Memoirs of a Lady Ch. 03

No woman had ever given of herself to me so freely, without any thought of her own pleasure. I helped you to your feet and started to apologize but you put your hand to my lips and stopped me. In one swift motion you lifted your dress over your head and then you were standing before me naked, in all your magnificence. And magnificent you were, Erica. No woman has ever looked as beautiful as you did that night. You took my hand and led me to the rocks, where we used your dress and my trunks to make a small pad for you to sit on. When you were comfortable, you lay back, guiding my face to that most secret and desirable part of you. And then I was the one on my knees, bent in homage before you, with no thought but to please you as you had pleased me.

I must confess that this, too, was a new experience for me. But again, you were so wise, so knowing. You made sure that my tongue attended to every petal of the wild and succulent flower that lay open before me. The exotic fragrance drove me wild, and again and again I lapped at your glistening folds. And when at last I reached the heart of the flower, that hidden bulb which by now was fully as hard and round as a tiny grape in my mouth, it took only one or two passes from my tongue before your body stiffened and you cried out, filling my mouth with the sweetest and most wondrous nectar I have ever tasted.

You were not surprised to find me fully erect once more and as I stood up, you wrapped your legs around me, pulling me inside of you. As with your mouth, the sight of my dark and fully engorged organ disappearing inside of your soft, white flesh was incredible. It seemed almost impossible that it would fit, but it did, and without effort. The urgency was less now, and our lovemaking was slow and deliberate, almost gentle. You took my hands and covered your breasts with them. Though not large, your breasts were full and heavy, and your nipples stood proudly between my fingers. I took turns suckling them, savoring your moans of pleasure almost as much as I did your delicate texture and delicious flavor.

I was in Heaven, my darling, and would have happily spent eternity in your warm embrace. After a time, however, you pushed me back and we separated. I was confused but you simply smiled and led me to a nearby rock, a ponderous boulder that towered above us. You turned and faced the boulder, pressing your backside against me, and beckoned for me to enter you from behind. I was more than willing but the difference in our sizes made it somewhat awkward. You were forced to stretch your body upwards against the rock, rising onto your toes before we could manage it.

Once inside you, with my head nestled atop your shoulder, you began to talk to me, telling me the things you wanted me to do to you. Such words, querida! Such language! Talk such as I had never heard from a lady in my life. Under other circumstances I might have been filled with shock and dismay to hear such things from your lips, but your words and the look on your face as you said them inflamed me. My urgency returned and I became like the bulls I had seen in Guadalajara and Tijuana, charging the toreador with such intensity that the entire bullring trembled with each pass of his scarlet cape.

Ah, but that was what you wanted, was it not? You arched your back, crying out with each new thrust, until my voice joined yours and we sang our rapture in unison. Such bliss, Erica. And such agony now to relive over and over that which can never be repeated. But I must tell you, my darling, now before the light grows too dim again for me to continue, that regardless of what came later, I would change nothing of what happened that night. If I am to have but one memory to cling to, no matter how much it tortures me, let it be that one. And when I fall asleep each night and dream, let it be your face that I see.

Erica closed her eyes and moaned. In her mind, she was back in Mexico, her body on fire as she was literally caught between a rock and a wonderfully hard place. She remembered it all now; the way her calf muscles burned from the effort of standing on point, the coarseness of the rock abrading her forearms as she braced herself against it. Arching her back, Enrique's powerful arms around her, his hands so soft and tender as they cupped her breasts, his cock so hard and thick as it slid in and out of her drenched pussy.

Oh, Enrique, she thought. What did I do to you?

She had come to the resort so full of herself, so confident in her ability to judge and control the men around her. When she arrived back in the states a few days later, with one man's death and another's ruination on her conscience, she realized that she knew nothing. All of her life, her shy and protected upbringing, her explosion of sexuality under the professor's tutelage, the men she had been with since as she honed and refined her skills, all of it had brought her to this point. And where was she – what was she?

She had thought of herself as a sensualist, bartering her body and her talents in exchange for the right to live life on her own terms. True, some might describe her as nothing more than a high-class prostitute, but she never thought of herself that way. Wasn't she only doing what everyone did, offering herself and her abilities and being paid for them? She made sure the men she dealt with – all carefully chosen – understood and agreed that hers was not to be a lifetime contract. For the time she was with each one of them, she gave of herself fully and without reservation, and when it was time to move on, she did so without regret. And while she gave none of them her heart, all of them had touched her in some way and each relationship added a new dimension to the work in progress that was her life.

Ending a relationship, however, always proved to be tricky. In the end, all the men in her life wanted to possess her, and her companion at the resort was no exception. He was a cabinet official with the Mexican government, a likeable but petty man who became verbally abusive when he drank. She had only been with him a short time when she realized how incredibly boring he was, and Erica, who valued stimulation above all else, had been looking for an opportunity to move on ever since.

And then she met Enrique. She saw in him what the professor had seen in her: A sensual nature and a raw, untapped sexuality that cried out for discovery and liberation. And just as the professor had done for her, she knew instinctively that she would be the one to unleash the passion she saw in him, and teach him the first steps in understanding his true nature. What she didn't know, what she hadn't yet learned, was how brutally swift life could change, transforming those feelings of raw passion into overwhelming guilt and remorse.

Without thinking, her fingers slid under her robe and traced the outline of her swollen lips through her thin, cotton panties. Her flower, Enrique had called it. Yes, she thought, the description fit. And once again, the heart of that flower was full and ripe, awaiting release. Using her index finger, she stroked her clit, rubbing it quickly back and forth. The moist fabric chafed her and would, she knew, make her sore afterwards, but the pain felt appropriate somehow. No, it was more than that, she realized suddenly. It was necessary. This should hurt. She rubbed harder, relishing the way her clit began to sting.

As the mixture of pleasure and pain flooded through her, the image in her mind changed to one that occurred several months after that night on the beach. She saw herself suspended, with leather cuffs holding her legs and arms, while two faceless men used her for their own pleasure. Her eyes were closed and her face appeared slack and listless; nothing the men did aroused her in any way. Another man appeared and shoved a liquid vial under her nose, forcing her to inhale deeply. Around her neck was a red, velvet bow and the third man began to twist it, cutting off the flow of blood and oxygen to her brain.

After a few seconds, her eyes began to bulge in their sockets and her face darkened. She tried to shake her head and break free but she had very little strength left. A few more seconds and she would lose consciousness. A sense of calm and acceptance swept over her. Yes, she remembered thinking very clearly. It's what I deserve.

Just as she was about to pass out, the man released his grip on the velvet bow. She gulped in fresh air. Suddenly, she felt prickly and hot, her blood a liquid flame rushing through her. The two men began fucking her harder, laughing as they felt her respond. No, she thought. Yes, her body answered and the molten blood in her veins bubbled and boiled like hot wax. Her orgasm shook her so violently the man fucking her ass lost his balance and fell, his cock spurting jets of come on her legs like a runaway hose.

That same fire coursed through Erica now, as her body convulsed on the terrace. And in her mind, the same two words repeated over and over:

Forgive me. Forgive me. Forgive me.

It was some time before she felt strong enough to open her eyes and sit up. She glanced around, looking for signs of damage. Her cup had tipped, but what little coffee left inside had stayed in the saucer. One of the deck chairs had taken a spill, clattering loud enough to scatter the cormorants from the nearby cliffs. A few of them had returned and were watching her warily. For some reason, this made Erica blush.

She stared at the papers on the table. Only a few pages of Enrique's letter remained unread. She remembered the feeling she'd gotten when she first saw the envelope. It had seemed almost alive, somehow, watching her with an ophidian intensity, waiting for the first opportunity to strike and infect her with its poison. Only the poison turned out to be more like a truth serum, tumbling her Alice-like down a rabbit hole of buried memories.

Those memories were alive inside her now, racing through her blood, opening door after door and window after window, shedding light on thoughts and feelings she'd kept hidden for years. There was no stopping it. And there was no way back. Like Alice, her only way out lay ahead, and she would have to wade through her own private and personal pool of tears to get there. She picked up the next page of Enrique's letter and continued reading.

One more night with only a timid flame for company. I have heard that this time the generator will need to be replaced, which means the candle and I may become old friends before I have the pleasure of electric light again. Still, even a weak flame has its use. Last night, as I watched the shadows on the wall, I found myself staring at the column of smoke that rose from the reflection of the candle.

You were such a bright flame when you came to Mexico, Erica. You called to me, my love, and I was helpless to resist. Of course, I knew I was no more to you than a casual affair while on holiday. I was not such a naïve boy as to think that because of one night together on the beach we might have something else in common or entertain thoughts of a life together. But that did not matter. My passion for you was such that I just had to see you again.

The next night, I heard you and your companion arguing as I approached your room. As with most nights that time of year, the air was thick and stifling, and would remain so until the wind picked up in the early morning hours. Your voices carried clearly through the open windows and I am quite certain I was not alone in hearing them. It is a measure of how anxious the resort was to put this behind them that no mention of your argument was ever introduced at my trial, nor were any witnesses brought forth to corroborate my statement.

I crept onto your balcony and watched quietly as the argument grew more intense. I must admit that I did not recognize the man you were with or find out about his position in the government until after I had been arrested. But anyone could see that he was drunk and my blood boiled to hear him talk to you that way. And imagine my surprise when I realized that the two of you were arguing about us. We had been seen!

The names he called you, Erica! Names no man should ever call a woman, no matter what her crime against him. Perhaps if I had known then the true nature of your relationship with him, I might have understood why this venom flowed so easily from his mouth. Or perhaps it was only his true character that allowed him to abuse you in this fashion. Whatever the reason, I knew the words hurt you, querida. You flinched from each one as though from the crack of a whip. But you held your ground and, in spite of my growing anger, I remained in the shadows.

Then he hit you and I could stay hidden no longer. At first, you seemed more surprised than hurt. Only when he hit you a second time did you cry out. You fell backwards onto the bed and he came towards you, as though he meant to force himself upon you. Then I was on him. I yelled as I charged, to try and distract him, and he turned to me and raised his arms to ward me off. But I had the element of surprise. I grabbed him and threw him against the wall.

For a moment, he seemed stunned by my appearance and more than a little surprised to be manhandled in such a fashion. But that did not last long. He roared and came at me, and he was strong, Erica; not as strong as me but strong enough. We wrestled together and in his eyes I saw madness. You were his prize and I had taken you away from him. I believed then, and still believe now, that he meant to kill me.

Of course, I have had much time to think about this. I have gone over the events of that night so many times now. Still, I do not remember any conscious thought process, or any one moment when I realized that my life was in danger. I only recall that suddenly the knife was in my hand, and then his expression changed as he felt the blade slide upwards into his body.

This was something else that served me to no avail at my trial. I have always been good with a knife, Erica. From the time I was a very small boy, my father taught me the uses for a sharp blade. I learned how to clean and gut a fish, and how to skin and dress all manner of animal. I came to understand very quickly how precious blood is and the importance of losing as little of it as possible during a kill.

If I had meant to kill him, would I really have bled him like a stuck pig?

But no matter. He staggered away from me, and as the knife pulled from the wound, his blood began to spurt. He tried to cover it with his hands, as though he could somehow stop water from flowing over a dam, but it was no use. He stared at me helplessly, and then he saw you on the bed. He brushed past me and, reaching for you, he stumbled. He fell to the floor and lay still in an ever-widening pool of his own blood.

I will never forget the expression on your face, my darling. It was as if it had all been some sort of a game of make-believe, and in the next moment you expected him to stand and yell, "Surprise!" But then you looked at me and saw the knife, and the blood on my hands. And you started to scream. That scream has haunted me for many years, Erica. It desolates me to think that you will always have that image of me in your mind.

After my arrest, you disappeared. My so-called lawyer – may all lawyers drown in their own excrement! – told me that he had spoken with you. He wore a sneer on his face as he described your relationship with the deceased and made it abundantly clear that in his eyes you were nothing more than a puta – a whore. He said that you expressed no concern for me and only wished to leave the country as quickly as possible in order to put this all behind you. He seemed surprised that I would expect anything different from a woman such as you.

You can imagine what it looked like, Erica. A rich and important man had been killed – murdered, they said – while surprising an intruder in his room. With no evidence to support it, my version of what happened was summarily ignored and you were hardly mentioned, probably in deference to the man's wife, who sat in the front row each day of the trial, lacerating me with her eyes. My lawyer deemed it a great victory that they did not execute me on the spot.

On the day of my sentencing, his wife read a statement to the court, describing her life with him, dwelling in great detail on all the things that I, through my callous and ruthless act, had taken from her and their children. I could barely believe what I heard, querida. I had seen this man, witnessed firsthand his drunkenness and his brutish behavior towards you. How could she, of all people, be so ignorant of his true nature? Had he somehow kept it hidden from her during their years together?

It was at this moment that I received what Padre Ramirez would call an epiphany, an opening of my eyes. For I knew, as I watched her in the courtroom, reciting her grievances and parading her late husband's swollen virtue before the judge, that everything she said was a lie. And I was not the only one. There were many who squirmed with discomfort as they listened to her words. But it was clear to me that she believed them; somehow she had learned or chosen to ignore the truth and instead built her life around a fantasy.

What an awakening, Erica! Until that moment, I would scarcely have believed a person capable of such self-deceit. However, since coming to this place, I have seen it demonstrated again and again. When faced with a difficult or unpleasant truth, people will lie about it to themselves. When a lie is repeated often enough, it becomes like the flame from a candle, seducing us with its power and warmth. And the truth slips away like smoke from a hidden flame, billowing in the shadows, unseen except but for a few, and soon enough forgotten..

I must go now, my love. Padre Ramirez is here and it is time for him to read what I have written to you. I am not sure, however, that his purpose has been served. While I understand that I must accept responsibility for what I have done, I cannot, in conscience, resign myself to this fate. I know in my heart that I still desire you, Erica. No amount of time passing will change that.

But I cannot escape the knowledge that it is because of you that I am here. And so the conflict within me has raged, and continues to rage, unabated. What we shared on the beach that night was more than merely physical, querida. For a brief moment, we were given a glimpse into each other's soul. The woman I saw there would not have willingly left me to this place.

And so I am left to wonder: What lies have you constructed for yourself that you may live with the truth of what you have done? Perhaps, if you do one day get to read these words, they may be of more help to you than they are to me now. I fear that God's mercy and forgiveness will never reach me in this earthly corner of Hell. But if you can find the courage to turn away from the flame, querida, He may yet bestow some upon you.

Always,

Enrique

Erica set the last page carefully on the table and looked away, blinking at the tears welling in her eyes. The truth, as always, was deceptively simple. Despite being in a state of shock, she had told her story to anyone who would listen. The authorities weren't interested. To them, the case was cut and dried. Her companion had been killed when he interrupted a robbery in progress. They had all the evidence they needed to prove their case and, because of the deceased's position in the government, no small amount of urgency to do so.