Chapter 1: Background

My name is Valis and I’m the luckiest man on Earth. For more than twelve years I got my body juiced on a regular basis by the top girl in the male-squeezing sport. You can say that’s a quite materialistic approach to a relationship. That’s because you didn’t get her under your skin. Which means you got no tv, read no papers and don’t browse magazines in the bus stations or airport shops. Because even if you aren’t up on internet underground sex you’d still recognise N as the girl in the soft-drink commercials, glamour mags, schoolboy folder covers and gossip tv-shows. A single contact with N, eye contact would suffice, and you’ll want nothing but stick to her for the rest of your life. So now imagine what would you do if you were allowed a whole night stand. A quicky one, which for her standards translates into some 90 minutes of continuously escalating action, and all your principles tumble upside down. You end up wondering how damn you could have spoiled your existence in getting a nice job, making lots of money, having lovely children, instead of investing every nanosecond of your life span at screwing her. Or rather, to be 100 percent honest, getting screwed by her. You wouldn’t conceive a greatest prove of genuine, all-generous, spiritual love that sleeping with N, abandon your sinful flesh in the hands of N, the blessed dick-disposing machine. But let’s start by the beginning, and the story kicks off some twelve years ago, in the warm, stylish coasts of Southern Europe, when the days got milder because summer had lost its sharpest edge.

Retrospectively, it was crazy how the life of young N Lakshmi Leão had changed in a matter of months, not to say weeks. Dad had got a promotion and the whole family moved South, into the major touristic city of the country. Dad’s company rented an immense but cute art-deco chalet in a residential neighbourhood, five minutes walking from one of Europe’s largest sand dune, with three rooms per family member and enough space to park a truck and unload its contents without leaving the garage. She started her first year in a large, cosmopolitan Senior High, where the lings of other successful entrepreneurs gathered from all across Europe mixed up with the local top layer in multilingual harmony. Soon the slender girl with the languid ocean-wide stare and crunchy curls became popular by mistreating a worn, creaky bicycle with her mighty thighs in her way to school every morning, and leading courageously the contralto voices in the chorus rows every eve.

But the big changes came from inside. By then young N had already come to terms with her body, and got more or less used to turn up more faces than she would wish. Genes had prodigiously shuffled to produce an eye-catching combination of mum’s feline and exotic elegance and dad’s muscular tone. Should nature laws allow it little N could be the awesome cross between a magnetic-strolling panther and a shy gazelle with eye-slashes the size of butterfly wings, only her eyes could out-scare a predator’s gaze and compared to the antelope she got longer limbs. Some key parts of her anatomy, though, still bore an awkwardly childish reminiscence, as built up at a different scale to the rest.

That was until late summer, when the last touches from the brilliant genius who designed her body came into shape. As wishing to celebrate one of those pink-glowed September dusks, the pure, graceful lines sketched during her late childhood took chiselled definition. Her chin developed, the fingers grew stronger, her shoulders broader, her neck elongated like the swan in the tale, her midriff got that unnecessary, insultingly superior, extra stretch and the cute young lady muted into a female Michelangelo chef-d’oeuvre. A modern times Venus with no need of shell.

The family had already settled down in their brand new villa and registered the kids at high school for the upcoming new term. N and her three elder brothers Anthony, Vasco and Samir –who looked like three sizes of the same good-looking model- had battled for their favourite rooms among the many available in their villa. She conquered the one on the very top, with the sloppy ceiling and built-in wardrobe, with full-size oval mirrors inside the twin doors. She had finished unpacking and classifying all her clothes, threw her tank-top to the pile for laundry and stood in briefs, panting at her equally endowed double reflection. She pulled up her chin and puffed out her chest, sincerely surprised by features never seen before. Should Botticelli be allowed to peep through, he had burnt his Venus down to ashes, and given himself up to the new beauty idol. Because N does not attract you, she simply inhales your soul and uses it to warm up her chest. The funny thing is, no matter how obvious her charm displayed, she’d rather let her toes got plucked off one by one with a rusty pair of pliers than admitting so. And that was the finisher, the final tap that makes your defences come tumbling down.