AmericasDarlings

by Gail Bridges

  It had all led to this very moment.

  And I was filled with fire.

  I was an athlete! I was full of life! I stood next to my love in the final round of the Olympic Games, doing what I did best.

  But our performance has begun without me. My man is no longer a man.

  He is a jaguar.

  He stalks to the center of the mat, and, snarling and hissing, takes a pose.

  And suddenly I am Xocha, the Amazon Queen.

  I am woman personified! I am more female than female! I am Xocha the Proud, Xocha the Strong. I am killer of anacondas, tamer of jaguars, protector of my people! I, Xocha the Proud, take my pose. I carry a spear and a shield. My face and my flanks carry the blood of the sacrificial peccary and I am on the hunt. I hold my weapons over my head, my buttocks as hard as rocks, my breasts strong and sure, their nipples standing erect like sentinels on duty.

  The music starts.

  Jungle drums! Animal shrieks! Ancient voices chanting ancient spells! The jungle sounds grow, surrounding me, surrounding the heedless jaguar, surrounding every living being, bringing us all together in the primeval jungle.

  I, Xocha the Proud, look for a jaguar to tame.

  I, Xocha the Proud, will find a jaguar to tame.

  I stalk through the jungle, my every stride shaking the ground, the movement of my legs a thing of beauty, my breasts heaving in time with my mighty footfalls. I, Xocha the Proud, possess the most beautiful breasts of all women! See them and weep! Other breasts shrivel away to nothing when compared with mine!

  I own the jungle. Let none forget it.

  The trees, the vines, the sharp sticker bushes and the razor-edged grasses—they all belong to me. I pause, posing, to take in the view of the mighty Amazon River. Scarlet macaws screech in a nearby tree. Mine. All mine.

  Then I see him.

  I see the jaguar.

  He is sunning himself on a rock above the bank of the river. His mighty claws, as long as fingers, drape over the rock almost to the water’s edge, his spotted coat shines in the dappled jungle light. He’s a magnificent male specimen, this jungle cat, and he’s mine. Like everything else in the jungle, I own him.

  He sees me.

  His snarl fills the jungle. The birds fall silent.

  He rises to his feet, his fangs bared. Oh, but he’s beautiful!

  My loins clench with desire.

  I come nearer. I move through the razor grass, their sharp edges glancing harmlessly from my steely legs. The jaguar follows my every move with his slanted yellow eyes. I come nearer still and a low growl comes from my prey.

  I fall still.

  The jaguar’s tail flicks.

  Then, suddenly, the jaguar rises to his back feet, pawing the air, screaming with animal rage. Why do you invade my territory, woman?

  I scream back. I am Xocha the Proud! You do not frighten me, jaguar!

  The jaguar leaps from the rock, lands but two paces from me.

  I jump to the side, avoiding his killing claws. I hurl the ancient words at him, the words that will change jungle cat into jaguar-man. Hear me, oh jaguar! Hear me, oh jungle dwellers! Xocha broadcasts her intention to mate with her captive!

  Before my eyes, my jaguar rises to his feet and becomes a man.

  He stands tall, my beautiful jaguar-man. He is proud, my jaguar-man. His cock is long and strong like a spear! His mighty cock extends toward me, his queen, because I am Xocha, Tamer of Jaguars!

  I will have this magnificent creature! I will tame him.

  I step closer. I lay down my spear, my shield. I offer my breasts.

  The jaguar-man sheaths his claws and offers me his cock.

  We circle one another, coming closer with each pass. My breasts brush his chest. His cock tickles my mound.

  “Hey, babe,” whispers the jaguar-man.

  “Hey,” answers Xocha the Proud.

  Then I claim him. Our bodies cleave together, rocking the Amazon Basin. Our cat-calls fill the jungle. Our passion makes my people grab one another and rut like wild animals under the thorn bushes! His cock drives into me, fills me, and I am driven to places high above the jungle where only the gods dwell. We are mad for each other, my jaguar-man and I! We twist and contort ourselves as only an Amazon Queen and a jaguar-man can.

  We sinuous creatures!

  We masterful lovers!

  We employ ever more wonderful ways to bring each other to the brink of madness.

  Eight times we do this for each other.

  Eight times we shriek and cry out and tear at the fabric of the world.

  Eight times we demonstrate our passion for all to see.

  Then, almost satiated, knowing the end is near, my jaguar-man bestows upon me all of his cock, the full length of it—and I give him all of me. Together we ride the clouds to the palaces above the jungle. Madness! Wonder! The entire jungle celebrates! Wild creatures roar! My jaguar-man moves me to a thundering climax the likes of which the jungle has never known.

  I scream with the power of all the Amazon Queens who have come before me! I scream!

  Then he leaps away from me.

  He flips in the air—once, twice—and lands on all fours, snarling in triumph. For he’s a jaguar again, my lover.

  I stand, panting and proud, for I am full of his seed!

  I am Xocha, Tamer of Jaguars, and once again I have fulfilled my holy duty. I have secured the well-being of my people. I will bear his child.

  We pose, my lover and I, and accept the adulation of the crowds.

  The roars! The screams! The cheers!

  From far away, as if underwater, chanting. “Lee-ah! Ben-son!”

  Clap-clap!

  Thump!

  “Lee-ah! Ben-son!”

  Clap-clap!

  Thump!

  We look at each other.

  Time stands still.

  Benson came to me from across the mat. He took my hand. We bowed to the judges. We bowed to our teammates. We bowed to each other. Then, with wild, ferocious abandon, he threw his arms around me and lifted me off my feet. He spun me in a circle, shouting with joy.

  “We did it, Leah! We did it!”

  I kissed his sweet, sweet mouth. “Benson, I love you!”

  Cameras followed our every move, capturing our triumph.

  I kissed him again.

  It was an image—me in his arms, my feet off the floor, a kiss as emblematic as any image anywhere, at any time, ever—an image that would follow us for the rest of our lives, would make us into modern-day icons. America’s Darlings would soon become the Whole World’s Darlings and there was nothing we could do about it.

  Not that we wanted to.

  Coach Bob rushed the mat and slapped us on our naked butts—whap, whap! “Benson! Leah! You did it! And your elbow was damn well perfect this time!”

  He could fuck my mom all he wanted. What, exactly, had I been so worked up about?

  So, what the hell, I kissed Coach Bob too.

  Debbie joined us, working her way in beside Coach Bob. There were tears in her eyes. “I told you!” she said, reaching for me, squeezing my breast, flicking my nipple. “You’re the best! The very best! I’ve already rented that penthouse suite!” It was too loud to hear the words, but I read her lips, oh yes—I read her lips!

  I kissed Debbie’s sweet, sweet lips too.

  Soon I’d be doing more.

  The noise level grew and grew, swelling around my chest, making my breastbone hum.

  “Look!” Benson yelled into my ear, pointing at the scoreboard.

  I looked. Then I broke into a thousand pieces of pure, unadulterated joy. Well, I would have if I could have. Because that’s what it felt like.

  I‘d won.

  We’d won.

  Let me tell you, winning a gold medal feels just like having an orgasm.

  A moment later—time was behaving strangely, it had to be more than the ten seconds it felt like—Benson and I stood on the podium wearing our dress uniforms, gold meda
ls draped over our chests, bouquets overflowing our arms, the Star-Spangled Banner rising in the arena and filling our souls.

  My heart beat so fast I thought I might faint.

  Benson knew. He always did.

  He found my hand under all those gardenias as we tried to sing along with our national anthem. His steady presence kept me from falling apart as the song reached its rousing conclusion. He squeezed my hand, hard.

  I squeezed back.

  “Hey, babe,” he whispered.

  “Hey,” I answered.

  Another orgasm.

  I barely noticed the Israeli team to our right and the Argentines to our left, but there was no way I could miss the cameras. Benson and I grinned and turned toward this reporter and that, giving the media what they wanted—even that Asshole Ryan Markham—even as my love and I talked to each other out of the sides of our mouths, giving each other what we needed.

  “I love you,” Benson said.

  “I love you too.”

  “We did it!”

  “We did.”

  He kissed me. And again.

  A second later—I told you time was acting strangely—we were outside the venue, drawn along in a jubilant crowd, many of whom wore Benson T-shirts. His fifteen family members! I lost my Benson for a while as he was passed from crying aunt to grinning cousin to ecstatic parent. My mother came out of nowhere and took my arm. She didn’t let go. Tears filled her eyes. “I guess you two practiced enough after all!”

  I laughed.

  She shoved her superphone in front of me. “Look! It’s when he swept you off your feet! They’re already calling it “The Kiss”!”

  I blinked. There we were, Benson and I, on that famous holographic poster in Times Square. In New York.

  “Wow!” I said, hugging her.

  Then Benson was back and our coaches were beside us again, prouder and happier than I’d ever seen them. After a while, Coach Bob made a subtle move and went to stand by my mother. He kissed her.

  And I didn’t even mind.

  Probably because I was getting one hell of a kiss from Debbie.

  “Hey, Leah!” said Benson. “Aren’t those your friends the rowers? They’re coming.”

  I nodded then used a gardenia bloom to swab tears from my eyes. It didn’t work very well. I pulled away from my mother and Debbie and Benson—just for the moment—and let the rowers envelop me in a testosterone-laced group hug that damn well gave me another orgasm.

  Winning a gold medal is nice.

  Believe me.

  Then the rest of the team was there, surrounding Benson and me, touching us, patting us, hugging us, kissing us, groping us. We’re a physical bunch of people, we sexual gymnasts, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Dr. Chung was there and Soraya, who was holding my knitting bag—she must have had it all along! She handed it to me then took it back when she saw my armload of flowers. She leaned in close. “He’s getting better, Leah! Jim talked to me this morning!”

  I hugged her, laughing through my tears, smashing a couple of dozen flowers.

  Then I turned back to my love, wondering if it were possible to die of joy.

  Surrounded by people who loved us, Benson and I held each other and wept.

  Hell yes, we won our gold medal.

  Was there ever any doubt?

  About Gail Bridges

  Gail Bridges is happiest when she’s working on a new story, typing away with a purring cat on her lap. She’s even been known to forget to eat when she’s writing a great scene—which never, ever happens in real life.

  When she’s not writing, Gail can be found in her metalworking studio, creating jewelry she sells at Fine Art Fairs. If she’s not making earrings or necklaces, she’s probably playing her classical guitar. Gail lives with her husband and six very demanding cats.

  Gail welcomes comments from readers. You can find her website and email addresses on her author bio page at www.ellorascave.com.

  Tell Us What You Think

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  Also by Gail Bridges

  Paint Job

  Ellora’s Cave Publishing

  www.ellorascave.com

  America’s Darlings

  ISBN 9781419945410

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  America’s Darlings Copyright © 2013 Gail Bridges

  Edited by Rebecca Hill

  Cover design by Caitlyn Fry

  Cover photography by Kruglov Orda, Tischenko Irina/Shutterstock.com

  Electronic book publication June 2013

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