Ecuador Ch 02 The Green Witch

When anyone first looked at Esmeralda Verde, she shimmered such that the observer would need to blink. As the viewer's eyes cleared, so did the perception crystalize. Always she was seen as most appealing. Whether tall or short, younger or older, slim or voluptuous, her aspect was unique to the beholder, but even among a horde of witnesses, there was never an argument: Each could only ever describe her as 'beautiful'.

Across cultures and continents, Esmeralda's universal attractiveness was possibly the least of her many powers, but it was a well-used tool. As she traveled widely, the ageless sorceress was like a goddess to her fawning subjugated toys until she released them and moved on. Her current lackey, an albino dwarf named Principe Argot, had preceded her to Quito, Ecuador and secured for her there an invitation to bedazzle the local high society with illusion, slight-of-hand, or such pedestrian stage magic as she should conjure at their Carnival Masque Ball on Tuesday, February 9, 1937. Now, as she scanned the elegantly costumed elite in and around the top floor terrace of the Hotel Plaza Grande, she thrilled to see so many prospective new playthings.

Fifteen metres away, at a table in the main bar, Germán and Isabella Vásquez chatted the way only long-married couples still much in love do. As he signaled a waiter to bring them their second champagne bottle, he nodded toward the dancing throng and suggested, "The kids are out there somewhere having fun, Bella, shall we join them before the band breaks and the magician begins?" He looked lustily past her sapphire-and-diamond pendant to her blue sheath's plunging escote and added, "Maybe they will play a tango."

Isabella flushed the same as she had twenty years earlier when she first met Germán, to whom she had already been formally affianced by her parents for over two years since her twelfth birthday. Nine years her senior, he was a dashing young cosmopolitan man just returned home from completing his studies in Seville. While they danced at her quinceañera which, not coincidentally, was also their wedding party, he had confided, "Things are not so good in Spain. They remain neutral, but I am glad to be with you, here." Dipping her low, then snapping her back upright with dizzying speed, he had growled liquidly, "You will find I am a lover, not a fighter!" The passion he ignited in her at that moment had never quelled.

"Sí, vamos a bailar," Isabella breezed with a loving smile as she set down her empty glass. When he had pulled out her chair and she was standing beside her husband, she put aside all thoughts of her unprotected vulnerability. Melting against his tuxedo, she snaked her right arm around his waist and whispered, "Am I as desirable as when I was but a girl?"

Germán, stealthing his left hand between her upper arm and ribcage, burrowed behind her backless dress's shoulder strap. As he cupped her mature breast's smooth naked skin and tweaked its fat nipple, he gently chastised, "Don't be a prick-tease, Bella. You are more desirable to me every day, but I have a calendar, also. I know I must wait another ten days before I may come into your parlor."

Isabella sucked in a short sharp breath as a racing thrill shot from her heart to her womb. Swallowing the sudden lump in her tight throat, she murmured, "My house has more than one door, you know. We may be cautious and still celebrate." She craned her neck and kissed him sweetly as she asked, rhetorically, "¿Sí, mi cariño?"

"El alcalde keeps a room permanently rented here," Germán replied huskily, sotto voce. "Perhaps, if you feigned some woman-trouble or other, I could persuade him to give me the key..."

Isabella patted Germán's cheek lightly and shook her head, "No, my love, it is better that we wait until we are home in our own bed. Besides, we have looked forward to the famous illusionist that Doña Escobar has imported from Trinidad to entertain us. Let's have our dance and see the show!"

While their folks were threading their way to the dance floor, twenty-year-old Alejandro Vásquez crutched his hands under his trembling sister's armpits and hauled her from her knees to her feet between two potted palms in a very dark corner. Pulling up the eighteen-year-old's strapless gown's top, he squeezed her tits back into place behind its satin-lined underwired cups, and praised, "Eso fue muy bueno, mijita... I am proud of you. Did your light-headedness clear up? I also know another treatment..."

Cumandá Vásquez nodded and clung to her big brother's biceps as she continued to lean on him for support. Not even in her wildest and most emotional moments, when she was masturbating alone in her bed, had she ever imagined herself doing for him what she had just done. As she tongued a small gob of his spunk from her mouth's corner to her cheek and then swallowed, she thought confusedly, "It was wrong. I ought to be ashamed, but it was wonderful, too!" Not knowing what else she could or should say, she answered aloud in a hoarse whisper, "Sí. Me siento mejor... but, I am a little tired. Will you walk me back to our table, 'Jandro?"

By the time the sated siblings returned to the bar, the orchestra had quit playing and Doña Escobar was near the bandstand, microphone in hand. "Damas y caballeros," she began. "May I present tonight's entertainment? Fresh from her triumphant tour of The Caribbean, we have engaged Esmeralda Verde, known on five continents as 'La Hechicera', to amaze you!"

Suddenly, an emerald-green smoke-puff popped loudly beside the dowager hostess. The assembly gasped its surprise as faintly acrid wisps disappeared and the witch materialized from no one knew where. To most of the assemblage on the terrace she was moderately tall and svelte. Her ivory skin tone and long blue-black hair were perfectly set off by her chic brilliant green bias-cut satin sheath.

The body-hugging gown's gathered shoulder straps draped sleeveless in a plunging vee. A sequined side-slit split provocatively from its ankle-length hem to the left knee. Every man imagined the dress covered no lingerie at all. Every matron wished to be as slinky.

About her waist Esmeralda wore a wide gold patent leather belt with a crystal buckle. On her right hand, over her shiny green satin opera glove, she sported a twenty-five carat table-cut emerald ring. Resting dramatically in her décolletage, on a long eighteen karat gold chain, an impressive pear-cut forty carat emerald sparkled among diamond chips.

As La Hechicera stepped forward on her high-heeled gold patent leather pumps, her true red glossed lips divided in a gleaming smile. "Muchas gracias, señora," she said pleasantly while she beckoned with her off-hand to a figure in an overlarge three-toed brown-throated sloth costume. Then, immediately, she addressed her audience, "We may think we may believe what we see; that we may discern illusion from truth; that we are sophisticates, protected by science from darker arts. But... is that the case? Judge for yourselves!"

A sparkling bang accompanied a bright-white exploding cloud and the sloth transformed instantly into a thickly-built albino dwarf standing less than one-and-a half metres tall. Again, the patrons' astonishment was apparent, and even more so as, despite his relative bulk, the little man spryly vaulted from the floor beside his mistress to a table-top no one remembered being there before. Now clad in a white boat-neck natural linen long-sleeved pullover shirt, and black duck trousers held up by black leather Y-back suspenders, the peculiar thirty-seven-year-old fellow danced a happy jig. His snowy stockings flashed between his polished black oxfords and his pants cuffs as he clicked his heels in mid-air, then somersaulted back to the floor.

Esmeralda interrupted her assistant's showy entrance with a waggling finger and authoritatively cautioned, "That will be just about enough of that, Principe!" To the stunned gathering, she asked, "Do you believe he was in costume?" She clapped her hands sharply and a dingy puff obscured her, the dwarf and the dowager, but only briefly. As the smoke rose from the terrace to the night sky, a live sloth replaced the rumpled furskin suit laying on the terrace floor and slowly waddled off toward the seated musicians. Its long hard toe-nails clicked irregularly in its ungainly gait while the dwarf stood with his hands on his hips and laughed.

The crowd erupted in applause, if for no other reason than to hide their dismay and pretend that everything they saw could easily be explained. Esmeralda smiled benevolently even as she cunningly searched for the ones she would capture. Returning her attention to Doña Escobar, she passed her left hand across the the widow's face, took away her black domino stick-mask, and then asked sweetly, "What do you recommend husbandless women in Quito do to assuage their yearning hearts?"

Although she was elegantly dressed in an azure silk-and-chiffon ball gown which, except for the cleavage blossoming at its key-hole opening, modestly wrapped her full figure from neck to mid-calf, Doña Escobar felt as if she had been stripped to her merest underclothes by the illusionist's slight movement. Her ears buzzed oddly. Monotonically, the fifty-three-year-old heavy-set hostess answered, "Well, I have never stopped cooking." Seemingly unaware of her surroundings, she cupped her left hand over her skirt and delicately scratched her suddenly itching coño.

"¿Verdademente?" Esmeralda raised her eyebrows and made a mock shocked face to the people nearest her as she pressed, "What dishes interest you the most, señora?"

"Oh, well, I love bananas," replied the mesmerized woman. "I have ways to use them whether they are green and hard, or old, black and wrinkled." Laughter rippled through the audience; increasing the more she spoke. "El alcalde gives me his regularly. He has a very large tree, but he says his wife is allergic and it would be a sin for his fruit simply to waste away." Her hand busily scrubbed her cunt through the blue dress as she continued, "My personal favorite recipe is to steam a firm banana in my humita pot until it is so completely soft that it melts in my mouth!"

Esmeralda chuckled, then guided the quivering dowager from the bandstand to a nearby empty chair. As she sat her down, she savored her first small victory like an appetizer while she said, "Muchas gracias, Doña Escobar. You have certainly given us all something to occupy our thoughts and even our dreams!" She trailed her hand softly over the woman's lined cheek, gave it a gentle departing pinch and then strolled among the clapping dancers toward the main bar. Principe scurried in her wake while the crowd parted like the Red Sea before Moses.

Here and there, as she proceeded, Esmeralda had quiet words for different persons she passed until she reached the Vásquez family where she paused behind Cumandá's chair. Principe rocked up and down on his toes and animatedly pointed to Alejandro. The sorceress smiled at her excited assistant, then said, "My small friend is practicing his magic. Would you mind if he attempted a trick for you?"

Alejandro shrugged, "Sure, why not?" He was not at all sure and, in fact, wondered a good deal why he had answered in such a cavalier manner. The words seemed to come from his mouth without him actually saying them. Across the table, his father arched his brows in mild surprise, but did not protest on his son's behalf, while his mother beamed to have her boy honored by the celebrity entertainer.

Principe said nothing, but rapped his right knuckles twice on the table top, then flipped his closed fist over and opened it to show an empty hand. Closing his fingers again, he reached behind Alejandro's head and retrieved a gold condor from the young man's left ear. Then, before the delighted smiles of his audience disappeared, he tossed the coin into the air. As it fell, he snatched it with his left hand and popped his palm flat against the tablecloth.

The Vásquezes watch closely while the dwarf lifted his hand to reveal the coin had changed into a small brass key. Everyone clapped, but the albino was not through. Waggling his eyebrows as roguishly as Groucho Marx ever did, he pointed his right hand at Cumandá's thighs. Esmeralda interpreted, "Principe thinks the señorita has a box there. He is much interested to know if his little key will fit its lock."

Cumandá protested, "I have no such box!" She scooted her chair back to prove her point and was astonished to see, resting between her legs, half-buried beneath her gown's gathered waist bow, a small red lacquered treasure chest with a thin upside down key slot in a little butterfly-shaped brass shield. Her parents laughed, and she had to, also. Pulling the box to the table top, she exclaimed, "That is quite a nice trick! I suppose we must find out what is inside."

Principe inserted the key's nose into the petite hole at the shiny slit's base, effortlessly pushed its ornate flange through the wafer-slim vertical gap, then turned it ninety degrees clockwise and freed the lock. When he lifted up the chest lid, the shiny gold coin winked on a black velvet liner at the amazed quartet. Esmeralda herself joined their applause and praised, "Well done! You have mastered this one, mi pequeño! I shall have to give you something harder for the next time." Then, plucking the condor from the box, she returned it to Alejandro and cautioned, "A young man should be careful how he spends his resources." Then, as she sealed the red chest and handed it back to Cumandá, she said enigmatically, "Try keeping this safe for as long as you might."

Perplexed, the teen asked, "But where is the key?" To which, the witch replied, even more mysteriously, "Inside the box, of course. And it necessarily must remain as it is until somehow the lock is forced and broken."

The Vásquezes sat mouths agape while Esmeralda moved on to another table for another bit of personalized magic. Both siblings felt strangely disquieted in different ways while their parents were filled with a peculiar sense of awe and inner peace. Alejandro touched himself below the table and hoped he would not have to stand up before his thickening carajo recovered its normal flaccid state. Cumandá's throat itched and she wondered how she could manage to satisfy a peculiar thirst.

Three metres away, the mayor of Quito rose from the table where he sat with four small girls, a young woman and a mature matron well along in her pregnancy's third trimester. Nodding at his two-year-old daughter, he said to his wife, "Dolores is getting cranky. I will take her up to the room and put her to bed, so that you may enjoy the magician without annoyance." Then, turning to the twenty-year-old niñera in the chair beside him, he added, "You should come too, Yma."

Maria Alvarez smiled with indulgent resignation as she answered, "As you will, Hugo." She knew full well who her husband would put to bed as soon as her youngest child was tucked away. Placing her left hand on her burgeoning belly, she felt for a gentle kick and thought, "Keep giving only me your babies and you may have your rameras all you like. I am content to be always the mayor's wife!"

Maria watched Yma, holding Dolores close to her chest, leave the table for the elevators. Hugo stepped behind his wife, kissed the top of her head behind her gold tiara and said, "Gracias. Vuelvo pronto... ya verás." Then, looking at the remaining older girls, he warned them, with a wink, "Don't let that sorceress teach you any mean tricks to pull on your poor papa!"

Alba, the eldest, promised she would not, but Beatriz, who had recently turned nine and thought she was very clever, smiled mischievously without committing herself. Little five-year-old Carlota was too enthralled by the spectacles she had witnessed to do anything but giggle. Their mother looked up at the green witch with a blank stare and a receptive mind.

As Hugo followed the nanny to the lifts, he studied closely how her hips swayed naturally seductive within her traditional dark alpaca wool Otavaleña skirt. He could hardly wait to get it off her. She was slim, but he knew each curve on her young brown body was a coiled spring. He had fucked her hundreds of times but always she was as exuberant as when he had made her a complete woman two years ago while Maria was in the hospital delivering Dolores.

Suddenly, Doña Escobar's double entendres to the masked ball audience intruded on his thoughts. He said to himself, "It does not matter that she was hypnotized. I should withhold my sessions from her as punishment for her indiscretion. Yes! That's it! This Saturday I will suggest that Alba should alone take her sisters to the park. Yma will then be free of her weekly duty and thus be at my disposal after the town council meeting." Rubbing his hands excitedly, he strode quickly forward to catch up with his young mistress.

In the elevator, with the lift operator sitting right beside them, Hugo and Yma had to maintain the strictest propriety and, in the second floor suite, their small charge did, in fact, demand attention. While Yma ran warm water in the the bathroom to heat Dolores' nighttime milk, Hugo arranged the tot just so, among the bedding. On her return, Yma gently rocked the crib until, at last, Dolores shut her eyes and surrendered her bottle's nipple. The lovers, tired of keeping their impatient urges in check, quickly shut off the lights and fled.

In the suite's main room, Hugo propelled Yma toward the doorway to the second bedroom. Dodging the settee and side chairs, they barely avoided knocking over the table lamps as they lurched. Once across the threshold, he shoved her forward, launched her onto the four-poster and then growled, as he fumbled furiously at his pants waist, "¡Ahora estamos solas mi conejito! But, we must hurry!"

Yma rolled onto her back, threw her bare legs high and wide, then hiked her skirt above her waist while she exclaimed, "OH! ¡Mi león! I love it when you call me your bunny! Yes! Come to me! I am so ready, I could scream!"

Hugo forced his trousers to his knees and crawled between Yma's spread thighs with his red-nosed rampant rod extended its full twenty centimers through his boxer shorts' fly. He admitted huskily, "And I love it when you call me your lion." Wasting no further time on words, he pulled her full-seated white cotton panties up her extended legs, threw them to the ceiling and then dove face first onto her cinnamon-colored muff.

Yma clasped her hands behind Hugo's head and held him closer than close to her seeping coño. She mewled as his tongue pierced her grotto and abraded her G-spot. Dropping her heels onto his tuxedo coat, she spurred him in the ribs and urged, "¡Sí! ¡Más adentro! ¡Más!"

Hugo laughed, teased Yma's clit with a nip, then raised his head and declared, "I can go no deeper with that tool." Raising up and scooting forward on his knees, he pressed his engorged bulb past her slippery pussy lips, then asked, sincerely, "Do you want me to drill you with this one?" He knew she loved his little games and waited patiently motionless with just his fat head buried in her honeyed orifice.

Exasperated, and already on the verge of her first climax, Yma screeched, "¡Sí! DRILL ME!"

Hugo lunged his pelvis powerfully forward and split Yma's tight cunt like their first time. His cock's head slammed into her cervix. She grunted, crunched her abs and pushed back harder onto his thickness. He rolled within her while she rolled without and together they ground their pubic bones like meal in a mortar-and-pestle.

Hugo's nuts were on fire. All day he had been wanting to be here; doing this. Yma's small firm unharnessed tits quaked with her chaotic heaving breaths and pushed up against her thin cotton blouse like new volcanoes rising from the earth. Hugo pulled her ass tight into his crotch. She pinched her shadowed brown nipples through the embroidered stitchery and bit her lips as her orgasm breached.