Chapter 2 – Chapter 2

I have no idea whether I retreated farther into the shadows in time, but I sensed that Estaban's gaze had taken me in, possibly not realizing it was me, but surely knowing someone was there. But it didn't seem to matter. Teotilo grunted and groaned at some more intense change in Estaban's fucking, and La Lectura began discoursing again, this time from Shelley, in a stronger voice than before, a voice that clearly carried to me halfway back across the shed to where I had been working and where I, full of envy and jealousy and want, resumed moving bales.

"I bring fresh showers for thirsting flowers, From the seas and the streams; I bear light . . ." Not only love poetry, I realized, but poetry that transported the one he was making love to out of this dreary existence. I ached for the attention that Teotilo, the half-wit Mulatto, was receiving, probably not even half capable of fully appreciating the gift he was receiving.

It did not get back to my shack by the sea until late that evening. I had worked hard all day, trying to purge myself of what La Lectura had awakened in me. Those dangerous secrets, the weakness that had caused me to escape Havana and to seek the isolation and scourge of the hard but honest work in the remote cigar factory. The urges were nearly overwhelming. I wasn't even sure I could return to the factory. Ernesto had been more right than he imagined. La Lectura was a danger to me. I wasn't even sure that my hands could control their trembling in La Lectura's presence and under the influence of his stroking baritone voice enough to be able to go through the demanding movements of the leaf bunching.

I stripped down to my undershorts by the door to my shack and pumped the water up until it rose up the water pipe by the door. I pumped for some time, standing under the cold water sluicing down onto my tired, aching, but yearning body. I dried myself with the towel hanging there and entered the dark single room of my shanty.

The voice was low, rich, husky, mesmerizing. "Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely . . ." Shakespeare. I had been chilled by the cold water sluicing over my body, but I began to tremble in earnest now, my knees knocking together. My first instinct was to turn and flee, but my feet moved on their own command. They drew me closer to my cot, to the source of the poetry.

"Come to me," La Lectura murmured. "You want me, don't you? I could see it in your eyes."

"No." I whimpered. But I was still shuffling toward the bed.

"No? Could I have been wrong?"

"No." I said again. This time so much weaker. Resolve draining out of me.

"No, what?" The voice. I would melt for the voice alone. But so much more was on offer than the voice.

"No, you weren't wrong," I capitulated in a whisper.

He was on his back on the cot, naked. Beautiful. Fully aroused. Ready for me.

I stood, at his direction, a leg on either side of the cot, over his chest, as his soft mouth came up to my cock and swallowed me and transported me beyond this world. He had lubricant and while he played my cock with lips and teeth, his fingers opened my canal and prepared me for mounting.

I stood there, whimpering and remembering. Remembering what had sent me into the countryside. Being overwhelmed with the realization of how much I had missed this, how much I wanted it. How much more I wanted it from La Lectura.

When we were both ready, he capped his sword and pulled me down onto the center of him. I cried out as ever before at the initial entry, but the memories flooded in, and my walls luxuriated in the expanding of the throbbing invasion and closed lovingly around his prodigious tool. He was holding me by my hips with his hands, but the balls of my feet knew the rhythm, remembered what to do, how to leverage off the floor on either side of the cot, and I was rising and falling on his manly staff, drawing him ever farther into me.

"I knew it. I knew it would be like this," he murmured, his voice turning dreamy. "I have wanted you since the first moment. I have dreamed thee; I have sought thy essence, to assuage thy sadness. To see thee smile; to smile for me alone, to melt and meld to me and to be mine to the depths of thee."

Not any poetry I'd ever heard, but poetry to me. The words of love I'd longed to hear for a lifetime, that I'd never even heard in Havana.

He had lifted his head to me and he was kissing my nipples and my sternum. His lips went up my chest and into the pit of one of my arms and he was licking and snuffling me in there, inhaling my essence.

"So young, and beautiful and perfectly formed," he was whispering. "And so tight and deep and warm inside. I want to possess you—to the quick, moving as one."

He was stroking my cock with his fist, and I was sighing and moaning for him, lost in his attentions; awed that he was making love to me with his rich voice and his throbbing cock.

When I had cum in a great spouting of pent-up cream, he turned me on my belly on the cot and covered me closely with his body and began a rhythmic stroking of his cock down into me between tightly encased butt cheeks. He was growing larger and my channel was more constricted than before. The full circle of my interior walls felt every vein and tremble of his moving cock. And loved it, remembering, remembering.

I was so fully focused on the waves and waves of pleasure rising up from the center of me that I have no idea when he'd begun reciting again in whispering lips at my ear lobe " . . . Kissing with golden face the meadows green; Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy . . ." Surely Shakespeare again.

I melted and drifted off into another, more beautiful world.

I awoke hours later, in his arms, his cock tumescent inside me, spent after multiple takings and flowings in the earlier hours. His breathing was regular, and I didn't realize he was awake.

"You'll come when I call?" I was amazed, flattered that he even phrased it as a question in that rich, possessing voice of his.

"Yes. Anytime, anywhere."

"Here. Now."

And I was being lifted onto my knees, and he astride my hips and was quickly rising inside me again, and a hand came around and across my belly, taking possession of my ball sac and the base of my cock. And I was moaning and sighing and being stroked in dulcet tones with snippets of Shakespeare's sonnets as La Lectura, my lover, restored purpose and pleasure to my life. I could sing for joy now as I rolled those perfect Vegas Robaina cigars just as long as La Lectura was there on the dais and in my bed to provide rhythm and poetry to my life.