squeezed them together to cut short the tingling sensation building.
Trapped against the countertop, his young fingers worked against her warm, pulsating cunt and, in a last gesture of resistance, she grasped his waist, but it failed to stop his manipulating hands that seemed to have a thousand fingers playing over her vulnerable flesh.
His strong fingers moved freely, pinching and teasing at her belly and the pouting mound between her legs until she thought she'd scream from the damning bolts of pleasure coursing through her veins. His touch was not gentle as Leo's. He pinched hard the rubbery tips of her breasts, charging her body with flashes of pain and pleasure. Again he mashed his flesh lips to hers, nibbling at her lips while his tongue flicked moistly in alid out of her mouth, aborting any chance of wiggling out of his clutch.
"I want to fuck you," he muttered in Cuban. He ground his bumpy pelvis against her thigh, sliding his hand around to the curve of her buttocks as if to yank her body closer to him.
"No ... no...." she moaned, bracing her hands to shove him away. Cora's fingers touched something hard and metallic and a whine of pure horror spat through her teeth as her fingers traced the outline of a knife tucked in his belt. No ... he wouldn't try to-Would he try to hurt her ... how ironic ... one Cuban knifing another!
He swept her up in his arms before she could mutter a reply, and shouldering his way through the kitchen's louvered doors, dumped her on the living room sofa like a sack of potatoes.
"Get naked!" he spat between barred teeth. "I wanna see that hot body you been flashing in front of me all day ... makin' me feel like a rapist!"
Whimpering, Cora cringed into the sofa and covered her face in her hands. She wept until the metallic whine of a zipper stung her ears and peeking through her fingers she watched her tormentor yank down his pants, pulling his underwear in one easy swoop. The jutting, golden stalk of his young penis sprang into view as if on springs. Her chocolate eyes shot toward the door and in one leap, she bolted from the sofa. But he caught her with a menacing look in his gleamy black eyes. "Don' do that again," he growled as he held her fragile arm with one muscular hand, his knuckles white with strain. "Take off your clothes!"
"N-No ... please!" But he grabbed his sher shirt by the lapel and ripped it off her shoulders, wadded it up in a ball and tossed it across the room to lay in a heap-like Cora's self respect at this moment.
Her bikini top joined the heap. He sighed in obscene appreciation as her tanned breasts burst free. Kneeling before her, he hooked his fingers in her bikini bottoms and peeled them over the smooth flare of her naked hips, down over her lovely calves to puddle at her slender ankles.
Cora shivered nakedly and crossed her arms modestly over her breasts. Those hellishly piercing eyes ... are eating me alive! God knew what this sex maddened Cuban would do if she didn't submit. Where could she run naked as the day she was born ... oh, that would make for juicy gossip, indeed!
Clenching shut her eyes and feeling them sting hotly, she bolted, her eyes springing open. The golden bodied boy had lowered to his knees and bending his head, was nibbling at the nude flesh of her belly. "Nooo!" she whined, flailing her head on the white sofa pillow. "Don't ... I...."
Instantly she arched her back, pin pricks sizzling along her nuditly as his fleshy lips moved lower toward her pubic area. Her mouth had gone dry and dry little hisses uttered a feeble resistance. Warm breath bathed her naked genitalia caressingly and his lips dropped to the black tendrils of pussy hair and, spreading the soft curls with his thumbs, he flicked his tongue snake-like into the moistness of her pussy.
The electrifying contact against the oil budy of her clitoris sent shock waves bolting through her. Sucking in her breath against the sweet agony, she closed her legs. It was female strength versus male machismo as he clamped his sweating palms on the soft insides of her thighs and pushed them apart like a roast Thanksgiving turkey. In terror and utter mortification, she struggled to close her legs, but every kick and twist brought a grunt of protest from Carlos and more bruises on the insides of her thighs.
But the physical pain was nothing compared to watching his moody black eyes leering seductively up at her through the fleshy valley of her golden cleavage. Paralyzed with guilt and fear, the Colonel's wife lay breathlessly still, helplessly watching his pink tongue lick and swathe her pussy.
The feel of his warm palms moving up along the smooth fleshed inside of her inner thighs made goosebumps raise along her spine. With his thumbs he deliciously spread open the moist lips of her cunt and blew warm air over the exposed nakedness of her cunt. For a lingering moment he stared hungrily at the rosehued flesh and a growl of appreciation, peasant-like and virile, bubbled in his throat.
"No ... ohhh God ... not that!" she moaned as his hot, moist lips clamped over the mound at the base of her smooth muscled belly. His swarthy face buried into the soft tendrils as he smothered wet, sucking kisses, while his tongue flicked teasingly at the sensitive opening. "Please ... don't," she begged in a small voice. "Leo has never-"
In shame and bittersweet agony, she moaned as he blew hot air against the tingling vaginal flesh. With a lewd grunt, he buried the ticklish length of his tongue into the warm throbbing hole. Her body spasmed, a groan escaping her chest as she ground her buttocks into the sofa, trying to pry loose his devouring mouth from her vulnerable genitals. Stars sprinkled before Cora Nelson's eyes, her eyelids fluttered and in a deep, dark corner of her mind, she mentally transformed the seductively leering Cuban features into the blonde haired Nordic good looks of Colonel Leo Nelson.