A bugle sounded from the president’s box and four banderilleros moved out to place the gaily colored darts between the bull’s shoulder-blades. It was short and graceful work and when they were done, the beast stood in the center of the ring, four barbed poles, festooned with bright ribbons, dangling from his withers. The crowd applauded as another bugle call rang out.
It was the signal for Diego, the matador, to make his entrance for the kill. In a box directly over the cement portal, a young girl’s right hand fluttered to her breast, lean white petals of fingers curling about the firmness of a satin-clad mound. She turned to her companion, idolatry beaming in the limpid depths of her dark eyes.
“He comes… Diego!” she breathed passionately.
Manuel Rivero nodded slowly. He was annoyed with Alicia’s fanatical worship of the foul-faced bullfighter. For three days running now she had insisted on attending the corrida, solely for the pleasure of seeing Diego, the gypsy, at the kill.
“Si,” he replied, “but he will have trouble with this bull. He is fast and shifty. You may yet see him stuck on the horns like a sawdust doll.”
Alicia went pale, the color melting from her velvet cheeks. The ripe, cherry-lushness of her lips trembled and the upper crescents of her sun-glow breasts rose above the square neckline of her dress. She clenched her tiny hands.
“Que verguenza!” she gasped. “For shame! You should not say such a thing, Manuel!”
He shrugged, visibly annoyed at her defense of the matador. If they had been casual friends it would not matter. But were they not engaged to marry in a month? Had not the date been already announced?
His reply was stilled in his throat as Diego, resplendent in tight fitting red silk breeches and a heavily embroidered jacket, doffed his hat before the president’s box. That done, he wheeled and approached the waiting bull, a carmine and yellow cape draped over his left arm, a steel-bladed sword in his right hand.
Alicia, from her choice seat, lived and breathed with the matador as he courted death time and again in the vicinity of the bull’s sharp horns. With infinite grace, Diego executed the difficult naturales, leading the animal on with his cape and arching his hips to let it whiz by, a hair’s breadth from his body. When the time came for Diego to make the kill, Alicia’s eyes glowed with a strange luster. Her hands were cupped about her breasts, fingers digging into the resilient flesh with inordinate passion As the matador’s sword flashed in the sun, only to be buried hilt deep in the hump of muscle behind the beast’s neck a long sigh escaped her lips and electric shocks of delirious intensity whipped through her body, shaking her to the very core of all sensation. In her own mind she had often wondered why the sight of Diego plunging his blade into a bull’s body reacted so intensely upon her. This was the third time she had seen it, and each time when she rose to leave the arena, her breasts were rigid, and her breath came in little panting gasps.
As the bull dropped on its knees, Alicia stood up. “Come, Manuel,” she whispered. “It is enough.”
He protested feebly. “Ortega will kill next. He is clever. I wish to see him.”
Alicia shook her dark head. “Vamonos! It is enough!” She had no desire to be witness to the other killings. After Diego, they would be anti-climaxes.
Manuel followed her down the cement aisle. All eyes turned to watch her progress, fascinated by her signal beauty, the movement of her untrammeled breasts and the voluptuous undulation of her hips. Some knew that she was Alicia Montevideo, an orphan, but heiress to one of the largest fortunes in Madrid. Others knew only that she was a rare, exotic flower, and dreamed idly of holding such a one in their arms, of burying their lips in the soft hollows of her throat. At the exit, she turned and looked down upon Diego receiving the plaudits of the crowd. Desire shone in the bright pupils of her eyes.
In the drawing-room of Alicia’s palatial home, Manuel removed his cape and threw it carelessly over the back of a gilt chair. Alicia was standing at the mirror, adjusting the glistening profusion of her black hair. Manuel came up behind her and placed his spread hands on the svelte curve of her hips. Glancing over her shoulder he could see the projection of her breasts, the full, curving roundness of them limned beneath a clinging satin bodice. His lips brushed her bare shoulder, lingered to cling to the sweetly scented flesh. “Yo te amo, carissima,” he whispered passionately. She shuddered and broke away, passing the back of one hand over her forehead. “Please, not now. I have the headache.”
He stepped forward and slipped both arms about her waist, drawing her to him. Her breasts pressed against his silk shirt and burned through it—like coals—against his chest.
“I am sorry, querida,” he said. “Is there something I can do?”
Alicia braced her hands against his shoulders, pushed him away. “Gracias. There is nothing. I will go and rest.”
Manuel’s brow creased. “I wished to speak to you about the wedding, Alicia. Tia Louisa says—”
“It is enough that you have conferred with my aunt, Manuel,” she interrupted. “She will make all arrangements as my guardian.”
He followed her to the marble staircase, held her briefly in his arms, kissed the damp swell of her lips. “Adios, Manuel,” she murmured.
“Hasta luego, hermosa mia.”
The moment, from the upstairs corridor, she heard the door close behind her fiance, Alicia was all life and vivacity. She came down again, cheeks flushed, eyes bright with excitement. The plan had formed in her mind as the carriage was bringing Manuel and her home. It was a vagrant, forbidden thing, but for once in her life she meant to taste ecstasy and the fulfillment of desire. Manuel would never know. She would come to him on their wedding night and he would be none the wiser.
Trembling in anticipation she lifted the telephone receiver and held it to her dainty ear.
“La Hotel de Toros,” she spoke into the mouthpiece. Her heart pounded as the connection was being made. So much so that she held her hand over her left breast to still its clamor. Minutes later, when she replaced the receiver on its hook, it was still beating unmercifully. Somehow, she could not believe she had spoken to the great Diego. It was almost beyond the realm of possibility. But his voice had come over the wire deep and melodious.
“I will be honored, Señorita,” he had said.
Alicia raced up the stairs, dashed into her boudoir. Her fingers could not release the hooks of the satin dress quickly enough. At last it slipped over her curved hips cascaded to the floor. A diaphanous chiffon brassiere hugged her breasts, drawing the alabaster cones together and forming a definite shadowed valley between them. Inches of bare flesh separated the brassiere bottom and the top of lace inset panties.
Rushing to a closet, she selected an afternoon frock of old rose silk, donned it hurriedly. Her figure melted into the lines of the dress, formed a shapely symphony of hills and valleys. Her finger dipped into a rouge pot, applied the magenta coloring to her lips. She was trembling…trembling with anticipation.
In his suite at the Hotel de Toros, Diego Martinez leaned back upon a couch and permitted the woman who was beside him to toy with his coarse black hair and run her slender, provocative fingers over his face. Her too-plump body, almost bursting the seams of a tight silk dress, pressed against him, curving hill of one half-revealed breast resting like aspic on his upper arm.
She licked her red lips hungrily. Her eyes, bright with belladonna glittered from beneath violet-shaded lids.
“Today caro mio you were superb!” she intoned softly. “In all of Spain there is none so brave.”
Diego swelled pridefully. “You thought it was good eh, Josita? You saw el toro come to his knees for me, no?”
The woman slipped one arm under the small of the matador’s back, arched her fleshy hips. “Si, it was magnifico!” Her lips found his throat, teased with their damp sensuality. “I was proud that I am the favored one of the great Diego. Is it not so?
”
Diego laughed softly. He was thinking of the girl who had called him on the telephone. Her voice was young and charged with life. She would have a young body, too, and a young face. He looked down at Josita, pressing against him in the first frenzy of her endless passion. Bah! She was getting fat and disgusting. It was high time he, Diego Martinez, matador primero, had a young girl, one of good blood.
Josita’s hand found his, pressed it to her bosom. His fingers brushed the softness of curved flesh, felt it give way before him. He was tempted to capitulate to her mute, gasping offering, to plumb once more the bottomless depths of her desire, when a faint knock sounded at the door.
He sat up, pushing Josita away. In a moment he was on his feet, adjusting his orange silk shirt.
“You will go!” he muttered, pointing to another exit from the room.
She demurred, clinging to his shoulders, giving him all the lush curves of her body at once. Diego spat viciously, tore her arms away.
“Go, I say!” He raised a clenched fist as though to strike her but she dropped back against the wall, breasts heaving like bellows. In a flash she had changed from soft allure to snarling hatred. Her lips curled back over white teeth and the muscles of her rouged cheeks twitched nervously.
“Si, I know!” she hissed. “It is another woman!”
The knock sounded on the door again. Diego sprang at Josita. His hand shot out and whipped across her face.
“Caramba! Get out! Puta!” The vile name leaped from his lips. He swung the door open, curled his fingers about her plump arm and threw her across the threshold. A moment at the mirror, combing his raven hair and he was ready to answer the summons at the other door.
Alicia’s smile was half-joy, half-fear as she stepped into the hotel room at Diego’s bowing invitation. Now that she was here, close enough to him to touch him, a sense of remorse gnawed at her heart. Diego, less graceful with women than he was with bulls, sought to put her at ease. He was amazed and delighted at her beauty. Never before, even in the Basque country, had he seen so beautiful a woman. Her skin was almost white in contrast to his own brownish complexion. Her body was delicately fashioned, not gross and heavy like Josita’s.
“I came, Señor,” Alicia explained haltingly, “because of my admiration for you. In the corrida today—”
Diego’s lips twisted. A scar on his left cheek became livid as he flushed pridefully.
“You saw me today with the Miura bull? He was a hard animal.”
“Si. I saw you. I was thrilled.”
He came to position beside her on the couch, his quick, flashing eyes taking in the firm pout of her breasts and the mature fullness where her supple thighs joined the lyre of her hips.
“I do not even know your name, Señorita,” he said. “That is where you have the advantage of me.”
Panic gripped her. Should she tell him her real name? At the moment she could think of no other. “I—I am Señorita Alicia Montevideo.”
He jerked to his feet, bowed at the hips. “The pleasure is mine, Señorita. I have heard much of your family. I am happy to know that you are interested in the fighting of the bull.”
Alicia shuddered. She wanted him to touch her, to hold her close. Her mind’s eye framed a picture of him, sword in hand, pirouetting for the kill. Everything flashed before her: the disemboweled horse, the hot blood rising in a steam of vapor, the black bull on its knees with Diego standing over it victoriously. Her breasts swelled, strained at the silk bodice. He was a killer…a thing of blood and death…and yet…and yet…
She swayed dizzily. Diego’s arms came out to catch her, circled her pliant waist. Her warm breath fanned his cheeks.
“Dios! Dios!” she moaned over and over again. The matador eased her into his arms, tensed when her warm breasts brushed against him. His lips found her mouth, parted it, and drank of honeyed nectar.
Outside the door, Josita had heard enough. She ran down the back stairs, careful to avoid Diego’s peones who were congregated in the hotel lobby. Her mind worked feverishly as she ran through the streets. She remembered vividly seeing the announcement of Alicia Montevideo’s impending marriage in the paper. She remembered, too, the name of her husband-to-be: Manuel Rivero. A smile creased her lips. Diego would pay for the insult; pay through the nose.
A scarce half-hour later she was leading Manuel up the back stairway of the Hotel de Toros. The story she had told him was embellished with frightful insinuations, most of them vivid fictions of her inflamed mind. Arrived at the rear door of Diego’s suite, Josita hesitated.
“I warn you Señor, that he is dangerous. Si, more dangerous than the bulls he kills. From them he has gained courage and strength.”
Manuel was oblivious to her whispering. He shook his head when she offered him a short dagger.
“No! I kill him with my hands. Only cowards use the knife!” He swung the door open, stepped into the sleeping quarters of the matador’s suite. Josita pointed to another door.
“She is in there with him.” Again she offered the blunt knife. “Take it”
Manuel strode forward, his eyes hard and brittle. He wrenched the door-knob, drove the door in. The sight that met his eyes chilled him like a blast of icy air. Alicia was stretched supine on the couch, her slim, white body clad only in the sheerest of step-ins. Diego’s gnarled fingers were fumbling with her brassiere, ripping it away from the pulsating mounds of her breasts. He could hear both their labored breathing, her muted plaints.
With a sense of timing earned in the bull-ring and an acuteness for the presence of danger that was born in his gypsy blood, Diego slipped out from beneath Manuel’s body as the latter lunged at him. Alicia, awakened from the semi-stupor of passion, screamed. The cry broke through the air just as Diego leaped to his feet with the agility of a cat. He was on Manuel, reaching with taloned fingers for his unprotected throat. Manuel’s fist drove like a piston into the matador’s stomach. He could feel his knuckles bounce off the rigid abdomen muscles. Again he connected, this time higher up. Diego groaned, loosened his grip. Manuel held him oft, shot a short, jabbing right to the point of his jaw. The matador stumbled back, dropped in a corner. He shook his head like a wet terrier. Blood was dripping from the corner of his mouth. A broken tooth, white in a welter of red, rolled on his tongue and dropped to the floor.
Manuel waited for him to get up. He was cool now; cool and calm. There was no desire to kill the matador, just the desire to beat him to a pulp.
Diego’s eyes shifted about the room, came to rest above him. Within reach was the telephone on a small table. In one motion he was up on his feet and ripping the heavy instrument from its wires. His arm swung through the air. Manuel ducked. It whizzed over his head, the receiver dangling, and crashed through the window. The sound of broken, tinkling glass was drowned out as Manuel charged, hitting the matador low and crashing him against the wall. Like two wildcats, they clawed at each other, rolling over and over, Diego always trying to curl his steel fingers about Manuel’s throat. Once his nails swiped the Castilian’s cheek, leaving a row of bloody ruts.
Alicia, frozen with fright, gained voice as the carmine life-fluid poured over Manuel’s face. She screamed again, crying out to them to stop. Josita crouched in the doorway separating the two rooms, her short dagger clutched in her right hand. If Diego was getting the better of the fight, she planned to use it. It would give her pleasure to plant the blade between the bull-fighter’s ribs, just as he buried his sword in the backs of tortured beasts.
Her right arm stiffened as the matador reached his goal… Manuel’s throat. There was a gurgle…a hoarse, liquid rattle. Manuel kicked out with his feet, turned completely over. Diego spun like a top, slid across the floor. Josita realized this was her chance to help. She tossed the knife at Manuel’s feet, watched him stoop and pick it up. Diego paled as his eyes caught the flash of the blade.
“Por pieda
d!” he screamed. “Mercy! Mercy!”
Manuel came at him, the knife poised. Diego crouched in a corner, pink bubbles slobbering from his lips. His eyes were horror-stricken pools of ink.
“Por piedad!”
Suddenly there was a crash. Manuel wheeled as the front door flew open and men crowded into the room. He threw up the knife to protect himself, but Diego’s peones swept over him like a wave, beating him down to the ground, trampling on his head until thunder roared in his ears and blackness brought silence.
* * * *
Josita was bathing his forehead with cold water when he regained consciousness. He looked up at her, his eyes pleading for information.
“They have gone, Señor, but I know where,” she whispered. “By some fortune they did not see me. When you are well enough to move, we will follow.”
He leaned up on one elbow. “I—I am all right. Let us go!”
“We will need horses and a carriage,” she explained. “It is miles from Madrid.”
He got to his feet, tested them. A thousand devils seemed to be digging into his head with hot pitchforks. He looked at the couch where Alicia had been lying. It was empty, but he could see her naked body with Diego arched over it. The vision gave him strength.
“Vamos!” he muttered.
The Spicy-Adventure Page 9