The Long Day of Revenge (5 page)

“Owwww…”

With her hand trapped, she made a last ditch effort to cover herself by raising her legs as best she could and with them bent, hoped to cover her tail end. The ploy did not work.

“Get your legs down straight or you’ll get it all from scratch.”

“Nooooooo!”

“When are you going to learn to close that mouth and obey me?” Manolo sighed in feigned frustration. “The more you resist, the longer this will take.”

Lucinda howled in not just disappointment, but outright fear. Her entire body shivered at the thought of even more barbarity to come.

“No! Please! I can’t take it anymore!”

“You can and you will!”

“No!”

Another series of blows came on Lucinda’s already burning ass as she yelped, yelled, and cursed aloud. Finally, it looked to be over.

“Get up and stand in the corner.”

Lucinda rolled off his lap and curled on the floor, rubbing her bottom with both hands, and tears poured from her eyes. Her face was nearly as red as her buttocks.

“Owwwwww!”

“I said stand in the corner.”

From somewhere in the distance a trumpet sounded, and the notes of Silverio Perez rocked through the house again.

“What?”

Lucinda opened her eyes, relieved to find the savage session to have been only the product of her subconscious.

Turning on her side, she felt herself to be sure it had all been a dream. There was only a slight soreness from her spanking earlier on, but nothing to indicate the barbaric hairbrush session had been for real.

The dream had confused her all the more. In truth, she did not know what she wanted. She was not even sure she was looking forward to the upcoming Hermosillo adventure with Manolo or not.

To complicate matters further, had she known, Manolo Garza was not preparing himself for the test of manhood against the animals he would face tomorrow, but sitting on the toilet in his own place, masturbating to the memories of her naked pubic region and ass.

Chapter Four

The ride to Hermosillo was an uncomfortable one, for neither spoke of the blow to the balls, the sudden kiss, the spanking, or the frontal viewing that had transpired in the Agua Prieta rodeo ring. If Lucinda’s ass had been injured, she was no longer showing the effects of the same and appeared to be sitting quite well. Manolo’s own manhood had clearly stopped throbbing, and he walked fine.

While Lucinda drove, Manolo tried to concentrate on the danger that awaited him. Again and again, he replayed the tape in his mind, reminding himself of what he would do with the cow that was being offered him. He would drop to his knees and whirl, just as he had done in practicing. He would run the hand for long, beautiful naturals and he would profile before his adversary, as if he was before 50,000 crazed spectators in México City.

The drive to Hermosillo had been harrowing for both of them, for they had left in the middle of the night, and the roads were difficult to navigate. They had stopped and switched drivers various times, but the journey was not a pleasant one, made even more uneasy by what had happened during the training session beforehand.

When Manolo took his turn at the wheel, Lucinda slept in the passenger seat, but she seemed to be having bad dreams. Perhaps she saw herself still being spanked.

Hermosillo was the capitol of Sonora and vastly different from Agua Prieta. Far larger, far more cosmopolitan, and far more intimidating, it was considered the gem of the entire state. The Manzano ranch was located at the outskirts of the city, and while this metropolis had no bullring, it did have a reputation for housing a ranch breeding the best bulls in Mexico.

The trip was a bizarre one and it seemed to take forever, but at long last they fought their way through Hermosillo’s downtown and into the countryside.

Manolo was the one who drove as they wheeled into the Manzano ranch just outside the city, and all the formalities took place. There were to be the introductions, the common cordialities, and finally the tienta itself.

Don Eliseo Manzano had inherited the ranch from his father, who had inherited it from his uncle, who founded the herd.

The grounds looked like Manolo had anticipated, right up to the main gate with the ranch’s brand, a gigantic M, located on the iron entranceway. There was the massive family house, worker headquarters, and a huge dining hall with walls covered in bullfighting memorabilia. Here, the heads of bulls that made the Manzano name famous hung with glass eyes and menacing horns. Don Eliseo took pride in giving a guided tour.

“This is Brujo,” he announced as he pointed to the head of a large black animal, looking as ferocious in death as it must have in life. “This is the bull that killed Mario Martinez in Mexico City in 1946. The poor matador took a goring in the lung, and that was the end of things for him.”

“This is Comanche, who was fought by Gerardo Ruiz and together they made history. Ruiz cut the ears and tail from this animal and left on the shoulders of the crowd. This took place in San Luis Rio Colorado in 1958, and people still consider it the greatest showing ever in that town.”

“This is the head of Gigante, who killed Pipo in Aguascalientes in 1941.”

Aside from the stuffed heads of notable animals were framed photos, old posters, and other relics from long gone days, reviving the glory of the Manzano ranch. All of the greats from the past and present had faced the Manzano bulls. Procuna, Fernando De La Torre, Joselito Mendez, Cordobes, Manolete, Dominguin, Arruza, Silveti. Some had succeeded and others had failed, but to confront these monsters was a true test of manhood.

“But enough,” Don Eliseo said with a flamboyant gesture. “On to the testing.”

These activities took place in a small bullring on the Manzano property. There was a section of bleachers where Eliseo Manzano sat, along with his ranch bookkeeper, who would make notations upon the showings of each young animal. There were others, too. Reporters, managers, and the long retired matador, Vicente Moreno, who sat next to the bull breeder on high.

Looking up at them from his position on the sand, Manolo could not help but make fun of them.

“Two old buzzards watching young bulls,” he whispered.

Lucinda was there also, seated next to Manzano’s wife, who would explain the situation to her as things progressed. She looked like a motherly type, and in his mind, he envisioned her giving Lucinda a spanking on that luscious bare bottom of hers, just as he had done. While the business at hand was serious, little snippets like that kept the tension from being unbearable.

Standing behind a wooden barrier, Manolo wore not the glittering suit of lights as in a professional bullfight, though he did in fact own one. He wore a cloth cap, pulled down close to his eyes, dark pants, and a white long sleeved shirt. The others dressed accordingly as well, so except for slight differences in ages and height, one could not tell any of the participants apart.

There was Fernando De La Torre, a full-fledged matador who was still very active. He was serving as director de lidea or coordinator of the events on the arena floor. He had been a professional for over a decade and had even triumphed in Spain.

There was another Manolo, Manolo Rubes, with a faded brown cloth cap on his own head that had presumably seen many tientas. This man was a matador like De La Torre, but nowhere near his category.

There was Luis Gomez, whom Manolo knew as another aspirant. They had performed together in a portable bullring in Ciudad Obregon, and that was where Manzano had seen both of them. He had been impressed enough by both to invite them to this tienta, which was the exact reason why they were there.

There was someone else he had never heard of before, a former banderillero who called himself Rafael something or another, who now wanted to get into the management of younger men. He was on the sand, holding a cape just for extra backup should anyone come into danger.

The mounted man was in position, too, with his heavily padded horse. The quilted material covered most of the animal except its tail, head, and legs, so it could move about, but be afforded protection from the horns. Even small horns could be damaging.

“Islero. Number 13.”

Someone called the name from above him. He was pretty sure it was the bookkeeper.

Rafael Something-or-other opened a metal doorway which led into a tunneled area. At first there was nothing to see, but then a miniaturized demon emerged.

Islero. It was ironic to give a bull such a name, as this was what the bull that killed Manolete had been called. It was one of the most dreaded names in all of the bullfight. This calf, however, did not live up to its namesake, for one charge at the horse was enough. The slight prick from the pole sent the little beast scurrying to the other side of the ring, and there, he refused to move.

The sight of this caused a disappointed grumble from the stands.

“Ha, ha,” the man on the horse shouted in an effort to provoke a second charge. “Yogh. Baaaa!”

The mounted man might has well have been speaking to a lamp post, for the bull refused to move.

“Ha…”

Again the call came, but there was no sign of interest, let alone aggression, from Islero.

Manolo looked upward and could see Manzano saying something to his bookkeeper. Islero was evidently not going to see his way into the bullfight as a grown animal. It was the slaughter house outright.

“Torito,” the rider called again, giving the young bull one last chance to redeem itself, but the creature snorted and did nothing.

Once more, a dejected murmur came from the stands.

“I think we’ve seen enough,” Rafael Something-or-other called out and stepped from the fence. “I’ve got him.”

With heated coaxing, the older man led the budding bull back up the tunnel he came from, and as the gate shut behind him, his fate was sealed.

“Piston. Number 31.”

Manolo was not sure who spoke the words, but as the gate opened a new challenger emerged from the darkness. This one was not the traditional black, but a shade of rust brown. The fur reminded him of the sight of Lucinda’s muff the other day, too brownish to be blond and too blond to be brownish.

“Ah ha,” came the familiar cry.

Unlike Islero, Piston attacked the horse with bravery and thus destined himself for the official bullring instead.

Manolo gave a glance upward to the spot where Lucinda was sitting and he grinned defiantly, curious as to how comfortable she was on the hard surface below her.

“I’ll give everyone things to stand up about,” he uttered. “Wait until I face Ernestina.”

Ernestina was the name of the cow he was designated to fight once the formal testing ended. He had seen her in the corral and was duly impressed, though not afraid. After all, he had faced a bigger animal in that portable ring alongside Gomez and came out just fine.

“Ha.”

Piston attacked again. With amazing dexterity, the rider delivered his annoying probe at the charging bull, then halted and held the reigns to keep his horse secure.

De La Torre took the little animal away, but gave it only the minimal amount of cape passes, as were the rules. The less a bull destined for the arena saw of the capes, the better. He did, however, end his work with an elaborate flash, as he spun the lure from hand to hand, making the cloth billow around his hips.

“Rebolera,” Manolo mouthed as he watched and identified the move. “Ole.”

The audience applauded De La Torre as he walked away from the animal, looking into the stands. Above, Eliseo Manzano nodded. This little creature would grow to be used in a real bullring somewhere, and there, be killed. It seemed a tad unjust.

Manolo wasn’t thinking too much of Piston, but of his own challenger ahead. Ernestina would help make or break him.

He remembered the training session of the day before and all the things he planned to do. If only Lucinda was more intoned to this world of his that would make things so much better. He was, after all, feeling for her now. He had no idea what had gotten into him with that spanking episode. Such had never occurred to him before, yet it had happened and doorways were opened, just like the bull pen gate.

In his mind, he pictured himself back in Agua Prieta, swirling the lure while Lucinda charged. Then he remembered that embarrassing blow to his private parts and the even more embarrassing pants down spanking he had administered to his training partner.

He was unsure what he liked more. Was it the kiss, the sight of her beaver, or that spanking?

“Lucinda.”

He mouthed the name in a low voice, coming back to reality.

The tienta was turning out to be routine, or at least it seemed so when Piston was led from the ring. It was then a cunning demon from the very flames of the underworld emerged that Manolo would come to both deplore and dread.

“Gaditano. Number 16.”

When the gate was opened, there was no sign of motion at first. Then he came, a compact package of dynamite with a span of horns unnaturally large for a beast of such a young age. He did not run into the arena, but gave a leap into the air as he came unto the sand, as if glad to be freed, like a devil unchained.

Manolo’s eyes widened as he saw this creature. He hated it from the onset.

“God…”

The mounted man had repositioned himself very close to Manolo, who was able to see as the little bull slammed into the padding with such force the rider went flying along with his pole.

Since Manolo was the closest to the action, it was his duty to make a rescue.

Without thinking, he slipped from behind the protective barrier and was out on the sand with cape in hand, ready to lead the bull away from the toppled ranch worker.

Gaditano was ready for him.

Though it happened in an instant, everything seemed to move in slow motion.

Manolo caught the bull’s attention with the lure, but as he did so, he tripped and fell backward. When he did, Gaditano hooked into his pants with his right horn, spinning him by the right leg. The would-be matador felt more surprise than pain or terror, but he was dragged across the little bullring’s hot sand and there, he was gored again. This time it was a real goring and not a puncture.