by Johnny Miles
exactly what Raúl wanted. To give in. To admit he loved the sex between them. The
incredible exchange of energy that flowed like molten lava through his veins, his
flesh, his brain even.
His heart raced as Raúl rolled him over. The blood pumped loudly in his ears,
and Bernardo was glad the teasing little voice was blotted from his mind, even if
only for a short time.
He felt more than heard Raúl's spit land on his hole. He felt Raúl pry his ass
apart, felt the man's face as he buried it deep in his buttocks. Felt that magnificent
tongue drilling wildly into him, as if possessed with a mind of its own.
The head of Raúl's cock, much smaller than his own but thick, pressing against
him. Bernardo buried his face in the pillow and screamed as Raúl unceremoniously
pushed as far as he could, without regard for the pain he was causing, and buried
himself balls-deep.
“You thought…we were finished. Didn't you?” Raúl said between gasps and
grunts. “You thought…once you paid me…that you could go…never have sex with
me…again.”
“No,” Bernardo heard himself say. He responded by lifting his ass to greet
every one of his forward thrusts. Despite what he wanted, Bernardo was amazed
once again that his body had a will entirely separate from his own.
Moments later, Raúl howled. Almost instantly, Bernardo moaned, his body
shivering and convulsing as he came, untouched, writhing beneath Raúl.
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As his breathing normalized, Bernardo heard the voice taunting with its little
laugh. Raúl pulled out and Bernardo gasped, stunned as always at the dull,
throbbing ache that followed.
“You came without touching yourself,” Raúl observed, feeling the head of
Bernardo's cock, his shaft, his balls. “Like a whore.” Raúl felt the damp spot on the
bed between Bernardo's legs.
In the moonlight, Bernardo watched as Raúl brought his hand up to his
mouth. He watched as Raúl, his neighbor in Spain, his wife's mortal enemy, and
Bernardo's very own weakness and cross to bear, licked and sucked on each of his
fingers, then his palm.
Bernardo watched as Raúl then lowered his hand to Bernardo's face and made
him lick as well.
“You know I own you, don't you?” Raúl said as he curled up against Bernardo.
“What?”
“I own you. Like I own my plantation. Like you own yours. Like we own our
slaves.”
“What are you talking about?”
“We belong to each other, Bernardo. Just think about it! Buying out all those
other dumb sons of whores in our joint venture. With our products and your
business, we could become one! All the profit would be ours,” Raúl hissed.
Bernardo could clearly see the other man's eyes. They looked as if they were
glowing.
“You're crazy, Raúl.”
“Am I? Then why do you not leave? I don't see you getting out of bed and
putting on your clothes.”
Bernardo said nothing, and Raúl chuckled malevolently.
“Now that you've realized how much happier you are with me, how much more
satisfied—now that you've admitted how much you enjoy sex with me—you'll never
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be able to go back to your pathetic little life or craving that whoring, self-righteous
woman you call a wife.”
Bernardo sat up and slapped Raúl's face.
“Don't you dare!” Bernardo whispered hoarsely as Raúl rubbed his cheek.
Bernardo hurriedly climbed out of bed and searched for his clothes while Raúl
laughed harder. He dressed while watching out of the corner of his eyes as Raúl
stopped long enough to reach for the second nearly empty bottle of rum. He lifted it
to his mouth, tilted his head back, and drained it.
In a fit of anger, Bernardo strode to the opposite side of the bed and yanked
the bottle away from Raúl's lips. He tossed it into the air deftly. The bottle spun,
and Bernardo grabbed at the neck, clutching it tightly.
He wanted so desperately to pull back and smash it down on Raúl's grinning
face. He lifted his arm.
“Do it,” Raúl taunted, his eyes glazed
For the briefest of moments, Bernardo thought he saw relief in Raúl's eyes.
“Do it!” Raúl hollered. Bernardo lowered his arm, appalled by what he had
wanted to do. He flung the bottle across the room where it smashed against the
dresser at the opposite end.
“You piece of shit!” Raúl laughed once more. “You think you have the balls to
kill me?”
But Bernardo didn't let him speak. He was tired of hearing the man's voice.
Tired of being pushed around, walked on, and forced through hoops like some little
dog performing parlor tricks. No more. Those days were over.
Without realizing what he was doing, Bernardo made a fist, pulled back, and
punched Raúl in the face. Something crunched, and despite the sudden pain in his
fingers, an almost sexual satisfaction filled him as he stormed out of Raúl's room,
out of his house, and out into the night.
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Chapter Five
Alonso knocked on the door of his father's bedroom. There was no answer. He
opened the door, expecting the room to be empty and the bed made.
But his father lay draped across the bed, still dressed, one leg on the floor.
Perturbed by the unusual behavior, Alonso entered the room and closed the
door behind him. He walked to the far side of the bed and looked down at his father.
The smell of rum on his father's breath wafted up at him.
Alonso wrinkled his nose.
He crossed to the other side of the bed and took off his father's boots. He then
lifted the man's legs onto the bed and repositioned him so he at least looked a bit
more comfortable and not like a rag doll that had been shot.
“Well,” Alonso said with a sigh, hands on his hips. “I guess we're not going to
visit the fields together like you said we would.” He turned and headed for the door.
“Don't you dare!” his father shouted suddenly.
Startled, Alonso stopped. He looked over his shoulder at his father, who had
turned and rolled to his side and begun to snore.
Alonso's brow was furrowed when he stepped into the kitchen. Cook and his
wife, Cosita, stood instantly. Dante, a small, spidery man who seemed to be all legs
and arms, rushed out of the pantry and clutched at Alonso's sleeve.
“Buenos días, señor! Come. Sit in the dining room. I'll bring you your
breakfast.” Dante tried to steer Alonso away from the kitchen table but he pulled
his arm from Dante's grasp.
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41
“No, thank you,” Alonso said and sat. The three slaves exchanged glances as if
uncertain how to react.
“Is…everything…all right?” Cosita asked, stepping cautiously toward her
young master.
“Yes, it's just…” Alonso trailed off, then looked up at them. “My father went
out last night. Did any of you hear him?”
They all shook their heads.
“He smelled of rum. Is there a bar on the island he might have gone to?”
Dante shuddered and made a face as if repulsed.
“What?” Alonso asked, turning from one to the other. “What is it?”
“Perhaps don de Rodrigo went to el Puerco Sucio?” Cook suggested.
“A most disgusting place!” Dante chimed in. “I don't think he went there. I
cannot picture don de Rodrigo there. Surely he went somewhere else.”
“Where could my father have gone, then? We don't make rum here, do we?”
“No, señor,” Cosita replied. “Only Velasco makes rum on the island.”
I might have known. Alonso gave a little smirk, then turned his attention to
Cook.
“Very well. Cook! Whatever you're making smells delicious. I would like some,
please.”
“Uh, señor? Wouldn't you rather have your breakfast in the dining room,”
Dante coaxed, “where I can bring it to you?”
But Cook had already piled a plate high with layers of fried ham, coddled eggs,
and several large biscuits. Cosita took the plate, laid it before Alonso with cutlery,
then puttered about to get him a large mug of fresh, hot coffee, and butter for his
biscuits.
Stomach growling, Alonso dived in with gusto while the others looked on in
obvious confusion.
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“Oh, Dante! Will you please go to the stable and have Augusto ready my horse?
I'm going to pay a visit to the fields. I want to see for myself how things are done at
Casa Rodrigo.”
* * *
Only a few hours past sunrise and already the sun was blazing. Sweat dripped
from every part of his body, and his pants clung to him. Arbol stood, stretched his
back, and wiped at his brow with the backs of his hands but more sweat soon
beaded on his forehead. It fell into his eyes and made them sting. It only served to
remind him of the tears he spilled the night before. He had been so sure that this
morning he would be working as a house slave instead of toiling in the fields with
the other slaves. And yet here he was, his heart full of disappointment.
A long shadow fell on him as he bent over and tied the bundles of chopped
sugarcane together. Arbol looked up and saw señor Perez on his horse. There was a
nasty grin on the overseer's face.
“Didn't pick you, did they?” Perez sneered. “Thought you could escape working
in the fields?”
Arbol felt the heat of embarrassment prickle up his neck and into his face. But
he did not reply. He turned his attention back to the bundles of cane.
“I told you there was no room in that pretty house for you,” Perez continued.
“You don't belong there. A dirty, ugly African like you belongs in the fields. Don't
know what you thought you were aspiring to.”
Arbol stopped what he was doing and stood with his back erect. He looked up
at Perez. There were so many things he wanted to say, so many things he imagined
doing, one of which was wrapping his very own whip around the man's neck.
“Qué pasa, Arbolito?” Perez teased. “Or perhaps we should start calling you
Arbolita?” Arbol's rage rose as the overseer wrung more pleasure from emasculating
him in front of the others.
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43
“Someday,” Arbol muttered despite himself. Around him, the other slaves
grumbled as if in warning. But Arbol was seething and could barely contain himself.
“Someday I will be in that saddle and prove I'm a better man than you.” He
immediately gulped when he realized what he had said. He saw the whip at the
overseer's side and the pistol at the other, ever at the ready. He'd seen what had
happened to other slaves when they reacted without thinking when coaxed into a
brawl. It was bad enough when they refused to cater to the white man's whim.
Perez sat, stunned, mouth agape. He shook his head and sputtered.
“You? You? What!” Perez grabbed at the whip, unfurled it, then flung his arm
back. Arbol flinched.
“Oye! Qué pasa aquí?” What's going on here?
Arbol was pleased to see a startled Perez turn to Alonso and have to rein in his
anger and indignation. The other slaves turned back to their work immediately and
lapsed into ignoring what was happening around them.
“Don Alonso!” Perez exclaimed. He chuckled nervously. “This son of a whore
was trying to—”.
“Trying to…?” Alonso queried. As he dismounted, he twirled his hand in the
air as if trying to pull the words from Perez. Perez remained where he was, a blank
look on his face.
Alonso patted his horse, then went to Arbol, who grinned from ear to ear.
Alonso was unable to resist grinning back. The joy on Arbol's face was infectious.
But what was almost as compelling was Alonso's sudden desire to lick the
sweat from Arbol's glistening body. He could just imagine the salty taste as his long
tongue slurped from the base of Arbol's neck to just below an earlobe.
Alonso looked into Arbol's face and did his best not to gaze down the broad
shoulders, the sculpted, massive chest with areolae the size of gold coins. He tried
not to notice Arbol's broad biceps or the taut, ribbed stomach that led down to…
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No! Alonso's erection began to fill inside his pants. This was neither the time
nor the place.
But what was that? Was Arbol also getting hard?
Alonso licked his lips and forced himself to turn around. He faced Perez, who
was still sitting atop his horse.
“Looked to me like you were taunting this man.” Alonso spoke calmly.
“What? How can you say that? This insolent slave was trying to provoke me!
He was—” Perez continued, but Alonso put up his hand.
“No need to lie. I'll be speaking to my father about this. He has a strict policy
against mistreating our slaves. Or baiting them,” Alonso added when he saw that
Perez was about to protest.
“Now, if you'll excuse me.” Alonso went back to his horse, picked up the reins,
and handed them to Perez. The overseer took them grudgingly.
“I'm learning all there is to know about Casa Rodrigo,” Alonso continued. He
rolled up his sleeves and stood beside Arbol. “I will need you to take my horse back
to the stable.”
“But…but…” Perez sputtered.
“That will be all, Perez. Thank you.” Alonso held a hand up to blot out the sun.
He made sure to maintain eye contact with the overseer. “I know you'll take the
poor beast back promptly. No animal should be out here in this heat.”
Alonso turned, dismissing the overseer. He looked at Arbol, who was still
grinning.
“Now,” Alonso said, his tone completely different. He looked at Arbol. “Show
me what you were doing.” Behind them, Alonso could hear Perez as he rode away
muttering, pulling Alonso's horse behind him.
“Tell me why you tie the bundles together.” Alonso scratched his head.
“They're easier to carry to the wagons, señor.”
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45
“But then you have to walk to the wagons, walk back, and someone has to
untie the bundles once they get to the distillery. Is that right?” Behind them, other
slaves were stopping. Alonso looked at them and realized they were hesitant to ask
him and Arbol to move. He stepped out of th
e way, pulling Arbol with him.
“I believe so. But I only work in the field,” Arbol said with a shrug. “I have
never been in the distillery. I don't even know how they get the sugar out.”
“How would it be if we had wagons moving alongside you?” Alonso continued,
ideas starting to turn in his head. “That way you wouldn't need to tie the cane into
bundles. You could just toss it up once you chopped it down.”
“But, señor,” Arbol countered. “Less cane would then have to be planted to
make room for the wagons.”
“Hmmm. Yes, I see your point.” Alonso rubbed his chin.
Father will not be pleased to lose money by planting less sugarcane. I'll have to
show him how much more efficient it would be in the long run. Especially if we add
another crop. And if I can persuade him to make our own brand of rum and
molasses from the unused portion of sugarcane, the possibilities could be endless!
Alonso grinned absentmindedly, looking past Arbol.
“Señor?”
Alonso snapped back into the present. Arbol looked at him with a furrowed
brow. “Is the heat too strong for you?”
“What? Nonsense!” Alonso wormed his way back into the ordered lines of
slaves with Arbol beside him. Within minutes, he was working among them as if he
had been doing the work all along. Arbol smiled.
Alonso was excited to discuss his ideas with his father. But he would wait until
he'd had time to see the entire operation before making any suggestions on
improving efficiency, profit, and conditions at Casa Rodrigo.
It wasn't long before Alonso began to sweat profusely. He took his shirt off,
aware that Arbol and the other slaves were watching him. Purposely, Alonso
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mopped at his body with the soft cotton shirt, then wrapped the sleeves around his
head like a Moor.
“Gracias, señor,” Arbol muttered after a moment.
“For what?”
Arbol looked around as if to make sure no other slaves were listening. If they
were, they pretended not to notice. Arbol leaned in.
“For…defending me.”
Alonso licked at the sweat forming on his upper lip, then gave Arbol a lopsided