[This is the second chapter of a story I began to write. But whoops! The first chapter, "The Poling," was rejected by Literotica because it focused too exclusively on a young man's being tormented with no redeeming erotic pleasure. I had figured to begin that with chapter 2. Perhaps if this comes first, then chapter 1, as part of the story, will be acceptable. But this chapter by itself explains all...]
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To this day, I don't know if Laia ever answered that simple question. But she always replied when I asked it, so I believe she must have thought she had answered.
That late October afternoon, when I lay like a wounded deer in a glade--and that question alone rose above the chaos of pain and disbelief—she gazed down at me without speaking. She was silent so long that abruptly I tried to roll over on my bed of fallen leaves. I needed yo hide my face from her because she was the girl I loved who had set me up to suffer as I never imagined I could. If she could not, or would not, answer—assuming there ever could be an answer—then either she was my worst enemy or I was a truly gutless...
I don't know. Wasn't I anyway? What answer could there be? A girl comes gliding into my life to become the definition of my desire, and leads me into a trap where I am stripped, grotesquely displayed, and eight grinning guys give my balls ten of the very best abrupt collisions with a metal pole. Tomorrow, or in a week, as pain permits me to think—and I am not lying in the woods waiting until I can move without agony—what will I know but that she is the worse enemy I ever had?
Seconds passed, she gazed at me, and I sought to fling myself over, hide my face and tears. My slightest move, now, drove from me a yelp of pain. I could not roll over without igniting a fire that radiated from my groin.
"No!" said Laia, reaching out to stop me. "No! Lie still, my darling.
"I will answer you. But there are hard things to say. Do you want me to cover myself, now?"
Young breasts, rounded so their weight made them fuller, firmer--breasts parted, sedate, with nipples darkly brown. I shook my head, and she smiled at me, slightly, and took a long breath that lift her breasts as though she raised aloft an offering to heaven.
"Tell me why you had to hurt me," I asked, saying it like a prayer.
She nodded slowly. "You said, before, that I look like a gypsy. I am a gypsy—gitano. I am the dark woman of heat, dance that ripples the belly, throws back the head so that the hair whips aside and the breasts thrust out—the woman that men view as an animal—and that they crave to take." Her hands came up slowly to cup her breasts, squeezing them together so the dark nipples folded and pushed outward.
"The night in our eyes, our hair, and even our nipples: men long for that night, but, by day..."
She frowned. "Your pain is terrible?"
I couldn't help it, as she spoke I was squirming on my bed of yellow leaves. My body would not stop seeking some escape from the fire that tormented my testicles; my hips kept shifting, my knees half rising, my belly tensing and un-tensing. Trying to escape. But the agony was attached to me, hanging there between my thighs.
I only nodded. I tried for a moment to stop writhing. Slowly she bent over me, her breasts swaying outward with their weight. Impossibly, her face came down and with infinite gentleness, she press her cheek there, at my belly's fork, a touch almost weightless, and she moved back and forth, her soft skin brushing me.
I must have released a kind of sob. It was as though at disbelief that this could be happening; but, also, it was in protest that this inconceivable sweetness still was agony. I even felt myself begin to stiffen a little. Yes, in some primal clash of pain and pleasure, the pleasure raised its head.
She saw and the tips of her longer fingers moved like a breeze over my flesh, as though molding the length of it. It responded and, at the same instant, a thrust of pain like a knitting needle shoved up into me made me gasp.
She straightened as though shocked, and said, "Oh!" And for the first time that day, or ever, tears started in those unfathomable deep eyes. One only started down her cheek. Her hand came up, swiftly, as though irritated, and wiped it away.
She said, as though reciting a lesson, "And Spain, it has been the best place for the Romani, the best in Europe. There, the gitano at times has been embraced—our language, our music, our dance. And that has made us grateful, but very afraid. Afraid that after centuries of traveling, always moving so that what we are never is consumed by any place, so that we may be embraced, but not be absorbed.
