Chapter 7
It was their last day in Mexico City-tomorrow they would fly to Acapulco for the final week of their vacation-and they were touring the Pyramids just outside Mexico City.
Juan Lopez was, as usual, their guide.
Only-it was not just Juan and the Brinkmans in their party. There was, this time, one addition.
Senor Sanchez.
He had insisted, when he had been informed of their plans-Angela had not forgotten him, nor Juan, for that matter-on offering them the pleasure of his company and hospitality on their last day in his city. He had told them that it was no problem, he would be happy to take them wherever they wished to go. Angela had played their meeting very close to her chest, since Ben had arranged with Juan to guide them to the Pyramids.
So, what happened was this-Senor Sanchez had put his Rolls Royce at their disposal, hired Juan as driver and guide, and at this moment all four of them were walking around the Pyramids, the weather being sunny but just a trifle cool from a faint breeze. All were dressed informally, sports shirts, slacks, and jackets for the men, and light jackets over blouses and skirts for the ladies. Pardon, lady-Angela Brinkman being the only female in the party. And, the reason she was wearing a skirt, was that, on the advice of Senor Sanchez, she had not worn her bellbottoms or slacks.
He had told her, "Senora Brinkman, Mexico City is a very conservative metropolis. Even at the Pyramids, it would not look good for a lady to be seen wearing pants. Save them for Acapulco. At that resort, no one will care, and you will be right in style there."
So, she had done as he had advised.
And now, with the late afternoon sun beaming down on them from a blue sky edged by scattered cumulus clouds, enjoying the late afternoon loneliness of the Pyramids-all the other tours had left by now-they kicked up the dust of centuries as they inspected one of the wonders of man's imagination.
The Pyramids of San Juan Teotihuacan-as they are correctly called-were built more than one thousand years ago by an unknown civilization, well before the Aztecs arrived on the scene. There are actually two Pyramids, the Pyramid to the Sun (with 248 steps to climb before reaching the top) and the slightly smaller Pyramid to the Moon. The former has been completely excavated, its reddish brown stones reflecting the ingenuity of its builders (no cement or mortar, just blocks tightly w-edged together), while the latter is less impressive and more dangerous to explore.
They stood at the base of the Pyramid to the Sun, its flat roof looking like the top of an aircraft carrier. It was, at the least, impressive.
"Just think, Senora," Senor Sanchez said, nudging Angela gently. "These Pyramids are more than a thousand years old, but no one has ever been able to uncover any information about the people who built them. It is a remarkable engineering feat, and one of Mexico's most famous unsolved mysteries. Do you feel the grandeur they represent? The creative results of a now-lost civilization? These monuments make me so proud of my country, I could almost cry."
Juan thought, Bullshit, you capitalist cocksucker, you may fool these idiot gringos but you do not fool me ... as soon as La Revolution comes to pass we shall put you on top of these Pyramids and execute you ... Perro (dog).
The vibrations between Senor Sanchez and Juan Lopez were not the best. In fact, they had hated each other on sight, Juan recognizing the very type of individual he hated most about his country, Ricardo sensing that Juan could be one of the dangerous student radicals that wanted to destroy his established and establishment position. As Mexicans, they were nothing if not polite and formal on the surface. But, beneath the surface-well, that was something else again.
"Very impressive," Ben said, his arm around his wife. He hugged her waist, making sure that he did it in full view of the other two men.
Perhaps he was getting suspicious, perhaps not. At any rate, he wanted to make sure that, no matter where he was, everybody around him knew that she was his wife, and belonged to him exclusively. He had his possessive moments, and this was one of them.
He was also thinking of last night, how fantastically responsive she had been, when he had untied her and they had made love violently-if not a trifle viciously-until dawn. Their marriage seemed reborn, as it were-almost as if they had just become man and wife the day before. It was a good feeling, and he was not about to let it go.
Angela, however, was still torn by doubts and conflicts concerning the three of them. At the moment, Ricardo was still, at least by several points, top man on her list. She would roughly rate Ben and Juan as tied for the number two slot; but Ben, she remembered was still her husband. And was Ricardo really married? He had said so, and from the looks of his home it was pretty big for just a bachelor, even one as rich as he appeared to be, to be living there alone. She had not, of course, had time to check the place out for traces of wife and children, in that one brief drunken evening there. And, he had certainly not invited her back. So ... who knows?
"Do we have to climb all those stairs?" Angela asked, petulantly. "There are so many of them...."
"Senora Brinkman, I am sure that the view from the top of the Pyramid will astound you, once you are there," Senor Sanchez said, with a touch of condescension.
"Yes, Angela, let's go," Ben said, authoritatively. "And, besides...." He gestured at Juan. "We have some sangria to drink when we get there."
Sangria was that lovely Spanish combination of claret wine and lemonade, spiced with particles of fruit. A truly delicious beverage, a delightful custom-and much less rough than margaritas, though almost as potent, if consumed in too great a quantity.
Juan was carrying a jugful.
They started the climb. Ben, hand in hand with Angela, went first, taking it step by step. Senor Sanchez offered his assistance to Angela, and she eagerly grasped his arm for additional support. Ben made no objection. Ben on the left, Ricardo on the right-Juan bringing up the rear.
But, Juan had one advantage that the others did not have.
He could observe Angela's lovely ass, could watch the breeze blow at her skirt and lift it like a kite, revealing her well-rounded buttocks beneath. He could watch her ass jiggle from side to side, her long blonde hair waterfalling down her back, her well-tapered legs lift from one step to the other. He could plan on taking advantage of whatever situation might occur; perhaps he might be able to outscore them all. He brushed a hand against his Beatle bangs, enjoying the touch of his hair and its smooth and soft textures. He thought, If Juan Lopez is not a match for that stupid gringo and that establishment pretty boy-then I shall move to Cuba tomorrow!
Step after step, they climbed, until they were about halfway to the top, when Angela objected.
"I'm not climbing another step until we rest for at least fifteen minutes!" she declared, stopping so suddenly she almost threw the two men off balance, and Juan himself almost ran his cock into her ass. For Juan, from watching her rear advance, had gotten a -, and was doing his best to keep the matter concealed from those in front of him. When she stopped so suddenly, he quickly covered his cock with the jug of sangria. But not quickly enough; Angela had felt the jab, brief though it was, and was thinking, Well, Juan, so you've got it up for me again ... you're going to have to do more than that, though, to keep me interested, young man ... yes, much more than that.
They sat down on the steps, rested, drank sangria from plastic cups. The wine was still fairly chilled, it tasted good, not too sweet despite the fruit particles, but dry and smooth, almost like sherry.
They all had several cups each.
Ben, noticing that the other two men could not keep their eyes off his wife, decided to show everyone who was running the show, in his own particular way. He placed one hand over his wife's vagina-but not over her skirt. Instead, his hand snaked inside, beneath her skirt, and his fingers slipped beneath her panties, touching her clit with both toughness and delicacy. While Angela wondered exactly what her husband had in mind-a quick, sharp look from him told her, in effect, to "just do what I tell or show you, baby, because I'm the boss!"-she was still a trifle annoyed at such a display in public of her pubic area. Yet, his hand did feel good on her vagina,, his finger on her clit, and she soon found herself moving her torso in rhythmic appreciation of her husband's fast-moving finger. It was a strange situation, but after what she had been through in just one short week in Mexico-and liking very much most of what had happened-she reconciled herself to whatever might occur further.
Juan could not help but allow his eyes to open wide in wonderment at the scene unfolding before him. Ben was handling himself so coolly and casually, making no effort to conceal where his hand was, yet not being obvious about showing off what he was doing, either. Juan was more impressed with Ben than he had ever been before; he wondered what had caused the American's sudden enlightenment. He wondered whether Senor Sanchez might not have had something to do with it. He was beginning to dislike Ben less and Ricardo more. At least Ben had treated him decently, even considering what he had done to his wife; however, Senor Sanchez had been condescending from the very second they had met.
Juan thought, Fuck Senor Sanchez ... maybe I can fuck him up in some way today ... maybe I can fuck the gringa, too ... we shall see.
They rested, and they drank.
No one said anything.
It was as if they were all actors in a silent film. No speech, little movement-except for the filling and refilling of the cups with sangria.
Finally, Ben removed his hand from Angela's vagina-which was now so wet that her panties were damp, and she was not feeling especially happy about walking around with wet panties; but, she still said nothing, feeling the power of her husband's newly found machismo flowing into her, realizing that he meant business in whatever he was doing with and to her-and said, commandingly, "Let's make it to the top."
They started for the top.
Step by step by step.
It was a long climb, and they were very tired when they got there. But, as the Senor had said, the view was worth it.
They all stood at one edge of the roof of the Pyramid, looking at the tranquil valley below. Several villages of a few hundred inhabitants at the most were scattered along the otherwise brown sandy area-interspersed with bits of greenery and shrubs-like spilled groceries from a shopping bag. It was a vast panorama of space, of which Mexico has plenty, and the land was flat and awe-inspiring with its vast empty spaces. It was not difficult to imagine some primitive ceremonies in homage to the God of the Sun taking place here. No, not at all.
Angela spoke first. "It's ... really magnificent," she said, the awe creeping into her voice. "It makes you ... think. We're so ... alone up here."
She was right. There was not a soul in sight. In the villages, of course, there were; but, from that great distance, the villages looked like toy building blocks.
Ben, standing next to her, still holding her hand-and she still responding to his strong grip-said, "Yes, I can see why Mexico is such a lovely country. So much space, so close to nature. I rather like it here."
"So do I, Senora," Juan said, sarcastically. "That is why I hate to see so many Americans and other foreigners coming down here and ruining it for us Mexicans."
He was mad, Juan was, and he had not meant to say it in quite that way. But his hostility toward foreigners had finally slipped out-and his hostility toward the Mexican establishment that he believed was ruining his country also, especially for those of his generation. And Senor Ricardo Sanchez ranked high on that latter list.
"Yes," Juan continued, with increasing fervor. "You come into our country, spreading your money like manure, as if money can buy us. You take over Acapulco, for instance, and turn that lovely bay into an ugly collection of American-style hotels sitting right on the water, and there you make hustlers out of happy Mexicans who are envious of your great wealth and try to get some of it away from you. You Americans are fucking up Mexico very badly ... and you are even cheating us on the marijuana we grow so that you can smoke pot and forget your troubles ... while we remain poor, with nothing but tequila to drown our troubles in. Fuck America!"
"I suggest, Senor Lopez, that you watch your language in the presence of a lady," Senor Sanchez said coldly, turning to Juan, whose face was distorted into a mask of fury, his eyes blazing hatred beneath his Beatle bangs. Juan was so angry that the veins on his forehead were standing out like ropes, and his blood was running like boiling water throughout his body. He was slightly drunk, too, for he had been carefully belting down a few extra shots of sangria when the others were not looking. That was Juan's problem. He did not hold his liquor well. No, not well at all.
Angela was surprised, but also pleased. She liked men with spirit, and that Juan certainly had. She said, the sangria also affecting her slightly-for they were at a height now of approximately 6,000 feet, and liquor works faster the higher you are-but with a touch of mockery, "Well, Juan, your sentiments are well put. But, what do you mean by-fuck America? Fuck the country? Or-fuck the women?"
Ben's mouth opened a few extra inches. He had never heard Angela use that kind of language before-at least, not in public. He held her hand a little tighter, and said, somewhat harshly, "Let's knock off this silly talk right now. I didn't come to Mexico for any political science lessons. I'm here to enjoy the country, I'm not exploiting the people that I know of. I don't need this kind of discussion at the Pyramid to the Sun ... and I'd appreciate everybody just shutting up about fuck this and fuck that. Angela and I are on vacation, we're leaving the country in another week-and I'm just not interested in those kinds of problems right now. Now, I think we should all sit down and have another drink and enjoy the view...."
"View of what-of my people working like slaves for your benefit and amusement?" Juan shot back. "Maybe I should start La Revolucion right now!" He reached beneath his bellbottom pants, quickly sliding up his pants leg and revealing a long, vicious machete strapped to his leg. In seconds, the machete was in his right hand, and with his left hand brushing the hair out of his eyes, he swung the weapon toward Ricardo with a couple of vicious, short strokes that caused Senor Sanchez to move back a few paces from the edge and Ben and Angela to move a few paces sideways.
Very coolly, his ambience unperturbed, Senor Sanchez said, in a voice that hinted at authority far beyond the comprehension of the student he was addressing, "Please, Senor Lopez, put that weapon away and do not disgrace Mexico by such a shabby performance. You are frightening the Brinkmans, and they are just a tourist couple trying to enjoy the fragrance of our lovely country. You do Mexico a grave disservice by such a chauvinistic display of base emotions. Now, if I may have your machete...." He extended his hand, but very gingerly; something in Juan's eyes, that fevered look as if he had been downing a gallon of pulque (a Mexican product of the cactus plant far more potent than tequila) made him not move very far in Juan's direction.
Angela was now clinging to Ben, and she was scared. She had never seen Juan like this before. He had always been such a polite young man-and such a great young lover-that this extreme side of machismo coupled with his own peculiar brand of patriotism made her shiver with cold. Ben, for his part, was not getting any closer, but continued to caress his wife tenderly and to slowly move her away from Juan.
'"Fuck all of you, worthless ones!" Juan shouted, brandishing the machete at Senor Sanchez. "I think I will destroy the enemy of my country first-the capitalist who squeezes the workers dry-the master of deceit and corruption-Senor Sanchez, pull out your cock!"
Senor Sanchez narrowed his eyes, stared hard at Juan. Juan's hot brown orbs burned into Sanchez like laser beams. The Senor immediately sensed that Juan was not kidding, and at once regretted his stupid mistake in not at least bringing his own chauffeur along for protection. He made a mental note to never make such an oversight again ... that is, if he got out of his present predicament alive.
"I beg your pardon?" Ricardo said.
"You will beg for your life, Senor, if you do not at once pull out your cock and kneel down and lay your cock right on the edge of this Pyramid-so that I can have the pleasure of cutting it off!" Juan shouted, waving his machete wildly like a drunken bandleader trying to conduct his orchestra.
The Senor thought, How can I humor this madman until I have a chance to outwit him ... I cannot trust him with my cock as he demands ... I must do something else.
Now Angela gestured toward Juan, her face distraught, saying, almost hysterically, "Please, Juan ... put away that thing ... it frightens me ... can't you and Senor Sanchez settle your differences ... some other way ... Juan, for my sake ... please put it away."
Juan, in reply, raised the jug of sangria to his lips with his free hand, and chugalugged a good thirst-quenching draught down his throat. Then, he put the jug down, looked at Angela with a sardonic expression and, shaking his head so that his long hair whistled in the wind, said, mockingly, "Fuck you, Senora. That is what I plan to do when I finish cutting off the cock of my capitalist cocksucker here. I shall fuck you again, as I and my friends did before...." He winked knowingly. "Only, this time I am afraid the only music I can provide will be my machete beating time on the skull of Senor Sanchez."
"What's that?" Ben spat out the words, his face a mask of black rage. He yanked Angela toward him, looked her right in the eyes; she flinched, tried to avert his gaze. "Angela, is this true? Or is this some grisly Mexican joke?"
Angela kept averting her gaze. Then, she started crying. Ben pulled her close, put his arms around her; his anger was abating, but he could still feel the rage roaring through his body. Cuckolded, he thought ... that confirms my suspicions ... and with this Mexican boy scout!
He had conveniently forgotten about the incident with the stewardess, of course.
Angela was still crying; Ben hugged her all the more.
"While the lovely American couple are comforting each other, I again remind you, Senor Sanchez, that I will have your cock and I will have it now!" Juan stepped forward a few feet toward Senor Sanchez, who did not move, but did not take his eyes from the machete, either.
Senor Sanchez said nothing.
Juan slashed with the machete. Juan knew how to handle his instrument well; in a second the machete had slashed a long slit down the right trouser leg of Ricardo. Another slash, and his left trouser leg was likewise slit, so that the two parts of his trouser legs were blowing in the wind, revealing his hairy, chunky legs. Juan said, "That was just a preview, a demonstration. The next time will be the real thing, Senor Sanchez, and if you do not lay down your cock voluntarily, I shall cut it off from you anyway, balls and all. Be prepared to part with it, for I shall have it, and I shall hoist it on my machete as a banner of our revolution. Viva la revolution!"
"Wait!"
Angela pulled herself from her husband, and now was standing just a few feet from Juan. She began to remove her jacket in a Mae West tantalizing style, spinning on her shoes, twirling this way and that, as the jacket dropped to the ground. Then, she unbuttoned her blouse. She was not wearing a bra, and her breasts practically popped right out, their nipples taut with tension. She said, in all seriousness, "Juan ... take me ... do anything you want with me ... but, please spare Senor Sanchez ... don't hurt him ... I'll do anything you want ... please!"
"What are you doing, Angela-compounding your original interest?" Ben said sarcastically, every word registering contempt as his face became a mocking, grinning skull. "You liked it so well that you're going back for seconds? Can't get enough of these young Mexican studs, is that it?"
"Ben!" Now Angela turned on her husband. "A man's life is at stake...."
"A man's cock, not life," Ben corrected her. "The Senor is not going to die if his cock is cut off, I assure you. I'm sure he'll live through the ordeal ... won't you, Senor Sanchez?"
Senor Sanchez said nothing. He stood there, impassively looking at the tableau being enacted in front of him, as detached as a spectator at an execution. He didn't even shrug.
Meanwhile, Juan, while still watching the other two men and controlling the situation with his machete, let a leer pass by Angela's way. Angela, angered, tore off her blouse and kicked off her shoes. She stood there, naked from the waist up, defiantly thrusting her breasts in Juan's face, and said in caustic tones, "Since you're so good at cutting things off ... why don't you start with these?"
"Angela!" Ben's startled cry leaped from his throat like a bullet.
"Please, Senora Brinkman, do not trifle with the boy in a situation such as this. This is no time for demonstrations of this nature." Senor Sanchez's voice was world-weary, fatherly, like a professor explaining a simple lesson to a difficult student. "I do not wish anything to happen to you, Senora, so please get out of the way and I will accept my fate. As your husband said...." Pause. "I shall survive."
Juan was laughing, laughing so hard he was almost doubled up and arched as if he were fucking. Waving his machete wildly, he chortled, "Oh, Senora ... you are too much ... I do not want to cut off your breasts...." Again, mocking, shocking laughter. "I just want to suck them off...."
"Well, fuck you then, Juan!" Angela shouted, in a pique of frustration. She kicked angrily at the ground, adding, "On second thought, I won't fuck you, you ... you ... Mexican bandit!"
She had not watched where or what she was kicking, and in the process, her foot came in contact with one of the shoes she had just dropped. The shoe was propelled forward, and perhaps by coincidence, or perhaps by some mad design of the Deity Himself, it struck Juan in the crotch.
He dropped his machete, and toppled backward by a few steps. These few steps were enough to put one of his feet over the edge of the Pyramid and, when that foot found nothing solid to stand upon as it descended, it threw him off balance and, backward, he toppled off the edge. His dying scream still lingered in the air as the survivors, on top of the Pyramid, looked over the edge, shocked at the sight. Ben held Angela very tightly, for she was crying and sobbing uncontrollably as she pressed her breasts against him, while Senor Sanchez looked calmly at his dead antagonist and said to the Brinkmans, "If you are going to Acapulco tomorrow, I think we had better get back to the city." He paused, then added, "There is nothing more we can do here."