Chapter 3

During what I call night, he came and pulled the door open slightly. He stood watching me silently, in front of a shaft of light silhouetting him. I had not been able to sleep even though I was exhausted, and as soon as I saw him there, I picked up a pencil and started scribbling frantically. I did not want him to think I was slacking, and I kept writing until he finally pushed the door closed again, bolted it and left. Most of what I wrote was mere fantasy - my wishes and desires - so I have thrown it into the rubbish pile. Every time he comes, he inspects this pile to make sure I have not thrown anything away which is important.

I sat between Galen and the pet in the back of the hot cab. Eve kept squirming her hips and shoving against me as if I was a cuckoo invading her nest. I pushed back once, and she dug one of her sharp fingernails into my arm. It made tears spring to my eyes, but I did not say anything. I stared vacuously through the window as we travelled out of town. Eventually Galen tapped the driver’s shoulder and we pulled out onto a dusty track. A stone amphitheatre, its upper walls vertically boarded and topped by a circular veranda, loomed directly ahead of us.

‘La plaza de toros, senor,’ the driver announced, as he turned in his seat and held his hand out for payment. He stared at my knees as he waited for Galen to produce the cash, and I opened them slightly so he could see as far as my panties. He licked his lips, and I opened my legs a little more.

It was late afternoon, and although the sun was lower in the sky the heat still hit me like a wall of fire as we emerged from the cab. I shielded my eyes from the brightness and looked around me. The arena dominated a collection of squat white houses with red roofs. It stood isolated on a shallow crest in the undulating, scrub-covered Andalusian countryside, and I was startled by a sudden roar from within it, a deep, bloodthirsty sound followed by a unified screech of joy and fear clearly generated by people observing someone else’s suffering. The sound made me shiver, and for a moment in the blazing sunlight I felt cold, as though the screaming crowd had blasted me with an icy gale.

Galen led the way into the dark entrance tunnel at the base of the bullring. He bought tickets at a small kiosk, and a few paces further on we emerged onto the packed lower terraces. It was so hot it was like standing in hell. There was another sudden, bloodcurdling roar from the crowd as a group of brightly dressed men walked out into the arena in a neat procession. Everyone around us jumped to their feet and started clapping, shouting and cheering. Galen led us halfway around the stadium, until we were in the shade, and we were shown to seats halfway up the banked staging. I flopped down onto the bench and fanned myself with a programme as Galen sat on one side of me and Eve perched on the other.

‘The bulls have already been allocated,’ he informed me, leaning against me but not taking his eyes from the procession of men. ‘I do not recognise the third matador, but look, Espartaco is here, at the head of the procession, and so is Uceda Litri. The crowd will expect much from Espartaco in such company.’

He had become completely immersed in what was going on, and I could hardly believe that less than an hour ago he was paying a stranger to have sex with Eve on a public beach. I looked at her. She was staring straight ahead and pressing her lips together to moisten them. They glistened invitingly, and I suffered an urge to lick them and taste their sweetness.

Espartaco stood proudly with his assistants surrounding him, his suit shining brilliantly with red, green and gold sequins. His companions’ outfits were less rich but no less dazzling, their silver and purple more humbly reflecting his ostentatious radiance. A white shirt, a narrow black tie, a green sash knotted at his waist, pink knee-high stockings, black slippers and a black two-cornered hat completed Espartaco’s fabulous costume. As he bowed to the crowd, he drew his hat down and let it almost scrape the ground. Bending low, he exposed a small pigtail clipped with a gold buckle at the back of his head. His muscular thighs bulged inside his tight trousers, and the clingy stretch material outlined his tight bottom. He stood up straight again and thrust his hips forward to accentuate the bulging outline of his cock, then he drew his cape from his shoulders and strutted around the arena, swirling it towards the spectators and making them whoop with excitement. Finally, he stood immediately below where we sat, looked up at Galen and swung the soft black cape back across his shoulder.

Galen nodded to him and the crowd cheered wildly. I glanced down shyly as everyone clapped and looked admiringly at my captor. He stood up and acknowledged first Espartaco’s tribute and then the admiration of the people. I felt like a handmaiden to a Roman emperor and shivered with excitement, both at what was actually happening and what was taking place in my mind. Two rows above us was a specially built box jutting out from the line of terraced seats, curtained ostentatiously with red velvet. A man stood up and leaned forward over the front edge of the box, holding his arms high. He was in his mid-forties with jet-black hair and a square, tanned face. He wore a dark suit, and over his jacket ran two light-blue ribbons draped over each of his shoulders and crossing at his chest.

‘The president,’ Galen informed me. ‘He will order the first bull to be released.’

The president gave a signal, a fanfare of trumpets sounded, and a young black tightly muscled bull galloped into the ring. He snorted and turned in all directions as the matador’s assistants tested him with large purple capes.

‘And now we will see how our first young combatant performs,’ Galen whispered to me.

Eve started studying her long fingernails again. ‘Galen,’ she said in a whining tone, leaning across me as if I was not even there. ‘Galen, I’m bored. Can’t we do something more exciting?’

‘No,’ he said firmly.

‘But it’s so hot and I’m so thirsty,’ she complained.

He ignored her.

She waved to a man selling drinks from a small tray, but he did not see her. She pouted and stood up, pushing past the people seated alongside her. Adjusting her skirt in the usual way every seven steps, she made her way down the open stairway between the rows of seats. I watched her progress, deliberate and purposeful, amid the pent-up excitement of the noisy crowd. I felt envious of her confidence as she took a drink from the man’s tray, and then pointed to Galen as the one responsible for paying for it. The vendor nodded, but then walked in the opposite direction as though the idea of pursuing the debt made him uncomfortable. She drove a thick straw into the container, closed her full lips around its end, tightened her cheeks, and sucked enthusiastically. The red liquid flowed up the translucent straw, and I saw the movement of her throat as she swallowed it. She took the straw deeper into her mouth, sucking harder, and I imagined the cool liquid spurting against the back of her throat. As I watched, her regular swallowing became a continuous feeding, then I saw her cheeks relax as her lips, slowly and begrudgingly, released the thick straw. A sparkling drop of liquid fell from her chin as she licked her lips and gazed up at the sun with an intense look of satisfaction.

There was a sudden roaring cheer as the picadors entered the ring. Their horses, swathed in thick protective quilts, snorted and dipped their heads as the riders lowered their lances at the still vigorous bull. Hooves scooped up puffs of red dust and the hot air was thick with the smell of sand and sweat and with the clamour of excitement heralding a public execution.

I did not watch the first death. I looked down at my feet as the crowd roared and the exhausted animal snorted its last painful breaths. The second kill I did not see either, but this time I stared at the victim until the last moment and only closed my eyes as the young banderillero leapt in front of the stricken bull and drove the barbed, colourfully decorated stick into the nape of the animal’s blood-streaked neck. But when Espartaco entered the ring and Galen leapt to his feet and the crowd broke out into uncontrollable howling, I could not look away. The bullfighter’s suit shone more brightly now as the rays of the setting sun picked out every dazzling facet of his exquisitely sequined jacket. The picadors backed away from the bull and Espartaco walked across the arena to stand beneath us. He bowed again to Galen, and when Galen lifted his hands high and clapped them once, the crowd went wild.

Espartaco turned to the bull, already exhausted and running with blood from wounds caused by the shiny, silver-tipped lances of the picadors. The beautiful animal bent its front legs and almost knelt on the dusty ground as it prepared to charge. Espartaco walked towards it slowly, his cape hanging loosely from his right arm. He stood in front of his victim, and passed his cape to his other hand. The bull looked enraged, but seemed incapable of movement, as though he was transfixed by the glittering figure before him. The crowd shouted angrily, annoyed at the bull for not responding to Espartaco, for being too easily seduced by its master, for not fighting, for not showing its will to live. But the outrage of the spectators could not put courage into the poor beast’s heart. Finally, Espartaco turned his back on it and looked up at the crowd in exasperation. There was nothing for him to do. He was prepared to battle for his life, but his chosen opponent was not brave enough to take him on. He dropped his cape by his side, and denied the contest along with the chance to romance his worshippers, he threw a single, petulant kiss at them, bowed once more to Galen, and walked out of the arena without looking back.

The president ordered a fanfare of trumpets, but it did not drown out the jeering outrage of the crowd as the cowardly bull was knocked down, bound around the ankles and dragged away by its feet. The stadium was filled with frustrated anger, and the spectators’ growing indignation combined with physical discomfort was an explosive combination. I felt as if I were drowning in a boiling cauldron of rage. Galen pulled me along the aisle and up the staging towards the president’s box. The president was holding his head in his hands, and Galen dragged me along by the wrist until I was standing anxiously in front of the forlorn figure.

‘Syra, my pet, meet Senor Vincente de Mora, the president of our famous bullfight.’

The president looked up and his dark eyes fell directly on me, but he did not seem to see me. He was consumed by his own despair as he stared straight ahead, his turned down lips almost snarling and his thick, black eyebrows furrowed with anger and embarrassment. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but then dropped his face abruptly into his hands again.

‘My dear Mora, do not be so unhappy,’ Galen implored him. ‘Look, I have a new pet and she is determined to show me how devoted she is to the thought of fulfilling all her desires by conquering all her fears.’

Mora lifted his face from his hands again, and raised an eyebrow. ‘Syra?’ he said thoughtfully, as if slowly recovering from his melancholy. ‘A pretty thing... yes, very pretty.’

His accent was strong and I sensed a cruel note in his voice. He struck me as a man who claimed his own pleasures above everyone else’s. I did not like him and I wanted to leave. I pulled against Galen’s grip, but my weak struggle only amused him.

‘Look, Mora, my little pet is trying to escape. I think you have frightened her, like Espartaco frightened his bull.’

The president of the bullfight laughed mockingly.

Galen turned to me. ‘Do not be afraid, my little pet. Remember, you are only here because you choose to be, not like the poor bull who failed so sadly to reward us all with a good fight and a courageous death.’

‘Do not remind me,’ Mora said angrily. ‘I wish to forget it! Perhaps your Syra can distract me?’

‘Can you?’ Galen asked me, looking deeply into my eyes.

I felt like looking away, so I looked at Mora. It was the wrong thing to do, for straightaway I realised he did not like my direct regard.

‘She looks as if she is challenging me, my dear Galen, and I do not like that.’ His heavily accented voice was cold and deliberate. I sensed anger in him and stared down at my feet, kicking at a discarded plastic cup.

‘Test her, then,’ Galen urged. ‘She wants it. That is why she is here with me. She says she wants to discover how to be truly bad. See if you can help her find the wickedness she craves.’

I looked up at him from lowered lids as Mora tightened his mouth and nodded thoughtfully. His interest was caught; I felt the cold edge of his curiosity like a blade poised over my heart. ‘She is a fidget, though,’ he complained. ‘Look, she cannot stand still even though she knows we are talking about her.’

‘Then that would be a good test, don’t you think, seeing if she can stand still?’

The president nodded slowly as he rose and walked around me, eyeing me up and down like a slave in a market. ‘Yes, my dear Galen, you are, as always, right. It would be a good test, indeed. Come Syra, stand here at the front of the presidential box, look out over the arena, and show yourself to the crowd.’

Obediently, I moved to the front edge of the small box and rested my hands on the ornamental iron balustrade. I felt people’s eyes on me at once wondering who I was, and stiffening my arms, I leaned further out.

Mora stepped up behind me, and despite how hot the day was I could still feel the distinct heat of his body. Then I felt his scorching breath on my neck as he bent his face to my ear.

‘Do not move, Syra,’ he said quietly. ‘Stay still. I do not want you to move. You must remain where you are, standing in front of the crowd, exactly as you are now... yes, Syra, that is it, completely motionless until I tell you otherwise. You may breathe, of course, but I do not want to see your chest moving, and you may not move your eyes at all. I want you to stare at your subjects no matter what happens.’

I was already staring into the crowd and did not alter my line of sight. I breathed shallowly and hoped he would not be able to detect the slight rise and fall of my breasts. I felt his hands alight on my hips and very gently push my dress up, exposing the naked flesh below the edge of my panties. The act of remaining perfectly still multiplied the thrills beginning to course through me. I wanted to be uncovered, exposed, shown off to the crowd. I wanted him to lift my dress all the way up over my breasts and pull my panties down. I wanted him to reveal my pussy to everyone, to expose the soft pink flesh of my labia, and I wanted him to shove his knee between my legs and open them wide so everyone could see my most private parts. The crowd suddenly roared again and I felt him pulling down the front of my panties. Holding my dress up around my hips with one hand, he tugged hard on my panties with the other and brought them down around my knees.

I wanted to squirm and press my pussy against his hard palm, but I was not allowed to move. I did not even grip the balustrade any tighter, even though I was desperate to relieve some of the tension building up inside me like floodwater behind a dam. I watched the crowd impassively, my mind racing, my stomach churning with excitement and my mind ablaze with images igniting my every nerve ending with lust. I saw the men in the crowd ogling my exposed vulva, some of them licking their lips with anticipation and some pulling their cocks out of their trousers to cradle them in their hands, rubbing them as the sight of my exposed pussy drove them on. I waited, with every second sinking deeper into an ecstatic oblivion beyond all physical expression, affording no outlet and no bounds.

Mora lifted the front of my dress all the way up and held it just below my chin, exposing my breasts as he wedged his arm between them. I felt the palm of his right hand pressing across the flesh of my buttocks, and then his finger slipping into their tight valley. Its tip glanced across the soft edges of my labia, and the wet petals opened for him like a ripe fig. I stared at the crowd without moving, and as they roared again, he removed his hand. There was a moment’s pause - a brief, silent eternity - then his hand came down on my bottom with a shocking smack. I was not sure if my buttocks tightened inadvertently beneath the impact. I hoped they did not. I wanted to please Galen, to do as he had commanded, but I was not sure I could. My cheeks burned hot and my chest tightened. The president lifted his hand, and brought it down again even harder across my bottom. The sharp slapping sound was almost drowned out by the cries of the crowd, and I was sure my muscles tensed and I swallowed harder than I should have. Then a third blow fell and I felt my teeth grinding together, holding back my need to cry out.

I felt something sharp against my side, and out of the corner of my eye saw another figure standing close behind me, but I could not tell who it was. Then I smelled her strong, citrus-like perfume, and the sharp touch turned agonising as Eve dug her fingernails deep into my waist. For a second I was able to resist the pain, which harmonised with the humiliation of my exposure, complemented my captivity and mysteriously heightened my arousal, but the moment passed, and as Mora’s hand came down for a fourth blow I cried out, I could not help myself. As I heard myself wail in distress I knew I had failed, and the ecstasy building up inside me subsided, replaced by a sinking disappointment and a sobering flood of self-disgust.

I heard Mora laugh mockingly. ‘She has failed, Galen. What do you do when someone fails in what is expected of them?’

‘They have to be trained more rigorously, my dear Mora,’ came the cool reply.

It was as though their voices were reaching me from a distant horizon; they sounded far away and strangely hollow, almost disembodied, but like the sirens’ song, they were also strangely irresistible. For a while I continued to hold on to the balustrade, trying to convince Mora I’d succeeded, that somehow my regained quietness and rigidity proved I was being completely obedient. But I knew I had failed. I had allowed the pet to destroy my chance to prove myself. I turned to Galen in the hope of seeing him smile or nod at me understandingly, but his arm was around Eve’s shoulder and he was talking quietly into her ear, ignoring me.

I am going to stop writing now because I can hear him coming. His footsteps ring on the cold stone floor, and the way he rattles the keys makes me horribly anxious. I ought to be used to it by now, but I wonder if I ever will be. I hope I have gotten enough done to please him, but I suspect I have not. Somehow I think he would have wanted me to produce more by now.