Hi all!! Haven't posted a story in a while. School, work, family, they all keep me extremely busy, and writing this one was challenging, as it is my first attempt at writing tickle fiction with the male on the receiving end.
Anyway, I hope it's received well, and I welcome any and all feedback good or bad, preferably bad, so I can know where I need improvement. Thank you all in advance, and Happy New Year.
It was a slippery little thing, flopping about with frantic discombobulation off every erratic pelvic thrust. A flaccid remnant of freedom of which the rest of his body had since disassociated. Off these unwarranted, stimulatory erotic frictions, he responded, with lividness on his tongue and boisterous bodily behaviors of the most innate. His mental stability, a state of disorder that hinged off the frail touch of fingertips tantalizing his follicles in incessant circular motions. Drifting betwixt pleasure and torment his emotions wallowed.
But allow me to digress, or deviate if you will. For it seems as though we’ve reached the climax, pun intended, still we’ve yet to comprise any of the supporting bits which lead this youthful man into the predicament of which he now finds himself. No dessert before dinner. Those are the rules.
Ahem…
For most, a home is defined by the people living within its walls. But for the ladies of Baker, it was the walls themselves that did the defining. From the tangible trappings, and the coveted grass so green it was the other side, visual perspective was key to obtaining an enviable living establishment. So when their resident landscaper met his untimely demise, a meeting to discuss potential replacements became of vital importance; because to quote their gardens as ‘enviable’, would be an understatement.
On a canvas of green, intrepid colors rainbowed year-round. Lily’s, roses, orchids, daffodils, and whatever else a person could imagine, it grew in their gardens. Blades of grass cut so uniform, not a one held itself higher than its brethren; equal. Vines wrapped tightly to their milky white trellises, extended to the heavens. Their leaves, fanned in adoration of the sun.
The meeting began much like any other, over a strong brew of piping hot coffee, and an assortment of Girl Scout cookies courtesy of resident vendor Kathleen.
A dainty little mother of one, Kathleen used a weekend getaway to, “the happiest place on earth”, as incentive to pedal those colorful boxes around her local supermarkets and department stores. And while it was a perilous road that often saw her Converse encased feet wasted after miles of pacing and hours of standing, that smile never once wavered off her face. Baker street mythos tells of that very same smile once melting snow after a harsh winter’s eve, but that’s neither here nor there.
Now as any good cookie dealer knows, securing the home front is just as vital as hitting the streets, and Baker’s latest addition, Simona Diaz was as easy a snag as they come. Here’s why.
Much like a cupcake overflows beyond its tight tinfoil confinement, Simona’s waist boasted as much girth as a fluffy red velvet with icing and sprinkles. Yet despite reflections telling her otherwise, she was adamant about her pant size, claiming that the real culprit was her dryer and not her tumultuous eating habits that even now saw excess cookie crumbs spreading across her cheeks and chin.
The two had already slouched comfortably into a plush red couch long before Angelica’s rear found itself plastered against a wooden counter symmetrically adorned with an assortment of magazines and potpourri.
Baker street’s budding realtor and her doctor husband had gambled their nest egg to breathe life into a pair of plots and a cracked strip of cement all in hopes of creating the uniform suburban paradise she’d envisioned herself growing old in. Three years, and here she was before her small, yet faithful congregation.
“Thank you all for coming on such short notice. I understand that eleven o’clock is the Rachel Ray hour, but this is a matter of great importance…”
There was a fluster about her face as she glanced at her phone, then back into her garden, where the cherry bells seemed sunken more so than usual.
“… Juan’s touch is fleeting, as I’m sure you all have noticed. Yes, his time here was cut short, much like the blades of grass he so diligently trimmed every Tuesday, but our condolences have been sent.”
“It was all that greasy Mexican, no offense Simona, food he was eating,” Kathleen sulked.
“No pos jew cookies is what make him sick!” Simona rebutted.
“It was not my fault,” Kathleen said sharply.
Angelica broke the quarrel with a sharp tongue, “Some decency? We’re arguing over a dead guy. What killed him is of little consequence compared to what’s at stake.”
“My tulips!” Kathleen gasped.
“Aye jes! Who now is to trim my bush Mrs. Angelica?” Simona chimed in.
With no hesitation, Angelica looked down on her brown skinned cohort and smiled, “I was hoping you might know of someone?”
Sure, Simona had her shortcomings with the English language and understanding it’s suburban vernacular, but she didn’t need an English lesson to decode sarcasm or racial undertones.
“Aye pos wow! Porque yo soy la Mexicana…” Simona replied, throwing up her hands.
Angelica winced, as if the words spewing off Simona’s charcoal black lips were detrimental to her health, “English please Mrs. Simona.”
Gleaming off her caffeine high Kathleen perked up the way a rooster does before it’s infamous, cock-a-doodle-doo, “I-I-I know! We can like, place an ad on Craigslist!”
After a ceremonious accord which consisted of pinky swears all around, the ladies hustled together an advertisement. Simona photographed their gardens. Kathleen typed up a short paragraph, and Angelica, well, she just hit “post”.
The ladies were lucky. In all of two days, there were several replies. However, it was the nature of one such reply that caught Angelica’s eye above all the others. See to her, butchered English grammar was the sign of a good laborer and after struggling to make sense of an email sent from one Horencio Sepulveda, she decided it would be him she’d roll the dice on.
***
He’d shown up just as the sun was creeping over the horizon; to husbands shuffling off in their Civics and Expeditions to embrace another nine to five; as children trotted along sidewalks, chasing their shadows to school bus drop-offs.
“Que lindo eres,” he said, staring beyond the white trellis that bordered a pasture of green, and multicolored flowers.
Embracing his pre-work rituals of nortenos and breakfast tacos, Horencio flooded the streets with deep robust tubas and high-pitched trumpets wheezing beyond the speakers of his rusty little pickup.
Having bludgeoned through the windows of Angelica’s house, the “oomph pa’s” awoke her from a lucid dream where cats were chasing dogs, forcing her fuzzy pink slippers onto her feet earlier than she was accustomed to.
Coating her skin with a thin layer of age defying ointment, she cinched tight her glossy black robe and marched outside. With every step she scoured her mind for the right words, Spanish words, hoping that by the time she’d braved through the morning’s mosquito fest, she’d have a coherent statement. But upon cornering the truck, her thoughts became muddled, scrambled even, as she was met with a set of supple cheeks held firmly in place by a pair of faded blue jeans. It was at this point the “oomph pa’s”, with their discombobulating tones and pitches, turned into spirited angelic chords worthy of the pearly gates.
Somehow, amidst the noise, he must have heard her fluids sweltering, because he turned around just in time to catch her admiring his behind.
“Si senora?” he asked, lowering the music.
Rich like honey, his voice glazed over her, sending her deeper into befuddlement as she stood gaping at his enormous belt buckle, a tarnished gunmetal steer.
“I start now okay?” he said, stuffing the last of his taco down his gullet.
She cooed like a child before giddily hopping away to visions of his symmetrical behind intertwining themselves into her mental itinerary.
They served as her stamina as she paced out the last mile on her treadmill. They amplified the embrace of her pulsating shower head as she snuck it between her legs for a little extra “cleanliness”. Seeking a “scenic” view, she took her breakfast out by the picture window facing her garden. The Horencio hour was underway, and she wasn’t about to miss a minute of it.
Never more appreciative of her trees, Angelica watched with delight as he piled their leaves in small little bundles along the grass. And, much to her delight, he’d inadvertently placed a pile right by the window, where of course she could “evaluate” his work front and center.
She glanced at her phone as the last gulp of orange juice crashed against her taste buds and with unwillingness, fastened her blazer. Adjusting the sheer black nylons clinging tightly around her legs, she strapped into her matte black Louboutin’s and then grabbed her briefcase.
The pavement felt like one big therapeutic hot stone, baked twice over by the unrelenting sun, as she stepped out and waddled towards her pearlescent Sebring. Given its mileage, her ride was in immaculate shape having suffered only one golf sized dent along its bumper.
Considering her lead foot to the Sebring’s top speed, she convinced herself that she could make up for a leisurely stroll by the thin wooden trellis surrounding her garden. With a dainty step she approached, with an observant eye she peeked. It seemed her tall, stubble faced guest was a Coke man.
“Yoo-hoo!” she cried, creeping out from behind her hiding place.
Startled, he coughed up his beverage and pulled the can from his lips as if it were a seductress and he’d been caught in a moment of infidelity.
“Si Senora?” he said, finally recomposed.
While there spanned a great many lengths between her astute elocution and his rough and rugged gibberish, it was not their language barrier that caused her to hesitate. Rather, her hesitation stemmed from a set of stale Christmas lights strung along the edges of her house. They’d caught her attention, called out to her almost, serving as a reminder of the moment her husband Steve, bundled in two hoodies, braved a harsh November chill to ensure their house at least one decoration to ring in the season.
“Uh… um… tu have un piece of ohja,” she mumbled.
Plucking from his jet-black hair a twig that had nestled atop his head, she inadvertently caught a whiff of his rich musky scent. It seared her nostrils, this combination of sweat and freshly cut oak, making the band on her finger at once feel weightless.
“Gracias Senora,” he said, breathing his life into her ears.
In what was a less than stellar exit, she scurried away, clumsily taking with her bits of mud, grass, and the knowledge that plucking a twig off Horencio’s hair was in no way crossing the boundaries set by the band on her finger.
***
Kathleen resided only a few houses down, where having tapped into the vast demographic that was early morning coffee drinkers, meant she was already in the process of loading up her van for a second round of cookie sales. Just as the last box was piled high, the sound of Horenico’s pick up puttering towards the curb put a smile on her face. She’d put it on her to-do list, to entice the new gardener at some point between scorching and scalding, when cookies and milk were at their most desirable. If it had worked once, she was sure it would work again.
Horencio was busy finagling with his weed whacker when she approached him from behind with a sampling of cookies and a glass of milk.
“S-Senor,” she whispered.
He turned, lining his eyes within the frays of her strawberry blonde hairline, “Hola senorita,” he said as his eyes slowly cascaded down her slender frame.
Entrapped in his eyes, the sun brought forth their maple colored centers as he took in her thin pursed lips and the spotty freckles scattered along her cheekbones.
“Estoy de venta cookies,” she smiled sheepishly, “preueva”.
A strong breeze rustled through her veil thin button down as he leaned into her until his robust chest and her forehead found themselves adjacent. With a meaty hand, scraped, callused, and muddy, he cautiously took a cookie.
“Gracias,” he said, raising the cookie as if it were a champagne glass during a toast.
Be it the sweat that outlined his pectorals, tracing their definition. Be it his continuous steady breaths, making them puff. Be it the way he closed his eyes to savor the taste of the morsel in his mouth now scraping along his tongue, but for as many times as she’d watched others consume her cookies, the act had never taken a more arousing turn.
“Dis are good,” he said licking his lips of excess cookie crumbles.
Forced to look away momentarily, least he see her unsightly snaggletooth, she mumbled something incoherent, between a broken smile.
The knee buckler came when a rouge drop of milk traced the side of his mouth as he guzzled down the cold beverage. Now be it a motherly instinct, or the sheer desire to feel his face, but Kathleen soon found her thumb smearing away the thin white streak.
“Aye gracias senorita,” he said popping his neck, “Where jew learn speak a Spanish miss…”
“K-Kat-Kathleen. Yep that’s me, Kathleen, mmm-hmm,” she nodded, almost reassuringly, as her own name escaped her, “and- and, Simona, who lives next to me, she’s helping me learn,” she explained, her body stuck in pronation.
“Bueno pa el negocio no?” he asked.
“Yes, yes. Good for business,” she said hastily, “gusta comprar?”
Two simplistic words served as a gateway; her gentle tug, an extended drawbridge and before she knew it, he was in her kitchen, touching her counter top and leaving flakes of mud off his boots on the floor.
With stilted steps, she maneuvered about the kitchen. With unsteady hands, she showcased the options from Thin Mints to Tagalongs, Do-si-dos to Caramel Delites.
Knowing the crumpled five spot lining his pocket would only be enough for one, he narrowed it down to two choices, taking casual glances at the surreal innocence in her smile as he did. He was no stranger to the look. He’d seen the expression a time or two. It was, after all, in his line of business to sometimes cross paths with a horny housewife whose bush needed some maintenance. But alas, his fear of the other side, beyond the borders of which he no longer wanted any part of, always managed to block his pursuit of erotic escapades. And so it did again, as he made his two choices, and walked away with a box of Thin Mints.
***
His watch read noon before he found himself puttering towards his last stop. Simona, who routinely would have been fixated on soap operas from the sunken folds of her couch, put TiVo in charge as she chose to bare some skin poolside.
It’s never a good choice of color, when your string bikini is the shade of your skin, even more so when you’re a caramel mound snoozing on a lawn chair valiantly testing the limits of its maximum allowable weight. But this is how Horencio found her, headphones plugged. Now if only she could remain unstirred by his actions.
Her back yard was a mine field of ragged pool noodles, water pistols, and a tangled garden hose, all of which he avoided in route to her bush, but then he saw it. Right beside his foot was a bone, gnawed and torn of which he would have paid no mind had it not been coated in a thin layer of slobber.
From God only knows where emerged a Pitbull, his snout tinged in a light pink trim. With his pruning shears firmly gripped between his hands, Horencio, much like a bull fighter, squared his shoulders and awaited the raucous creature, his tensed musculature, and vicious fangs. Then it barked.
“Ay guey!” he said, making a bee line towards a utility closet.
He crashed through the door, stumbling over a downed pool net prompting Simona to rouse with a, “que chingao” look on her face. She popped off her earbuds and gave Dillon her full attention as he pawed at the door, barking incessantly.
She was a few swipes away from dialing the police when Horencio cried out from a small slit in the door, “Senora, tu pero!”
The agony in his voice, parred with the pruning shears now being waved frantically like a white flag upon surrender, caused her to put down the phone, and lay a firm grip around Dillon’s collar.
“Jew thee new gardener jes?” she asked in a tensed voice.
Horencio withdrew his shears and peeked his head out, to the sight of a bikini so thin it’s strings were lost between supple folds of fat, “Si senora,” he said, his gaze entrapped in the plump lips pressed against her bikini bottom.
“Mis ojos aqui cabron!” she exclaimed, loosening up her grip on the dog.
With continuous stutters in his speech, and one hand inching the door ever closer to his body, Horencio digressed, claiming it was the dog he was so fixated on and not the fabrics permanently etching themselves onto her crotch.
She scratched at a stretch mark outlining her hip. The red line, jagged, thick and one of many, gave validity to his claim as she secured the dog to a post around the corner of her house.
Making himself useful as the anxiety plaguing his nerves wore down, he lingered in her utility closet, sweeping the ground and organizing her shelves of its tools.
“Jew can come out jew know,” Simona said peeking in.
She had to admit the room looked all the more presentable as her eyes wandered its perimeters, but there was little else impressive about its inventory. She was after all, married to a minor league defensive end of superior physique.
***
And so the weeks wore on, with every Tuesday’s narrative outlined similar to the one before; Horencio dodging sexual advances, Angelica abusing her shower head, Kathleen reduced to binge eating cookies to suppress the sexual tension, and Simona, well, her frustrations stemmed from a new diet she’d started.
Hostility ensued as pent-up tension led to flared tempers among the ladies. Panties were ruffled. Stockings were ripped. Dinners frequented second windows. He plagued them, making another meeting inevitable. The calamity that was Horecio Sepulveda needed to be dealt with.
“Thank you again ladies for honoring the call,” Angelica said to open the meeting. “Now I believe you know why we’re here,” she continued.
“It’s that bastard of a gardener YOU hired!” Kathleen exploded.
“Me? We ALL put that ad together!” Angelica fired back.
“Yeah, but like WHO had the final say?” Kathleen said, waving her finger around.
“Like you’re the only one suffering here? I’m doing all I can to not throw myself in his arms!” Angelica flared.
Given her immunity to his charm and chiseled physique Simona unofficially made herself peacekeeper pressing her belly between them like a ref in a boxing match, “Muchachas please, dis get us nowhere,” she pleaded, “Why dun we jess fire him?”
The simplistic solution hung in the air, still and unanswered until a stone-faced Angelica snatched it away and threw it under her boot,
“Where’s the justice in that?” she asked flatly, “He’s been tormenting us. Wearing those tight jeans, working up a sweat...”
“…eating our cookies!” Kathleen chimed in.
Angelica and Simona turned their perplexed faces towards their little freckled friend, whose quirky mannerisms only left them even more speechless.
“Anyway,” Angelica continued, “why should we be the only ones to suffer here? Shouldn’t he know what it feels like to be helplessly tormented?”
“Yeah, he should suffer too!” Kathleen echoed.
“I dun know bout dis,” Simona mumbled.
Angelica took a firm hand to her Mexican friend and pulled within whispering distance, “You know Simona, yours is such a nice house. Please oh please, don’t forget what I overlooked to put you there.”
There was a sudden change of tune in her tone as Simona’s secrets weighed heavy on her, “What you have in mind?” she asked through a forced smile.
Angelica’s smile returned, “I’ve got this whole thing already figured out.”
Ever the strategist, Angelica’s meticulous plan called for Simona to sneak some muscle relaxants off her husband, who’d regularly use them after a hard day’s practice. On a three hundred pound defensive end slowly building a tolerance to the drug, they acted more like pain killers, but to an average man, they’d insure his body would be limber, and his mind, suggestive. Kathleen’s part in the plan didn’t deviate too far from what she’d regularly been doing. Since she’d acquired permission to sell at The Home Depot, putting her in charge of collecting zip-ties and rope just made sense. The rest of the details, well they were kept privy to the mastermind.
***
Fitting a little tighter since daylight had last complimented its radiance, Angelica forced her body into a shimmering bustier. The result? A slender torso and an extremely confined pair of breasts, dangerously spilling over its wired upper frame. Her hair, usually up and away from her face, she let loose, its thin fickle ends dancing about her naked shoulders. A casual glance towards the corner of her desktop let on that it was almost time. Serving as the finishing touch to her seductive ensemble was a pair of metallic red heels tightly formed against her feet.
Horencio’s pickup wheezed to a halt as its tires edged the curb of his first stop. And while he was accustomed to seeing a Civic drive off as he pulled in, Angelica’s Sebring was already alone on this early morning when he looked towards the house. Beyond the bricks, and mortar was something he’d been denying himself for weeks on end, but not today. Today, temptation would have its victory.
As per any other Tuesday he went about his business, knowing eventually Angelica would emerge in the window to watch him work. And emerge she did, with her body playing peek-a-boo through a subtle slit in her robe that slithered just below her knees.
It was a new look, one he hadn’t seen, but coupled with the Corona’s in her hands, it was all the invitation he needed to drop his rake and brush the dirt off his shirt.
They had been nothing more than a blind assumption, those cold little longnecks perspiring down her hands, an assumption that they were the Mexican’s beer of choice. And as he eagerly made his way around to the front door, she knew she’d bet on the right brew.
He kicked off his boots as if they were on fire, leaving his work at the door in tiny brown particles scattered across her welcome mat.
She watched as he effortlessly eased the beverage down his throat until only a layer of stubborn froth remained pinned against the bottle.
“Otra?” she asked, extending a second bottle his way.
He took it graciously, but not before stealing a light finger stroke against the back of her hand, “Gracias fabulosa,” he said with a wink.
As seductively as she knew how Angelica fiddled with the belt on her robe, swishing its knotted ends in slow circular motions as she inched her way beyond the living room. She couldn’t formulate the words, but she didn’t need to. He trailed her like a dog being tossed scraps off the master’s plate.
The bedroom lied, but a few feet away as Horencio suckled the last of his Corona. And though empty, the bottle weighed heavy on his fingers; so heavy it slipped from his grip and crashed to the ground, breaking in two.
“Miereda!” he huffed to himself, eager to bend down and collect the shards of glass, with little concern for the safety of his hands.
“Leave it!” Angelica said, motioning him closer into her quarters.
He obeyed, trotting lightly till he drew on the cold slick fabric of her robe.
Flicking a rouge lock of hair away from her face, she studied his eyes and upon concluding it was not yet time, reluctantly unfastened the sash around her waist.
With a gaping split now unveiling her voluptuous frame, the inevitability of a prolonged stare, was indisputable. Even more indisputable was the enormous bulge inflating from his crotch as she meticulously adjusted her bust back into place.
He stole a kiss atop her forehead.
The rancid remanence polluting his mouth clung to her nostrils and with two firm hands against his chest, she put some distance between them. But with an eager force powering his mass he parried her hands away from his body.
Prattled gibberish slurred off his tongue as he sloppily stole another wet kiss against the side of her neck. And as fatigue riddled his legs, they danced.
The missteps and lazy shuffles of their slow waltz let them to the comforts of fluffy sheets, where a chilled essence pricked at his skin clouding his thoughts.
Wandering in and out of lucidity he staved off the urge to sleep, forcing his heavy arms to her waist where his failing grip grazed her curves,
“Que linda es…” he said with a hiss that lingered off his last word as he surrendered to slumber.
***
Premature pardons extended into the heavens as Simona gripped her wooden rosary firmly against her chest, as if La Virgen De Guadalupe herself existed betwixt its very fibers. And indented to the floor her knees remained, until Angelica’s call broke her of the ceremonial.
Kathleen was already jittering with the loose ends of some rope when Simona appeared before Angelica’s peach colored abode. They showed themselves in.
Distant groans echoing throughout the house led the ladies towards Angelica’s bedroom, where a frustrated seductress wrestled with her bustier.
“Damn thing! It was a miracle getting it on…” She winced.
They rushed to her aide, forcefully slinking the garment down to her knees until an unsteady Angelica wobbled to the ground.
“Wait he’s not…” Kathleen said, looking towards the bed.
“Dead? Honey please,” Angelica said, flinging a loosely fitted tee over her body.
“Das what the pain killers do,” Simona gasped.
“Exactly. And as far as anybody’s concerned, Horencio here just had a few too many,” Angelica grinned.
“What we do now Mrs. Angelica?” Simona said nervously.
“Well Kathleen here is going to tie him up, nice and tight yeah?”
“Wait what?” Kathleen ejaculated, “We’re... n-not… criminals.”
“And who ever said we were? I’m simply asking you to tie him up,” Angelica replied.
“What we do, once he tie up Mrs. Angelica?” Simona butted in.
“Yeah, where’s all this going? I think we deserve that much, after coming this far,” Kathleen piped up.
“Alright ladies, I suppose you have a point. Considering I haven’t exactly been clear on every… little… stinking detail,” Angelica said, beginning to pace. “You’re right Kat, we’re not criminals, but that doesn’t mean we can’t have our fun, and what’s more fun than a little torture?” she asked.
Simona’s eyes rolled back as she crossed her heart continuously and mumbled to herself.
“You mean to hurt…”
“No-no,” Angelica said, shaking her head. “No physical harm will befall this body. I merely mean to inflict a little… some casual…”
“Out with it!” Kathleen pleaded.
“Oh alright, I wanna tickle him!” Angelica blurted.
Simona stared up at the ceiling and put her sweaty palms together.
“Tickle him? How’s that supposed to teach him anything?” Kathleen fumed.
“I know it sounds ridiculous…”
“More like childish! This was your master plan all along?”
Kathleen’s toe began to twitch as she stared daggers towards Angelica, who’s staggered lips remained frozen.
Simona, who’d been sweating bullets, sidled Angelica, “maybe dis good idea no? He get tickled, we has fun, nobody is hurt, yes?”
Angelica breathed again, “Thank you Simona. That is exactly where I was headed with this.”
Kathleen placed her hands at her hips, “How exactly is this torture?”
“Come on Kat, don’t you have even the slightest memory of being tickled as a little kid?”
“Um, yeah, my cousin, he… he’d spend the night with us on some weekends, when my aunt and uncle… He was a brute. He’d toss me around, pin me down, and tickle my feet till I’d…” Kathleen’s toes scrunched, “gee, I guess I’d sort of forgotten what a pain that was.”
Angelica nodded in approval, “And that was, but one boy. Imagine what the three of us can do.”
“And you think he’d be… humiliated?”
“There’d be no greater blow to a man’s pride.”
“But I don’t have any experience…”
“What about our little girl scout?” Angelica persisted.
“Well her laugh is adorable,”
“See, you have experience.”
Kathleen mulled it over for a moment before finally letting the rope spill from her hands till it was strewed out on the ground.
It seemed surreal, effortlessly maneuvering so much man without a hint of hostility, to disrobe him of his dingy shirt, and mud speckled jeans; to bind the hands, his heavy hands, now limp and motionless; to tie his legs, thick stumps the likes of tree trunks.
“Is he secure?” Angelica asked.
Kathleen gave each limb a light pull, “He’s like, Fifty Shades secure.”
“Now, Simona, how long do we have before he, you know, wakes up?”
“I dunno Mrs. Angelica. It depends on de person.” Simona shrugged clueless.
“Wait, y-you all… didn’t ca-calculate the dosage?”
Angelica threw back her head till every one of her wavy locks cascaded down her back, “Well gee whiz now why didn’t I think of that?”
“This is serious you all! If he took too much he could…”
Considering it pointless to bicker any further over something irreversible, they spoke of the matter no more.
Hearing him groan brought about a collective tinge of relief; relief that was immediately swallowed up by pensive anticipation as they watched his hands twitch to life. They watched his biceps flex, and his nostrils flare, each breath fuller, deeper. Forming an arch by the bedroom door, they held each other close, linked like children engaged in a game of Red Rover.
Angelica’s voice cracked through the timid air causing the others to flinch simultaneously, “That rope is tight, right?”
Unable to bring the words on her tongue out into the air, Kathleen just nodded.
He licked his lips of their dryness and with eyes still drenched in drowsiness, shifted his gaze upward to where the peculiarities of frayed rope prickled his wrists.
“Que chingdao?” he said pulling at the rope.
Watching him struggle amidst his bondage sent their collective hearts back into their chests.
“S-see, I told you I tied him good,” Kathleen rejoiced.
Angelica squeezed her tiny companion’s shoulders, “Well I’d say you’ve earned your merit badge in the art of knots.”
Flagrant obscenities flew off his lips as he watched them approach.
Angelica furrowed her brows, “What ever is he saying?”
“Aye senora, jew would no like what he saying about jew,” Simona gasped.
“Is that so?” Angelica huffed, placing her hands on her hips. “Well you can tell, frijol over here, he’d better watch his tongue least he forgets who has the upper hand here.”
Simona complied, and at once his voice became soft.
Angelica motioned her minions with the flick of her wrist, “Ladies, if you would take your positions at either foot, and commence with the application of oils.”
Lax whimpers of submission filled the room as his resolve slowly dissipated with each indulgent hand pressing against his ankles, his heels, and his toes. There was no contention, only a subtle obedience, as his body complied willfully to the tender applications of lukewarm oil.
Angelica, seeming pleased with the blissful expressions befalling their captive, took joy in his misinterpretation of the proceedings, “Alright ladies, I think he’s had enough of that.”
With his feet now glistening, toes erect and at attention, Angelica motioned for her minions to rake their fingers across his feet.
It was at this moment, as the first of many fingers struck his arches with livid infatuation, that he realized why his body had been bound so tightly.
“POR DIOS SA-HA-HA! SENORAS PLEASE SA-HA-HA!”
His body, possessed by these unfamiliar sensations teeming off his feet, trembled passionately, putting Kathleen’s knots to the test right away.
“YEAA-HA-HA! KA-HA-HA-HA!”
As he writhed in blistered spurts, pulling the rope taught against the posts, Kathleen and Simona couldn’t help but be taken by nervous anxiety. He was still a very capable man under all that restraint, and the thought of his escape through forceful exhibition wasn’t completely lost on them.
Through a sign of good faith, Angelica laid her palm against his cheek, “He’s not going anywhere.”
Steadily, the ladies reunited their fingers with his arches, digging and clawing at their tender meaty flesh. With each passing moment, as his body raged, there was a sense of reassurance, watching the rope offer not an inch of relent towards its intended purpose.
“JEE-JA-HA-HA! YA PARA-RA-JA-JA! POR FAVOR!”
Stuck in a moment of unfamiliar circumstance, as the tribulation of titillating fingers overwhelmed his senses, Horencio wrapped his hands against the girth of his confinements. The knots were conundrums of tightly intertwined paracord that his fingers couldn’t penetrate, budge, or otherwise loosen.
“Maybe we tell him why we do this, no Mrs. Angelica?” Simona questioned.
“Let his wonder be another layer of torment for now,” Angelica replied.
And so it was that they continued their ascend on his feet, with sprawled out fingertips cascading down his soles, against his heels, between his toes and along their crusted perimeters formed from thousands of steps in the hot sun.
“AY POR QUE-JE-HEH-HEH-HEH!”
For all the agonizing euphoria stemming from his arches, there was another unmistakable stimulation stemming from his nether regions. It seemed something of an awkward bodily response given the nature of his predicament, yet there it was, pressed firmly against his boxers.
“POR FAVOR ESTOP DAT-TA-HA-HA!”
Of course for any of us who’ve ever gotten to this point in a tickle story, we know the ladies didn’t, “ESTOP DAT.” In fact it would be redundant of me to say that it only encouraged them to tickle him harder, which I’ll do, for the sake of conformity.
Laughs at his expense bubbled beyond their lips as they watched his toes curl, reflexively responding to their every touch. For all his efforts, there wasn’t an angle he could take, nor a speed with which he could twitch, to keep their fingers from provoking the ever heightening sensations perusing his skin.
“AYE DIOS MIO! ESTOP DAT PLEE-HEE-HEE-ASE!”
Another liberal application of oil assured his feet would remain primed for many strokes to come, even as their attention gravitated towards his bulging thighs. The shift was in no way coordinated, nor pre-ordained, but rather motivated off a natural desire to further explore so much naked body.
And as the bed compressed to their weight, suddenly becoming a congested square, he strained to look down his side, “Aye no! Senoritas… please, no more cosquillas!”
His quivering legs trembled beneath them, powerless stumps under their weight.
Beseeched and repetitious cries flowed off his tongue as their hands clamped the tender tendons up and around his thighs. He clenched his fists so tight they turned red, and with blatant disregard he threw out an obscenity.
Angelica hunched her body till her ear hovered just out of reach of his teeth, “What was that?”
He repeated himself quickly, through, short, breaths, till the urge to laugh could be stifled no more.
“Perhaps it’s time I join in hmm?”
Through squinted eyes, he watched her hands find the short follicles of his fuzzy armpits, where a sea of nerve endings seemed more than willing to comply.
What transpired was a union of ferocity and flesh that sent his chest skyward, and his vocals far beyond the boundaries of the room.
“No mas?” Angelica teased, “Alright ladies, hands off for a minute.”
“I thought you said we were going to be ruthless?” Kathleen whined.
Angelica gave her friend a pat on the shoulder, “Well look who’s getting into the spirit.”
“Que… queren con mi?” Horencio gasped.
Simona relayed the translation with a set of serious eyes.
“He still doesn’t get it? Silly little brown boy. Tell him, we want to watch him suffer,” Angelica smiled deviously.
Simona again relayed the information which sent a great deal of confusion across his face. But before he could collect his thoughts, Angelica’s nails blew them away, into the farthest depths of his mind where coherency could not reach them.
“YA-HA-HA! PORFA-PLEE-HEE-HEEASE!”
What began at the tips of his elbows, these fickle tingles, quickly scurried back down onto his armpits. And there, they danced, frolicking about the fuzz.
Kathleen who’d grown a little more adventurous, nestled her hands between his thighs, where his rugged musculature remained tensed amidst the anticipation.
“AYE NO! AYEEE-HEE-HEE NO!” he said writhing in fear.
Tantalizing his scattered follicles like wind over amber waves of grain, Kathleen watched every muscle flinch and flex, captivated by the sight. Then she remembered…
“WHA-HA-HA-JEE-HEE-HEE!”
It was hard for him to wrap his head around, what their little hands were capable of; Kathleen on his thigh, Simona back at his feet, and Angelica on his armpits. Yet there they were, three pairs of dainty hands, having their way with his body.
“Look at this you guys!” Kathleen shrieked.
Collectively drawn to her chipper tone, Angelica and Simona fixated their gaze on his crotch.
“Well, looks like somebody’s up and at ‘em,” Angelica teased, “What say we invite little Sepulveda for a little fresh air?”
“He’s probably due for some fresh air,” Kathleen chimed in.
“Fresh air,” Simona mimicked.
Angelica grinned.
No translations were required to assess what it meant, the feel of slick fingernails perusing his waistband. Better still was the understanding that no translation would keep what was about to happen, from happening.
In one swift motion his last line of protection was shifted down to his ankles. From their rather expressionless faces, they seemed a bit perplexed, let down almost, as it sat upright and rigid like a military private waiting to pass inspection.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen one that’s not…” Kathleen mumbled.
“Is that normal?” Angelica smirked.
Simona pinched her fingers together, “Is a little chiquito yes?”
It could’ve be argued that anything next to Simona would have appeared disproportionate, but I digress.
Despite its little flaw, his penis quickly became the epicenter of attention, as the ladies took stiff feathers to his shaft, content to watch it spring back and forth like one of those inflatable punching bags that never fail to stand upright even after a hundred blows.
“POR DIOS SA-JA-JA! DEJA-AYI-HEE-HEE!”
His scrotum, which ordinarily flopped about freely, was taking a leave of absence, much to their gratification. Content, or rather forced to evacuate up into his body, his testicles turned juvenile, fitted more on the likes of a young boy rather than a full grown Mexican hunk.
“SHEE-HEE-HEE-EET! PLEE-GEE-GEE-ASE ESTOP!”
Feathers transitioned to fingers as the suppler flesh of his waist jiggled for attention amidst ridged abdominal contractions. Even the leanest of stakes need a little fat to enhance the flavor. And under their vivacious hands, it jiggled some more. The vibrancy and animation with which his hips shimmied only adding to the already poignant allure of having someone so erratic, suddenly complacent.
Kathleen, noting his biceps completely flexed yet still utterly incapacitated let off a chuckle of her own through the volley of rich laughs revolving round the room, “He’s like actually trying to get out,” she said perplexed.
“Like that’s going to happen,” Angelica added.
Exiled through their fingers, pent up aggression lustfully led them inch by inch through the darkest skin on Horencio’s body. In a place few had ever been granted such privileges, they went, carelessly unchecked and happily unchallenged.
He winced.
“Oh, there is no resisting,” Angelica said with a smile.
His left leg, charged off an untimely thrust of her thumbs, jolted sideways, splitting his defenses, and in one swift motion his rough black pubic hair was being combed by her fingertips.
“POR DIOS-SA-JA-JA!”
Sifting through the fray of tangled and knotted fuzz her hands gripped tight his base.
“Hey, I thought we weren’t going to…” Kathleen gawked.
“What, I’m not doing anything,” Angelica frowned, gliding her fingers back down his trembling legs.
“Uh-huh,” Kathleen said doubtingly.
“Well excuse me for being thorough,” Angelica pouted.
“One can get a little too thorough,” Kathleen huffed.
Simona’s fingers slowed to a steady scribble against Horencio’s left foot, “What jew ladies talk about?”
A quick explanation brought attention to the elephant in the room and stifled laughter on the lips of the ladies as they tangled, mentally, with the unspoken understanding that loomed in their subconscious.
Then a rouge thought was voiced.
And at once, this unspoken understanding crumbled under its shaky foundation.
“WHOAH… SENIORITAS PLEAS-S-SE…”
“Oh, is he ticklish too?” Angelica asked teasingly. “I think he is!”
An unsettling prickle snaked up his thighs as his head became subject to her sharp nails grazing round its rim.
“Come on baby, laugh for mommy,” Angelica said whimsically.
It was a cheesy one liner, fitted for cheap pornographic videos with cardboard actors and paper-thin plots, but then again here we are, in the middle of something most impalpable.
He hissed, clenching tight his hands, anything to subdue and confine the livid infatuations encompassing his mental capacity. Then, just as the sun follows the rain, a more pleasurable hand gesture ignited his shaft.
With his lip tucked tightly behind his teeth he invited darkness and road the wave of alternating hands feisty for a touch. There were vigorous strokes coming off more experienced hands, and fragile ones of which he undoubtedly assumed belonged to the timid girl scouter. And while the shifting dynamic wasn’t exactly conducive, he found himself slowly relenting his fists to embrace the satin euphoria gradually engulfing him.
“Am I doing it right?” Kathleen would ask.
Weightless, he careened the traversed stairway into the upper echelons where an incessant pulse grew increasingly harder. Then suddenly, before he could reach the top floor, the stairs were pulled out from under him.
“AYI-EE-HEE-HEE-YA-JA-JA!”
Harrowing titillations pierced their way through his dense body, as their hands again became harbingers of torment wrapped in pearlescent innocence.
They raked his chest with quick circular motions, drilled between his toes with the proficiency of a Craftsman power tool, whittled his tender belly with the speed of a journalist drowning under an approaching deadline.
“NO MAS,” became his battle cry; a juxtaposition of weightless words. A feeble attempt to regain control; to restore a balance of power that was once in his favor; to bring an end to this monumental display of ill repute.
“SENORITAS PO-OH-HO-HOR-FAOR-RA-HA-HA!”
A few beads of sweat dripped from his temple as his skin glazed, glazed by the fiery passions of their unrequited sexual starvation. As their touch turned from ravenous excavations fathoms beneath the surface of his body to soothing sensual caresses, all that was holding his mental capacity hostage ceased to exist, exiting his body as rampantly as it had barged in uninvited. All that remained was a shrill whisper of air off relaxed lips as Horencio’s lungs indulged in the invisible life sustaining substance.
“I think he prefers…”
Angelica’s firm grip finished the statement as strong fluid stroke upon strong fluid stroke revitalized the leaning tower of Pisa to its stiff and ridged posture.
Crimson hands returned to their natural shade as Horencio cooed and relaxed his body again; the welcome stimulation steadily working its way up his shaft. The torment, which only moments ago had been of such malevolence on his psyche, seemed distanced with every satisfying stroke. Like tiny beacons of light too far off the shoreline to merit any thought, his doubts and fears laid asunder in the surreal pleasure that coddled him.
“Look at him go,” Kathleen teased as she took her turn.
“Jess, look his face,” Simona chimed in.
Feverish vertical motions off a carousel of hands kept Horencio’s toes curled and his back arched as he again began his ascend into those upper echelons. With his head pressed hard against the bed he licked his lips and smiled, fully invested.
“Who’s going to be the recipient?” Angelica wondered aloud as her hand squeezed his head.
“I hope it’s me,” Kathleen giggled.
“No way! You’re not even doing it right!” Angelica bantered back.
Kathleen replied by taking two hands to his shaft during her turn.
“Cheater!” Angelica murmured.
“What?! You guys have big hands!” She shrugged.
It wouldn’t be long now as he felt the hairs on his legs stand at attention. Every ounce of his being, every feeling and emotion, seemingly encapsulated betwixt their fibers as he readied for the inevitable. And then with one last stroke his eyes shut tight, and his mind went blank.
It cascaded down his shriveled skin and onto her hands and she indulged in a few more racks.
Like a breeze over amber waves of grain, tremors careened down his body as inch by inch static electricity of the most carnal engulfed his essence. He sighed as splendor’s last titillations trickled up his toes and into the atmosphere encompassing the room.
He remained weightless, slowly descending into the valleys; until an awakening under his arms brought his biceps back to puffy form.
“He thought we were done with him!” Angelica smirked.
Confused, Kathleen slowly motioned her hands towards his belly.
“We’re not?”
“Not quite,” Angelica replied softly, “Simona, get in on this!”
Suppressed stimulations at once resurfaced, sending his body shimmying to the limits of its confinement, and his uselessly flaccid penis to flop about his crotch.
It was a slippery little thing, flopping about with frantic discombobulation off every erratic pelvic thrust. A flaccid remnant of freedom of which the rest of his body had since disassociated. Off these unwarranted, stimulatory erotic frictions, he responded, with lividness on his tongue and boisterous bodily behaviors of the most innate. His mental stability, a state of disorder that hinged off the frail touch of fingertips tantalizing his follicles in incessant circular motions. Drifting betwixt pleasure and torment his emotions wallowed.
“PROQUEE-JEH-JEH-JEH! DEMONIOS NOO-HO-HO!”
“Is it me, or is he like, even more ticklish?” Angelica pondered above the raucous prattle.
Indeed his reactions seemed more lively, his body more receptive; As if exponentially, his sensitivity had intensified in the afterglow. Fingertips now seemed even more charged as they carelessly perused his torso, every poke and prod evoked an immense ripple of gut busting laughter. A cauldron of calamity, pouring generously over every last inch of his body.
“Jew right! He is,” Simona finally spoke up.
And so, writhing he remained, a blubbering mass, drenched in his own juices, void of all hope, ensnared in the increasingly overwhelming euphoria of a hundred fingers exploiting and excavating, owning his every breath, dictating his every movement.
Life as it was, under the sun, carried on outside Angelica’s room; with the birds and the bees flying about, trees rustling to life off a spare gust of wind weaving through their branches, squirrels narrowly avoiding death as it barreled towards them at thirty miles per hour, and the rake, which had been so easily forgotten, so carelessly dropped, laid lifeless amidst the leaves.
That’s about the best ending I can give you. I know no other way. Are there repercussions for actions as heinous as this, of course. Will the ladies of Baker suffer them? I’d say judging by the color of their skin, probably not. Besides, who would ever believe the ramblings of an illegal immigrant anyway?
Anyway, I hope it's received well, and I welcome any and all feedback good or bad, preferably bad, so I can know where I need improvement. Thank you all in advance, and Happy New Year.
Gardens
It was a slippery little thing, flopping about with frantic discombobulation off every erratic pelvic thrust. A flaccid remnant of freedom of which the rest of his body had since disassociated. Off these unwarranted, stimulatory erotic frictions, he responded, with lividness on his tongue and boisterous bodily behaviors of the most innate. His mental stability, a state of disorder that hinged off the frail touch of fingertips tantalizing his follicles in incessant circular motions. Drifting betwixt pleasure and torment his emotions wallowed.
But allow me to digress, or deviate if you will. For it seems as though we’ve reached the climax, pun intended, still we’ve yet to comprise any of the supporting bits which lead this youthful man into the predicament of which he now finds himself. No dessert before dinner. Those are the rules.
Ahem…
For most, a home is defined by the people living within its walls. But for the ladies of Baker, it was the walls themselves that did the defining. From the tangible trappings, and the coveted grass so green it was the other side, visual perspective was key to obtaining an enviable living establishment. So when their resident landscaper met his untimely demise, a meeting to discuss potential replacements became of vital importance; because to quote their gardens as ‘enviable’, would be an understatement.
On a canvas of green, intrepid colors rainbowed year-round. Lily’s, roses, orchids, daffodils, and whatever else a person could imagine, it grew in their gardens. Blades of grass cut so uniform, not a one held itself higher than its brethren; equal. Vines wrapped tightly to their milky white trellises, extended to the heavens. Their leaves, fanned in adoration of the sun.
The meeting began much like any other, over a strong brew of piping hot coffee, and an assortment of Girl Scout cookies courtesy of resident vendor Kathleen.
A dainty little mother of one, Kathleen used a weekend getaway to, “the happiest place on earth”, as incentive to pedal those colorful boxes around her local supermarkets and department stores. And while it was a perilous road that often saw her Converse encased feet wasted after miles of pacing and hours of standing, that smile never once wavered off her face. Baker street mythos tells of that very same smile once melting snow after a harsh winter’s eve, but that’s neither here nor there.
Now as any good cookie dealer knows, securing the home front is just as vital as hitting the streets, and Baker’s latest addition, Simona Diaz was as easy a snag as they come. Here’s why.
Much like a cupcake overflows beyond its tight tinfoil confinement, Simona’s waist boasted as much girth as a fluffy red velvet with icing and sprinkles. Yet despite reflections telling her otherwise, she was adamant about her pant size, claiming that the real culprit was her dryer and not her tumultuous eating habits that even now saw excess cookie crumbs spreading across her cheeks and chin.
The two had already slouched comfortably into a plush red couch long before Angelica’s rear found itself plastered against a wooden counter symmetrically adorned with an assortment of magazines and potpourri.
Baker street’s budding realtor and her doctor husband had gambled their nest egg to breathe life into a pair of plots and a cracked strip of cement all in hopes of creating the uniform suburban paradise she’d envisioned herself growing old in. Three years, and here she was before her small, yet faithful congregation.
“Thank you all for coming on such short notice. I understand that eleven o’clock is the Rachel Ray hour, but this is a matter of great importance…”
There was a fluster about her face as she glanced at her phone, then back into her garden, where the cherry bells seemed sunken more so than usual.
“… Juan’s touch is fleeting, as I’m sure you all have noticed. Yes, his time here was cut short, much like the blades of grass he so diligently trimmed every Tuesday, but our condolences have been sent.”
“It was all that greasy Mexican, no offense Simona, food he was eating,” Kathleen sulked.
“No pos jew cookies is what make him sick!” Simona rebutted.
“It was not my fault,” Kathleen said sharply.
Angelica broke the quarrel with a sharp tongue, “Some decency? We’re arguing over a dead guy. What killed him is of little consequence compared to what’s at stake.”
“My tulips!” Kathleen gasped.
“Aye jes! Who now is to trim my bush Mrs. Angelica?” Simona chimed in.
With no hesitation, Angelica looked down on her brown skinned cohort and smiled, “I was hoping you might know of someone?”
Sure, Simona had her shortcomings with the English language and understanding it’s suburban vernacular, but she didn’t need an English lesson to decode sarcasm or racial undertones.
“Aye pos wow! Porque yo soy la Mexicana…” Simona replied, throwing up her hands.
Angelica winced, as if the words spewing off Simona’s charcoal black lips were detrimental to her health, “English please Mrs. Simona.”
Gleaming off her caffeine high Kathleen perked up the way a rooster does before it’s infamous, cock-a-doodle-doo, “I-I-I know! We can like, place an ad on Craigslist!”
After a ceremonious accord which consisted of pinky swears all around, the ladies hustled together an advertisement. Simona photographed their gardens. Kathleen typed up a short paragraph, and Angelica, well, she just hit “post”.
The ladies were lucky. In all of two days, there were several replies. However, it was the nature of one such reply that caught Angelica’s eye above all the others. See to her, butchered English grammar was the sign of a good laborer and after struggling to make sense of an email sent from one Horencio Sepulveda, she decided it would be him she’d roll the dice on.
***
He’d shown up just as the sun was creeping over the horizon; to husbands shuffling off in their Civics and Expeditions to embrace another nine to five; as children trotted along sidewalks, chasing their shadows to school bus drop-offs.
“Que lindo eres,” he said, staring beyond the white trellis that bordered a pasture of green, and multicolored flowers.
Embracing his pre-work rituals of nortenos and breakfast tacos, Horencio flooded the streets with deep robust tubas and high-pitched trumpets wheezing beyond the speakers of his rusty little pickup.
Having bludgeoned through the windows of Angelica’s house, the “oomph pa’s” awoke her from a lucid dream where cats were chasing dogs, forcing her fuzzy pink slippers onto her feet earlier than she was accustomed to.
Coating her skin with a thin layer of age defying ointment, she cinched tight her glossy black robe and marched outside. With every step she scoured her mind for the right words, Spanish words, hoping that by the time she’d braved through the morning’s mosquito fest, she’d have a coherent statement. But upon cornering the truck, her thoughts became muddled, scrambled even, as she was met with a set of supple cheeks held firmly in place by a pair of faded blue jeans. It was at this point the “oomph pa’s”, with their discombobulating tones and pitches, turned into spirited angelic chords worthy of the pearly gates.
Somehow, amidst the noise, he must have heard her fluids sweltering, because he turned around just in time to catch her admiring his behind.
“Si senora?” he asked, lowering the music.
Rich like honey, his voice glazed over her, sending her deeper into befuddlement as she stood gaping at his enormous belt buckle, a tarnished gunmetal steer.
“I start now okay?” he said, stuffing the last of his taco down his gullet.
She cooed like a child before giddily hopping away to visions of his symmetrical behind intertwining themselves into her mental itinerary.
They served as her stamina as she paced out the last mile on her treadmill. They amplified the embrace of her pulsating shower head as she snuck it between her legs for a little extra “cleanliness”. Seeking a “scenic” view, she took her breakfast out by the picture window facing her garden. The Horencio hour was underway, and she wasn’t about to miss a minute of it.
Never more appreciative of her trees, Angelica watched with delight as he piled their leaves in small little bundles along the grass. And, much to her delight, he’d inadvertently placed a pile right by the window, where of course she could “evaluate” his work front and center.
She glanced at her phone as the last gulp of orange juice crashed against her taste buds and with unwillingness, fastened her blazer. Adjusting the sheer black nylons clinging tightly around her legs, she strapped into her matte black Louboutin’s and then grabbed her briefcase.
The pavement felt like one big therapeutic hot stone, baked twice over by the unrelenting sun, as she stepped out and waddled towards her pearlescent Sebring. Given its mileage, her ride was in immaculate shape having suffered only one golf sized dent along its bumper.
Considering her lead foot to the Sebring’s top speed, she convinced herself that she could make up for a leisurely stroll by the thin wooden trellis surrounding her garden. With a dainty step she approached, with an observant eye she peeked. It seemed her tall, stubble faced guest was a Coke man.
“Yoo-hoo!” she cried, creeping out from behind her hiding place.
Startled, he coughed up his beverage and pulled the can from his lips as if it were a seductress and he’d been caught in a moment of infidelity.
“Si Senora?” he said, finally recomposed.
While there spanned a great many lengths between her astute elocution and his rough and rugged gibberish, it was not their language barrier that caused her to hesitate. Rather, her hesitation stemmed from a set of stale Christmas lights strung along the edges of her house. They’d caught her attention, called out to her almost, serving as a reminder of the moment her husband Steve, bundled in two hoodies, braved a harsh November chill to ensure their house at least one decoration to ring in the season.
“Uh… um… tu have un piece of ohja,” she mumbled.
Plucking from his jet-black hair a twig that had nestled atop his head, she inadvertently caught a whiff of his rich musky scent. It seared her nostrils, this combination of sweat and freshly cut oak, making the band on her finger at once feel weightless.
“Gracias Senora,” he said, breathing his life into her ears.
In what was a less than stellar exit, she scurried away, clumsily taking with her bits of mud, grass, and the knowledge that plucking a twig off Horencio’s hair was in no way crossing the boundaries set by the band on her finger.
***
Kathleen resided only a few houses down, where having tapped into the vast demographic that was early morning coffee drinkers, meant she was already in the process of loading up her van for a second round of cookie sales. Just as the last box was piled high, the sound of Horenico’s pick up puttering towards the curb put a smile on her face. She’d put it on her to-do list, to entice the new gardener at some point between scorching and scalding, when cookies and milk were at their most desirable. If it had worked once, she was sure it would work again.
Horencio was busy finagling with his weed whacker when she approached him from behind with a sampling of cookies and a glass of milk.
“S-Senor,” she whispered.
He turned, lining his eyes within the frays of her strawberry blonde hairline, “Hola senorita,” he said as his eyes slowly cascaded down her slender frame.
Entrapped in his eyes, the sun brought forth their maple colored centers as he took in her thin pursed lips and the spotty freckles scattered along her cheekbones.
“Estoy de venta cookies,” she smiled sheepishly, “preueva”.
A strong breeze rustled through her veil thin button down as he leaned into her until his robust chest and her forehead found themselves adjacent. With a meaty hand, scraped, callused, and muddy, he cautiously took a cookie.
“Gracias,” he said, raising the cookie as if it were a champagne glass during a toast.
Be it the sweat that outlined his pectorals, tracing their definition. Be it his continuous steady breaths, making them puff. Be it the way he closed his eyes to savor the taste of the morsel in his mouth now scraping along his tongue, but for as many times as she’d watched others consume her cookies, the act had never taken a more arousing turn.
“Dis are good,” he said licking his lips of excess cookie crumbles.
Forced to look away momentarily, least he see her unsightly snaggletooth, she mumbled something incoherent, between a broken smile.
The knee buckler came when a rouge drop of milk traced the side of his mouth as he guzzled down the cold beverage. Now be it a motherly instinct, or the sheer desire to feel his face, but Kathleen soon found her thumb smearing away the thin white streak.
“Aye gracias senorita,” he said popping his neck, “Where jew learn speak a Spanish miss…”
“K-Kat-Kathleen. Yep that’s me, Kathleen, mmm-hmm,” she nodded, almost reassuringly, as her own name escaped her, “and- and, Simona, who lives next to me, she’s helping me learn,” she explained, her body stuck in pronation.
“Bueno pa el negocio no?” he asked.
“Yes, yes. Good for business,” she said hastily, “gusta comprar?”
Two simplistic words served as a gateway; her gentle tug, an extended drawbridge and before she knew it, he was in her kitchen, touching her counter top and leaving flakes of mud off his boots on the floor.
With stilted steps, she maneuvered about the kitchen. With unsteady hands, she showcased the options from Thin Mints to Tagalongs, Do-si-dos to Caramel Delites.
Knowing the crumpled five spot lining his pocket would only be enough for one, he narrowed it down to two choices, taking casual glances at the surreal innocence in her smile as he did. He was no stranger to the look. He’d seen the expression a time or two. It was, after all, in his line of business to sometimes cross paths with a horny housewife whose bush needed some maintenance. But alas, his fear of the other side, beyond the borders of which he no longer wanted any part of, always managed to block his pursuit of erotic escapades. And so it did again, as he made his two choices, and walked away with a box of Thin Mints.
***
His watch read noon before he found himself puttering towards his last stop. Simona, who routinely would have been fixated on soap operas from the sunken folds of her couch, put TiVo in charge as she chose to bare some skin poolside.
It’s never a good choice of color, when your string bikini is the shade of your skin, even more so when you’re a caramel mound snoozing on a lawn chair valiantly testing the limits of its maximum allowable weight. But this is how Horencio found her, headphones plugged. Now if only she could remain unstirred by his actions.
Her back yard was a mine field of ragged pool noodles, water pistols, and a tangled garden hose, all of which he avoided in route to her bush, but then he saw it. Right beside his foot was a bone, gnawed and torn of which he would have paid no mind had it not been coated in a thin layer of slobber.
From God only knows where emerged a Pitbull, his snout tinged in a light pink trim. With his pruning shears firmly gripped between his hands, Horencio, much like a bull fighter, squared his shoulders and awaited the raucous creature, his tensed musculature, and vicious fangs. Then it barked.
“Ay guey!” he said, making a bee line towards a utility closet.
He crashed through the door, stumbling over a downed pool net prompting Simona to rouse with a, “que chingao” look on her face. She popped off her earbuds and gave Dillon her full attention as he pawed at the door, barking incessantly.
She was a few swipes away from dialing the police when Horencio cried out from a small slit in the door, “Senora, tu pero!”
The agony in his voice, parred with the pruning shears now being waved frantically like a white flag upon surrender, caused her to put down the phone, and lay a firm grip around Dillon’s collar.
“Jew thee new gardener jes?” she asked in a tensed voice.
Horencio withdrew his shears and peeked his head out, to the sight of a bikini so thin it’s strings were lost between supple folds of fat, “Si senora,” he said, his gaze entrapped in the plump lips pressed against her bikini bottom.
“Mis ojos aqui cabron!” she exclaimed, loosening up her grip on the dog.
With continuous stutters in his speech, and one hand inching the door ever closer to his body, Horencio digressed, claiming it was the dog he was so fixated on and not the fabrics permanently etching themselves onto her crotch.
She scratched at a stretch mark outlining her hip. The red line, jagged, thick and one of many, gave validity to his claim as she secured the dog to a post around the corner of her house.
Making himself useful as the anxiety plaguing his nerves wore down, he lingered in her utility closet, sweeping the ground and organizing her shelves of its tools.
“Jew can come out jew know,” Simona said peeking in.
She had to admit the room looked all the more presentable as her eyes wandered its perimeters, but there was little else impressive about its inventory. She was after all, married to a minor league defensive end of superior physique.
***
And so the weeks wore on, with every Tuesday’s narrative outlined similar to the one before; Horencio dodging sexual advances, Angelica abusing her shower head, Kathleen reduced to binge eating cookies to suppress the sexual tension, and Simona, well, her frustrations stemmed from a new diet she’d started.
Hostility ensued as pent-up tension led to flared tempers among the ladies. Panties were ruffled. Stockings were ripped. Dinners frequented second windows. He plagued them, making another meeting inevitable. The calamity that was Horecio Sepulveda needed to be dealt with.
“Thank you again ladies for honoring the call,” Angelica said to open the meeting. “Now I believe you know why we’re here,” she continued.
“It’s that bastard of a gardener YOU hired!” Kathleen exploded.
“Me? We ALL put that ad together!” Angelica fired back.
“Yeah, but like WHO had the final say?” Kathleen said, waving her finger around.
“Like you’re the only one suffering here? I’m doing all I can to not throw myself in his arms!” Angelica flared.
Given her immunity to his charm and chiseled physique Simona unofficially made herself peacekeeper pressing her belly between them like a ref in a boxing match, “Muchachas please, dis get us nowhere,” she pleaded, “Why dun we jess fire him?”
The simplistic solution hung in the air, still and unanswered until a stone-faced Angelica snatched it away and threw it under her boot,
“Where’s the justice in that?” she asked flatly, “He’s been tormenting us. Wearing those tight jeans, working up a sweat...”
“…eating our cookies!” Kathleen chimed in.
Angelica and Simona turned their perplexed faces towards their little freckled friend, whose quirky mannerisms only left them even more speechless.
“Anyway,” Angelica continued, “why should we be the only ones to suffer here? Shouldn’t he know what it feels like to be helplessly tormented?”
“Yeah, he should suffer too!” Kathleen echoed.
“I dun know bout dis,” Simona mumbled.
Angelica took a firm hand to her Mexican friend and pulled within whispering distance, “You know Simona, yours is such a nice house. Please oh please, don’t forget what I overlooked to put you there.”
There was a sudden change of tune in her tone as Simona’s secrets weighed heavy on her, “What you have in mind?” she asked through a forced smile.
Angelica’s smile returned, “I’ve got this whole thing already figured out.”
Ever the strategist, Angelica’s meticulous plan called for Simona to sneak some muscle relaxants off her husband, who’d regularly use them after a hard day’s practice. On a three hundred pound defensive end slowly building a tolerance to the drug, they acted more like pain killers, but to an average man, they’d insure his body would be limber, and his mind, suggestive. Kathleen’s part in the plan didn’t deviate too far from what she’d regularly been doing. Since she’d acquired permission to sell at The Home Depot, putting her in charge of collecting zip-ties and rope just made sense. The rest of the details, well they were kept privy to the mastermind.
***
Fitting a little tighter since daylight had last complimented its radiance, Angelica forced her body into a shimmering bustier. The result? A slender torso and an extremely confined pair of breasts, dangerously spilling over its wired upper frame. Her hair, usually up and away from her face, she let loose, its thin fickle ends dancing about her naked shoulders. A casual glance towards the corner of her desktop let on that it was almost time. Serving as the finishing touch to her seductive ensemble was a pair of metallic red heels tightly formed against her feet.
Horencio’s pickup wheezed to a halt as its tires edged the curb of his first stop. And while he was accustomed to seeing a Civic drive off as he pulled in, Angelica’s Sebring was already alone on this early morning when he looked towards the house. Beyond the bricks, and mortar was something he’d been denying himself for weeks on end, but not today. Today, temptation would have its victory.
As per any other Tuesday he went about his business, knowing eventually Angelica would emerge in the window to watch him work. And emerge she did, with her body playing peek-a-boo through a subtle slit in her robe that slithered just below her knees.
It was a new look, one he hadn’t seen, but coupled with the Corona’s in her hands, it was all the invitation he needed to drop his rake and brush the dirt off his shirt.
They had been nothing more than a blind assumption, those cold little longnecks perspiring down her hands, an assumption that they were the Mexican’s beer of choice. And as he eagerly made his way around to the front door, she knew she’d bet on the right brew.
He kicked off his boots as if they were on fire, leaving his work at the door in tiny brown particles scattered across her welcome mat.
She watched as he effortlessly eased the beverage down his throat until only a layer of stubborn froth remained pinned against the bottle.
“Otra?” she asked, extending a second bottle his way.
He took it graciously, but not before stealing a light finger stroke against the back of her hand, “Gracias fabulosa,” he said with a wink.
As seductively as she knew how Angelica fiddled with the belt on her robe, swishing its knotted ends in slow circular motions as she inched her way beyond the living room. She couldn’t formulate the words, but she didn’t need to. He trailed her like a dog being tossed scraps off the master’s plate.
The bedroom lied, but a few feet away as Horencio suckled the last of his Corona. And though empty, the bottle weighed heavy on his fingers; so heavy it slipped from his grip and crashed to the ground, breaking in two.
“Miereda!” he huffed to himself, eager to bend down and collect the shards of glass, with little concern for the safety of his hands.
“Leave it!” Angelica said, motioning him closer into her quarters.
He obeyed, trotting lightly till he drew on the cold slick fabric of her robe.
Flicking a rouge lock of hair away from her face, she studied his eyes and upon concluding it was not yet time, reluctantly unfastened the sash around her waist.
With a gaping split now unveiling her voluptuous frame, the inevitability of a prolonged stare, was indisputable. Even more indisputable was the enormous bulge inflating from his crotch as she meticulously adjusted her bust back into place.
He stole a kiss atop her forehead.
The rancid remanence polluting his mouth clung to her nostrils and with two firm hands against his chest, she put some distance between them. But with an eager force powering his mass he parried her hands away from his body.
Prattled gibberish slurred off his tongue as he sloppily stole another wet kiss against the side of her neck. And as fatigue riddled his legs, they danced.
The missteps and lazy shuffles of their slow waltz let them to the comforts of fluffy sheets, where a chilled essence pricked at his skin clouding his thoughts.
Wandering in and out of lucidity he staved off the urge to sleep, forcing his heavy arms to her waist where his failing grip grazed her curves,
“Que linda es…” he said with a hiss that lingered off his last word as he surrendered to slumber.
***
Premature pardons extended into the heavens as Simona gripped her wooden rosary firmly against her chest, as if La Virgen De Guadalupe herself existed betwixt its very fibers. And indented to the floor her knees remained, until Angelica’s call broke her of the ceremonial.
Kathleen was already jittering with the loose ends of some rope when Simona appeared before Angelica’s peach colored abode. They showed themselves in.
Distant groans echoing throughout the house led the ladies towards Angelica’s bedroom, where a frustrated seductress wrestled with her bustier.
“Damn thing! It was a miracle getting it on…” She winced.
They rushed to her aide, forcefully slinking the garment down to her knees until an unsteady Angelica wobbled to the ground.
“Wait he’s not…” Kathleen said, looking towards the bed.
“Dead? Honey please,” Angelica said, flinging a loosely fitted tee over her body.
“Das what the pain killers do,” Simona gasped.
“Exactly. And as far as anybody’s concerned, Horencio here just had a few too many,” Angelica grinned.
“What we do now Mrs. Angelica?” Simona said nervously.
“Well Kathleen here is going to tie him up, nice and tight yeah?”
“Wait what?” Kathleen ejaculated, “We’re... n-not… criminals.”
“And who ever said we were? I’m simply asking you to tie him up,” Angelica replied.
“What we do, once he tie up Mrs. Angelica?” Simona butted in.
“Yeah, where’s all this going? I think we deserve that much, after coming this far,” Kathleen piped up.
“Alright ladies, I suppose you have a point. Considering I haven’t exactly been clear on every… little… stinking detail,” Angelica said, beginning to pace. “You’re right Kat, we’re not criminals, but that doesn’t mean we can’t have our fun, and what’s more fun than a little torture?” she asked.
Simona’s eyes rolled back as she crossed her heart continuously and mumbled to herself.
“You mean to hurt…”
“No-no,” Angelica said, shaking her head. “No physical harm will befall this body. I merely mean to inflict a little… some casual…”
“Out with it!” Kathleen pleaded.
“Oh alright, I wanna tickle him!” Angelica blurted.
Simona stared up at the ceiling and put her sweaty palms together.
“Tickle him? How’s that supposed to teach him anything?” Kathleen fumed.
“I know it sounds ridiculous…”
“More like childish! This was your master plan all along?”
Kathleen’s toe began to twitch as she stared daggers towards Angelica, who’s staggered lips remained frozen.
Simona, who’d been sweating bullets, sidled Angelica, “maybe dis good idea no? He get tickled, we has fun, nobody is hurt, yes?”
Angelica breathed again, “Thank you Simona. That is exactly where I was headed with this.”
Kathleen placed her hands at her hips, “How exactly is this torture?”
“Come on Kat, don’t you have even the slightest memory of being tickled as a little kid?”
“Um, yeah, my cousin, he… he’d spend the night with us on some weekends, when my aunt and uncle… He was a brute. He’d toss me around, pin me down, and tickle my feet till I’d…” Kathleen’s toes scrunched, “gee, I guess I’d sort of forgotten what a pain that was.”
Angelica nodded in approval, “And that was, but one boy. Imagine what the three of us can do.”
“And you think he’d be… humiliated?”
“There’d be no greater blow to a man’s pride.”
“But I don’t have any experience…”
“What about our little girl scout?” Angelica persisted.
“Well her laugh is adorable,”
“See, you have experience.”
Kathleen mulled it over for a moment before finally letting the rope spill from her hands till it was strewed out on the ground.
It seemed surreal, effortlessly maneuvering so much man without a hint of hostility, to disrobe him of his dingy shirt, and mud speckled jeans; to bind the hands, his heavy hands, now limp and motionless; to tie his legs, thick stumps the likes of tree trunks.
“Is he secure?” Angelica asked.
Kathleen gave each limb a light pull, “He’s like, Fifty Shades secure.”
“Now, Simona, how long do we have before he, you know, wakes up?”
“I dunno Mrs. Angelica. It depends on de person.” Simona shrugged clueless.
“Wait, y-you all… didn’t ca-calculate the dosage?”
Angelica threw back her head till every one of her wavy locks cascaded down her back, “Well gee whiz now why didn’t I think of that?”
“This is serious you all! If he took too much he could…”
Considering it pointless to bicker any further over something irreversible, they spoke of the matter no more.
Hearing him groan brought about a collective tinge of relief; relief that was immediately swallowed up by pensive anticipation as they watched his hands twitch to life. They watched his biceps flex, and his nostrils flare, each breath fuller, deeper. Forming an arch by the bedroom door, they held each other close, linked like children engaged in a game of Red Rover.
Angelica’s voice cracked through the timid air causing the others to flinch simultaneously, “That rope is tight, right?”
Unable to bring the words on her tongue out into the air, Kathleen just nodded.
He licked his lips of their dryness and with eyes still drenched in drowsiness, shifted his gaze upward to where the peculiarities of frayed rope prickled his wrists.
“Que chingdao?” he said pulling at the rope.
Watching him struggle amidst his bondage sent their collective hearts back into their chests.
“S-see, I told you I tied him good,” Kathleen rejoiced.
Angelica squeezed her tiny companion’s shoulders, “Well I’d say you’ve earned your merit badge in the art of knots.”
Flagrant obscenities flew off his lips as he watched them approach.
Angelica furrowed her brows, “What ever is he saying?”
“Aye senora, jew would no like what he saying about jew,” Simona gasped.
“Is that so?” Angelica huffed, placing her hands on her hips. “Well you can tell, frijol over here, he’d better watch his tongue least he forgets who has the upper hand here.”
Simona complied, and at once his voice became soft.
Angelica motioned her minions with the flick of her wrist, “Ladies, if you would take your positions at either foot, and commence with the application of oils.”
Lax whimpers of submission filled the room as his resolve slowly dissipated with each indulgent hand pressing against his ankles, his heels, and his toes. There was no contention, only a subtle obedience, as his body complied willfully to the tender applications of lukewarm oil.
Angelica, seeming pleased with the blissful expressions befalling their captive, took joy in his misinterpretation of the proceedings, “Alright ladies, I think he’s had enough of that.”
With his feet now glistening, toes erect and at attention, Angelica motioned for her minions to rake their fingers across his feet.
It was at this moment, as the first of many fingers struck his arches with livid infatuation, that he realized why his body had been bound so tightly.
“POR DIOS SA-HA-HA! SENORAS PLEASE SA-HA-HA!”
His body, possessed by these unfamiliar sensations teeming off his feet, trembled passionately, putting Kathleen’s knots to the test right away.
“YEAA-HA-HA! KA-HA-HA-HA!”
As he writhed in blistered spurts, pulling the rope taught against the posts, Kathleen and Simona couldn’t help but be taken by nervous anxiety. He was still a very capable man under all that restraint, and the thought of his escape through forceful exhibition wasn’t completely lost on them.
Through a sign of good faith, Angelica laid her palm against his cheek, “He’s not going anywhere.”
Steadily, the ladies reunited their fingers with his arches, digging and clawing at their tender meaty flesh. With each passing moment, as his body raged, there was a sense of reassurance, watching the rope offer not an inch of relent towards its intended purpose.
“JEE-JA-HA-HA! YA PARA-RA-JA-JA! POR FAVOR!”
Stuck in a moment of unfamiliar circumstance, as the tribulation of titillating fingers overwhelmed his senses, Horencio wrapped his hands against the girth of his confinements. The knots were conundrums of tightly intertwined paracord that his fingers couldn’t penetrate, budge, or otherwise loosen.
“Maybe we tell him why we do this, no Mrs. Angelica?” Simona questioned.
“Let his wonder be another layer of torment for now,” Angelica replied.
And so it was that they continued their ascend on his feet, with sprawled out fingertips cascading down his soles, against his heels, between his toes and along their crusted perimeters formed from thousands of steps in the hot sun.
“AY POR QUE-JE-HEH-HEH-HEH!”
For all the agonizing euphoria stemming from his arches, there was another unmistakable stimulation stemming from his nether regions. It seemed something of an awkward bodily response given the nature of his predicament, yet there it was, pressed firmly against his boxers.
“POR FAVOR ESTOP DAT-TA-HA-HA!”
Of course for any of us who’ve ever gotten to this point in a tickle story, we know the ladies didn’t, “ESTOP DAT.” In fact it would be redundant of me to say that it only encouraged them to tickle him harder, which I’ll do, for the sake of conformity.
Laughs at his expense bubbled beyond their lips as they watched his toes curl, reflexively responding to their every touch. For all his efforts, there wasn’t an angle he could take, nor a speed with which he could twitch, to keep their fingers from provoking the ever heightening sensations perusing his skin.
“AYE DIOS MIO! ESTOP DAT PLEE-HEE-HEE-ASE!”
Another liberal application of oil assured his feet would remain primed for many strokes to come, even as their attention gravitated towards his bulging thighs. The shift was in no way coordinated, nor pre-ordained, but rather motivated off a natural desire to further explore so much naked body.
And as the bed compressed to their weight, suddenly becoming a congested square, he strained to look down his side, “Aye no! Senoritas… please, no more cosquillas!”
His quivering legs trembled beneath them, powerless stumps under their weight.
Beseeched and repetitious cries flowed off his tongue as their hands clamped the tender tendons up and around his thighs. He clenched his fists so tight they turned red, and with blatant disregard he threw out an obscenity.
Angelica hunched her body till her ear hovered just out of reach of his teeth, “What was that?”
He repeated himself quickly, through, short, breaths, till the urge to laugh could be stifled no more.
“Perhaps it’s time I join in hmm?”
Through squinted eyes, he watched her hands find the short follicles of his fuzzy armpits, where a sea of nerve endings seemed more than willing to comply.
What transpired was a union of ferocity and flesh that sent his chest skyward, and his vocals far beyond the boundaries of the room.
“No mas?” Angelica teased, “Alright ladies, hands off for a minute.”
“I thought you said we were going to be ruthless?” Kathleen whined.
Angelica gave her friend a pat on the shoulder, “Well look who’s getting into the spirit.”
“Que… queren con mi?” Horencio gasped.
Simona relayed the translation with a set of serious eyes.
“He still doesn’t get it? Silly little brown boy. Tell him, we want to watch him suffer,” Angelica smiled deviously.
Simona again relayed the information which sent a great deal of confusion across his face. But before he could collect his thoughts, Angelica’s nails blew them away, into the farthest depths of his mind where coherency could not reach them.
“YA-HA-HA! PORFA-PLEE-HEE-HEEASE!”
What began at the tips of his elbows, these fickle tingles, quickly scurried back down onto his armpits. And there, they danced, frolicking about the fuzz.
Kathleen who’d grown a little more adventurous, nestled her hands between his thighs, where his rugged musculature remained tensed amidst the anticipation.
“AYE NO! AYEEE-HEE-HEE NO!” he said writhing in fear.
Tantalizing his scattered follicles like wind over amber waves of grain, Kathleen watched every muscle flinch and flex, captivated by the sight. Then she remembered…
“WHA-HA-HA-JEE-HEE-HEE!”
It was hard for him to wrap his head around, what their little hands were capable of; Kathleen on his thigh, Simona back at his feet, and Angelica on his armpits. Yet there they were, three pairs of dainty hands, having their way with his body.
“Look at this you guys!” Kathleen shrieked.
Collectively drawn to her chipper tone, Angelica and Simona fixated their gaze on his crotch.
“Well, looks like somebody’s up and at ‘em,” Angelica teased, “What say we invite little Sepulveda for a little fresh air?”
“He’s probably due for some fresh air,” Kathleen chimed in.
“Fresh air,” Simona mimicked.
Angelica grinned.
No translations were required to assess what it meant, the feel of slick fingernails perusing his waistband. Better still was the understanding that no translation would keep what was about to happen, from happening.
In one swift motion his last line of protection was shifted down to his ankles. From their rather expressionless faces, they seemed a bit perplexed, let down almost, as it sat upright and rigid like a military private waiting to pass inspection.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen one that’s not…” Kathleen mumbled.
“Is that normal?” Angelica smirked.
Simona pinched her fingers together, “Is a little chiquito yes?”
It could’ve be argued that anything next to Simona would have appeared disproportionate, but I digress.
Despite its little flaw, his penis quickly became the epicenter of attention, as the ladies took stiff feathers to his shaft, content to watch it spring back and forth like one of those inflatable punching bags that never fail to stand upright even after a hundred blows.
“POR DIOS SA-JA-JA! DEJA-AYI-HEE-HEE!”
His scrotum, which ordinarily flopped about freely, was taking a leave of absence, much to their gratification. Content, or rather forced to evacuate up into his body, his testicles turned juvenile, fitted more on the likes of a young boy rather than a full grown Mexican hunk.
“SHEE-HEE-HEE-EET! PLEE-GEE-GEE-ASE ESTOP!”
Feathers transitioned to fingers as the suppler flesh of his waist jiggled for attention amidst ridged abdominal contractions. Even the leanest of stakes need a little fat to enhance the flavor. And under their vivacious hands, it jiggled some more. The vibrancy and animation with which his hips shimmied only adding to the already poignant allure of having someone so erratic, suddenly complacent.
Kathleen, noting his biceps completely flexed yet still utterly incapacitated let off a chuckle of her own through the volley of rich laughs revolving round the room, “He’s like actually trying to get out,” she said perplexed.
“Like that’s going to happen,” Angelica added.
Exiled through their fingers, pent up aggression lustfully led them inch by inch through the darkest skin on Horencio’s body. In a place few had ever been granted such privileges, they went, carelessly unchecked and happily unchallenged.
He winced.
“Oh, there is no resisting,” Angelica said with a smile.
His left leg, charged off an untimely thrust of her thumbs, jolted sideways, splitting his defenses, and in one swift motion his rough black pubic hair was being combed by her fingertips.
“POR DIOS-SA-JA-JA!”
Sifting through the fray of tangled and knotted fuzz her hands gripped tight his base.
“Hey, I thought we weren’t going to…” Kathleen gawked.
“What, I’m not doing anything,” Angelica frowned, gliding her fingers back down his trembling legs.
“Uh-huh,” Kathleen said doubtingly.
“Well excuse me for being thorough,” Angelica pouted.
“One can get a little too thorough,” Kathleen huffed.
Simona’s fingers slowed to a steady scribble against Horencio’s left foot, “What jew ladies talk about?”
A quick explanation brought attention to the elephant in the room and stifled laughter on the lips of the ladies as they tangled, mentally, with the unspoken understanding that loomed in their subconscious.
Then a rouge thought was voiced.
And at once, this unspoken understanding crumbled under its shaky foundation.
“WHOAH… SENIORITAS PLEAS-S-SE…”
“Oh, is he ticklish too?” Angelica asked teasingly. “I think he is!”
An unsettling prickle snaked up his thighs as his head became subject to her sharp nails grazing round its rim.
“Come on baby, laugh for mommy,” Angelica said whimsically.
It was a cheesy one liner, fitted for cheap pornographic videos with cardboard actors and paper-thin plots, but then again here we are, in the middle of something most impalpable.
He hissed, clenching tight his hands, anything to subdue and confine the livid infatuations encompassing his mental capacity. Then, just as the sun follows the rain, a more pleasurable hand gesture ignited his shaft.
With his lip tucked tightly behind his teeth he invited darkness and road the wave of alternating hands feisty for a touch. There were vigorous strokes coming off more experienced hands, and fragile ones of which he undoubtedly assumed belonged to the timid girl scouter. And while the shifting dynamic wasn’t exactly conducive, he found himself slowly relenting his fists to embrace the satin euphoria gradually engulfing him.
“Am I doing it right?” Kathleen would ask.
Weightless, he careened the traversed stairway into the upper echelons where an incessant pulse grew increasingly harder. Then suddenly, before he could reach the top floor, the stairs were pulled out from under him.
“AYI-EE-HEE-HEE-YA-JA-JA!”
Harrowing titillations pierced their way through his dense body, as their hands again became harbingers of torment wrapped in pearlescent innocence.
They raked his chest with quick circular motions, drilled between his toes with the proficiency of a Craftsman power tool, whittled his tender belly with the speed of a journalist drowning under an approaching deadline.
“NO MAS,” became his battle cry; a juxtaposition of weightless words. A feeble attempt to regain control; to restore a balance of power that was once in his favor; to bring an end to this monumental display of ill repute.
“SENORITAS PO-OH-HO-HOR-FAOR-RA-HA-HA!”
A few beads of sweat dripped from his temple as his skin glazed, glazed by the fiery passions of their unrequited sexual starvation. As their touch turned from ravenous excavations fathoms beneath the surface of his body to soothing sensual caresses, all that was holding his mental capacity hostage ceased to exist, exiting his body as rampantly as it had barged in uninvited. All that remained was a shrill whisper of air off relaxed lips as Horencio’s lungs indulged in the invisible life sustaining substance.
“I think he prefers…”
Angelica’s firm grip finished the statement as strong fluid stroke upon strong fluid stroke revitalized the leaning tower of Pisa to its stiff and ridged posture.
Crimson hands returned to their natural shade as Horencio cooed and relaxed his body again; the welcome stimulation steadily working its way up his shaft. The torment, which only moments ago had been of such malevolence on his psyche, seemed distanced with every satisfying stroke. Like tiny beacons of light too far off the shoreline to merit any thought, his doubts and fears laid asunder in the surreal pleasure that coddled him.
“Look at him go,” Kathleen teased as she took her turn.
“Jess, look his face,” Simona chimed in.
Feverish vertical motions off a carousel of hands kept Horencio’s toes curled and his back arched as he again began his ascend into those upper echelons. With his head pressed hard against the bed he licked his lips and smiled, fully invested.
“Who’s going to be the recipient?” Angelica wondered aloud as her hand squeezed his head.
“I hope it’s me,” Kathleen giggled.
“No way! You’re not even doing it right!” Angelica bantered back.
Kathleen replied by taking two hands to his shaft during her turn.
“Cheater!” Angelica murmured.
“What?! You guys have big hands!” She shrugged.
It wouldn’t be long now as he felt the hairs on his legs stand at attention. Every ounce of his being, every feeling and emotion, seemingly encapsulated betwixt their fibers as he readied for the inevitable. And then with one last stroke his eyes shut tight, and his mind went blank.
It cascaded down his shriveled skin and onto her hands and she indulged in a few more racks.
Like a breeze over amber waves of grain, tremors careened down his body as inch by inch static electricity of the most carnal engulfed his essence. He sighed as splendor’s last titillations trickled up his toes and into the atmosphere encompassing the room.
He remained weightless, slowly descending into the valleys; until an awakening under his arms brought his biceps back to puffy form.
“He thought we were done with him!” Angelica smirked.
Confused, Kathleen slowly motioned her hands towards his belly.
“We’re not?”
“Not quite,” Angelica replied softly, “Simona, get in on this!”
Suppressed stimulations at once resurfaced, sending his body shimmying to the limits of its confinement, and his uselessly flaccid penis to flop about his crotch.
It was a slippery little thing, flopping about with frantic discombobulation off every erratic pelvic thrust. A flaccid remnant of freedom of which the rest of his body had since disassociated. Off these unwarranted, stimulatory erotic frictions, he responded, with lividness on his tongue and boisterous bodily behaviors of the most innate. His mental stability, a state of disorder that hinged off the frail touch of fingertips tantalizing his follicles in incessant circular motions. Drifting betwixt pleasure and torment his emotions wallowed.
“PROQUEE-JEH-JEH-JEH! DEMONIOS NOO-HO-HO!”
“Is it me, or is he like, even more ticklish?” Angelica pondered above the raucous prattle.
Indeed his reactions seemed more lively, his body more receptive; As if exponentially, his sensitivity had intensified in the afterglow. Fingertips now seemed even more charged as they carelessly perused his torso, every poke and prod evoked an immense ripple of gut busting laughter. A cauldron of calamity, pouring generously over every last inch of his body.
“Jew right! He is,” Simona finally spoke up.
And so, writhing he remained, a blubbering mass, drenched in his own juices, void of all hope, ensnared in the increasingly overwhelming euphoria of a hundred fingers exploiting and excavating, owning his every breath, dictating his every movement.
Life as it was, under the sun, carried on outside Angelica’s room; with the birds and the bees flying about, trees rustling to life off a spare gust of wind weaving through their branches, squirrels narrowly avoiding death as it barreled towards them at thirty miles per hour, and the rake, which had been so easily forgotten, so carelessly dropped, laid lifeless amidst the leaves.
That’s about the best ending I can give you. I know no other way. Are there repercussions for actions as heinous as this, of course. Will the ladies of Baker suffer them? I’d say judging by the color of their skin, probably not. Besides, who would ever believe the ramblings of an illegal immigrant anyway?
