body, and her
hands were inexhaustible, and they ran searchingly through all the foam, and they came
and went tirelessly, and our soaked bodies now and again pressed against each other so
that her hands could reach my back in an embrace, and I enjoyed all this movement,
sinuous and vague, that provoked sudden, hidden jolts, and seeing that those hands were
already taking advantage of my darkest corners – even combing through the threads
at the badly stitched seam of the groin (and secretly weighing the soapy packet of my
member) – I said ‘wash my head, I’m in a hurry’, and then,
pulling me out from under the stream of water, her hands immediately penetrated my hair,
rubbing firmly with her fingers, massaging my scalp with her nails, scratching my nape
in a way that sent me crazy, to my core, but I didn’t say anything and just
carried on feeling the soft foam grow up there until it splashed down onto my face in a
rush and stung my eyes, making me rub wildly at them with my knuckles, even though I
knew that their burning clearly announced I was clean, and before long she pulled me
under the shower again and her fingers in my hair started to tease out the most
pleasurable thing in the world under the warm water, and then there was a splat splat as
thick foam toppled down, flying apart on the tiles wet with water running noisily into
the drain, and she laughed and laughed, and I stood there, so stilland
abandoned to her care, I didn’t raise so much as a finger, so that she would carry
out this work on her own, and I was already well rinsed-off when she, straying from the
task at hand, slid her wet mouth over my water-skin, but I, taking the reins from her,
acted as if nothing had disturbed the ritual, and as soon as she turned the water off I
let myself be led silently out of the shower cubicle, and under the light electric
current of my shivers I waited there until she threw a large towel over my head,
starting immediately to dry my hair with such lithe and precise motions that my memory
was jogged, and with my eyes hidden I glimpsed, although small and naked, her feet
enlarge in big sandals and I also felt her delicate hands transform themselves suddenly
into rustic, heavy hands, though they were minute hands whose fingers entered my ears,
heaping caresses on me, tickling me, making me snicker to myself under the towel, and it
was so good, her looking after my body and leading me, wrapped up, to the bedroom and
combing my hair in front of the mirror and giving me a pretend telling-off and offering
me little bits of advice and helping me on with my trousers and shirt and making me lie
on my back on the bed, before leaning over me to do up my buttons, and making me place
my heavy shoes in her lap so that she, bending over me in her dedication, could tie up
my laces, I only know that I delivered myself absolutely into her hands, so that the use
she made of my body would be complete.
The Breakfast
We smelled fresh when we went into the conservatory, where
her shoulder bag was still open on the table, and as she sat down in one of the wicker
chairs, I opened the curtains still needing to be opened, and half-hidden behind one of
the pillars I pressed my nose to the glass and, in spite of the fog, could see Dona
Mariana squatting in front of a flowerbed down in the garden, her hands in the earth,
her watering can at her side, peeping now and then up towards the conservatory’s
high windows, and that was when I went out onto the landing and, gripping the tiles of
the low wall, shouted her name, asking for breakfast, but I immediately entered her
field of vision again, her head thrown back on the chair cushion, her skin rosy and
relaxed, a short intense sigh as if to say ‘it wasn’t enough, but it will
do’ (which was what she always told me), and I without a word leant over the
sucupira-wood table, pushed her leather bag and my heavy iron ashtrays aside, and it was
at that moment that Dona Mariana came in, acting
hands were inexhaustible, and they ran searchingly through all the foam, and they came
and went tirelessly, and our soaked bodies now and again pressed against each other so
that her hands could reach my back in an embrace, and I enjoyed all this movement,
sinuous and vague, that provoked sudden, hidden jolts, and seeing that those hands were
already taking advantage of my darkest corners – even combing through the threads
at the badly stitched seam of the groin (and secretly weighing the soapy packet of my
member) – I said ‘wash my head, I’m in a hurry’, and then,
pulling me out from under the stream of water, her hands immediately penetrated my hair,
rubbing firmly with her fingers, massaging my scalp with her nails, scratching my nape
in a way that sent me crazy, to my core, but I didn’t say anything and just
carried on feeling the soft foam grow up there until it splashed down onto my face in a
rush and stung my eyes, making me rub wildly at them with my knuckles, even though I
knew that their burning clearly announced I was clean, and before long she pulled me
under the shower again and her fingers in my hair started to tease out the most
pleasurable thing in the world under the warm water, and then there was a splat splat as
thick foam toppled down, flying apart on the tiles wet with water running noisily into
the drain, and she laughed and laughed, and I stood there, so stilland
abandoned to her care, I didn’t raise so much as a finger, so that she would carry
out this work on her own, and I was already well rinsed-off when she, straying from the
task at hand, slid her wet mouth over my water-skin, but I, taking the reins from her,
acted as if nothing had disturbed the ritual, and as soon as she turned the water off I
let myself be led silently out of the shower cubicle, and under the light electric
current of my shivers I waited there until she threw a large towel over my head,
starting immediately to dry my hair with such lithe and precise motions that my memory
was jogged, and with my eyes hidden I glimpsed, although small and naked, her feet
enlarge in big sandals and I also felt her delicate hands transform themselves suddenly
into rustic, heavy hands, though they were minute hands whose fingers entered my ears,
heaping caresses on me, tickling me, making me snicker to myself under the towel, and it
was so good, her looking after my body and leading me, wrapped up, to the bedroom and
combing my hair in front of the mirror and giving me a pretend telling-off and offering
me little bits of advice and helping me on with my trousers and shirt and making me lie
on my back on the bed, before leaning over me to do up my buttons, and making me place
my heavy shoes in her lap so that she, bending over me in her dedication, could tie up
my laces, I only know that I delivered myself absolutely into her hands, so that the use
she made of my body would be complete.
The Breakfast
We smelled fresh when we went into the conservatory, where
her shoulder bag was still open on the table, and as she sat down in one of the wicker
chairs, I opened the curtains still needing to be opened, and half-hidden behind one of
the pillars I pressed my nose to the glass and, in spite of the fog, could see Dona
Mariana squatting in front of a flowerbed down in the garden, her hands in the earth,
her watering can at her side, peeping now and then up towards the conservatory’s
high windows, and that was when I went out onto the landing and, gripping the tiles of
the low wall, shouted her name, asking for breakfast, but I immediately entered her
field of vision again, her head thrown back on the chair cushion, her skin rosy and
relaxed, a short intense sigh as if to say ‘it wasn’t enough, but it will
do’ (which was what she always told me), and I without a word leant over the
sucupira-wood table, pushed her leather bag and my heavy iron ashtrays aside, and it was
at that moment that Dona Mariana came in, acting
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