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 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 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.
Ole!
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.
