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Authors: Sidney Sheldon
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house most of the day, drinking heavily. He took whatever money Dolores earned. Sometimes at night in the middle of lovemaking, Graciela would hear him beating her mother, and in the morning Dolores would appear with a blackened eye or split Up.
“Mama, why do you put up with him?” Graciela asked.
“You wouldn’t understand,” she said sullenly. “He’s a real man, not a midget like the others. He knows how to satisfy a woman.” She ran her hand through her hair coquettishly. “Besides, he’s madly in love with me.”
Graciela did not believe it. She knew that the Moor was using her mother, but she did not dare protest again. She was too terrified of her mother’s temper, for when Dolores Pinero was really angry, a kind of insanity took possession of her. She had once chased Graciela with a kitchen knife because the girl had dared make a pot of tea for one of the “uncles.”
Early one Sunday morning Graciela rose to get ready for church. Her mother had left early to deliver some dresses. As Graciela pulled off her nightgown, the curtain was pushed aside and the Moor appeared. He was naked.
“Where’s your mother, guapa? ”
“Mama went out early. She had some errands to do.”
The Moor was studying Graciela’s nude body. “You really are a beauty,” he said softly.
Graciela felt her face flush. She knew what she should do. She should cover her nakedness, put on her skirt and blouse and leave. Instead, she stood there, unable to move. She watched his manhood begin to swell and grow before her eyes. She could hear the voices ringing in her ears:
“Faster…harder!”
She felt faint.
The Moor said huskily, “You’re a child. Get your clothes on and get out of here.”
And Graciela found herself moving. Moving toward him. She reached up and slid her arms around his waist and felt his male hardness against her body.
“No,” she moaned. “I’m not a child.”
The pain that followed was like nothing Graciela had ever known. It was excruciating, unbearable. It was wonderful, exhilarating, beautiful. She held the Moor tightly in her arms, screaming with ecstasy. He brought her to orgasm after orgasm, and Graciela thought: So this is what the mystery is all about. And it was so wonderful to know finally the secret of all creation, to be a part of life at last, to know what joy was for now and forever.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
It was Dolores Piñero’s voice screaming, and for an instant everything stopped, frozen in time. She was standing at the side of the bed, staring down at her daughter and the Moor.
Graciela looked up at her mother, too terrified to speak. Dolores’s eyes were filled with an insane rage.
“You bitch!” she yelled. “You rotten bitch.”
“Mama—please—”
Dolores picked up a heavy iron ashtray at the bedside and slammed it against her daughter’s head.
That was the last thing Graciela remembered.
She awoke in a large, white hospital ward with two dozen beds in it, all of them occupied. Harried nurses scurried back and forth, trying to attend to the needs of the patients.
Graciela’s head was racked with excruciating pain. Each time she moved, rivers of fire flowed through her. She lay there, listening to the cries and moans of the other patients.
Late in the afternoon, a young intern stopped by the side of her bed. He was in his early thirties, but he looked old and tired.
“Well,” he said, “you’re finally awake.”
“Where am I?” It hurt her to speak.
“You’re in the charity ward of the Hospital Provincial in Ávila. You were brought in yesterday. You were in terrible shape. We had to stitch up your forehead.” The intern went on. “Our chief surgeon decided to sew you up himself. He said you were too beautiful to have scars.”
He’s wrong, Graciela thought. I’ll be scarred for the rest of my life.
On the second day, Father Perez came to see Graciela. A nurse moved a chair to the bedside. The priest looked at the
“Mama, why do you put up with him?” Graciela asked.
“You wouldn’t understand,” she said sullenly. “He’s a real man, not a midget like the others. He knows how to satisfy a woman.” She ran her hand through her hair coquettishly. “Besides, he’s madly in love with me.”
Graciela did not believe it. She knew that the Moor was using her mother, but she did not dare protest again. She was too terrified of her mother’s temper, for when Dolores Pinero was really angry, a kind of insanity took possession of her. She had once chased Graciela with a kitchen knife because the girl had dared make a pot of tea for one of the “uncles.”
Early one Sunday morning Graciela rose to get ready for church. Her mother had left early to deliver some dresses. As Graciela pulled off her nightgown, the curtain was pushed aside and the Moor appeared. He was naked.
“Where’s your mother, guapa? ”
“Mama went out early. She had some errands to do.”
The Moor was studying Graciela’s nude body. “You really are a beauty,” he said softly.
Graciela felt her face flush. She knew what she should do. She should cover her nakedness, put on her skirt and blouse and leave. Instead, she stood there, unable to move. She watched his manhood begin to swell and grow before her eyes. She could hear the voices ringing in her ears:
“Faster…harder!”
She felt faint.
The Moor said huskily, “You’re a child. Get your clothes on and get out of here.”
And Graciela found herself moving. Moving toward him. She reached up and slid her arms around his waist and felt his male hardness against her body.
“No,” she moaned. “I’m not a child.”
The pain that followed was like nothing Graciela had ever known. It was excruciating, unbearable. It was wonderful, exhilarating, beautiful. She held the Moor tightly in her arms, screaming with ecstasy. He brought her to orgasm after orgasm, and Graciela thought: So this is what the mystery is all about. And it was so wonderful to know finally the secret of all creation, to be a part of life at last, to know what joy was for now and forever.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
It was Dolores Piñero’s voice screaming, and for an instant everything stopped, frozen in time. She was standing at the side of the bed, staring down at her daughter and the Moor.
Graciela looked up at her mother, too terrified to speak. Dolores’s eyes were filled with an insane rage.
“You bitch!” she yelled. “You rotten bitch.”
“Mama—please—”
Dolores picked up a heavy iron ashtray at the bedside and slammed it against her daughter’s head.
That was the last thing Graciela remembered.
She awoke in a large, white hospital ward with two dozen beds in it, all of them occupied. Harried nurses scurried back and forth, trying to attend to the needs of the patients.
Graciela’s head was racked with excruciating pain. Each time she moved, rivers of fire flowed through her. She lay there, listening to the cries and moans of the other patients.
Late in the afternoon, a young intern stopped by the side of her bed. He was in his early thirties, but he looked old and tired.
“Well,” he said, “you’re finally awake.”
“Where am I?” It hurt her to speak.
“You’re in the charity ward of the Hospital Provincial in Ávila. You were brought in yesterday. You were in terrible shape. We had to stitch up your forehead.” The intern went on. “Our chief surgeon decided to sew you up himself. He said you were too beautiful to have scars.”
He’s wrong, Graciela thought. I’ll be scarred for the rest of my life.
On the second day, Father Perez came to see Graciela. A nurse moved a chair to the bedside. The priest looked at the
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