Chapter Twelve
Armando was again taken aback by Dancy’s change-up, talking about her wearing a leash and collar. He started to say something glib, to stall while he got her drift, but she broke in, “Or maybe some sort of little harness would be nice. A chastity belt with your logo would be so obvious, don’t you think?”
Armando took a long breath, then a sip of his Tequila. He gave he an abashed, “you got me” smile and said, “Okay. You’re right. I own you. I stole you, you’re mine. You can’t get away from me or call the authorities. I can do whatever I want with you whether you want me to or not. Isn’t that what you’re talking about?”
Dancy looked blank, “I was just talking about some nice leather accessories. Maybe with some faux rhinestones or sharp steel studs.”
Armando went over to stand in front of her. He reached to her shoulders and grabbed the dress, which she was wearing off one shoulder, tugging it down to her waist, then tearing it away, leaving her naked except for flimsy white panties. She merely stood watching him without expression, waiting him out. She accepted her nakedness placidly, so he prolonged his gazing at her, his drinking in of her breasts to see if she would flinch. She sipped her drink, staring at him a little quizzically. He thought he saw the trace of a smile, which gave him a flash of deep irritation. But he loved her unself-conscious attitude about being naked before him. Aware of nothing, not even self, he thought. Like the giant bronze nude of Diana the Huntress in Mexico, the one Ramos called La Nalgona because of the implacable perfection of her buttocks.
“Yes, I have you here, your body anyway. The most beautiful body I’ve ever seen. But I want more from you than that.”
“Figures. Nobody’s ever satisfied with just copping a little tit any more.”
Armando stepped close to her, his face darkening with a mixture of desire and suppressed anger that she found very sexy. “I want it all,” he said. “I’m just learning how to get it.”
Dancy shrugged, “You’ve done pretty well so far.”
Suddenly Armando swept over to her, dropped to his knees and pulled her toward him until his face was buried between her belly and thighs. With a shudder he inhaled deeply of her aroma. Dancy was startled, but didn’t know enough about him, or the Mexican cult of manhood, to be moved by his gesture. But she knew enough about Mexican men to know not to take anything at face value.
“If I’d known you were so nasal, I wouldn’t have bathed before dinner,” she said casually.
Without rising, Armando said, “It wouldn’t have mattered. A beautiful woman has her own perfume–as distinct as her coloring and mood.” He threw back his head and stared up past her breasts at her face. “Look at me. I’m on my knees to you. Nobody would believe this is of me, kneeling to a woman, to a gringa, instead of the other way around. I can see what you are. Exactly what you are! My plan is to show you what I am. Then you will admire me as much as I admire you. Then we can be mates, like two tigers. It’s the only plan I have. What do you think of it?”
Dancy looked down at him imperiously, “Sounds like a plan to me. If you’ve got the horses to pull it off. Listen, hero. I’m not so hot on eternal pledges of love and all that Latino malarkey. All you really have to do is find a way to turn me on.”
Fuming, but restrained by pride from forcing her, Armando took her hair and wrapped it around his left hand. With his right he grasped her throat and slowly lowered her to the floor, turning her on her back as he did. She went down calmly and without resistance. He knelt over her like an animal about to feed, taking long ragged breaths, watching shadows dance over her torso.
Dancy spoke quietly, “Do I look enough like helpless prey to get you going?”
“Not at all,” Armando said with effort. Recovering somewhat, he said, “In fact, you just reminded me of a huntress.”
“I’ve nabbed a fox or two in my time.”
“So tomorrow we will go hunting.”
“Great idea,” Dancy enthused, “Maybe we could bag a redhead or negress for your trophy room.”
“I mean hunting in the jungle, with guns.”
“Lions, tigers and bears?
“Beasts. We will hunt wild beasts.”
“Sounds like just the thing. But tell me something, Masked Man. I notice everyone wears masks of wild beasts but animals never wear masks of us. Why do you think that is?”
“Their faces are masks, their fur and skin are forms of camouflage. The leopard’s spots, the stripes of the tiger, it’s all a mask, all a form of concealment.”
“What would a wild beast have to conceal?”
Armando gazed at her, his eyes flat and blank, He said, “Appetite.”