Viva La Revolución

Pancho Villa entered the town of Anenecuilco on horseback in the summer of 1910. A crowd of admirers cheered for him as he rode into the town center, his bronze skin glinting with sweat in the sunlight. He had come with a cadre of five other revolutionary leaders from his home state of Chihuahua in order to solidify the alliance between his forces in the north of Mexico and those of the legendary revolutionary commander, Emiliano Zapata, in the south.

Villa was handsome in a rugged, rough-cut way, and he knew it. As he passed through the crowd of admirers, he eyed the women of the village, with their bright hair ribbons and embroidered Nahuatl styled dresses. They looked up at him with fresh faces and expressions of admiration in their eyes. Villa mussed up his hair with his hand and gave the ladies his best dashing smirk. He was a sucker for compliments.

He knew how this worked. His months as a revolutionary leader, going from town to town to rile up supporters, had come with its perks. He had found the women of the revolution to be refreshingly free with their love. From the Sonoran desert to the Oaxacan rainforests, they had clamored for the privilege of giving themselves to him, and he had been generous in giving them his time. Anenecuilco seemed no different. He scanned the cheering crowd, trying to decide which of the pretty girls he would like to have his way with.

One woman in particular caught his eye. She was a small woman, slim and short of stature, with a sweet, bucolic face that wore a fiery expression. Her skin was dark olive, evidence of Spanish blood in addition to indigenous ancestry. "Viva la Revolución!" she shouted as Villa passed her. "Viva Pancho Villa!"

"Viva la Revolución!" he responded in ascension, eyeing her pointedly. She met his gaze, offered him a broad smile, and blew him a kiss. Yes, she was the one. In a swift, seamless motion, he dismounted his horse and strode over to her. "I like a revolutionary girl," he said. He put his hand around her slim waist. There was no subtlety in this gesture: he made it abundantly clear what he wanted from the girl. She, in turn, made it abundantly clear what she wanted from him. Standing on her tiptoes, she took hold of Villa's jacket and kissed him on the mouth, while the crowd around them whooped and cheered. Villa kissed her back, taking hold of the back of her neck and planting a kiss deep into her lips.

"Would you like a ride?" he asked, gesturing to his horse.

"You can ride me all you like, Señor Villa." She winked at him.

Villa swept the girl up in his arms, remounted his horse with her on his lap, and continued his way to the center of the city. When he arrived at his lodgings, he went straight to the room provided for him, his new companion in town. There, he spread her legs and penetrated her, deeply and thoroughly.

She moaned and whimpered when he entered her, her eyes wide. He pressed into her, stretching her tight entrance, as she trembled with the intensity of the taking.

"Have you taken a man's cock before?" he asked her, grunting with the exertion.

"My husband's is nowhere near as capacious as yours," she whispered

"Oh you're good. You know just the right things to say to a man..." Villa moaned in reply, increasing the tempo of his pounding.

She shuddered beneath him and wrapped her arms and legs around his body. Villa felt almost intoxicated by the sense of power the position afforded him. He relished in the effect that each pump of his pelvis had on the small body of the woman beneath him. He finished on the woman's stomach with a satisfied grunt. She smiled up at him submissively, then began washing herself off with the water jug in the corner.

"What's your name?" he asked her absently as he dressed himself.

"Josefa," she responded. She paused. "Josefa Zapata."

"That's a funny coincidence," said Villa. "That's the same last name as Emiliano Zapata, the man I'm here to see." Perhaps Zapata was a common name in the province of Morelos, he thought.

Josefa walked over to Villa and handed him his jacket. "It's no coincidence, Pancho." She gave his forehead a light kiss.

Villa felt his stomach drop. "You're married to him, aren't you?"

"Yes"

"Mierda," Villa cursed. "I did it again."

"He won't notice," Josefa assured him. "He never does. My husband has his affairs, and I have mine."

"Where is he now, anyway?"

"Oh I think I know," Josefa mused.

***

As it happened, at this particular moment, the famed revolutionary commander Emiliano Zapata was tied to the frame of his four-poster bed, being struck repeatedly with a leather riding crop by his long-time mistress, Rosario.

Neither party had noticed that the time was getting late, and that the visiting commander Villa would be expecting to speak with Zapata soon. Zapata had lost himself completely in the joy of ceding control. His only thoughts were of the crop in his mistress's hand, his eyes razor-focused on its movements as Rosario struck him and teased him with it. She toyed with Zapata with a genial familiarity, striking his legs and chest in the exact spots that she knew from years of experience would hurt him in just the right ways. Rosario took a long, deliberate pause, getting up from the bed and examining her hair in the mirror. She smirked as Zapata whined for her to come back to the bed through the undergarment she had stuffed in his mouth.

"Patience, Emiliano," she teased. "Good things come to those who wait." She ignored his whimpering and began to re-braid her hair. She liked making him wait for her. It gave her an intoxicating thrill of power to know that this leader of the revolution, this hardened statesman and military commander, was made to wait at the mercy of a woman braiding her hair. Zapata may be the commander of a ragtag army of revolutionary peasants, but in this room, Rosario was Zapata's commander. And she knew that he liked it. Indeed, he loved it; he needed it; he craved it.

When Rosario had finished her hair, she returned to Zapata's bed, twisted his nipples, and teased his cock with her hand. Zapata sighed and moaned and whimpered as she brought him close to orgasm, looking at her with pleading eyes to let him come. Feeling in a generous mood, Rosario assented. She coaxed the orgasm out of him expertly. With a gasp of exertion, Zapata ejaculated, his entire body shuddering. He murmured his thanks through the garment in his mouth. Rosario removed it and kissed him on the lips.

"You're so good to me, cariña," he crooned.

In response, she grinned at him and slapped him across the face. "Not too good, I hope!" She straddled him and held his head in her hands, holding it immobile by her grasp on his hair. He gazed up at her with rapt attention, feeling her strong, bulky legs resting upon his own slim legs. He loved her face-her thick, dark eyebrows, her copper skin, her long, regal, indigenous nose.

"What do you think I should say to General Villa today?" he asked her, his head still caught in her grasp.

"Do you trust him?"

"No. You know I don't agree with Madero and the Constitutionalists. But I think Villa is the best one of the lot. I've heard he's been talking to peasants about land reform."

"You can never tell what's real and what's empty promises these days." Rosario ran her finger through Zapata's moustache and curled it at the tip.

"That's the eternal question, isn't it?" He smirked. "I want to get Villa on my side. On all our sides-the side of the peasants, the indigenous people."

"Find what he wants from you. Then give it to him. Or make him think you're giving it to him."

Zapata considered this. "You'll have to untie me first."

"Only if you say please"

***

Villa was adjusting his clothing in the mirror in preparation for Zapata's arrival. He ruffled his hand through his hair, giving it the appearance of dishevelment. Then he adjusted his jacket so that it looked slightly askew and tipped his hat jauntily to the side. Should he use the information Josefa had revealed to him, he wondered? She had shared with him such a scandalous secret, but using it against Zapata would involve admitting who had shared it with him. If he had come seeking Zapata's alliance, then he did not want to antagonize him. He ran his hand through his hair a second time.

Zapata, meanwhile, had crafted his own appearance just as meticulously as Villa had. He had combed his moustache and twirled it up at the edges, and he had donned a freshly ironed cotton shirt, high waisted jacket, and tight black charro pants. He walked toward the house where Villa was staying at a quick but measured pace, his riding shoes clicking on the pavement as he walked. On his way, he passed his wife Josefa walking in the opposite direction. He caught her eye, but she looked down quickly and hustled past him.

Zapata arrived at the house of the family that was hosting the visiting commander and rapped on the door. The wife ushered him in and offered him a seat at the table in the kitchen. "He's in his room getting ready, señor," she told him. "He..." she began, then hesitated. "He'll be out in a moment." She turned away quickly, but not quickly enough for Zapata to see that she was hiding something.

"What is it? What were you going to say?"

"Nothing." The wife blushed. "Nothing you need to worry about." And with that, she left the room.

Zapata sat down on the wicker chair, crossed his legs, and waited for Villa. He had only to wait a moment; Villa entered almost as soon as he had sat down, and Zapata stood up to greet him. He took in Villa's appearance with a flick of his eyes, seeing immediately how carefully cultivated Villa's appearance of ruggedness was. The jaunty hat, the ruffled hair-it was all too perfectly off-kilter. Villa was clearly as eager to make a good impression as Zapata was. Zapata was known for his fastidious appearance; his rivals made fun of the meticulous care he took in combing his moustache and choosing his outfits. Was Villa's guise of dishevelment perhaps a purposeful attempt to differentiate himself from Zapata? Or was he reading too much into Villa's appearance? Zapata could not tell. Either way, the care that Villa had obviously taken to make it look like he did not care about his appearance showed Zapata that Villa was invested in this alliance. This investment could work to Zapata's advantage.

Villa, in turn, was attempting to read Zapata's appearance. Zapata wore the high-waisted jacket, tight riding pants, and wide-brimmed sombrero that were typical of a charro horseman. Whereas the wealthy landowning class in Mexico wore clothing like that worn in Europe, the charro outfit signified Zapata's background as a peasant and a mixed-race mestizo. And yet Zapata wore the clothing as if it were a costume; his shirt and pants were immaculately clean, and not a stitch was out of place. Zapata was handsome. Judging by the size and grooming of his moustache, he knew it. The details of his body seemed just as perfectly arranged as the details of his clothing. Who was this little man trying to impress?

Zapata gave Villa a polite bow in greeting. Villa responded by pulling him into an embrace. Bringing his body close to Zapata's and had the effect of underscoring Villa's taller stature and broader shoulders. "We can cut the formalities, can't we, hermano?" He said. "We're here in common cause."

"Indeed. Have a seat."

They both sat. "I need to know," Villa began, "Do I have your alliance? With your forces in the south and ours in the north, we could easily run Diaz out of Mexico."

"And replace him with whom? Madero?" Zapata's face was expressionless. Villa could not read it.

"Maybe Madero...maybe someone different. I'm not invested in Madero, Emiliano-can I call you that?"

"Yes"

"I'm not invested in Madero. He's too liberal, you and I both know it. But he's our best chance at driving out Diaz."

Zapata scanned Villa's expression, attempting to ascertain the sincerity of the statement. Was Villa really on his side, or was he trying to make Zapata think that he was? Zapata leaned in toward Villa and spoke softly. "I want you on my side, Pancho. Not just now but after the Revolution."

"I want that too."

"How do I know that?"

"Look at me, Emiliano. I'm a man of the people. Not just the hacienda owners or the Spaniards but the real people of the land, the campesinos. Why do you think I dress like this?"

Zapata moved his chair closer to Villa. Even with his smaller stature, he wanted to establish that he was not afraid to approach Villa, the he saw into his guises. "When I look at you," he began, "I see a man who wants desperately that folks think of him as a man of the people. I want to know why you try so hard."

Villa was taken aback. "I might ask you the same thing! What's with the fancy getup, pretty boy?"

Zapata ignored the question. He saw clearly that his question had struck a sensitive chord with Villa, so he pressed further. "I think you're a fraud. You talk a big game about liberation, but what you really want is a nice, comfortable position in government."

"I'm no fraud!" Villa attempted to hide the outward signs of anger at Zapata's accusation, to no avail. In truth, he was hurt that Zapata suspected him of being an opportunist, and he was embarrassed that Zapata had seen into the contrived nature of his rugged appearance.

Zapata provoked Villa further. He leaned in so that Villa was inches away from his face. "You're a sellout, Pancho. I think you'll lick Madero's boots if it means a promotion."

Villa lost his temper. Before he could stop himself, he blurted out, "From what your wife tells me, I'm not the one who does the bootlicking around here!" Immediately, he regretted his words, but they could not be unsaid.

Now it was Zapata's turn to be taken aback. "What did you say?"

No turning back now. "That's right," Villa continued, "I fucked your wife, and from what I hear, you're not much of a man in that department. Poor Josefa. She came to me, unsatisfied by her husband, and I treated her like a woman should be treated." He made a lewd gesture with his hand.

Zapata balked at Villa, speechless.

"You know what she told me?" Villa pressed his advantage, encouraged that he had gained the upper hand in the conversation, "She said you have a mistress who ties you up and beats you. She says that's the only thing that gets you off."

Zapata remained silent. He did not care whether or not Villa had fucked Josefa; he had little interest in her. And it did not bother him particularly that Josefa had revealed to Villa the specific nature of his fetish for submission. What bothered him was that the revelation had made him lose control of the conversation. Was there a way that he could use Villa's revelation to his advantage, he wondered?

An idea occurred to Zapata, something he could do to win back the upper hand. It would be a bold move, but he just may gain Villa's alliance out of it.

He sat back in his chair and crossed his legs. "You are a big strong man, aren't you, Pancho?"

"Stronger than you'll ever be."

Zapata's eyes bored into Villa's. "Show me."

Villa faltered. "What?"

"You've figured it out. My dirty little secret. Josefa was right-I like to be dominated. It gives me such a perverse thrill, you have no idea. So dominate me. Show me how a real man fucks."

Villa stared at Zapata. Was he serious? The idea seemed so ludicrous, not just that the famed military leader Emiliano Zapata would have a secret submissive side, but that he would so openly admit to it, flaunt it even. He examined Zapata's posture. Whereas before, Zapata had assumed a powerful stance in his chair, his legs apart, taking up as much space in the room as he could, he now sat back in his chair, his legs crossed coyly, his finger twirling around the end of his immaculately groomed moustache. What game was he playing? What was in it for Zapata to give himself to Villa, other than the satisfaction of his own perverse pleasure?

Villa felt something stir within him, a flicker of arousal that began to collect in his groin and became difficult to ignore. He had never lain with a man before, but he could not claim that he did not notice when a fine specimen of man came into his midst. He had noticed Zapata's handsome, symmetrical face, and he had glimpsed the contours of his well-formed body beneath his tight-fit clothing. He liked the idea of making Zapata submit to him. He wanted to take him as he had taken his wife-to rip off those immaculately pressed clothes and put this leader of the revolution in his place.

Zapata waited for Villa's response. Offering himself to Villa was a half-baked strategy to gain Villa's alliance, to consummate it. He was taking Rosario's advice: intuiting what Villa wanted and giving it to him. He hoped that if he made Villa feel good now, if he made him feel powerful, then Villa would repay him later on by siding with him over Madero. And he hoped that by submitting himself to Villa, he would show Villa that he was not a threat. Perhaps there would come a day when Zapata and Villa were enemies, and if that day came, Zapata would rather that Villa underestimate him than overestimate him.

"Alright," Villa said finally. "But I may have to mess up your pretty head of hair."

"Well, sacrifices have to be made in wartime, don't they?" Zapata smiled wryly.

Villa stretched in his chair and considered his next move. He decided to establish his dominance immediately. "I want you on your knees. Now."

"Alright." Zapata got up from his chair and knelt down in front of Villa. He looked up at Villa, awaiting his next instructions.

Villa searched Zapata's face for a trace of jest or mockery, but Zapata's expression was placid, eager, and utterly sincere. Villa unbuttoned his trousers, took hold of a handful of Zapata's hair, and guided his head toward his crotch. Zapata had pleasured other men before, and with this experience in his pocket, he easily coaxed Villa's penis to erection. He enjoyed feeling it grow as he worked on it, warm and hard, filling up the cavity of his mouth. Good, he thought. Villa will like that he is bigger than I am.

"You've done this before, haven't you?" Villa guided Zapata's head up and down the length of his erection.

"Mm-hmm," Zapata replied, his mouth full. Zapata felt Villa's hand move his head downward so that his cock filled his throat. Villa's hands were large and steady, and they held Zapata's head in place unrelentingly, his windpipe blocked and his breath building up in his chest. With a thrill of arousal that sent a shudder throughout his entire body, Zapata fought back his gag reflex.

At last, Villa took mercy on Zapata and brought his head up long enough so that he could take in a gasping breath, then forced his head down again and pumped upward, eliciting a series of gulping sounds. Villa was delighted at the pleasing sounds he could extract from Zapata. He could make him gag on his cock, gasp for breath, then gag again. And in between these sounds, Zapata would make another, even more intoxicating sound: a low, resonant moan. At first, Villa thought it was a moan of protestation, but he realized soon that it was a moan of pleasure.

Villa jerked Zapata's head by the hair so that it was facing upwards and, looking him straight in the eyes, slapped him across the face with the back of his hand. The effect on Zapata was immediate. He drew a sharp breath inward, then exhaled on a long, deep moan, closing his eyes and taking on an expression of barely contained pleasure. It was as if Villa had unsettled something deep and primal within Zapata; he had scratched a deep-seated itch, and Zapata could not contain his relief. Encouraged, Villa slapped Zapata again, harder, and saw that a patch of red immediately appeared across his face. Zapata winced but maintained eye contact. Again, Villa struck him across the other cheek, eliciting a sharp whimper from Zapata.