The Mammoth Book of International Erotica

MEMORIES THAT LINGER ON by Carlos Benito Camacho

Translated by the author

Although I was born and grew up in the city, I spent fragments of my life in the country. Once, when I was a very young boy, my mother became ill and could not look after the six of us kids. While my brothers and sisters were taken care of by relatives who lived in the city, I was sent to the country to stay at an uncle’s.

Uncle Miguel lived on a small farm, which was about 75 miles from the city. He was a tenant farmer who worked a 50-acre rectangular piece of fertile land. Like my mother he was born and grew up in the country and was a devoted Catholic who attended church every Sunday. He was married to Aunt Jane, a woman who was half his age. Since they were a childless couple, it was deemed convenient that I stayed there for a whole year. I did not like the idea of having to spend such a long time away from my brothers and sisters, in some remote place where I had never been before. But they said I had to go when my uncle’s old pick-up truck stopped out in front.

My arrival in that exotic place was an unnerving experience. I was scared to death by those scrawny, rural dogs, which welcomed the urban alien with growls and barks. The first days were awful. I was homesick all the time. Hidden in some nook of that house, I would cry silently in sobs. My uncle’s solemn and distant presence was no solace to me, but Aunt Jane was a warm lady who cheered me up, talking to me as she smiled, giving me cosy hugs which fed my childish heart with sprinklings of mirth.

As my uncle was away all day long, working in the field, I spent most of the time with my dearest Aunt Jane. She worked hard, too, doing the household chores, but she always found time to fit me in, taking me for a walk to the river or giving me a ride on one of the horses. She got up at dawn everyday, milked the cows, made the fire with wood in the out-kitchen, and then she made breakfast. When Uncle Miguel left for work, she would go over to wake me up. Although I was already wide awake, because of the cocks’ crows and her hustling around the house, I always shammed sleep and let her walk over and sit on the edge of my bed; and the magic moment came when she kissed my forehead as she gently rumpled my hair for a while, whispering nice things in my ear. And I woke up, letting myself be caught in her intense blue-eyed look which warmly seeped into my soul on those beautiful country mornings when the golden beams of sunlight slantingly streamed in through the window panes. Then I smiled at her, smelling the smoked hair which flowed down over my face. Being touched by that motherly woman’s warmth made me feel safe at home.

Of course she knew I was pretending, but, since she was very fond of me, too, she acted as if she did not know about it. Affection was something my stern mother could not express. So it became a petty yet important game I loved to play. But the time came when I had to leave. I did not want to go back, but they said I had to, otherwise I would lose my first year at school. Besides, my mother had recovered by then.

My mother was a pious woman who hammered into us Biblical stories and prayers.

To go to church was compulsory, as we had to live by her strict moral codes. Even though there were times when she was in a good mood, she would get so worked up when she found one of us at fault, venting her wrath on all of us. She would also quarrel with my father when he came back late. Perhaps it was that strained atmosphere which had made of me a withdrawn, shy boy who did not speak enough to assert himself and who had trouble relating to his classmates.

But I was sensitive and had an intense inner world. I had learned to love the open, green spaces where life sprouted lavishly and quietly everywhere. That is why every year, when the school began, I escaped the cold, strident urban world and ran to shelter under my aunt’s affectionate care for more than two months. I did not feel lonely by her side, since she was the only one who really understood me. My mother never objected to my going away every year, but she would always say to my uncle, “make him pray,” before we left.

Although Aunt Jane was born in Argentina, her parents were from Durham, a small city in northern England. My aunt’s father was an experienced foreman who came to work for the railways, which were run by the British at that time. They arrived in Argentina in the late twenties, spending five months in Buenos Aires and two years in Rosario. Then her father was transferred to Cordoba where they lived five years, moving again at the end of that period to finally settle in the Northwest. It was here where my aunt was born. Athough Mr Cavendish had bought a farm by then, he still worked for the railways, but as the manager for the local station this time.

Thinking that it would be a matter of months before the strife came to end, Mr Cavendish left South America to serve England at the outbreak of World War II. But once he had left they never heard of him again. Deprived of her husband, my aunt’s mother became feeble at the end of the war and eventually fell victim to a chronic disease. When she died, away from her mother country, her eldest son, George, took charge of the farm.

Five years later, under Peron’s regime and in a country which held meager prospects, George and his younger brother decided to go to England. The three of them agreed to sell the farm, house, and furniture, sharing the money among themselves in equal lots. But my aunt, who was twenty now, decided to stay in Argentina. After her brothers’ departure she found herself alone and married a man who was forty-two.

My uncle was a tall, slender man with handsome features, but, like my mother, he seemed to be unable to express much affection. He was a God-fearing believer who, like most of the Argentinians, was narrow-minded and followed the fetishistic ritual of lighting candles to a motley collection of plaster saints, virgins, and faded, black and white pictures of Evita. He was a man who slid along his cultural groove.

In sharp contrast with him, my aunt never went to church, nor did she talk about religion. Although she had attended only primary school, she was a broad-minded woman to whom one could talk about any subject. She could speak, read, and write both Spanish and English.

But it was the latter which she had more knowledge of, since her mother had taught her to read and write it properly. She kept an old trunk full of books which her parents had brought from England. She read them every evening in the amber light of an oil lamp.

As summer went by, I came back to the country bigger and taller as I developed into my teens. Although I had lost interest in fishing at the river and roaming about in the forest looking for nests or shooting birds with my slingshot, it was the need to be myself by my aunt’s side, in that quiet spot, which brought me back. I was now at secondary school and had begun studying English. So, spending time with my aunt was a big help. She was the best teacher I had ever had. She was so poised and collected when she taught me. I would always sit close to her to listen to the English words which she carefully pronounced for me as she read one of her books. It was very nice to feel her warm breath when she spoke looking into my eyes. She made me feel as if I still were her little child.

But I was a teenager now. I was more than sixteen and had already started to strongly feel the sex drive inside. Once when I was seventeen, I was staying at my uncle’s for a weekend. On Saturday, he had left early to the city to attend the Lady of Mercy celebrations and was expected back in the evening. I had checked if the hired man had harrowed the patch of land in which corn was going to be sown and then helped my aunt do her daily chores when we were having lunch in the shade on the verandah.

It was hot and quiet; there was no noise, except for the steady chirp of cicadas and the occasional whinnies of a horse in the pen. From where I was sitting at the table I could see the heat waves rise from the ploughshares lying in the parching midday sun, at the side of the thatch-roofed shed.

We had not said anything yet. We just ate, looking into each other’s eyes from time to time, communicating in a language known only to us, as a warm breeze played gently with her loose, red hair. Something subtle and tender lay in those eyes which made me feel at ease and complete.

“Have you asked her out yet?” she said.

“Yes, I did, but she turned me down. I’d thought of taking her to the student day party, but at first the words wouldn’t come out, and when I finally had the courage to ask her to come to the party with me, she said that she was going out with somebody else. I felt like a clumsy idiot,” I said.

“Don’t you ever feel like that. Wherever and whoever you are with you will always be a gorgeous boy and a wonderful human being,” she said, as she put her hand on mine to reassure me.

“How do you like the meal?” she asked.

“You always cook wonderfully, Jane,” I said.

“How about going to the river for a swim? It’s quite hot today. It would be nice to splash about for a while in the cool water. They say after the last rain the river rose, leaving some deep pools where you can swim,” she said.

“It sounds like a good idea,” I said.

Walking a path that ran along the middle of the farm, we set off for the river at around three. Reaching the property limit, we crossed a barbed wire fence and began threading our way through the lush vegetation. Here and there flocks of birds, perched in trees, would suddenly soar up with a whirr, startled at the sight of two human beings.

A sense of anxious expectation, which I could not account for, quivered inside me as she held my hand leading the way. The warbling of birds and the constant chirping of cicadas reverberated in my ears, as the fresh scent of bracken and aromatic herbs filled my nose and lungs. I heard the sound of running water as the path began winding through willow trees. The sun-flecked ground became sandy; then the trail tilted, ending up at the river shore.

We took off our shoes and padded along, feeling the wet sand under our feet by the clear water that rippled over stones. We stopped at a place shaded by willow trees standing above on the river bank. Taking our hats off, we sat down for a while and then my aunt said, “You go in first.”

“No, let’s go in together,” I said.

My aunt got her pants off, but left her flowered blouse on. Down below she was wearing black, cotton shorts which fit her tightly. I had always thought that her skin was beautiful, and when I saw her white plump legs, a nice tickling feeling shuddered throughout my body.

When I was a little boy my aunt not only saw me in underwear, but also saw me naked when she washed me in the bath, scrubbing me with a sponge, and when she so daintily rubbed me dry with a towel afterwards; and although it had been a long time ago since I began having my bath myself, I had grown used to her seeing me in underwear. So I took off my shirt and pants and walked with her into the cool water, which flowed slowly at this point where the stone-strewn, sandy riverbed was deep and almost level.

We swam for a while, playing and splashing water at each other as we laughed. But amid the frolic, Jane suddenly choked with water and started to cough as she hung onto a boulder standing out in the pool. Worried, I came up close to help her. “I’m all right,” she said, with bleary eyes, gasping for breath as she leaned backward against the boulder.

I was standing in front of her in waist-deep water when the current gently pushed me up against her. I instantly felt her warm legs touch mine. I looked intently at her, and for a moment I thought that the freckles on her red face might just as well be bits of grated chocolate on strawberry cream. A shiver stirred my groin as I looked into her eyes, raking her dripping hair off her forehead. Then I realized what I felt for her that day was something I had not felt before. It was something magic which had grown out of our special relationship.

I was on the verge of kissing her mouth, but I hugged her tightly instead, feeling her bulging bosom against my chest. Then she put her hands on my face and said, “I think we should go back,” and waded out of the water. When I came out to get dressed, she was looking at me as she stood on the shore.

Her stare slowly crept down my body and stopped at the middle, where my hot stiffness was straining against my white cotton briefs. But I did not feel embarrassed. It felt all right being watched by her.

Although I still felt that special son’s love for her, sexual desire for my aunt had awoken inside me. And I am quite sure that she felt something new and different, too, aside from the sweet, motherly love which she always felt for me, by the way she watched me as I came out of the water that day. But she was my aunt, so I wrote it off.

Next Monday when I went back to school, I felt unusually at ease in the crowd of students, as I noticed that the girl that I used to like did not appeal to me as much as she had done the week before. I studied hard and sailed through all the last term school subjects. When school finally finished, I was elated about the prospect of studying at the state university next year, just as my aunt had told me to do, and about the fact that I was going to see her again, taking another break from the hectic city life.

I had planned to be there sometime in the first week of January, after. I had spent Christmas day and New Year Eve with my parents and siblings. But about three weeks before the year ended, we got a letter from a relative in Buenos Aires, informing us that my grandmother, who was eighty-eight, was in hospital and that she was expected to die at any moment. As my mother was not feeling well, it was agreed that Uncle Miguel would travel to the capital city and stay there as long as necessary. But before he left he asked me to help Aunt Jane look after the farm.

Despite the sad event, I was happy to leave earlier than I had expected. So I packed up right away, throwing a couple of books and a few magazines for us to read in the evening and also enough batteries for the radio and the torches. My uncle could never get the inefficient state-owned company to supply the farm with electricity as it was in a far-flung corner of the province, about 35 miles off the main road, at the end of a winding, dirt lane. Except for the tractor and truck in the shed, the old, colonial style house, with its oil lamps at night, was really a 19th-century enclave.

When I arrived that evening, we stayed up, talking about my grandmother’s serious condition, and catching up on our lives. The first week we toiled all day long and by the time we sat down for supper, we were exhausted. Then work slowed down and we could afford to read or play games after supper. On the 24th I did not even work in the field, and as we had already done the shopping, we had enough supply to tide us over a week. So after I had fed the horses and cows in the morning, I could wind down for the remainder of the day.

To ward off the heat of the day, I sat in the shade of the big tree at the side of the house. I had just started poring over Sigmund Freud’s Theory of Dreams when Aunt Jane’s image at the brook three months before suddenly arose in my mind. Then to no avail I tried to concentrate on my reading. So I closed my book and, looking up at some point in the tree, I sank into a libidinous reverie. The sudden clatter of a bucket on the well coping broke in on my train of thoughts. Aunt Jane was drawing water. I felt terribly attracted to her, as I watched her for a long moment. At forty-five, the household chores kept her buxom body in good shape. She turned her head, looked at me and smiled, squeezing down the pump lever.

Just before noon I had temporarily succeeded in putting out of my mind the erotic thoughts about Aunt Jane. I had never made love to a woman yet and my sex drive was extremely powerful, and that day the hidden hunger for her, which had unfurled from some nook in my self, came over in waves down my groin until I felt a tightened, hard package in my pants. At lunch we were discussing Nietzsche’s Beyond Good and Evil when I found myself ogling at my aunt’s clothed breasts. “Hey, wake up! I’m talking to you”, she said. Then I steadily looked at her face. She blushed and looked away.

I wanted her so much, yet at the same time I wished this craving for her had not started. I had to do something to engage my attention. Accordingly, I saddled up the sorrel mare, took the shotgun, and rode ten miles to the moors where I had set three days earlier some bird traps to catch partridges. But when I got there I was not myself; mysterious, conflicting forces seemed to have overwhelmed me. I got off and tethered the mare to a shrub. It had rained the night before. The afternoon sun sucked out the moisture from the wet earth and I could feel the hot waves of vapour rising up as I walked. Two partridges had been caught, but I set them free and I did not feel like going shooting. I was thinking of her. I went back to the mare, slid the shotgun in the scabbard, got on and cantered back home.

The sun slipped down in the west behind the mountains, plunging the heavens in diaphanous saffron and aquamarine. Below, nature’s colours had been subdued by murk, which crept out from the forest, the sugar cane field, and out of the well. Dim light streamed out from the out-kitchen. Aunt Jane was making dinner. I picked up the torch and went inside. I lit the lamp in the bathroom, took off my clothes, and got into the tub. The water was lukewarm and nice on my nakedness.

As I soaped my body, my mind slunk back to the thoughts about Aunt Jane. I imagined her naked coming out of the river with water dripping down her body. Rivulets ran across her belly down her pubic region, her wet skin shining in the sun. I reached out to pick up the sponge from the window sill and I noticed her underwear next to it. I slowly rubbed my body with her wet briefs. Then I got up and wrapped them around my glossy tight stick. I pretended I was deep inside her as I rubbed my self back and forth. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Aunt Jane watching me through the door which I had left ajar. I turned to look but she was gone. Or perhaps I had just imagined that I saw her watching me. I became even stiffer at the thought that she was watching me. I derived great pleasure being watched by her. Then her voice calling me to dinner from somewhere in the house interrupted my train of thoughts.

At supper we were quiet; we did not even mention the fact that it was Christmas Eve. She seemed restless and avoided my eyes as though she felt embarrassed about something.

“You are not eating,” I said, “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” she said.

After dinner we unsuccessfully tried to entertain ourselves with a word game. Then she said she was tired and that she was going to sleep. I lingered there for a while thinking. Then I went to bed myself, too. But once in bed I was not able to sleep, so I sat up. I tried reading, but it did not work. I was extremely anxious. If I could find a way to tell her the only thing I had held back – how much I needed her.

It was about midnight when I got up for a glass of water. As I came out of my bedroom, I looked across the hall. To my surprise, a chink of light faintly spilt out from under the door. Driven by burning curiosity, I stealthily moved closer to take a peek. Fixing one eye on the keyhole, I could see only her head which rested on a pillow. In that dim light she seemed to have a troubled expression as she looked up at the ceiling.

I drank the water then I came out onto the verandah. The world outside was blinded by a moonless, pitch-black night. Only the stars above twinklingly witnessed my behaviour as I skulked around to the other side of the house. Slouching down, I approached her bedroom window. The warm summer breeze played with the white, lace curtains, which were partially open. The sheet on her bed was pulled back. I could make out her whole body. She squirmed restlessly on the bed for a while, then pulled up her white gown, exposing her plump legs. My heart pounded with excitement as I swallowed. Her hand slid down her body and underneath her black briefs as she slightly opened up her legs. Watching her fingers move under the cotton fabric, I began shaking. I came back into the hall and stopped in front of her bedroom door, hesitating. Not being able to bridle my over-flowing lust any longer, I went in.

She quickly pulled down her gown as I went in. But once I closed the door behind, she stared at me intently. “I love you, Jane, and I need you and want you,” I finally said, as I stood there. I took off my underwear and I showed off an inflamed club which protruded long and red. She took off her gown and said; “Come to your mum.” Then she got off her briefs, and I lay down at her side. My lips crushed against her big mouth in a long deep kiss. Then my tongue slid down her white skin and began suckling at her strawberry-like nipple. It felt so nice, so sweet as she took my hand and put it down in between her legs and guided me to rub her where she liked most. She moaned. Then I kissed her plump leg as I slid my warm tongue up her thigh. She opened wide her legs and I pushed my tongue deep into her wet slippery cave. I licked, and licked, and licked, as if I were her little cub. And I licked a hardened tiny toggle of flesh I had found in her blonde bush. And she shivered and shook with delight. Her happiness made me immensely hard. And my thick burning rod with a red, throbbing bulb on top wanted her so desperately as I snugly shoved into her cosy wet sheath. She sighed, moaned and screamed as I moved, and rocked, and rammed in hard back and forth, slowly, relentlessly, for a very long time, as if forever; and then we began losing ourselves to become one in the silence of the night.