As long as Sofia blew her cigarette smoke away from him, Ransome Farrell tolerated her nasty habit. Tobacco was one weed he himself had never inhaled. Therefore, he was acutely aware of its stink.
Her bare ass rolled on his naked lap while she indulged in a post-coital butt. Her ember burned outside Farrell's Buenos Aires balcony. Night concealed them.
From his 10th floor vantage they gazed down upon contrasts of black and blue. Blue courtesy of a full moon shining behind his building. A rare few fluorescent lights gave form to distant torres spiked along the Rio Plata shore. Red airplane aversion beacons spotted the South Atlantic velvet.
Really noticing now for the first time Farrell saw how this city abetted burglary. Feeble streetlamps elbowed some light onto the sidewalks. Leafy curbside trees and lamp covers prevented sharp illumination above buildings' ground floors.
Or viewed from street level those same trees and glare clearly hampered seeing the upper floors. Unless one specifically trained sight. Which given ordinary nighttime distractions, its debilitating partying effects, or a woman like Sofia, who'd actively inspect otherwise obscure facades quietly marching down a residential street?
So basic conditions favored Omar and his second-story crew. All they needed was proper execution.
"What are you thinking about?"
Sofia's purr, her warm dry breath against his ear, dissolved the criminal stage. Farrell squeezed her waist, kissed her smooth shoulder. Sofia's ass dug into the springy tangle of his crotch, stirring him.
"You, baby," he whispered. "You."
Being the center of attention energized Sofia. She craved the spotlight. Thrived under it, actually.
Earlier during the Good Friday evening, Farrell had escorted Sofia and her retinue to one of the newest nightclubs in one of the Palermos. Post-crisis, that neighborhood had split into at least three distinct segments.
Farrell couldn't differentiate them. The Palermos or clubs.
To him each Palermo consisted of street grids stubbed by acres of residential low rises. At least in clubs the women were sultry and sleek. Those happy crowds pushing in or spilling out of the gaudy emporiums looked alike. But the girls knew. They kept pace with current hotness. For all he knew they themselves determined where fleeting worthiness would be bestowed.
Sofia's train resembled her minutely. Thin, busty, deeply basted brunettes whose demeanors were insufferably proud. Like Sofia, they too possessed intellects nurtured through their parents' high social positions. So much so that past masks of considerable conceit, each girl could comport herself charmingly should she or the situation require it. Naturally all were unemployed.
Farrell tried imagining their listless lives. They rose late, bitched at their maids, phoned one another for consensus regarding whose pool ought host that day's sloth. Fragile gates clasped rusting wrought iron fences which imprisoned them as well as haplessly defended against the increasing number of humble Buenos Aires citizens. Overgrown flora also inadvertently camouflaged these once elegant now decaying villas known as "mi casa."
Desert reared, the summery November air behind these enclosures struck Farrell as fetid. More so than if he stood by the Rio Plata itself.
What did the girls discuss on these lingering afternoons? What sort of daydreams did the languid hours foster? Argentine TV broadcast plenty of superficial North American culture. The trashier, the more revered. Farrell asked neither Sofia nor her cohort. He feared their facile answers.
Occasionally the girls' fathers extended money to promote their idleness. Cigarettes, mostly, gulped those meager sums. Cheap national labels, rarely the prestigious craved-for American brands.
Which was one of many reasons each of Sofia's associates hungrily awaited her dates with Farrell.
Their third night out Farrell discovered she formed a package deal; that a harem latched onto him. He never decided whether Sofia persuaded him or had he merely succumbed to lovely female numbers. Yet after one night into the next Farrell found himself footing the merrymaking tab for six of Sofia's closest amigas. Uncomplainingly. All of whom ate little but smoked and drank as if propelled by vice-starved fiendishness.
Farrell and his all-girl entourage enlivened scenes wherever they patronized. Chauffeured in two remises that disgorged him amid a swirl of lovely, leggy, curvaceous females whose necklines exhibited plenty of succulent chests, the management of the invaded establishment assumed him a "somebody" then acted accordingly. Fortunately, he had the money and stamina to maintain these indulgences.
The covetous stares his escorts drew from other women became envious as cocktails flowed and ashtrays brimmed. Lacking sufficient means themselves, their dates fumed, their manly ire washing over Farrell.
His easily being twice the girls' ages didn't bother other men. In fact if asked they would've complimented him on his virility and wished the same for themselves at that age. Anger arose because as circumstances stood only miracles could deliver them from lifetimes of meager wages and worse prospects into ready cash and the advantages it conferred.
Nights out with Sofia and her friends quickly devolved into edgy escapades. Snarky gossip twisted into full-throated slander.
For a relationship he considered spotty at best, Sofia was quite possessive of him. She marked him. Her friends reflexively, though cordially, distanced themselves. Farrell always knew when strange women eyed him. Sofia clutched his arm tighter or cleaved against him. Her eyes likely narrowed and she probably flashed her teeth to further warn off potential rivals.
Aside from Sofia, the other girls flirted shamelessly, almost maliciously. Although in truth what began as cruel manipulation frequently resulted in trembling sex swaps at some love hotel.
Stateside, such per-hour lodgings would've been seen as jumped-up hot-sheet motels. Given Argentina's still precarious economics, the paucity of jobs, adults who otherwise ought have lived independently while ascending careers, remained under parental roofs. Though this circumstance guaranteed homes it denied privacy. Therefore, love hotels, places where horny couples might exhaust one another's frustrations.
Until Sofia told him, Farrell had no idea how they existed. Sofia was a grateful fan of such addresses. The better ones naturally. She preferred men who fucked her in mirrored bedrooms with mini-bars stocked with Champagne splits, whose bathrooms contained spas.
As a regular at several restive locations, Sofia even carried the respective discount cards. Farrell declined her offer for an up close and horizontal visit. Any disappointment she kept well hidden.
After socializing ended, the gang slinking home or dispersing wherever, Farrell and an exceptionally willing Sofia resumed private dancing in his apartment. She ignored his fastidiousness about clothing. Maybe imagining a maid hiding nearby, Sofia shed shoes at the door. A brief garment trail led into his bedroom. Always before joining her he grasped flutes from the freezer and a decent brut out of the icebox.
Sofia never helped unbutton his shirts. But she was good to unbuckle his belt, unzip his trousers, then shove them and his boxers down his thighs where she could clutch his cock. Not only the scars along it captivated Sofia but that he was circumcised also fired her interest.
Although the question begged asking, Farrell resisted. He just assumed the procedure less common in Argentina than Stateside.
