(© Copyright by the author, 1997)

I'd actually known Inez in a casual way for about a year before that last afternoon. I first bumped into her - literally - at a farmers' market in Union Square on a mid-October Saturday morning. I was carrying a sizable pumpkin destined to give its all for the furtherance of merriment and atmosphere at a Halloween party. She was crouched low to examine some unusual apples from Upstate. She backed into my path and stood abruptly, nearly knocking the pumpkin out of my arms. Being not nearly as dumb as I look, I did everything I could to prolong the conversation.

After all, Inez was one helluva sexy package and a powerful argument for the colorblind miscegenation of her native Venezuela, with her ochre-highlighted hair, her glowing, swarthy complexion and her lush lips and big brown eyes. But as pretty as she was, the truth is that it was her body that aroused my instant attention and lust. Standing here on a mild autumn day in her spray-on jeans and a black bodystocking, Inez's figure was testimony to her heritage and her then-current job: personal trainer to the rich and healthy. She had strong, curvy legs, rounded hips, a shockingly tiny waist and breasts that were simply perfect. Her tits were bounteous, rounded mounds that stood high and proud on her ribcage, defiantly braless and defying gravity.

As it turned out, we did have some things in common, among them, an appreciation for fine coffee and wines. And I happened to have an invitation to a private wine tasting the following Friday.

I gave her my phone number without asking for hers - no sense in pushing it - and told her to call if she was interested.

And so it went. We would go to wine tastings together, or visit one of the coffee bars then springing up around Midtown like so many mushrooms after a cloudburst. In all, we saw each other every two or three weeks. We would chat about this and that and the other. Bit by careful bit, she let me learn about her.

I don't want to imply that she didn't talk or tell me anything. She readily told me what it was like growing up with her brothers and sisters in a middle-class suburb of Caracas. She freely talked of college (journalism, Northwestern, '88). She spoke at some length - and with great animation, in fact - of the difficulties of getting a decent job in her chosen field.

But she didn't give much away (to be generous in characterization) about her current personal life. She lived in a studio in the Village and did the personal-training bit to cover most of her expenses in between the rare freelance article, she liked to rent videos and read books and listen to music, and that was just about it.

I was making no headway with her, and my condition (acute lust) was worsening. And there was no way she didn't know the effect she had on me.

For instance, the evening we stopped into Starbuck's near the UN. With the wind chill, the temperature on the icy street felt like 10 below zero. As soon as we got inside, Inez whipped off her big down-filled parka and sat, beaming and grinning and thoroughly enjoying the fact that I could not stop glancing at her braless, glorious tits and wildly hardened nipples - which were clearly displayed through the thin white Lycra top. I asked if she wanted to borrow my sweater. Her smile broadened, displaying all of her perfectly even, white teeth. She glanced down at her nipples, than looked me right in the eye and said, "Oh, no, I'm not cold anymore," as if daring me to say anything,

And then there was that February evening after a wine tasting at the Water Club. We'd wandered up to the second floor and were looking across the East River at Brooklyn as the sun was setting. It was that delightful moment when darkness had already enfolded the ground, but the sun's rays were still turning the jets over JFK and LaGuardia into golden flecks of graceful wonder. I pointed this out to her, standing behind her. She leaned back against me, and of course I slid my arms around her. She covered my hands with hers at her waist and whispered, "Oh, this feels so nice." I can still feel the warm, taut weight of her against me, and I can still recall precisely the delicate scent she wore: something with sandalwood in it.

But that night, as on every similar occasion, the moment of contact was fleeting, if intense - and clearly terminated. We almost never touched, and any suggestions that I take her home or that she visit my apartment were politely declined. She was civil but coolly made it clear: It wasn't going beyond casual companionship.

And it wasn't as if I didn't know she had other activities. About half the times when I'd suggest going somewhere, she'd decline, pleading other commitments, usually without elaborating. On one occasion - which promised to be a truly spectacular wine tasting - she'd finally told me that she also picked up a little extra by looking in on and walking pets for neighbors who were out of town. In fact, a colleague in the Village reported having seen her on several occasions walking various dogs, ranging from a pair of perfectly coiffed toy poodles to what he called a "mastiff the size of a Volkswagen."

I found it difficult not to wonder about those "other commitments." She made it clear she lived alone and equally clear that she didn't have a steady boyfriend. I wondered if she might be lesbian - or if some awful event, like an assault, had made her wary of getting too close. To anyone.

I don't want to sound like I was pining away with unrequited lust for Inez and never had any outlets, because that simply wasn't the case. As a fairly successful account exec in my mid-30s, fit and civil and not too hard to look at, I was not exactly doomed to a monastery. Not at all. Paula stopped by twice on her way from Philadelphia to her family's place in New Hampshire. And there was Reena, the tall, lavishly upholstered designer from our art department, who decided to favor me with a weekend fling before settling down with her long-time boyfriend in his new location: Los Angeles.

And, of course, there was Julie.

Now, I am an unabashed tit man. In fact, I like to think of myself as a connoisseur of mammaries. There's an old adage that anything more than a mouthful is wasted, but it's not true for me. What I can't get into my mouth is subject to my fingers, not to mention my eyes. I can appreciate the beauty of a shapely ass, the promise of lovely legs, but... ahhh - tits!

Julie hardly had any tits. She was slim in the extreme, to the point where if she ever lost weight, she'd become waifish. Julie was Vietnamese by extraction (she'd been born and raised on the Left Coast) and about 15 years younger than me - but for some reason, the first time we looked at each other, we both knew we were going to be fucking very, very soon. Two hours after we met - in a housewares' store - we were in my apartment and stripping each other as fast as we could.

Julie was never nude with me, but she was almost always naked. Standing five-and-a-half-feet tall, I guess she weighed about a hundred pounds - and it was all lean and strong and lithe. She had very sparse, straight pubic hair, no hips and tits about the size of ping-pong balls topped by the most incredibly tiny and sensitive nipples I'd ever encountered.

Julie and I fucked liked bunnies almost every Sunday for the three months while she stayed with relatives in Manhattan and took summer courses at Columbia. She'd ring my intercom at noon, and by 12:15, we'd be naked and sweating and having the time of our lives. She could cum like very few women I'd ever known: incessantly and variously. Sometimes she came just sucking me off as I toyed with her nipples. Every now and then she would get, as she put it, "fuck crazy," and then she'd really let go, demanding that I pinch and pull her nipples, or use my teeth (carefully) on her clitoris or even ram my erection up her ass. (Which was really an amazing sensation; as tight and warm as her narrow pussy was, her ass would coat my cock like hot, newly poured rubber. And she would cum.) Sometime between seven and eight every Sunday night, Julie would clumsily stagger into the shower and, after drying off, dress herself, brush her hair, give me a daffy grin from the door of my bedroom - where I'd usually be laying inert, too spent to do more than wave - and then let herself out.

To this day, I don't know exactly what the chemistry was between us, but it was pretty powerful.

Nonetheless, the woman I craved was Inez, and I was getting nowhere fast. In fact, I didn't even know where to find the map. But that would change - unfortunately.

I was in Amsterdam - for the first time - on business, and it was a particularly grueling job this time. Concorde to Paris, then Airbus to Holland, straight into five hours of meetings and presentations, followed by negotiations over dinner, then back to the client's offices to draw up a draft agreement. I was one of the walking wounded when I finally got to my hotel at what was, by my internal clock, seven in the morning. At eleven (local time) the next morning, I was awake and restless - You know: wired and tired - and still had six hours to kill before heading back to Paris and the trip home to New York.

I figured it would be a shame to be in Amsterdam and see nothing of it. So I went for a walk. It was a gray day, but Amsterdam was still a lovely city for walking.

I found myself in the red-light district and decided to take a peek inside one of the notorious sex shops. I'd heard wild stories. What I saw within 15 minutes of browsing convinced me they were all true. You could buy anything there - literally. Not just gay and lesbian and fisting and bathroom sports films; they had tapes of people puking on each other and piercing parts of their bodies. They had films of little kids fucking each other and being fucked by adults (and none of the kids on the covers looked particularly enthusiastic about toiling over the genitals of paunchy, middle-aged people).

And they had animal tapes. Men and women fucking and being fucked by dogs, goats, sheep, pigs, snakes, horses and donkeys. Even eels.

One of them caught my eye. A lithe young woman with breasts large enough to be squashed on the blanket-covered bale on which she lay was clenching her fists in the cloth, and her face was contorted in what appeared to be a scream. Which was understandable, considering the size of the donkey dong quite clearly burrowing into her from above.

But the face sent a chill through me. It could easily have been a young Inez. I examined the box. The writing was in French, German, Dutch and Spanish. No English. Which was fine, because my French and Spanish were more than adequate.

"'New from South America, long out of circulation of young slut who fucks dogs, donkeys and even a pony!'"

The store employees were very helpful. They explained the Customs inspections and cheerfully transferred that tape and another featuring the same Inez lookalike to NTSC videocassettes on which the first 15 minutes showed the standard boring tourist pitch about the beauties of Holland. Lots of tulips, wooden shoes, canals and windmills.

I went back to the hotel, claimed my single suitcase and headed for home. The Customs inspectors at JFK asked if I had anything to declare, I pointed to the tapes and showed the receipts, and they stamped me through in no time.

At home, on Manhattan's East Side, I showered and called the office, leaving my boss a voicemail message. Too tired even to investigate the blinking light on my answering machine, I fell into bed for a few hours. When I woke, I was totally disoriented about the time. I had to squint to see the p.m. indicator next to the "11:13" on the clock. I couldn't get back to sleep, so I padded into the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of Evian and wandered back into the living room. I was too wired to sleep but too foggy to read.

I remembered the tapes. My curiosity overcame my reluctance, and I popped the first into the VCR. I fast-forwarded past the fake tourist pitch and cut to the chase.

One thing was clear: This was no high-budget production. It was obvious the feature had been shot on videotape. Even so, not much time had been wasted on outtakes. Or plot. The titles flashed by - "Animal Slut!" - and then I saw a few quick shots of a big luxury car entering a ranch. A Rich Man climbed out of the back as the chauffeur opened his door. Then came the girl. She was wearing a schoolgirl's outfit - plaid skirt, white blouse, knee-socks - and her hair was in pigtails around that un-madeup face. Except for the fullness of the blouse, she might have passed for a high-school freshman or sophomore. She made a great show of being shy and polite. Then there was a single, brief closeup on her face.

It was Inez.

I watched, slightly stunned, as two of the helping hands from the ranch greeted them and led the trio of guests inside. Very quickly, Inez was being fondled and stroked and stripped. In a matter of seconds, it seemed, her compactly furred snatch was being expertly licked by the chauffeur while the two helpers attended to her wonderful tits and she sucked the Rich Man's cock. When the Rich Man mounted her, she quickly overcame the affected pain of defloration and soon was begging for -

"Mas! Mas! Yo quiero MAS!"

The chauffeur gave her mas and then both of the helping hands. She wasn't satisfied.

That's when the chauffeur brought in the dog. He sniffed at her soaked pussy and began licking it. She jerked and moaned. The helpers bent her over a glass coffee table on which a pillow had been placed. The dog, a big mixed breed that appeared to have a lot of collie in him, obviously knew his business. In seconds, he was over her and his furry loins were thrusting. The perspective abruptly cut to beneath them, because there were plenty of good closeups from beneath of that dog cock pumping in and out of her lightly furred pussy.

Suddenly, the dog hunched forward and seemed to vibrate against her. The base of his cock began to swell inside her pussy. And kept swelling. And swelling. I'd read about that knot, but never imagined they got so big. It had to be at least three inches across.

The perspective shifted, and there was Inez, screaming and writhing as the dog caught a tie with her. She screamed about being split, about him scalding her pussy, about cumming too much to breathe. I doubted she was acting. Al the time, the dog was holding on to her with his front paws, his head was lolling on her shoulder, his mouth was open and his tongue was hanging out.

There was an obvious cut in the action, because then the screen showed the dog pulling out of her and licking between her all but inert thighs before sitting and licking his own cock clean. The closing shot was a slow zoom between her trembling legs. There, beneath the twin quivering bumps of her perfect, tight ass, her cunt was clearly draining - and just as clearly still distended.

After that, the camera followed her into the barn where she took on a ram, and then the biggest damned Great Dane I'd ever seen. For this one, she was on her back on a bale of hay. When the dog came in her, Inez's feet - wrapped high around his haunches - twisted and her toes curled. Her orgasms were anything but faked on this one, too.

At this point, I was staring at the screen, my mouth open and my cock rock-hard. By the time the film ended, I knew I was going to be choking the chicken. I was right, but it didn't provide the needed relief.