Sam finally gathered enough energy to raise his head. He carefully lowered the man's sleeping snake from his mouth, he looked around briefly then, as struck by having forgotten something, turned his head and gave it a sweet kiss right on the exposed head.
Pam supported him as he struggled to get to his feet. "You must apologize to our gracious hosts, baby" she said, loudly. Rodriguez came in from the kitchen, holding a hot pan which smelled delicious. His brother opened his eyes.
"Yes..." Sam babbled, before finding himself. "Please forgive me, sir! I am very sorry, sir! Please, sir!" he said, leaping widly from one man to the other, kneeling before them, rubbing his head on their shins and trying to kiss their feet.
The scene went on for a few minutes, as the frying pan slowly cooled, and Rodriguez' smug satisfaction contaminated his brother's face. "What are you sorry for, little bitch ?" Rodriquez asked at length. The question had on Sam the effect of an electric shock. "I... I don't... I don't know, sir. Please forgive me, sir."
"Alright", he offered neutrally. "Both of you little whores - go outside and wash up." It was at this moment that Sam noticed Pam was completely nude, and it struck him as the most obviously natural thing in the world. He undid his remaining button and threw his thoroughly soaked and stained shirt away. As he limped behind her towards the patio, he heard Rodriquez say "And shave. Everywhere. Both of you." behind them. He mumbled "yes sir!" under his breath and hurried to catch up.
The place Rodriquez had sent them was an open air shower, running cold water through a flexible hose. The privacy panels had been recently removed, not that either Sam or Pam had any way to know, or frankly speaking seemed much inclined to care. You could plainly see the backstreet, and the backstreet could plainly see you. There wasn't anyone there, except the occasional car passing by. They usually horned, but no more than that. The sun was about to set, leaving maybe an hour of light, maybe two. Sam briefly considered that they wouldn't be going to St. Thomas the next morning, seeing how it was already late afternoon, but the thought made no more impression than any momentary flight of fancy ever does.
Getting all the crusted spunk and blood off of him took forever, but his wife helped him delicately, with soft, loving hands. Shaving was much easier an affair, Pam didn't have any hair anyway and Rodriguez had left within reach a sharp straight razor which made very quick work of Sam's everything, face, armpits, pubic hair, legs, everything. Almost an hour later they finally emerged. Rodriguez was waiting for them on a disused, disfunctional sort of ex-swing, propped up by indistinct detritus on the side missing the rope. He explained that his brother had left "to make arrangements" while he set two bowls, perhaps more reminiscent of dog dishes, on the porch at his feet. He threw some stale bread chunks in each, perhaps dinnertable left overs, then went inside. He soon emerged with a bowl of indistinct slop, which he poured into the bowls, atop the bread. There were no spoons, but this proved no impediment to either Sam or Pam -- the bowls were licked clean within minutes. They had apparently been hungry.
Next he emerged with two plain cotton dresses which he handed to them. Pam picked one, and put it on. It was practically see through, the sway of her breasts made visible by the thin material. She helped the other one over Sam's head. He looked ridiculous in the thing, but as there were no mirrors and nobody said anything he himself had no idea. Then again, had there been mirrors, or had anyone said anything, what idea would he have had ?
They followed him quietly down a winding path towards what, in the distance, seemed like a makeshift dock. The walk was maybe a mile, maybe more. At first Sam's ass hurt and he couldn't walk properly, but after a couple stern looks from Rodriguez he caught right up and kept moving. Soon Sam noticed that whenever they crossed anyone Pam would lift her skirt as far high as it went, completely exposing herself. Most people just looked away, though some made some joking comment or discussed briefly with Rodriguez in hushed tones but next time someone passed, Sam lifted his skirt also, along with her. Sam didn't know why, specifically, nor did he think about the why. Maybe it would make Rodriguez be pleased with him! The mere thought of that possibility filled him with a warm, sweet, sticky joy, like he were a savarine.
After the fifth or so encounter, Rodriguez spat out a string of Spanish curses, with a little English intermingled here and there, enough to convey the broad point that he, Rodriguez, was none too impressed with their, the villagers expectation that they could fuck Pam for free merely because they did fuck her for free at some point in the more or less recent past. It sounds perfectly absurd once spelled out plainly, and yet is there a more commonly held, or more reliably encountered delusion ?
"Maybe you shouldn't ask for money", suggested Pam, evenly.
"What ?" Rodriguez spat out.
"No money. Cigarettes, whatever they had."
Rodriguez looked at her, silently at first, but as his pockets filled up with sweets, tobacco and assorted other odds and ends of certain if inconsequential value he smiled at her.
"You really know your work." he said. "Good whore." he added, in a warm, intimate tone. Pam purred slightly, and Sam's admiration for his wife swelled up inside his chest and nearly drowned him. Pam! She is so beautiful! She is so perfect in every way! And Rodriguez likes her! What's more, he said she's a good whore! He grabbed her hand, teary eyed, and pressed it to his side. His wife, Pam, that's who Rodriguez was talking about. Sam felt as proud and exhilirated as any small child could ever be at the coronation of his mother. Queen Pam, the good whore. What could ever be more grandiose, what ever was more, or better, throughout the ages ?
With all the stopping for Pam to take cock, either to be fucked standing like the beasts of the field, on the side of the road, or to blow a coupla loads here and there, it was well night before they reached the dock. The men that now and again stopped them to offer Pam their surfeit of fructose in a light protein sauce never did show Sam any favour whatsoever. He couldn't blame them, in his heart, but a small seed of envy nevertheless caught root, and its bitter vines slowly spread throughout. A few times he tried to nuzzle his way into the action while Pam was sucking off some cock or other. She seemed very willing to share, but the men always chased him away. They never wanted Sam's lips on their cock. They only wanted Pam's mouth, they only wanted her ass, her lips, her tits, her... The observation incresed his admiration for her, but also saddened him. Poor Sam, he had been turned out to a life that, in the end, had no interest in him, no need for him, properly speaking no room for him whatsoever. He was an extra, there because he was there and for no other reason. Had he not been there it'd have made no difference.
Maybe if he had a pussy like her, Sam thought. Maybe if he had tits. Maybe... but despondency quickly caught up with the stray thought and murdered it where it stood. who was he fooling, really ? Nobody would ever want him. Maybe if they were drunk, maybe if he were a virgin, for the thrill of discovery, for the breaking of new ground, the furrowing of fresh new mud. Maybe once in his whole life, if he got lucky. No more. He was an old, shriveling, repugnant fat faggot nobody wanted and that was all there was to it.
The dark tar of the water, caught between the sandy shore and the rotting pile of flotsam masquerading as a dock mirrored his thoughts, echoing them back to him. Sam spent a long while feeling sorry for himself, not even bothering to lift his skirt anymore when the occasional man straggled over to copulate with Pam in the romantic setting. They wouldn't want him, anyway. Nobody could ever want him.