“I’ll keep that in mind.”

The two young women sidled together side by side toward the door leading off the rear porch.

Veronica put her arm around Constance.

Leaned her mouth into her head and whispered into her ear cup. “As long as the conversation’s getting a little personal, Constance-just what was it that drove you to-uh-love Arturo?”

“In how many words?”

The pillow-talk routine.

Arturo’s favorite. Regardless of whether it was in the back of a Bentley, the cabin of a Lear Jet decorated whorehouse style.

Or as now. On the deck of one of Arturo’s more casual medium-sized yachts.

Anchored within telescoping range of the tit-bedazzled beach on the French Riviera slightly to the east of Saint Tropez.

Constance held her eyes shut.

Her lips were open.

Arturo’s member slithered between.

He talked away on the phone in a mixture of Spanish, English, French, and Arabic.

Constance had found out shortly after their first meeting that Arturo liked to be sucked off during overseas conference calls.

“Sheik,” he said, adjusting the focus on his telescope as Constance choked down his dingdong. “No hashish, man-no guns. You gotta understand my customers’ needs.”

Constance cocked her ears. Took prick in deeper.

“And, Mister Ambassador. That airplane that went down with nobody around. Just a bungle in the jungle. No. The cargo didn’t just disappear. Somebody has to have it. Finders keepers. But I might could get it back for you maybe if the price is all right. It’s just papers-huh?”

Constance choked on the slickness pestering her maw. The ballocks loomed up, increasing in size by the second.

The magenta tip of Arturo’s twanger wailed away inside her mouthcheeks.

Billowing scrotum wafted like a hot-air balloon. As the come coursed on down her chest, Constance swooned into his nest.