Chapter One
Sex and Politics in the Basque Countryside
Dawn broke with early summer’s golden glow in the Philadelphia suburb where we lived in a house owned by our corporation, Waldrup Enterprises, Inc. A long day spread before us. I set the alarm for 6:30. We had another half hour. Time enough, I thought.
The faint morning light coming through the window of our room illuminated the creamy tan curve of Sam’s face and shoulder. Sliding my hand across the sheets I found her breast. A couple of rubs and the nipple became pebble hard. She sighed and turned toward me with a drowsy smile. “We’ll have to be quick,” she murmured and pressed her body firmly against mine.
Without another word or thought, our mouths came together in a lingering kiss. Sam’s hands probed below the covers, seeking out the ardent, erect member hidden in the shadows. I went through one of those fits where I wanted to touch, lick, and penetrate everything she had with every sense at once. The event’s psychedelic. Think of hearing an electric banana or tasting a Beatles medley.
I settled for tracing the outline of her pelvis.
“You devil,” she whispered with a throaty, passion-besotted sigh, “you know I can’t take much of that.” She rose up on an elbow and the sheets slid away, revealing the creamy, compact little body I loved for all of my life—at least for all of it that meant anything.
She rolled me so I lay face up and climbed on top. I felt the manipulations of her small, strong hands as she positioned herself for penetration. I took her rock-hard butt cheeks in each hand and separated them as much as possible without causing pain. I knew exactly how far I could go. Sam accepted me inside of her with a languid sigh.
She took in a deep, rasping breath with each upstroke, keeping rigidly upright above the waist. The gathering morning light outlined a pair of tan mounds capped by hard pink nipple.
I thought of what she felt like inside. The wonderful warmth of her vagina had a way of caressing and pulling me at the same time. Tiny hands pressed down on my chest as climax approached. I almost couldn’t breathe. We came together in a dazzle of contraction and ejection.
* * * *
“Look Mom!” cried Eddie as the jetliner banked, filling the window with blazing light and a blue hemisphere of the Bay of Biscay. We prepared to land in Bilbao.
Sam, sitting between Eddie and me, leaned toward the oval portal. “It’s beautiful, honey.” The sunlight lit her red hair with golden highlights. I sneaked a look at her from the back, the straight shoulders tapering to a narrow waist ending in the delicious curve of hip and butt. After six years together, her taut body thrilled me as if I were seeing it for the first time.
I couldn’t wait to get her alone again.
“What’s beautiful, Mommy?” asked Cassandra, pulling me back to the present. Cassie, Eddie, and Claire were our triplets. The two girls sat with Bertie, the nanny, in the next row behind. Claire read a book of fairy tales while Cassie’s face, a miniature of Sam’s, remained glued to the window.
“The sea, love,” Bertie said with a high-pitched cockney accent. “See how beautiful the water is?”
The Bilbao skyline filled the window as the airplane banked away from the aquamarine seascape. Sam grabbed my sleeve, rolled her eyes, and whispered, “I’m so hungry.”
Some of us brought food when traveling but seeing the rarity of the cut offended the sensitivities of most human passengers and garnered unwanted attention, so we avoided eating in public. The children and Bertie were a different story. Bertie was a human familiar and the kids ate everything in sight.
In every other way, too, they developed more like human children than any subspecies. Sam as a lycan and I as a vampire did not walk until the age of three. We said our first words when our contemporaries started school. Eddie, Claire, and Cassie walked at nine months. Not yet six, all of them read at a second grade level. Subsequent offspring born from lycan-vampire unions, numbering fourteen now, showed the same development.
We deplaned and traveled down the long corridor past the gates to the checkpoint area. In the distance, the arm of a tall, drop dead gorgeous woman with jet black hair and porcelain white skin shot into the air and began waving frantically when she caught sight of us. Aunt Cynthia was a lycan. Sam had been her mentor and together we helped her through Emergence. Since then, she became part of the family.
The sea of faces and their various meager personal aromas parted somewhat and Cynthia stood alone. When Sam and I met, I couldn’t tell her scent from a human female’s. No doubt it’s probably why lycans and vampires were unaware of one another’s existence. For two thousand years, each kind believed the other to be a myth. However, with Sam constantly in close proximity, I learned the differences within weeks of meeting.
In stiletto heels Cynthia stood well over six feet tall. Once an anorexic, pasty-skinned clumsy girl with the body of a child, emergence transformed her into the alabaster-skinned fashion model known as Cynthia. She wore the trademark sequined black micro-mini with matching vest, white blouse, and nude hose. Raven banana curls fell down around a square, high cheek-boned face. Bituminous eyes set in deep sockets under arched charcoal eyebrows, and curled eyelashes flanked a straight nose. Ruby lips and the faintest glow of color completed a striking vampire apparition of black, white, red and pink.
“There are my little Bubbies!” she exclaimed with a smile that showed two rows of perfect teeth. She leaned forward and spread her arms in anticipation of incoming children who, upon spotting her, covered the thirty feet between us with the noise and energy of a tiny cavalry charge. She pressed her knees together, bracing for them, revealing a lanky and well-molded expanse of leg.
Cynthia’s scent, overpowering everyone else much the same way her physical presence did, advertised readiness for sex, a sweet aroma not unlike steamed jasmine rice. If I sensed it, so did Sam whose eyes cut guardedly in the younger woman’s direction. As a human, Bertie couldn’t perceive the state of arousal and neither could the kids’ senses, which wouldn’t develop until just before Emergence.
With a shrug and self-conscious grin, Cynthia mouthed the word “sorry” to Sam before readdressing her attention to the children. She may have been ready for sex but not with anyone here. Sam understood, walked over to Cynthia, and joined in the group hug.
“Has Oscar arrived?” I shouted to Cynthia after we cleared customs. Oscar was a human. Five years ago he drew up and filed the corporate documents for Waldrup Enterprises, Inc., named for my mother. Almost none of the membership called it that—Coven International, Inc. was the name we passed among ourselves.
Once, he and Cynthia had been an item. After the last time they shared an amorous night together he spent three days hospitalized with a mild heart attack. Dr. Benefacio Ortiz, a lycan and the corporation’s chief medical officer, counseled Oscar to “hunt something tamer.”
The break up was friendly. If it hadn’t happened, Oscar would probably be dead. Sam and I hoped to meet his new wife, a vampire named Patricia O’Neal from Londonderry, Northern Ireland.
“Oscar?” Cynthia answered. “Oh, sure. He’s been here since Tuesday, organizing stuff.”
“Did he bring his lovely better half?” I asked.
“No, not this time.”
“How’s Malvina?” Sam inquired. Besides being the children’s godmother and oldest known subspecies, as a distant relative of the Spanish royal family she held the title of Contessa.
“They’re just fine,” Cynthia said as she breezed ahead with the three little ones in tow. “Oh look,” she exclaimed to them, “there’s a man with balloons. How about Aunt Cynthia buys each of you one?” To which the response was happy childish pandemonium.
“Something to eat would be nice,” Sam shouted after her.
“It’s in the limo,” Cynthia shot back over her shoulder.
We went on to the baggage carousel while Cynthia swapped Euros for balloons with a fat scruffy man who reeked of garlic, a smell that may be distasteful but does not ward off lycans. After tying a balloon string to a wrist of each child, she waved at us to follow.
“Over this way,” she advised, plunging toward a set of automatic sliding doors to the humid outside. She led an eclectic carefree procession of statuesque female and noisy children, with colorful balloons twisted and shaped into animals streaming behind.
A black, stretch Mercedes limousine parked curbside, breakdown lights flashing. The Contessa’s decal in the windshield exempted it from the security requirement that traffic must keep moving. A pair of Guardia Civil in olive drab uniforms and black patent leather hats, armed with carbines, eyed us coldly from up the sidewalk. The driver’s door flew open and out came one of Malvina’s bodyguards, an imposing broad-shouldered man of about forty-five. He was a human. Malvina’s other bodyguard was his younger brother, born a vampire.
“Señor White,” he said quietly to me, but his attention lingered on Bertie. “Too much time has passed.”
“And for us also, Paco,” I answered. “How is your brother?”
“Juan is fine. He is most pleased to be with Senorita Cynthia again.” Vampire brother Juan took over as Cynthia’s semi-permanent mate. Because of his superior sexual endurance as a vampire, he spent more time with her than any other male, but years would pass before Cynthia settled for having only one man in her life. She was in the first decade after Emergence; the period Sam calls “the horny days.” Cynthia had been trying to get pregnant by him since she learned that Sam was expecting.
Cynthia took shotgun while the rest of us piled into the commodious rear.
“I want to sit up front with Aunt Cynthia,” Eddie demanded.
“No dear,” Sam quickly responded, “you and Cassie had the window seats on the airplane. It is Claire’s turn to choose.”
Eddie backed off, muttering something about the unfairness of life while Claire climbed onto the wide luxurious seat. She sat close to Cynthia’s smooth flank, shooting Eddie a quick snicker as she passed. I know we violated every child safety law by letting her sit up front but the occasion seemed to justify the exception and the bulk of the limousine eliminated the threats from all but the heaviest vehicles.
Paco placed our luggage in the trunk and took his seat behind the wheel. When the last seat belt clicked into its lock he floored it, and we pulled into traffic with a squeal of tires and an acceleration that pressed us into the plush car seats and their strong smell of leather.
“Oh my!” Bertie’s nasally warble filled the compartment.
I looked up and Cynthia’s lavishly featured face stared back at me. “There is something to eat in the fridge,” she said.
A hundred and five miles stretched between the Bilbao Airport and Malvina’s estate. Fifteen minutes of expressway through flat, rich farmland and picturesque tile-roofed buildings gave way to steeply inclined two-lane mountain roads. I lost count of the number of times we took a blind turn at fifty miles an hour or I tremulously peered out the window at a sheer drop with only a few carved rocks as a makeshift safety rail between us and the edge.
Everyone else appeared oblivious to what I considered real peril. The whole time Cynthia faced the back, breathlessly catching up on gossip with Sam or Bertie, or playing with the children. Sam answered between mouthfuls, but I didn’t take a bite. I couldn’t disconnect my brain from the vision of two tons of black steel in a hundred foot free-fall. Next year, I promised myself, I would do everything possible to have the meeting in someplace flat, like Iowa.
At last we turned off the mountain road and on to one that wormed its way among countless fields of grazing sheep. After navigating a sharp turn around a boulder as large as a house, we passed through a gate over which spread an ornate coat of arms. The Malvina Estate was a small stone castle, complete with battlements and towers.
Pointing at a grayish-green stained edifice, I said to my son, “I told you it was a real castle.” By then I had recovered a bit from the white-knuckle part of the trip.
Sex and Politics in the Basque Countryside
Dawn broke with early summer’s golden glow in the Philadelphia suburb where we lived in a house owned by our corporation, Waldrup Enterprises, Inc. A long day spread before us. I set the alarm for 6:30. We had another half hour. Time enough, I thought.
The faint morning light coming through the window of our room illuminated the creamy tan curve of Sam’s face and shoulder. Sliding my hand across the sheets I found her breast. A couple of rubs and the nipple became pebble hard. She sighed and turned toward me with a drowsy smile. “We’ll have to be quick,” she murmured and pressed her body firmly against mine.
Without another word or thought, our mouths came together in a lingering kiss. Sam’s hands probed below the covers, seeking out the ardent, erect member hidden in the shadows. I went through one of those fits where I wanted to touch, lick, and penetrate everything she had with every sense at once. The event’s psychedelic. Think of hearing an electric banana or tasting a Beatles medley.
I settled for tracing the outline of her pelvis.
“You devil,” she whispered with a throaty, passion-besotted sigh, “you know I can’t take much of that.” She rose up on an elbow and the sheets slid away, revealing the creamy, compact little body I loved for all of my life—at least for all of it that meant anything.
She rolled me so I lay face up and climbed on top. I felt the manipulations of her small, strong hands as she positioned herself for penetration. I took her rock-hard butt cheeks in each hand and separated them as much as possible without causing pain. I knew exactly how far I could go. Sam accepted me inside of her with a languid sigh.
She took in a deep, rasping breath with each upstroke, keeping rigidly upright above the waist. The gathering morning light outlined a pair of tan mounds capped by hard pink nipple.
I thought of what she felt like inside. The wonderful warmth of her vagina had a way of caressing and pulling me at the same time. Tiny hands pressed down on my chest as climax approached. I almost couldn’t breathe. We came together in a dazzle of contraction and ejection.
* * * *
“Look Mom!” cried Eddie as the jetliner banked, filling the window with blazing light and a blue hemisphere of the Bay of Biscay. We prepared to land in Bilbao.
Sam, sitting between Eddie and me, leaned toward the oval portal. “It’s beautiful, honey.” The sunlight lit her red hair with golden highlights. I sneaked a look at her from the back, the straight shoulders tapering to a narrow waist ending in the delicious curve of hip and butt. After six years together, her taut body thrilled me as if I were seeing it for the first time.
I couldn’t wait to get her alone again.
“What’s beautiful, Mommy?” asked Cassandra, pulling me back to the present. Cassie, Eddie, and Claire were our triplets. The two girls sat with Bertie, the nanny, in the next row behind. Claire read a book of fairy tales while Cassie’s face, a miniature of Sam’s, remained glued to the window.
“The sea, love,” Bertie said with a high-pitched cockney accent. “See how beautiful the water is?”
The Bilbao skyline filled the window as the airplane banked away from the aquamarine seascape. Sam grabbed my sleeve, rolled her eyes, and whispered, “I’m so hungry.”
Some of us brought food when traveling but seeing the rarity of the cut offended the sensitivities of most human passengers and garnered unwanted attention, so we avoided eating in public. The children and Bertie were a different story. Bertie was a human familiar and the kids ate everything in sight.
In every other way, too, they developed more like human children than any subspecies. Sam as a lycan and I as a vampire did not walk until the age of three. We said our first words when our contemporaries started school. Eddie, Claire, and Cassie walked at nine months. Not yet six, all of them read at a second grade level. Subsequent offspring born from lycan-vampire unions, numbering fourteen now, showed the same development.
We deplaned and traveled down the long corridor past the gates to the checkpoint area. In the distance, the arm of a tall, drop dead gorgeous woman with jet black hair and porcelain white skin shot into the air and began waving frantically when she caught sight of us. Aunt Cynthia was a lycan. Sam had been her mentor and together we helped her through Emergence. Since then, she became part of the family.
The sea of faces and their various meager personal aromas parted somewhat and Cynthia stood alone. When Sam and I met, I couldn’t tell her scent from a human female’s. No doubt it’s probably why lycans and vampires were unaware of one another’s existence. For two thousand years, each kind believed the other to be a myth. However, with Sam constantly in close proximity, I learned the differences within weeks of meeting.
In stiletto heels Cynthia stood well over six feet tall. Once an anorexic, pasty-skinned clumsy girl with the body of a child, emergence transformed her into the alabaster-skinned fashion model known as Cynthia. She wore the trademark sequined black micro-mini with matching vest, white blouse, and nude hose. Raven banana curls fell down around a square, high cheek-boned face. Bituminous eyes set in deep sockets under arched charcoal eyebrows, and curled eyelashes flanked a straight nose. Ruby lips and the faintest glow of color completed a striking vampire apparition of black, white, red and pink.
“There are my little Bubbies!” she exclaimed with a smile that showed two rows of perfect teeth. She leaned forward and spread her arms in anticipation of incoming children who, upon spotting her, covered the thirty feet between us with the noise and energy of a tiny cavalry charge. She pressed her knees together, bracing for them, revealing a lanky and well-molded expanse of leg.
Cynthia’s scent, overpowering everyone else much the same way her physical presence did, advertised readiness for sex, a sweet aroma not unlike steamed jasmine rice. If I sensed it, so did Sam whose eyes cut guardedly in the younger woman’s direction. As a human, Bertie couldn’t perceive the state of arousal and neither could the kids’ senses, which wouldn’t develop until just before Emergence.
With a shrug and self-conscious grin, Cynthia mouthed the word “sorry” to Sam before readdressing her attention to the children. She may have been ready for sex but not with anyone here. Sam understood, walked over to Cynthia, and joined in the group hug.
“Has Oscar arrived?” I shouted to Cynthia after we cleared customs. Oscar was a human. Five years ago he drew up and filed the corporate documents for Waldrup Enterprises, Inc., named for my mother. Almost none of the membership called it that—Coven International, Inc. was the name we passed among ourselves.
Once, he and Cynthia had been an item. After the last time they shared an amorous night together he spent three days hospitalized with a mild heart attack. Dr. Benefacio Ortiz, a lycan and the corporation’s chief medical officer, counseled Oscar to “hunt something tamer.”
The break up was friendly. If it hadn’t happened, Oscar would probably be dead. Sam and I hoped to meet his new wife, a vampire named Patricia O’Neal from Londonderry, Northern Ireland.
“Oscar?” Cynthia answered. “Oh, sure. He’s been here since Tuesday, organizing stuff.”
“Did he bring his lovely better half?” I asked.
“No, not this time.”
“How’s Malvina?” Sam inquired. Besides being the children’s godmother and oldest known subspecies, as a distant relative of the Spanish royal family she held the title of Contessa.
“They’re just fine,” Cynthia said as she breezed ahead with the three little ones in tow. “Oh look,” she exclaimed to them, “there’s a man with balloons. How about Aunt Cynthia buys each of you one?” To which the response was happy childish pandemonium.
“Something to eat would be nice,” Sam shouted after her.
“It’s in the limo,” Cynthia shot back over her shoulder.
We went on to the baggage carousel while Cynthia swapped Euros for balloons with a fat scruffy man who reeked of garlic, a smell that may be distasteful but does not ward off lycans. After tying a balloon string to a wrist of each child, she waved at us to follow.
“Over this way,” she advised, plunging toward a set of automatic sliding doors to the humid outside. She led an eclectic carefree procession of statuesque female and noisy children, with colorful balloons twisted and shaped into animals streaming behind.
A black, stretch Mercedes limousine parked curbside, breakdown lights flashing. The Contessa’s decal in the windshield exempted it from the security requirement that traffic must keep moving. A pair of Guardia Civil in olive drab uniforms and black patent leather hats, armed with carbines, eyed us coldly from up the sidewalk. The driver’s door flew open and out came one of Malvina’s bodyguards, an imposing broad-shouldered man of about forty-five. He was a human. Malvina’s other bodyguard was his younger brother, born a vampire.
“Señor White,” he said quietly to me, but his attention lingered on Bertie. “Too much time has passed.”
“And for us also, Paco,” I answered. “How is your brother?”
“Juan is fine. He is most pleased to be with Senorita Cynthia again.” Vampire brother Juan took over as Cynthia’s semi-permanent mate. Because of his superior sexual endurance as a vampire, he spent more time with her than any other male, but years would pass before Cynthia settled for having only one man in her life. She was in the first decade after Emergence; the period Sam calls “the horny days.” Cynthia had been trying to get pregnant by him since she learned that Sam was expecting.
Cynthia took shotgun while the rest of us piled into the commodious rear.
“I want to sit up front with Aunt Cynthia,” Eddie demanded.
“No dear,” Sam quickly responded, “you and Cassie had the window seats on the airplane. It is Claire’s turn to choose.”
Eddie backed off, muttering something about the unfairness of life while Claire climbed onto the wide luxurious seat. She sat close to Cynthia’s smooth flank, shooting Eddie a quick snicker as she passed. I know we violated every child safety law by letting her sit up front but the occasion seemed to justify the exception and the bulk of the limousine eliminated the threats from all but the heaviest vehicles.
Paco placed our luggage in the trunk and took his seat behind the wheel. When the last seat belt clicked into its lock he floored it, and we pulled into traffic with a squeal of tires and an acceleration that pressed us into the plush car seats and their strong smell of leather.
“Oh my!” Bertie’s nasally warble filled the compartment.
I looked up and Cynthia’s lavishly featured face stared back at me. “There is something to eat in the fridge,” she said.
A hundred and five miles stretched between the Bilbao Airport and Malvina’s estate. Fifteen minutes of expressway through flat, rich farmland and picturesque tile-roofed buildings gave way to steeply inclined two-lane mountain roads. I lost count of the number of times we took a blind turn at fifty miles an hour or I tremulously peered out the window at a sheer drop with only a few carved rocks as a makeshift safety rail between us and the edge.
Everyone else appeared oblivious to what I considered real peril. The whole time Cynthia faced the back, breathlessly catching up on gossip with Sam or Bertie, or playing with the children. Sam answered between mouthfuls, but I didn’t take a bite. I couldn’t disconnect my brain from the vision of two tons of black steel in a hundred foot free-fall. Next year, I promised myself, I would do everything possible to have the meeting in someplace flat, like Iowa.
At last we turned off the mountain road and on to one that wormed its way among countless fields of grazing sheep. After navigating a sharp turn around a boulder as large as a house, we passed through a gate over which spread an ornate coat of arms. The Malvina Estate was a small stone castle, complete with battlements and towers.
Pointing at a grayish-green stained edifice, I said to my son, “I told you it was a real castle.” By then I had recovered a bit from the white-knuckle part of the trip.
_
© 2010 - 2015. All rights reserved and no exceptions. All personal works on this site are the exclusive property of Mike Arsuaga. Work may not be transmitted via the internet, nor reproduced in any other way, without prior written consent.
© 2010 - 2015. All rights reserved and no exceptions. All personal works on this site are the exclusive property of Mike Arsuaga. Work may not be transmitted via the internet, nor reproduced in any other way, without prior written consent.