Wednesday, February 27, 2008

Dulce by Leigh Ellwood

Dulce by Leigh Ellwood
August 2006 - ISBN 978-1-59426-607-2
$2 eBook (five formats) - Buy Now!
Author's Backlist: Leigh Ellwood

So this was Caracas at three in the morning.

The wrong side of the tracks, assuming trains chugged through Venezuela en route to deforestation elswhere. Here was a side of town Fodors had clearly missed, a neighborhood set to the soundtrack of screeching Russian-made automobiles and slurred, Spanish curses. Shattered glass sparkled on dirt avenues under yellow lamplight; the salty tang of nearby waters hung thick in the air. Here, surely, was where the kids of Spring Break banded together for safety when the money ran low, when they were too full of pride and independent spirit to call home.

Here was a place the tires of chartered tour buses never tread. One would never see this part of the otherwise glamorous city in the backdrop as Robin Leach waxed gloriously of sangria wishes and churros dreams.

Neil Randall smiled through the windscreen of his helmet at Caracas at three in the morning, thinking of how much Cal Briscoe would have loved this place. Pity that his best friend was unable to accompany him on this trip, choosing instead to do something so out of character as fall in love and get married.

Que loco. How crazy, were those the words? Crazy to fall in love and marry after decades of confirmed bachelorhood. Crazy to suggest Neil do the same, to remarry anyway. Shake off the grief and anger, sell the bike, bloom where planted and find a pretty flower to stab repeatedly with his pistil until her petals wilted.

No, those hadn't been Cal's exact words, but they had been muy loco nonetheless. All Neil could remember of his last meeting with Cal was tuning out the lecture after the fourth beer and thinking of his passport and keys, both of which pinched his skin through a back denim pocket as he rocked on his ass, eager to leave the bar for this vacation. Nod and drink, nod and drink, until Cal's wife dragged him to the dance floor, where the two joined crotches in a seductive tangle. Cal's words had glance off of him. Neil would not remarry, he decided, yet he fully intended to stab many flowers before the month was over. He would be the plant kingdom's answer to Jack the Ripper, there would be so much stabbing with his rock hard pistil on this trip.

What a trip it had been so far. Even the most arid patches of the continent had provided at least one flora bonita to give his cock a good workout. Caracas, he hoped, would prove as bountiful as the Amazonian rainforest. He wanted to limp home with Popsicle sticks taped to his cock like splints, and fondly recall having screwed around as much as his ex-wife did in the ten years they had been married.

Sí, muy loco, as the natives might say. A man would be crazy, too, to ride the coast of South America in full leathers—in Agosto—to plow through miles of pussy, but here he was. True, he could have stayed home and sampled the spoils Cal left behind when he married, but that notion held no excitement for him. American women were wonderful lovers, yes, but the temptations of exotic Latin America beckoned strongly. So many countries, so many different flavors. A smile played on Neil's lips—he could still taste Honduras.

Ugh. The heat didn't take a break in the early hours. Neil's temples burned and itched and beaded with sweat underneath his heavy helmet.

He steered his Harley into the gravel lot bordering the pool of the El Cacto Verde, drawn by the half-lit sign depicting a smiling cartoon cactus beckoning passersby with a prickly, fingerless hand. Hardly a four-star resort, The Green Cactus looked as though it tried very hard to live up to the name. It was a leprachaun green strip motel nestled like an unsightly mole among the sleek distant landscape of towering resorts, which were no doubt built to purposely block the middle and lower classes from the sun. The building had the look of a teenage beach movie set from the 1960s. Neil had to wonder if morning would bring the requisite villainous real estate developer, itching to evict Franco and Annette so he could tear down the place and erect luxury timeshares and one or two El Starbuckos.

He removed his helmet and shook away the discomfort of the ride, feeling as though he had been freed from a microwave only to fall into a kiln. No gust of tropical breeze welcomed him. Nor did any natives...at least, there were none that Neil could discern from the lively crowd gathered poolside. A rusted chain-link fence, sagging in places, surrounded the many college-age kids splashing in the water, which was illuminated by lights fixed in its cement bottom. The kids ranged from lily white to lobster red, all boisterous and clearly American, so Neil surmised as he listened to their racuous banter.

He checked in quickly, paid cash up front for the week, and started past the fence with his key-card in hand—one modernization, he was pleased to see. Perhaps there would be an indoor toilet in his room, too.

He kept his gaze low, avoiding the clandestine stares of doe-eyed co-eds draped across lounge chairs and dampened beach towels, looking close to lifeless in the sticky hot air as they struggled to lift longneck beer bottles to their lips and bob their heads to a distant radio. Pretty though they were, American girls were off limits during this tour. Many of his conquests weren't English-speaking, and had no means of getting to the United States to track him down. He played safe, but all the same he didn't want trouble following him home.

He checked rusted door numbers along the path past the pool and realized he had walked too far. His room was situated within the courtyard, granting him front row seats to the party. He bit back a curse as he retraced his steps and hung a right at the fence. If anything, perhaps they could provide some entertainment if he was unable to tune them out and sleep. The girls were practically nude, excellent eye candy to picture in his mind while whacking off.

Closer to his room, a young coed paused against a stronger patch of fence, watching him with childlike fascination. Tiny fingers looped around links high above her head; her right pinky clasped around the neck of a brown beer bottle. Standing in this position presented to Neil the picture of a lithe pixie with saucer wide eyes and lips twisted in amused restraint.

Cute, he decided, and obviously American despite the deep tan. Off limits, alas. If she left this supposed college graduation trip without her virtue it wouldn't be by his doing.

She appeared to appraise his appearance, amused no doubt by his jeans and leather jacket. "Don't think you'll be getting a sunburn now," she told him. "Why the getup?"

Her dishwater blond hair was slicked back behind her ears. Water droplets beaded on her forehead and small bust, which was barely concealed by a blue and white polka dot bikini top. The matching bottom proved an even smaller scrap of material, Neil saw as the girl swayed her hips to the song's beat. The patch covering her crotch tapered back to two thin straps circling her waist, leaving nothing but the promise of seeing more skin if she turned her back.

She wasn't as thick as he liked them, but she was definitely tempting enough to cause Neil to reconsider. He could see a strip of hairless pussy lip peeking from the thong bikini, and imagined her skin tasting like a sticky sweet combination of dried suntan lotion and tropical sunshine.

"There's a reason for wearing this much clothing when you ride a motorcycle," he told her, "even in the heat of summer."

Her lids lowered demurely. The added lazy tilt of her smile lent her face a dreamy expression. The faint aroma of weed wafted in from poolside, and Neil surmised the girl probably had a hit sometime in the evening. "Sounds interesting," she purred, her voice taking on a sudden husky quality. "Wouldn't mind hearing why."

The key-card was slick in his hand. His thumbpad slid rapidly over the raised, emblazoned cactus logo, back and forth until he thought he could wipe the image clean. He wouldn't mind repeating this action against her clit, pushing his fingers through the chain links and stroking her tiny pink bud until she screamed her release and dribbled down the fence. Maybe, too, he could undo his pants and thrust his cock through a hole in order to get to her hole. He pictured the girl with her ass against him, her arms flying backward to grasp the fence for support as he fucked her, the thin metal leaving marks in her creamy flesh. He could hear the shrill jingle of loosened chain links collapsing, falling victim to their passion.

No. She was a slip of a girl, probably some barely legal heiress blowing her great-grandfather's hard earned tobacco fortune, slumming at El Cacto Verde to piss off somebody. Or to see how the other life lived.

Oh, but he wanted to tear away that thong and sample her other half.