promised great things (per instructions) and, right from the start: cloying affection, handy for softening up the pseudo superman; a devilish start that led to a quick disrobing behind closed doors: a naked trio who began to eagerly grope each other … If only we could see the bare-assed outlines … Cirila gave the commands; the other played the role of the compliant slave: that is: let’s see … Begoña was the first to practice fellatio, which started at the client’s (unwashed) testicles: then crept up slowly to the glans by dint of tongue action, then the risings and fallings that began at a very precise speed, while the other, in corroboration, planted a big kiss on the lips of the aforementioned, who experienced, how could he not! a continuous nuanced bubbling throughout his entire body. Next, Begoña, following the instructions Cirila gave via hand signals, climbed on top of, what we might call, the murder victim, so he could penetrate her, followed by a slow trot on horseback. That part was easy and, man, what a delight! In addition the kissing in perfectly syncopated rhythm continued, a sublime lark conducted by the director’s right index finger. Let us here note that a hasty ejaculation by the big guy would have been quite inconvenient, for it would have spoiled their well-planned and executed plot. So: no increase in pleasure, instead somewhat extended endurance, though not in ascent, or let’s call it an opportunistic (ahem) “petty elongation,” or, to wit, the two managed to get Demetrio to close his eyes and that was when Begoña announced she was going to the bathroom for a minute to pee. The pleasure continued full speed ahead because Cirila immediately climbed on top and inserted him into her, and her movements were so beguiling and rhythmic (much better than Begoña’s) that the big guy didn’t even think of opening his eyes. Quite clever, this trip to the bathroom: a fucking foil, for Begoña was rifling through Demetrio’s pants—could you have guessed?—: that bare-assed babe swiftly removed the man’s well-endowed wallet and dropped it into her handbag. Then the sinful kissing continued: a kiss that reopened the mouth of the man who used to be rich: she surpassed the other, in this respect, so we are now talking about sexual plenitude: the magma of the savage—and therefore ecstatic—interlacing. Then came the semenic eruption in Cirila’s lubricated insides. Whereby we can assert that Demetrio had never before experienced such almost otherworldly pleasure. The consummation waned and the sinner, dazed, was exhausted, but the concubines ordered him to get dressed right away: We’re leaving. And you, my love, can’t stay in the room alone. In consequence: a vibrant rush, the departure of the trembling trio. On the way to the salon the bewildered client assured them he would return the following day: I want to do tomorrow what we did today. I loved it! But the concubines scurried away between the scarlet curtain panels. They said neither thank you nor good-bye. When Demetrio reached the room where the music played, the man with the Carmelite hairdo intercepted him and was persuasive in the following way:
“Looks like you had a good time, but you must leave immediately.”
“Why?”
“Because Cirila and Begoña’s boyfriends have just arrived and they have to go to them. If they find out their women were with you, they’ll probably fill you full of lead. They’re gunslingers and, well, very jealous … hmm … very violent. So I recommend that you …”
“But I want to come back tomorrow. I really liked it!”
“You’d better leave and not come back. There are some pretty dangerous people around here.”
The sinner grew livid. He failed to understand such magnificent logic, but he hastened his step under the weight of an increasingly heavy suspicion. His fear, though peaking, was still fallible, for he wanted to be brave though didn’t know how: his doubt, his nerves: one feint, two, three, merely his (fleeting) intention to return, but … The world outside seemed to pulsate, and he, still under the spell of the uproar of the voluptuous, made an abrupt about-face and found himself face-to-face with the two bouncers of Los Laureles; one of them pointed a pistol at him and said: Outta here, you chump … or I’ll kill you right now! Hmm, leave—why? otherwise—death in the dumps?
It was then, while in retreat, that Demetrio patted his pants pockets. Some dark instinct propelled him to reveal a truth that, in this quite real