Ransome Farrell easily convinced Ingrid she needed accompanying him up to the Falls. Beyond shocking him, she agreed faster than he suggested it.
Farrell wondered whether she could ever be thrown off kilter. Ingrid was the coolest customer he'd met. And after one month of almost exclusive dating on his part, Farrell truly believed he'd meet no one else who'd ever occupy that spot.
She staked him during their first day in some grind class. That both college juniors regarded this course as GPA filler pleased him immensely.
Ingrid made all the advances, which strangely flattered him. Light complexioned, freckled, her 20-year-old curves emphasizing femininity, wildly flowing wheat-colored hair, Ingrid wasn't the sort of female he considered his "type." Farrell gravitated towards Mexicanas. The browner the skin, the more mink-like the hair, the better. All that, and they had to be lively. Exude heat, too.
Ingrid issued cool. If not by touch, then certainly attitudinally. Frankly, Ingrid wasn't the sort of woman he chased, but her short pursuit intrigued him.
Both lived on campus long before dormitories were reformatted into suites or modules. She stayed in one of the older North Drive residences. In fact a little more than a decade separated setting the last cornerstone from territorial days. Three sturdy structures hunkered along that campus drive.
Three coeds shared common rooms. Or precisely three women made do with three desks, chairs, whatever storage fit and a daybed. At night they repaired to barracks-style bedding.
Primitive and impersonal as conditions were remembered decades later, the configuration created readily available fuck-spots. Those untended common rooms promoted rampant promiscuity.
Long before he and Ingrid began their Mystery Dances, Farrell was familiar with North Drive daybed mattresses. During his previous four semesters, Farrell had dipped his dick in each building.
He'd witnessed the elaborate codes girls went through securing anticipated balling. Watching these preparations verged on laughable conspiracies. Give him the universal guys' signal: tie around doorknob or pilfered "occupado" tag on same.
Never mattered what common room based which female trio, the disparate girls always maintained one trait: they kept their lairs museum-quality tidy. They smelled better than most men's rooms, too!
The two qualities amazed him. Three guys quartered in the same space would've formed a jungle.
Clashing females aside, women maintained one constant. Prominent reminders of home. Hard pressed as Farrell would've been locating such mementos in a male dorm room, including his own, women formed genealogical shrines. How many forever grinning grandparents, proud mothers, beaming fathers, smirking siblings -- pets even! -- had watched his bare ass humping their grandchildren, daughters, or sisters?
Farrell realized these performances his closest to ever fucking on any stadium 50-yard line.
Until mid-October their American Southwest college town sizzled on the desert griddle. Fortunately, there were two nearby aquatic respites: the Sweetwater Tubs and the Falls. The former were aboveground redwood Jacuzzis sprinkled throughout scrubland far from casual eyes or sensitive ears. Nighttime desert air amplified women's squeals especially well. Easterners and other greenhorns preferred the Sweetwater Tubs.
The Falls refreshed those ramping hills northeast of town. There the less bashful skinny-dipped in and frolicked under winter runoff greening an awfully narrow strip threading down the mountain.
Mostly buckle-bunnies and rednecks flocked to the Falls. Few out-of-state collegians dared reveal themselves to the anonymous appraisal of indiscriminate eyes. After two years Ingrid was one of the rare city-bred girls who'd accompanied him. "Cultivated" women were leery, while senoritas mistook such flesh flaunting as sinful. Not that the latter minded fucking under blue sky. Escorted into secluded spots or the Tubs their brown bodies ached and writhed with hardwired feral delight. However, more than one set of eyes observing their unbridled exaltations either intimidated or embarrassed las muchachas.
Farrell blamed catechism taken too seriously.
Sane couples visited the Falls at day. Those hardy few nighttime adventurers risked disturbing mountain cats or coyotes hunting easy prey slaking its thirst.
That first afternoon there Ingrid disrobed as if the few other bathers also playing hooky from real life cavorted behind screens instead of unabashed view. Desert sun brushed her skin. Fair as she was, tan gradients darkening her face and limbs weren't jarring. Long strong sun left its effects but hadn't striped Ingrid lobster and ghostly.
Presented such clarity, they stared at another for the longest instance. Sunlight emphasized her small nipples shy mauve crowns as well as her bow lips. Pure nakedness gave Ingrid a more solid appearance.
Her own glance drank in his tawny boldness. Always lean, Farrell was now cut, hardened by an obligatory summer humping at boot camp. Despite the new manliness, he felt no different. Yet something about his posture, his demeanor, both he heard improved, someone who returned less angry, more crafty, changed others' perception of him.
Somehow Farrell knew that had he met Ingrid last semester, squired her to the Falls then, she would be nowhere near as enthralled. She started slightly when his fingers clasped hers. More than his presence, Farrell's touch conveyed strength.
Having chilled under the Falls, they walked off the shock. Steps led around rock outcroppings then behind dense blue palo verde which revived purpose and imaginations.
He spread what he could of their blanket, rolling the remnant against the rocky concave. The pair's boots thudded dully while the few clothes they'd worn muffled into quick silence upon dusty leather. Farrell followed her recline. The subsequent embraces and kisses were hotter than the day itself.
His hands found Ingrid's hair still damp. A disturbed nest framed her face. Water wicked from his high and tight, Farrell's new hairstyle from basic. By touch no one never would've known he'd been drenched under the Falls.
The course muff between Ingrid's thighs revealed its secret beneath his steady fingering. Once her dew slicked his fingertips, Farrell trailed kisses from her lips down her torso where light musk mingled among those curls. He tongued Ingrid until her sex blossomed into tender glistening ruffles.
Again, willingly surrendering to the moment he'd conjured, she seemingly forgot Farrell was there. Ingrid's hips rocked to singular beats. She kneaded her own breasts and gnawed her lips deeper pink. Good that her eyelids were closed because he doubted she clearly saw anyway.
Farrell's raging boner demanded satisfaction. He rolled onto her body. Ingrid's legs instinctively opened, rose, hips adjusting for his bulk, its anticipated lovely violence. Each moaned with his first stroke. She spoke. As always. He didn't understand the utterances summoned. Again, as always. Nor would he ever. Doing so would've required a lifetime. Their togetherness was already measured.
The warder awoke him during the middle of sexual frenzy.
The dim Buenos Aires holding cell was bad reality. Overnight Farrell's back had tightened on the unforgiving steel bench, a pointed reminder his body closer to 50 than 20. He'd rested his head upon shoes covered by dress shirt. An a-shirt served as layer between metal and flesh. Tying his shoes made him wish he'd worn loafers.
Farrell and Mick, who mirrored how he felt, trudged behind the warder. Along this desultory walk, Mick quizzed Farrell.
