Lección Número X

This is another story based on my travels. I wrote it mostly for myself, so I can remember all the details of the encounter and the person more vividly, but thought I'd share it. So while one part may be a bit off-putting, remember, it's a true story! We worked around the issue, and it was fabulous. [Chapter 2, however, devolves into fantasy... Stay tuned!] Thanks for your feedback!

--Solana-

~~~

Solana couldn't believe where she was: Nicaragua!!! It was exciting, to say the least: sheltered Americans like her didn't go to shady corners of the globe like Nicaragua, what with Iran-Contra, unexploded land-mines and the like.

A fiery 30-something, Solana was a petite, long-haired brunette with the body of a yogi and the disposition of a flirtatious cynic. But her social life had taken a turn for the worse when she went back to grad school at just the same time as all of her friends had paired off and settled down.

To make up for all the boring weekends of the school year, she decided to head off someplace exotic, and Nicaragua just seemed to fit the bill.

"Be caaareful!" Solana's best buddy had warned. "Don't get kidnapped! Have fun fucking the Sandanistas! Bring me back some cocaiiiiina!"

Despite Nicaragua's sordid history, however, the political climate had calmed down, and Nicaragua was picking up as a place for tourists to head to in search of a cheap vacation in the sun. Sadly, Solana hadn't met any hot locals, nor yet sampled the famous crop, but with the great exchange rate and the perfect tropical weather, things were decidedly just fine.

In fact, it was beyond easy: She'd spent the first night on a gorgeous lakeshore less than an hour from the airport in Managua, and the next morning hopped into a collectivo taxi with 2 other American chicks, and, for less than $3, arrived 45 minutes later in a tiny, backwater but up-and-coming beach town on the Nicaraguan Pacific Coast.

And, then, on her very first night in town, Solana and her new friends hit the jackpot: at dinner, they were seated next to a trio of friendly Argentinean guys, who were traveling together up the coast of Central America.

All nice-looking boys, though nothing out of the ordinary, the group had a clear pecking order. The Alpha Dog was a charming and fashionable (if short) guy sporting soccer shorts, a soul patch, demonstrative arm-movements and a "Look at me!" countenance to match. The Bear, the shy one, had a hefty build, kind dark eyes, and a reticent, observant expression. The one Solana dubbed the Maestro (for his strong interest in being sure the Gringas got their Spanish correct) had a soft face, a clean-shaven head, the basic traveler's kit of shorts-and-t-shirt, plus trendy black, square-framed glasses shielding bright blue eyes.

Although at dinner he was obscured by the light, Solana was pretty sure the Maestro was just her type: she couldn't resist a fair-skinned Latin man, and, at home in the U.S., the smart ones were always the ones who charmed her.

But Solana was on vacation, and it'd been a long time: if she couldn't have first choice, any of these fine, foreign men would do.

As the night wore on, she was drawn more and more to the Maestro. Although more soft-spoken than the Alpha Dog, he had interesting things to say, and was charming in his subdued, intelligent way. Most importantly, he made an effort to tone down the harsh Argentinian accent Solana had so much trouble understanding, and gave her mini, on-the-spot lessons in Spanish.

Soon after the meal, Solana's female companions decided to head home. But Solana had just begun to party! Luckily, the boys wanted her to stay, too. She was right where she preferred to be: smack in the center of a trio of guys. She knew her Spanish skillz -- and cross-cultural negotiating -- weren't quite good enough to arrange a threesome (or a foursome!), but she hoped she could swing getting a taste of at least one of these guys.

They moved to a table closer to the music and the dancing tourists. The posse was all cracking up from the Spanish lessons going on between Solana and the Maestro: "Mi gato está muerto debajo de la mesa con un paraguas amarillo en la mano." My cat is dead underneath the table with a yellow umbrella in its hand.

Soon, they'd moved on to more personal lessons: how to say the most important phrases in American English and Argentinian Spanish. ¡Quiero cojerte! "I want to fuck you." ¡Chupame la pija! "Lick my dick." And the like.

Solana sat back, and, peering at each of the boys, began, "Here is a phrase you must know, boys. Aqui es una phrase muy, muy importante. Escuchan, chicos..." She looked from one to one, lingering on each of the Argentinian's gaze for a quick moment. "Who wants..." she said, annunciating clearly, "... to... eat... my.... pussy?"

The Bear smirked, chuckled, and glanced nervously from his beer to the Yanqui loca to his friends and back. The Alpha Dog -- whose English was not that great -- looked confused but smiled charmingly nonetheless. And the Maestro, well, the Maestro knew how to answer. Fueled by several cervezas, he lifted his hands over his head, and, laughing, cried, "Pick me!" in accented English. "Pick me, pick me! Me!"

Solana smiled a big smile, raised her eyebrows, and, giving him a knowing look, raised her cerveza in his direction.

~~~

A few hours later, Solana sat on the beach, alone with the Maestro, unsure of where the night was going to lead.

Despite all of their verbal flirting, he'd stayed physically pretty far away from her all night. She'd tried leaning in, touching his knees and shoulders, putting up and taking down her hair, talking about sex, but none of her tricks seemed to be getting him to respond. Clearly he was interested enough to let his friends go back to the hostel without him so he could hang out and chat with her alone for a few hours, but as for something physical, well, Solana just couldn't tell.

Maybe he was simply shy. But then again, the thought, maybe he was actually being polite: it looked like he had a cold sore! Still, she figured they could work around that, as much as a bummer that would be to have to work around. He had such nice, plump, full lips, and, from his animated response to her earlier ¿Quien quiere lamarme la raba?" question, he seemed like such an eager beaver-eater, too. And she had a feeling he'd be top-notch, at that: the enthusiasts always are! But, who knew -- maybe he wasn't even interested.

They continued the conversation and lecciónes de Español for a little while longer, listening to the surf and the wind. They talked about psychology and philosophy and thinking in colors, about remembering with pictures instead of words, about traveling and living abroad. They joked about how fooling around in English was called "running the bases," and she explained the First Base to Home Plate "F" mnemonic (French! Feel! Finger! Fuck!) He loved it.

Solana was having a great time. But, it was getting late, and she was unsure of the next step.

"Well," she said finally, after another moment of sipping from their cervezas and listening to the night breeze, "I've really enjoyed talking to you. It's been a really fun few days." She touched his knee again, trying to send some sort of signal.

"Yes," he agreed, without moving. Then, he added, shyly: "Lo que falta es un beso." All that's missing is a kiss.

She swooned -- how much better everything sounds in Spanish! And he did like her! Rock on!

She leaned in again, and agreed, in English. "For sure." But before she knew what she was saying, more words just tumbled out, in her brash New York way: "It's just too bad about that herpes you've got there..." She nodded in his direction.

He seemed embarrassed, but clearly aware. Had he been being polite all this time, as opposed to shy? Was he a good one after all?

"Yes, well..." he cleared his throat, blushing slightly. "It's just from the sun, you know," he started, speaking quickly, and picking up speed with every word, his English becoming more and more confused. "It'll be gone in two days... When I've been on vacation before, lots of times, the women, they don't mind. I don't know why. I mean, it's not a herpes, why people, not care, go away, not..."

She looked straight at him, raising an eyebrow. "Uh-huh?"

The Maestro hung his head. "I am a terrible liar," he admitted, dejected.

Solana laughed. Although Solana thought the "all the other women" comment was certainly approaching a colossal fail on his part, in the end she didn't believe him anyway, and found the sad attempt to get some besos endearing and, in fact, kind of adorable.

OK, quite adorable.

On top of that, their few hits of weed had her feeling especially affectionate, and the cervezas had lowered her inhibitions just enough.

She pulled herself closer to him in the sand and, in one fell swoop, said, simply, "Excuse me," and, pulling the Maestro's arms to the sides, climbed into his lap, wrapping her arms around his back and burying her face in his neck.

"I thought we should get a little closer..." she whispered, adjusting herself around him. "Is this OK?" she added, huskily, grinding her small frame into his lankier one as she got comfortable.

"Ah.... ¡sí!" he replied, slowly and with trepidation encircling his hands around her tiny back.

Solana began to nuzzle his neck, softly running her breath from his ear, down along his shoulder, and back up, to bite, ever so slightly, on his earlobe. She ran the side of her face along his, using her nose and eyelashes to feel the contours of his. She heard him sigh as she pressed her torso into his chest; he could feel her pert tits through the thin material of her t-shirt.

The Maestro ran his hands up and down Solana's back, slowly moving underneath the soft fabric to touch her bare skin. She shuddered with his hesitant touch.

"No comprendo..." he whispered to her, asking, "Qué hacemos?" What are we doing?

"What can we do without besos, Maestro?" she whispered in reply. "We're creating our own base..."

She continued to breathe into him, calling on all the hippie-energy her new California lifestyle had taught her: how to create tension from near-touch, desire from the hint of more to come. She licked his shoulder to ear, kissing his jawline, tonguing his ear. As he joined in to caress her back, she began to ride him, gently, with one leg holding her up in the sand, pressing her breasts firmly into his chest.

The Maestro, for his part, began to respond, running his hands up and down her sides, while receiving the ministrations of her attention. He breathed into her ear as well, using his soft, moist lips to run a trail along her collarbone. His lips were incredibly soft and wet—she could only imagine his pussy-eating abilities, and moaned.

This was the kind of teasing that drove Solana wild. She could feel herself practically leaking through her jeans. In the middle of their clothed dance, the Maestro abruptly pulled her up on her knees, declaring, "I want some of this!" and began unzipping her pants in front of him.

Solana, though, wasn't quite sure what she wanted. The booze and weed left her feeling horny, for sure, but what, exactly, was she getting herself into? She was quite happy with their pseudo-make-out session, and wasn't quite sure getting naked on a Nicaraguan beach was the safest idea.

The security guard at the closed hostel/restaurant just a few feet down the beach chose that exact moment to sweep his flashlight their way, and, though the beam didn't spy them, Solana felt nervous enough zip up her jeans, and, once the guard had passed by, turned around to sit back down in the Maestro's lap, back to chest this time.

Still, she wasn't quite ready to stop, and, clearly, neither was the Maestro. He ran his plump lips feverishly along her exposed skin, from ear to jaw to collarbone, and around her neck to the other side. It was heaven, and she squirmed under his touch. He moved his hands around to caress her breasts with long, thin fingers— just looking down at their exquisiteness turned her on.

She was slim enough that the Maestro was able to put his hands down her jeans without even opening them, and Solana arched her back to let him in. As long as they were clothed, she thought, they could pretend they were just talking.

Plus, the Maestro knew exactly what he was doing: it was beyond her control, at this point, to ask him to stop.

He'd had hit her sweet spot: There was nothing Solana liked more than someone tonguing her ear while expertly fingering her snatch. On this beach paradise, she forgot all about the security guard and let herself go.

He slipped into her satin panties, and, with one long finger, scooped up a little wetness from the heart of her sex, and began to spread it around and around her inner lips. She arched and moved against his hand, and again, it was clear to Solana that he knew how to read a woman—and her, especially. He started off slowly, using one finger to rub in gentle circles, slower than slightly faster, slower than slightly faster, in an asymmetrical rhythm, never quite touching her clit.

He dipped down to her wet, dripping hole, and put one finger in, just up to the first knuckle, until she arched so violently against him that he knew exactly what she wanted. He brought the next finger down, and plunged both fingers in as far as they could go, working them in and out, slowly but firmly. He lingered inside on the rough patch as he brushed by each time, causing her to bite her lip and claw at his knee.

Getting excited by her reactions, he pulled his fingers out and moved back to her clit, rubbing at it in the frenzied manner seen in porn. But he wasn't called the Maestro for nothing -- he quickly saw that her response to this had decreased, and he slowed down his technique again to concentrate on teasing her bits, alternating with probing the soft depths of her pussy, feeling her muscles clenching around him. So this is what she liked!

Both the Maestro and Solana knew that she could come, right there and then, in that moment, on that beach. He breathed into her ear, driving her mad with goose bumps up and down one side of her body, her nipples hard as little crystals. He began to work up a rhythm with his hand, using his thumb to massage her clit and lips, while pumping her pussy with one finger, then two, then three.

She cried out, softly, then began to shake, trying to keep her moans low and quiet under the wind. He watched as she clenched her tiny fists open and closed, open and closed, and finally, just kept them clenched so tightly against the sand, as she panted and writhed.

"What's that?" he whispered, running his other hand down her arm, pointing at her fist, as her movements began to slow.

"It's good... very, very good... Bueno... Muy, muy bueno..." she panted, leaning back into him like a rag doll having a seizure. She continued writhing in her aftershocks, still turned on by his unbelievably sexy mutterings in Spanish, while he let her relax.

Soon, his mutterings became a bit more frenzied, and he began to paw at her again.

"Quiero cojerte, quiero cojerte!" he growled with sudden desperation, beginning to lift her up. She'd had hers, what about his?

Having had her own wonderful O, Solana was beginning to come back down to reality, and her concerns were back, too -- What if someone caught them? Would they be sent to jail? Did she even really even need anymore? She'd gotten what she wanted: an incredible orgasm in an even more incredible setting, from a hot Latin dude who she liked but barely knew! Who cares what he needed -- she was alllll good.

As she gently tried to disentangle herself from his pawing and more desperate touch, he said it one more time: "Necisito cojerte!" I need to fuck you!

And before she could even speak, the next thing she knew, she was face down in the sand, the Maestro's heavy weight on top of her. He pulled her jeans down with one hand, and then pushed them down to her ankles with a foot, working her thighs open with his knees.

Solana had no time to protest. She was dripping wet, and still panting from her own orgasm. Aside from her lowered jeans, they were still mostly clothed, and he leaned hard into her, mumbling, over and over in Spanish, "I need to fuck you, I need to fuck you..."

He reached one hand under her hips to and pulled her ass up just slightly toward him, improving his angle, and entered her to the hilt all in one motion. Solana gasped, and the Maestro growled. Leaning in with all his weight, the Maestro ground into her, Solana unsure of whether to pull away or push back, as she was pushed against the sand.

Sensing the Maestro's need desperate need -- and knowing it was she who'd created that -- was a huge turn on. Feeling the sand on her hipbones, and feeling his bucking rhythms, his Spanish mumblings and his soft lips, Solana gave into his control. She bucked back toward him, releasing into her complete arousal. Sensing Solana's compliance, the Maestro responded in kind.

"Sí, Yanqui loca," he said with each thrust, "the Argintinians know how ... to ... fuck.... Come for me one more time, you crazy .... fucking ..... Yanqui..... cocktease...!" He bit on her ear, and with that, Solana reached down to finger herself along with him. Using a finger on either side of her clit, she ran them up and down, faster and faster, in rhythm with the Maestro, bringing herself to yet another orgasm.

Feeling her pussy clinging to his dick, he leaned into her with all his might, dug deep as he could, and let himself come, using her hair to muffle his cries. Solana felt herself being pushed along the sand as the Maestro released, then falling atop her with his full weight.

"Eh bueno, Loca," he said, still breathing heavily as he grew soft inside of her, and kissed the side of her cheek. "I'm never going to see you again, ¿no?" he asked. "¿Vas a Buenes Aires?"

"No," she replied, dazed. "I'm not going to Buenes Aires. No, I'll never see you again. Are you ever coming to the.... United... "

She paused, still panting in shallow rhythm with the man on top of her, and peered into the mist over the sand. Did he see the light coming, too, or was it her imagination?

It wasn't.

"¡La luz!" the Maestro whispered loudly, "The light!" and pushed up slightly on his arms, to rise a bit above her, just in the same instant that they were blinded by a flashlight.

"¿Que pasa aqui...?" demanded the security guard, leering.

He spoke with the clipped consonants of the Nicaraguan locals. He didn't seem angry, but, more like he was in on it. He'd been watching the whole time!

He rapped the flashlight into his open palm, and chuckled menacingly.

"Oh, shit....!" they both whispered, in unison, and waited for the security guard to speak.

[To be continued in PART II --SECURIDAD]