The Killing of the Flamenco Dancer

By Anthony Maillard

The Killing of the Flamenco Dancer - Where desperation, desire, and lust collide.

The desire to find true love is an ongoing quest. Marisa, a forty-one-year-old Spaniard now living in Boston and vice president of a marketing agency, uses her sharp tongue, manipulative wit, and voluptuous body to escape her past. At her weekly Girls Night Out, Marisa marks her prey-Reggie, a struggling Bahamian artist with raw talent who enjoys painting in the nude.

Marisa and Reggie embark on a collision course of a tumultuous love affair versus Reggie's upcoming art exhibition due in three months. For Reggie, staying true to his passion for art is his greatest challenge and creates tension throughout their relationship. The dances of the bullfighter, the drinks at El Mojito, the call of the voodoo doctor, the nude dances, intense sex scenes-in the shower, in the car, in the office-all lead to an emotionally possessed Reggie. Meanwhile, Marisa does whatever it takes to turn Reggie into her personal love slave and Boston's Artiste Extraordinaire.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 21, 2016
• ISBN: 9781514476604

Anthony Maillard

Anthony Maillard is a Business Analyst, writer, photographer and musician. In the early nineties, he published a small magazine entitled If Yuh Int’rested – providing news from the Caribbean to West Indians in North American. His recent (Not so idle) Thoughts and Questions continues to be listed on Amazon and Xlibris web sites. Third World Café is Anthony’s second book and represents a new venture into fi ctional short stories based in a small café in Toronto, Canada. Once again, Anthony displays his ability to ‘engage souls’ as he eavesdrops and documents the conversations at each table while heading to a ‘well thought out’ surprise ending.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

THE PAMPERING

M arísa stood half dressed in front of her dresser mirror admiring her full-figured body. Is this the night I am going to meet Mr. Right? she thought as she twisted and turned her head to get a different view of her impressive form. She reviewed her reflection in the mirror, cupping her large breasts in their brassiere holsters to imagine how she looked in different states. She flattened them with her hands to create the North American advertising look—she did not like the look it created. She pushed them up from the outside, causing them to join in the center, creating a larger cleavage—she liked this look even more than she did her naturally large state. Releasing her breasts, she licked her index finger and gently wiped a spot on the surface of the left breast. Whatever she noticed was still there, and grabbing the breast, she lowered her head, extended her tongue, and broadly licked the surface. She inspected her handy work. Whatever it was, it was gone now.

The ritual continued as she scanned her face in the mirror. Her makeup was perfect as the new bronze-colored eyeliner she purchased, produced better results than she anticipated.

She grabbed the panty that was sitting on the dresser, and as if to tease her lower body, she slowly lifted her left leg and inserted her foot. She dragged the panty unnecessarily all the way up her leg, enjoying the silk as it gently caressed her inner thigh. She had to pull the panty all the way down again to insert her other foot. This time she brought her legs closer together so that the middle cloth of the panty rubbed against both of her inner thighs. She smiled as she enjoyed the texture, spread the elastic around her waist with her thumbs, and pulled at the lower elastics on each side of her butt to fix the panty perfectly in place.

Turning to get a side view of her body, she grabbed her crotch and spoke to her reflection, You look good! I can’t believe you’re not married. Look at this figure! Too good! She turned again. What man wouldn’t want to plant his flag and make you his forever? They just don’t know what they’re missing. Marísa’s eyes glistened as she repeatedly rubbed her hands over her large buttocks and hips. Fine form, she complimented. Not too big, not too small, no stomach overhangs that usually happens to people at my age and heredity.

For Marísa, she had done everything right. She was a proud descendant of a long line of Spaniards and had the body and energy to prove it. Her great-great-grandfather fought in one of the wars—she can’t remember which one. She spent the first twenty years of her life in Spain before coming to America. She hadn’t done too badly for herself. At forty-one, she is the vice president of marketing for a twelve-million-dollar advertising agency—not bad for someone kicked out of the house at an early age. She spent her entire life driven for success and now that it was here; she didn’t know how to relax and enjoy the fruits of her labor. However, she knew how to pamper herself on her Tuesday nights.

Continuing her pampering regimen, she grabbed her bottle of CK lotion, placed her foot on the edge of the dresser, and spread the white cream over her thighs. She was in no rush, savoring every moment, as this was her time. She gently massaged the lotion into her skin, enjoying the sensation of her palm against her sensitive skin. She switched legs. The right leg always seemed more comfortable to do as she leaned forward, letting her breasts lay on her upper thigh as she spread the lotion around her ankles and through her toes. I have gorgeous toes, she thought. She was right. Her toes, like the rest of her body, were a stated elegance – straight, refined, almost cultivated. She concluded that the pedicure she had earlier that evening should be honored to grace her feet.

Admiring her toes and squeezing them tightly, she moaned. She lowered her head and placed her cheeks against her extended thigh so that her ear was near her knee. Her cheeks felt wonderful. Her thighs felt great. Her body felt loved as she enjoyed the moment. With a sigh of contentment, she straightened up.

Again, staring at her form in the mirror, she thought, Why would anybody want to take all their clothes off when they could look so mysteriously sensual in a bra and panty? She enjoyed her form and her weekly ritual as she admired her aging hands and their erotic bright red painted fingernails.

The sound of the telephone interrupted her concentration. It was Josie. Are you ready to go, or are you still pampering yourself? Josie yelled into the phone.

Do you have to ask the same question every week? Marísa snapped. As usual, she continued with a drone-like tone, I will meet you at the club. I will be taking my own car and yes, you can order me a margarita and a shooter, if you get there before I do. Anything else?

Well, I can see that you’re going to be fun tonight, Josie shot back. I’m going to pick up Christine, Jackie and Rhonda.

As usual, Marísa said, hanging up the phone. She couldn’t be bothered with the trivial details. They went through the same routine every week: the same telephone call, the same conversation, the same disappointing end to the evening.

She threw on her dress that laid waiting for her on the bed, walked over to the dresser and ran the brush through her full-flowing black hair. She didn’t need much more pampering for her to look good. She stepped into her six-inch-high black pumps, snatched her keys and was out the door.

CHAPTER TWO

LATIN WANNABES

T he drive to the club was her normal route. She sang along to one of her favorite CDs—José Feliciano’s ‘ Te Amaré.’ She loved the passion and strength of his voice. She always envisioned being swept off her feet into a fluffy white cloud filled with the sound of violins and José’s energetic acoustic guitar.

Her arrival at the club was on time, and as usual, she pulled her convertible Mercedes-Benz into the parking lot, purposely occupying two parking spots to avoid anyone from parking too close to her. I’m a bitch like that. She smiled to herself as she got out and headed to the entrance. Deal with it!

It was her favorite club—El Mojito—and nothing came between her and her Tuesday night out with the girls. She kept coming to the club in hope that one night Mr. Right would walk in and sweep her off her feet. As she entered the club she could see the other girls were already occupying their usual table. As she strode across the room to their table, the patrons at the bar greeted her with their usual taunts and comments. It was as if she was a magnet for weirdoes. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that it was Latin Night, or maybe they were just all strange. Somehow, she seemed to be as attracted to them as much as they were to her.

As she approached her friends, Josie greeted her sarcastically with where have you been? What took you so long to get here?

Good night girls, Marísa said in a tone that let them know that she was not ready for their usual harassing. She knocked back her shooter, grabbed her margarita, and surveyed the room.

As a regular, she knew all the players in the room, and she could see that the usual crowd was there. Of course there was the usual array of obnoxious characters—the drunk ones, the full-of-themselves ones, the I know what you need better than you know what you need ones, and oh yes, the Latin wannabes. The club always had its fair share of the Dirty Dancing-era yuppies here to show off their fancy footwork. Yep, she concluded as she continued to scan the room. They were all here!

Tuesdays at El Mojito brought all the characters out of the woodwork. There was Joe, the bartender. Joe was always good for an uninspiring one-sided conversation with the occasional nodding and uh-huhs. Joe’s boss informed him when hired that bartenders were supposed to be the best listeners and advice-givers. At least that was the theory. There was only one problem—Joe is a terrible listener. Worst of all, he could care less about anyone else’s problems. When he found himself in those situations, he would usually break a glass or tell the customer that he had to go bus tables, which he hated doing. Joe hated listening to people’s stories even more than he hated bussing tables.

There was Ricky, the sleep-around guy. Ricky served his purpose and always treated the girls with respect. The single girls took turns taking him home. He wasn’t at the club to hit on anyone; it was as if he was there to please … He was like one of their brothers—family but not related, lover but not boyfriend, mate but not jealous. He was there when they needed him and he always, always wore a condom. All the girls knew that Ricky was not great in bed, but he served his purpose on those lonely nights, and the girls loved him in their own special way.

Guido, the Italian stallion, was also a regular. He attended high school with most of the people at the club but had difficulty graduating—repeating most grades from nine onward. This helped him maintain a broad range of friends … acquaintances. Guido was stuck in a seventies John Travolta movie. He was the walking poster child that said, I’m Italian, I know it, I love it, and now, so do you! The girls publicly laughed at him, but truth be known, on a cold night, even Guido got his action … bell-bottom pants, et al.

The club DJ, John, was born Juan Enriqué Ramirez Salvador and changed his name to John Silverton after high school. He thought that changing his name would open doors in the business world and would make good with the high society chickas. It did! John now works in the mailroom of a large corporation and DJ’s Latin Night at three different clubs. He’s also nervously awaiting his HIV test results from the neighborhood clinic.

A harmless soul with the fire in his eyes—an old man with memories of yesteryear—Pablo showed up every Latin Night wearing the same bullfighter’s outfit. As an ex-bullfighter from Spain, he couldn’t get the allure of the bullfighting ring out of his system. Engaging him in conversation always led to stories and demonstrations about the ring and the bulls he slew as he desperately tried to extinguish the fire and pain that still burned deep inside. Now in his mid-sixties, he sat at El Mojito wearing his full bullfighting regalia, drinking Corona beer and tequila shooters, and drinking himself into a stupor.

Out of respect, John serenaded Pablo with the classic bullfighting song, ‘The Lonely Bull.’ It was John’s way of showing respect for the old man—respect for having been there.

No matter how intoxicated, whenever The Lonely Bull started on the club’s disco system, Pablo would bolt upright, toss his cape over his cane, head to the dance floor, and using his cane as a sword, dance. It was artistic. It was beautiful, almost ceremonial. The couples, previously hogging the floor, withdrew to the walls, hugging each other and enjoying the display with wonderment and respect. As the trumpet soared from the speakers, Pablo danced as if it were his life’s last dance. His cape flew, spun, fluttered and cut the air, accenting the loud music with its own magnificent rippling sound.

John allowed ‘The Lonely Bull’ to end in a blaze of passion. Pablo, in anticipation of the end of the fight, spun his cape one last time, raised his sword and lunged forward, killing his dance partner. Pablo stood motionless, posing with his sword extended toward the imaginary bull lying dead on the floor. The audience showed their respect while Pablo acknowledged their appreciation and drained every ounce of love from the sound of their applause.

Having spent all his energy, Joe would lead Pablo off the dance floor toward the door to the sound of the fading applause. You know, I killed many bulls, he said, leaning on Joe with his alcohol breath, killing Joe’s nostrils.

I know, I know, Joe replied, patting him on his shoulder. You killed another one tonight. Good night, old man. See you next week. With that, Pablo was out the door heading to his downtown apartment two blocks away as Joe stood shaking his head, watching him stagger and dance his way down the street.

By the time Joe turned around to face the club, he found the dance floor repopulated as John reverted to hot salsa and the couples were back to their twirling.

* * *

Marísa spotted him from across the room when he walked in. He wasn’t anything special … no huge biceps to make you go ohhhh … no open shirt to a rippling chest. He just had a presence. She observed that he didn’t dance with the usual fireflies; he was selective, smooth, almost calculating. She watched him maneuver his way through the room, chatting with everyone who came within his sphere and never dancing with the same girl twice. She watched him twirl his partners, leaving them in a fit of excitement and frenzy. Flamboyant dancer! she thought to herself. All the girls watched him—he was new meat!

As Marísa watched him move from one partner to the next, she noticed that he never spoke—except to ask permission for the dance. It was then that she decided—she had to have him. Not for a dance … not for a fling … She decided right there and then, he was going to be hers … forever. It was just a matter of how. She lay in wait monitoring his every move, refusing to dance with even her regular partners, awaiting her turn.

Unfortunately, nature calls, so she got up and headed to the ladies’ room. She hustled to return to her gawking. As she closed the door to the ladies’ room to return to her seat, there he was, standing there. There … right in front of her. He looked taller from across the room, but now she could see that they were both the same height. She could hardly contain herself.

Hi, my name is … he said.

Marísa interrupted him before he could finish. Hello, my name is Marísa, she replied, knees trembling. Please let me apologize for staring all night, she said, voice cracking.

Were you staring? he asked with a big grin that she knew she just had to kiss. Well, I had to work my way through all those other girls just to get to dance with the most beautiful woman in the room, he said.

She couldn’t control herself; the words jumped out of her mouth. "You mean you didn’t want to dance with all those other girls? she asked sarcastically. She knew as soon as the words left her lips that she had asked the wrong question. She tried backpedaling. I mean; didn’t you enjoy dancing with all those girls?"

He turned on the charm. Of course I enjoyed dancing with all those girls, he replied, grinning from ear to ear. But while I was with them, I couldn’t imagine anything as wonderful as dancing with you. As he said this, he extended his hand as if asking permission to escort her to the dance floor.

How could I possibly resist that smile? she thought. She knew that taking his hand could change the rest of her life, but if she hesitated too long, he might change his mind.

CHAPTER THREE

THE DANCE

T here are times in life when Cupid draws his bow and releases the arrow and for some unknown reason, the arrow gets stuck to the string and goes nowhere. This is exactly what happened to Marísa’s legs. She couldn’t believe that this man who, in her head, she was already having children with, was asking her to dance, and she had not grabbed his arm and bolted to the dance floor. After all, she had waited for this from the moment she saw him walk into the club.

He stood there, perplexed. Is she going to turn me down? It wouldn’t be his first rejection, but he really wanted her. He moved his arm with a slight gesture as if asking again. She looked into his eyes and his broad smile … searching. Somehow, for some inexplicable reason, she felt very comfortable. No, not comfortable—relaxed or maybe … safe. That’s it; she felt safe. She raised her hand, placed it in his; and with that; they were off to the dance floor.

The only thing she remembers about the walk to the dance floor is how wonderful she was feeling. It was orgasmic! Once there, they danced every song from that moment on.

He was a torturous dancer. Her body ached from the joy of his gentle yet aggressive control. He locked their fingers tightly in total embrace to the point where she could feel the sweat in his palms as he twirled her in typical salsa style. He spun her until she was almost dizzy, causing her skirt to flail in the air, hitting the other dancers while exposing her gorgeous legs. Holding her hand high above her head as she turned, she could see him glancing at her nude form under her skirt. His interest enticed her and made her want to spin even more, forgetting about the approaching dizzy sensation. She was on the brink of losing control when he grabbed her above the waist, pulled her toward him and glued their cheeks together for a tango-like swirl.

Later, he pulled her toward him, joining their pelvic areas. She didn’t have to move her waist; it was being moved for her … with little or no effort on her part as they rotated in unison. He pushed and pulled her against him, his hands firmly placed on her buttocks, in total control. She could feel him throbbing against her as her juices flowed. Then as if knowing her breaking point, he spun her away and continued the torture.

For Marísa, it was exhilarating. It was the first time that she had danced this way—at least publicly. He was communicating with his entire body without saying a word. He touched her mind. He touched her body. More importantly, he touched her soul.

Grabbing her around her belly with his right arm, he half-extended his left arm to hold her right hand in place. Then pulling her large buttocks toward him, he wedged himself firmly between her butt cheeks and cradled his chin between her head and shoulders, his cheeks touching hers. He danced from behind her, not allowing her to know who was controlling her every breath. It was like dancing with a total stranger. He stood in total control behind her issuing orders with his salsero hips. His right hand lowered to hold her just above her pubic area. She moaned, almost begging him to grab her, touch her … there. He could have touched her anywhere he wanted. She didn’t care.

The DJ turned on the smoke machine, changed the tempo and kicked it up a notch. Marísa’s knees buckled as he pushed her forward from behind and their bodies assumed the fetal position, still gyrating. They rotated on the floor, half bent at the knees. One second they were down; the next, they were up and then down again, finally getting to the point where she bent over at the waist, almost touching her toes.

Staring at the smoke-filled dance floor with her head swinging from side to side and gasping for air, Marísa could feel his hands tracing a pattern on her back in rhythm to the music. He worked his hands down her back and firmly grabbed her butt cheeks and commanded her rotation. Her thighs ached in places they had not experienced pain before. Finally, he commanded her to straighten her frame. She brought her upper body slowly upright while his hands continued to explore her buttocks, hips and legs. She was breathing heavily, her breasts heaving in the night, her hands searching for something to touch … anything … anyone … exploring the night air with provocative gestures.

Marísa gave no thought to the other people in the club or on the dance floor that by now had enough smoke to reach their waists. If she had, she would have noticed that everyone had stopped dancing and was now standing and watching them. She gave no thought to the fact that her shoes were off and her feet were now communing with the dance floor and her new master. The freedom he ignited in her caused her to kick up her heels even more than necessary.

Her partner moved his hands up her body to her shoulders and down her naked sweaty arms. He drew circles with his fingers in the wetness, working his way down to her fingers. With his chin resting gently against the back of her neck, he entwined her fingers and pulled her hands up the front of her body. He crisscrossed her chest, gently brushing against her breasts and leaving her hands to rest on her shoulders. His hands moved down her side again, grabbed her waist and finally turned her toward him.

Finally, I get to see his face, Marísa thought; but before she had an opportunity to focus on him, in one sweeping motion, he lifted her up in the air, holding her around the knees, his face buried in her thighs. Marísa soared as they spun around the floor. She spread her arms wide apart, leaned her head back and enjoyed her flight. She could feel his palms pressing against her inner thighs, his fingers digging deep into her flesh. She gasped with excitement as she imagined everything possible.

He slowly lowered her, his face rubbing against every part of her body as she finally settled face to face in front of him. He left no space for the dress to fall during her descent, so the front and sides of her dress were raised, her legs exposed up to her panties. Marísa felt free. She thought of her dress and not being fully covered, but she knew that the smoke would hide her naked form and her navy blue silk panties. Besides, she could feel him throbbing hard against her and she wasn’t about to ruin this moment.

They stood staring deep into each other’s souls, motionless. Their lips opened simultaneously as their mouths grew closer together anticipating … Neither of them noticed when the applause started, but they could hear it approaching as the other couples returned to the dance floor. They disengaged their fixation only to look around and find themselves the center of attraction. Marísa liked the attention. She was excited. He was embarrassed. He grabbed her hand and led her to the exit.

What about our kiss? she thought, her heart still racing as she followed his lead once more. What could be next?

As they got outside, he turned and handed his card to her. I really had a good time. Call me!

I did too, said Marísa, taking the card. She read it aloud, Reginald T. Stanfield, the Artist.

Call me Reggie, he said.

I’m Marísa, she said as she looked up from the card to notice that he was walking away.

I know. Nice to meet you, Marísa, he shouted.

Nice to meet you too, she mumbled. She was in shock, disbelief, perplexed. Could he just be walking away? He was walking away. No kiss! No hug! No nothing? Don’t be surprised if I call you, she yelled, waving to him, as he was already quarter way down the block.

Marísa looked at the card to verify that his name and number was on it. What could I do if it wasn’t? she thought and smiled to herself as she remembered how her evening unfolded.

She turned to return to the club and saw Josie standing at the entrance with her small pocketbook. Thank you, Marísa said as she took it and started to head back to the club. In the same instant, she realized that it wouldn’t be the same in there without him. She stopped and looked down the street where he just disappeared into the night. How odd that he didn’t even try to kiss me? she thought. He knew that I was putty in his arms.

She traced her fingers on her sweaty arms where his hands had been only minutes before. The mere thought of it gave her goose bumps. She smiled. Her smile grew to a big grin. Her grin grew to a hop, skip and a jump as she danced her way to her car, throwing her hands in the air and reliving some of the moves they shared. Was that one dance or five? She didn’t know. More importantly, she didn’t care.

She got into her car and headed home. The reason for her big smile was obvious as she hummed along to Jose Feliciano. He had fulfilled her wish after all.

Suddenly, there was a loud burst of laughter in her car. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha … She pounded on the steering wheel in her glee as she realized that she forgot her shoes at the club. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha …

CHAPTER FOUR

ANTICIPATION

R eggie drove himself crazy during the three days after the Dance. She was all that he could think about. On the first night, he lay in bed writing and rewriting romantic poetry about falling in love, using words like angelic, vision, fantasy, and pu rity.

None of them were good enough for her, he thought. His mind raced incessantly—doubting himself, questioning his actions—Why didn’t he take her telephone number? He sketched her in his manuscript, seven, eight times—different poses, different scenes—all having an air of grace. His incessant thoughts of her disturbed his normal everyday routine. He never thought about the shoes at the club—all he could think about was his Marísa.

* * *

On Friday, his meeting with his agent, Suzanne, and the management of The Gallery to discuss an opportunity for an art exhibition found him daydreaming, unresponsive and unusually agreeable. During the negotiations, he stared off into the distance as if contemplating life and Suzanne had to nudge him several times to bring him back to reality. After all, this was their first major gallery offer, and she needed him to focus on the potential contract. No one else in the room thought of his behavior as abnormal, except Suzanne. After all, he is an artist, and artists are supposed to be eccentric. Reggie was not himself, and she was anxious for the meeting to conclude so he could explain his aloof behavior.

Having worked as Reggie’s agent for the past eight years, Suzanne has never seen him behave in this manner. In the corridor heading to the elevator, she grabbed his arm and questioned him. Okay, tell me what the hell’s going on? Are you on something? Are you drinking again? What are you thinking about? Do you have a new idea? Are you worried about the exhibit? Do you need money? Is it Georgette again? Did she call you again? Does she want more money? Is she keeping you away from Kayla again?

The questions came in rapid-fire succession and Reggie was in a daze trying to decipher them all at once. He turned to Suzanne. Uh! Yeah! Yeah! No! No, it’s not Georgette. I’m fine! I’ll talk to you later … Love you. And with that, he took off running down the stairs, leaving her standing at the elevator doors.

It’s eight … flights … down, she started to say, but he was gone through the doors before she could finish.

* * *

Suzanne has had a crush on Reggie since they first met eight years ago at a party. She would give anything just to have him look at her … that way. She vividly recalls how she melted immediately that evening when Reggie’s slinky form walked into the room and headed toward her. His thirty-two-inch waist held on to what seemed like a size thirty pair of black jeans, and even though it was a semi-formal function, his T-shirt under his sports coat said it all, proclaiming Peace be with you! His half-dreadlocked, half wavy hair adorned a sculptured black face with a nose that exposed his