Tongue dancing over the veins, Hector started at the base and worked his way up. When he reached the tip, he slid his tongue in the slit and laughed. “Do you like it?"
"Are you mad?” Martín groaned, “Of course I like it."
"Bien, amigo.” With a grin, Hector resumed licking. The touches were tentative and gentle. It didn't take long for him to have Martín writhing in the chair. Each time Hector reached the tip, Martín tried to angle into his mouth. Hector allowed just the smallest bit of his head between his lips before backing off and resuming licks. The heat of his lover's mouth shot shivers down Martín's spine.
After what seemed like eons of the blissful torture, Hector wrapped his lips over the crown, drawing it into his mouth. His tongue danced over the tip and along the flared ridge. Fighting back the moan from the overwhelming sensations, Martín bit his lip. Hector sucked and teased until Martín shook then he backed away again, offering only tentative kisses on the tip. Again and again he took Martín to the edge and held him there. Finally, when Martín neared insensibility, Hector moved in earnest.
Deep, hard, and committed, Hector sucked his cock almost down to the root. Lithe fingers tickled his balls, and another finger slid into his ass. Martín gasped and shook. It always felt so incredible when Hector did that. Little circles massaged the perfect spot driving him past the point of rational thought.
Martín moaned long and hard. His cock swelled inside the inferno of Hector's mouth. Thighs burning, balls tingling, every muscle in his body went taut. Then ecstasy gushed forth between Hector's lips. As much as he gave, Hector took it. Finally, the shudders subsided and Martín dropped his head against the high back of the chair.
Rising, Hector smirked. He bent forward and kissed Martín, sliding his tongue between Martín's lips. His own flavor exploded inside Martín's mouth. Hardly willing to breathe, Martín licked and bit and tasted the skin under Hector's jaw. He worked his kisses down that pale throat. Never would he tire of the salty tang of Hector's skin.
Martín pushed his lover's shirt open so that his tongue could explore. Intending to work his way down that fine chest and stomach, Martín planned to bury himself in the taste of Hector. When the fabric gaped wide, he stopped. Just above Hector's heart, at the point where Lolita's pin had pricked him, Hector's skin wept. The area swelled red, turning grey and shinny toward the center of the sore. Thoughts of further entertainment vanished at the sight of the wound.
"Díos,” Eyes wide, Martín hissed. The lesion looked infected. The witch Lolita must have done it when she pricked him with the pin. “I'll send for Paloa Sebea,” The local curandera would know how to treat such wounds ... far better than the useless American doctor. “She should look at that."
"No!” Hector snapped, pulling away. “Lolita's Tante has seen to it. She gave me a tincture to swab it with.” Standing, he gestured towards a small bottle filled with viscose blue goo. “I don't want that bruja, Sebea, near me!"
Never before had Hector refused to be seen by Sebea. And he'd never called her a witch, either. Rising from the chair, he tried to touch Hector's face. His lover stepped away. “It pains me to see you ill. And you should have told me,” Martín paused, embarrassed, “before we started."
"Why should it matter?” Hector waived off his concern. “It was just play on any account.” The light, flippant tone in his voice dismissed everything they had ever done together.
Stunned, Martín jerked back. “Play?” It could not have stung more if Hector had slapped him.
"Yes, a boys’ game.” Hector laughed and walked toward his desk. “Lolita made me see it. She came to me earlier today and we talked. We have talked a lot these past days. She understands how we could need each other out here ... but she is right."
All Martín could manage was to drop back onto the cushions and stare. Finally he stuttered out, “About what?” His heart ripped from his chest and pinned on that woman's sleeve. How could Hector be that cold?
"It is time to grow up.” Fastening his collar, Hector shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Time for you to go out into the world. I've held you here too long.” He plucked a folded set of papers from the desktop and held them up. Smiling as though he were offering Martín a present, he tossed the sheaf onto Martín's lap. A blue ribbon, sealed with wax imprinted by Hector's ring, bound the letters. “I have already co-signed the letter for you to take as introduction to the army. Lolita wrote it to her father's friend. She thinks you should leave soon, right after the fiesta, maybe sooner."
No, that couldn't be. Hector would never dismiss him. Forever together, they'd promised each other that. “What do you think?"
"She is my wife-to-be,” Hector shrugged, “so I think she is right.” Then he shouldered his jacket and moved to the door. Almost absently Hector stared at Martín. A vacant smile blew across Hector's otherwise indifferent visage. “Take care, compadre.” At that he was gone and the world folded in on Martín.
Several times he tried to plead his case. Whenever Martín tried to approach Hector to change his mind, either Lolita or her servant intervened. No amount of begging turned his mind. She had completely and utterly bewitched him. No other explanation served.
On the night before the fiesta, Martín sat morosely in his lonely room surrounded by the few bundles he would take. On Lolita's orders servants packed Hector's old clothes for him. Fiel waited in the stables. Hector's favorite horse, his favorite shirts, and his favorite cast off for that thing. Martín fumed.
The thought of the witch Lolita dancing with his Hector after they announced the betrothal was almost more than Martín could bear. If he could find a costume and mask, he could sneak, unrecognized, into the ball. Then he could mingle with the other guests. At midnight, when such things held power, the masks would be thrown off. Hector would see his lover standing at his side and remember that it was Martín to whom he had given his heart.
He understood he required something more then that. One thing Martín knew to be true, if you fight a witch ... you must fight her with magic. Who, but a bruja, could cure a headache by passing an egg across a man's forehead or cause one by burying needles in the ground? Illnesses produced by spitting invisible darts were vanquished by striking the patient's shadow with a broom. Bad magic could only be countered with good.
Only one witch in the pueblo possessed the knowledge needed: Paloa Sebea. He shouldered the bag with Hector's clothes and slipped to the stables. Saddling the bay, Martín heard soft footsteps behind him. He turned. Tante stood in the doorway.
"Leaving so soon?” The question undulated like a snake between her lips.
"Your mistress,” Martín gave the cinch a final jerk, before leading the horse from his stall, “wishes me gone.” Tante's hot glare burned through him as he passed her. “I thought I might oblige her."
"Good,” she hissed, “vaya con Díos, Señor. You will need God's protection.” Her laugh followed him across the courtyard.
It was already well past midnight when Martín began his lonely ride toward town. Fiel danced, skittish, along the dark road. A hollow yellow moon hardly lit the dirt path ahead. It meandered between stands of cacti, switching back on itself innumerable times. No matter how often Martín visited the witch, he never seemed to remember exactly how he got there. As they trotted along, it seemed that someone followed. Martín would swear on the Virgin that another being shared their path. He reined in Fiel beneath the overhanging branches of an ancient cottonwood tree and listened.
From deep in the darkness a growl throbbed. It seemed to come from the shadows near the cottonwoods. Martín dismounted. Cautiously, he shouldered his rifle and wadded through the rank roadside weeds.
Fiel snorted and stamped. Martín hissed at the horse to be quiet. Another snarl wound around him. Within the earth clutching roots of one of the giant trees, two eyes, hot and red as coals, gazed hungry at him. Martín strangled a cry and staggered back. The thing, sinewy and large burst from the margin of the woods. In his fear, Martín d
ropped the rifle.
He turned.
He ran.
With each step he felt the cold breath of the monster on his heals. Vaulting into the saddle, he spurred the horse on. Fiel needed little urging.
They tore along the road, howls driving them both near madness. Not a hundred yards along, an odd chill passed through Martín. Fiel screamed and stumbled as a heavy weight landed on his back. Martín tried desperately to stay horsed. Fetid miasma choked his lungs and hot, heavy air swam across his neck.
Fiel was in a near panic, snorting, bellowing and side stepping frantically. It was all Martín could do to control his mount. The weight behind him grew heavier. He heard a raspy, panting breath near his ear.
Fiel bucked. Martín fell, rolling along the earth into a ditch. Stunned, he rose to his knees and crawled back on all fours to the edge of the road. Terror stealing the breath from his lungs, he looked toward the middle of the path. A wild, hideous beast, filthy hair covering searing eyes and rat tail whipping the air straddled the bucking, leaping horse. Ghastly talons cut ribbons into Fiel's hide. It roared its frustration and leapt from the back of the horse. Huge bat like ears turned to the sound of Martín's breathing. The thing shrieked and in that voice Martín could hear all the tormented souls in hell.
Completely insane, Fiel still reared and plunged. The demon dropped to all fours and crept toward Martín. Locked in that feral gaze, he couldn't move. Then Fiel brayed. Hard, heavy hooves landed on the foul beast's back. The monster inched in the direction of the weeds and cover. Again and again, the horse pummeled the thing. Green-black blood sprayed Martín with each blow from the powerful horse. Finally it shuddered and lay still. Fiel minced away, still snorting.
Martín swallowed. After what seemed like an eternity of trying to remember how his lungs worked, Martín managed to stand. Screwing up his courage, he approached the thing. No movement answered his cautious steps. With the toe of his boot he pushed the creature onto its back. Dead eyes stared at the moon. That was enough for Martín. He scrambled onto Fiel's back. They were off before his feet even found the stirrups.
Shaking with exhaustion, mount and man made it to the witch's cottage. Martín slid from Fiel's back and staggered to the stoop of Paloa Sebea. Like any other house in the pueblo, adobe bricks made up its walls. Unlike other casas, something indefinable and menacing swirled about Sebea's abode. Before he could set his fist to the wood, the witch's door creaked open.
Momentarily blinded by the light within, Martín sputtered, “I need your help."
"Everyone who comes to me needs my help.” A ragged voice echoed in his head.
Martín blinked and the world returned to focus. A young woman stood in the opening, her head draped with a strange shawl. Tattered strips dangled from its edges and odd symbols covered the expanse of the cloth. Dark and narrow eyes, hidden beneath sharply arched eyebrows, considered Martín. He swallowed. It was rumored that she once turned a man into a woman just by staring at him.
La Bruja looked into and through Martín. “You have come to the right person. I already know why you are here. You are worried that someone has bewitched your love.” Martín swallowed, nodding in confirmation. “Bien, I am a specialist in black magic,” she hissed. “La maldad negra causes all illness, accidents, bad luck and even death.” Turning she hobbled inside.
How one so young could seem so ancient boggled Martín. He hesitated. Reins held tight in his fist, he wondered what to do with Fiel. Somewhere, in the darkness, another creature might prowl. From deep in the night, Sebea's voice floated to him. “Do not worry about the horse. He is under my protection tonight. Make him comfortable and come inside.” Martín swallowed. Then he did as commanded, removing saddle and bridle before stepping through the door.
The blackened walls swallowed the light of a dozen flickering candles. Flames jeweled off bottles filled with liquids of different colors—red, green, yellow, blue. Sebea stood at a rickety table. “With my prayers, I can take away the black evil.” Considering the assortment, she chose a vile of amber slurry, uncorked it and sniffed. Seemingly pleased, she smiled at Martín. “I will unearth what has been buried in the graveyard by curses and send it away."
Martín ducked under amulets of bone and stone dangling from the rafters. As he neared, she poured the liquid into a black, iron bowl. “You have something your lover gave you?” It was less of a question and more of a statement.
"Sí,” He slipped the charm over his neck. The coin caught the light, spinning stars onto the wall. When Sebea held out her hand, Martín dropped the trinket into her palm. With a bounce, she tested its weight and, satisfied by something, dropped it in the pot. The leather cord trailed over the edge. Martín watched silently. More vile concoctions found their way into the mix. Every so often, Sebea would lean forward and study the brew. Then, using the thong to pull the coin around the bowl, she would churn the liquid.
Finally, she nodded in satisfaction. Wiping her hands on her skirt and offering a smile to Martín, Sebea moved from the table. Martín snuck a peek into the bowl. Its contents glowed a sickly green.
From a dark corner the witch pulled forth a package wrapped in brown-stained cloth. A thread, crusted black with blood, held the paper in place. “When I choose, I can also bring about the black evil, and cause great harm, even death.” she whispered. As she spoke, her eyes grew hot like coals. Slowly she worked the cord loose and folded back the paper. As the paper dropped away, Sebea set a mask of reddened gold on the table among the other oddments.
Its broad forehead sloped down into sharp jowls; only the bottom lip and lower jaw of the wearer remained uncovered. “This is the mask of Tezcatlipoca, god of the smoking mirror.” Large turquoise disks rested over each temple. Almond eye sockets sporting exaggerated raised eyebrows and separated by a hawk bridged nose gave the mask an almost shocked appearance. Lipless slivers of ivory formed the upper row of teeth.
After a moment, Martín swallowed. They weren't ivory slivers. They were men's teeth set into the mask. “Nothing hides from him. He knows and reveals the true soul of man.” Only the eye lids and a square area from the middle of the eye sockets to the corner of the mouth remained smooth. Otherwise, the surface was pebbled by tiny rubies and seed pearls set in elaborate swirls over the cheeks and brow.
Ugly in parts, as a whole the mask held a haunting beauty. Death and life danced across its surface. The effect drew Martín in and he reached to touch it. Sebea grabbed his hand. “The person who wears this shall have their true nature exposed to all. If the witch wears it, all will know."
Letting him free, Sebea reached over the bowl and selected a large egg. With a rusted iron nail, she pierced both ends then scrambled the contents. Handing it to Martín, she instructed, “Blow the contents into the bowl.” As he leaned over and blew, the witch continued, “You have to claim your lover as your own again."
He glanced at the egg's former contents. The yolk ran thick and red in the bowl. Stomach rolling, he managed to ask her, “How am I to do that?"
"You will know when it is time.” Again she pulled the token through the mix. “I will prepare the last of it. Go to the stream behind the casa, remove all your clothes, and bathe. Wash yourself three times while you say hail Marys. Then come back to me ... do not put on your old clothes. Comprende?"
Martín nodded his understanding and slipped out the back of the small house. A tiny brook clattered just behind the door. He shivered in the darkness of early morning. Shucking his plain clothes before he stepped into the water, Martín began to chant, “Díos te salve, María, llena eres de gracia ... ” At that he plunged his head beneath the chill water. The next few lines were swept away by the water. Martín came up sputtering, "Madre de Díos, ruega por nosotros, pecadores, amen!" Twice more he dropped his head into the water, scouring his body with his nails. Each time he sent another prayer to the Virgin.
Still wet from his dunk in the stream, Martín shivered and darted into the house. Sebea looked up and smi
led with satisfaction, pointing to a small pallet in the corner. “Sleep,” she ordered, “You will have much work to do this evening.” Martín crawled beneath the blankets and even though he did not think it possible, his eyes grew heavy. As he drifted to sleep, Sebea's words comforted him. “I have much work to do now."
Midday sun shown through the windows when Martín woke. The witch still stood by the table, sealing the ends of the blown egg with wax. Beside him she had laid out a set of clothes. From within the bundle of Hector's things, she had chosen a fine linen shirt, the green shell jacket and matching trousers. A good pair of boots rested next to a tooled belt. Silver lined seams flashed in the late afternoon sun as he slid the clothes on his frame.
Noting that he was awake, the bruja stared with grim satisfaction. “You are almost done.” She held out a small, bone handled stiletto. The sheath hung from the belt Martín buckled around his waist. “You know what you must do."
Martín swallowed as he took the knife. Wicked, sharp edges caught the light, turning the blade to blood. With a deep breath, Martín grabbed a length of his hair and sliced through it. Less resistance than butter met the blade. Slowly his boots were covered in hanks of thick, black hair. When all the length lay scattered on the floor, Martín sheathed the stiletto in his belt.
He turned toward Sebea and she nodded in satisfaction. From the clutter on the table she produced a warped tin mirror. Shaking, Martín took it and held it to the light so that he could view his reflection. Hector's face, only a little darker, stared back at him.
"Good, good.” Gathering the egg, the paper wrapped gold mask, and a soft leather one, she gave him final instructions. “The egg contains the essence of your heart. Break it over your lover and the evil will be cast out. You must find a way for the witch to put on the mask.” She ushered him out the door to where Fiel stood waiting. “And the common mask shall hide you from their eyes ... but do not let anyone look too closely.” Sunset tinged the sky gold and red. As he mounted, she reminded Martín again, “You know what you must do.” Handing up the items, she reassured, “Do not be afraid, do not waiver in your tasks. It is the only way you will set your love free."
Phaze Fantasies, Vol. III Page 3
