Monday, 11 June 2012

Marina, Part One


In A Spanking Good Life I introduced you to Marina, or Moose as I nicknamed her for her appearance when she stuck her lower lip out moose-like when puzzling over something. Many people wrote to me and asked me to tell them more about her. In fact, I think it fair to say that of all the women I discussed in that earlier book, Marina is the one that interested people the most, so I have decided to dedicate this last chapter of my new book to telling you about her. As you will see, Marina is a good time girl from head to toe.

It all started in 1996 when I found myself somewhat embarrassed financially, as they say. Obviously I needed something more than the bits and pieces that I was then doing to bring in a sort of income, so I decided to go job hunting. For reasons that need not concern us here, I had the use of a top of the range Ford Grand Marquis which meant that I looked the part of a prosperous man about town, so off I went off to look for a steady earner.

It was actually not all that difficult. A very large private university had only recently opened fairly close to my home and I made an appointment to see the head of humanities. Security at such institutions in Mexico is usually very heavy, but the goon at the entrance just lifted the barrier as I drove up and I manoeuvred the car in as if I knew exactly where I was going. I saw a sign, which advised visitors that a small car park to the right of the entrance was reserved for the university's directors and I pulled in there to ask its guardian where I might park. To my delight he stepped back and waved me in so I was able to park right next to the main building with its large cupola dome. I realised there and then that the day was going to be as open to me as a whore’s thighs, and all I need to do was go and grab the opportunity.

 I was supposed to meet the head of humanities, but found myself talking to a women from the language department. She explained that given my degree in American History I would be perfect to teach that subject in English, and that all teaching in that language was done under the auspices of the language department. Well, it is Mexico, when all is said and done.

Actually I fitted right in, much more so that most of the other foreigners who barely spoke Spanish and were under the ludicrous impression that they were labouring in a legitimate institution of higher education, instead of a money making machine for its owners. Of course, once they realised that Mexico was not going to change to please their sense of western, bourgeois correctness they tended to flee back to the United States, much to the amusement of the rest of us. In fact, I can remember one fellow who took bets on how long an American would last in the country before he ran screaming back home.

Within hours of starting work on my first day I had discovered that the people who ran the computer where the students' marks were collated ran a nice little sideline in increasing those marks for a suitable consideration. I also discovered that instead of giving the students a reading list, it was the practise - as it is throughout the country - to put together a compilation of readings, photocopies of which were then sold to the students. At a normal institution, the profit to the lecturer is not all that great, but at mine the students were in the habit of paying for the material with high value notes, and then forgetting to collect their change. It was an easy way to ensure that the bribes arrived at the start of every semester, as well as at the end.

What I did not know was that there was a considerable amount of competition between the female students to decide the correct pecking order between them. For instance, a girl who carried a Burberry handbag with the design that was only sold in London was a step up from a girl who had bought her bag in New York. A girl whose family had a summer home in Spain would become rather sniffy at the mention of a girl with a flat in Miami.

However, the main competition was between the girls who had foreign boyfriends and those who did not. More importantly, between those who managed to snag a foreign tutor, especially a European, and those who had to settle for an American. Needless to say, hardly anyone was interested in a Mexican boyfriend unless he was one of the dozen or so senior figures on the campus, the mere mention of whose name would make the bulk of the Mexican sphincters clench.

I still wonder if I chose Marina or if she chose me, and I suspect that it was a bit of both. I can remember her in the alcove where I had a desk with five other tutors as the girl who used to sit on the floor chatting to one of the Mexican lecturers and eying me up. For my part, I was the one who shouldered my way past a group of leering adolescents that first semester that I worked at the college, patted her firmly on the rump in front of all of them, and thus staked my claim to her.

In doing that I committed a major blunder because what I did not realise was that there was a pecking order amongst the men as well, and that one of those senior figures on campus also had his eye on her ripe young flesh. Alas for him I got in first, thus leaving him to have a wank, or something. He got his revenge a couple of years later when I stuck my neck out in some dubious deal or other and he used that as an excuse not to renew my contract, but just about everyone knew that it was Marina that was at root of the matter. 

I was never sure which man it was, but I knew that it had to be one of that incestuously small group of senior figures, so on my last day of work at that institution as I walked down the main stairs for the last time I saw one of them coming up. I paused to light a cigarette because I knew that he loathed the smell of smoke, bade him a fond farewell, and then told him that Marina was going to suck my cock that night - and that she was going to swallow every drop as she always did. He did not reply - types like that are only brave in the dark - but I knew that the message would get passed on.

Sure, I had lost my job, but it was only bastard work, and I was not the sad arse left having a wank, was I? Looking back, I still reckon that I got the best of the exchange.

And I got to keep Marina as my number one mistress for many years to come!

There is an old saying that a good mistress keeps a bad marriage alive, and as such Marina was probably the best mistress that any man could wish for. Needless to say she couldn't cook for toffee, but went like a steam engine in bed, could deep throat without gagging, and was  willing to let me sleep after my labour's were over - what more could any man reasonably desire in such a creature?

All good things have to come to an end I suppose, and my time with Marina ended eventually, but we kept in touch. If she wanted something then she would give me a call and I would help out. Sometimes I would tell her that the price was an afternoon in bed, and sometimes I did the good deed without stretching her pussy because I was feeling extremely decent on that particular day.

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