Lovers and Gamblers

by Collins, Jackie

  ‘Who is he?’ she had asked Louis. ‘And why is he so rude?’

  Louis had grinned. ‘He wouldn’t be so rude if he knew who you were. He only goes out with girls who have money. He’s a trouble-maker.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘School. He had a scholarship there. Nobody liked him. He is not one of us. His family are nothing.’

  She had tried to ask Louis more, but he changed the subject, and took her off to dance, and she had watched Nino with the American girl, whispering to her, and nuzzling into her neck.

  Cristina had not been sorry when she heard three days later that the American girl and her parents had been robbed of thousands of dollars worth of jewellery and travellers cheques.

  She had not seen Nino again for two months, until one day she was out shopping with her friend, Marie Therese, when she saw him striding down the street. ‘Hello,’ she had said, and he had stared at her with those black intense eyes and said, ‘Who are you?’

  She had started to stammer. ‘Cristina Maraco, don’t you remember, we met at the carnival ball – I was with Louis Baptista. You were with an American girl. You must remember?’

  His eyes had strayed to Marie Therese who was extraordinarily pretty. ‘I remember,’ he said, staring straight at Marie Therese. ‘You girls coming to the beach this afternoon?’

  ‘Yes,’ Cristina replied quickly, ‘where will you be?’

  He shrugged. ‘Ipanema.’

  ‘Whereabouts?’

  ‘You’ll find me’ – one last penetrating stare in Marie Therese’s direction –‘if you want to.’ He strode off.

  ‘Who was that?’ Marie Therese asked, her cheeks flushed pink. ‘My parents would never let me go to Ipanema beach on my own. Who is he, Cristina?’

  ‘Not a very nice type,’ Cristina said dismissively; and as soon as she could get rid of Marie Therese she had rushed home and changed into her briefest tanga, and rushed off to Ipanema, where it took her two hours to find him.

  ‘Where is your friend?’ he had asked.

  ‘She had work to do,’ Cristina explained. ‘She is studying French with her fiancé.’

  Later, when they knew each other better, they had laughed about Cristina making up a fiancé for Marie Therese. ‘But it was always you I wanted,’ Nino would say mildly. ‘Always you.’

  He was with friends at the beach. A different class of people than Cristina was used to. One girl paid particularly close attention to Nino. She kept on grabbing his leg and trying to pull him down on the sand beside her. He resisted her advances and indulged in polite conversation with Cristina. What did she do? Where did she live? When she told him who her father was, he said, ‘The Jorge Maraco?’ After that he took her swimming, and spoke sharply to the girl who touched his leg, and they walked along the beach and he held her hand.

  Later, when she said she had to go, he had asked when he could see her again. They had made a date for the following Friday, and she had rushed home on winged feet, spent a boring evening with Louis, and lived only for Friday.

  From that day on her life had changed. Nino had taught her so much. He had explained about poverty, about how the rich had everything, leaving nothing for the poor. He had taken her on his motor scooter for a tour around the favelas – a shanty town of rotten shacks on a hill overlooking the affluence of the more fortunate. She had seen filthy babies playing in the mud, old people so thin that their bones stuck through their ragged clothes. Mothers with ten children struggling to see they got one decent meal a week.

  She had been horrified.

  ‘One day,’ Nino assured her, ‘we will change all this. My life is dedicated to seeing equality amongst our people.’

  He took her to visit his grandmother, a wizened old woman who was his only living relative. She, too, lived in a shack. She had no teeth, hardly any hair, a skin disease. She looked a hundred years old.

  ‘You would not believe she is only fifty,’ Nino said. ‘That is what a life of poverty has done for her. My mother died giving birth to me in that same shack. Now perhaps you will begin to understand my bitterness.’

  That night Cristina cried herself to sleep.

  Two days later Nino asked her if she would be willing to help.

  ‘What can I do?’ she had asked, ‘I have some old clothes…’

  ‘We don’t want your charity,’ Nino had spat with a venomous anger.

  ‘Well… what?’

  ‘Your parents have friends. People with a lot of money. Do you think they would feel it if they were relieved of some of their possessions?’

  Cristina was startled. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You know their houses. You could find out their movements…’

  ‘No! I couldn’t. I know what you are asking me to do and it wouldn’t be right.’

  ‘All right.’ He had taken her in his arms and kissed her. ‘I respect your feelings. I won’t ask you again.’

  He lived in a small one-roomed apartment. They had spent many hours there together. She allowed him certain privileges – privileges she would never have allowed Louis. They would kiss, and caress, and sometimes she would allow him to remove her sweater and bra. She never permitted him to go further than that.

  ‘I want to sleep with you, Cristina,’ he had told her that evening. ‘We are not children playing silly little games. I need a real woman.’

  ‘It’s impossible,’ she had replied. ‘I couldn’t… It would be shameful. My father would never forgive me.’

  ‘Your father need not know. And as for being shameful – God – I thought I had changed your mind – opened up your head – but if you can still harbour petty bourgeois ideas like that…’ He trailed off in disgust.

  ‘I have to wait,’ Cristina said hesitantly.

  ‘Until when?’ snapped Nino.

  She was blushing. ‘Until I marry.’

  To her surprise Nino burst out laughing. He leapt off the bed and said, ‘Time to go home.’

  She was relieved. She thought he had dropped the subject. But the next day when he did not turn up at the time they had arranged to meet, she was worried. She waited three days for some word from him. He did not contact her. In desperation she went to his apartment. He opened up the door wearing only jeans which he was busy doing up. He looked surprised to see her and blocked the door.

  ‘Where have you been?’ she asked accusingly.

  He shrugged. ‘Around.’ From behind him there came a woman’s laugh, and then the woman herself. She was half wrapped in a sheet. She hugged Nino from behind, and said in a teasing voice, ‘Come back to bed, sugar plum, Pussy’s lonely…’

  Cristina’s face blazed red. Nino shrugged. ‘I am a man…’

  Cristina had left. And after two days of crying and thinking things over she had made up her own mind.

  She dropped Nino a note asking him to meet her.

  He had turned up at the appointed time looking better than ever. He was casual and friendly, as if nothing had happened. They talked. She told him of her decision, and hand in hand they strolled back to his apartment.

  She didn’t smoke, but he made her puff on a special cigarette which he said would relax her. She was so nervous. But he was calm and in charge.

  He undressed her slowly, mouthing compliments about her body. Then he made her lie on the bed and watch while he stripped off. She could hardly breathe with excitement. She had seen him nearly naked on the beach so many times, naked except for the tiny bikini shorts he wore. Now he was throwing off his shirt, unzipping his jeans, and walking towards her.

  She gasped. She had seen men with no clothes on before. Her father in the shower once, pictures in a magazine.

  But never like this, never so turgid and swollen. It was like a weapon.

  He lay beside her and started to kiss her. She was used to that part, even the part when he brought his head down to her breasts. But she wasn’t used to the feel of his penis so hard and insistent on her leg.

  ‘Hold it,’ he
instructed her.

  She did so, ridden with guilt at the thought that what she was doing was wrong.

  ‘Stroke it, here – I’ll show you how.’

  She rubbed it in the way he told her to, and he started to groan – low animal noises that both disgusted and excited her. Then he pushed her quickly away, and pulled open her thighs, and thrust his head down between them. She froze, unable to move, not wanting to move. His tongue began to open her up, probing, investigating. Until at last she too started to make her own animal noises.

  ‘Are you ready to try?’

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘Yes, yes, yes…’

  He moved his head up, and reached for a package beside the bed. ‘I’m going to wear protection,’ he told her matter of factly, ‘but I don’t usually like to. It spoils it for me. Next week I’ll send you to a doctor I know and he’ll fix you up.’

  It crossed her mind that he was very experienced, but then he was a man – why shouldn’t he be?

  He rolled the thin tube of rubber over his penis. ‘Bring your knees up, try to relax,’ he told her. ‘It may hurt a little, but only the first time, only this once.’

  She looked into his eyes. His deep, brooding, intense eyes. ‘I’m frightened…’ she began. But he wasn’t listening, he was on top of her and forcing his way between her legs. Thrusting, pushing… It hurt in a pleasurable way.

  ‘Relax’, he kept on saying, ‘just relax.’

  She began to make more animal noises, and a feeling of tenseness built up inside her. A tenseness that wanted to burst right out.

  ‘I love you, Nino, I love you,’ she cried out.

  He was silent. Sweat beading his forehead. He balanced his weight on his arms, and churned in and out of her.

  She was gasping now, reaching for the climax. Reaching… Reaching…

  Then she was caught up in something so pleasurable that she could not control herself. Her legs twisted themselves around his back, her nails raked into his skin. ‘Nino, Nino, Nino…’ she yelled, ‘Niiiinnno…’

  It was over for her. The strength flooded from her body. She felt positively euphoric.

  Nino was pumping into her harder and harder. His eyes were closed. His mouth set in a thin line. Then he too reached his orgasm. ‘Rich bitch!’ he screamed. ‘Rich capitalist bitch!’ He collapsed on top of her, groaned, rolled off, turned his back.

  She lay very still. She felt so good.

  She turned and studied the outline of her lover’s ass. So tight and firm. So much nicer than hers. Gently she put her hand on it. He rolled to face her.

  ‘That was wonderful’, she sighed. ‘Why didn’t you tell me it would be like that?’

  ‘It usually isn’t,’ he replied. ‘Are you sure this is your first time?’

  She giggled. ‘Of course, silly. When can we do it again?’

  That had all taken place six weeks previously. Six glorious weeks of what it was like to be a woman.

  Cristina lay spreadeagled in the warm water of the swimming pool. Nino had never said he loved her, but she was sure he did. He would tell her in his own good time. She had proved that she loved him beyond doubt. She had told him about her parents’ friends, the Von Cougats. She had drawn him a map of their house, and pinpointed the safe and alarm system control. She had also told him of a ball they would be attending, and Nino and his friends had acted without hesitation. The Von Cougats had been relieved of over a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of jewellery.

  Cristina had understood. Nino was right, the Von Cougats wouldn’t even miss it.

  ‘We need as much money as we can get,’ Nino told her. ‘With money we can buy power – we can buy the instruments of terror – we can force the rich to listen to us.’

  ‘Yes’, agreed Cristina, although she really didn’t understand what he was talking about.

  Nino was a member of some mysterious organization. He attended secret meetings, and talked about his ‘leaders’ with an air of reverence.

  When Cristina asked about it, he silenced her with the words, ‘Not yet. When you are ready I’ll take you to a meeting.’

  When would that be? He wouldn’t tell her.

  ‘Soon,’ he would tell her, ‘we will have enough money to start our campaign. Then you will see some changes in this city – then you will see the capitalist pigs brought to their knees.’

  Cristina had nodded. All that mattered to her was Nino. As long as she had him she didn’t care what happened.

  Enough thinking. She leapt out of the pool and ran into the house. The door to her parents’ bedroom was firmly closed.

  If they only knew what she had been up to… She shuddered at the thought. They would lock her in the house and never let her out again!

  * * *

  Evita stretched and sighed. There was no getting away from it, her husband was a selfish lover. She could hear him singing happily in the shower. Jorge Maraco.

  How surprised everyone had been when he had chosen her as his bride. It had taken years before his friends had accepted her. Now her early days of poverty seemed like a bad dream. It was almost as if her life had begun the day she had set eyes on Jorge.

  She had not been a disappointment to him. She had come to his bed a virgin, and he had been the only man she had ever slept with. Although it was not for want of other men trying – she had often received secret notes and phone calls from Jorge’s so-called friends. She had turned them all down. She had been absolutely faithful. Except… She blushed at the memory. One lapse in eighteen years of marriage. Her blush deepened. One lapse…

  Three years earlier Jorge had taken her to Acapulco. There was a film festival in progress, and the town had been filled with movie stars, directors, and producers. Jorge appeared to be on nodding terms with everyone. He loved the gaiety and excitement. Evita was somewhat intimidated by it all. She encouraged Jorge to go out and about, attending receptions and screenings, whilst she stayed mostly at the hotel, lying under a large umbrella beside the swimming pool.

  It was during this time she had struck up a friendship with the American film star Doris Andrews. Doris’s husband was in the entertainment business and he too seemed to be out all day. Doris and Evita became close friends, sharing gossip, ordering long cool Planters Punch together, exploring the tourist shops.

  Evita had never suspected that Doris was anything but completely normal. Until one day, returning from a shopping trip, they had both collapsed exhausted from the heat in Doris’s suite. They had lain side by side on the large bed, giggling, laughing. Doris had slipped off the pink muumuu she was wearing. It had seemed perfectly natural, after all it was hot, so Evita had slipped out of her beach dress also.

  They lolled on the bed clad only in panties.

  ‘What lovely breasts you have,’ Doris had said, and she had leaned over and touched them and murmured, ‘So full, so firm.’

  Evita had smiled. Her breasts were lovely. She was proud of them.

  ‘I wish mine were better,’ Doris had complained, cupping her own small boobs. ‘What do you think of them?’

  Evita hadn’t really thought about them at all. But she looked, and noted the erect nipples, and noted that her nipples were also extended. And it had seemed perfectly natural when Doris had started to stroke and caress her.

  One lapse…

  And she had not repeated it. She had insisted to Jorge that they flew home that very evening. He had been surprised, but hadn’t argued. He never argued with her.

  Jorge emerged from the bathroom, a towel tied round his middle. ‘I spoke to Cristina,’ he said. ‘I told you we have nothing to worry about. She is a good girl. It is Louis we have to worry about. He tried to take liberties with her. She refused him. That is why she sees different friends now.’

  ‘But who are her new friends? She never brings them home, we know nothing about them…’

  ‘If it will make you happy I’ll tell her we must meet them.’

  ‘Yes. I think we must.’

  �
��Of course.’ He dropped the towel and approached his wife. His penis was erect and ready.

  Just once Evita wished he would use his tongue instead. Doris Andrews had used her tongue…

  ‘Evita!’ Jorge sighed, positioning himself above her. ‘My darling Evita!’

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Melanie King was still in New York. If Paul knew, he would be furious. She had taken elaborate precautions to make sure that he didn’t find out. His only concern was the children, she didn’t kid herself on that count.

  She phoned nanny and made up a mass of lies as to why Nanny should say she was back in London if Mr. King phoned.

  Nanny sniffed her disapproval. ‘About my time off…’ she began.

  ‘You can have two weeks to visit your mother when I get back,’ Melanie promised rashly.

  ‘Very well, Mrs. King.’

  Melanie had hung up relieved. That took care of that end of things. She had herself to take care of. She was twenty-eight years old, and she wasn’t getting any younger. Paul was dull and boring. She had thought when they married that being Al King’s sister-in-law would bring a lot of excitement into her life. It had brought nothing of the sort. It had brought a boring life stuck in a house next to boring Edna – and it just wasn’t good enough.

  She had come to New York determined to have a good time before returning home. She hadn’t counted on running into Manny Shorto again. Now that she had…

  She had first met Manny eleven years ago. She had been seventeen, pretty, innocent, and stupid.

  Manny Shorto, the famous American comedian.

  Eleven years ago he had seduced her, used her, tricked her, trapped her.

  She had been one of the dancers on the television spectacular he had come to England to star in. He had promised her the earth, delivered her three mediocre screws, and flown back to America leaving her confused and pregnant.

  She had been forced to sleep with two film extras and a camera operator to get enough money together for an abortion. Then, a few months later she had met Paul King. Without hesitation – when he asked – she had married him. She had never loved him. She had always expected something better to be just around the corner.