Enrique Ch. 02

We were eating, and Zelia sat to my right, but far down the table, close to our guest, Enrique, who sat opposite me, at the far end, so that we were facing one another. I could hear his hand rubbing along the fabric of my wife's capris, the ones with the bluish posterboard print that fit her curves perfectly and glorified that big round behind of hers, which, according to Zelia, drove Enrique crazy whenever he saw it. They spoke in Spanish, and Zelia would occasionally translate for me, though tonight their conversation was private. It was amorous, apparently, since every so often our handsome young guest would push the hair away from Zelia's neck and lean across to kiss the satin-smooth skin there. His beautiful, dark eyes continually went to the little blue halter Zelia wore, and the sturdy bra she wore underneath, which lifted and pushed her big breasts together. "Up," she would tell me, when we shopped for bras in the store, "He likes them up, not hanging down." She would cup her hands under her breasts to better explain and emphasize, "Up, up."

At this point Enrique was virtually living with us. Not only was he coming every day on his lunch hour, and several times during the week in the evening, but he had begun to spend his weekends with us, under our roof. I slept in the guest room during his stay-overs, and several times during the night I was awakened by the boy's aggressive lovemaking. I would lie still and listen to the headboard hitting the wall, due to the force he used when he enjoyed Zelia, and it seemed sometimes the whole duplex would shake to the rhythm of his passion. But, aggressive as it was, it was also brief, at times extremely brief, a matter of twenty or thirty seconds. It was a wonder to me how a man could spend that many times during the course of a day. Sometimes it was upwards of six or even seven times. But let's remember that Enrique is barely eighteen.

On Sunday evenings, he would take his leave. Now it was Saturday, and we were having lunch. Enrique was very formal in his habits. He was accustomed to breakfast, lunch, and dinner. He rarely looked at me, which was fine, but paid lavish attention to my wife, who was his cunt. Zelia was aware of her position as Enrique's cunt, and, rather than be bothered by it, she reveled in it. She was not in love with him, in fact she scoffed at the notion, if I ever brought it up. "He's my cousin! He's just a boy! Aiy guey!" she would say. "It's only to help him," she insisted, "I feel almost nothing, he is usually finished very fast. And even when it takes him longer, it's nothing to me. I just wait for him to finish. I let him use my pucha, my pussy, he likes it because mine is small and tight, and it's easy for me to get wet, and I don't get dry. It has to be the pussy for Enrique, he cannot do it himself," Here Zelia made the hand-gesture, "Or even a BJ. It has to be la puchita, la gatita, the pussy."

In the middle of the meal, Zelia looked at me and explained, as she rose from her chair, her smile and her dimples in full bloom, "Can you believe it, he can't wait until after we eat. He tells me he can smell my puchita. He's like a wild cat, or something!" And they did not bother to go to the bedroom, but Enrique had her there at the table. I was surprised, and secretly delighted, that our guest had decided to mount my wife, his cunt, in my presence. Zelia blushed, elbows on the table, to my right, as she bent over and let Enrique pull down her capris, and her little white panties, to her knees, exposing her backside to me and to himself. Of course I didn't look at Zelia's naked behind, but ate my tamales while Enrique, his nostrils wide, took his cock from the open fly of his jeans and began to enjoy her. For the first time I was to appreciate the size of it. It was easily double the length of my own member, and much thicker, embossed up and down the dark shaft with swollen blood vessels, the head itself was two inches long, pink and purple colored, and wide, a beautiful helmet. He was cut in such a way that there was barely any foreskin. I understood then why it was difficult for Enrique to pleasure himself.

It took him all of two minutes, during which time he caressed the smooth, full, rounded cheeks of Zelia's backside, or held her waist. When he spent himself his eyes sparkled, beautiful, long-lashed, and his mouth, the pretty lips open, the perfect white teeth, soft feathery mustache, looked as if in pain or anguish, as he forcefully paid out his seed into her body. What was more fascinating, Zelia kept her left arm on the table but her right hand she used to prop her chin, and her dark eyes panned across the window, or on the few items of mail that were also on the table, as if disinterested or not involved with what was going on behind her, where the boy's hands grabbed and squeezed her fleshy bottom and thrust inside her with a single purpose, to spend himself in her body, his balls very large and firm, very heavy, twice the size of my own.

When he was finished he shuddered, and petted Zelia's braided hair and back and the naked cheeks of her behind. He drew himself out and simply put his spent, beautiful cock back inside the fly of his jeans and zipped up. Meanwhile Zelia, still with her capris and panties at her knees, turned toward the counter and with a few napkins tamped and clotted her cunt which was affluent with the white seed Enrique had sprayed into her. Leaving the napkins there she pulled up her panties and the capris and delicately sat back down, and Enrique leaned across to give her a kiss and to give her also a reminder. I could understand enough Spanish to know that he was letting her know that she needed to clean herself thoroughly, to clean the entire area. She nodded along and assured him she would not be lazy about it but keep to it strictly, as he told her.

It was wonderful to be allowed to see how he took his pleasure, but I doubt if Enrique cared or understood what it meant to me. In fact I know that he thinks nothing of me. I don't exist, at least not as a rival male. That I was male was a factoid, an item of trivia. And he has no idea how I admired that beautiful cock when I saw it. Maybe he thought that I envied it, but it wasn't envy at all, not at all, but admiration and reverence, plain and simple. I loved it. I would have gladly taken it into my mouth, like a woman, not only to show my admiration, but selfishly, so that I could taste it on my tongue, smell it in my nose, feel it in my hands, even to taste the salty fluid at the gorgeous head, to lick right up the slit there and taste it in my mouth. And to feel the gravid beauty of his balls in my hands, on my fingers, big and powerful. Maybe they would cause me more pleasure than my wife's breasts, those lovely dark balls, that soft dark sack in which they hung, heavy, weighing downward, to hold and feel their heaviness in my hand.

"But he is not a good lover, or even a lover," Zelia would explain to me, "He doesn't care about the woman's sensation, only his own. I don't think he even knows that a woman can climax. It's not in his nature to care about that. He could be a great lover, with that pene grande, as beautiful as it is, and he is so beautiful to look at, his eyes, his body, his hair, like a dark angel. But he doesn't care or he doesn't want to make the effort. Maybe he's lazy in bed, not lazy like not wanting to have a job, you know, but just lazy in bed, in romance."

But perhaps our young guest would become a better lover, I suggested, not doubting the idea in the least. There didn't seem much interest from my wife in this, though she could well have been acting the good wife for my benefit.

One afternoon, on a Saturday, we went to one of the small local parks. We had a lunch and all the while Enrique pitched woo at Zelia, kissing her freely in front of me, rubbing her bare thighs as she sat on the stone bench and tried to eat, getting his hand as far up the leggings of her spacious checkered shorts as he could. She would narrate to me a brief translation of his remarks to her, which increased in candor the more Cervesa he drank: "He says my legs are too smooth for him not to caress. He tells me he can smell my pussy, and also the phuchas of the ladies who walk by. He's so crazy, I know he can't."

A few minutes later and he was toying with her breasts. He liked to put his fingers to the bottom of them and push upwards. She was wearing a black tube top and her breasts were full and soft under the restraining fabric, which was constricting enough to keep them from sagging, which Enrique did not like to see. He would make them bobble up and down, and made playful little sounds with his beautiful mouth, or pinch at the nipples that poked through the top because of his amorous attention. "He cannot believe how sexy my boobs are, he says," Zelia explained, "At my age, they are as fresh as a little girl's, but bigger!" she laughed. When there was no-one within seeing distance, Zelia pulled one of her breasts free and let Enrique lick and suck the large areola and nipple. Even as she did so, she held it up with her fingers, to prevent him from seeing it sag.

Later, when there was no-one in the park, no cars in the nearby parking lot, Enrique insisted on mounting my wife. It was simply too urgent to wait for a drive home, she explained. Her eyes looked all around as she kneeled on the stone bench and unfastened the clasp in front of her shorts and pulled the zipper down. After doing that she let Enrique pull the shorts down to expose her brown bottom. I could see the flare of his nostrils as the scent of her rose to him. I was afraid he would reject her because, afterall, the weather was warm and there may have come a smell which, as we've mentioned, always turned his desire to displeasure.

Not only that, she was not wearing a blouse which he could pull down to cover the area he did not wish to see. Accordingly, he held her bare bottom and thrust rapidly while standing behind her, his member taken out through the front of his jeans as usual. He looked ahead, or at the side of her face, which was braced up with her hands. It took him about forty seconds to spend himself.

His ejaculation lasted quite a long time, and he was overcome with shudders and sighs of relief when it was finally paid out. He withdrew and, after wiping his long, beautiful cock on the skin of Zelia's bottom, put himself away and zipped up. Meanwhile Zelia went into her purse to get a packet of tissues, which she used to tamp her vagina, where the prolific white fluid was already seeping out. Leaving it in place, as if it were a menstrual pad, she pulled her shorts up and fastened them, and sat down, rather tenderly. She laughed, "Can you believe this boy?" she asked me, "He never runs out of that stuff. He will have made some fresh by the time we get home, you'll see."

Zelia's prediction was correct. In the twenty minutes it took for us to drive home, Enrique's equine balls had prepared yet another payload. He took Zelia into the bedroom almost at once, and I could hear the bed singing, squeaking, squealing, as he enjoyed my wife again.