Weak and will-less, the exhausted viuda exited her bath too tired to pull the drain plug. For a few moments she drip-dried and stood swaying in the puddles her stormy masturbation spilled onto tiled floor, then slowly she shambled back to her wardrobe. Blindly, she took a long white soft shapeless muslin nightdress from its hanger, pulled it on and got into bed. As she lay damp and inert in her sheets, she heard the sorceress smoothly soothe, “That’s right. Rest. Wait…”
Stars twinkling in the cloudless pitch black canopy over Quito were bright, but the moon was new and the ambient light on Doña Escobar’s bedroom balcony was inadequate to reveal the small dark shape perched on the railing. It dropped soundlessly to the stonework floor and waddled to the unlatched louvered accordion doors. Six strong curved claws scratched for a purchase where the doors met, then successfully pulled them silently apart enough to squeeze through. Once inside, the hairy brown sloth stood on its hind legs and transmogrified into La Hechicera’s albino dwarf assistant, Principe Argot.
Just as his mistress had promised, Principe observed Doña Escobar recumbent on her pillows with her eyes closed. Unhurriedly, he lowered his Y-back suspenders, then opened his trousers and pushed them past his buttocks to the floor. After untying his shoes, he stepped out of them and his pants, then pulled his boat-neck linen shirt over his head. Naked and grinning, he climbed over the four-poster’s footboard.
The moment the little man’s knees touched down, Margarita reacted. As he advanced, and his moving weight depressed the mattress, she opened her eyes. Lifting her head, she squinted at the rotund shade crawling over her ankles and murmured, “Hugo?”
Principe was quick to maintain the dazed illusion. “Sí,” he lied. Smirking as the enchanted woman laid her head back down, he scrambled forward on all fours. Eagerly, he clutched his small hands on the top sheet and lowered it to her waist, only to be disappointed that her coveted busty bosom remained discreetly protected by her muslin slip. Nonetheless, his prick began to stiffen with his lusty anticipation.
The dwarf licked his lips as he scooted back down Doña Escobar’s form and drew the top sheet with him all the way to her bare unlacquered toenails. Pushing his open hands up her legs, he appreciated how they tapered to her calves. As his fingers glided smoothly under her nightie’s hem, then passed her patellae, he arched his wrists and ducked his head into the cotton tent. Her scented heat greeted him with a rush.
Principe wormed his shoulders and plowed on. Margarita mewled softly. Opening her thighs reflexively as he browsed higher, she hiked her hips then settled her hams on his hard trapeziuses. He shoveled his hands under her ass cheeks and pulled her down the bed to meet him all the quicker.
As Margarita’s head skidded from her pillow, Principe canted her pelvis and fluttered his tongue adroitly within her wrinkled pussy folds. She clamped her hands over the bobbing noggin under her night dress and moaned, “¡Sí, Hugo… continúa! Make me wetter for you!”
Principe flattened his face to Margarita’s twat and slithered his stumpy lingua as deep as he could. Her coconut odor and piquant flavor enlivened his libido unlike any snatch he had devoured for a long time. She stuttered as he stabbed her G-spot, “¡O-OH!… ¡M-m-más! ¡HUUUGO!” Then, crushing his mouth to her crack, she came squirting like she had not done since she was a young girl.
As Margarita writhed and slathered his face with her lubricating clam juice, Principe’s mind turned back nearly sixteen years to when he was twenty-one in Alsace-Lorraine. Though he was handsome enough, and muscular from hard physical labor, the village girls could not seem to get past his freakish pallor or the harsh fact that he was full-grown, yet only one point four metres tall. Luckily, his sixty-year-old grandmother had no such qualms. Whether he stood on a kitchen stool, piercing her from behind while she bent over her vegetable table, or laid upon her missionary-style, in her great brass bed, she had always squealed her delight when they fucked.
In his native French, Principe muttered into Margarita’s thrashing trench, “Oui, Mémé… viens pour moi!” As if she understood, she ejected a fresh freshet from her fountain. He lapped it lustily and thought, “You’re all mine, Granny… from now until dawn!” When her flow abated, he popped his head from under her hem and rose up ready to deliver on his silent promise.
Doña Escobar was astounded by the apparition she saw standing on her bed and dancing its feet on her mattress between her aching thighs. Luminous and pale, the agitated half-man was in no way like the mayor of Quito. Her troubled mind rapidly arranged real events into a self-satisfying delusion. Excitedly, she concluded, “¡Un milagro! ¡Un ángel!”
Clutching and yanking her nightgown’s scooped neck with supernatural strength, Margarita tore its sleeveless shoulders outward. The old thin muslin ripped easily, louder than a thunder clap, and, like a naturally following jagged lightning bolt, split raggedly from her constricted throat to her quivering pot belly. As her exposed mountains jellied, she croaked deliriously, “Purify me!”
Though he was considerably less than average in his general size, Principe’s working tackle was considerably larger than average size and proportionally shocking to see. His wide cock, fully erect with its uncircumcised foreskin stretched taut, was a twenty-two-and-a-half centimetre cudgel. Below it, his leathery hairless scrotum hung heavily with paired fifty-gram chicken-egg-sized testicles. Lance up, he dropped to his knees and finished shredding the sleep slip.
Margarita eagerly beckoned her arms at the fabulous spirit she saw closing in on her revealed form. As he approached, he reached inside her elbows and grabbed two handfuls of wrinkled fulsome breast tissue. She sighed, then swept him up and pressed him hard to her chest. Instanter, he entered her.
Señor Escobar had been a modestly endowed slender man. In contrast, though she of course did not know it, Hugo Alvarez’ penis was five centimetres longer, and necessarily thicker, than Doña Escobar would typically have found had she been more experienced. Nonetheless, she intuitively was certain that even if she made love to a thousand men, her vagina could never be more filled up than it was at this moment by this small angel. She soughed into his ear, “¡Sí! ¡Fóllame!”
Glad for the unnecessary permission, Principe squeezed Margarita’s tits tight in his fists, mashed his mouth harshly against hers, and lunged his length hard to her womb’s doorstep. As she reactively gasped, he thrust his tongue through her gapped lips. She closed on him and sucked the stabbing muscle to her palate. Growling, he twisted her thick button nipples while her eyes rolled in their sockets and formed tears.
The dwarf methodically rocked his hips back and forth with steady deep strokes. As his dick’s slit left lingering kisses on her cervix, Margarita’s Kegels autonomically massaged its pulsing neck. She had not been blessed with children, but she knew her biology. If it had not been her husband’s fault, then her barren life was pure luck because, as a good Catholic, she had never done anything to inhibit a pregnancy.