Her hair was like a foreign banner on ancient Mesoamerican soil, waving long and lustrous under the late sun, flaring golden against the rough black stone. Her head lolled back over the edge of the Nohoc Mul pyramid, giving Curtsy a superb upside-down view from atop the 140 foot structure. Although she was distracted to an extent by the series of powerful orgasms blitzing through her inverted skull and glorious, twisting body. Spread wide as an eagle, and soaring as high, she gripped the corners of the stone slab and ground her groin upwards in frenzied response to the ministrations of Puch Pop, who she thought of as “Pooch” and of what he was doing to her as “fucking the brains out of a blonde, for Christ’s sake”.
Her legs came up, pointing skyward and quivering alarmingly as hard, smooth athlete’s muscles spasmed. If the tourists had still been down there, some Japanese sariman could have taken home photos of the Cobá ruins featuring a vibrating victory sign on top of the tallest pyramid in the Yucatan. And taped a sudden cry blasting out of her extended, relaxed throat; perhaps interpreting it as territorial monkey cries or the lust call of a jaguar. The sound triggered something very deep in Puch, and he collapsed on her as if shot by an ambusher’s arrow. He lay on top of and between her, feeling the continued vibrations, his head pressed against her strong, lovely breasts. He shuddered in his own darkness, listening to the wild thrum of her heart.
“Some Mayan you are,” she whispered to him in a slightly shaky voice after an indecent interval. “Aren’t you supposed to tear it out while it’s still beating? Offer it to the Gods?”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to do,” he mumbled into her hot flesh. “Only fair: it’s what you do to me.”
“Awwww.” She spoke lightly, but was actually as moved as she could allow herself to be under the circumstances. She put her hand behind his head, wrapped her legs around him in a tight nether hug. “You’re the sweetest guy ever, Pooch. But I just can’t… you’re going to have to settle for just a mindless blond fuck machine.”
“I can live with that.” He lifted his head to smile at her, both of them fully aware it wasn’t really true. “But I’d rather live with you.”
“Then come with me.”
And they both knew that wasn’t going to happen. He was bound to the family “homestead” at CroCun, would never go far from it, though couldn’t have said why. It did fine under his parent’s management and his little brothers, sisters, and cousins were much more fetching than he was at tossing food to the gators and selling souvenirs, which freed him up to work around the area, earning outside money by guiding tourists around the stone monuments of Cobá and the underwater tunnels of the cenotes. And meeting attractive foreign women, an important step in developing his manhood and identity. Then he’d met the ultimate foreign blond: beautiful in face and feature, body a fine-tuned racing machine, as agile and delighted underwater as he was. The Maya had been the most resistant people in MesoAmerica to the Spanish conquista but the comely Señorita Kurtz had conquered him utterly without even trying. And now she was leaving. He responded to her invitation with silence, and by tightening his embrace.
“It’s my dream, Pooch. I gotta go. You know that.”
Oh, he knew. But had to give it a shot: would keep trying until he saw her walk off. “Look, I can stop working here at Cobá; we could spend more time in the cenotes…”
“It’s not the same and you know it.”
“And Enrique said he’ll take us out more, do some deeper reefs.” That was where he really saw who she was, he thought, even more so than like this, straining her hard softness as he burrowed into her. She was still seriously interested in trying for freediving depth records: the two of them going 100 meters and deeper, frolicking in the open ocean with their porpoise-tail monfins. Driving down the reef in a scatter of angelfish, blue tang and neon-striped wrasse.
“But I’d be working in tanks and BC’s. You know I hate that whole SCUBA thing. Those assholes are all gear queer, want to be submarines. I don’t want expeditions, I want to live down there.”
“I know. That’s why I like you.” She did a quick hip flutter, scrubbing her blonde pubic patch against his thin, black Indian gloss and feeling a little tumescence cranking back up. She smiled at him from inches away: shining glory on him. “But Dolphin Discovery… Come on, Pooch, you know.”
He knew. She’d be working with marine mammals, her greatest passion. A passion he couldn’t hope to supplant, is the way it was looking.
“I apologize for not being a dolphin or sea lion or something.”
She made a sad face and put her hand over his lips, murmured. “You’re the closest thing I’ve met, though.” She ran her other hand into his lush, coarse hair and started to undulate against him. She’d been right about detecting resumed interest down there. And now he was moving, too. Things would be all right for a little while longer. “And you’ve got me right here. In your manly arms and on top of the world.”
He looked around at the stark, brutal architecture of the ruins, the scatter of lakes in the hot green jungle, the slash of road leading north. He kissed her long, deep and hot as he tried once again to move inside her to stay. He moved his lips to her ear and said, “For now.”
“Now’s all we’ve got,” she said, her voice blurring as she responded to his urgency. “What else does anybody have?”