by Sawyer Caine
“Careful, my love,” Frederick whispered against my ear as I grasped him a bit too roughly. My Frederick did not enjoy that sort of lovemaking. He was a gentle soul, and he desired tender touches and delectable embraces. Though I desired these as well, the man within me often longed for something more primal and carnal.
I did as he asked of me and slowed my conquest, taking my time to love him not only with my caresses but with my lips as well. He wreathed beneath me when I plotted a course with my skilled mouth along his finely-muscled torso. I paused to move my tongue slowly around each of his hardened nipples before continuing toward his swollen, erect manhood. I longed to feel it in my mouth, to draw upon it as if the salty fluid that came forth was the elixir of life. I held his hips down against the bed as I lowered my head to take it in, sliding my skilled tongue along its throbbing, purple length. As I teased the leaking tip with my teeth, nipping at the fragile skin, Frederick let fly from his throat such a deep and guttural moan. I was nearly unmanned. I had to stop and allow the hot, all-consuming waves of bliss to flow over me for a moment before I could continue, lest I spill and end this erotic exploration of my lover’s body all too soon. My sweet love tangled his strong hands in my hair and guided me lovingly back toward my target, as if desiring to feel my mouth upon him once more. How could I refuse his demand? I took that hard length into my mouth again and worked my craft upon it. Frederick pushed himself deeper into me each time I descended, nearly gagging me. I endured it for him. I would endure almost anything for him.
“Alfred, you must stop this! It’s torture!” he cried.
“Yes, my brave American. I am torturing you with pleasure, and I am afraid that you will have to endure more of it before you will be allowed a reprieve,” I growled.
He moaned again and pulled at my head, willing me to come up to him. I released his manhood and crawled forward to brace myself over him. As I looked down into those fetching eyes, I was taken with how deeply I was in love with this man. I felt the emotions sweeping over me as I pressed my lips against his and felt him open to my kiss. How had I managed to win this prize, this perfect soul who had chosen to share my life with me? What had I done to deserve such open and honest love?
“Kiss me again,” he pleaded in a low, husky voice as he clutched at my shoulders, needing me, wanting me as badly as I wanted him.
I deepened the kiss and stole from him his very breath as I pushed my tongue into his sweet mouth, tasting of brandy and cinnamon. I lay my body down on his, and he wrapped his strong legs around my waist as if to hold me to him. I couldn’t remember ever having desired anything in the world quite as much as I desired him. Even if we failed in the quest to return the statue, it would not be so very bad if he was with me. As long as no harm came to my sweet love, I could endure. The waiting for him, however, I could not prolong a moment longer.
“Let me have you,” I begged him.
He looked up at me with complete sincerity on his face and smiled. “I am already yours,” he said.
I reached into my small bag of toiletries that I’d placed on the bedside table earlier and retrieved a bottle of massage oil. I poured some into the palm of my hand and ran my fingers through it, then reached beneath him to ease those fingers into his body, stroking that spot deep within that made him cry out with pleasure. I did this to him for some time, watching his handsome face as his pupils dilated, and his cheeks flushed a deeper red. He breathed like a man running for his very life. His chest heaved with the effort as he thrashed about, thrusting his hips against my hand wantonly.
“Are you ready for me, my love?” I asked.
“I am always ready for you, Alfred.” he cried.
I gave a small chuckle as I withdrew my fingers and wrapped my well-oiled hand around my own straining endowment. I moved into position between his legs, looking deep into those green eyes. He bent his knees up and moved them apart for me as I lowered myself and pushed, oh so gently against him, giving him ample time to adjust to my penetration. Once, twice, I moved and then I was sheathed completely within my lover’s hot, willing body. I began my rhythm and he matched it, driving his hips up and against mine. Slowly, oh so slowly and easily, must not be rough, must not be greedy with this loving. I forced myself to be a gentleman. It wouldn’t have mattered much. He and I were both too far gone to continue that dance of pleasure any longer.
I held my passion in check until after he’d let go his own. I always did so. It was the nobleman in me, the desire to be always the victor in it. If he would not let me ravage him, then at least he would surrender first. It was not open for negotiation. When at last I gave vent to my own passion, I had no longer the strength to hold myself up. I fell onto him, knocking the wind from his lungs.
*
Frederick slept soundly, exhausted from our love play. I sat holding a glass of champagne and staring at my reflection in the full-length mirror on the back of the door. I was young, tall and lean, a head full of thick, black hair and eyes the color of storm clouds. I was handsome and I knew it, but I was not completely happy. I was beyond sated and yet I had a wanton desire in me for a bit more. I believed it was that way for all men. They could be given the world on a silver platter as I had been, and it would never be enough. It would be always one piece short of the full plate. It did not matter. I was here. He was here. We were on our way, and nothing would stop me from keeping my promise to my father. Nothing would stop me from fulfilling my destiny, nothing short of God himself.
Or so I thought.
Chapter Three
Frederick and I boarded the seaplane that morning at five a.m. My love had never been on such a plane, and he was somewhat hesitant and resistant. I took his hands and patiently urged him onboard as our luggage was loaded into the cargo hold below. We took seats in the passenger area behind the pilots. I had paid to rent this plane exclusively for just the two of us. I wasn’t in the mood to spend a twelve hour trip indulging in conversation with other travelers. I yawned and eased my fedora down over my eyes, planning to nap for the better part of the un-stimulating ocean flight. Frederick, however, had other plans. He yanked my hat off, tossed it aside and tugged me back upright.
“You aren’t going to shut me out like that. I’m absolutely terrified of us safely landing this flying contraption, and I won’t be sitting here anxiously while you sleep, Lord Heathwood.” he admonished me.
“My good man, what is this you’re saying? You, Frederick, the fearless bull rider and Apache fighter, frightened of a little seaplane?” I teased.
Frederick punched my arm, then wrapped his hand tightly around the same spot he’d just punished. He did not relax until we were airborne and even still, I could see the nervous energy bundled up within him. I leaned over and peered out the window, noticing the coast of France becoming a mere spot of dark on the horizon of blue. We were away at last, and our next stop would be on mainland Venezuela. Prior to our trip, I had corresponded with a Capuchin monk who lived in the monastery at Tucupita. This monk, a Father Dawes, had assured me that he could secure for us an English-speaking guide from the native Warao tribe.
The monks had extensively Westernized the Warao tribes near Tucupita. Many of the tribes now followed Western customs and gave their children Western names. Some of the tribes were Catholic in their practices, others had adopted such modern customs as they saw fit and kept their own rituals, incorporating a little of each culture. The particular tribe we would be working with was of that persuasion. Their shaman couldn’t speak any English, but his oldest daughter, who had been educated at the monastery for most of her young life, could speak it quite fluently. Father Dawes had contacted this girl and secured her assistance. She would accompany us on the journey to locate the pyramid. She would bring with her, as a guide, her younger brother, a lad of seventeen years. This brave fellow had been to the pyramid when he was a child, and Father Dawes felt fairly confident that these two could be of valuable assistance to us.
A Tucupita man who owned
and operated a river raft service would take us up the Orinoco River to the Warao settlement. He would then leave us, and Frederick and I would be at the mercy of our hired guides. The young lady’s name was Nekana and her brother was called Nekai. I wondered what temperament these two natives would have. I expected the young lady to be somewhat cultured having been educated by the Capuchins. Her brother, however, I held out very little hope for.
I’d read about the native tribes of the Amazon in my dastardly grandfather’s journals. He’d talked of how some of the tribes practiced cannibalism and tortured their enemies, sacrificing them to their pagan gods. I sincerely hoped that Frederick and I wouldn’t suffer such a fate. I did trust Father Dawes, but what choice did I have? None, really, and despite my concerns, I was enjoying myself. I hoped that my lover would as well.
In spite of his earlier anxiety, Frederick had managed to settle down and to my surprise, when I turned to address him, I found him soundly asleep. That was my Frederick. He could sleep anywhere and under any circumstances. For the moment, I was left alone with my thoughts. Having nothing to occupy my time, I reached beneath the seat and retrieved my duffle bag. Secreted within one of the inner compartments was the little ivory idol.
I took it from its hiding place and removed the leather wrappings. As I held it, I was enrapt with a sudden feeling of trepidation and alarm and a complete and utter certainty that despite this mission, I, having owned it and held it in my hands, would not escape from its curse. I glanced at my sleeping love and prayed to whatever God would listen, that he should never come to harm from it. I sat holding the statue in my hands, turning it about in the faint light that came in through the small, round window. It looked harmless, yet I knew it had a hidden power I couldn’t comprehend. Whoever had carved it had been an expert at his craft. Probably a shaman or a holy man of some forgotten tribe of wild men in the depths of the jungle. In the distant past when the bloodthirsty tribes fought among themselves, this little talisman had been made to bring good fortune. I supposed I was coming to believe in the stories about it. I wondered if I would really be able to stop the curse.
*
At some point during the long trans-Atlantic flight, I must have dozed. I woke in the evening with Frederick draped over my lap. His head rolled to one side, and his eyes fluttered in a distant dream. I reached down and caressed his face, loving the texture of the stubble on his skin. We’d been in such a hurry to leave that morning that he’d neglected to shave, but I had to admit that I liked it that way. The co-pilot called back to me to inform me that the coast of Venezuela was coming into view and when I strained my eyes to the left, I could see the dark, mountainous terrain sweeping toward us as we drifted closer to the waves. I woke Frederick, and he sat up rubbing his eyes.
“We’re there, my love. Look, you can see the land now.”
Frederick leaned over me to look through the glass and then drew back, holding his stomach as if ill. “Alfred, I think I’m going to be sick,” he gasped.
I encouraged him to lean back against the seat and took his hand. “Draw some deep breaths, love and close your eyes. It will all be over soon.”
It seemed an eternity before the plane touched down on the water and coasted toward the serviceable inlet bay at Tucupita. This town wasn’t small by most standards, but it was still quite foreign to me as I took in its modest waterfront. The co-pilot opened the side hatch as we coasted in and tossed a rope to a dark-skinned man on the docks. He tied us off and hoisted up a wooden plank so we could disembark. Frederick stood on shaking legs and made his way toward the hatch. I followed after him, my duffle bag thrown over my shoulder.
It was good to be on terra firma again. Frederick stood looking around. This city was a wonderland of sights and smells both foreign and somehow comforting to me. The native Venezuelans were beautiful with their dark skin, raven hair, and deep black eyes. As we made our way along the docks, we were met by a man from the Capuchin missionary. He wore the usual long, black frock of a monk and introduced himself as Thomas Moreland.
I waited for our luggage and trunks to be off-loaded. Father Moreland instructed some men standing by to load them into a waiting horse-drawn tram car. Such unique vehicles, those tram cars! They were large and made in the manner of a streetcar, though they were not powered by their own means but dependent on a team of horses that walked between the rails and pulled the cars along. Ours was painted a bright yellow with dark blue stripes. It was cheerful looking in this city of stark contrasts.
We followed Thomas on board, taking our seats in the open-air car. The driver clucked to the team and with a jolt, we were off and away. Frederick and I turned our bewildered heads from side to side as we took in the view. Everything seemed fascinating to me. Buildings of brightly painted stucco rose from the red dirt streets, scantily-clad children ran alongside the tram car calling out to us in Spanish, women carrying jars on their heads followed the children. Here and there a stray dog panted down the street, and some quite fetching men sat lounging in open doorways.
Thomas informed us the city of Tucupita was in celebration that week, and we were likely to see some interesting sights. Even as he spoke, we came upon a parade of sorts. Young men and women in traditional native dress danced along the side streets following a band of musicians. The tempo of the drumbeat was quick and almost carnal, the flow of the music hypnotic to both myself and seemingly the dancers. Our tram stopped to let them pass and I watched them, enrapt with their graceful and enticing movements. I wanted to ask about them, but Frederick voiced the question first.
“What is this dance they are performing?” he asked.
“It is called the capoeira. They do it so beautifully, don’t they?” Thomas sighed.
I sat back and watched them, unable to look away as the captivating and bewitching movements of the young natives numbed my brain. I became conscious of Frederick tugging at my elbow and pointing to something he’d noticed off to the side. I forced myself to turn away from the dancers and paid attention to his excited conversation.
“Look, Alfred. Thomas says that’s our hotel,” he cried, pointing to a three-story, stucco building with wrought iron balconies hanging from its front façade and a large, ample porch upon which a few old men sat with steaming cups of java before them. The tram car pulled to a halt and Thomas climbed out, minding his long robes as he did, then reached up to help Frederick and myself.
“This is the Cambria. It’s been in operation in this city since 1876. The tram has always stopped here. It’s not as modern as the hotels in your part of the world, but I think you will find it accommodating to your needs. They have a fine eatery on the first floor if you are hungry. In the morning, I’ll come for you both early and take you to the mission. Father Dawes will be waiting for you.”
Frederick and I watched Thomas get back on board the tram and wave to us as it pulled away. A porter from the hotel came out to load our luggage on a cart and motioned for us to follow him inside. The interior of the old hotel was dark and cool after the sweltering, moist heat of the city. Fans buzzed overhead in a lazy pattern of spinning blades the shape of large leaves. Men sat at tables near the front desk smoking cigars and sipping liquor from crystal glasses. The atmosphere was laid back and relaxed. From somewhere deep within, a Latin ensemble played on the radio.
Behind the front desk sat a beautiful older woman with long black hair. She reached out to shake my hand and I managed, with much difficulty, considering my limited Spanish, to secure the best room they had. The porter called to us, and we followed him up a set of stairs. Two young men helped him to bring up the bags and steamer trunks. We followed behind, taking in the view of the brightly painted stucco walls and the relaxed ambience. The Cambria was the type of place one could simply hide away in for days and never want to leave.
The suite I’d booked for us was in the front of the building overlooking the busy street and tram tracks below. We had a large balcony and two floor-to-ceiling windows covered in fil
my, blood red sheer curtains. The stucco walls were a bright yellow-orange, and the floor a dark, wide-plank polished wood. Upon it lay three ornamental hand-woven native rugs. A mahogany bar held several bottles of local rum and plenty of glasses. The huge bed sat in the corner on a raised platform. It was made with soft, comfortable looking linens of the same blood-red shade as the sheers.
Though I looked vainly for one, I didn’t see a radio. Frederick and I would have to be content without music. I saw no sense in unpacking the antique Victrola being that we were staying here for only one night. I tipped the porters and closed the double doors to the suite, locking them behind me. Frederick opened the curtains and flooded the room with the last of the evening sunlight as it came in from over the tile rooftops across the street. He was keenly interested in the activity down below.
“Come, Alfred, the dancers are making their way back up the street, and they will pass just under the balcony.”
I went to join him, watching those beguiling young people in their dance as they moved back up the other side of the street following the musicians. So taken was I with their movements that I drew Frederick back inside, pulled the curtains, and took him into my arms. I pushed my hips wantonly against him and mimicked the movements of the capoeira with him. He laughed aloud, but he also tried to perform that intricate dance. We moved about in the suite, wrapped in each other’s arms attempting to find the grace of the dancers below us in the street as the musicians played their native instruments. It was perfect bliss.
I was enthralled with that moment, the innocence of it. We were young, both of us. We were all alone in a perfect, golden place in time. Nothing could touch us, nothing could tear us apart. I looked down into his jade eyes, watching him watching me. He felt it too, of that I was certain. I drew him even closer and claimed his mouth with mine. He melted against me, opening to my advances and entwining our warm, moist tongues.
