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Angelina was no angel. Stuck at the plantation in the middle of a sticky summer, among banana trees, mosquitoes and Cuban cigars, she looked out of the open doorways that shielded her from intruders by iron bars. “Fuck, I’m in a prison”, she mouthed off to herself.

Sweat beads had formed a long time ago on her body. Now they just moved from one place to another, sliding down her flesh the way she wished Carlos’s tongue would. She moved her fingers across the iron, listening to the low toned noise they made while vibrating, and sighed. Then she slapped her arm. “Damn mosquitoes!”

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