Material may not be reused without author's explicit permission.
by Ataide Tartari
(translated by the author)
lecha doesn't want to know how young the girl is. She is obviously a child. Everything about her is fresh. The only thing that doesn't match her looks is her experience: he knows she has been with other men before.
"They ever done it this good?" Flecha whispers in her ear. With the fingers of his right hand he strokes her pussy. Although it is starting to get wet, the girl doesn't look horny.
She takes the pacifier out of her mouth and points at the stereo in front of the couch. "What is that?"
"An old, modular stereo," he answers before nipping at her small tits.
"Hey!" she says, pulling Flecha by the hair. "You bit me!"
He raises his head, smiles, and tries to place the pacifier into her mouth again.
"Stop with that!" She gets the pacifier and throws it at the floor. "If you wanna fuck a child, why don't you go to the day care?"
Flecha lies on top of her, on the couch. Unlike her, he still has his clothes on. He grabs the girl's hand and makes her feel the bulk in his pants.
"Can you stand it?" he asks with a grin.
She turns her face at the stereo. "I've never seen one of these. Is it too old?"
"It's twenty years old," he says. "It's German. Nowadays the Japs do them so tiny, you can't even feel the sound."
"Twenty years? Gee! Did you buy it second hand?"
"Yep," he answers. In fact, he bought this Bang Olufsen brand new and paid for it with the salary of his first job.
Flecha kisses her mouth while trying to pull his pants down with one hand. She puts her hand on his chest and pushes him away.
"What now, dammit?"
"You're hurting me," she says. Then she smiles. "Let me be on top."
Flecha smiles back. Now she is showing who she really is, the naughty teenager who likes to entice the graying men of the condo. Without the fake innocence, however, the game gets less exciting.
Flecha lets the girl open his pants and play with his dick. She does it as if it were a big, tasty lollypop. She only stops and raises her head when the phone rings.
"Aren't you going to answer it?" she says.
"The machine is on."
The message starts with a sob. Then a female voice says, "Thanks for the worst birthday of my life."
There's more. She sobs again before ending the message, "My consolation is to know that either way I'll always be part of your life."
The girl stands up. "Who is she?"
"Ana."
"The one who lived here with you?"
"That's right."
"What happened? Did you have a fight?"
Flecha sits in the couch and looks down. His dick is getting so small, he decides to pull his pants up. "I gave her a kick in the ass," he says. "She moved out the day before yesterday."
"You dumped your woman on her birthday?"
He shrugs, smiles, and strokes her thighs.
Slapping his hand, she moves away from him. "I didn't know you were such a son-of-a-bitch," she shrieks.
Quickly, she gets dressed and runs to the door.
"Come back soon," he says while watching her leave his apartment.
* * *
While the Bang Olufsen rocks the apartment floor with the sound of John Bonham's drums, Flecha browses through the pages of his old phone book. It's better than look at the photo album of the college. Each name, each number brings back memories of the women he had or wished to have had. Each name brings at least half an hour of good remembrances. There is Teresa, for instance, the one who tied him up for a long time. During his first year with Teresa, Flecha had practically grown blind to other women. He owes his freedom to her family. To her father, mainly. If the old man had not pushed them to get married, they probably would end up at the altar.
Flecha feels tempted to call many of these numbers, but resists. Fear is stronger than curiosity. It'd be good to know about their lives; it'd be good to know which of them were left on the shelf or tied to bad marriages. The risk of finding a lonely spinster at the other end of the line, however, is enough to abort any curiosity Flecha might have.
He turns the stereo off, gets the car keys and steps out. He drives for more than one hour without knowing where to stop. Ana had annihilated his sense of direction. Two years ago, before they decided to live together, he knew how to orient himself in São Paulo; he knew the places where the prettiest chicks hung out. Now, he is lost. The best meeting points of his golden years don't even exist anymore. Some of them, Flecha complains, are so decadent that attract only niggers and migrants. He ends up stopping at an old club that hasn't changed much, the Metropolis.
As Flecha steps in, he notices that the customers of the place have grown older. There are much more matronly women than fresh girls. He sits at the counter, near the youngest group in the room. A hazel-eyed blond girl looks at him. She resembles him of the neighbor he almost fucked.
Flecha moves and sits next to her.
"You look like a friend of mine," he says, looking into her eyes. "What's your family name?"
"Can it be Succubus?"
Flecha laughs. It's odd to hear that from a stranger. This is the word Ana used to say in bed. "I am your Succubus" was what Ana said every time she was fucked.
"Now you sound like other friend of mine."
"I felt you weren't sure when you used the word 'friend'," she says, smiling at him.
"There are many kinds of friendship..."
"And what happened to this one?"
"She's grown old."
"She, who?"
"The friendship," Flecha answers, although he knows that this "friendship" has not grown as old as Ana. In the day he dumped her, she was turning thirty.
The blonde girl sips and turns to look into his eyes. "My folks say that to grow old together is an art; one of the greatest pleasures in life."
Flecha shrugs. "To bring the good times back is an art, either."
She leans toward him and puts her hand on his thigh. "This is what you wanna do with me?"
* * *
Starting at the twin peaks, Flecha drives his mouth toward the belly button. He stops and raises his head, touching the cavity with his finger. That's odd, he thinks. What are the chances of two different women having the same belly button? Especially a navel like this one, looking like a cigarette burn scar.
"What?" she says.
"Which hatchery you come from?"
She chuckles. "A hot one."
Flecha keeps probing her belly button; the belly button that is just like Ana's. "It should be real hot," he says. "This thing looks like a burn."
She smiles. "Or a mark, like the ones they do in cows."
He smiles back. "Whose mark?"
"You know whose mark it is."
Flecha lies on top of her and whispers into her ear, "Of my little Succubus?"
She opens her legs, grabs his cock and drives it into her pussy. He feels it hot, as if his penis were a thermometer gauging a 40-degree fever.
"That's right," she says, gasping. "I am your Succubus."
* * *
Sympathy for the Devil, the song, has everything to do with the book Flecha is reading. The first time Ana came with this Succubus thing, she only said it is mythical being that inhabits the dreams of men. Now, with the Metropolis girl talking about the same thing, Flecha had to buy a book on the subject. If it is about women, it is his business.
His Bang Olufsen starts playing this Stones song when he is staring at a Succubus picture on the book. The thing is half exciting, half scary. It is a naked girl with big, perfect breasts, black leather boots, a pair of tiny, rounded horns, and bat wings. Succubus, the book says, is the devil; the devil in the form of a tempting female. It's the form the devil assumes in order to seduce men and take over their souls. It's the kind of devil Flecha likes.
As he stops reading the book, he is quite excited. He decides to go to Club Mènage, the place where on Tuesdays the name of the game is Swing Evening. With Ana, he never joined the Evening. To bring one's own woman into a swinging group is not a good idea, really. The best thing to do is to hire a not-too-beautiful escort and take some young ninphomaniac wife in exchange.
Flecha picks the telephone and calls the cheapest professional he finds in his book.
* * *
The place is disguised; it's only for those who know it. Outside, it is only a large, old house. The huge drawing room has a front desk, a bar, five couches, and a small stage. Flecha saunters between the sofas, hand-in-hand with his escort, until he sits beside a couple of hicks in their twenties.
Flecha can recognize such countryside suckers with a glance. Some men are doing like him, bringing aging hookers as wives. Bluffers like Flecha, however, can identify fair players like this young couple from the backwoods. He notices that the young wife is like a volcano ready to erupt with the new experience.
He sits by her side while his escort leans against the boy.
"I felt something coming from you," Flecha says to her. Then he smiles. "Is it some kind of spell?"
The girl looks down and giggles. "Don't know. I guess it is."
"Aren't you feeling the same?"
She nods.
Meanwhile, the husband looks regretful. Flecha notices he is glaring at him.
"Haven't you liked my wife?" Flecha asks.
"I think you should look for a couple of your age, don't you?"
"This is an exchange of experiences," Flecha says. "You can learn more with experienced people."
"You think I'm not experienced?" the boy says, raising his voice.
Now Flecha feels that the boy is getting angry; the deal is not going to work out... unless he uses the weapon that has proven to be flawless so far:
"Vera," Flecha says, gesturing toward his escort, "can do it like Yoko Ono. She can drive you mad."
Flecha is sure he doesn't know what he is talking about. On the other hand, he knows the boy doesn't want to deny his alleged experience.
While the hick boy stares at Vera, his wife unabashedly asks Flecha, "What is this thing your wife does?"
"It's a Geisha technique to contract the muscles in the vagina. Yoko used to make John Lennon faint with it."
Flecha tries not to laugh. Although he has dated with women who master this technique, he knows his escort is not one of them.
The boy smiles, placing his hand on the hooker's thigh. Flecha smiles, too. They've got a deal.
* * *
In one of Club Mènage suites, Flecha is taking his shirt off while the girl remains sitting on the edge of the bed. She looks shy. He sits by her side and kisses her neck.
"Relax," he says, "you've got nothing to worry about."
He sits in front of her and starts to unbutton her shirt, kissing her juicy neck, driving his mouth until the belly button. That's when he jumps and stands up.
All of a sudden, the shy girl doesn't look shy anymore. "You're getting better, Flecha," she says, mimicking Ana's voice. "It's taking a shorter time for you to recognize me."
"I never thought that--"
"That I was a real Succubus?"
Flecha takes a step back. "Hey, I don't like this game."
"Why not? I'm doing it the way you like, don't I? I am always different, always younger."
"But always the same, dammit!"
"I'm sorry." She looks at her own navel. "Defective manufacture."
"What do I have to do to dump you?"
"Forget about it." She stands up and hugs him. Then she whispers into his ear, "Haven't you heard my message? I'll always be part of your life."
He gets rid of her arms and sits on the bed. "Why does it have to be with me, dammit?"
She shrugs. "You have invoked me."
"No." Flecha shakes his head. "I've never done that."
"You didn't need to do anything: you are."
"I'm what?"
"Perfect. You've got a perfect character. I was sure of it the moment you dumped me even though you still loved me."
Flecha grins. "I cherish my principles."
"I know that." She steps closer to him and hugs his head, leaning it against her navel. "That's why I grabbed you."
Looking up into her eyes, Flecha says, "How are you, actually?"
The girl takes two steps back and undresses herself. With a roar, she makes her body grow. She becomes a six-footer. Her hair gets short and red; her breasts, big and rigid. The pair of horns shows up, either, as well as the wings. Even without the pair of leather boots, Flecha feels she is very much like the one in the book. She is the sexiest woman he has ever seen.
She looks at the bulk in his pants and smirks. "It looks like I'm pleasing you."
Flecha rises and looks down. He feels his pants tight, as if it were a smaller size. He opens it, leaving his dick at will. It is like a pole, like a compass needle pointing at the north, where paradise is a lot hotter.
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