Postcard From San Juan

Copyright, 2001, NCmVoyeur

* * * * *

"I think we've already been down this street,' Rosa said, holding gently onto Mike's arm.

Mike looked down the narrow cobblestone lane, another of the slow rivulets of humanity that coursed through Old San Juan. Beyond, the street curved down toward the darkness of the evening and the cool Atlantic waters.

They had been window-shopping, slowly walking off the dinner which they had finished more than an hour earlier. A very filling array of simple, but delicious islands specialties that the menu term

comida criolla

. Rosa had been distracting him from his plate by slipping off her shoe and running her foot up his leg. Until Mike decided to one-up her by holding up a piece of papaya from his salad plate and slowly licking off the juice. Rosa's embarrassment was enough to keep her foot in check the remainder of the meal.

"No, I don't think so. We haven't backtracked since we got the flowers."

Mike looked down at the small bouquet Rosa held in her hands. Had it been only two days since she carried her bouquet up the aisle? he thought. The distance in space and frame of mind made it seem a world ago. He thought of how he felt, watching her slowly walk to meet him at the altar. All eyes in the church transfixed on her. His, no less. Rosa was flawless, glowing beneath the white lace and satin, a perfect symbol of her virginal splendor. A rare thing, he knew. And a hard decision for them to keep. But he was proud of her. And himself.

The months of seemingly endless preparations had taken its toll on both of them. But that preoccupation had one advantage, he thought to himself: it occasionally took his mind off dwelling too much on the wedding night! But the ceremony was beautiful, despite his jitters. And the reception! He'd never danced and talked so much in one day. Mike wasn't much of a talker. But having everyone who mattered to them in one room made him rise to the occasion. Though he joked to Rosa at one point that if he chattered much more, his tongue might not show up for work during foreplay that night. He was apparently more pleased with his wit that she, her elbow giving his ribs and a firm, albeit playful reminder to behave.

Rosa held three flowers gracefully in her hand as they walked through the old city. Mike had purchased them from a little old lady who called to him to buy some for '

la Señorita.

' He stopped and picked some out. Pink. In Spanish the color was called rosa. Only fitting for her. They were a native species whose name Mike didn't quite pick up in the vendor's heavily-accented English.

It was fun for Mike to be in a place where English was not the native tongue, to be in somewhat foreign territory. Quite a new experience for him. But he knew for Rosa this trip to Puerto Rico was a bit of a homecoming. Her family on her mother's side was originally from the island, though most of her close relatives had lived in New York for some time. Mike always sensed a desire on Rosa's part to hold to that heritage, and spending their honeymoon here was a way for both of them to connect with that part of her.

Mike had to smile to himself how inauspiciously their honeymoon began. His joke about fatigue taking over had proved mildly prophetic. They stayed till nearly the end of the reception, neither of them wanting to be the first to suggest leaving their family and friends. But once they left, the weeks of mounting stress, the alcohol, the dancing--all came crashing down on them at once. They arrived at their hotel room that night with more a sense of relief than anticipation. Once in bed, they eyed each other, part with anticipation, part with exhaustion. They reached for each other, but the kisses--which normally were spontaneous and motivating--were fighting against a tide of exhaustion. Mike was almost ashamed when Rosa reached down and he wasn't at his normal full-gun salute. "You know, this might be a lot more memorable if we wait till we're not half asleep,' she conceded. Mike had heard that wasn't all that uncommon. He stroked her light brown hair while he pondered the situation, then looked to see Rosa's eyes closed and her body lying motionless beside him. He whispered "I love you," then quickly joined her in slumber.

"Oh, shit," was the sound that awoke him the next morning. "Mike, it's almost 8:00," Rosa almost shouted. It seemed nighttime to him, the heavy curtains of the hotel leaving the room almost black. They barely had time to catch the flight from New York to San Juan. Boarding the plane, Rosa gave him a stern warning: "If this plane crashes before you get me into that hotel, I'll forever torment you in the afterlife." The rest had done them well. They were alone in their row in adjoining seats. Rosa threw a blanket over their laps and their hands played with each others' crotch frequently through the flight.

By the time they checked into their hotel around 2:30 p.m. their bodies were poised for the moment. Mike could hardly suppress his hard-on checking in and in his eagerness nearly tossed the bellman out of the room. He stepped over to the window, opened the curtains wide and looked out from their beachfront highrise hotel across the expanse of the Atlantic before him. Breath-taking, he thought. He turned, only to see something even more exhilarating: Rosa, lying in a see-thru nightie on the bed. "Your wife awaits you, Sir," she smiled. Mike disrobed and climbed in. The next 4 hours were pure bliss . . .

Thinking of yesterday afternoon caused Mike's pants to bulge as they walked up the street. He pulled out the pint of Bacardi he'd bought at a shop earlier and took a swig. "Easy there, guy," Rosa chided him. "Hey, we're tourists," he said. "Well, OK," she relented, kissing him on the cheek. "Then at least save some for me." He bought a can of Coke for her. "Just say when."

Mike and Rosa continued walking up the street, moving along the narrow peninsula the Spanish settlers first colonized more than 500 years earlier, creating a fortified city encircled in stone. Mike loved the sense of antiquity: the quaint buildings with their colorful facades and overhanging balconies, the narrow streets, the cobblestone. Even the air seemed to evoke the ghosts of the past. Mike tried to connect with those past who ventured into the New World . . . adventurer . . explorer . . conqueror.

Rosa drew close to him, having finished the rum and coke he'd mixed for her. Mike could tell she was a bit tipsy already by the way she leaned.

The street turned left, and they aimlessly followed it. Mike enjoyed looking down at her. Rosa's black dress was, for her, somewhat daring, though hardly immodest. As she leaned over, the material would pull slightly away, affording Mike a delightful view of her matching lacy black bra over a slightly tanned chest They talked softly. Mike felt Rosa's hand slip down his waist and rest near his butt.

The street veered right.

Ahead in the distance lay the imposing sight of the ancient Spanish fortress called "

El Morro

." The outpost sat at the head of the walled city, designed to protect both the inhabitants and the trade vessels which transported the riches of the New World back to Spain. The flags which adorned the path leading up to it and the floodlights which illuminated portions of it gave it an almost castle-like appearance against the evening darkness. They walked ahead, urged on by Mike's fascination, to the street's end. There a broad graveled pathway led them to the fort. Unlike the street they left behind, there were no cars, no music, no modern additions to distract from the mood. The San Juan beachfront and skyline opened up behind them as they journeyed back in time.

Mike shared what he had read in their tour book. "The Spanish were never defeated here for 300 years," he recalled.

Rosa squeezed his arm. 'Yes, I know, my chivalrous warrior. You'd have loved to have been a conquistador, wouldn't you?'

"Hard to say,' he responded. "They were brave souls, but they often went months without sex,' he winked.

"Well,' Rosa said, "you're now a married man. In a few years, you may be in the same position." She laughed and playfully grabbed his crotch.

The quarter-mile long trek down the path was to him like a journey back in time. He could almost see the tall ships in the harbor, their long hot canon shafts aimed at the impregnable walls of the fort, spewing fire and canon shot . . the frantic cries of the defenders . . soldiers and equipment moving back and forth . . the crescendo of battle. .

They arrived at El Morro, finding the heavy gates at the entrance locked. "We'll just have to lay siege!" Mike cried. He grabbed Rosa in his arms, looked deep into her eyes and kissed her. His hands followed her dress down her back, cupping her ass, lifting her dress. "Mike!" she stopped, knowing other people were still milling about the path. "OK, perhaps a direct assault can't be made, let's try the sides,' he said, still affecting a swashbuckling tone of voice.

They walked off the path, following the massive stone wall whose sides had been worn smooth by generations of rain and the elements. It jutted out at a right angle to the gate then met up with the outer stone wall of the old city, forming a "V" which was sheltered and distant from the pathway. The near moonless night made the corner seem remote, mysterious, cloaked in darkness.

Mike pulled Rosa to him anew. She met his embrace this time, stepping up on her toes, finding his tongue, probing. As Mike pressed forward, she backed up, stopping against the wall. His hands went again under her dress, lifting it, caressing the soft lace of her black panties. Mike was always delight how perfectly Rosa's cheeks seemed to rest in his hands. He pulled her into him, grinding his hips into her pelvis. He slid her panties down further. He half expected her to protest, but she only kissed him more. He lifted her knees one at a time, sliding the panties below, then pushing them to the ground with his foot. Rosa dutifully stepped out.

His pants seemed to come undone of their own accord, propelled by sheer desire. Without breaking their kiss, he drew down his briefs. He looked up at Rosa, her eyes deep brown and intense in their sense of anticipation. That look. That precious, vulnerable, sensual look she had given him yesterday, just before surrendering herself to him. It had nearly frozen him in place. This time he moved with more authority, more need. He pushed into her, lifting her by her ass. Rosa opened her legs wider, allowing him a better angle of penetration. Mike lowered himself a bit to get the head of his cock between her lips. "Fuck me,' his bride whispered.

Mike, the warrior, held her steady against the wall, supporting her from underneath with his hands. He firmly and slowly pushed deep into her, searching, probing. The blood of those early explorers, that mix of Spanish and native spirits, floods through her veins, he realized, as he looked into her face. Rosa cupped her hands behind Mike's head, pushing down on his shoulders with her arms and rocking in response to his thrusts. Mike was still conscious of how tight Rosa was inside . . the feeling of moving inside her was intense, gripping his cock so tightly. "Fuck me,' she said louder, the first time she'd used those words to him. Mike pushed into the tightness of her pussy. They rocked together, timing their movement to drive him deeper into her. She quickly had him near to orgasm. "I'm going to cum" he gasped. "Yes, baby, oh yes, sweetie, fire it at me." she told him as he groaned and drove deep inside her, sending wave after wave shooting into her.

Slowly, he let her down to the ground, he legs briefly unsteady. They kissed and embraced again. "Mmm . that was something," she sighed, her tone then changing to mirth. "How's that for something to write home about?"

"You're right." Mike reached into the small bag of things they'd collected that evening shopping and pulled from the stack of blank postcards. He found a pen in Rosa's pocketbook and began to write while she dressed. "How's this?" He started to scribble, reading to her aloud as he wrote:

"Dear Friends:

I'm happy to report that I have successfully penetrated the defenses which were previously impregnable. Managed a deep insertion into the territory, and the original barrier to the fort has been torn down. Happily tasting the fruits of success."

Yours truly, Mike the Conqueror."

Rosa giggled. "But in the old days, didn't they seal their letters with wax before sending, to show they were authentic?"

"You're right. They did."

Rosa paused for a bit, then lowered her panties, showing Mike a spot of white which he deposited onto her pubic hair. She touched it, then dabbed it on the postcard. "There. Sealed and proven."

Mike beamed at her. He walked over to the wall, his eyes roaming over the surface. Finding a crack between two ancient stones, he buried the postcard between. "Maybe we can come back in 20 years and find it."

He took her hand, and together they began the walk forward 500 years . . . . .