by D. P. Adamov
“Ow! I hate this! I hate this! Ow!”
Manolo still offered no verbal response, but continued to administer a severe strapping with his belt.
“Ow! Oooooo! Oooooo!”
After what must have been the twentieth blow, he backed off to examine his handiwork, relishing the damage he had caused. Assuming it was over, Lucinda stood upright and started to rub her burning ass, but her massaging did little to relieve the flames within.
“We aren’t done yet,” he announced, bringing a horrified whine from Lucinda’s lips. “Get up on the bed in doggie style and get your ass in the air.”
Obediently, Lucinda mounted the bed and knelt on her hands and knees. Her rear end flared red, in contrast with the rest of her body. Her flesh was ablaze.
“Noooo. Please…”
Manolo went back to work with the belt, striking both her bottom and her upper legs.
“This is what you get for making me come too soon. You’re being punished.”
Lucinda was no longer able to utter words, but only anguished sobs. Once more, her body rocked with each hit, as if she was doing some form of exercise rather than reacting to the intense onslaught of blows falling upon her.
Manolo was in his moment, loving this.
“You’re going to learn to be an effective lover. You’re going to learn not to make me come too soon. If you hadn’t been so into what I was doing to you, and I cannot say I blame you, I wouldn’t have come early. Now, how does this make you feel? Does it feel good, too? It makes me feel good when I punish you.”
Lucinda was still unable to issue a response aside from pained wails.
“Take this. Take this. Take this.”
The last set of whips were fast and furious, bringing even louder cries from the victim. Finally, it came to an end and she fell face forward on the bed, with her hands rushing backward to fan the flames within her blistered behind.
Exhausted, Manolo climbed over her and fell on his own face within the mattress.
Together, they said nothing. Manolo burned with passion, but Lucinda writhed in pain.
“Now I’m ready to face the bulls,” he piped out at long last. “Why don’t you let me get some talcum from the suitcase and put it on your ass?”
“I’ll get it myself,” Lucinda complained. “I’m gonna be lucky to be able to sit down today thanks to you.”
“I guess I’ll just have to do something on the sand to keep you standing,” he responded. “You and everyone else.”
Without another word, Lucinda rolled off the bed and inspected her backside in the dresser mirror, shocked at the reflection that greeted her. Her ass was turning purple.
“Jesus Christ,” she finally tittered. “Jesus Christ, why do I put up with this?”
Manolo pretended to ignore the remark, shutting his eyes and envisioning himself before the horns. He was so caught up in his dream world, he barely heard Lucinda go into the bathroom and shut the door. He assumed she was going to lie on the floor and cover her own ass with talcum powder, tending to herself as she often did after being whipped.
For a moment, he considered his behavior and her reaction to be a bit abnormal, but quickly shrugged off the thought.
There were more impressing matters at hand.
Much more important.
There were bulls to be killed in Tijuana.
His only lament was not the ass whopping he had inflicted upon his lover, but the fact that one of the bulls this afternoon was not the hated Gaditano.
Chapter Seven
Ever since the Tijuana episode, Lucinda had been more and more defiant about being spanked. She was also traveling less and less. She was likewise unenthused about the idea to move to Mexico City and indicated staying in Agua Prieta was more to her liking, but a session with a scrub brush had changed her mind. Being period time, she had been allowed to leave her pants up for that one, but she was spanked into submission again.
Manolo did not consider what he was doing to be abusive and neither did Lucinda. She could have refused to be spanked at any given time, though it would have probably meant a breakup. To him at least, it was an extension of love, no matter how uncanny that would seem to outsiders. He constantly reverted back to the first time in the rodeo ring in their home town and what had happened when he’d yanked the back of her sweat pants down and started whapping her. What a chain reaction that had started.
Outside of the spanking rituals, they had a strong relationship. To the rest of the world, they made a perfect couple.
Had fans been allowed into the hotel rooms when the pair traveled together, however, they would have had a far more interesting show to view.
Lucinda was starting to exhibit some strain, but Manolo, escalated to stardom in the ring, failed to notice.
Where something told him they were in great shape, there was still a nagging feeling behind that whispered warnings all was not so perfect. If Lucinda was not tiring of the spankings, be they foreplay or actual discipline, as their usage varied with each situation, she was beginning to tire of his fixation on the bull, Gaditano.
Lucinda was not with him in Nogales, and without her, the temptation to step out was big. His rational was if he did not engage in outright sex in any form, be it oral, vaginal, or anal, he was not committing adultery. After all, he’d seen all the old movies – Blood & Sand, Moment of Truth, and the like. Bullfighters who cheated on their wives were nothing new, in real life or in pictures, but in the latter, the end was always the same. They died in the ring, as if God chose to punish them for their infidelity.
He was, however, interested in trying something new. He was tired of Lucinda’s protests when he wanted to exercise his particular fetish. Thus, he had decided to search for something different.
Fernando De La Torre, who was well versed at cheating on his own wife, without any qualms about performing the sex act in any or all three orifices, had suggested an appointment at the Casa De Campo, which was famous, but served an exclusive clientele. The place advertised on the web, in swinger newspapers across the border, and even offered merchandise for sale. The price, however, was out of the reach of college students and their ilk.
Discretion was not a problem, or so he had been told. Famous people from all walks of life visited the Casa. They all had something in common. A need to be punished or to punish was just one of the categories catered to. Appointments had to be set up in advance, and just about any need could be met if the financial arrangement was right.
Manolo had done his best to look like the traditional matador from out of the films and novels, wearing his cloth cap and smoking a big cigar as he made his way down the side streets. This was not a part of the red light district on Canal Street, but a business all its own.
How De La Torre had found this spot was anyone’s guess, but he was quick to recommend it to others when in Nogales. He wondered, since they were performing together the next day, if he was himself going there for some form of session. If not, he was surely on Canal Street with the true whores, rather than the specialists here. It was hoped he used a condom.
Manolo found the two story house and rang the doorbell, wondering how many rooms were on the inside.
No answer came.
There was still time to turn back.
The devil made him ring the bell again, and this time a woman answered. She was clearly not one of the working girls, but an overseer who ran the show. To call her a madam seemed inappropriate, for this was not a simple place for the horny to buy a piece of ass.
“I am Eva,” she announced. “You are here for the eight o’clock appointment?”
Manolo nodded and flicked his cigar into the street.
“My friend De La Torre has advised you of my preferences?”
The woman nodded.
“We have the correct girl for you. I will make the introduction in a moment. But…”
Manolo reached into his back pocket and pulled out a folded envelope full of money. As he handed it to t
he proprietor and she inspected the contents, it was obvious the sum was sufficient.
“Close the door behind you and wait for a moment. I will introduce you to your partner. You have three hours.”
The woman disappeared up a flight of stairs, leaving the matador to wait in what was evidently a sitting room. He did not, however, wish to sit. Instead, his eyes darted about the room, where he saw among other things, a set of framed bullfighting posters. One bore the names of Rodolfo Gaona and Juan Belmonte, dating back to 1917. Both men he recognized as legends from long ago in the profession, but there was no way they could have been customers. The house was not that old.
Another poster bore the name of De La Torre. This was more contemporary, and he was not surprised the matador had even signed it.
“Meet Esmeralda.”
The proprietor had ushered down an olive skinned beauty with raven black hair, who stared emotionlessly at him.
“Good?” the proprietor asked.
Manolo nodded and approached the woman, who had extended her hand to usher him up the stairs. She was wearing only a robe.
“The first room to your right,” Esmeralda informed him and pointed toward the door.
Once inside, he saw there was very little furnishing. There was a single bed, a dresser, and a second door leading into what must have been a bathroom.
“A massage comes with this,” she offered. “So take off all your clothes yourself and lie on your stomach, if that is what you wish to start things.”
“Fine,” the matador answered.
As he removed his own clothes, he watched Esmeralda primping herself in the mirror by the dresser. The motions were designed simply to kill time until he was nude and lying on the bed.
“Do you prefer powder or lotion?” she asked.
“Neither,” came the reply. “Just use your hand. That will be great.”
Esmeralda opened the robe to expose her full frontal form for his approval. As he anticipated, she wore nothing underneath.
Her skin was darker than Lucinda’s, and so were her pubic hairs. Her nipples were darker and larger than those of his wife as well.
“You have been briefed on my preferences?” he asked.
The girl nodded.
“Everything is in order. It is just that a massage comes with this. If you would rather skip it that is up to you.”
“No. I need to release my stress. I have a lot to do.”
“I know who you are,” she responded. “I saw you in Nogales last year with Carlos Corbatin. I knew of you since that goring you took at that one ranch. You’re famous.”
Manolo frowned.
“Don’t worry. Lots of famous people come here.”
Esmeralda grinned and knelt by the bed, rubbing her hands against his back. Her fingers felt soothing.
“All kinds come here, because we know how to be discrete, and we know how to service special needs. Everything is confidential.”
In his mind, he wondered what De La Torre liked to do. Was he a fan of spankings also, or perhaps he liked to be on the receiving end? Did he like to dress up in nylons and wiggle and shake in front of a mirror while one of the women from Casa De Campo fingered herself? Did he like to be pissed on or watch while two women did it with each other? It was hard telling, and he knew better than to ask. Confidentiality was the rule of the evening.
“Are you coming to the bullfight tomorrow?” he queried.
The girl continued to rub his back, drifting slowly downward to his buttocks and legs.
“I am planning on it. I missed the last two bullfights here because I had appointments. Business first, you know.”
“So we have three hours to do whatever we want?”
Again, the girl nodded.
“Anything and everything.”
Manolo sighed as the girl worked down to his ankles and his feet.
“I’m not sure about sex. I am, after all, a married man. I would feel kind of funny, but there are some things she won’t do or doesn’t like to do. There are certain things that interest me.”
“I know what those things are, and I am skilled in them,” she again replied. “Everything has been arranged for you.”
Manolo shut his eyes, no longer concerned over his image or whether the woman he was with would be willing to comply with the most unusual of requests he might make. He thought of the bulls to be fought the following afternoon. They were waiting in the corrals now. Horned death beneath the moonlight.
He would fight and kill the bulls like always; wishing one of them would be Gaditano. The long day of revenge was coming. Each week and each month brought the two of them closer to their destiny, but that would take time and planning. He had done both.
De La Torre was thinking of retirement. How then would he be able to break away from his own wife and come to the Casa De Campo? Once he said farewell to the bulls, it would be difficult for him to justify trips to Nogales from his home far in the interior in Guadalajara.
“The long day of revenge is coming,” he whispered carelessly.
“What?”
Manolo caught himself, but the cat was out of the bag.
“That calf that gored me in Hermosillo on the ranch. I asked the bull breeder to save him for me. One day I plan to fight him and kill him. The time is coming where he will be a full grown toro bravo and I, now being a matador de toros, will do to him what he tried to do to me and failed.”
“You hold a vendetta against a bull?” Esmeralda marveled. “I have known several matadors, but none have ever made what they do personal.”
“With this bull, it is personal.”
Esmeralda was working her way back up his legs.
“This bull is something different from the norm. I swear, he thinks like a human. I swear he feels as much hatred for me as I do for him. I visited the ranch yesterday, before coming up to Nogales. Don Eliseo and I went out into the country, and from our jeep I saw him. He has grown, you know! He looked at me and recognized me from before. He has not forgotten me, and I, of course, have not forgotten him. When I roll over, you will see what he gave me to remember him by.”
“All bullfighters have their scars,” Esmeralda shrugged as she continued to rub. She was working on his back now. “That’s part of the risk.”
“We have all kinds of stories,” he went on. “You know, long before, there was a bullfighter named Andres Blando. He spent over two decades in front of the bulls and was never gored. Then he did a retirement fight in Tijuana and killed both his bulls. His work was done and he had escaped unhurt, but then with another matador’s bull, he stepped out to do some cape work and he was gored in the leg. It didn’t kill him, but even he didn’t leave this trade unmarked.”
Esmeralda again frowned.
“Isn’t it discomforting to talk of horn wounds before a bullfight? Doesn’t it bother you?”
Manolo sighed again, not from any tedium in the conversation, but the relief he was getting from the magic fingers. While he loved Lucinda, this new girl was good at what she did.
“Nothing bothers me anymore. In fact, my wife says I have two emotions, calm and angry. I love her very much, but she doesn’t truly understand my needs. She doesn’t like some of the things I want to do, and she doesn’t understand why I want to kill one particular bull so badly. The first is hard to explain, but the second is easy to understand. Gaditano had his chance and failed. I will not. That little prick nearly ended my career before it could start. I hate him and I will destroy him. I will turn him into a slice of beef and eat him myself.”
It was then Manolo decided to switch topics. An image of Lucinda had come to mind and with it a touch of guilt.
“You know, I wonder what my wife is doing right now. For all I know, she is doing the exact same thing I am doing now.”
“Getting a massage from a woman?” Esmeralda questioned.
Both laughed at that.
Closing his eyes once more, Manolo absorbed the manipulations as the two hands care
ssed his body. Beneath, he felt himself stiffening as well. For the moment, he said nothing more, trying to clear his mind. He should have perhaps been thinking of Lucinda and feeling guilty, but instead, images of Gaditano came to mind. He hated that bull more than anyone or anything in his life. Perhaps his wife was right, and he was going mad.
“Are you ready to roll over?” Lucinda asked.
“Sure.”
As he turned, his erection was ramrod straight and Esmeralda noticed this with a satisfied grin. It was then she fell upon the huge scar where Gaditano had done his handiwork.
“Try to relax,” she whispered. “If that thing spurts, I am used to it. If it spurts, it spurts. If it doesn’t, I can help you, if you want.”
Her hands caressed his chest, and as they did, his erection twitched further, as if it had a life of its own.
“Would you like me to skip the rest of the massage for now and fix that?”
Out of control, Manolo nodded.
Esmeralda slid her hands down his body, caressing the horn scar before going right to his prick.
With her tongue, she gave one lick against the shaft, which provoked a low moan from the recipient.
“You can get as loud as you want,” she informed him.
“Okay.”
Esmeralda took the tip in her mouth.
All thought of impropriety were thrown out the window. Ideas of a mere spanking session but no sex were as dead as tomorrow’s bulls would be.
“My wife won’t do this,” Manolo complained. “This is what I have wanted, but it wasn’t what I intended to ask for here.”
Esmeralda lifted her head off the pulsating organ and smiled.
“That’s what we are here for, and everything is discreet.”
Once more, her mouth went down on the quivering cock.
“Would you like to eat me too?”
“I swore I would just do spanking and no sex,” Manolo countered. “But we’ve gone this far.”
Without a word, Esmeralda climbed on top of him, placing her knees by his shoulders and moving forward. Her breasts pressed against his stomach, and her mouth was again angled toward the ever-growing prick, while her own beaver faced him.