LE RENTO DEPARTAMENTO A MI CAMBIO ME DA UNA BUENA FOLLADA

In the sweltering heat of a bustling Mexican city, a leggy redhead strutted down the cobblestone streets, her curvaceous hips swaying seductively with each step. The sun glinted off the copper strands of her long, wavy hair as it cascaded down her back. The girl was a vision of raw, unrefined beauty. Her skin, kissed by the sun, glowed like caramel. She was the epitome of the Latin firecracker – a petite package overflowing with fiery passion and raw sensuality.

This enchanting minx was none other than our host, who had agreed to let me crash in her one-bedroom apartment for a few days. She’d barely looked at me when I’d arrived, stumbling into her flat at some ungodly hour of the morning. I was dragging my suitcase behind me, exhausted from a sleepless red-eye flight.

“I’m in the living room,” she called out, her dulcet, lilting voice instantly permeating my dreams. And there she was, curled up on the couch in a pair of tiny denim shorts and a thin white tank top that left little to the imagination. The flimsy material of her shirt clung to every dip and curve of her lithe body, the full swell of her breasts straining against the fabric.

“Hola, guapa,” she purred, tousling her bouncing curls with one hand. She was completely unabashed, crossing one bare leg over the other as she appraised me with a coy smile curling her lips.

I managed a stammered greeting. Could this really be happening? What was I, a scraggly white boy dreaming of some spicy Latin dream girl? To be fair, that’s exactly what it felt like – a pots-and-pans-falling-from-the-sky reveal of pie-in-the-sky desires; an elaborate fantasy conjured up by a naive teenage mind. She had me in her thrall, and she knew it too. Our eyes met, communicated, understood.

She was sculpted into a sinuous S-curve, the shortest of miniskirts framing her heart-shaped bottom, pert and proud as she cocked a hip to the side. Her face was clever, saucy, alive; she gleamed and shimmered as if electrified. She laughed at my clamorous awkwardness, and there was so much beauty in that sound – the flashing teeth and flyaway curls, the lush lips parted slightly, fiery eyes dancing with mirth: it was an intoxicating visage of wanton possibility bearing promise of pleasure, a have-to-catch-your-breath profusion of carnal delight.

“And what exactly are you doing in my bed?” she asked, continuing her striptease. Her clothes fell to the floor one by one until she was fully bared, standing barefoot before me.

“I…” I couldn’t find my voice. My mouth was suddenly too dry. I swallowed hard.

She was before me now, touching my face with soft, dainty hands. Her fingertips explored every line of my jaw, down the column of my throat to my chest. The heat of her palms seared my skin. “Estás hermoso,” she breathed against my ear. Her lips brushed the edge of my jaw and I shivered. “Her-ma-No.”
She encircled my neck, pulling me down to her. My hands automatically reached for her hips. skins were merging, a dance and interplay – pressure, rubbing, sensing. Her body was soft and yielding. Liquid fire. My whisky tongue traveled up her throat to her sweet mouth once more. She moaned into the kiss, surrendering completely. Again she traced the seam of my lips eagerly with her own. A second time she licked into me, her saliva-standard sweet and soothing. She debauched me, reducing me to a slack, spent husk. A second later, she was gone, a whisper of perfume in her wake.

“That was…intense.” I sat on the edge of the bed shakily, my mind reeling. Was this real? Or just another one of my overactive daydreams cranked to the hilt? I needed a cold shower. A trip to the moon. Anything to calm my racing pulse and bring me back down to Earth.

I decided to take a walk around the neighborhood to clear my head. But the sights, the sounds, the smells simply added to my sensual intoxication. The city pulsed with the beat of bachata and mambo, the rhythmic staccato of high heels clicking over aged cobblestone. Color was everywhere – vibrant greens of the avocado trees, hot pinks and sizzling oranges of bougainvillea blooming against whitewashed walls. The humid air was thick with the scent of jasmine and the aroma of street food – rich corn tortillas, succulent charred meats, the sharp heat of habanero peppers frying in sizzling oil.

As I wandered, lost in a sensual fog, I felt a light tap on my shoulder. I turned to find a woman who looked just like my host, only older. She had the same stunning features – the copper hair, the smoldering eyes, the pouty lips. She smiled at me, as if she could read my thoughts.

“Seguro you’re not lost, sweet boy,” she purred, her voice a throaty chuckle. Her accent was intoxicating. “Not in my quartier. Let me take care of you.”

I followed her, willingly, eagerly, back to her apartment. She attended to my needs expertly, her hands roaming my body with confident know-how. She was a maestro, playing my pleasure like a finely-tuned instrument. I was utterly undone, liable to beg, to weep, to die with untrammeled passion. And she accepted my worship with her own fervent passion, a kind of golden generosity and humility that made me want to prostrate myself at her feet and never leave.

Later, as she lay beside me, basking in the afterglow of our lovemaking, I realized that I had crossed over into another landscape, entered into an alternate dimension. Because I’d never return to my old life after this. A metamorphosis had overtaken me. I’d been spurned, hazed, and baptized. Made over and converted. I couldn’t believe how thoroughly, how completely and irrevocably I’d been transfixed. My heart was untanned, unbaked white bread, pliant, malleable, easily shaped by time.

She stretched languidly beside me, her body glistening in the soft light of the bedroom. Her hair fanned out around her on the pillow like a ginger halo. The simple sight made me swallow hard and cup her face in the latter of my hand.

“You are enchantment itself,” I murmured, overcome with wonder. “A siren, sent to lure me to wreckage. I’d thought to find a place of rest, but find instead only endless agitation and high commotion.”

She giggled, delighted by my words. “Estás borracho de mi, papi,” she said, touching two fingers to her chin in an exaggerated pout. “Lost to my whims. Que Dios te guié.”

She had me there, I realized. I was drunk on her, lost to everything and everyone but her. And I never wanted to find my way back. I could be no good for anyone else, not after her. She was so vivid, so vibrant – a living, breathing flame, searing herself into my soul.

As I drifted off to sleep, her face floating behind my eyelids, I smiled to myself. Who cared if the rental department ended up costing me more than I’d bargained for? I’d always remember this – the searing heat of the sun, the pulsing energy of the city, and most of all, the irresistible fire of the woman who set my world alight.