Latin Submission

by Leo Barton

  'There were never any limits between us - nothing. He was as free with my body as I was with his.'

  'You never really said why I reminded you of Gerard,' I prompted.

  'Oh, what you said in the café about wanting to write something beautiful. It was so Gerard. Also you share the same tastes. I only have sex with very beautiful and very interesting men.'

  'And what happened to Gerard?'

  'Oh, Gerard is still alive, although he is in his seventies now. He wrote a very beautiful book about me. You see, one of the reasons I cannot write about my life with him is that he wrote about it so perfectly.'

  'What was the book called?'

  'Of course the book was called Madeleine. I was his madeleine, as you are mine, to some extent. Sex, so Gerard thought, takes us back to the beginning, sweeps us across space and time, reveals our true identity to ourselves. It is the fabulous moment of self-discovery, but only if we make love honestly, generously, willingly; if we bring pleasure to the totality of who we are, in all our contradictions of pain and pleasure. It is the joyous state of epiphanic self-realisation.'

  'Do you still see him?'

  'Yes, when I can. That is why I am a little depressed to be here for six months. I know that he desperately misses me. He writes such beautiful letters. I love him. He encouraged me to come here, promising me that the thought of seeing me again would keep him alive.'

  I looked at her through the darkness. She knew the question I wanted to ask her.

  'Yes, I still do make love with him. He doesn't have the strength that he did fifteen years ago, but he can still please me immensely. I still like to accept his seed in my mouth. I feel like I am swallowing him down: his life, his history, everything good about him. And he still knows how to discipline me, to punish me how I need to be punished.'

  'And what about your husband - does he know?'

  'No, of course not. He is a kind man, an interesting man, but his interest in sex is a little conventional. I love him in my own way, but he is not Gerard. He does not have the same life-force. I married him precisely because I knew that I could still continue seeing Gerard, that my husband would never suspect that he was more than my friend and mentor.'

  We fell asleep after talking, with her head resting on my chest, and when I awoke in the morning, like a dream - like a fantastic dream - Beatrice was gone.

  Chapter 6

  David called the next morning.

  'I'm stuck, Jonathan. I'm not going to be back until next week. They're flying me straight to Rio, and then on Sunday I'm in Bogota. It's too crazy, boy, too fucking crazy. I've been looking forward to seeing you and they put me through all this shit. Don't worry, I'll be back by next week.' His voice rasped down the line at breakneck speed, giving me no chance to interrupt him.

  To be honest, I hadn't given David much thought. I was more interested in the conversation that had preceded it: Andrea's invitation to visit her dance studio in San Isidro, on the northern outskirts of the city. I was glad that David, for whatever reason, wasn't going to be present.

  'Hang on until I get there. You're staying for another couple of weeks?' David continued.

  'Yes, I'll hang on, of course, but I was thinking of going travelling—'

  'Where to?' interjected David.

  'North, maybe. I quite fancy a look at Rio, or maybe Peru, or I was...' I was irritated that David had obviously forgotten my plans. I had written to him twice outlining my intention to stay in Buenos Aires for only a couple of weeks before heading off to explore the rest of the continent. Obviously I wasn't uppermost in his priorities.

  'Don't forget, I've got plans for you, my son,' he said, breaking in again in his mock-cockney accent, picked up in those prelapsarian days of easy fuck, before Marie and domesticity got their claws into me.

  'Plans?'

  'Hey, I've got to go now. They keep me busy, these bastards. Hang on in there!'

  When I returned to my room the maid was already there, the soiled sheets of my previous night's romp with Beatrice gathered together in the corner of the room. The maid wore a simple short red dress that showed off her luscious legs and the curved outline of her panties. I never know why women don't like their panty-outline to be seen. To me it looked very erotic as I stared at the delineated crescents of her pert bottom.

  This was a saucy girl, I suspected; with her impractical high heels already pushing out her rump, she seemed to arch her back a little further upward, so that if she was to lean any further over I would be able to glimpse a little of her knickers.

  She knew I was standing behind her, watching. She greeted me with a casual 'hola', before continuing her chores, her eyes remaining on mine much longer than civility required. As she continued sweeping each shove of her arm made the hemline of her dress sway, tantalisingly giving me a microsecond view of the tops of her thighs. She started to hum gaily, before breaking off to ask me in Spanish if I liked music.

  'Si, muchissimo.'

  'And dancing?'

  'Of course.'

  She stared at me and then slowly looked away, smiling to herself. She seemed to work very slowly, unnecessarily slowly.

  Eventually she gathered up the dirty sheets from the corner of the room and, with a cheery 'hasta luego' and another lingering smile, she was gone, closing the door behind her. I collapsed onto the bed, exhausted after my exhilarating night with Beatrice.

  San Isidro lay six or seven miles out from the centre of town. I took a ride of death with a grumbling, horn-tooting, lane-hopping, taxi-driver and arrived there at about three in the afternoon.

  This was a rich area: leafy, ostentatious, the same chaos of architecture but lower level, Spanish villas competing with mock Tudor. From what I had heard, the area was a strange mixture of artistic chic and retired military, old aristocracy and business tycoons, with a few wealthy ex-pats thrown in for good measure.

  The dance studio was located in a quiet tree-lined street. A huge whitewashed house with Georgian pretensions and enormous lattice windows stood before me, its grandeur making me double-check the address that Andrea had given me.

  I walked through a broad manicured lawn up to an imposing oak door, rang the bell and waited. An oldish distrustful maid, obviously expecting me as she asked no questions, led me into a luminous atrium. I followed her swift strides to a leather sofa at the back of the room where she motioned me to sit down.

  As I alternated between gazing at the decor - the glass ceiling, the walls decorated with Modernist paintings, the impressive chequered floor and so forth - and the window behind me, which gave a splendid view of a garden that stretched as far as a football field into the distance, I saw Andrea appear from a room to my left.

  'Jonathan!' she exclaimed, her arms stretching out to embrace me. She wore a light green dress which hugged her ample figure and which was cut low enough for me to see the parting of her abundant breasts. 'You got here okay?'

  'Yes, no problems. You look ravishing.'

  'Gracias, señor,' she said, self-consciously fluttering her long eyelashes. The green dress certainly suited her, setting off the honey-blonde of her hair.

  'Do you want me to wait?' I could hear the strident rhythm of a tango coming from the room behind Andrea.

  'Well, I thought you might like to watch. I am sure that you will enjoy the show,' she said teasingly. 'But first, tell me about the French girl.'

  I had already told Andrea about my success with Beatrice. I elaborated a little for her delectation, rounding off my tale by again expressing astonishment that, after the briefest of perusals, Andrea could infer the Frenchwoman's sexual tastes with such accuracy.

  'You know, Jonathan, sometimes I amaze myself. I think it is because I understand the sexual complexity involved. Is far too easy to divide the world into the submissive and the dominant: is mas subtil. Like me, maybe there can be elements of both. I
t helps that I am a dance teacher and therefore a student of movement and gesture. I saw how that girl reached for a book, saw how she flick through the passages. She was a submissive classico, but there are so many types. I have known powerful men who love to be dominated and others who love to dominate. Es muy complicado, but today I have for you... Never mind. You see for yourself.'

  She led me through a panelled door to the delightful wood-floored room where she had been giving her class. It was a fantastic room, with high decorative ceilings, and terracotta-painted walls. A chaise longue was at the far side, below a broad window which let in plenty of air and light.

  'Sit there,' she said, 'and wait.' She looked me over, a glint in her eye, before she left by a side door. From the other side I could hear the murmuring of whispering voices.

  Two minutes must have passed before the door reopened and Andrea entered with another gorgeous woman with jet-black hair tied at the back in a wooden band. She wore a simple and plain but elegant black dress, with high slits in the side that reached up to her stocking-tops. Her beautiful chest was slightly smaller than Andrea's, but still large in proportion to her narrow waist. Her legs were long and slender.

  She smiled at me a little coquettishly as she entered, revealing a lovely generous mouth and huge dark eyes.

  'This is Claudia,' said Andrea theatrically, as Claudia bowed slightly in my direction. 'Claudia, this is Jonathan.'

  'Encantado,' the young beauty said, offering her small hand to me. However encantado she was, she could not have been as enchanted as I was, gazing into the darkness of her eyes.

  Andrea turned to the sleek music system behind her, gently took Claudia by the hand and waited for the music to start. Both women stood silently and completely motionless.

  As the accordions began and then the strings followed, the women started dancing energetically to the pounding rhythm of a tango.

  I cannot describe in words how erotic it was to watch those two beauties dancing together. Andrea was obviously taking the male lead, Claudia expertly bending to the will of Andrea's body. Her flesh became pliant and then rigid, depending on the demands of the music. The movements of her limbs were dextrous and purposeful; Claudia's head was held erect and then, as Andrea forced her back seemingly with the force of her body, Claudia's head arched backward, showing the tensed sinews of her neck. Both women's breasts seemed to heave in unison with the throbbing beat of the strident music.

  At one stage of their little pas de deux, Andrea lightly clasped Claudia's buttock in her hand, as Claudia once more tossed her head back in melodramatic defiance of her mock lover's embrace. Then Claudia, raising her arm, grasped Andrea's hand in her own, before Andrea spun the young girl around the room, first in jaunty movements to the left and then the right, before completely twirling her around, giving me a tantalising glimpse of the fine lace embroidery of her black panties and the tawny skin of her thighs. The dance was highly arousing. I studied every swirl of their skirts, every agile movement of their arms and legs, every rhythmic thrust of their voluptuous bodies.

  As the music came to an abrupt halt, Claudia slid down Andrea's outstretched legs, seemingly placing the full weight of her torso onto her partner, before collapsing on the floor, her rigid hand reaching upward to clasp Andrea's thigh then her fingers sliding down to just above the knee, before slowly bowing her head, in what I assumed was some symbolic imitation of death.

  'Bravo,' I applauded, clapping as quickly and as loudly as I could. Both girls looked over to me, smiling and laughing, bowing and curtsying, interspersing their appreciation of my applause with bright smiles and kittenish chuckles.

  Andrea put her arm through Claudia's and walked over to me.

  'You were fantastic,' I enthused, still clapping.

  'I hope so. We've been practising for a long time.' Andrea was a little breathless after her exertion on the dance floor.

  'You are both astonishing.' My eyes flashed from one to the other, amazed to have had such a wonderful personal performance from two such virtuoso performers, two such sexy women.

  'Come on, let's have a drink,' Andrea suggested, as she began to get her breath back.

  Andrea led us through to another room, a living room of some sorts. It was smaller than the ballroom, with a plush red leather sofa and a fireplace. The lighting was more subdued, the curtains half-drawn. Claudia sat on an armchair by the unlit fire while Andrea went to fetch drinks from a table in the corner of the room. I was aware of Claudia's eyes resting on me as Andrea poured us both cognacs. I caught her glance momentarily before she awkwardly deflected her gaze.

  'What a place you have here,' I said, admiring the book-lined walls, the ornamental hearth, and the antique table from where Andrea fetched our drinks.

  'I do not always work here. It is normally down there, near the garden shed,' she said, laughing. 'This is the house of my father. He is away in Europe for a few months, so I have this place to myself.'

  'I thought you came from Cordoba.'

  'I do. But when my parents separated, my father came to live here. We are very close. He is very good to me. It is not every father who would build you a dance studio in his back garden,' Andrea said laughing, before excusing herself to go to fetch ice.

  'Do you speak English?' I asked Claudia, as soon as Andrea had absented herself.

  'A little only.' She answered my question demurely. 'I study for a few years in an academy, but I forget so much.' I noticed a gleam of perspiration on her throat, stretching down enticingly to the swell of her young breasts.

  'She can speak very good English, much better than me - only that she is modest,' Andrea said as she returned with the ice. 'No es timido, solamente modesto.'

  Claudia laughed, holding her cognac glass a little awkwardly, nervously.

  'What do you do, Claudia?'

  'Soy estudiante...'

  'In English, Claudia,' Andrea encouraged.

  'Lo siento. I am sorry,' she corrected herself. 'I am a student.'

  'Of the tango?'

  'Of law.' Her beautiful eyes flashed me the warmest and most inviting of smiles, as she momentarily lost her social discomfort.

  And so we passed an hour, chatting amiably. Andrea told me that Claudia was the best tango dancer she had ever taught and how over the last few weeks they had become such good friends. Claudia looked happy, although still a little nervous, obviously appreciative of the attention and respect the older woman gave her. Claudia, in her turn, told me that Andrea had been one of the best tango dancers of her generation - something David had never mentioned.

  We all began to laugh more easily, helped by the liberal measures of cognac that Andrea poured. Claudia lost something of her initial timidity. I told them both a little more about my life, about my relationship with Andrea's husband, my job and life in London - although I missed out some of the more recent dismal details.

  So the time passed pleasantly and the mood slowly changed. Andrea played some more tango music for us, enthusiastically commenting on the verities of each piece we heard. I wouldn't say that any of us were drunk; I wasn't - merely intoxicated by the grace and beauty of the two very different women who sat before me - but perhaps if Claudia hadn't been fuelled a little bit by booze, she wouldn't have got up to do an encore of their previous dance with Andrea.

  I watched, as amazed as I was before. The girls swirled and twirled before me, if less stridently than before, no less erotically.

  When the dancing stopped they fell together in a heap on the sofa, laughing again, smiling into each other's eyes. Andrea bent to kiss Claudia gently on her cheek. When she pulled away, she kept her arm hanging lazily around her shoulder.

  'You are very beautiful - muy hermosa, carina.'

  Claudia smiled at Andrea, her face open, her eyes wide in admiration of the older woman.

  'And you have a lovely body, señorina.' Andrea li
ghtly ran fingertips over the quivering breast of her voluptuous student.

  Claudia sat up, back straight. 'El señor!' she said, looking in my direction, surprised that her mentor should be so indiscreet with a man present.

  'Oh, I am sure he like your breasts, too,' Andrea said, laughing. Claudia flushed red with embarrassment.

  Andrea's arm was still around Claudia. She moved it slowly down the lithe girl's back. I sat next to Claudia, my cock hardening in my pants. She looked anxious, her newly gained confidence receding behind an edgy apprehension.

  'Relax, Claudia,' Andrea murmured hypnotically, but Claudia's body remained stiff - not as stiff as my erection, but stiff. 'Relax, carina.'

  However nervous the girl seemed, she made no attempt to remove Andrea's hand, which continued to stroke the small of her back.

  'No te gusta el señor?'

  'Si, me gusta.'

  'Es guapo, no?'

  'Si, es guapissimo,' Claudia said, looking into my face.

  So, she liked me and I was good-looking, but Andrea was going to have to do a little more if I was going to get my hands - and, my God, did I want to! - on her ravishing young body.

  'Entonces?'

  'No entiendo.' Claudia did not understand the situation, why she was being touched in such a way, and why the Englishman was looking at her so lustfully.

  'We like you, Claudia. We like your body. I would like to teach you something a little more interesting than the tango. Would you like to learn?' Andrea's open palm was now stroking Claudia's breast, brushing gently over her nipple. 'Would you like to learn?' Andrea repeated. The girl was breathing heavily.

  Claudia looked at her friend and then to me. Andrea continued with her seduction. 'You told me that you like to try new experiences...'