Author: Odda DeLazzo (Pseud.)

About: Unusually literate (for the publisher) tale of a bored young housewife, bred to extreme luxury, who one day breaks, totally, with the dreary ladies auxiliaries and museum functions that plague her.

A gardener, a painter, and half the men of Paris show her more vibrant ways to live.

Excerpt:

“You got your model. Now get off your ass and paint for crissakes.”

The two women looked at each other. Rosita hesitated a moment.

“I would appreciate it, Rosita. I just need to make a few quick sketches. Would you mind?”

“Naked?”

“Yes. I have to see how the body curves, the contour of the hips and how the thigh creases. I'm just going to make several sketches.”

Rosita was a little embarrassed at first. She turned and looked at the partition. Dev couldn't see. Suddenly he picked up his guitar and started playing.

“I'm going to do my snake charming routine at the next Smoki Ceremonial,” he cracked.

Finally, Rosita agreed. Olivia leaned back on her stool and with her legs crossed, picked up a sketch pad and a pen. She liked sketching in pen and ink.

She watched Rosita take off her simple blouse and embroidered skirt. It gave her a strange sensation. There was something terribly exciting about her brown Mexican skin, and she remembered her trip to Guadalajara last winter, when she visited her friends. Ben couldn't get away, fortunately. She remembered that man in the cafe near the town square, when she was sitting on the little green bench, sketching the buildings and the people in their straw hats and sarapes. Then she saw him, the tall one, sitting across from her under the tree, a sarape slung across his shoulder. He was sitting, his broad-brimmed hat cocked on the back of his head, wearing white pants pulled tight in a sash across the waist, as he leaned back against the tree, one leg crossed over the other. He had a strange, contemptuous smile on his face. His eyes were black, smoldering with the sensual primitive, earthy passion of the cross-blooded Mexican-Indian.

Rosita was naked.

The man kept staring at her. She had to stop sketching. She went to him and asked him if he would pose for her. He laughed, and murmured something in Spanish. He followed her through the town to the house where she was staying, a few eyebrows raised as the servants saw her lead him into her room. Margot was at the dressmaker. She felt a strange, exciting thrill at picking up the Mexican, flaunting him.

“What I do now?” Rosita was saying.

Olivia gasped as she looked at the girl's full breasted body, the broad hips and flat belly, the thighs and the black, curly triangle of pubic hair. Her legs were not long, but they curved beautifully, from the fleshy, golden brown thighs to the hardened calves. Her breasts fascinated Olivia. She had always been proud of her own beautiful breasts, which men had always admired, but she had never seen breasts like Rosita's. They were full, with a slight sag, which was not unattractive. The areolas were wide, a pinkish-brown, and the nipples darted out, long, distended, as if she was a nursing mother.

The man's name was Juan, she remembered, as she asked Rosita to lie down on a couch, her head on a pillow, so that her thick, black hair hung down the side. She wanted her arm raised and back behind her head. The hair under her arm was black, and she arranged the girl's legs, so that her thighs were open, with one leg stretched out, the other raised.

Yes, Juan. She smiled, as Rosita shifted her lush body, so that her belly bulged a little and her breasts separated in the center and swelled apart, the nipples gloriously long and puckered.

Juan had a smirk of contempt on his face as he undressed in that beautiful white walled room with the expensive Spanish Colonial furniture, the heady smell of hibiscus drifting in from the open window, which overlooked the tropical garden.

He had a beautiful brown cock. Olivia felt her cunt squeeze a little as she remembered and looked at Rosita's face, the dark eyes, the full mouth, and those breasts, her pubic hair, curled, feathering her inner thighs.

She had gone to bed with the Mexican. They never spoke a word. It reminded her of that scene in Aldous Huxley's Point Counter Point, where the girl—what was her name—she had forgotten. But she picked up a handsome animal type and taken him to a room where they made love violently and he had bitten her neck....

Juan did not bite her. He loved her breasts. His hands and lips had held her breasts as if he was cupping a succulent fruit in his hands, drinking its sweet nectar. She loved to have her breasts fondled and the nipples played with. And she held one for him so that he could suck it.

“That's perfect, Rosita. Let me sketch you. You're a brown Modigliani.”