Chapter 4
Senor Ricardo Sanchez sat in his air-conditioned office on the Paseo de la Reforma, a few blocks from Chapultepec Park, dressed in the conservative dark suit of a Mexican businessman and musing about his operations that were working very successfully and bringing much money into the family coffers for the betterment of all the Sanchezes-and especially Senor Ricardo.
The Sanchez family was one of Mexico's older families, having been descended-so the family tree proclaimed-directly from Cortez, the conqueror of Mexico, himself, as a son of Hernando Cortez was believed to have married a daughter of Armando Sanchez, and thus started one of Mexico's most illustrious families.
Illustrious enough-and intelligent enough-to usually find itself on the right side of whatever government was running Mexico at the moment. A family cooperative enough to count El Presidente as a friend to be called upon, as he did them, when needed-and calculated enough to make sure that they were paid off, and plenty, for whatever services were rendered.
Now, Ricardo was running the family business, which earned in the millions of pesos annually from a variety of sources. Investments in the Mexican petroleum and electrical monopolies were some of the sources of the Sanchez family income, as were imports. Imports was a euphemism for smuggling, and the smuggling that was done consisted of about 99 percent marijuana shipments to America, where the wild weed of Mexico would earn for the Sanchez family a considerable sum and bring much happiness to its users-unless they were busted, which was, of course, no concern of the Sanchez family.
Ricardo's office was tastefully furnished in Mexican modern, with the bright abstracts of several leading Mexican muralists adorning the walls. He especially enjoyed looking at his bullfight painting, which showed an overeager matador getting ready to be gored by the bull-right in the ass. Done in brilliant reds and yellows, with a sobering touch of earth brown, it was his favorite painting because it had a subtle message-if you want to fuck around with someone who is bigger and stronger than you, make sure that you and not he is doing the fucking.
He glanced out the window. His office over looked the Reforma, and he watched the bustling noontime crowds for a few minutes. Many American tourists, he thought, many more American tourists this season ... more money for Mexico, more money for Sanchez ... I can always tell the first-time tourist, he is the one who is walking with his wife into the Hilton across the street, carrying some cheap gimcrack that proclaims MADE IN MEXICO. El estupido!
Ricardo Sanchez was in his mid-forties, and had the classical face of a Spanish grandee, with elongated oval features and thick black hair slicked straight back and revealing a pencil mustache beneath slightly thickened lips. His eyes were deepset above his slanted nose, brown and luminous but unblinking and emanating an unshakable authority, the appraising eyes of a man who is used to getting what he wants without any arguments from anyone about the matter. He was not overly tall, just barely five-eight, and his weight was proportional with the exception of a slightly thickened midriff, which he kept concealed by hand-tailored suits with a built-in girdle around the waist. He always stood straight and erect, his broadened shoulders and solid legs giving him the appearance of a sophisticated football lineman, perhaps guard or end, who had become successful in some kind of non-athletic business.
He stared at the bullfight painting again, his eyes narrowing and a smile creeping onto his lips. The painting was done in oil on velvet, a technique that was much favored in Mexico, and had the richness of a tapestry. It reminded him of someone getting fucked-which, in turn, reminded him of the lovely blonde lady that he had spotted a few days ago coming out of the Hilton with her husband, or so he assumed, who had immediately caught his eye as he was watching the crowds. He had a fondness for lovely blonde ladies-despite the demands of his wife, Ramona, who had born him three lovely children and who was as handsomely Mexican as himself and a perfect mother and wife-for, the exotic pull of opposites always attracted him. The blonder the lady, the better he liked her and, with her Beatle bangs and long flowing hair, Angela Brinkman was to be next on Senor Sanchez's list of conquests. For the Senor had immediately dispatched some of his most trusted assistants to compile a dossier on the lady, and that they had done with their usual efficiency. The Senor was already thinking of ways to introduce himself to her, and he was certain that there would be no trouble, once that simple matter was accomplished.
He was also, in his own way, religious. Religious, in a peculiarly Mexican way of being religious.
For Mexico is perhaps the most basically anti-Catholic country of all the Catholic countries south of the border. Mexico once underwent a religious war, in which many priests and nuns were killed until the Church and the government came to a truce, and religion was de-emphasized and removed from influence over the state. Freedom of, as well as from, religion was written into a new Constitution, resulting in members of religious orders being forbidden to appear in church garb on the public streets and the average Mexican middleclass man-not the women, who remained attached to their God and his adornments, nor the majority of peasants, who clung to their simple superstitions by the blessing of blind faith-giving lip service and superficial observance to religion, but in reality living his life as if God was not only dead, but had never existed.
Senor Ricardo Sanchez had a crucifix on his wall, directly over his desk. A visitor could observe it easily, and the Senor could always swing his chair around if he wished to take in its piety also. But, it was a different kind of crucifix, for it showed not Christ but the Virgin Mary secured upon the two crossed poles of wood.
Senor Sanchez worshipped the pure, unsullied virginity of the Virgin Mary in his own slightly mad Mexican manner.
He always hired, for his own personal secretary, a girl by the name of Maria (the Spanish version of Mary). That was one qualification; the second was that she was a virgin, and was to remain so while in his employ. Should she lose her maidenhead-and the Senor had enough spies to make sure that he would know almost at that very instant of some Mexican male's cock penetrating her sweet vagina-she would be discharged, and blackballed with every other employer in town, at once.
So, Ricardo Sanchez, thinking of Angela Brinkman, suddenly realized that it was time for his cock break, and summoned his secretary Maria for that purpose.
Not coffee break. No, nothing so banal as that.
But cock break. That was what he liked to do when he needed a few minutes rest and relaxation.
Maria arrived.
She was petite, a trifle plump, with thick black hair parted in the middle and tied in a bun at the nape of her neck. Her face was round and friendly, her smile warm and natural, her eyes brown and innocent. For a small girl, she had big breasts, big enough to need the support of a strong suction-cup bra, for they announced her arrival seconds before she actually came into sight. The rest of her body was fine, her legs slender and tapered, though her thighs were a little thick.
But Senor Sanchez did not concern himself with her thighs. It was her mouth he wanted, her thick-lipped, sensuous mouth, with its appealing cleft and clear white teeth and sensitive pink tongue that knew just what to do and how to do it.
"Yes, Senor Sanchez?" she said, her voice a clear contralto of eagerness to please.
"It is time for my cock break, Maria. If you please...."
"Of course, Senor. Do you want the full treatment, or just the mouth?"
"The full treatment, Maria. Gracias." His voice a smooth, almost syrupy baritone, with the soft sibilant S of the Spanish word making him sound like a hissing, sensuous snake.
Maria, who was wearing a chiffon white blouse and a navy blue skirt, began to remove her blouse. But, she was suddenly stopped by a stern look from her employer-stern enough to remind her to close and lock the door, and to pull the drapes over the windows before she again began to unbutton her blouse. She laid the blouse, along with her black bra, on his desk, and stood before him with her breasts elongated, curved like mortar shells with long taut nipples pointing at him like bullets.
He swiveled his chair to the side of his desk, but still beneath his Virgin Mary crucifix, and she knelt down and unzipped his fly. His cock she pulled out next, gently touching the tip; it was already beginning to become erect, the tip looking like a giant mushroom ready to be devoured. She massaged his cock gently with the tips of her fingers, as a pianist might tune up with a piano, and he began to feel shivers of delight spreading throughout his manly frame.
Now it was nearly half-erect, and she placed her tongue right on the tip, and began to lick his cock. Slowly, with the touch of the professional, deftly and delicately, she licked him from tip to base, in long soft strokes as a child might suck a lollipop. With every touch of her tongue, he straightened his back as if he was having posture problems, flexing his muscles as the sexual current flowed through them. As Maria continued to lick ... and lick ... and lick....
"Maria ... the hair, if you please," he reminded her.
Still licking, she untied her hair, until it hung like a curtain halfway down her back and, falling also over her face and cheeks, touched his cock like a silken brush. When her hair touched his cock, he felt even more hot flashes of pleasure burn through him.
She began now to suck his cock.
She placed her hands at the base, and slowly, her mouth opening full like the petals of a flower, she drew his cock inside, inch by quivering inch. Her mouth seemed to swallow his cock, as the warm and soft membranes closed about it like a glove and it slid over her tongue and toward her throat. She sucked and sucked, and his cock began to become almost fully erect, his sperm slowly stirring from their dormancy, the foreskin on his cock pulled almost taut to breaking. He placed his hands on her head, running his fingers through her hair, and began to hum a few snatches of the "Virgen de la Macarena," his favorite song of the corrida (bullfight), music which seemed to inspire her, for she was sucking harder and harder....
Until he realized that she had forgotten something.
Sternly, he tightened his grip on her hair and pulled sufficiently enough to stop her sucking and cause her innocent brown eyes to look at him in questioning. He said, sternly, "Maria, the napkin ... if you please."
She pulled his cock from her mouth, got up, said, "I am sorry, Senor Sanchez," and pulled out a napkin from a filing cabinet in his office. The napkin was Mexican lace, embroidered with the same kind of scenes one might see on a Greek vase-various heterosexual (and a few homosexual, as well) couples in a variety of imaginative positions. Carefully, she placed the napkin on his lap, beneath his cock, while he wondered if it might not be time to think of getting a new secretary. Once more, he thought, if she fucks up one more ... that will be that ... and another Maria will be brought into my organization ... another La Virgen Maria.
His cock was now completely erect.
She again placed her mouth over his cock, this time drawing its entire length into her mouth in one continuous motion. He felt the tip of his cock slip into her throat, and she felt its power as she began to suck and suck again, her breathing becoming harder with her exertions, while Ricardo remained cool and calm yet enjoying every succulent second of her sucking until....
He came.
His cock exploded like a shotgun, discharging its pellets of sperm into her sucking mouth. He came so hard that he actually knocked her head back by several inches, but so tightly was she gripping his cock with her mouth that it remained as deeply imbedded there as before. He fired round after round into that sucking, swallowing mouth, hearing her gurgle with pleasure as she swallowed millions upon millions of his swimming sperm, feeling his cock being sucked another inch into her throat each time she gulped down the delicious feast. Finally, when he had no more sperm to shoot, and she had swallowed all, she slowly withdrew his cock from her mouth, wiped it off with the napkin (and her mouth as well), unzipped, or rather zipped, his fly tight again, put up her hair, and bowed, or rather curtsied, in front of him.
"Gracias, Maria."
"De nada, Senor Sanchez."
She departed, her ass wiggling provocatively as she opened the drapes, unlocked the door, and wandered out of his office.
Senor Sanchez felt good, goddamn good. It had been a very good suck, despite the minor mishaps, and it had made him feel, naturally, a trifle hungry.
So he went out to lunch.