The Santero

by Kim Rodriguez

  “Rafa!” She called out when I changed the pace, dexterously positioning her under me so that one of her milky, impeccably feminine legs draped over my shoulder and the other rested on my hip. In positions like this I could easily reach what I knew was the entrance to her womb, so it was rare for me to be so aggressive, but tonight, acting on instinct, I chased her further than ever before.

  “Que quieres, mi amor?” I asked, my eyes closed. I didn’t look at her because it felt right to go by feel. “What is it, my love?” With her hands on my arms, I continued the siege of her body, looking for that little circle inside a circle I’d just felt with my fingers, willing it to me, commanding it to open. With a final, almost imperceptible shift of my hips, I found it and buried myself there. “Te duele?” I asked, consumed by the task at hand. Does it hurt?

  “No,” she gasped. “But why does it feel so different?”

  “Because this is how I’m going to get you pregnant.” I answered her question without thinking, but my words had a profound effect on her, and as she gasped and threw her head back, she arched and moaned my name like never before. I kept up a steady rhythm, and even when she got excited and started to change the pace, I wouldn’t let her. “Be patient,” I murmured in her ear.

  “Oh my god, it’s too much,” she said, whipping her head from side to side.

  “It’s not.” I opened my eyes and saw that she was flushed, her face set in a slight frown. “Let me do what I’m supposed to do.” It was then that she exploded, her muscles constricting around me so violently that it was almost painful, bringing about in me an orgasm so powerful that it could have come all the way from my spine. With one hand at the top of her head to keep her from sliding up, I emptied myself into her with the satisfaction of a man who, having experienced the ultimate physical joy, knows he can die in peace when the day comes.

  I watched as her face contorted into expressions of pleasure and pain, observing the peculiarities of her eroding consciousness, especially the way she grabbed her own neck as if to remind herself to breathe. She was dainty underneath me, her skin so beautifully rosy and bright from her orgasm that she would have reminded me of a well-fucked fairy princess if they existed. Her sweet innocence brought out the beast in me, so I started talking to her, with our well established understanding that she’d stop me if I crossed the line.

  “You want another man to see how hard I make you come, don’t you? To witness how beautiful you are in this moment?” She was coming around again at the sound of my voice, a half smile on her lips.

  “Fine, but your body is for me. To carry my children.” I made her look at me by squeezing the leg that was slowly sliding off my shoulder onto the bed.

  “I know, Rafa,” she said, her delicate fingers spread out on the sheets. A flash of her red fingernails against his skin came and went, causing a wave of vertigo that sickened me to the core. Not only was I glad I’d left him there to die, I should have finished him off while I had the chance. The bastard had actually tried to take her by force.

  “Are you alright?” she asked, her face full of worry. “You look ill.”

  “It makes me sick to think of anyone else inside you, making you do something you didn’t—I’d go to a very dark place, Amada.” It wasn’t a threat or bravado. I was thinking aloud, fearful of what would become of me if pushed to the limit. I’d turn savage and seal my own fate in the blink of an eye for her.

  “Then don’t,” she said, reaching for me, “because it’ll never happen.” Her voice was soft and alluring, ground down to almost nothing from the way I’d turned her body inside out. It should always be that way.

  “Not while I’m alive,” I said, more to myself than her. I held her a few minutes in silence, floating in the intoxicating sensation of our bodies together again.

  It was incredibly tempting to fall asleep just like this, but knowing I had to make one more call, I kissed her and went to the chair I’d slept in all week. I recalled how many times I’d imagined her on her knees, sucking me as if I were the last piece of hard candy in the world, only to wake and find that I was alone in a dark room by myself. Not tonight. She sat up in bed and watched me, curious as to what I was up to.

  “Put on a robe and go downstairs.” I took the phone from the table beside the chair and started scrolling through my messages. “I’m hungry. Cut up a fruta bomba from the fruit bowl on the kitchen counter, then bring it up and feed us.”

  “A what?” she asked.

  “A papaya.”

  “So you do want me to cook!” She smiled, her long running suspicions confirmed. “I knew it—”

  “Do it, Amada,” I said sternly. “Then I’ll fuck you again. Think about that while you’re slicing the fruit.”

  I pretended that I wasn’t watching her out of the corner of my eye as she walked to the closet and slipped on one of her thin robes, this one the color of ripe blackberries. Normally I was the one who fetched her things, especially food, but tonight we were redrawing the boundaries, establishing that yes, I’d cater to her most of the time, but on those nights I wanted her on her hands and knees for me, I damn well expected to get it. She’d probably run into one of the guards, who would remove himself to another room if he had any self-preservation instincts at all. On her way out, she gave me a strange look that I ignored, and then off she went. Hopefully she’d come back primed and ready for round two before a long, uninterrupted night’s sleep, but in the meantime, I called Sal to check on Alex and the club. Just as the phone started to ring, I noticed a bit of blood on my finger, probably from when I removed the IUD. Elated, I went to the closet and found a handkerchief to wipe it on, then hid it in the pocket of a pair of pants. I’d have to come back for it later because if Amada knew what I was planning to do with it, she’d have a fit. Sal answered just as I turned on the bathroom faucet to wash my hands.

  “Hola, amigo!” yelled Sal. Even thought it was only ten, it sounded like the party was in full swing already, and after bringing me up to speed on all of the nightly routines I decided to go ahead and broach the sensitive subject of Lisa.

  “Hey, can you go in my office and close the door a minute?” I could hear the din of the nightclub in the background rise and fall as he walked through the rooms and finally the silence of my office. From somewhere in the house came a male voice, followed by Amada’s laugh. I dried my hands on the towel and stopped to listen at the door before settling back in the chair.

  “OK, I’m here,” he said, slightly out of breath. “Everything’s exactly the way you left it. The place is packed, but no problems so far.”

  “What’s Alex doing?” My eyes went to the open door at the sound of laughter from the kitchen again. I couldn’t believe those two were still with her down there.

  “He’s turning into quite the player. He’s working the door tonight flirting with every skirt that comes in.”

  “Very good. Are they flirting back?” I asked. Alex’s mental and physical transformation had been phenomenal since I’d changed him over to work security with Sandro. Thanks to his daily training at the boxing club, he was getting bigger and more fit every day, a far cry from the scrawny, self-conscious kid who’d come to us for help.

  “Definitely, but I think he’s got himself a little girlfriend, a nice girl named Aliana. I think he said she was half Cuban and half Puerto Rican.”

  “Nice. That’s a good combination,” I said, thinking of how pretty she must be. “Sal, sit down. I need to talk to you about Lisa.” I looked out at the panorama of the bay and the Miami skyline, one of the most spectacular views I’d ever seen in my life, and here it was in my own bedroom. “You know I’d do anything for you, but she can’t live or work at Madrina’s anymore.”

  “What? Why not?” The phone shifted, likely because he was already upset, which made me feel terrible.

  “She’s the one who let the redhead in and then called Amada.”

  “That can’t be right,” he said in disbelief. “How do you know?”r />
  “Amada told me tonight. Lisa was there when Mauricio told us Amada had received a call to come to the club. We were all trying to figure out what had happened, but she still didn’t speak up and say she was the one who made the call. I’m not sure if Lisa was the one who put something in my coffee or if she just allowed the redhead to do it, but for damn sure she lied, so I can’t trust her anymore. She let a stranger into our circle, and a very dangerous one at that. I know you’re in love—”

  “Rafa, if she did that to you and Amanda, we’re over. I do care for her, but I don’t want someone capable of that kind of deceit around any of us, and it would mean I’m not the one she wants, anyway,” he said grimly. I had to give Sal credit. He was a smart kid with a good head on his shoulders, and as much as he might enjoy Lisa in bed, he already knew the difference between a sexy woman and a life partner. At his age I wouldn’t have.

  “I’m very glad to hear you say that because I’m worried for you, too. You always have a place with me Sal, but if you’re with her, you have to live somewhere else. She’s out tonight. I’ll pay for a hotel until she makes permanent living arrangements, but she might be better off going back to the ship.”

  “I understand,” he said, letting out a long sigh. “I’ll get her to tell me the truth.”

  “You do what you need to do, buddy, but I’ve made my decision.” I knew he was hurt, but there was nothing I could do, so after a short pause I asked him if there was anything else that couldn’t wait until tomorrow.

  “A lady named Mirtha came in and left a big envelope for you. She wants a consulta as soon as possible. There’s also a few other appointments this week.”

  “Leave Mirtha’s number on my desk. Anything else?”

  “That nasty little delivery from the farm came in today. Goddamn that is so disgusting. Sorry, bro, but I’m not opening it.”

  “I’ll take care of it, Sal. Put the box on the floor in my office.” I was about to hang up when I remembered one more thing. “Oh, can you get me a good tattoo artist? Maybe Piraña knows someone. I know they prefer to work in their own shops, but see if you can get one out to Madrina’s.”

  “For you?” he asked, intrigued. “Sure. What are you getting?”

  “An armband. I’ll have a sketch ready by tomorrow.”

  “Huh. I’m surprised, most doctors—”

  “It’s for religious purposes.” I wasn’t going to get into it, but he was totally wrong about doctors not having tattoos. In fact, during a short breakup with Irina I’d dated one in Caracas with a very sexy bird on the back of her shoulder. To this day, every time I saw a colorful parrot with a long tail, I thought about her.

  “Can I get one too? Not an armband, something else.”

  “Of course. Set it up,” I said. “And let me know what you decide to do about Lisa. She goes to a hotel tonight. No more access to Madrina’s and especially not the office.”

  “Got it,” he said, trying to hide his disappointment.

  “Take it easy, Sal. The right one is out there for you.”

  The call to Sal had taken longer than I anticipated, so after I’d cleared off the bed I was just about to go downstairs to see what Amada was doing when she rounded the corner of the bedroom carrying a tray, her robe dangerously slack. Instead of the sexy mood I’d hoped for, the look on her face was one of pure exasperation, bordering on distressed. As she came closer, I noticed that the front of her robe was soaked and stuck to her skin, the ends of her hair just as wet and tacky.

  “Mamita,” I said rising, “what happened?” The only thing she’d brought up with her was a long, sharp knife and two whole papayas that were about to roll off.

  “I made a fool of myself downstairs.” She set the tray down on the table beside the chair, completely unaffected by the copious amounts of fruit juice dripping down the sides on to her expensive French furniture. There were dark, round papaya seeds everywhere, even on her.

  “What is this?” I couldn’t stop staring. She really was an absolute mess, her pretty silk gown ruined. I knew better than to laugh at her, but damned if it wasn’t difficult.

  “I tried to cut them up, but these horrible little balls went everywhere, and the whole thing was slippery as hell. The damn thing kept rolling off the counter, so I threw it all away.” She slid down to the floor beside the chair, far more upset than she should have been over a piece of fruit. “You wanted sexy fruit and I ruined it. I don’t know why I can’t do anything right in the kitchen.”

  “Sexy fruit.” I went and grabbed a towel from the closet, then set it down beside her, placing the sopping wet wood tray on top. “I like that.”

  “I’ll never be able to cook for you,” she said, unreasonably embarrassed. I’d never understand why she was so hard on herself.

  “Has anyone ever taught you?” I sat down beside her, lured by the smell of papaya juice all over her, as if she weren’t delicious enough. “Have you ever taken the time to teach yourself?”

  “No,” she said, watching me as I put the papaya in the center of the board.

  “Then why would you know how? It’s an acquired skill, like flying an airplane or playing an instrument. If it bothers you so much, then learn. That’s what I would do.” I kissed her temple and stopped at that, pretty sure I could wait at least another five minutes before licking the nectar off her neck and chest. “For starters,” I said, holding up the long boning knife, “this is practically a machete. Pick a smaller one next time.”

  “OK.” She started to calm down and pay attention, and like all good teachers, she was clearly a good student, too.

  “And I assume you washed them. You wouldn’t feed us dirty fruit, would you?” I gave her my most serious look.

  “I didn’t,” she said, mortified, changing to a cross legged position beside me.

  “Well, that was a trick question. I wash it all as soon as it comes in the house, so it’s fine.” I gave her a playful wink and turned the papaya sideways on the board. “This is a big one, so let’s cut it in half and stand it on its side to peel it. A flat edge is more stable.” I worked slowly so that she could see what I was doing. “This is a good way to peel potatoes, too. You can do all sorts of fancy things with it, but I just like to cut it in cubes for myself.”

  “Ugh, look at the seeds go everywhere,” she said, trying to push them back on the tray. “I’m sorry, but they got all over the counter and floor downstairs.”

  “So we’ll clean it up. No big deal.” She watched me slice the half into quarters, then each quarter into sections. “God, the cooking disasters on that ship, Amada. I can’t tell you how many boiling hot stockpots the size of that ottoman ended up all over the floor at the busiest time of night. Happens all the time.” She relaxed as I talked, intrigued by how I removed the seeds by slicing them out one segment at a time. “I’ll tell you,” I said, lining up each wedge side by side, “after everything I’ve seen in a commercial kitchen, really the best thing is to eat at home. Food served in dirty bowls, expired meat, chopped lettuce on a counter that just had raw chicken on it. So bad.”

  “Now into cubes?” she asked, marveling at how the unruly fruit had quickly turned into small, manageable pieces.

  “Here, you do it.” I handed her the knife and explained how they could be cut into shapes or slices or any other design at this point. She worked slowly but efficiently, cutting the orange meat into wildly dissimilar sizes, and when she was done, she sat up straight and waved the knife over the board. I was just about to tell her the cubes should all be of uniform proportion, but instead her next question made me double over.

  “Do you like my papaya?” she asked triumphantly. I burst out laughing, remembering how many times my friends and I had gotten drunk and started talking about whose girlfriend’s papaya was the nicest.

  “What?” Amada looked down at her work and then back at me. “What’s wrong with it?”

  “Absolutely nothing, mamita. Yours is the prettiest, juiciest, best tasting papaya
I have ever put my lips on,” I said with a wolfish grin.

  “But you haven’t even tasted it yet,” she said, spearing a cube and holding it out to me.

  “Oh, I’ve had plenty. By the way, the most important thing to know about this fruit is that in Cuba, papaya is slang for a woman’s vulva. That’s why we call it fruta bomba.”

  “It is?” Her face contorted into the cutest look of mock horror I’d ever seen. “Why? It’s orange.” To demonstrate, I took the other one and sliced it lengthwise, leaving the seeds intact.

  A look of recognition crossed her face as she made the connection and then giggled wildly. “It really does look like that! I don’t want to eat it anymore!”

  “I do,” I said, my mood turning on a dime as it often did with her. I took the knife out of her hand and set it down, then went crazy licking the sticky sweet juice off her neck and chest. Outside, the sky opened up as a loud bolt of thunder illuminated the water behind the house, pulsating flashes of light around the heavy rain that came out of nowhere. My hands aimlessly roamed her entire body while my mouth ate her up, the urge to be inside her overwhelming. Maybe after a few days we’d be able to cool down, but for now I just wanted to fuck her over and over again. As always, she wanted me just as much, so I was surprised when she pushed me off after a minute.