'Welcome to Buenos Aires.'
I had been expecting David to meet me, my old friend from the days when we were novice journalists in London, not the beautiful full-figured blonde who stood in front of me, a cardboard sign held chest-high with my name scrawled on it in black felt-tip.
After thirteen hours on a plane and several more gin and tonics than were good for me, I was a little bewildered to be offered the black-gloved hand of this gorgeously sexy woman, and not one of those casual little back-slaps that David would habitually give me when we met on one of his increasingly infrequent visits home. My first reaction was that it was some kind of joke, a little set-up, like that time in Convent Garden when he had... Well, later, maybe.
'I am David's wife, Andrea. I am sorry, he is not here. He is on business in Santiago.'
It took a little time to take her all in: the bouncy shoulder-length hair, the almond-shaped eyes, the full rosy jut of her mouth. She wore a black leather skirt cut two clear inches above the knee and dark vampish tights showing her full thighs and the delicate curve of her calves. It took a little time to take it all in but, like most good things in life, it was - she was - well worth it.
Through my jet-lagged haze, my first inklings of arousal were counter-blasted by the realisation that she had just told me she was David's wife.
So okay, this wasn't a moral issue. I had dumped sexual morality on the aeroplane. The fact that she was David's wife or anybody else's wife would not have stood in my way. After five years of fidelity, of nobly and loyally refusing to let my cock stray from the conjugal bed, and then discovering that my lover and partner of those drearily monogamous years had been putting it about with anybody and everybody who wanted it; then any sense of those devotional requisites - like not betraying your husband by giving a blow-job to the next door neighbour in your very own garden shed - were out. But that was me: commitment, a thing of the past; honesty in relationships, kicked into touch; faithfulness, never to be tampered with again.
This had all been decided whilst perusing my manhood in the aeroplane toilet, after the first of my complementary gins. From now on I wanted sex - wild sex, hard sex. I wanted to exorcise all those long years of pain and bitterness by doing anything I desired, however fantastic or perverse - and to do it with as many willing women as I could find. That was all. Simplifyingly, glorifyingly, I would seek carnal enjoyment as merely a pleasure in itself, not some kind of adjunct to a mutually rosy-coloured concept of connubial bliss.
But that, as I said, was me. I might as recently as six hours ago have dedicated my life to pleasuring my cock. I might have been, as David had indicated in a call only forty-eight hours previously, fresh. But I was not Andrea. Andrea, even if there was the faintest possibility that she could be attracted to me, may not have discarded all the antediluvian marital myths that I had done. She might be - and God, what a waste of those glorious breasts and those wonderful thighs - still in love, and still faithful.
As she walked me to her car, I observed the pleasant plumpness of her bottom and the highly seductive way she moved on three-inch heels. Now, so close to her as we headed to the centre of the city, I could see what a delectable smile she had, especially when her eyes strayed from the road to meet mine. And how delightfully arousing she was when the tip of her tongue jutted from her lips in an overly conscious demonstration of concentration, as she focused her attention back to the maniacal drivers in front of her, the taxi-drivers maddeningly lane-hopping.
'So why is David in Santiago?'
She shrugged dismissively, alluringly. 'David is always away. Is a contract with cable television.'
My God: after all those days living with an English girl with precise Home Counties diction, it was such a turn-on to be stuck in traffic with a beautiful Latin woman who forgot the necessity of using impersonal pronouns at the beginning of her sentences.
'Is a contract.'
Fantastic! Andrea's English was good, very good, but this little mannerism, this little linguistic tic, was enticing; as was her sensual Argentinean intonation which seemed to add syllables to English where they should not exist.
'What do you do, Andrea?' I asked as I glanced at her long slender fingers, then up to her nails coated with deep scarlet.
'I am a dance teacher.'
'Classic?'
'Classic and modern.'
'Maybe you can teach me to tango, while I'm here,' I said jokingly.
'You must come to visit my studio,' she said, turning her eyes once more away from the road to look at me, momentarily displaying a dazzle of perfectly formed teeth. I imagined her leotard-clad, the rounded hips, the bare expanse of flesh between throat and breast.
'Love to.' I would have loved doing just about anything with Andrea, but the prospect of a rendezvous in the privacy of her dance studio was certainly high on my list of potential shared activities.
She smiled again. The smile was at first open and warm, until her lips slightly twisted to the most tantalising of smirks; I hoped that perhaps she was thinking about the carnal possibilities that might occur if I took up her vague invitation.
As I tried to make conversation with her, I was frequently distracted from my genial line of interrogation by the delightful bulging of her breasts, or the occasional swaying of her hair as she would answer a question in the negative, or by the sheen of her black tights - did I dare dream stockings? Yes, I did.
'How was your flight?' she asked after a brief lull in the conversation.
'Long, very long.'
'And how was England?'
'Cold, very cold. Have you been?'
'Never. I never been,' she said sadly.
'You must go.'
'I will. I went to Paris and to Rome, but not to London.'
'Why doesn't David take you?'
'David - huh!'
I was beginning to be encouraged, especially by the dismissive, almost parenthetic expellation of air that had followed her retort. It did not strike me that their relationship was going so well, as Andrea shrugged and further sighed her seeming disillusionment with her absent husband. 'David is always too busy.'
From the air, Buenos Aires had impressed me, at least in its regularity; the tidy rows of streets that formed the grid pattern of the city had sprawled way beyond into the distance. There seemed little of the ramshackle about the place, none of the higgledy-piggledy growth of London streets. Buenos Aires looked planned, orderly, precise: a city that knew what it was about. A city that knew where it was going.
I was wrong.
As we sped through the broad avenues of the centre, the assumed horizontal precision of urban planning gave way to vertical chaos. A mess of architectural styles bludgeoned my sight; traces of Paris and London and Madrid competed in the grandeur stakes, while modernistic skyscrapers dwarfed quaint colonial-style buildings.
Needless to say, any profound consideration of architectural style or the niceties of urban planning were totally subsumed by my interest in the sexy blonde beside me, although they did offer subject matter for our increasingly amiable chat.
'Yes, Buenos Aires is a mess, a big mess. No planning, nada. This is not Europe, señor. We have the rules, but nobody pay attention. Money is the language and the law here.'
I liked the passion of her little diatribes; they added another element to the appeal of this ravishing woman. During the first twenty minutes of our journey to town, I was favoured with robust criticisms of the police, the army, the judiciary and, of course, the government.
By the time we had been driving for half an hour, Andrea was joking with me like a long-lost friend, interspersing a light-hearted history of the city with lengthy anecdotes from her domestic life, telling me how she often found David's business colleagues dreary and boring. 'What do you English say, so stick in the mud? Especially, maybe I shouldn't say this,' but she did, 'some Englishmen. Dio mio. They need to relax, I think.'
I laughed. 'I know.'
'Not all, eh, only some. Not you, I think.' I was graced by another glancing smile. 'Maybe, Jonathan, we can have a good time together. I like laughing. You make me laugh already.'
The morning streets were virtually deserted of pedestrians, but cars thundered down the broad six-lane highways that dissected the centre of town. I had thought it was only the cavalier taxi-drivers at the airport who drove like madmen, but everybody drove like crazy here, even Andrea - especially Andrea. I was torn between the delicious looks she would throw me, and my desire that she concentrate her attention on driving. I was relieved when she haphazardly parked the car in a narrow, deserted side street.
'I take you for coffee, yes?'
We walked along the street, my eyes taking everything in around me; the pompous grandeur of the wealthy tenements, the slick brightly lit cafés, all called confiterias here, the multitude of banks and offices, the tiny kioskos, shuttered and locked.
The street opened onto a broad tree-lined avenue, the recently risen sun already making the asphalt shimmer, even though it couldn't have been much later than ten in the morning.
'This is the Avenida de Mayo. To the north is Congress. To the south, Plazo de Mayo,' Andrea said, gesticulating with her arms. 'That is where the pink house is, where the President lives. You are in the very heart of Buenos Aires.'
'You should have been a tourist guide,' I joked.
'Oh, you think so? Maybe, but I prefer to be a dancer.' She made an elegant little semicircle with her left foot. 'Maybe for you, Jonathan.' A little impish smile passed across her lips.
'You can take me anywhere,' I said, flirting.
She took my arm in hers. 'And now I take you to the most famous café in the whole of Buenos Aires - maybe in the whole of South America - the Tortoni. Famous for the tango, for literature and lovers and, like many people and things here, famous for being famous.'
The café was huge and sparsely populated, a few porteños - the name used to describe the people of Buenos Aires - were spread out among the round marble-topped tables. The atmosphere of the place was sombre, the maroon waist-coated waiters serious and, to me, a little foreboding. Huge thick pillars pompously lined the centre of the café and the dark wood panelled walls did not brighten the ambience. It seemed a café consciously aware of its own importance and its reputation, more church or library than drinking establishment. I didn't like it much, but I didn't care. I was more interested in my companion.
We took a seat near the main door.
'This is the Tortoni,' Andrea said, glancing at me. 'What would you like?'
That was obvious. What I would have liked was Andrea, naked and writhing above me, slapping down on my stiff prick. I settled for a coffee. 'Un cortado,' I responded, attempting my best Spanish pronunciation.
'Bien.' She perused the glossy menu, her tongue brushing her upper lip as she deliberated on what she would have.
'So tell me about the tango,' I said, after a portly moustachioed waiter had taken our order.
'Ah, the tango! You ask the right question, because the tango is Buenos Aires. The tango, how to explain the tango,' she mused to herself. 'Well, is showy, obsessive, passionate and a little perverse.' Here her eyebrows raised slightly. 'The tango is about suffering and joy, and many porteños don't seem to know the difference between pain and pleasure. The tango wants to be seen, wants to be watched. Is about loving and not being loved, about loving and hurting. Is about nostalgia, about not having what you want, and losing what you once had.'
'There doesn't seem to be much joy in it.'
'The joy comes, I think, from being miserable. Porteños like to be unhappy, can only be happy being unhappy, especially when they have somebody to speak with about it.'
'You don't seem particularly unhappy.'
'I'm not,' she said, laughing heartily, 'but I am not a porteño, not really. I come from Cordoba, a city in the north. We are different. We prefer to be happy getting what we want. I always try to get what I want. Don't you?'
'Yes, I do.'
Her eyes looked piercingly into mine, and then she glanced away. 'We are not so, so self-obsessed in Cordoba. Buenos Aires is a city of egoistas. Listen, I have a joke for you, yes?' Her hand leant over the circular marble table, her fingers lightly resting on my knuckles. 'Well, in English, maybe it's hard. Okay, I try: how can you get a porteño to kill himself?'
'I don't know. How do you get a porteño to kill himself?' I repeated with mock pantomime intonation.
'Get him to jump off his own ego.' She burst into laughter. I laughed too, as much at the infectiousness of Andrea's laugh as at the actual joke.
'Unlike most women here,' Andrea continued, 'I am not an egoista. I'm not self-obsessed. For example, I do not go to the psychoanalyst.'
'Why should you?' I asked, bemused that Andrea would even mention herself going for therapy. She seemed an advertisement for mental health.
'Everybody else does. Psychotherapy is the porteño's biggest indulgence. The English collect stamps, we go to the - what was the word that David told me? - yes, we go to the shrink and tell him all our problems and how unhappy we are.'
'You're not a believer, then?'
'I believe in different kind of therapy, señor. Cosas mas natural.'
'Your therapy?'
'No, I joke. My therapy is getting what I want, so I am not dissatisfied. Not always, but then perhaps it is not always good to get everything that you want. But I get enough, that's all.'
Her eyes looked into mine again, then she broke into laughter. 'Oh yes, and fact number two. Did you know that the women of Buenos Aires spend more money on their underwear than in any other part of the world? I told you, we are a little perverse, the women of Buenos Aires.'
I imagined Andrea in a basque, in a chemise, in silk and satin and cotton, in decorative panties, in lacy bras. I imagined rolling my tongue along her stockinged legs, tugging her breasts free from the lacy cups of her bra, of pulling aside the gusset of her panties and nibbling on her quim.
It was all happening so quickly. Sex seemed to hover over us, our every word imbued with its scent, every sentence loaded with innuendo, potential... I wasn't totally sure. I was never totally sure, but I began to think that I was going to have this woman before the day was over; especially when she said, after we had finished drinking our coffee and she was driving me north from the centre of the city, 'Your hotel is here, but first I take you home.'
Her apartment was in what I was later to learn was the district of Belgrano. It was a lavish four-bedroomed affair with all mod cons, the essentially slimline and discreet, a blend of modernistic minimalism and classical chic: vertical blinds, red leather sofa, antique chest of drawers, glass-topped coffee-table.
She poured me a large whisky and sat on a chair to the right of me. 'So why did you come here?' It sounded like a genuine question, as if it puzzled her as to why anybody would uproot themselves and travel across the world to Argentina.
'I deserved a long holiday. I wanted to see David; he's always inviting me, and I wanted to meet you.'
Again our eyes met.
'What did David tell you about me?'
'Only good things.'
She looked quizzical.
'Not much.'
'Good.'
She sipped on her whisky. I couldn't take my eyes off that fabulous chest, the slight heaving of her breasts as she drank, the gratifying pinpoints of her nipples visible beneath the thin stretched wool of her black polo-neck sweater.
'You separate from your girlfriend?' Andrea was resting her whisky glass on the arm of the sofa with her right hand, while her left hand hugged her legs below the knee.
'My wife, yes.' I looked at her eyes. Again the silence, but no discomfort. How could there be with that radiant face beaming across at me? Nor did the question sound intrusive - more conspiratorial.
'Are you sad?' She sat up straight on the sofa and took a long gulp of her whisky.
'No. I'm very happy, relieved. I like the idea of being a free man again.'
'Sorry, I ask too much. I'm too curious. It is the Argentinean way. We are too honest sometimes, too - what do you say, frank? And then sometimes we lie too easily.' She laughed to herself a little, then looked at me almost disappointedly before taking another sip of her drink.
'No, I don't mind, really. Ask what you want.'
'Have another whisky. Take yourself,' she said motioning to the whisky bottle that lay behind me. She pulled out a packet of cigarettes and lit one. I watched as she tossed her head back slightly and inhaled the smoke deeply, all the time keeping her eyes fixed on me.
I could feel my dick bulging in my pants, my balls a granite weight between my legs. She was brushing her knee with the tips of her fingers. It was enticing, but maybe it was done innocently, almost subconsciously. She had told me in the lift how easy she found it to talk to me, but what if I were misreading all the signs, if I were mistaking mere friendliness for something else, something wholly more interesting?
I sat down and self-consciously crossed my legs. I placed the whisky glass on the coffee-table before me.
'How's David?' I wanted to test the water a little, before trying a more direct approach.
'Oh, David is okay, when I see him. He travels so much. So... so busy all the time. He speaks of you often.' She took another drag from her cigarette and languorously exhaled.
'We go back a long way.'
'I know. He told me. Everything!' Her eyes dilated as she emphasised the 'everything'. As far as David and I were concerned, everything used to mean a lot.
'Has he changed, David?'
'No, not really. He's a little more serious now. Demasiado! Too much stress. He talks already of retirement, but work is like a drug with him. He can't stop.' She shook her head disapprovingly as she spoke.
'I wouldn't spend so much time away from you, if you were my wife.' The words seemed to spring from my mouth with no intercession from my mental processes.
'Really?' She laughed, tossing her head back again, splaying her arms out, before bringing them together in a bright clap. I noticed the undulation of her breasts as she chuckled at my remark. 'Oh, English gentlemen.'
'Don't believe Englishmen are gentlemen.'
'You know there is a belief in Argentina that all Englishmen are gentlemen: gentlemen and homosexuals. Is it true?' she said, laughing again, before taking a deep drag on her cigarette.
'That we are all gentlemen - or that we are all homosexuals?'
'Both.'
'Well, you're married to one.'
'Exactly, and I am still not sure,' she said, before she started to laugh again without any hint of bitterness.
I must have raised my eyebrows and looked quizzical.
'No, señor, I am joking. I am only joking. David is not always a gentleman, although he can be, and I don't think he is a homosexual.'
'You don't think?'
'No, I am sure he isn't.'
I was laughing, too. It is difficult to convey the sheer vivacious charm of the woman, of Andrea then as she sat before me, the conviviality of her personality, the sheer openness, the sense of joy and playfulness which seemed to suffuse her words, the fruity naturalness of her manner.
Her free hand was still toying with the hem of her leather skirt.
'But sometimes, he leaves me alone, the bastard.' Said jokingly, almost lovingly. 'And it is no good to leave a woman like me alone. I do not like to dance solo.' Her face flushed, momentarily tinged red, and then she laughed again delightfully, coquettishly - and then the laughter suddenly halted. 'I like you, Jonathan. I like you much, very much.' She stubbed out her cigarette on the ashtray that lay on the side of her armchair.
'I like you too, Andrea.' I did not dare dream where this might be leading. I feared to make an ass of myself so quickly, and with David's wife. I had been out of the game too long, which is why I was so hesitant, unconfident.
'It is strange, no, to like someone so quickly, without knowing them so well? Strange - and for me, is a little exciting.'
'Very exciting!' I could barely believe what was happening. It was becoming clear that I wasn't misreading the signs: her seduction was too obvious. Her next question dismissed any remaining doubts.
'Are Englishmen always this slow?'
'Sorry?'
'I mean, here I am giving you - what does David call it? - the come-on, and you not say anything.' Her eyes sparkled as she looked at me.
'But...'
'But what? David? Forget David. I told you, he leaves me alone. I don't ask about him. He doesn't ask about me. I said, I like you. Is there a problem? I mean, you are an Englishman. Maybe you don't like me?'
'Of course I like you.'
'I mean, you don't want to make love with me?'
'Yes. You're beautiful.' My heart was thumping, pounding with lust and I could feel my prick pulsing as she spoke.
A brief hiatus and then she said, her voice softening, 'Why don't you come here, Jonathan? Come to me... come!'
My head was spinning. A beautiful woman was inviting me to make love to her, one hour after I had arrived on the other side of the world. Not that this seemed like the other side of the world: this seemed like a parallel universe where your deepest, darkest wishes are fulfilled, where what you had only sadly dreamt of or fantasised about becomes real, wonderfully real. Only some fifteen hours before, I had been standing freezing in London: cold, lonely, feeling trepidation at the outset of my new, single life. And now, here I was in the bright city summer heat, with one of the most attractive women I had ever seen in the whole of my life beckoning me to her.
I slugged back a mouthful of whisky and walked over to her chair, went to take her, to lean over and wrap my arms around that fabulous body.
'Stop!' she commanded before I could reach down. 'I want to look at you.' She reached her manicured fingers to my crotch and began to unzip my flies. She glanced up to my astonished eyes, flashing a smile at me before returning to the zip, her tongue excitedly snaking out of her mouth.
She pulled out my cock, teased it from my boxers. It stood to attention before her eyes. A glistening rivulet of semen trickled down my shaft and onto the blood-red nail of her finger as she pulled down my foreskin. She gasped, 'Is fantastic!' She stared at my prick and then up to my eyes as I inched my member closer to her face. 'What a cock!'
Suddenly, she poured the dregs of her whisky into the palm of her hand and began massaging the alcohol into my pulsating cock, all along my throbbing shaft, down to my heavy balls, sighing her pleasure, anticipating her delight. I felt the sting of the alcohol, making my already hot flesh burn like fire.
She rolled the head of my cock against her cheek, drawing a thin trail of semen across her soft flesh, and then she rolled it across her parted lips, nipping it painfully between her fingers before plumping her lascivious mouth over my helmet, soothing the burning sensation where the whisky had stung.
With her free hand she lifted my cock and, pulling her lovely mouth away, she began to lick along the shaft, the movement of her tongue growing more furious and more frantic. My hand stroked and tousled the stream of her blonde hair.
How long did this last? I can't say. It seemed like an infinity, an infinity of joy, a rekindling of a sexual pleasure that had lain dormant in me for too long. A woman was spreading her long tongue all over, all round and along my cock, intermittently squeezing my testicles as she did so, looking up to me, smiling with her eyes, treating my rod in a way it hadn't been treated in a long time. I had almost forgotten how good it could feel.
Spreading her hand through the apex of my thighs, now unencumbered of trousers and pants, she grabbed my buttocks and ran a finger down the ridge between my anus and my balls before thrusting my cock further and further into her mouth, past her full red lips, until I saw it bulge in the side of her cheek.
I grabbed her hair, her beautiful silky hair, blanched in the summer sun. I held her head as she propelled her mouth forward onto me, as she took me deeper and deeper inside her mouth and her dextrous tongue worked on me.
I could feel myself coming, exploding inside her. I could imagine my come spurting down her throat. I felt my legs tense, my whole body go into spasm. A wave of orgiastic pleasure was shooting up from the base of my bursting shaft.
She must have sensed it, too, for suddenly she slipped her mouth from me.
'Not yet... not yet,' she murmured sweetly.
I was pleased. I didn't want to come before I had explored the jewel of her body. I grabbed her swelling breasts through her black woollen sweater and felt the hardness of her nipples, pinching each one between my finger and thumb. She moaned with pleasure through the momentary tang of pain.
I lifted the polo-neck over her head, exposing a black lacy bra. I stooped and sucked on her hard nipples through the lace, taking each one briefly between my teeth. And then, reaching behind her, I undid the strap at the back, so that her lavish breasts were freed against my face. She pulled on my hair as I sucked her breasts, tenderly nibbling each rosy peak, moving from one to the other, and between, licking the deep valley and then the tender underside, sweeping my tongue from the base of each soft breast to the nipple, and then back.
And while I licked and sucked her breasts, my hands crept slowly and steadily up her stockinged legs. Yes, stockinged legs, as I jubilantly discovered the bare flesh of her thighs. She was moaning now, moaning hard. My fingers reached her lacy panties and grasped her moist sex. She was already wet, her knickers damp with lust.
I pushed my index finger inside her panties, found the opening to her vagina and inserted my finger. One finger, then two. She groaned with pleasure.
I removed my fingers and traced the delicious outline of her sex-folds before slicking her juice over her skin, tracking, as she had done with me, from her sex to her anus, tickling its puckered entrance, before sliding my finger back into her quim.
I left her glorious breasts and knelt down before her, unzipped and then pulled down the leather skirt that had ridden up her hips to her waist, and whipped her panties down, sniffing their delicious musky aroma before throwing them behind me. I spread her legs wide until both her calves rested on the leather arms of her chair and finally dipped my head to her pussy.
My tongue sought her labia, lightly brushing against her moist flesh, before I descended onto her clitoris. I did it slowly, licking her, listening to her wail with pleasure. I flicked her clit this way and that way, felt it swell under the tip of my tongue. Her head was tossing from side to side, following the rhythm of my licking.
I felt her legs tense, felt her thighs arch around my ears, clasping my head in her tightening grip, squeezing me hard.
Then, as she had done with me, I pulled back. I did not want her to come yet. I teased and tantalised her with my tongue, with my mouth, lapped her viscous love juice, spread her sex wide and tongued her.
She was grunting now as the pink coral of her sex-lips glistened before me. My hands gripped the plump cheeks of her bottom, my nails digging into flesh as I feasted on the perfect wet centre of her sex. She pulled my head up by the chin, opened my mouth with her tongue and French-kissed me, clearly exhilarated by the taste of her own cunt on my tongue and lips.
I could sense how delightful she had found the pain I caused her as my nails dug deeper and deeper into her flesh. A pressure had been mounting inside me, a tension in my chest, in my mind, and then suddenly something clicked. I was like a caged animal that had been freed, invigorated by my liberty. I wanted to do everything to her, to release all the strain that had built up in me over the slow years.
I tugged her up from the armchair and, sitting down on the sofa, roughly pulled her over me so her fleshy buttocks rested over my lap. She looked up over her shoulder, seemingly astonished at the feverish change that had overcome me.
'Please, please,' she murmured, begging me to hurt her, although her eyes betrayed fear: I was still a stranger to her, so she could not know how far I would go. It added a dangerous fire to my already feverish mind.
I pushed her face into the leather of the sofa, as I felt my erection press against her pubis, raised my free hand and brought it down onto the soft flesh of her buttocks in a thunderous smack. Her yelp was muffled in the thickness of the leather. I could feel my palm tingle as I whacked her bare bottom again, much harder than the first time, the loud clap ringing in my ears. And again and again, until her delightful buttocks flushed red. She gripped the arm of the sofa as she wriggled and writhed on my lap. Another smack; I was almost out of control.
Again and again I hit the quivering flesh, my head spinning, a deep anger surging within me with each mighty slap, and receding as my hand beat her silken skin, only to build up again instantly as I watched her bare bottom jerk under the weight of my blows.
Her head wriggled free from my hold. 'More, por favor, more!'
I needed no encouragement as I slapped her tingling flesh again, my hand rising higher and higher with each stroke, my dazzled eyes fixed on her blushed bottom.
'Fuck me, now. Fuck me! Please fuck me!'
I let her clamber up from the sofa and move dreamily to the oblong coffee-table where my forgotten glass of whisky still awaited me. With one sweep of her hand she recklessly cleared all obstacles: a vase, my glass, and a few books toppled and fell to the floor. The task complete, she lay prone on the table, her breasts squashed against the glass and her hands gripping the sturdy cylindrical legs. Her reddened buttocks were invitingly perched in front of me, as if waiting, excitedly anticipating the immense pleasure I would bring to them.
For a moment, as I knelt behind her, I studied her immense beauty. My stiff rod twitched at the sight.
'Take me, please. Duro, duro - hard. Take me hard. Jodeme.' She was insistent, demanding.
I grasped her hips and slipped my aching cock into her tight pussy. She sighed with pleasure. Her whole body shuddered as I entered her. I slid deeper and deeper, pulling her further onto me.
'Hard, hard - duro, duro,' she coaxed, her voice pleading. I took her hard, so hard: riding her, riding in and out of her tight pussy as she screamed and screamed for more, each stroke pushing further into her.
'Harder, deeper - mas profundo!'
She reached back, grabbed my hand, and guided it to her hair.
'Pull hard!'
I pulled her hair as my thrusts grew more frantic. My sweat mingled with hers, coating her buttocks. I could hear the noise her breasts made as she slithered on the glass.
'Harder, harder!'
I pulled on her hair. I watched her head arch back as she tried to resist the pain she most ardently desired.
And then, almost as if I wasn't there, she entered a kind of ecstatic reverie, as my rod pushed deeper inside her. I felt the muscles of her quim grow taut, squeezing me, the slicked walls of her sex milking my throbbing helmet, leading me to the greatest orgasm I could ever remember.
She came again, as I erupted deep within her. It seemed like it would never end, my seed exploding like lava, soaking her quim. Her wondrous muscles squeezed all the more, gripping like a vice. Her mouth gaped. She gave another guttural groan, and then she sighed, sagged, and relaxed in her orgasmic release.
Slowly I pulled out of her, and nestled my softening cock in the cleft of her bottom. I wanted to savour every luscious moment. My heart was still pounding. Sweat trickled down my back. A gorgeous sheen of our mingled perspiration covered the small of her back and her fleshy rear. Reluctantly, as Andrea breathed deeply, drifting back to some semblance of normality, I sank exhausted to the floor.
She turned to me and sank elegantly from the table to her knees. She bent and took me affectionately into her mouth, sucking the last remnants of pleasure from me. Her eyes smiled up at my reddened face.
I lay back, sated, and watched her gentle actions. She reached up and kissed me on the lips, and then said:
'Welcome to Buenos Aires.'