Fernando returned several times to the Hollywood house in Antigua. As Felicia had said, Mondragón was never there. With its grandiose stylings and furnishings, its garage of sportscars and motorcycles, its pools and palms and flamingos, its silent maids and sleek silver hounds, the place had the look and feel of a poor boy’s playground fantasy, a dream deferred realized into a trophy house—and Felicia was its crown jewel. Placed there with pride only to be forgotten. Beautiful and bored and lonely as she sat there, gathering dust.
Fernando found her lounging in a chair by the pool. She lay sprawled-out and lax, glistening and glowing, imbued by the rays of the sun which had burnished her skin into a soft, beaten gold. A glass-topped table stood shining beside her. On top of it a cigarette smoldered in a marble tray. Her golden fingers brushed a tumbler sweating with the dregs of drink melt.
It was a balmy day, but Felicia was balmier. The strung slips of white fabric covering her might as well not be there at all for what little they concealed in their translucence—the dusky haloes of her nipples, the dark strip at her mound and the cloven center below this into which the clinging fabric delved.
Fernando’s shadow fell over her. She stirred as if from a daze. Beneath the tint of her red-framed sunglasses, her sloe-dark eyes met his.
“Don’t sit up,” Fernando said. His attention returned to the contours of that slim depression, which moved subtly with each exhale as if its own lips had parted to breathe it. “Stay like you are.”
Seeing where his eyes were fastened, Felicia cracked her loose legs open wider. She revealed to him where her thighs ended and her pussy began, not so much by delineation of flesh as by shade. Gold fading into cream, the core of her being exposed by soft degrees.
As Fernando looked on, this concavity deepened. The damp cloth melded into the wet heat of her. A building simmer which was showing signs of eruptive intent elsewhere—in the quivering peaks of her nipples, the crest of her clit peeking darkly through the flimsy white fabric above. She was teeming, trembling. Sweltering under his scrutiny. She hooked a red nail under the edge of her bikini bottom to draw the crotch aside. A shake of Fernando’s head stilled her.
“Leave it,” he said. “Touch yourself through the cloth.”
She did as he said. With a red-tipped nail, she traced a path from slit to clit, outlining them both as she went. He watched her cycle over herself in this way. He watched her wetness seep through the straining cloth like depressions in a stretch of surf-soaked sand.
Fernando took up the tumbler from the side table. He tipped its icy spill into his mouth and sifted through it. Extracting a chip of ice with his tongue, he dropped it onto her flat belly. The chip slid down that smooth flinching plane, landing in her navel. The trapped ice welled as it melted, spilling over the sides, trickling like a stream of tears as it dripped beneath her, falling away into nothing.
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La Gorgona © CS Dark Fantasy