The Pleasures of Paz

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What created indolence? Especially in those who normally expended life through industrious habits?

That sluggish contemplation alone informed Ian Abercrombie of the dwindling morning’s idleness. He glanced at the bedside clock. Day raced towards noon; his motivation remained contentedly anchored.

Two good reasons for Abercrombie’s immobility. Saturday. Paz Duarte. They meandered Friday evening into now and later.

Paz lay hard upon him. If possible, he believed she could’ve burrowed into his thick chest. She certainly nested in his bulging arms. Abercrombie never really became used to her body’s lightness nor its tensile nature. She was a coil. A warm lively coil.

Late last night and sometime earlier this morning they fucked. While pleasant semantics were available to beautify their behavior, their artlessness spoke for itself. The pair’s prehistoric relatives ought have recognized the instinctive frenzy beneath their cultured veneers.

Paz craved that blissful inarticulate state where she seemingly liquefied from the waves surging through her. Abercrombie’s yearnings were merely primal. He wanted to take Paz. She was willing.

The rudiments of foreplay initiated both sessions. They nipped upon each other. These little bites skipped back and forth across the line between pain and pleasure. Marks may’ve purpled, but skin stayed unbroken. Those indiscriminate jolts affixed upon ears, necks or shoulders raised and extended the frenzy.

A tight fit despite his usual tender prolonged ministrations, the relative slaps and tickles he applied this night did little to loosen the sweet shaven spot between her legs. Until Paz’ natural lube caught up with their aims, Abercrombie’s dick more or less stalled halfway into her slit. But once she sufficiently flowed his solid cock crowded a now welcoming channel.

Atop Paz, Abercrombie felt her shiver with his every rippling stroke. Paz clasped what she could of his arms. Her fingers furrowed into muscles. Thankfully she kept short fingernails or else scratches would’ve striped his skin rather than bruises.

Small soft heels tried burying themselves in his calves. More often than not the motion of two bodies jarred them raggedly.

Sometimes as if to escape or somehow pull him deeper — Abercrombie could never decide — Paz would arch her head back, stretching her fine olive neck into tendons and veins. Low as her bedroom lights were, at this severe angle it was hard to see little more than the whites of her eyes.

When he treated her quite heavenly, Paz bit her lower right lip. At her height, the rigidity of Paz’ entire body never failed astonishing him. It wasn’t rigor so much as tensing before releasing her last long joyous tremble, he supposed.

Abercrombie wondered whether Paz thanked every man who made her come. He never maneuvered the question into any post-coital chat. Nor did it ever arise during other conversations.

Her settling into teaching limited the frequency of their get-togethers. Between those hours spent at the ecole, time devoted inside her atelier, and, alas, other lovers, Paz’ waking hours were finely parceled. However, thriving at 25, Paz possessed the energy, desire and recuperative powers necessary to perform all.

These days, Abercrombie unquestionably accepted the younger woman’s verve. His extra decades gave him hindsight and vantage. Two angles, had the pair been age appropriate, he would’ve slipped his grasp. In his own 20s Abercrombie had been typical. Then, no way he’d have let a woman as active as Paz parse intimacies among other men. That Ian Abercrombie would’ve insisted he have been the sun she revolved around.

Time, distance, understanding, patience, each expanded his universe.

Therefore, their engagements before sex predominantly favored Paz’ tastes. He never regretted spending money on her. Paz was smart enough not to exploit him financially.

No fancy dining for her. Steak houses over fine cuisine. She was a carnivore, the kind of meat-eater a man admired. Paz tore into burnt flesh with gusto.

Since her male contemporaries lacked interest, Paz looked to Abercrombie for meaningful diversions. While her last choice for clubbing or concerts, she first sought his company for more involved entertainments.

The prelude to this güvenilir canlı bahis siteleri occasion’s sex had been a flamenco show. Although the participants were Spaniards, all ex-pats of varying degrees, their effort emerged ad hoc. Somewhere between social club and fervid amateurs. Just the sort of thing which distinguished these Spanish from New York’s myriad Latino communities.

Senora Duarte Herrero, Paz’ mother, attended. She had a big hand in organizing these evenings.

Paz had followed her mother’s trail into art. Whereas the daughter’s work reflected boldness, Duarte Herrero’s expressed ferocity. As did her manner. The older woman appeared formidable.

Behind her back, always beyond earshot, Abercrombie referred to Duarte Herrero as “Dona Elena.” If anyone deserved an honorific, it was Paz’ mother.

She carried herself with martial stiffness. Unlike Paz’ own hazel eyes which washed across subjects, the senora’s bore through then wasted no time disassembling the object fixed upon. Duarte Herrero’s own olive skin and hair were richer than her daughter’s. The older woman’s face, lightly lined, forever verged on scowling. Manifesting disapproval always seemed one cocked eyebrow away.

Mother and daughter stood the same height, the former more bountiful on top with a thicker waist and wider thighs. Of the two, the older woman had the livelier step.

Nonetheless she was the woman who navigated the pair through Mexico into the States after Senor Duarte deserted them in Vera Cruz. Perhaps that the reason Abercrombie esteemed Duarte Herrero so highly. Should a listener entirely believe Paz’ story of their crossing, one ought gladly bow before the mother’s fortitude.

He knew better than most Americans about the abject conditions encountered during illegal crossings into El Norte. And the Duartes were Spaniards who’d endured them, not Mexicans. Paz told a vivid tale. Abercrombie wondered how much embellishment had gelled from an eight-year-old’s harrowing adventure.

Abercrombie initially met Duarte Herrero at an exhibition. Paz neglected telling him her mother would attend. Upon their introduction Duarte Herrero looked him over, judged then pursed her thin lips. Paz recognized the assessment well. Although having informed Duarte Herrero of this lover, a substantially older man apparently, the sheer physical disparity chagrined the older woman.

During this first encounter, Abercrombie imagined Duarte Herrero extrapolating all his extremities. Beside him her daughter was a wisp. Though accepting Paz’ adult sexuality, the older woman obviously retained enough motherly worry about what plowed her daughter. He guessed there had been general girl talk beforehand. Yet no discussion could ever be as impressive as being seen in the flesh.

Paz should’ve told Duarte Herrero what she said to him after he fretted about possibly tearing her: “Oh, I’m used to large penises.”

Instead, her Castilian emotive, Paz soothed Duarte Herrero. “He’s a complete gentleman.”

It was the first time he heard her speak Spanish. The compliment floored him.

Infrequent as subsequent meetings were, Duarte Herrero gradually became less glacial towards him. At the flamenco recital, she wore her usual understated uniform: a shawl bound atop a solid blouse, knee-length skirt, dark stockings and black shoes with heels high enough to raise her ass and accent her calves though not catapult her into dominatrix orbit.

Whether it dance, poetry, literature or, yes, art, Duarte Herrero promoted Iberian memories among the peninsula’s rapidly Americanizing ex-pats or emigrants. This evening’s event occurred in a portion of a Mexican restaurant configurable for large parties. The New York cantina passed Abercrombie’s Southwest muster. Not only did the green chili singe tongues, but no sombreros blotted the walls in order to lend this establishment “authenticity.” Better yet someone had decorated the hostess station with filched lobby stills of a smoldering Katy Jurado at her most gringo devouring allure.

As the dancing proceeded, Duarte Herrero leaned into Abercrombie and whispered interpretations of the performers’ gestures. Breasts fuller and softer than Paz’ pressed into his arm. Duarte Herrero’s quiet words were nearly as seductive as the güvenilir illegal bahis siteleri flamenco itself. From occasional glances at his interlocutor Abercrombie caught casual gleams in her eyes. Duarte Herrero’s was the kind of sparks Paz, still too young yet, too callow, couldn’t have imparted.

Suddenly as it intrigued him, the glimmer faded. The lure, though, tickled his curiosity.

Once the evening’s entertainment finished, the performers, abetted by the audience, cajoled women from the seats. Past reluctance, each of the women dragooned presented snippets of desire, passion or longing through loud fiery motion. All were expressive. Duarte Herrero was particularly sinuous.

Shawl shed and left on her seat, she unclasped her blouse’s top four buttons. Her revealing scoop further accentuated her face. Concentration, effort, precision, sprinkled a light wet glow down her neck into her cleavage. By her thunderous conclusion, Duarte Herrero’s upper torso could’ve been mistaken for a bellows. A soft, warm, likely sweet upon the lips and tongue bellows.


She reaped generous applause. Then she plucked the lanky guitarist forward. Ostensibly to let him take a fair measure of appreciation but who could mistake their relationship? The sly eyes between them concealed nothing.

Shaggy-haired, easily 15 years her junior, the swarthy strummer conscientiously flitted behind Duarte Herrero after a too anxious instant at her side. The evening ended and again absently aware of him, Duarte Herrero exchanged farewells with every attendee. Only when the room was reduced to bussers clearing the room, Paz, Abercrombie, two laggard troupe members, did Duarte Herrero again resume eye contact with the guitarist.

He submerged himself under her attention. Sullen eyes blazed from a baked brown face. A boiled white shirt billowed into black stovepipe pants. It was obvious he babied his boots. The black leather gleamed from lacquer while the stitching was cloud white.

Duarte Herrero murmured commands which deepened the guitarist’s trance. Through muscle memory he packed his instrument and found a shadow to wait under near the exit.

Having dispatched him, Duarte Herrero returned to the room’s pertinent humans. The gracious thanks Duarte Herrero extended the dancers surprised Abercrombie. Her tenderness might’ve melted rock. The dancers’ humility evident, the two troupers smiled brightly. No doubt they left feeling blessed.

“Dona Elena” finally properly acknowledged Abercrombie. Stern visage regained, she retook his measure. Having again determined him satisfactory, barely, she praised him for a recent evening he hosted.

In conjunction with his college Film Department, Abercrombie had moderated showings of Ambrose Bierce’s “An Occurrence at Owl Creek” and “Old Gringo,” a melodrama involving the fiction writer. From post-movie soundings, the lush feature more than smoothed the short film’s monochrome and downer finish. Abercrombie agreed. Jane Fonda and Jimmy Smits improved the Mexican Revolution.

Duarte Herrero nodded at the distant guitarist. When she spoke Castilian tones weaved throughout her English.

“Diego is Mexican. The black they spoke to her as women should among themselves.

After the set’s applause died out, Paz rubbed his hand. Her palm was small across his tendons and knuckles. Involuntary as it was, she drew smiles from him. She mentioned an acquaintance of theirs.

“If this had been Ricky instead of you, he would’ve stomped off by now. At times he’s such a boy.”

She spoke the last with a mixture of frustration and marvel. Ricky was all gorgeous surface. Underneath he had the depth of a saucer.

Vapid, lolling in his mid-30s, chiseled, blond and roughly handsome, Ricky envisioned himself as an eventual power-rocking ax man. However, he only made superficial sacrifices toward electric guitar mastery. Instead, Ricky preferred steady money and common reward through carpentry. For an aspiring guitar god, Ricky lathed great.

Worse, though, was his attitude. Despite his age Ricky behaved as if he’d never advanced past his early 20s. Most times he merely seemed ridiculous. Occasionally he embarrassed his friends. Paz cited Ricky and dullards like him as why she extracted greater overall güvenilir bahis şirketleri satisfaction from older men. Like Abercrombie. Or even her imperious employer, headmaster Monsieur Ghisalbert.

No preening. Far more secure. Far more relaxed. They saw faking it as kid stuff. Moreover, older men knew the reward from providing diligent oral gratification. Or one could say younger men just paid lip service to eating pussy.

During the set break, Paz speculated.

“Sometimes men like Ricky make ask myself, ‘Why did I fuck that guy?'”

Abercrombie’s loud guffaw disturbed people sitting at the surrounding tables. His choked outburst stunned Paz. Control regained, he explained. Sort of.

“Sorry, I wasn’t laughing at you. Just what you said. Paz, that’s the second time I’ve heard a woman wonder the same. Someday I’ll tell you about the first. You were making a point.”

“Uh, maybe we’re answering nature. Perhaps at times in our lives, older women/younger men, younger women/older men should be matched. The experienced elders can guide the younger, while the younger can rejuvenate the older. I mean you do need some comparison. Valid comparison.”

Abercrombie nodded. “I follow your line. Let me tell you a majority of Americans are ready to find it abhorrent and perverted. You do make sense in a cold calculating way. That said, we take your rationale farther and our TV and movie screens will show fewer brain-dead stories about fumbling horny virgins, creepy old farts or women past 30 whose normal desires are comically thwarted.”

He added: “You’re going against conventional thinking, Paz. This is America. We like our violence wholesome and our sex sophomoric. Keep it squeamish; keep it dopey; keep us ignorant and dissatisfied.”

It was her turn to laugh. “I know you’re being facetious. Aren’t you?”

The combo returned. It resumed playing. Energetic music smothered Abercrombie’s response.

Jazz and more drinks later carried them to Paz’ apartment. Both preferred her place to his.

While their first sexing had occurred at her studio months ago, each realized the work site better suited urgency. Now that they enjoyed familiarity, comfortable surroundings enhanced their couplings. Which was why she blacklisted his apartment. His bedroom especially. More bookish than all her combined lovers past and present — likely future ones as well — Abercrombie was still a man. Paz found his place harsh. Too much metal and leather. No plants, no froufrou.

He played off the motif as masculine ascetic. No sale.

Compared to her apartment, Paz’ studio exemplified bare functionality. Especially the bed. Comfort enmeshed her living quarters. Few spaces remained empty of an engaging or cute object. Or as he saw it, dust-catching clutter.

Their clothes draped chairs. Her sequined strappy heels and his own brown Oxfords pointed in four directions.

Wan daylight outlined Paz’ bedroom through loosely clenched blinds and opaque curtains. Naked upon fine white sheets showed how early summer had colored them. Pale hips, wrists, and in Paz’ case, chest, notably contrasted against their tanned faces, necks, limbs, and torsos.

Fully awake a little past noon, Paz decided she deserved more dick. Abercrombie reflected how wonderful it must be to have been 20 vigorous years younger. He kept that observation to himself.

Paz compensated for their age disparity by pretty much doing much of the work. For starters she gave him a hand job. One that lifted Abercrombie into rigidity. This done she quickly fingered herself. Abercrombie lent her self-help two hands, moistening Paz’ slit as well as stippling her nipples. He bent towards her, rubbing his nose against each rough raisin. His lips strung a chain of kisses between the two peaks.

She grabbed a fresh rubber from the silver bowl atop her bedside table and matter-of-factly sheathed his flesh pole. Respectively wet and protected, Paz straddled Abercrombie then adding gravity to great effort, impaled herself. She grunted, pleased by the tough insertion. Her fingers nearly clawed into his skin. Paz’ ride settled into a steady rocking. Her hips and thighs ebbed and flowed among his own. Now and then these circles ground deep enough for her ass to mash his balls. Several times Paz swept unruly hair out of her sight, leaned back, and tried squirming even lower on his cock.

Paz found a beat which became a gallop that took her farther away. By the end she bucked all along his dick. Returned to those four walls, those sheets, impish delight burned in her eyes. Beneath these churned mirthful grins.

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