Master
Apprentice  Archive
Two Days From Junín
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The sound winds through the smoke-filled air like a dirty silk scarf. Seductive, seedy, shining and deadly, maybe. The air is stale and humid, a smell of rotting wood wafting up from the wet floorboards and the rags strewn around the place to keep people from slipping on the planks. They slip on the rags instead of course. Makes them land more softly.
Not that their throaty curses and cut-off cries could pierce the thick moist fog of the music. It envelops the place, turns this shitty bodega into the finest salon of Paris, and it doesn't matter if Nieto's 'doneon breaks down halfway through the fourth number and he grudgingly relocates to the piano. As far as I'm concerned there is absolutely no need for Nieto or any of the noises he makes.
Not when Llisa is singing tanguédia.
And it's the same one over and over again, the same tragic story of crime and misunderstanding and love lost, and she changes the names every time, and some of the words depending on whose story impressed her most over the past few weeks, even though the heroes in her tanguédias are inevitably long gone, back out to the estancias, further on their way to where they think the city might be, or simply six feet underground. It happens, and Llisa sings it in her ringing Irish voice.
I think it was me, though I probably wasn't the first one, who told her ages ago that she was spelling herself wrong, or was making herself a 'Yisa' with the two l's in her name. She just grinned and said that was fine by her. She doesn't give a shit, Llisa does, not about what other people think, and you know what? She's right. If I came into Junín fresh from somewhere across the big ocean and some old gaucho walked up to me and said hey, I can read, and you're spelling yourself wrong, I would probably have done worse things than just grin. She's taken to calling me John instead because that's apparently what my name sounds like in her language, or the way I spell myself. It says so on my canteen, the little tin bottle on my belt: Quijón. Ermengildo Quijón actually, but even I have never been bothered to use my full name, and here in Junín everyone knows me as just Quijón, or some as Quij for short. That always sounds like they're about to spit. Quij. I don't much like that.
Llisa was called Llisa Neeson when she first came here in a derelict cart straight from the coast, and Ireland. She's officially Llisa Neeson y Derecho now, not that anyone ever calls her that to her face. Juan Derecho is the luckiest man alive to have married her. Won't ever have to work again, and as long as he keeps his head down he can boast that he owns the town's best bodega. Mind, he can't say that within earshot of any Juníneros, they know the place is Llisa's, so he treks off to Buenos Aires for weeks at a stretch, and Llisa is fine with that too. Llisa is fine with almost anything, and she says sometimes she married Juan for his name, because she was looking for a Mr Right, and because he was small enough to fit into the bed next to her.
Llisa is big, and red-haired, and belting out the woes of a city whore dying of consumption in a Lunfardo that totally betrays her origin. Tonight, Llisa is that slender, black-haired whore so hard done by, and next week she'll be another story, all about the woes of love and marriage and birth and death.
I take it from her, the bit about the woes. I can't say I've ever felt woes like the ones she sings in her big moaning silver voice, not even for her. And I've seen them come and go, the men who've confessed undying love to Llisa. None of them ever got anywhere, and some of them she sang in her tanguédia a few weeks later, when they'd retreated back out into the pampas or to Buenos Aires where the brews were cheaper so they could drink themselves to death faster.
I take it from her, and sometimes I try to remember the only friend I ever had, and you know what, sometimes I can't remember even him, even Chato. He only ever comes back to me when Llisa sings, sings of bandidos and tragic criminals and I catch myself thinking, what's become of him now? Chato was a lot younger than me, and the only man I ever shared a fire with. He was good, very good, and a quiet man like me. And then one day he was gone, gone with all my possessions too, and the next thing I hear is he's joined Varga's men, the bandidos roaming the plains south of here, and the next thing I hear after that is how he's killed a young boy holding out on his own in his parents' house, just shot him down cold. I sometimes wonder if the Chato I remember is the Chato out there now.
Llisa sang him too, for a long time, for me I think. Long after I'd forgotten him even. I'm not a sad man. I have made it to peon, I have my little home out on the pampa, two days from Junín, my two horses and the garden, the garden that nobody's ever seen because nobody ever comes to see me, the place where I go in the evenings to sit and read. Llisa lets me have the old papers she gets as packing material from the mail coach, at least she lets me have them now, after she's found out they're no good as floor coverings. Always practical, Senora Neeson y Derecho. She's good to me, and she says I'm good to her too, because I don't say I love her.
Well, no. I love her, but I love her as the voice that sings the stories of mine and others' lives. I don't desire her. I've never desired anyone. Not that I don't know what that is -- I've heard it up close from dozens of people, listened to the outpourings of the young men on their way to the city, I've even seen it happen. God knows I'm not naive. I've just never felt the urge, not even with one of the pretty girls that say they're Llisa's nieces except she seems to have different nieces every winter. And not with a boy either. I know about sodomy, and it doesn't shame me. I just don't do it either.
Sometimes I think all that fits into my heart is the smell of the fire and the feel of the plants in my little garden and the sight of the pampa from the back of my horse. And the land, all of the land, and the voice of Llisa singing tanguédia.
"Musing again, Quij?" I can't help but start at the cordial slap on my shoulder, and push the spittoon towards him in reflex at the retching sounds my name makes in his throat. Martín grins, coughs up a great disgusting gob of something and puts the spittoon on the floor where Llisa's cats will use it to attract flies.
I shake myself out of the bonds of Llisa's song and smile faintly into the wide grin on Martín's black face. For all the mongrel he is, if Martín grins like that there's sure to be a story to follow.
"Knew I'd find you here. This your church, eh Quij? Every Sunday you're in here, and I've never yet seen you in a fight. Where's your knife, Quij? Have you gone all Franciscan on us? Or are you by any chance in love, huh?"
He can be annoying, Martín. He's a good soul, and he's had a hard time when he was younger, in the Caribbean where there's not much sky, so he sometimes needs to fly more here. He just imagines too much, sometimes. I give a quiet grunt, and he laughs triumphantly as if I'd just admitted something scandalous, and tugs at a strand of my hair that's come loose the from tail I normally keep it in.
"In your old age, Quij? It's not Dama Llisa, is it? Though I'm sure she'd gladly go for a man of such handsome brawn as you, Quij. Look at you -- right, you're grey, but your hands are strong and your eyes are clear and I've never yet caught you drunk. Don't tell me you've never though of marrying, Quij? Who's the lucky one then?"
I sigh, take a long swig from my beer and give him a long hard look that says more that all the words he can manage in an hour. "I'm fine, Martín. Unlike you, I try to listen to the music, and no, Dama Llisa is in no danger from me. You should know me well enough, man." I give an apologetic little smile lest I've been to rough. You never know with Martín, he's funny sometimes. I've seen him cry, and not a lot of men do that here.
He's smirking again though. "I know you, Quij. And well too. If it's not a woman, then, who can it be? Not the boy, surely?"
"The boy?"
"Where have you been this morning, Quij? I thought I saw you in church, but that must have been your body, and your mind was off somewhere else again, eh? Don't tell me you didn't see him -- he stood out like something else entirely. Juan something, your estanciero's son, if you remember who your estanciero is, old man. Old Senor Peray's lad, just back from the big city for summer, maybe nineteen, twenty years old, hard to tell, he's so fine-boned and short... and a redhead like Llisa here. Student of something or other, they said, hasn't seen his father in ages. Say, you really didn't see him?"
I shake my head.
"Well, old man, you might see more of him soon. I think Peray's planning to show him some of the rough way of the land. And you're doing your plot on your own, aren't you, Quij? Ideal place for a student on a holiday, mark my words..."
And with that he's off in a swirl of his ludicrous green frock coat.
Llisa has stopped singing.
And you know what? Martín was right. The first thing I hear Monday morning even before I peel myself out of bed is the sounds of three horses outside, and it's Peray and the boy and one horse lade with stuff, just bags and things. I haven't seen Peray in years, he doesn't really speak to his gauchos and peones, and he looks worn and old, and I guess I'll get into a fight with Martín next time he calls me old. I throw my jacket on and run a hand through my mussed hair and step outside, and Martín was damn right and Peray says in a calm loud voice how this is his son Tobiah Juan Peray and how he was a student of literature in Buenos Aires and keen to see how we lived out here and a lot of rubbish about the salt of the earth as only a city man can spout. Peray has never seen the salt of the earth either, and it shows.
The boy gets off his horse and shakes my hand, and it's small and warm and soft, a girl's hand, and his shirt is white and he wears a dark blue velvet ribbon round his collar like a girl's bow and his boots are shiny and thin and I wonder what on earth he is doing out here.
"Tobiah-Juan Peray, my pleasure. Though padrito should have said that nobody calls me that any more, not since I was, uh, about two. I'm the proud owner of my own unique name and speech impediment. Call me Obi-Juan."
His grin is impish and infectious, like a distilled purified version of Martín's dirty smiles. He's got a tiny birthmark high on his right cheek, as if he wanted to show off the smooth whiteness of the rest of his face. Why someone like that wants to come here is beyond me. He seems eager though, cold blue eyes shining with something I can only vaguely remember from Llisa's lovers. Idealism? Idolism? He's got Llisa's red hair, Martín was right, and it falls about his forehead in graceful waves. He's about a foot shorter than me, and slender. A boy, no more than a boy.
"Lost your voice, Quijón?" Peray gruffly remarks. "You'd better grow a new one because Obi-Juan here won't abide a silent companion for the next three months. He's here to learn, and I'm sure he could teach you a thing or two as well, Quijón!"
What makes him think that? Hell, he's never seen me in years and now he drops this milky city lad on me and expects me to relieve him of the burden of caring for the kid for the next few months and behave as if I was the apprentice? I grit my teeth as quietly as I can.
"Don't worry, Senor Quijón, I won't be teacherly. God knows I'm happy to be out of school for a while, and I hear you can read so we should have something in common, shouldn't we?"
Oh yes, lad. I can read. But I doubt you can ride.
He's lying sprawled on the pallet I made him build on the floor, absolutely unwilling to get up. True, I've worked him hard over the past few days, and I guess it shows, now. He claims his buttocks are bruised, ad I can't be bothered to look really, I can imagine. His girly hands are torn and chafed from repairing the fences, all that rough wood that can't get through my skin any more, it goes right through him. He's sunburned too, his cheeks are almost as red as his hair, and he looks like he's got a fever, and he's always, always talking.
His mouth seems to be the one thing that never wears out.
Always talking about how his friends in the city were mocking him for being a country boy and how he detested the newfangled tango bars downtown (I have yet to take him to hear Llisa.) and so wanted to experience the scope of the land, the sheer air of freedom and the traditional ways and all that. All spoken in a perfectly earnest voice. And then he asked me if I've ever ridden all the way to the horizon, all the way to Uruguay, and I had to laugh and say, nobody since Martín Fierro has done that, lad, and he bursts out laughing and says, want to know a secret, I gave him up after the 43rd stanza.
I didn't even know there was a poem about him. But I knew his grandson, and I have a feeling little Obi-Juan is going to boast about that to his fine student friends in Buenos Aires. I met this old gaucho oaf who knew Martín Fierro's grandson, and I'll be a living legend in no time. As if riding all the way to bloody Uruguay is supposed to be some great achievement. Leaving behind your home, your place in this world. I wouldn't leave my place behind, not the little place I haven't showed him yet because he wouldn't appreciate it, or he would spout city poetry about it, when all it is is the quiet place where things grow, and where I can sit and feel things growing right through me.
Obi-Juan decides to stay in bed today, and I'm fine with that. That way his chattering mouth is safe in one place, and I can go somewhere else.
The young lord decided to do some work again today. Suits me, I mean, I cook for two so I expect something in return, it's just the way things are over here. So he gets up on his horse haughtily and gives ever such a slight wince as he sits down, it's getting to him, definitely. Well lad, this ain't poetic. At least you do teach me one thing. I've always wondered what kind of people fall in love immortally, and what kind of people write all those novels and romances that make other people believe that falling in love immortally is the thing everyone should be doing. I think our little Obi-Juan is about to become someone like that. A writer of romantic poetry. Bah.
Wonder what he'll say when he's actually got to sleep under the tent of the stars as he puts it. There's no way we can do the round-up in one day so it'll be the little hollow at the bend of the Peranas for us tonight. I haven't told him yet, mind. Can't abide more pink-lipped poetry at the moment. It gets to me, it really does.
Of course I'm up long before him. Which is good in a way because I need some chatter-free time to get my head around what he did last night. Oh, make no mistake, he did talk about the stars and the velvet of the night and how vast it all seems and other such tripe, and I was half about to tell him to shut up because I was bone tired and I knew he was too except when I get tired I want my quiet place and I want to sink into the hum of things growing, and he wants to chatter. That mouth never grows tired, I swear.
Anyway, then he does something I would never in my life have expected. He sings. Low, simple songs that weave through the night air like leaves falling. Slow falling songs, quiet ones and wild ones like Llisa's. Only it's not the same as when Llisa sings. Llisa is wonderful, a storyteller in her own way. This... boy... he feels like one of the people in Llisa's songs, as if he means it. And he sings like Llisa, old-fashioned tanguédia, and no, he really doesn't need the 'doneon or the piano. Just the wind will do fine.
It's... it's as if one of the heroes from the tanguédias has stepped out of the song, you know, and dropped into real life. What scares me is that I don't find it strange at all, not even ridiculous. Write me the words of what he sings on a piece of paper and I'm sure it's bloody romantic poetry, and yet when he sings it it sounds like it's for real. Like he's torn with something worse than desire. Like he's pining, melting for someone.
I still don't know what to say. I think I won't say anything. But I'll listen. It's the only thing about him worth listening to, but it is.
I watched him bathe today. I don't really know why I'm saying this, I mean, I've watched any number of gauchos bathe, it's not like we're pee shy or anything, but this time I remember watching someone bathe. And you know why? It was just after I'd finished musing about what his singing had done to me the other night, and he comes out of the little hollow in just his underpants and stretches himself in the yellow morning sun and runs his hands through his messy hair and says something about how wonderful this first night under the stars was and would I mind if he refreshed himself a little.
Refreshed. I didn't even know how to answer that, so I just smiled as friendly a smile as I could muster and rumbled something that could have been a yes.
The sight. I mean, I had guessed he was probably quite handsome under those clothes, but the sight of him walking straight into the cold river water, butt naked and shining in the slanting morning sun... he was like a wisp of smoke, so fleeting and light and... no, he wasn't like smoke. He was more like fire, like a single flame licking up out of the water. See, I'm doing it too now. As if water could burn. It's the singing, I swear it is. Because as soon as he was up to his hips in the water he started washing like a kitten, quick gentle strokes, and singing again. Just singing what came into his head, about how cold the water was and how much sky there was and him inbetween, tinier than a blade of grass and yet with a head full of things greater than the sky.
He was singing life, just as it flowed into and out of him. I just sat there amazed, staring at this slight pale boy, this slender body like a sliver of flame save for the abused scraped bits of skin on his elbows. Beautiful. And when he emerged out of the cold water again, the small of his back, then these firm round buttocks, the slender thighs, knees, calves, feet, I had to look away because I felt something I had never felt before. I felt stupid, and good. I felt flushed like I had the sunburn that was slowly peeling off Obi-Juan's perfect cheeks. I felt like an absolute idiot. And I felt like one of the people in Llisa's songs.
I honestly don't know what I would do if he sang about me, one day.
He gets worse by the day. No, not his health. He's getting calluses in all the right places now, and hardly bleeds any more. He is tougher than I thought he was. Not his body, that is all soft and weak and city-boyish still. It's something else inside him that makes him stand through all this, when I would have thought he'd pack his stuff and get out of here as quickly as possible after a few days. To be honest, I had hoped for that, in the beginning. I wanted my peace and quiet. Now I don't think I could have it any more, not even if he left. Especially not if he left.
He gets worse by the day. Oh, he still sings. He sings like Llisa now, songs of whores and wasting away, and he... he moves like Llisa, and somehow not like Llisa at all, because Llisa is wonderful and big and wholesome and he's this... sprite of a boy, this thin flame and... he looks like he means it, dammit. He is... desire. And I feel like he knows he's torturing me, because he is.
Those songs of loving arms and hot fiery kisses while entwined in dances of unbelievable sensuality, dances only sketched in a few words and a slow glide of voice, and I see every move and every step, every grind of hips against thighs, and you know what? I see _him_ dancing when I hear that, and it drives me mad. I feel like a madman, like I don't know what I'm doing any more. Like an outright idiot. I should tell him to stop, except I don't think I could bear it if he stopped.
He gets worse by the day. Oh, he gets better. He can almost ride properly now, at least he doesn't fall off any more, and I'll try and let him have the lasso tomorrow, if I can spare enough idle time to teach him. What gets me is how he... he slinks. He slides off the horse as if he were some kind of liquid. And runs his hands through his grimy hair and it still looks like bloody silk, and his eyebrows are lighten than his cheeks with the sunburn he's got and he looks ridiculous but so... I don't know. Beautiful? Yeah, I guess he does. I'm just not used to the idea. He drives me mad. I mean, he slipped on something and fell into a mud pool in one of the corrals this afternoon, and tormented me with the sight of his pants clinging to his behind all evening before he could be bothered to go wash. And then he emerges from the house just as I've settled down in my little garden to quieten down all of this thinking in my head, and he's rubbing his hair dry and no, he's not wearing anything else, except that grin and I feel lie I'm itchy al over, like my skin is antsy from within and I want to sink my hands in that cool creamy wet skin and... eat him up. I feel hungry. He drives me insane.
I think I'll stay out in the garden tonight, under the tent of the stars. I don't feel safe in the same room as him. And he's writing letters tonight anyway, or so he said.
He's gone when I awake, all cold and clammy with the dew, and a bit achy, curled up under the biggest tree within miles, the guardian of my garden. I rub the sleep out of my eyes and make to have a leak in the tomato bed and find I can't. Well, I can after a while, but dammit, things have caught up with me. I'm hard. Not at your age, Quijón, I say to myself, and then I laugh a bit, embarrassed at how I started talking to myself, must be that chatterbox Obi-Juan around. And of course that's what it is. Obi-Juan. I've dreamed about him, not anything I can recall, but it had that thin flame of a man in it, and it was good and warm, and that's why I felt so cold when I woke up.
He's gone, with his horse, and I'm amazed at how he's learnt to rise early, and _quietly_ at that. I find a note on the table, scribbled on a scrap of Llisa's old newspapers, saying that he's gone to Junín early to find the mail coach as he's got letters to deliver. He's even left his damp dog-eared pad out on the table, the messy little one, and I find myself stroking my fingertips over the paper as if I was trying to read what he's written there, only last night. Of course I can't feel it, and so I pick up the sheaf of paper and make to put it away so I can have my breakfast in what is after all my house, and the pad comes apart and the pages flutter to the floor like dirty birds. Dirty, yes. He's put pieces of old newsprint between the pages after we got caught in the downpour the other day, so that they didn't stick together, and now they're falling out and all over the place, and taking some pages of what used to be white paper with them. Used to be. Now they've got writing on them.
I stare, torn between joy and horror. I can't not read it, I've ever been able to keep myself from reading anything, and especially not if it's... if it's Obi-Juan's thoughts. The whole last page of his letter is there, in blotchy grainy grey, faithfully copied by the greasy old newsprint.
I don't know who it's for. I don't know who it's about, but I get the idea...
I can't even bear to repeat what he wrote, and I hope to God that the letter arrives safely where it's meant to go, and no bandido steals it and no sneaky postman opens it and finds it containing no money and throws it away. I hope no mother reads it, and I hope the friend receiving it knows he is holding something precious, and dangerous. It certainly made me reel, and still does.
Two days from Junín. He should be back by Wednesday. Time to prepare.
I've got a new lasso for myself from the estancia. A smooth leather one. Cost me all of my persuasion and nearly all of my pay. As if they knew something was up, but then I guess they didn't dare suspect that far. Not old Quijón, they would say, and that's good. Sometimes even I don't think I'm going to do it, even though I spend all my waking hours thinking about it, and even though I know from his letter that he wants it too. Sometimes I think just the anticipation will burn me up from within, and I'll surely be mad by the time he gets back from Junín, and sometimes I think I won't have the courage to do it, which is strange because I've never been a coward before, I mean I've protected Llisa from any number of suitors but somehow this is different.
And sometimes I don't think at all any more, and lose myself in the images from the dreams that come more and more often now. Sometimes I just sit down and write them all down, in my clumsy hand, the first writing I've done for years, and you know what it is... it's bloody poetry, at least it is to me. It doesn't rhyme, and it isn't about stars and velvet or Martín Fierro, the old bastard. It's--it's trying to put him into words, he who seems to be made out of words, so much sot hat they spill over his lips all the time in a steady stream I just long to stem with a kiss... you get the idea.
I've got a new lasso, and I've practised. He can have my old one if he likes.
The sun's out like mad, and stinging the back of my neck with sweat. I scratch myself and try to tuck the long tail of hair away over my shoulder. He gives me a look. A long look. Almost as if he tried to memorise this flicker of movement, of me trying to get rid of that annoying itch under my hair.
I hand him my old lasso and show him how to hold it properly, looped around and gathered in your hand, one loop on top of the other so they don't get tangled when you throw it. I step out and throw the lasso over one of the high poles of the corral gate and tug, and the fence creaks and wobbles with the force of my well-aimed throw, held tight.
He nods and grins as I climb on to the fence to pull the lasso away over the top of the pole again, and makes as if to throw the thing right away. I shudder with delight, and yet I know he can't know, and what's more I know he can't throw. The rope lands on the ground limply, throwing up small clouds of dust. He goes and picks it up, bending down slowly, and I bite my lips at the sight of his small firm behind so close to me. I jump off the fence and stand beside him, half behind him, guiding his hands, encircling him within my arms as I try my best to keep control. He leans into me ever so slightly and I have to take a step back -- the lithe warmth of him against my raging cock is just too much.
He turns around at me, one eyebrow lifted, a cocky grin on his face, but doesn't say anything. Concentrating, he grips the loops firmly and swings them up into the air, and this time it's almost good. At least the loop actually catches on the fence post, the rough rope getting stuck on the top of the six-foot pole but refusing to fall snugly around it. I smile at him, acknowledging the half-success, and motion for him to go rescue the lasso and try again. For all he talks so much, he can listen too, even to silence.
And I can't speak now. My mouth is dry and my lips tingle, and I swallow thickly as I try to wet them. This is the moment.
Just as he's about to climb up on the fence to reach out for the stray lasso, mine comes flying through the air, catching him neatly round the chest and upper arms, pinning them to his sides. He gives a yell, spins around, and that is enough for me to give a little tug and tighten the loop around him. Another little tug sweeps him off his feet, and as his hands scramble up to untangle himself from the tight leather strap around his chest, I catch them in an improvised loop and tie them securely together, and to the bond holding his arms at his sides, shiny new leather straining against his heaving chest as he lies gasping, open-mouthed, under me.
Mine.
I fall to my knees, pinning him under me, clasping his squirming legs between my boots and planting myself firmly on his hips, delighting in the sight of him writhing on the ground, fighting the bonds, knowing that is the way he wants it, and dammit, I want him too. Slowly, as slowly as I can with my calm in shreds, I lean down, letting my hair down, letting it brush over his white neck, letting the straggly grey mass envelop his face, letting his face fill my vision until all there is is the liquid blue of his eyes and that open mouth, pleading, soft, delicious.
I plunge into him like a starving man, feasting on the yielding moist warmth of his lips, squeezing them between mine until I can taste his juices, licking the tender smooth flesh, nipping at the thin skin at the corners of his mouth, a mouth open in a moan of pleasure, and greedily kissing back. Savages, we suck and bite at each other, devouring and swallowing the other's mouth in a frenzy of desire. Feed, just feed. Eat that gorgeous moist heat, fill yourself with it until you burst...
My lungs are near bursting when he stills under me, eyes wide and gasping for breath that I haven't got any more either. He gulps in some air and expels it in a bone-shuddering moan, breathes in some dust, and coughs, convulsing under me, pressing his unmistakable arousal into me, my wondrous squirming flame of a man. I am on fire, Obi-Juan, in a ways I never was, not even when I drew my knife in Junín all those years ago to defend Llisa. Llisa is still wonderful, but Obi-Juan is... he is beyond what I have words for, and I draw my knife again from where I keep it in my boot and he gasps at the sight of the short sharp blade and no, I can't resist laying the cool steel against his perfect cheek and watching him shudder as I trail the sharp edge down towards his throat. He is lying very still now, not even twitching, not even when I angle the blade just that little bit and break his skin where it's so pale and smooth it's sheer perfection, right there under the ear where a swelling drop of ruby blood brims over the edge of the tiny cut now...
And before it can roll its way into his sweat-damp hair my mouth is on it and I lick, tasting the essence of my Obi-Juan, sucking the steaming warm life into me, and I feel the pleasure spiralling in me as I taste the spicy iron of his blood and feel the soft wet smoothness of his perfect skin under my tongue and hear his breath quickening again as he presents me the vulnerable side of his neck and I suckle my way down and make him moan as I mark him with my teeth, my squirming flame.
The knife slides through his shirt as if it were melted butter, without a sound, cut by cut, as I expose his torso to the sun and the light and my own hot gaze. My hands work quickly, as if I've done this millions of times before (I have. In my dreams over these past few days.), cutting the fabric to shreds without scraping his skin or cutting through the taut straps that still bind his hands to his chest. I play with him now, licking his fingers with the tip of my tongue, then diving in to claim his defenceless mouth once more. I can do with him whatever I want now, he's all mine, exposed, aroused, needy, and it takes one long slash to cut his pants open and reveal just how aroused and needy he is, and he moans at the brush of my hand against his hot leaking shaft, and I growl and throw away the knife and feed like an animal, greedy and hot, squeezing, sucking, scraping teeth along the thin silky skin stretched so taut over the hard flesh that's throbbing under my tongue, throbbing between my lips, throbbing in my throat as I eat his heartbeat, eat his life, devour all of him and gorge myself on his sweet hard flesh and his warm musky flavour and the sheer lust radiating off him as he writhes under me. He bucks up like a wild horse, totally abandoned to the fevered pleasure racing through him, and when I grab hold of his balls more to steady myself than anything else, he comes with a hoarse cry and fills me with liquid fire, the flame of a man. It flows over my tongue thickly, coating me with the salty essence of Obi-Juan, the pure flavour of lust and love and everything I never knew I had in me.
I have it in me now, and he put it there.
Oh, and the sight of him lying on the ground glowing with the pleasure of it all, eyes glazed, hair sweaty and oh so bright red, and the smile on his swollen pink lips is otherworldly and when his little pink tongue darts out to lick them I give in and fall for him and let him ravage my mouth for the taste of him. I have it in me now.
His kisses drive me mad, and it's a wonderful madness, one that makes me want to scream and sing and... feed. I feel like an animal, aflame with need, and when I leave his lips to gasp for breath and he smile that wicked smile again and mouths "in me... in me, now..." I lose it completely and grab my wildly throbbing cock and spit on my hands in a travesty of my name to try and get enough moisture on it, more than what's leaking from the tip already in thick glistening drops and when he squirms and grinds his hips into me I can't help myself any longer and ram into him, past the tight ring of muscle, into the burning heat, ignoring his scream as the red tide washes over me and I am an animal, buried in clenching exquisite tightness, enveloped in the liquid flame of Obi-Juan's pale body, and I stoke him up and move inside him and he burns me up completely, roars with every thrust and I'm no longer able to tell if the sounds are mine or his. He is keening now, needy whimpers for the back of his throat that white throat exposed and marked, and I feel the spasms of pleasure coursing through his body and cresting over the dull pain of being filled to bursting with my scalding hot flesh. I shudder at the sheer perfection of seeing him like this, and feeling him all around me, bathed in liquid fire, and scream out my unbelieving joy at being, just being, here and now.
I collapse on top of him and wrap him in my arms, warm, loose, sweaty and dusty, men of the earth, Something digs into my shoulder as I roll over and it's my knife. With the last of my strength, I cut through the bonds, several feet off my best lasso but who cares, and his arms wrap around me tightly and his lips seek mine and find them, silent, soft, warm.
There is nothing here but the warmth of the sun on our skin, the scent of the dirt and the sound of things growing. Happiness isn't up there in the sky, Llisa. Happiness is lying in the dust sweaty and spent and sated, and old gaucho and a young poet, and no longer knowing who is who. Happiness is here, two days from Junín.
When I regain my breath I will ask Obi-Juan to teach me his songs.
--- The End ---