Chapter 1

Ben and Angela Brinkman, unhappily married couple, scrunched down in their seats on the Boeing 707 flying them to Mexico City with the airline, Aeronaves de Mexico, all bullfight-bright with sexy Mexican stewardesses and all the wild colors of that sun-drenched land splashing in their faces from the decor and the ambience and the syllables of the stewardess asking them, "Would the Senor and Senora like another cocktail before dinner?"

They would.

"Two tequila margaritas," Ben said, his boyish tenor complete with a quaver of uncertainty, almost betraying a hint of fear, a feeling of fright. "Is that okay with you, Angela?"

Angela gave him the barest of glances, no more than a tenth of a second, and said, her liquid soprano languid with indifference, "Yes, dear, that will be fine."

The stewardess smiled, her white teeth gleaming as if simonized. She was a tall, well-busted Mexican girl whose Spanish birthright showed in her high cheekbones and finely sculptured features, her olive-dark skin and glittering brown eyes, her well-manicured hands with their slender pianist-practiced fingers, her luxurious black hair as discreetly tucked into her stewardess cap as her magnificent body was subtly concealed beneath the trim and tapered folds of her uniform.

As she walked down the aisle to satisfy the Brinkmans' liquid requests, Ben watched her buttocks jiggle, almost in tune to unheard mariachi music, shifting from side to side like the waves on a hurricane-menaced sea. He told himself, That's very nice, she's just a little too friendly, it seems to me. I don't know, maybe all Mexicans are that way, so the tour brochures tell me ... maybe she's just being natural ... but it seems more like a personal than professional interest that she has in me ... she's been like this all through the flight ... I don't know, maybe I'm just imagining things.

He turned to look at his wife, who had resumed the position she had assumed since takeoff an hour or so ago. A straight-ahead staring at the seat in front of her position, a mood of almost complete indifference to her husband, a near-catatonic state of trance-like unconcern. There was only Ben to observe this: His wife sat on his right, he occupied the aisle seat, and the window seat was empty.

He kept looking at her, and thinking, Wow, she is really such a beautiful girl. I hope this Mexican vacation works out. I just can't take a divorce. I don't want to lose her. Why, we've only been married for two years ... it's just got to work out for us, that's all.

Angela Brinkman was five-four, a blue-eyed blonde who carried her 115 pounds with all the pulchritude necessary to garner wolf whistles wherever she would go. Her breasts, as prominent and projecting as a pair of Buick bumper guards, were 34B, her waist a trim 21 (add one to that number and you had her age), and her juicy cantaloupe-shaped buttocks bounced in at 35. Skin the color of cold cream, Doris Day cute-type features that artfully concealed the clever and calculating mind behind the pretty face, eyes the color of the Caribbean Sea, Beatle bangs over her forehead while the rest of her beige-gold hair fell loosely halfway down her shoulders ... those were but a few of the reasons that Ben loved her dearly (except for his job, which he now realized he loved just a little bit more than his wife).

He thought, She looks so sexy in that silver-black pantsuit ... the way it wrinkles right between her legs ... no one would ever guess that we haven't made it together for months.

He instinctively moved his hand to her lap; it slipped between her legs. She was not addicted to either bra or panties, and he could feel the thickness of her beautiful blonde bush, the fleshy folds of her outer lips-he could almost imagine his cock slipping into that tight little vagina of hers, as it was once allowed to do so often that he was then almost convinced that she was a sex-starved nymphomaniac.

But that was then, and now was now. For she gave him no response, just sat and stared, moving not a muscle, not changing her blank expression one iota.

He withdrew his hand. He thought, I hope this Mexican trip works out. Mr. Waywright seemed so sure that it would. I sure hope he's right.

Richard Waywright was the Accounting Manager at the multi-million dollar corporation where Ben Brinkman worked as an accountant. Located on New York's Fifth Avenue, in the upper 50s, the company had a policy that varied little from most other corporations in the country-bluntly stated, to get ahead you've got to produce, to produce you've got to put in plenty of hours, to put in plenty of hours means you might have to give everything else second shift and devote prime time to the corporation.

Ben Brinkman knew this, not so much from what he observed but more from what he was told. Waywright made sure that Ben was informed of what was expected from him in Waywright's department. Waywright had made sure of that ever since he saw Angela Brinkman at an office party over a year ago, and decided that if any girl was the girl for him, she was, and he was going to get her for himself someday.

But Richard Waywright, forty-ish bachelor, suave and sophisticated, was not about to start an affair with the wife of a company employee. Promotions worked both ways; he could really get his ass in trouble playing around with an employee's wife, for the corporation frowned on such things as that. No, he thought, better to break up the Brinkmans first, then come on as the older man that Ben Brinkman is not ... the experienced man who knows how to handle a younger woman ... especially a younger woman who needs strong, assured handling and occasional rough treatment that she is not getting from her present spouse.

Waywright had analyzed Angela correctly. He understood the reasons for her occasional flashes of temper, her sometimes bitchy moods, her comments to Ben that often began with "Dear, I want...." He knew his Freud and Adler and Jung and Ellis and the sado-masochism duality of the female-her type of female especially-and the concept of the flagellation complex. Yes, he knew that Angela needed some tough treatment, both mentally and physically, to straighten out her psyche so that she would be the perfect companion for him. And she would make a good corporation wife too, he thought ... When I finish with her, she'll be practically saluting me ... she'll do exactly what I tell her, come on as a sophisticated company wife in the presence of the executives ... maybe I'll even have her work out on the president or the chairman, to make sure I've got something to hold over their heads ... yes, I believe Angela is just the girl for me ... as soon as she legally sheds her husband....

And he congratulated himself on the expedient of suggesting Mexico as the country for the Brinkmans to vacation in ... assuaging Ben's fears by mentioning that Ben had really been working too hard and putting in too many hours for his health ... telling Ben that he needed a vacation for himself and his wife (Ben had already talked over his problems several times with his boss, so Waywright knew the exact situation of their marriage) ... pointing out that Mexico was such a romantic, charming land.

"Yes, Ben," he said in that confident baritone, with Johnny Carson timing, "Mexico is such a romantic place to take your wife. I've been there many times myself. I can recommend several hotels, various tours, many points of interest ... no, don't thank me, it's my pleasure to help out one of our most trusted employees. Yes, I think it's the best solution to your problem, and that when the two of you return to New York, everything should be nicely taken care of. Yes, of course ... good-bye, Ben ... good luck, Ben ... my best of wishes for a happy marriage...."

Yes ... romantic. And also ... a country of machismo.

That was especially why Waywright had recommended a Mexican vacation. Once Mrs. Brinkman had been exposed to the brutal power of machismo, she would be easy handling for him upon her return. He thought, Dr. Waywright prescribes a strong dose of machismo brutality and Acapulco romance ... that will bring Angela into my bed better than anything else.

Machismo, by definition, is the cult of excessive masculinity that is found, to some if not all extent, in all the Spanish and Spanish-derived cultures, and Mexico is one country that is a prime practitioner of this philosophy. It is part of the same extremism that makes many Spanish men regard a woman as either a virgin or a whore, with no gradations of any kind in between those two positions. It is implemented, rather than described, by such incidents as: a husband shooting his wife because she "looked at another man"; a husband killing another man because he spoke to his girl "in a compromising manner"; a male lover physically assaulting his female partner with almost deSadian methods just to show her "who is in charge"; a man who shouts at the top of his voice, dresses in the loudest clothes possible, tells his woman off in public, and challenges any male within a mile to a fight with whatever weapons he chooses. Those are prime examples of machismo in action.

As, smiled Waywright, the Brinkmans will soon discover for themselves what lies below the sunny surface romanticism of Mexico ... especially lovable little Angela.

"Here are your cocktails, Senor and Senora Brinkman."

The stewardess had returned with their margaritas on a tray. Angela scarcely glanced up, while Ben smiled his gratitude and said, "Gracias," as the stewardess handed one cocktail to Angela-Angela had not even bothered to pick the drink from the tray, so what else could the stewardess do?-and Ben reached for his drink, the tray dipping closer and closer.

Splash!

The drink spilled over Ben, right onto his pants, the heady mixture of Triple Sec and tequila and lemon and salt-rimmed glass soaking into his crotch, wetting both his shorts and his penis, which began to erect. Ben's penis often became erect during embarrassing situations, and this was a prime example of one of those situations.

The stewardess smiled for just a brief second; then, her expression changed into a flush of embarrassment, as she said, apologetically, "Senor, I am so sorry! Please forgive me!" Then, almost as an afterthought, she added, "If Senor Brinkman will please come with me to the galley, I will apply some spot remover myself. If that does not work, we will be happy to reimburse you for the cost of cleaning your clothes. Again, I am sorry. I am ashamed for being so clumsy. I cannot apologize enough to the Senor and Senora Brinkman for my foolish action."

The Senora Brinkman gave a brief shrug, and said, in a tone of studied indifference, "Yes, dear, I think you should do what the stewardess suggests. Though I didn't have any trouble picking up my drink...." Then, she sipped her cocktail, and again turned her attention to the seat in front of her.

The stewardess again smiled, her white teeth gleaming as brilliantly as lightning in a dark sky. Her eyes turned warm rays toward Ben, as she scrutinized him again, this time more closely, and more calculatingly, than when she had first spotted him in his seat, at the beginning of the trip, and he had appeared to be the innocent American tourist who was in need of some expert Mexicana tutelage.

She guessed him to be in his mid-20s-he was 26-and a nice, halfway-bumbling sort of fellow who did seem just a bit conservative (what accountant isn't?), especially wearing that dark and somber suit, which almost offended her sense of Mexican colors. His hair was brown, a sort of autumn and nut-brown, slightly thinning but worn in an Ivy League cut, shaped close to the skull and combed straight to the side from his left-hand part. She took him for about five-nine and no more than 150, but was pleased to notice his broad, sloping shoulders that appeared muscular enough to almost break through his tight-fitting suit and button-down shirt. His eyes were almost as brown as hers, though his were set deeper into a high sloping forehead below thin trimmed eyebrows. His nose, she thought, was so rounded that it looked as if it belonged on a circus clown; so, too, were his ears. But she liked the pencil mustache that he wore above his thin, twitching lips; it reminded her of Marlon Brando in a movie role, the title of which she had forgotten. In sum, she liked his looks, thought that he could be sexually responsive if sufficiently prodded, and had a particularly adventurous plan that she wished to try out on him (she knew her men, and she had taken plenty of chances with strange men before; the odds, she thought, were sufficiently in her favor for the fun she had in mind).

"Oh, you're still a little wet!" she said, before Ben could say anything. "Let me wipe you off the best I can...."

She pulled out a clean white handkerchief, and proceeded to pat his crotch in quick, deft strokes ... quick and deft enough to feel his growing erection between her kneading fingers. Her expression did not change as she tweaked his cock a couple of times; she was pleased to notice that he almost jumped out of his seat the first time, but that the second time she touched him he only fidgeted slightly ... and the third time his face framed itself into an expression that seemed to say, "I don't know what this is all about, but I'm willing to find out."

"Thank you, Senorita," he said, the words tumbling out in a sigh, almost of relief. "Yes, let's see what we can do about drying me off. Back at the galley, you say?"

So she had said, and so she led him there. One of the four stewardesses was still in the front section of the plane; the other two were dawdling in the galley, engaging in trivialities when the two approached. They immediately exchanged knowing glances, as if to say, "Well, our star seducer is at it again. I wonder how she will handle this one?"

The stewardess spoke to the other two in Spanish, and they produced a bottle of spot remover. She gave it to Ben, pointed at a vacant lavatory, and said, "Perhaps Senor Brinkman would like to freshen up?"

"Huh ... oh, yes, of course," Ben said, opening the door and entering the lavatory.

What happened next was one of the most surprising incidents that had ever occurred in his well-ordered, almost depressingly humdrum, life of facts and figures.

Fact: before he could close the door, she insinuated her way inside, and quickly locked the door.

Figure: she pressed her voluptuous body against his, causing him to drop the bottle of spot remover into the sink, while her passionate lips pressed against his with all the force of sliding doors closing on each other, her well-trained tongue snaking into his amazed mouth and tangling tongues with him as her teeth slowly sketched some bite-size patterns upon his upper lip.

He tried to back away, but she pushed him up against the wall, flattening his back like a bookmark, as her mouth pressed hard against his like a lovely moving weight and her deft fingers unzipped his fly....

And there it was, now exposed to the pressurized air in the lavatory ... his long lean cock, erect as a steel rod, its tip red from the pressure it had been getting, its foreskin almost all peeled back like a banana.

Abruptly, she stopped kissing him, and he began to catch his breath. Long enough to think, Why this girl's a nymphomaniac, I've never had a girl attack me like this before ... what does she want from me ... oh, whatever it is, it feels so good ... it's been so long since I've had some good loving ... 50 long....

Long enough to say, in slightly startled tones, "Excuse me, but just what is it you want from me, Senorita?"

A rhetorical question, that ... if not a superfluous one as well.

The stewardess was paying no attention to his mouth now. Rather, she was paying plenty of attention to her mouth and his cock, which were now interconnected, the latter halfway inside the former. She was simultaneously licking and sucking his very extended penis, which she estimated was close to seven, if not eight, inches; she thought, Another example of proof for my theory, the leaner the man, the meaner his instrument ... oh, I can feel this monstrously long piece of equipment sliding so sweetly into my throat ... a few drops of his seed are already seeping out ... oh, Virgen de la Macarena, what a delicious sword this is, carving its way into my throat ... and into my heart....

Suddenly, Ben began to come alive, to realize exactly what he was participating in. Her mouth on his cock was ever so professional, ever so personal ... and it had been such a long, long time....

He grabbed at her head, knocking her stewardess's cap onto the floor. Her hair was bound up into a bun, a thick black mountain of hair; so, hairpin by hairpin, he pulled them loose from that thick black cap of hair until her ebony mane was swinging loose over her shoulders and almost all the way to her waist. He ran his hands through her free-swinging hair now, exulting in the softness and sheen of her tresses, tenderly touching her ears and squeezing the back of her neck....

But she suddenly broke loose, leaving his cock jutting forward like a drawn gun. She stood up now, and unzipped her skirt, stepping out of it as swiftly as a bird flies. She tried to drop her panties as well, but she seemed to encounter difficulties; she was so excited, so wet inside that her vaginal juices were leaking out in sufficient volume that it caused her panties to stick to her skin.

Irritated, if not enraged, she raked the offending white fabric with her fingernails, and tore the panties right from her flesh. Some patches of blotched skin and a few drops of blood were left behind, but no matter, she thought, Now I am free and ready for action!

Her vagina was throbbing so hard that the outer lips, almost the size of a baby's hands, appeared to be moving of their own accord, as if she had a mouth between her legs that was carrying on a conversation. A mouth almost buried beneath a thick, bristly beard not unlike Fidel Castro's, but without his omnipresent cigar, a mouth that had a different kind of cylindrical object in mind to place inside itself.

Ben reached for his pants, but she placed a 'restraining hand on his, and said, "No, please do not bother to undress. I want you now, clothes and all." As she spoke, she moved her pretty pussy into position directly opposite his still-stiff prick, and slowly began to manipulate his cock inside her vagina, inch by inch.

"Before we begin, let's introduce ourselves," he said, in such a matter-of-fact tone that he almost laughed himself when he heard his own voice speaking. "You know my name, I believe, but I don't know yours. What is your name, Senorita ... for the record?"

She paused long enough in her exertions to reply, "Maria. Not the Maria from West Side Story, but Maria from South of the Border." Then she kissed him again, at the same time scratching him behind the ears with those blood-drawing fingernails and manipulating her pelvis so that a few more inches of his cock slid into her vagina.

Now, he was becoming more interesting in making love with this energetic and energizing girl. He placed his hands around her waist, pulling her hard into him, and another few inches of himself slammed inside her until she could feel him almost coming out of her derriere and he could feel the hot pulsating warmth of her vaginal walls slowly enveloping him, a passionate vice pressed hard around his prick until he could feel his juices start to flow ... his cock was like an orange caught in the squeezer ... he was beginning to pump as she continued to hum.

His cock was enveloped in come juice, as her first orgasm started. She arched her back, her face twisted into a torturous expression that combined the pleasure and pain she was seeking into one life-affirming muscular gesture ... her vagina pounded like a hammer against his cock, crying for his release ... her second orgasm started, and she slammed her body hard into his, so hard he could feel the cold steel of the wall pressing against his backbone....

He came ... between her vagina and the lavatory wall, he came ... shooting out great numberless bursts of sperm ... his cock twitching like a dying animal, his hands clutching at her gyrating back ... and the months of frustration and malaise seemed to melt, almost as his cock softened, in her powerful pulsating vagina ... her sweet, swinging vagina that wanted him so badly and sucked his manhood until there was no more, no more drops of juice to strain, no more sperm to squeeze out ... just sweet, blessed relief.

She kissed him again, he returning her passion mouth for mouth, tongue for tongue. Then, she whispered something in his ear that made him feel twenty feet tall ... made him feel like a man again, after those long months of deadly doubt.

She said, "Senor Brinkman ... I am so pleased with you ... because you are ... a very fine fuck...."