Ecuador – Chap 3: Visitation by MishaPearl2..,
According to the calendar, Ash Wednesday 1937 began at midnight when February ninth arbitrarily became February tenth. In Quito, Ecuador, however, time and culture were more fluid. Last minute revelers, reluctant to give up their sensual pleasures for Lenten austerity, drank and caroused well into the early morning hours. Doña Margarita Escobar, who had retired from the Carnival Masked Ball at the Hotel Plaza Grande while the day was still Tuesday, lay abed as the softly blowing night air carried sounds from the street through her open balcony windows.
After introducing Esmeralda Verde, La Hechicera, to the Carnival crowd for their special magical entertainment, she had returned to her table and was stunned when her friend, Doña Teresa Sifuentes, asked her for her special recipe for steaming bananas in a humita pot. “¿Qué dices?” She had asked, only to be informed that she had bragged to the entire audience about Alcalde Alvarez’ large tree and how he regularly gave her his bananas to fix because his wife was allergic.
Doña Escobar had no recollection of this event, but she blushed all the same. Doña Sifuentes was a sober-sided soul who had never lied once in her life. Margarita could only pray that her mesmerized confession had been sufficiently oblique that she had not told all of Quito outright that she and the mayor had been once-a-week lovers for nearly a year. Fanning herself, she excused her reddened face, “I don’t know about you, Teresa, but I shall be a happy woman when my change is complete and these sudden hot flashes stop.”
Doña Sifuentes, eight years junior to the dowager Escobar, nodded gravely as she answered, “Pues… I am forty-five, but my periods are still quite regular, thank God! I have only heard about the misery and do not look forward to it. I am sorry for you.” She reached across the table, sympathetically touched her friend’s arm and returned to her question, “But seriously… do you peel the banana? Then oil it? And wrap it in a husk? How do you prepare it for your humita pot, so that when it comes out it is ready to melt in your mouth as you claim?”
Doña Escobar, both relieved and chagrined, had carefully answered, “Yes. Any of that will work. The important thing is how long it is kept inside in the moist warmth and that, truthfully, is a matter of personal taste.” Pushing back from the table, she begged, “But, please excuse me, dear Teresa. I am feeling a bit funny. I think it is best if I go home now. Buenas noches, amiga.”
“Okay, Margarita,” Sifuentes had said. “Call me tomorrow. We can go to church together.”
Although she herself did not know it, Doña Escobar was still under the green witch’s spell when she left the hotel. Her mind was hazy, her feet leaden and, though the outside temperature was a clement fifteen degrees Celcius, a light sweat sheen coated her arms from her azure satin opera gloves to her matching evening gown’s shoulder straps. The doorman was unconcerned as he helped her into a taxi. She was just the first tipsy old broad he expected he would see before his shift ended this night.
In her home, Margarita meandered upstairs to her personal quarters. Having excused her maid for the week to enjoy Carnival with her family in Ibarra, seventy kilometres away, she undressed herself alone. Each layer of clothing brought increasing relief with its removal. When, at last, she peeled away her off-white ‘all-in-one’ bra-and-girdle, her resplendent mature 102-81-107 figure gratefully relaxed into natural bulges and bumps.
Standing before her dressing mirror, in only her pristine white rayon panties, Doña Escobar admired her frankly displayed attributes. When she raised her arms to remove her alexandrite-studded silver hair comb, her long dyed coal-black hair cascaded to her sacroiliac joints while her stretching great E-cup breasts smoothed their sagging wrinkles and took on the firm appearance she used to see twenty years previously. Her tummy roll lifted slightly from her underwear’s elastic waist and her navel crater flattened to a more youthful oval. Dropping her hands, she patted the soft dimpled muscle mass which overfilled her full-seated briefs and thought, “Ha! There is plenty here for Hugo! How lucky for me that his wife is allergic to bananas!”
The moment she invoked the mayor’s name, a pang shot from her peanut-butter colored areolae through her belly to her clitoris. She looked down at the brunette pubic patch shadowed behind her semi-sheer panties and followed her eyes with her right hand. Tenderly touching her hidden button, she pushed her middle two fingers over the long plump camel-toe in her gusset, then pressed the moistening cotton past her coño’s iris. Gasping as she gently rubbed herself, she suddenly envisioned her stolen paramour while, at the same time, she clearly heard Esmeralda’s disembodied voice say, “Get ready to cook for el alcalde.”
Margarita moved like a placid zombie from her wardrobe, past her matching carved teak double bed to her blue-and-white hex-tiled bathroom. While she ran water into her large claw-footed porcelain tub, she shed her bragas and stepped across to her white painted wood commode where she rummaged in a drawer for the ablution accessories she normally reserved for use on Saturdays after Hugo Alvarez’ town council meetings. Liberally applying a hydrating palm oil lotion to her hands, she began a top-down massage at her neck and throat. Replenishing as needed, she soon glistened outside and glowed inside throughout her body.
As she lay back in the drawn hot water, Margarita carefully lowered her long hair to the floor outside the tub to keep it dry. Then, using a rough cloth, she scrubbed her oiled skin with cocoa butter soap until every square centimetre of her squeaked to the touch. Her breasts were so tender that she could hardly stand to touch them, but the thrill when she did so was such a delight that she could not resist. She remembered this phenomenon was historically associated with the midpoint of her menstrual cycle, yet she had not had a period for over three months and hoped that her last one was actually her last one.
Doña Escobar’s eyes crossed, then closed, as she pushed the lathered washrag across her broad belly and over her graying furred mons to her greatest source of pleasure. No longer shy, her clit outgrew its sheath. She pinched the throbbing nub severely and sucked her lips hard into her mouth as she screamed in her mind, “¡Ahí lo está!”
Responsively, Esmeralda’s voice echoed, “There it is, señora, but do not stop now! Rinse your pot… Hugo will be with you soon…”
Margarita flopped her legs over the tub sides, violently irrigated her coming cunt and twisted her thick tortured clit. Tears sprang from her sealed eyelids while painful pleasure wracked her insides. Groaning ecstatically, she rolled her head on the cool porcelain rim. Starry flashes exploded her darkness as she chased her orgasmic waves with rushing hot bath water until she was too weary to move her wrists.