When I heard him about to come back, I pulled the wide silk bag down over my head and shoulders as far as my waist and held it on the inside with my hands tight on my hips. Kicking and grunting on the bed as he entered, I presented the aspect of the naked lower half of a woman protruding violently from a large scarlet pod.
It took him at least ten seconds to reach the divan where I bucked about violently with my hairy mound in the hair.
'Carmencita!'
I grunted like a pig, my naked legs flailing about. He didn't speak again. He came at me, a beast of prey who had found a helpless and kicking victim in the forest. I felt myself grasped at the knees by strong fingers. They were forced apart and the weight of his front fell heavily between my thighs. He wasn't going to make any mistake this time. He intended to have me with his prick to its hilt in my cunt. I didn't fight him seriously. The fine muscles of my lower torso rippled under him until I felt the big prick sink in. It reminded me of the launching of a ship. The tip was placed, a little pressure exerted, and then … sloosh! as the hull cuts evenly into the water. Sunk in my cunt now, he flattened my legs under him, twisting his own sinewy ones around mine like creepers, riveting me to the bed. And then I felt him work at the bag. He intended to have me and not the anonymous cunt that hung down like a half- unwrapped lollipop. I relaxed entirely under him and when he slid the bag first over my belly and then on upwards over my swelling breasts I made no effort to hinder him. I breathed deeply as though he had overpowered me, as though now that his eyes stared into mine, I was truly his, and my eyes said so and the twitch of my nostrils and my wet red lips.
He was lying on top of me now with his whole body, his cock still sunk in me at my vital center, our legs entwined, our bellies met, my breasts securely within his hollowed shoulders, and our mouths feeding on each other, gently.
The movement came slowly, like an earthquake gathering its power in the earth's bowels, a slight stiffening at the thighs answered at mine by a softening, by a concurrence of the soft flesh. His member slid tentatively out and in, just once. As though to echo, my buttocks moved, just a tremor, but it made the sweat pad of my belly vibrate against his and showed him I was ready for despoiling.
'Now!' I whispered, rubbing my soft neck against his chin.
Ram. To the hilt. And then up like a fish spraying water and down into the deep! His movements began furtively and were answered with furtive consent. They continued with increasing violence, our bellies together, my mound nuzzling like a great black bull trying to push down a fence, and my cunt stuck and struck, a prickfuck.
Again he didn't take long to come, a few moments of frenzied passion and his semen leapt boiling from his groin. I received him with a moan, as though he had touched me at my inmost nerve. And then I held him, my belly slithering and shuddering against his, until my cunt sucked the last drop from his prick. It was becoming dark. I covered us with a counterpane of silk. I took his head on my breast and we slept.
— 4-
I was wakened by exploring hands.
The lips fitted around my nipple like a vice and the small bead was sucked inwards and stretched. My thighs twitched and a controlling finger took me like a hook. Meat on a hook. The image stuck with me and I groaned and slid my belly against his.
We had sweated. The weather was cold, but unlike most rooms in Spain, the rooms of this villa were well heated.
'Fuck me, darling!' I whispered in the darkness. 'Fuck me to death!'
His cock was in again, hard, greasy, his hot hair in mine.
A delicious hot sensation of well-being grew at my loins as his vibrating strokes increased. It seemed to be endless, the pushing and the sliding and the slime.
He muttered something as he came, quivering as the strength left him, and he fell asleep at once in my arms.
I lay awake in the darkness, wondering at the tender passion this gentle lover inspired in me. Was my life a mistake? Was it here in these doting arms that I was intended by nature to find fulfillment?
What if he made me pregnant with all this doting love? How could he help doing so?
We had not yet spoken of the pledge. Would he keep it? Certainly not if I was against it, if I asked him to take me away to safety and to love.
I almost convinced myself.
But how foolish of me! How could this passion last? What if I bore his child? Gradually the fire would turn to cinders and he would look about speculatively at other women. And then would I take a lover? Or more than one?
Futility. Life held nothing more for me than anticlimax, to be raised periodically to a high level of passion and then to sink once more, to the depths. My body suddenly sickened of this cloying love. Gradually, like a shadow in my blood, moved the absolute knowledge of the thongs.
Thongs.
Thongs.
Thongs.
What was the soft, docile beast lying at my side, simulating rape according to rite and instruction? Do this. Do that.
With no sting of the real.
With no butcher's red hands.
Imagine hands. Broad and thick. The nails clogged with blood. Of other victims.
Imagine a woman's white belly, its soft blotting-paper finish. The black cunt. And glimmering underneath, red, like a centipede. Soft lover, you forget history, and the claw.
I was staring up into darkness at the ceiling above. The man beside me no longer existed. He was void. A civilized creature.
Oh Miguel, after this sickly hell the gore and triumph of the cross!
Come! Live in the present. Many weeks till the cross. This man who sleeps at your side like a great tame brute, excite him, strike him to the quick, make him turn; perhaps yet he will have a readiness to do murder…
'My darling!' I whispered. 'Wake up! Your Carmencita wants to speak to you!' I sensed his eyes flicker.
'Carmencita!'
'El toro…' I whispered.
In Spain, the man dies in agony in the form of the bull. The woman with her subtle changes of tone, the flirt, the repulser of advances, the one who piques, the one who controls and kills. It is all there in the bull ring, in the sun of the late afternoon. The romantic passion, the striving after the absolute, tends towards death. This is the passion of the decadent Spanish men, the lovers: sadness, ecstasy, tragedy.
'El toro…'
And this man beside me was a Spaniard. For all his youth he is old. He is tired. He wants to be mastered and tamed. He wants to be taught to accept death. Kill me now, quickly, you have flirted extravagantly with the cape when I was most wild, you have repulsed me with the horses and the pike to show me you are another with an alien brute strength. You have piqued me, offered to take control. And now with the shadow of the red cape when my head is hanging low and my nostrils drip saliva on the sand, you are declaring yourself my master and asking me humbly to accept defeat. Come, you are saying, I understand your passion, I will dispatch you quickly, like a lover…
But he is the bull.
And who is to be dispatched, he or myself?
'Carmencita!'
'Yes, little bull?'
'Nothing. Just Carmencita.'
