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by Lee Benoit
Category: Erotica/Gay-Lesbian Erotica/Romance
Description: A principal dancer with a Havana company, Lola misses his big chance to defect from post-Soviet Cuba because of an injury. Left behind by his faithless lover, Lola finds his health and attitude improving as he develops a friendship with his mysterious doctor, Adán. Adán has a secret, though, one he's guarded from everyone since he returned from medical training in Mexico. If Adán's secret identity doesn't destroy their relationship, the vicissitudes of Lola's job might. When Lola gets the chance to dance again, will he choose Adán, or his career?
eBook Publisher: Torquere Press/Color Box, 2010 www.torquerepress.com
eBookwise Release Date: November 2010
3 Reader Ratings:
Available eBook Formats: OEBFF Format (IMP) [63 KB]
Reading time: 37-52 min.
"Your life isn't over, Senor Montez." The company had called a very distinguished doctor to see to Lola's shoulder and that august professional made no bones about his irritation over making a house call.
Lola averted his eyes so he wouldn't be tempted to smirk. In this post-Soviet Special Period, with shortages everywhere and the balance of power shifting, it was really something if the company's director could still command the presence of a highly placed man of medicine. If Lola's dancing career was over, the least they could do was usher it out with full honors.
"You hear him, do you not, Lola?" That was the heavily accented voice of Maestro Illyevich, far too close for comfort and wafting expensive vodka across Lola's face, bringing his queasiness to the fore, though it had been present since his fall. Where did the man get vodka, anyway, when everyone else subsisted on rough bread and cheap rum? "You will be well in a couple of months. This is good news, no?"
Lola tried to smile as Maestro kept talking. So he'd miss the overseas engagements. There would be others, yes?
"Yes, Maestro. There will be others." If any of the company returned from Europe. No one knew who was planning to stay behind. Everyone feared exposure, and in the Cuban dancing world, spies were thick on the ground. Hell, the eyes of the Revolution were everywhere, and circumspection was a way of life well into its third generation, now. Lola didn't have to think twice before shuttering his expression or freezing his tongue.
Maestro and the doctor postured at each other for a while, the doctor insisting that Lola receive follow-up care at one of the state polyclinics, and Maestro demanding the doctor's personal attendance. Julio leaned against the door jamb of Maestro's office where the examination took place, his expression unreadable. Lola didn't look forward to their conversation later.
* * * *
The conversation, when it came, was pretty one-sided. Lola couldn't explain it, but by the time he and Julio returned to the flat they shared with two other dancers he was oppressed by the need to apologize, as if the ruin of their plans was his fault. Maybe he couldn't explain it, but he knew how to fix it, so no sooner were they through the door than he dropped to his bruised knees and awkwardly opened Julio's fly with his good hand. The makeshift brace the doctor had fitted cramped Lola's style a little, but dancing through pain was something dancers in the Bolshoi style learned to tolerate. Sucking head through pain was nothing.
As usual, and as if nothing were amiss, Julio didn't refuse to ram his cock down Lola's throat. While he gripped Lola's hair and thrust, he talked. Blood rushed in Lola's ears with each unbelievable utterance.
Julio was going through with their plan. He would stay in Barcelona, with friends, would disappear, wouldn't come back to Havana. Maybe, someday, Lola could find a way to join him.
"Julio," Lola gasped when Julio pulled out and zipped up. He wrapped his hands around his lover's powerful thighs, trying to pull himself up with his good arm so they could discuss this face to face. But Julio refused to meet his eyes, refused to help him up. Lola was still on his knees in the entry hall when Julio stalked off to pack. Lola told himself the burn in his throat was from the vigorous fucking and not the acid tears he swallowed.