her.
He recalled that he'd reached the same conclusion about Vanessa and Phyllis, but had ended up in bed with both of them, much to the surprise of all concerned. But neither were married, while Doña Consuelo was a married Catholic woman. She would never in amillion years take off her pantaloons for a man like me, but maybe I'll hang around for a few more days, because you never know.
An armed vaquero opened the front door, and Duane made his way down the long torchlit corridor, heading for his bedroom. He realized that she was sleeping somewhere in that very building, probably wearing a fancy satin nightgown. He wished he could join her, and slowly, gently, raise the hem. The mere thought made him pant with desire, and he felt as if his head would explode.
She's probably screwing her husband right now, he figured. You can see how much she loves him, the way she hangs on his every word. Besides, marriage is one of the sacraments, and you mess with the sacraments, you're really in trouble. Just keep your hands to yourself, always be a gentleman, and never, under any circumstances, let yourself be alone with her.
On the other side of the courtyard, in one of those darkened rooms, Doña Consuelo lay in bed, waiting for her husband to join her. She could hear him fussing in the next room, removing his corset, while she wore a gown of spotless white silk trimmed with blue embroidery.
Doña Consuelo was despondent over her mother's steady decline, and feared that the old lady would die at any moment. The dutiful daughter felt alone, lost, and fearful of the future. Sometimes it seemed that her life was a sham, and she could find no good reason why she resided in the hacienda, while others slept in mud huts.
Her husband entered the room, and she breathed asigh of relief. He would comfort her with love, and banish unworthy considerations. Perhaps they could bring new life into the world, to replace the spirit of death that hovered over the hacienda.
âDarling,â she said, as she reached for him.
âI'm tired,â he wheezed, as he pushed her away gently. âIt's been a long day.â
She didn't say a word, and felt embarrassed by lust for her husband. He generously hugged her, kissed the tip of her nose, then rolled away and closed his eyes. Doña Consuelo ground her teeth together in the darkness, because she was twenty-one years old, and there was a certain something she needed. She knew exactly what it was, felt mortified, and squiggled to the far side of the bed.
She felt strangely bereft, guilty, and confused. Perhaps I'm too hot-blooded for my own good, she deliberated. Maybe there's something wrong with my mind, since I want it so often. After all, my husband has a difficult life, he works from sunup till he goes to bed, and I mustn't make additional demands. Once or twice a month should be enough for any normal woman.
She rolled over and viewed the finely chiseled profile of her husband in the moonlight. He had a head of hair like a lion, and even in repose was a sight to behold. He looked like a monument, and greatness radiated from his every pore. She moved closer, to get a better look at his regal countenance. Moonlight revealed pouches beneath his eyes, deep lines around his mouth, and that bag of loose flesh under his chin. He was becoming ancient before her very eyes, but she'd always been attracted to older men, because they seemed more confident.
Doña Consuelo was tempted to cuddle with her husband, but didn't want to disturb his sleep. She remembered their glorious wedding night, when he'd initiated her into the rites of love, and could feel his body heat radiating across the mattress. She wondered what would happen if she crawled on top of him, or performed some other disgraceful act, but couldn't bring herself to make the advance. Decent women don't beg for fornication like squealing cats in heat, she reproached herself.
She rolled away and tried to calm down, but hadn't
He recalled that he'd reached the same conclusion about Vanessa and Phyllis, but had ended up in bed with both of them, much to the surprise of all concerned. But neither were married, while Doña Consuelo was a married Catholic woman. She would never in amillion years take off her pantaloons for a man like me, but maybe I'll hang around for a few more days, because you never know.
An armed vaquero opened the front door, and Duane made his way down the long torchlit corridor, heading for his bedroom. He realized that she was sleeping somewhere in that very building, probably wearing a fancy satin nightgown. He wished he could join her, and slowly, gently, raise the hem. The mere thought made him pant with desire, and he felt as if his head would explode.
She's probably screwing her husband right now, he figured. You can see how much she loves him, the way she hangs on his every word. Besides, marriage is one of the sacraments, and you mess with the sacraments, you're really in trouble. Just keep your hands to yourself, always be a gentleman, and never, under any circumstances, let yourself be alone with her.
On the other side of the courtyard, in one of those darkened rooms, Doña Consuelo lay in bed, waiting for her husband to join her. She could hear him fussing in the next room, removing his corset, while she wore a gown of spotless white silk trimmed with blue embroidery.
Doña Consuelo was despondent over her mother's steady decline, and feared that the old lady would die at any moment. The dutiful daughter felt alone, lost, and fearful of the future. Sometimes it seemed that her life was a sham, and she could find no good reason why she resided in the hacienda, while others slept in mud huts.
Her husband entered the room, and she breathed asigh of relief. He would comfort her with love, and banish unworthy considerations. Perhaps they could bring new life into the world, to replace the spirit of death that hovered over the hacienda.
âDarling,â she said, as she reached for him.
âI'm tired,â he wheezed, as he pushed her away gently. âIt's been a long day.â
She didn't say a word, and felt embarrassed by lust for her husband. He generously hugged her, kissed the tip of her nose, then rolled away and closed his eyes. Doña Consuelo ground her teeth together in the darkness, because she was twenty-one years old, and there was a certain something she needed. She knew exactly what it was, felt mortified, and squiggled to the far side of the bed.
She felt strangely bereft, guilty, and confused. Perhaps I'm too hot-blooded for my own good, she deliberated. Maybe there's something wrong with my mind, since I want it so often. After all, my husband has a difficult life, he works from sunup till he goes to bed, and I mustn't make additional demands. Once or twice a month should be enough for any normal woman.
She rolled over and viewed the finely chiseled profile of her husband in the moonlight. He had a head of hair like a lion, and even in repose was a sight to behold. He looked like a monument, and greatness radiated from his every pore. She moved closer, to get a better look at his regal countenance. Moonlight revealed pouches beneath his eyes, deep lines around his mouth, and that bag of loose flesh under his chin. He was becoming ancient before her very eyes, but she'd always been attracted to older men, because they seemed more confident.
Doña Consuelo was tempted to cuddle with her husband, but didn't want to disturb his sleep. She remembered their glorious wedding night, when he'd initiated her into the rites of love, and could feel his body heat radiating across the mattress. She wondered what would happen if she crawled on top of him, or performed some other disgraceful act, but couldn't bring herself to make the advance. Decent women don't beg for fornication like squealing cats in heat, she reproached herself.
She rolled away and tried to calm down, but hadn't
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