Ever since, the Mamamia inbox has been filling up with stories that are guaranteed to make you blush. As promised, we’ll be running a selection of our favourite entries over the coming weeks before we announce a winner. And it’s not too late to enter! Click here for more details.
Here is the entry from our second finalist L.D Smith. The story is called: “The Compañero of Coppelia“…
Malecon, Cuba
‘Bring condoms,’ they had said. ‘Condoms are useful.’ So it was that, amongst the 18kgs of bikinis, assorted toiletries, sundresses and linen suits, the Immigration officer at Jose Marti International Airport found a 10kg vacuum packed bag of condoms.
‘You speak Spanish?’ the Cubano asked.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Why do you bring too many preservatifs?’ he asked her, his mocha eyes fixing on hers, then wandering south and back again so quickly that she was unsure if she had imagined it.
Perhaps she should have recognised it as a sign of things to come. But then, that was never the intention. It was a simple study tour with a one week beach holiday tacked on. The condoms? Not for her but for the sexual health clinics she was due to visit on, according to the itinerary, days four and nine of the tour.
She met him on night two of the tour at a neighbourhood meeting. They observed the meeting, her tour group, with a sense of detachment: the hurried Spanish, the chaotic discussion, the meeting proceeding as if it were a convention of auctioneers. And then it was over.
The tour group was welcomed in broken English by a man wearing jeans a size too large, held up by a belt. There was clapping and then the opening of bottles of rum. A stereo was tuned until salsa music confronted them through small, over-worked speakers. She said sí to a plastic cup of rum and downed it in one, hoping to fight off the potent embrace of jet-lag. Her cup was refilled and then again. When it came to the fourth, it was delivered by the man in jeans. Beads of sweat danced on his upper lip. He leaned in to her.
‘I would like to dance with you.’
He took her left hand in his and, with his right, pulled her in close, her pelvis to his. Their bodies sliced through the thick June air. He spun her, his t-shirt lifting enough to reveal sharp obliques, that tight V from hip to groin, and then pulled her back, closer, tighter, than before. His face looked down on hers, his skin the colour of ground nutmeg, his eyes green like the leaves of maiden hair ferns.
His top lip curled ever so slightly up and appeared to be challenging her to sweep her own lips over it, her tongue over its contours, to taste it. Her breath quickened, tightened, became shallow and she pushed her breasts in him, her nipples tensing. The top of her thigh was pushed into his groin, moving back and forward in a 1, 2, 3, 5, 6, 7 rhythm. The space between their bodies had all but disappeared.
‘I need to see you again,’ he said as the song ended and the tour group began to depart. ‘I need to.’
At first the sky was a fiery orange, spreading a warm glow over the faces of those enjoying the day’s last breaths along Havana’s Malecon. She swigged some homemade mojito, spearmint softening the rum’s kick, the lime lingering in her mouth long after she swallowed and leaving her tastebuds rough and calling out for another hit. Pockets of pink began to smudge the sky. A band was playing salsa and they started dancing again. Song after song, bodies closer, hotter, tighter.
A blanket of violet was thrown across the sky as the sun descended further. A wave pounded the sea wall, the salty mist catapulting over the Malecon and they paused to savour it, to catch their breaths. He turned to her, mouth half open as though he was going to speak but trying to find the words. She leaned in, put her lips over his upper lip, her tongue rubbing over its ridge.
She opened her mouth wider, slipped her tongue up against his. He took his hand and slid it down her cheek, her neck, down her chest, landing on her right breast. Her nipple was hard and pushing through her flimsy cotton bra and the cotton of her dress. He squeezed it, softly at first, between his thumb and finger.
Scenes of Cuba
Her body shuddered and he squeezed harder.She felt his penis swell, squirm and writhe vigorously, pushing against her pelvic bone. His tongue was still in her mouth, moving languidly, gracefully, as though his penis could be pacified by this display of patient exploration.
A large wave hit the sea wall, soaking them. They pulled away from each other and wiped the salt water from the tips of their noses, their foreheads. The sky was black now. She had no idea how much time had passed. Her body was pounding, her blood rushing furiously through arteries demanding more of his touch, his tongue, his fingers.
She took his hand, squeezed it, pulled his arm around her neck. He pushed his face into her cheek, inhaled her smell and sighed, a lopsided smile forming on his face. He opened his mouth and flicked the tip of his tongue under her earlobe, pushing it against the base of her lobe and she twitched as she felt a wave of desire ripple through her body, flowing downward and then ebbing until he did it again. He traced his tongue down her neck and she let her head fall to the side.
‘Mamasita, my beautiful mamasita,” he murmured in her ear, after his tongue worked its way back up. ‘Now my body is…’ he searched for the word. ‘…in pain for wanting you.’
She laughed at his expression but the truth was that her body was aching as well. It had a rawness to it, an almost painful manifestation of a yearning to continue that could not be satiated by merely grinding two bodies together, skin still separated by cotton threads.
‘I know a place we can go. It is not too far,’ he said.
She took his hand again and he led them into dark of the Havana night…
If you enjoyed this post, then we hope you didn’t miss our first erotic fiction finalist, “The Dark” by Jo – click here to read.
