was up and wiping off his cock. He was dressed in a flash. It took some effort on Dawson's part to rise from his knees – he was still weak from his orgasm. He had the decency to take a towel and wipe the slumbering artist's mouth off and get some of the sweat off her body. God, how he loved to feel her buttery skin! He carefully rolled her over on her back and hoisted her lengthwise on the bed. Then he stuck the towel between her legs and wiped her cum-filled pussy.
'Ain't she somethin'?' he said to the co-pilot, who was combing his greasy black hair in front of the bathroom mirror. Martinez finished his grooming by patting the sides of his head with his hand as he stuffed the comb into a breast pocket.
'Fantastico!' Martinez enthused, raising his eyebrows and grinning broadly. 'Don Ernesto has heet the hyackpot dees time!'
CHAPTER NINE
The bright sun filtered in through the broad louvered shutters that covered the floor-to-ceiling window doors in the guest bedroom where the beautiful young artist slept, unaware that a man walked silently across the room, his footsteps drowned in the lush pile carpeting. The entire room was white, or shades of white. An elaborate wrought iron headboard and two tall spires of iron at the foot showed dramatically against the plastered walls. A long high chest of carved pine stood on a low bench at the foot of the bed. The hasp and hinges were rusted, denoting antiquity. A few tall tropical plants provided dramatic highlights in the stark room which was, though sparsely furnished with Spanish antiques, the quintessence of understated good taste.
The few paintings on the walls were by contrast, boldly contemporary, with bright streaks and dots of color. It all worked to create a restful yet stimulating ambiance.
The man placed a breakfast tray on the round table next to the bed. He looked down at the sleeping girl for several moments, then he turned and went silently out of the room, closing the door behind him. Seconds later, the phone on the broad bedside table jangled noisily.
The persistent ringing jolted Jill Conklin out of her dreamless sleep. She wasn't quite awake, however, when she dazedly reached for the nagging instrument. She thought she was back in San Francisco, at Josephine's…
'H-hel-lo?' she said dreamily.
'Good morning, Jill,' came the deep and resonant voice of her benefactor. 'How are you feeling this fine day?'
Slowly, slowly, she was regaining consciousness, but there was still confusion in her mind. She felt woozy – a drug hangover – and she tried very hard to shake the cobwebs out of her head.
'Don Ernesto? Where are you? Where am I?'
He laughed sympathetically. 'Look out your window, Jill, and you will see where you are. If you squint your eyes and look far into the distance, you will note the flat-topped structures on the horizon. They are the Pyramids of Teotihuacan…'
Jill's brain sprang to alertness. She sat bolt upright and clambered out of bed, pulling back the louvers and opening the doors onto the tiled verandah. Leaning forward, she squinted into the horizon as Garcia had suggested. Wow! The dim shapes in the distance were unmistakable. She had seen pictures before. The air smelled dry; the chirrups of exotic birds suddenly caught her attention.
'I'm here! I'm really in Mexico City! I can't believe it – how could I sleep through the whole thing… the flight, and getting here… how did that happen?'
Garcia laughed again. 'You had a long day, and a most fatiguing evening, Jill – I can see that you are not accustomed to liquor…'
'I guess not,' she said sheepishly, suddenly remembering the nightmare of her being raped by Dawson only to confront Ernesto moments later after his 'discovery'. Oh, God, she was still so embarrassed, so humiliated!
'I'll see to it that that doesn't happen again,' he assured her. What was he referring to… the drinking… the scene in the motel room? Jill was still confused. And she was suddenly aware of a terrible taste in her mouth, a thick bitter taste which she attributed to the Pernod or maybe the Turkish coffee.
'In the meantime,' he continued, 'I hope you won't object to my taking charge of your introduction to Mexico City. I want you to enjoy the breakfast Julio brought you a little while ago. It is typical of what we take in the morning – with perhaps a few embellishments. Then, when you are ready to make a public appearance, I shall show you around the place. The pool is very inviting at this time of day… I hope you'll join me for a swim. Are you agreeable, Jill?'
'That sounds terrific. I'd love to!' she answered breathlessly.
'Good. Hasta luego. Ciao.'
Jill hung up feeling happy and excited. She plumped up the pillows and sat back to enjoy a delicious breakfast of rich Mexican chocolate with hot milk, some unknown and savory sweet rolls and chilled papaya with lime. Afterwards she went into the bathroom – almost as large as her bedroom at Josephine's! – and filled the enormous tub, which was faced with hand painted tiles. The whole ceiling was mirrored, and there was another full-length mirror covering one wall. A silver vanity set and crystal jars sat on the large dressing table. It was rich and sensual, with a large, soft animal skin on the floor. After her bath, Jill was dusting herself with powder from an ornate silver bowl, watching herself in the mirror as she patted herself between the legs with the elder down puff, and she couldn't help admiring her body. She had always been a narcissist, and many times before, when she had been doing self-portraits while looking in a full-length mirror, she had gotten turned on sexually. She began to stroke, rather than pat, her skin with the downy puff, creating delicious feathery sensations in the wake of each languid caress. She encircled her firm, pink-nippled breasts, creating hard nubs at each tip as her nipples sprang to erectness. She moved the puff down the cleavage, down her high ribcage and past her tiny waist to her smooth flat belly. She was standing on the cushiony fur rug, unaware that under the rug was a 'floating' tile, and under the tile a button connected to a buzzer that would sound upstairs whenever anyone stepped on the rug…
It was from this vantage point, in the room above her, that Don Ernesto and his trusted aide Julio observed the unsuspecting girl through a two-way mirror of the type common to any gambling casino. From the moment Jill entered the bathroom, they had been able to observe her every movement! Now, their eyes widened as they watched the young artist engaged in self-love play, her hands now caressing her firm, molded thighs and the soft dark triangle between them, holding the pink puff against her pubic mound as an adornment and smiling at her reflection in the mirror. How many times before had she taken her paint brush and parted the puffy lips of her cunt with the wooden tip, sliding it down the moist furrow to titillate her clitoris. Then she would use the soft bristles of the paint brush to 'paint' her pussy slit, until she came and came against the tickling brush hairs.
Now the desire in her loins had increased to the point where she could not deny herself any longer. She got down on the rug and lay back, spreading her long legs languorously apart as she continued to lightly caress her pubic mound with the feathery powder puff. Upstairs, Garcia switched on a speaker so that the two men could hear the girl's heated breathing, her moans and sighs and whatever might issue from her lips. The handsome Colombian sipped coffee from a tall glass mug and smiled with prurient satisfaction. He was wearing black Continental swim trunks under a saffron yellow velour robe. The bearded young Julio was casually attired in chino's and a loose-fitting, white Mexican shirt, huaraches on his feet.
Jill was breathing faster now. God, she was hot. She had to cum! Looking at herself full length in the ceiling mirror was a fantastic turn-on, her luxuriant black hair spread out over the thick white fur, her black pubic mound contrasting against her creamy, alabaster skin, and the delicate pink of the powder puff highlighting everything. What a self-portrait that would make! She would do it against a somber background, like Sargent's Madame 'X'. Yes, she could entitle it, 'Young Girl at Her Toilette'. No… 'A Virgin at Her Toilette'…
She remembered the motel room, and Dawson's heartless attack. Damn him! Sadly, she faced the fact that she was no longer a virgin. All right then, 'Apres le Bain', very Degas! Oh… shit – she would call it, 'After the Bath', and give it to Ernesto before she returned to San Francisco. Yes, it would be her surprise, her thank you to her benefactor.
But now… now she had to cum, and as her feverish fingers toyed with the soft hairs of her pussy and tweaked her turgid clitoral bud, she thought again of Chris, of the times he had eaten her so beautifully with his
