Chapter 2
Carmela wandered slowly through the crowded aisles between heaping stacks of wares, oblivious to the chants of the vendors and the cat-calls and whistles that followed her. Her long hair, almost to her waist, bleached a shade lighter than platinum, was pulled to the side, dog-ear fashion, and tied with strips of purple yarn; it fell across her shoulders over blossoming full breasts, the dark flesh rising in ballooning waves in the vee-neck of the laven der knitted blouse. Occasionally she lifted the dark glasses to show the black pupils of a morena; except for them, because of her hair and her small delicate features, she was taken as a rubia, one of "the blonde ones"-perhaps an American tourista, golden-tanned from the rays of Acapulco instead of her mother's Oaxacan blood.
"Melita, que pasa? Tu-"
She hissed at the voice at her elbow. "Callate, bastardo! Shut your fucking mouth!"
Ramirez sighed, his words spoken into the dusty air of the marketplace. "It was the best I could do."
"Then as a manager, Rico, you're a worthless son of a bitch." Carmela fingered the black delicate lace of an exquisite rabosa: her mother could wear it to Mass. "Cuanto questa?"
Old woman's eyes behind the counter, heavy lids in a leathery face, mouth muttered, "Tres cientos pesos, senorita," without looking up. Three hundred pesos.
Carmela tossed the shawl away disgustedly. "Two shows a night in the worst whorehouse in the worst hellhole in Mexico and you expect me to work for less than the price of a shawl." The slice in her words to Ramirez seemed capable of drawing blood. As if to nobody, Carmela added, "It's not worth fifty."
Ramirez couldn't meet her eyes. "Exotics, strippers-nobody wants them unless they're turning tricks."
"Dos-cinquenta," the old lady muttered. Two-fifty.
"Sienta-cinqo," Carmela spat back at her. Seventy-five. "Chingo tu madre, bastardo. Go fuck your mother. At sixteen I was sucking and fucking every filthy peon from here to Guadalajara. I'll never do it again, Rico, I'll cut off my head first."
The old woman sighed. "Dos ciento pesos, semorita. Es finemente." Two hundred.
Carmela folded up the shawl, the bite in her voice relenting. "Give her eighty pesos."
Ramirez pulled out a roll of bills.
"Por favor, senorita. Ciento-cinquenta." The eyes still had moved, but a frantic plea touched her voice.
"Here, old woman." Ramirez peeled a hundred and fifty off the roll and tossed the bills on the counter.
"Gracias, senor."
Carmela snatched up the fifty, glaring at Ramirez. "Is that the way you bargain for me, you bastard? They offer you three-thousand pesos a week and you settle for two?" She put the shawl back on the stack beside the hundred-peso note. "Which do you want, old woman?"
Slowly, a withered hand drew the hundred from the pile. For the first time the face looked at Carmela. There was pure hatred in the eyes.
Carmela tucked the fifty in the vee of her blouse, pushing it deep between the two crushed mounds of cleavage, picked up the shawl and strode away. Ramirez hurried along behind her.
Friday. Market day in Toluca. Dirty white muslin sheets raised on poles to keep off the hot sun, stretch from the huge mercado building and the zocolo a block away for a full half mile north to the foothills. The calliope from the carrousel shrieks through the air, mixing with the loud bargaining voices of the vendors and buyers, the laughs of the tourists and the weaker strains of a dozen street organs. Smells of cooking food-chickens barbecuing, pork roasting, bisteak broiling, vats of beans steaming over hot coals. At every corner watermelon slices, pieces of pineapple, steaming ears of corn, stalks of sugar cane, bananas; on flat heating tins lay greasy tortillas for tacos and enchillados, steaming chunks of meat and greenish paste of guacomale or sour goat cheese.
Serapes, panchos, sombreros, shoes, pottery, beads, saddles, and harnesses, candles, pinatas, religious plaques, paintings, basketware, firewood-everything is for sale on Friday in Toluca. From villages a day's walk away the people come, huaraches on their feet, wearing the trajes of their tribe, or cotton pants and collarless shirts or fashions straight out of Sears & Roebuck in Mexico City; driving the laden burros before them, or often their own backs bent with a stack of firewood or a heap of goods that would make a mule wince from the load. And the buyers and tourists come. From Mexico City, sixty kilometros away, from as far as Morelia, more than a hundred and sixty. In buses, "hillbuggies" (the carry-alls used as buses on the narrow washed-out mountain roads), in wagons, mule carts, on the backs of burros, on horseback-many dressed as charros, with fancy pants and vests, sombreros and western boots and pistols in their belts-and afoot, they come. A deafening, squirming melange of chaos and cacophony.
From the top of the desolate foothills the pony looked down on the puebla. The white muslin squares, rolling lazily from the breeze, looked like a pond of cream, washing onto a scraggly beach. The ornate cathedral and government buildings on the zocolo, the pastel shops and homes diminishing in the distance, the colorful rising plumes on the carrousel, the ferris wheel, and other rides, seemed to the pony as exotic as a fantasy forest along the opposite shore, a grove not of trees but of barber poles and berries. The sounds beckoned him happily. Inquisitive, he sniffed the air; never had his nostrils filled with such riches!
He moved slowly down the hill, through the cactus, over the rocks and bursts of brush, loping into a canter as his nose got nearer and the scent grew richer still.
Carmela, leaning forward to keep the juice from dripping on her blouse, bit into the slice of pineapple, tasting the tart edge of the red chile powders against the sweet pulp. She turned away without even a pause for Ramirez to hand the vendor a peso.
"If you're going to do shows, you've got to have a gimmick." Ramirez wiped the sweat off his face with his handkerchief. "A three-way lesbian thing or something. There's a market for a good act-the rich towns, the border towns, Juarez, Laredo, Tijuana. If you don't have a gimmick, you've got to turn tricks."
Carmela talked around the pineapple. "Will you get lost, Rico? I came back home to think. Go somewhere and jack off or something, will you? Just leave me the fuck alone?"
It was then that the chaos erupted and swelled. Children laughing, shouting-the words garbled by the shrieks that began and swelled over them. Carmela turned to see the pony, moving slowly but skittishly, confused, a gang of children behind it. "Un potro, un potro!" A man leaped out of a booth, his arms reaching for the pony's neck. The animal turned, his back legs sidling in the narrow aisle into stacks of pottery, and bowls, pots, urns, dishes, all toppled and crashed. The pole supporting a corner of the sheet fell, and white muslin draped over the pony's head, blinding him. The animal reared then, his forelegs clawing the air, his rear ones stepping back, scared now, trying to shake the cloth off his head, he backed into another booth, toppling it in another long series of crashes.
"Un potro!" somebody shouted again, followed by a stream of curses. Men ran in from all sides grabbing at him-somebody pulled the sheet off his head but now the animal was frantic, badly frightened. His head swung from side to side, shaking men off, his rear legs reared and his hooves shot out in defense, catching luckily only the wood of a panel, splintering it into flying chips.
A young well-dressed female tourist, her hands covering her face, stood shrieking a few feet away. The pony swung around-and then stopped! As if he hadn't been afraid at all! He settled quickly, still breathing heavily but not moving now, as if he'd found a friend, as if his troubles were over. The men moved in immediately, one draping a noose around his neck and pulling the rope tight. Still the pony hadn't moved. It sniffed at the woman, stuck out his tongue and licked at the hands that covered the face. The woman parted her hands, shrieked even louder, and moved away.
A woman beside the stall, bending over, picking up pieces of debris, was only a few feet away. The pony moved to her and stopped. Carmela watched, fascinated. The head of the huge penis of the pony, before sheathed in its coarse skin, was now protruding like the head of a pig sticking out of a sack. Carmela wasn't the only one that noticed it.
A man laughed, pointing. "El potro les gustan las muheres!" Others looked and laughed with him.
Carmela's eyes grew wide. The man was right! It did like women. As if to prove the point the pony nudged the bending woman square in the center of her rounded buttocks, straightening her in an embarrassed cursing leap.
"De quien lo es?" somebody asked. 'Wo se," replied the man who held the rope. Nobody knew who it belonged to.
Carmela moved without pausing to think it over. "Es mia!" It's mine. She moved quickly, taking the end of the rope halter from the man that held it. The pony turned his head to her, nuzzling at the swelling tanned mounds of breasts in the opening of her blouse.
A dozen voices at once rose up screaming about the damages done by the animal-so confused was the scene and so anxious were those demanding payment, no one questioned her claim to the pony.
"Pay them, Rico," Carmela said to Ramirez, her eyes never leaving the pony, the glint never leaving her eyes. She walked slowly away, leading the animal behind her, feeling his head nuzzling gently into her shoulder. She talked to it gently, the sound of the marketplace fading in her ears.
Off the pavement and up a dusty road, Carmela led the pony. Abarrotes-groceries-said the sign, tome Coca-Cola. Her mother's tienda. The storefront cut into what had once been the living room of their ancient house. At least the shelves were filled now, thanks to the money Carmela had been sending home during all those months-She shook the thought out of her head. Never again would she let the filthy bastards paw her naked body. She'd never met a single one who could be called a man among them. All of them came on big, acting like machos-but they all had the pricks of ninos. Little boys.
If it hadn't been for Rico-Her skin flushed. It had been a long time. She needed Rico, needed his mouth on her, his tongue, needed that fat cock of his. She could see it in her mind, the veins sticking out, the arc in it as it got hard and stiff. "Mas grande!" adding to the pony, "but not as big as yours, mi potro. She led him behind the house. An old chicken shed-it had been full of chickens when her father was alive-was built alongside the house.
"Es tu, Melita?" Her mother stuck her head out a window. Hardly over forty, her thin frame and the deep lines in her coarse Indian skin made her look closer to sixty.
"Si, mama! It's me. Con un amigo."
With a friend? "Con un amigo en la casa de polios?" In the chicken house?
Carmela laughed. "Mi amigo es un potro!"
"Oh," her mother replied, as if that answered everything. Carmela heard her chatting from inside the house with a customer about her crazy daughter in the chicken house with a pony.
Tying the pony to a post, Carmela began pulling the weeds out of the heavily fertilized floor of the roost. Moments later, Ramirez arrived, the trunk lid of his car propped open by a bale of hay and sacks of oats and corn. Carmela handed him a crowbar, and, using a hammer, helped him to rip the roosting struts and laying bins out, setting up a couple of bins in a corner for a feeding trough for the pony.
"How much is twenty American dollars times ten people a show, Rico?" Carmela asked, pushing a wisp of hair out of her face.
He strew a couple more handfuls of hay over the ground. "Make it twenty-five a show. Two hundred and fifty dollars, that's twelve and a half pesos to the dollar ... three thousand, one hundred and twenty-five pesos." He stopped. "Seven nights a week, two or three shows a night-fifty thousand pesos a week," he added soberly.
Carmela laughed. "Don't I even get a night off?" She paused a moment. "Do you think we can do it, Rico?"
Rico grinned at her. "Can you do it? Build an act around a pony? In Tijuana is a flat-chested pig of a woman, no? She does a split, lowering her body to the floor and picks up a dime with the lips of her pussy. She lowers her body onto a pop bottle, taking it all the way inside, and then she rises and dances around the room with it and acts like it gives her an orgasm. With the bottle still inside her, she again picks up a dime with her cunt. For ten minutes only she does such stunts. She does three, maybe four shows a might, five or six on weekends. Ten people, maybe twenty at each show. They pay ten to twenty dollars each, depending on how hungry she is at the moment. Si, I can set it up, Melita. Verdad, it could make us rich. Can you do it?"
Carmela led the pony into the stall, tying the rope halter to give him room to eat the corn from the bin. The pony ignored the corn, tilting his head again into the opening of his mistress's blouse, his lips softly nibbling at the soft mounds, salty with sweat, rising above the cloth. She lay her head against the slope of his nose. "Soon enough, my pet." She kissed it then, and rubbing her hands along its side, moved down its flank. Carefully she ran her hand down to the protruding shaft of erect penis. Her hand closed around it, marveling at the breadth of it. The lips of her pussy inside her pants quivered; the pony made a soft drawing noise through his nostrils-almost a sigh. "Soon, mi querido," Carmela repeated.
Her breasts rose and fell unevenly with her breathing, a gush of blood to her head, the flush of her skin, the ... agitation ... between her thighs, the muscles in her vagina flexing and unflexing of their own accord, her vaginal lips wetting themselves in hungry anticipation. A prick that size-ramming her cunt! Her eyes closed, the muscles in her legs seemed to fail her.
But it was to Ramirez she turned. "Rico!" She moved into him, her whole body against him, her pelvis automatically thrusting, feeling for the hard stiffness of his prick against her belly. Her mouth groped upward for his, her arms around him squeezing, her lips crushing against his, her tongue darting inside, exploring, thrusting, almost as if she expected her tongue in his mouth to replace his prick in her cunt. A moan swelled in her throat, building, her hands moved to the zipper of his pants, opening it. She fumbled inside, her fingers closing around the plastic hardness of prick, struggling with it to pull it into the open. And then it burst free.
Her mouth broke away from his, the moaning a cry out of her open mouth. Her knees failed her, lowering her to the ground, her cheek clinging to his body, riding it down, going down, along his chest, his waist, then feeling the hot smooth flesh of his prick on her face. She kissed it and rubbed it against her cheek, over her face, loving it, cooing over it, and then the hungry anxious moan was muted by her lips as her mouth gobbled it, taking it inside, her tongue running crazily around the head of it.
God, she wanted it! Madre de Dios, how she wanted it! Her head moved, swallowing, wanting to take it all! In the back of her throat, sucking, swallowing, her tongue swishing, straining, she gagged till her eyes watered, and still her lips moved further down the shaft, the tears streaming down her grimacing face.
"God ... damn!" Ramirez blurted, his hands grasping the head that sucked his dick, pulling it even tighter on him, his hips grinding at her mouth, using his dick as a drill to go deeper, deeper.
Her head moved back, and back, until her lips were again around the head of his prick, and then they leaped down the shaft again. Again they moved back, faster this time, the tempo continuing to increase until she heard Ramirez's moans, his hands still twisting her head onto the shaft, the fervor of his grinding hips stronger. A sudden awakening flashed across Carmela's face. Her hand moving now to replace her mouth on the shaft, her head broke away, her eyes looking up at him pleadingly, "Don't come, you bastard. Not yet!" And then her face turned fearfully aghast.
He cried out, the spurting shooting stream hitting Carmela in the face, running down her chin! Her mouth again groped for him, taking his prick inside to catch the semen, sucking, swallowing the stream of juice as it built in her throat, over the moans, while over and over her mind repeated, You son of a bitch, you son of a bitch, in time with his mouth muttering, "Lo siento, lo siento." I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Her tongue licked him clean, using the head of his prick to brush the wetness from her cheek into her mouth and sucking him until not another drop appeared.
Her face came up menacingly. "You stupid bastard, get it up again." Her hands grabbed the bottom of her blouse and lifted it over her head. Her hands reached behind, thrusting the bra-cupped breasts out deliriously, and then as the bra hooks were unlatched the breasts burst free, quivering and swaying as she shrugged her shoulders and allowed the straps to slide down her arms.
Her flesh shimmered with her movements, the nipples straining outward, grasping air, almost alive, so strong was the desire she felt in them. Her hands pushed at the hipline pants, pushing them down fully contoured legs, leaving just the wisp of white bikini silk, and it too followed the pants, tossed in a heap with her blouse and bra. She stood there a full second, her breasts thrusting, pulsing outward, the tiny waist sloping deftly toward inviting hips and the wildly contoured cheeks of her ass. The black triangle of hair seemed alive from her pores as she watched Ramirez, watched his tongue darting over his lips, the sweat forming in beads on his forehead, his moustache twitching as his eyes bugged out, roving every curve of her exquisite body, his prick, arching upward hard and strong again, the head of it red and shining, shimmering in the narrow ribbons of sunlight shining between the boards of the building, glinting as bright as the golden strands of hay on the ground.
Ramirez fumbled with the buttons on his shirt. Carmela moved to him, anxious, helping him with his shirt, his pants. She dropped to the hay matting, the strands prickly at her back. She motioned, impatient, and pulled Ramirez down on top of her, reaching for his prick, her legs spreading, rising in the air, her hands guiding his prick to the wet glistening gaping cunthole. Both hands on his prick, Carmela stuck the head into the wetness at the opening. "Ahorita!" she cried. Now! Ramirez lunged.
Feeling the length of his prick stabbing deep inside her hole, all the way in, poking so hard in the rear of her vagina Carmela got the shock all the way to her back teeth-joyously feeling it, ecstatically feeling it. Feeling him withdraw to slam again, and again, picking up speed now-yes, yes! "Chingame, mi amante!"
Her palms slapped into the cheeks of his ass, her fingers digging in, getting a grip, her hips writhing under the pounding of his ass, her own ass swinging into motion, coming alive-she wasn't thinking, wasn't trying, her whole brain was writhing, like her hips, in soulful passionate ecstasy, her hips just swinging in to match it, moving of their own accord. Her breasts, the nipples so tight and alive, were crushed under Ramirez's weight, the hairs on his chest rough against the tender flesh of her tits. His prick pounding like a piston in a compression chamber, building the pressure, pumping her up with aliveness, with passion, pumping, pumping, feeding her womb, her guts, her mind, expanding the passion, blowing it up like a balloon with desires and passions and tensions.
Then, almost a continuum, 'the tensions bursting out of her, fast shootings of precious ecstatic relievings of tensions and pressures and desires, a whoosh, whooshing burst of tight consciousness erupting in a flooding thrust of stimulus against her every nerve end, pushing colors through her closed eyelids in sweet strains of ecstatic music, merging into the patterns of the straw on which she lay.
Slowly awakening to consciousness-in her cunt first, in the grand glorious inner sanctum, in the fucking hole that had blessed her with such fleshly beauty-the awakening spreading to her womb, an awakening matched with the same desires, only stronger this time even than before, the plateau higher this time. She still hadn't come down, she was still up there somewhere, floating like a gardenia lei on a softly rolling pond, not yet back on the mossy banks. And the roll swelled, the waters rising stronger-she was riding a wave and it was swelling to heights she'd seldom reached.
Ramirez was still pounding, still fucking her sacred hole. That prick of his-reaching, banging, pounding, fucking her belly, pushing her up there again! The smell of the hay mixed with the smell of their sweating bodies, bodies sliding against each other, rising in her nostrils with the smell of sex, a solid tangible scent of fucking-God, so good, so sweet the smell, the feel!
Her lungs gurgled a moan, her teeth, riding his shoulder, sank in to stifle the sound but then her jaw dropped slack as she met the rise, speeding upward and upward, the sound from her larynx meeting her emotions. Ramirez moaned, and even as the ecstasy overtook her, enveloping her mind, flushing her body in the powerful throes of orgasm, she knew instinctively that he was coming too, and in the last surging spin upward she heard the shrieking cry, hardly aware that it split out of her own oblivious id. And Ramirez collapsed on top of her.
Only then did she hear the other cry: her mother's frantic voice, calling, "Melita, Melita!"
At last Carmela, pushing Ramirez off, letting the cool air caress her sweat-drenched skin, answered. "Si, mama!" Lungs heaving, her voice strained to sound smooth and even. It didn't quite make it.
Her mother paused. "Melita, esta Men?" Are you all right?
Carmela grinned at the slanting roof. "Si, mama. Estoy muy bien!"
Moments later she rolled toward Ramirez. Smiling, she took his prick, wet and slippery from the wet mixed juices of her body and his, and toyed with it, jacking it gently. She stuck it in her mouth and sucked, and jacked it, until it grew hard and ready again. She climbed atop him, straddling him on her knees, bending forward on her hands, the full globulous breasts with the dark areola wavering excitedly over his face. Teasingly she dipped first one nipple and then the other across his lips, pulling it out as he began to suck noisily on it, rubbing her full soft tits in his face as his eyes grew as big as the nippled beauties that excited him.
She scurried up further on his body, kneeling beside his head. Her fingers played in the hairy lips of her wet cunt, spreading them wide in front of Ramirez's face. She watched his eyes looking into the hole, looking straight up into her cunt, through her womb and into her skull. Slowly she lowered her body, lowering her cuntlips until they kissed him on the mouth. Then she ground them into his face, her head reeling, feeling him sucking her cunt, her clitoris, her asshole, his tongue roaming deep inside her vagina, sucking and stroking her clitoris, eating her pussy until the sweet eclipse of glowing loveliness brought tears of pleasure to her eyes.
As her eyes rolled back into their sockets again, she saw the pony. Her eyes roved from the end of his nose to the long dangling penis. "Soon, mi querido."
Prodded by Ramirez, she moved her body, reaching for his dick, slipping it into her wet sheath, slowly grinding her hips on it. Her muscles were tired but not exhausted. The scent of hay and dust and sweat and sex rose calmly in her nostrils. She wanted to fuck, and she would fuck until she dropped unconscious. The good feeling swam over her then, touching her brain with ecstatic fingers. Estoy bien, mama. Estoy muy bien.
Each morning for five days, Carmela packed food in a shoulder bag-tortillas, beans, strips of pork, a bottle of rich San Tomas sauterne, and sugar cubes for the pony-and with a blanket over his back for a saddle, her hands in his mane the only reins, she rode him'west and north, into the woods, following a stream that flowed from high in the mountains. Beside a pool far up the mountainside, where the sun poured through the shade of the trees like golden wine from the spout of a vat, she stopped and spread the blanket. Feeling the warm rays, she stood in the clearing, unbuttoned her blouse, and coaxed the pony-"Querido," dear one, she called him now as if it were his name-coaxed Querido to nudge the fabric off her shoulders and down her arms.
At first she'd tried to teach the pony to take the blouse and lay it aside, but it had been frustrating. It was strange, the pony would strip her of her clothes, it learned to do it as if it had always done it, but after she was naked the clothes had no interest for Querido. His mouth went immediately to her breasts, the nostrils sniffing, the lips quivering and then nibbling at the nipples, opening, sucking in, taking more and more of her breasts, sucking hard. It was if he expected to get milk.
Teaching him was paradoxical. The first time she'd climbed up on his back he had just stood there. It took quite awhile for him to get the message that she expected him to move. But once he did, that first afternoon, he'd followed her every whim, responding to her hands in the hair on his neck as if it were her brain that commanded his feet instead of his own. In some ways he seemed almost human; in others he remained as stupid as a chicken.
Loving the feel of his mouth sucking her breasts, caressing the long hairy snoot with her hands, rubbing her cheek against him, she'd wait, and then she'd open the zipper on the side of her pants and move his nose down to the edge of the fabric. He didn't know where to tug to pull them off evenly, but he moved his mouth wherever she guided it, and worked the pants further down her legs until she could step out of them. Then she would have him do the same with her panties.
The panties were important. She'd already worked out the details of her act. She'd come on stage in a pink pegnoir and sheer pink panties. She'd do a couple of turns to music, and then stand there as Querido stripped her. Then she'd hold his head as he sucked her tits, holding her body stiff, sliding her legs between his forelegs and let him lower her to the floor. He would lick down her body, sucking her tits, her pussy; she'd have him roll over on his back and she'd lower her cunthole onto that big fat fucking tool and fuck him. Really fuck him. Until he came, shooting off like a fire hose inside her. Yes, she'd seen how that fucking thing shot off.
Already the pony had it down. After just four days at it the pony acted as if it were his nature to do precisely what she wanted him to do. He never failed her, not in the essentials. Everything was perfect. Except for one small detail. She still hadn't been able to get that monstrous goddamn prick of his inside her. She'd jacked it off, she knew what a stream of semen it shot, but she'd never been able to even get the head of it started in her cunt.
Now, on the fifth day, she shivered as Querido sucked her tits, sucked them with a ferocity she couldn't imagine with a baby, a ferocity she'd never experienced with a man. Weird sensations-the cold, cold lips around such a hot mouth, the touch of his long hairy jaws. She writhed her chest into him, moving his mouth slurpingly from first one tit and then to the other. Her breath sucked in through her teeth, her eyelids drooped closed, her head dropped back on her shoulders as if the muscles in her neck had just given out. "Ahh, Querido!" Straightening, she shook the feeling out of her head. "Aqui, Querido!" Here! Her hands pushed the long nose down, away from her breasts to the waistband of her pants. "Aqui, aqui." Then frustrated: "Ah, chingada! Ypor que?" Only the panties, not the pants, were important. She pushed the pants down herself and stepped. out of them. She guided his nose back to her waist until his mouth began nudging the panties down, down further, she helping him. She kicked the piece of cloth aside and took his head, leading him further back on the blanket. Moving her feet forward, her body rigid, supporting her weight with her arms around the pony's neck just behind his ears, she edged her feet forward, between his forelegs, arching her body just slightly.
Querido resisted at first, and then slowly his head began to bend, lowering her gently to the blanket. When she lay flat she released him. Laying now between his forelegs, her feet at his rear hooves-it had scared her at first, afraid he'd step on her, but when he moved it was gingerly, knowing apparently he could hurt her, moving his head from side to side as if looking first with one eye then the other, placing his hooves in a way that was safe for her. She was no longer afraid.
She could see his prick now, his horse penis, huge, the crevice in the end aiming straight at her head. His mouth dipped mere inches further to nibble again at the nipples of her tits, and then the lips moved all over her. Along her sides, over her belly, down her legs. Carmela closed her eyes. Her hands dropped away from his head to her sides. Her whole body was tingling, feeling at once the warm sun and the cool air trailing the wet kisses of the pony's explorative mouth. His mouth, oh, how she loved his mouth! It was nudging between her legs now, nuzzling in the patch of hair at the crotch of her thighs, rooting in between her legs, tickling her flesh, nibbling up a few inches then back again. She teased herself as long as she could stand it, then with a sharp cry of acquiescence, her legs parted, the pony's wet nose dipped into the hot wet warmth of her vulva, the cold lips and hot tongue wildly attacking her labia, her clitoris, nibbling, sucking.
Desire built so strongly in her cunt she couldn't wait any longer, she wanted to come, she wanted it now! Her finger moved to her clitoris, even as the pony's mouth sucked at the opening, the lips clutching and kneading and squeezing the sensitive labia, Carmela jacked the clitoris, her fingers moving maddeningly, feeling the pent-up tensions soaring up on her, screaming for appeasement, for satisfaction. "Oohh-" The cry was a wail, a whimper, a plea to the pony to suck her, suck her, eat her cunt as she fucked it with her finger-ooohhl She groaned then, and it was over, all too soon it was over, she climaxed, and she'd hardly climbed at all! If anything, the desire now was even stronger than before. She wanted it, she wanted orgasm, orgasms, and she wanted them now!
Her face grimaced in pain, almost crying, so strong was her desire. "Quera ... quera chingar, Querido!" I need to fuck, I need it, Querido! She pushed the nose away and sat up determined. Her breasts swayed violently, her hair flying about her shoulders. "Arrojo, Querido, down," she told him, pushing at the joints of his forelegs. Obediently the pony lowered himself lumberingly to the ground, rolling over on his back, curving his spine to steady himself.
His penis lay almost flat against his belly, stiff and throbbing, the veins pulsing-except for the cleft in the end it was built like a cannon-oh God! Carmela thought, if it ever shoots off in me it'll blow me to-but flat on the end that way I'll never be able to get it in me!
Her hands touched it fearfully, marvelingly. The curious combination, the thick, soft smooth skin enclosing what seemed to be a heavy invincible shaft of steel. Hesitantly she moved the foreskin up over the head, almost encasing it, and then back down again. The pony lifted his head an instant, snorting sensually through his nostrils. Carmela moved the skin up again and down. Then again. A syrupy fluid began to ooze out of the cleft. Her fingers smoothed it round over the head, wetting it, and again she moved the foreskin up and back.
Unable to stand it any longer, she straddled the pony's loins, ignoring the rear legs, the hooves, and guided the head of the prick to her thighs, to her cunt. Wetting the head even more with the abundant juices from her labial clefts, she set it at the hole and lowered her body onto it.
Spreading the lips of her cunt as far as they'd go with one hand, fitting the head of the prick to the hole with the other, Carmela struggled, writhing in her efforts to get it in, squirming in an attempt to avoid the pain. Carrimba! No! Almost as long as her forearm, as big around as her wrist, it simply wouldn't go in, it couldn't go in. Her knees bent, her hips rotating, trying to work the end of the prick in her, it was simply too much for her to take. She just couldn't handle it. But then somehow, her ears ringing so great was the pain, the head of it tipped slightly, and the breadth of it was pitched into her tiny hole.
The gasp broke into a high-pitched groan-no, no, she couldn't do it! Chingada, it was splitting her open! From her asshole to her navel it was splitting her, she had to get off it, had to get it out, she couldn't do it! Half poised in the decision to remove it, to get herself off that splitting spike, a fraction of a second's firm resolve deciding now or never, she heaved herself on it, lifting her legs and throwing her entire weight onto the rod at her cunt! A shrieking, piercing wail cut through the pines. It ripped into her, the prick, impaling her, stretching, tearing into her all the way through her vagina, the careening punch past the end of her cervix like a kick in the stomach, and going in it seemed to take the lips of her bleeding cunt and her clitoris with it, doubling her insides! Madre de Dios! Mother of God, what pain! Never had she suffered such agony. The force of it took her breath, took her strength. Eight, maybe ten inches of that axe-handle prick had been speared into her, with still another four in reserve. How could even a mare take such a dick inside it?
She fell forward onto the pony's belly, her head between the limply dangling forelegs. Gasping for breath she lay there, feeling it inside her, filling her, seeming to extend from hip to hip, from her ass to her rib cage. But there was more than pain: a ... voluptuousness. A voluptuousness filled her. That prick, the idea of it-It had taken most of her strength for the moment just to take it, a camion, Carmela thought, like getting hit by a truck. But now, laying there exhausted, the coarse hair of the pony's belly against her skin, her tits rubbing against him, the smell of him thick in her nostrils, the prick filling her pussy like pulque in a pig sack-the opening was ripped, stinging, she knew it was bleeding and she didn't care, there was something more now, something beginning, a heat, red-hot coals emanating from the pony's heat, glowing through his penis to her body. She could feel it pulsing with the blood that coursed through the veins, throbbing with a power that seemed to be rejuvenating her own.
She moved barely fractions of an inch off the prick stuck up her vagina and then settled back on it. The wetness carried just a little way out by the shaft helped to relieve a little pressure at the opening. She did it again. The lips, the skin that had been drawn inside her by the friction of the shaft going in took lube and eased. She sighed with relief; it was easing, the pain. The stinging was still there but much of the grueling pain was relinquishing to pleasure, meeting it head on, relinquishing to the voluptuousness filling her body. Again she raised her ass, drawing the prick out of its hole, drawing it further and further, until this time the ridge of the larger head over the shoulders clutched at the rim of her cunthole, causing her lungs to surge, gasping air as if for a last breath. Slowly she pushed on it again. The emotion, the sensation, swelled into her belly like air being pumped into a tube, even to the pores rippling over her skin, gooseflesh trembling in waves.
The pony lay trembling, his head moving nervously from side to side, his body deathly still except for the trembles that racked it-waves that matched Carmela's own. He made a sound, a whimper of pleasure, and the whimper was matched by a sound from Carmela, a whimper that seemed to be yanked bodily from the depths of her womb.
Carmela's hips, her pelvis, her ass, curved upward in a golden pinnacle in the air, her whole body began a series of slow tortuous ascents and descents on the shaft, each move as emotionally ripping as the physical impaling had been. Each move burdening her with so totally an indulgent ecstasy-imbued lethargy, of peace and well being, the simultaneous thrusting of desire, a nervous fritter of hungry sensation-seeking yearning, that it touched her deeper, even in its ambiguity, than anything ever had before.
The madness took possession of her, her face twisted in a grotesque grimace, her arms gripping the beast beneath her as if it were a buoy in a raging sea, her legs jerking spastically, her body writhing and twisting and convulsing in a mad mental hell of passion. Faster the hell raced, faster, faster, beating into her consciousness the madness, bellowing out of her womb in grunts and groans and moans and shrieks and gasps and whimpers, the madness, tears gushing from closed eyes, sweat beading on her face and body and streaming down in rivulets, her golden ass rising and falling and pounding its madness over the pillar that impaled it, a priapic post on a merry-go-round of madness-and then the explosion of it, the crying, bleating, screaming explosion, the expansion of passions so blindingly broad, her body exploding, her mind exploding-an unknown hell's pageant revealed in a beastly splendor the likes of which she'd never dreamed! She screamed like a madwoman, her hair matting in sweat and dust, her face swollen and distorted to match her mind, her eyes bugged and unseeing, her mouth twisted horridly, her body suspended on a rack mixing pain and pleasure, fire and ice, extremes so beyond what she'd known or was capable of imagining she couldn't define it, would never be able to.
At the peak of her madness, an insane plateau, the gushing realization-if that's what it was-of a higher madness still, a gushing hydrant of still greater madness, spurting into her body, flooding her womb, gushing around the monster prick, a hydrant in her belly, the hot thick come shooting in, flushing her insides out, gushing out of her crammed-filled cunt, streaming down the insides of her thighs. The screams, the wails, the cries, the moans, diminished so slowly the diminishing was almost imperceptible, and all that was left was honest weeping, openly, eyes still streaming their tears of a joy so grand, a beauty so ecstatic, it was incomprehensible, and now, after experiencing it, all she could do was cry.
The pony lay perfectly quiet now, his breathing labored, but at rest. When Carmela's strength had been regarnered somewhat, she turned, dismounting. The limp tool slid wetly out of her body, slithering aside. She took it in her hands, her eyes swollen and seeing only distortedly; the tears rushing again, she kissed the magnitude of it, the gigantic penis that had given her such fond pleasure. Its sides were wet with semen and streaked with her blood, but she kissed it with love, rubbing her face in it, enthralled with adulation for it-semen, blood, mixing with her sweat, into her hair, all over her face. Holding onto it, still nuzzling it with her cheek, she whispered words so strange to her own ears-or to ears of others-words of love, it was as if she had been blessed with the pleasures not of a beast but of a God.
A long time passed before she could rouse herself. Then she led the pony into the icy waters of the mountain pool, to wash, and to refresh.