The Princess of La Tomatinabyarkadys_lyric©
Ben had tried to leave Bunol for three days leading up to La Tomatina before he heard that a massive volcano had erupted in Iceland, shutting down airports throughout the continent. He wondered if Violet had managed to make it as far as Madrid before discovering that she couldn't make it back to their flat in Williamsburg any faster than he could.
Resigned to spending Tomatina alone in a foreign suburb, Ben had pounded the sunbaked streets from shortly before dawn until long after sunset for three days, as though he could find some missing clue or remnant of the Violet he fell in love with down some flagstone alley or nestled in a shady alcove.
Ben ordered a carajillo from a gleaming white espresso bar on the north side of the city and joined the throngs heading towards the main Plaza. He sat on an old stone bench in the shade of drooping almond tree, sipping his fortified coffee, and watched officiants greasing the pole that would mark the beginning of the festival.
Most of the celebrants pouring into the Plaza were practically dressed. Men wore dark colored shorts and goggles with leather sandals and no shirt. Most women dressed as simply, with board shorts or skirts, or sometimes bikini bottoms to match their tops. Invariably the women bared their bellies and showcased their breasts in tight, patterned fabric that was already clinging to their skin with moisture from the August heat.
Ben grinned into his plastic coffee cup. He was dressed in white chinos and a loose white t-shirt with tennis shoes to match. The clothes were expensive and fit his body well, but yet he had passed by his hotel room to the Plaza, unable to bring himself back to the hotel room he'd booked for Violet to change into something more practical. Perhaps he wanted to ruin his clothes beyond all repair. The last few days felt as though his life was ruined beyond all repair.
The assembled crowd began to chant and sing. One mob towards the center had clearly been drinking even though it wasn't quite yet ten in the morning. Ben wondered if they'd stayed up all night drinking, frantic for a moment of half-naked liminality. Soon the chanting became shouting, which became screaming. Across the plaza a yellow fire truck blasted water into the air, which formed a gentle arc and misted Ben and the rest of the festival goers. La Tomatina had begun.
Men who looked to Ben like champion bullfighters began trying to scale the slippery pole at the center of the plaza to knock the ham hock from the top so the idling tomato trucks could throw open their beds and let the massive food fight begin. Ben saw a dozen men with dimpled backs and powerful shoulders attempt the pole before losing their purchase and sliding down into the crowd below.
Then a figure emerged from the seething masses below, obviously not male. She wore a short pink tennis skirt with biking shorts beneath and white tennis shoes that nearly matched Ben's. A thick curtain of dark hair obscured most of her white tank top. Ben grinned as he noted her knee and below pads. Her skin was glowing copper and Ben was mesmerized by the way the muscles in her shoulders and thighs tensed as she shimmied up the slippery pole.
She reached the top and wrapped her thighs around the head of it. She turned towards the crowd of officiants and press - towards Ben - to pose for a photo. A hundred shutters snapped behind Ben's head, capturing her heart shaped face and wide, white smile. She picked up the ham hock and threw it down to the crowd while a chorus of air horns blasted around the Plaza. Before he could catch a final glimpse of the woman who scaled the pole,the air was thick with laughter and sprays of crushed orange fruit.
A group of dark teenage girls in blue string bikini tops had been unable to resist pelting the tourist dressed all in white. Ben wiped the acidic residue off his face and laughed as he saw the girls giggle and wave, their pert breasts jiggling in their skimpy suits. He grabbed a handful of tomato from his lap and returned fire, but the girls turned in the last moment, so that the fruit spattered instead over their backs. The juices ran down the curve of their asses to coat the backs of their silky thighs.
The girls took off running and Ben slammed the dregs of his coffee and took off after them. A dozen or more tomatoes hit him as he ran towards an enormous red truck that read Bolinches, which was already full to bursting with clever strategists and eager combatants who knew the largest supply of crushed tomatoes was here. As Ben approached the truck, the vollies became a downpour of bright, stringing fruit.
A thick woman with onyx skin and heavy breasts that strained her tube top upended a bucket of pulverized fruit on top of Ben's head. She turned to leave and Ben felt his cock stiffen when he saw her thick ass wobble in her tiny red shorts. He grabbed a handful of tomato from his hair and grabbed her wrist with his other hand. When she turned to see who had touched her, he fired the soaking handful of tomato into her cleavage.
She gasped and began speaking very fast in a language Ben though might be Dutch. She was laughing though, and he wanted to touch her again, but her friend grabbed her other hand and pulled her away from him and deeper into the throng. And then Ben saw Violet.
Her porcelain face and almond shaped eyes stood out even more in Bunol than in Brooklyn. She looked so petite standing across the Plaza in her denim cutoffs and the purple silk bra he'd given her for their one year anniversary. Even without the straightener she'd left in their hotel room, her fine black hair hung in a perfect bob that framed her face. But she wasn't looking at him. She was standing on her toes to kiss a towering black man with a flat stomach and biceps the size of bowling balls.
The wind went out of Ben like a punch to the gut. Violet had left him. She said they were incompatible. That her libido was just naturally low. She was going to be on a plane to Madrid, wasn't she? Had she heard about the volcano ash and stayed in Bunol just as he had? Had she rented another hotel room? Had she seen him pacing the streets every day since she packed her suitcase, trying to figure out what went wrong?
As though she could hear his thoughts or feel herself being watched, Violet's black-brown eyes flashed from her mysterious paramour to Ben. They flew open, startled. She hadn't expected to be seen. Perhaps she was embarrassed, Ben thought, having played the prude for two years and then having found a suitable replacement for her fiance before she even left the city. She grabbed her lover's enormous hand and turned him towards the narrow streets away from Ben.
Ben turned at that moment, not wanting to watch her leave a second time when someone from the truck above upturned another pail of tomatoes over his head. Blinded and chaffing with longing to be anywhere but in Bunol, he took a quick step forward and collided headlong with someone.
Wiping the tomato from his face, Ben saw who he had hit. It was the woman who had scaled the pole. She was on her back in nearly five inches of crushed tomatoes, blinking as though blinded by the searing sun and the sour orange juice that covered her.
Ben knelt down beside her and pulled off his ruined shirt. He offered her the only clean spot and she wiped her face, leaving mascara lines on the clean patch of white.
"Sorry, sorry," she groaned, pushing herself up on her elbows. She had a broad forehead and pointed chin, a round, upturned nose and soft, pink lips. Her eyes were wide and brown brushed with topaz. Ben had to catch his breath when his eyes met hers.
"It's already ruined, it doesn't matter," Ben said. He had to shout over the crowd. He helped her to her feet and she paused, staring at his naked arms and chest.
"You are American?" she asked. God, Ben thought, even her voice made him crazy. It was sweet and heady like spiced rum. All he could do was nod.
"I like Americans," she said. "They ask for what they want."
She must have already dispensed with her knee and elbow pads, as well as the bike shorts, but the short tennis skirt still hugged the swell of her hips. On top she wore a now transparent white racerback tank top over a black bikini that barely covered a pair of perfect DDs. He knew her statement couldn't be construed as anything other than an invitation to look. She was perfection. He didn't know if he dared ask for more.
She saw him staring and smiled. "You could sit down a moment with me. I am dizzy still from our crash."
Ben nodded dumbly, but led the way through the festival crowd, this time avoiding the densest crowds. She hooked her finger over the waistband of his jeans so she wouldn't be separated. Ben was felted by a few more handfuls of tomatoes, but he wiped them away, focusing on the unoccupied little stone bench beneath the almond tree.
"My name is Camila. I am from Valencia," she said, crossing her legs and extending her hand.
"Ben. From New York. Well, not originally." He shook his head. "It doesn't matter." He shook her hand. It was small and warm and strong in his. He cleared his throat, embarrassed.
"Nice to meet you, Ben. Did you come to Bunol for La Tomatina?" Camila wrung the tomato juice from her long, wavy dark hair.
Ben nodded. Violet always complained that Ben was romantic. He'd surprised her with a trip to Spain the month before the wedding. She complained endlessly that it was such short notice and financially irresponsible, and that Spain was a European backwater.
"If we're going to go, you could have saved for Paris instead," she'd said. "Honestly, there's nothing in Spain even worth doing."
Camila looked back towards the food fight and Ben wondered if she wasn't already bored of him. He had to keep her talking.
"What's your secret then, to climbing the palo jabón?" Ben asked her. She giggled, and he wondered if it was the provocativeness of the question or if he'd simply butchered the pronunciation.
"Well, Ben, I have a lot of practice. I am good at climbing," she said, turning her knees towards him.
Ben chuckled. "You're very fit. Is that how you train?"
"I practice for work."
Ben swallowed. "What do you do for work?"
Camila held his gaze, unflinching. "I'm a dancer."
"Tango? Ballet?" Ben stared back into her amber eyes. Not tango. Not ballet.
She shook her head. "Dancing for adults only."
Ben's dick strained against his chinos again. He swallowed. "That's really hot."
Camila laughed. "Do you think so? Many men think the opposite unless I am on stage."
"Many men are fucking stupid," said Ben fervently.
Camila brushed her hand against his arm. "That's right." She sat silent for a moment while Ben imagined going down on her, making her scream and buck against his tongue. He wondered what she tasted like. When she spoke again, he rested his hand on his lap so she wouldn't see the mad bulge in his pants.
"So Ben, you live in a rich country and you are handsome and a gentleman. You are funny. Did you come all the way to Bunol alone? Did you bring your wife? A girlfriend? I have to know you are not some American serial killer who targets immodest women."
Ben stared at her and she burst out laughing. Ben couldn't help himself. He laughed too, because Violet never made him laugh, and realizing that made being asked about her so much less painful.
He cleared his throat. "I was going to get married but she left me." He realized he sounded like a sorry bastard when he said it, but Camila's English was imperfect and he wasn't keen to dissect his failure with the most beautiful woman he'd ever met.
Camila nodded. "Short time ago?"
Ben nodded, adding, "We weren't right for each other. She's so serious. So shy. Socially and in bed." Or so he thought until he'd seen her with some complete stranger, the sort of person she'd cross the street to avoid back in Brooklyn. "I don't know why I'm telling you this. Sorry."
Camila took her hand in his. "Do you believe in fortune telling?"
Internally Ben rolled his eyes, but he nodded eagerly, keen not to refuse a chance to touch Camila. She held his hand in her, palm up, and traced the lines that crossed his palm.
"This," she traced a circle at the center of his palm, "shows your strength. Strong men who are kind to women many times get what they want."
"Now these," she said, raking her nail over the pads of his fingers, "are very sensitive. I foresee they give pleasure as well as receive it. See?" She took Ben's hand in her own placed it over her breast, cupping its weight.
Ben was suddenly very aware of his breathing and they way his pulse throbbed, rerouting blood to his rock hard cock. The festival raged around him but Ben only had eyes of Camilla.
Camila guided Ben's hand slowly over her breast, over her ribs, along the curve of her hip and just under the hem of her tiny pink tennis skirt. Her thigh was impossibly smooth, and he could feel the heat from their apex pulsing warm enough to feel at noon on one of the hottest days of the year in Spain.
Camila pushed her own upturned palm in Ben's face, smiling. "Do you see? You're in my future too." She reached down and slid her palm over the bulge in Ben's chinos. He moaned.
"Will you come with me to the hotel?" Ben croaked.
"The Condes?" Camila guessed. There were only two hotels in Bunol, and one was impossibly expensive. Ben nodded and she took his hand and led him through several cool, shaded alleys towards the Hotel Condes Bunol.
They emerged in a small, gated square that abutted the hotel lot with a shuttle to the train station. There no revelers this far north; all the tomato trucks were stationed in or near the Plaza itself. Ben cut through the lot to bring Camila in through the side entrance when he saw Violet and her lover waiting to board the shuttle. Violet's eyes must have caught his because she lifted her Chanel shades to be sure of what she was seeing. Ben froze as a look of horror passed over Violet's delicate features.
Camila pushed Ben back against the stucco wall of the hotel and kissed him deeply. Her tongue found his and explored its shape before sliding over his teeth. She bit his bottom lip hard, until he could barely remember why he was stalling. He returned the kiss, and trailed his lips along her jaw to her earlobe. She moaned and Ben tightened his hold on her hand and wrenched open the door to the lobby.
Ben fumbled with his key in the stripped lock. The inside of the room was so cool it was chilled, a thrilling contrast to the dense, filmy heat of the Plaza. As soon as Ben threw the bolt on the door, Camila had unzipped his pants and pulled out his rigid cock.
She closed her fist around it, stroking him gently, teasing him as she kissed him deeply. "Was that her, outside?" She asked him when she let him breathe.
"Yes," Ben admitted as she stroked him faster. He could feel the heat of her body radiating through her hand and spreading through his body with the careful pressure from her palm.
"I'll make you forget everything about her," Camila whispered in his hear.
"Who?" Ben said, only half joking. All he could think of was what he wanted to do to Camila.
She dropped to her knees in front of him. "That's right" She took the head of his cock in her mouth.
Ben gasped, barely able to keep from coming. Camila ran her tongue down the length of his shaft, eyeing him from between his legs. She fondled his balls his in her hot, tiny hands and then took the whole of his shaft into her mouth. Her swollen pink lips closed around the base of Ben's cock. He could feel the way she dragged her tongue up and down his shaft as she held the tip of his cock in her throat.
Glancing up at him, she hiked up her tennis skirt to reveal a matching pink thong. A tiny piece of pink string disappeared down the crack of her ass, lewdly separating her cheeks. Each was a perfect copper globe, high and round and on display for Ben. She sucked him hard while holding his eye. The head of his dick bulged obscenely in her cheek. He stroked the bulge through her skin. She was sweating despite the chilly room. Sweating from taking his rigid dick down her throat. He felt himself teetering on the edge when Camila looked into her eyes and touched herself, moaning around him.
He exploded in her mouth and she drank him down, holding him in her mouth until he'd softened. He felt weak and woozy; he hadn't meant to come so soon. He never wanted her to leave. He pulled her to her feat and let his tomato-stained pants fall to the floor. He wanted to get back in control of himself. He needed Camila naked.
He threw her t-shirt over his head and slid her skin tight skirt over her hips so that she stood before him wearing only the barest of thongs and two triangles of fabric to cover her nipples.
Ben pushed Camila back on the the queen-sized bed and pulled aside one of the triangles to reveal her taut, maple brown nipple. He ran his tongue over it. She tasted faintly of tomato, but mostly of rosewater and vanilla. Ben pushed the other triangle of fabric away and pressed her tits together, licking and sucking both of Camila's nipples in turn.
Camila moaned and reached between her legs but Ben caught her wrists and pinned them to her sides as he worked his way licking and kissing his way down her stomach and over her mound to the tiny triangle that just barely concealed her pussy lips. The thong was too perfect to dispense with right away but Ben was thrilled at the way she fought against him to touch herself. He licked her through her thong and Camila groaned as he pulled away, rising back to her round breasts. Ben reached behind her and untied her bikini top, catching her of her wrists and tying them each to the bikini. Then he hooked the two triangles of fabric back under head head, pinning her hands to tied around her neck.
Ben chuckled when he saw Camila's false indignation and slid back down her body and pulled her thong aside to reveal her bare pussy. Camila squirmed. Ben flicked his finger over her clit and she thrust up against his palm.
He pushed a finger inside her. He was surprised by how tight and wet she was. She was at least as turned on as he was. Ben pushed another finger inside her and she grunted as he rotated his hand so the heel of his palm ground down against her sensitive nub. Camila began to whisper a string of oaths in Spanish as she thrust her hips up against Ben's hand.
"You like it?" Ben grinned, pinching her clit with his other hand.
"God, you bastard!" Camila's voice tore through the room and echoed off the bare walls, hoarse with need. "Don't fucking stop."
Ben could have kept her like that all day, desperate to cum and bouncing against his hand. He withdrew his fingers and moment and Camila let out an animalistic cry of frustration but he replaced them with three fingers from his left hand a moment later and Camila clenched around them, grinding her clit against the pad of his thumb which he rest lightly on her.
He pushed his soaking right fingers into her mouth and she sucked them just like she'd sucked his dick. "Camila, you're such a perfect slut," he crooned, no longer able to tell who was more turned on. She must have known what 'slut' meant, because she moaned ascent into his fingers as he pulled them from her mouth and positioned them at the entrance to her ass. Ben was already rock hard again.
"You can only put those in my ass if I have a cock to suck," Camila hissed and Ben tensed. He climbed over her head, keeping his fingers inside her, careful not the kneel on her hair. He lowered his hips carefully so she could take his cock down her throat.
Her mouth was wet and even more perfect than before now that she was gasping for control of her orgasm around it. He pushed his middle finger past that tight ring of muscle and Camila spasmed bodily, screaming into his dick and clamping down hard on his fingers with her pussy and ass.