Bulled

El Toro—the Bull—was pawing and snorting beyond to door to the plaza de torros, wanting the dance to the death to begin. But I was in no hurry. Part of ascending over him was driving him mad by making him wait for it. If it weren't for brains and guile I would be no match for the Bull. The Bull was a massive brute.

I had already pulled on my pink stockings and the black satin, form-fitting breeches and selected the white shirt, a frilly one this time, I thought. I wanted the contrast between matador and bull to be pronounced. Trimness, style, fluidity on the one hand and brutish narrowness of purpose on the other. I wanted even the Bull to see and appreciate the difference.

But what to wear for the traje de luces—the suit of lights? It had to be flashy and it had to anger the Bull. That was the whole point. The Bull had to be angry enough to melt down so that the estocada—the death blow—was mine, not the Bull's.

The green, I thought. The Bull fairly snorted whenever the green was flashed. And the capote—the cape—was to be green as well. But the sash? The sash would be bright red.

The Bull was fairly bellowing impatience and the need for the corrida—the fight—from beyond the massive wooden door after I had finished knotting the sash and straightening my black astrakhan, my two-pointed hat. I stood admiring myself in the mirror for several moments. Flawless. I was magnificent even if I did say so myself. I was almost too beautiful to take on the Bull at all. Perhaps I should leave the Bull pawing on the other side of the door there and become an unattached man of the night. But that, of course, was ridiculous. What would the fashionable matador be without his bull?

Time for the dance of death.

I threw open the door and strutted out onto the killing ground. The Bull was turned from me but whipped around at my entrance. He was a monstrous thing, but magnificent in his monstrosity. All bulging sinew and muscle, hairy and massive and mean looking. A tremendously virile male. A pendulous cock that would make a rhino whine and back away and a ground-dragging ball sack. The Bull expressed the essence of brute precisely.

I swished my cape and tilted my head and looked saucy for the brute. I was late—hours late—for our assignation, but I wasn't about to let the Bull think this bothered me one bit. I at least was ready and the Bull wasn't. All of this time and I was ready for the Bull, but the Bull had done nothing but stand out here on the gravel of the arena and act like a bull.

I swished the cape again and did a little bit of pirouetting on my delicate ballet slippers, and the rage and impatience rose in the Bull's gorge and I was being charged.

"Ole!" I cried out with a lilting laugh, as I turned deftly at the last second and passed my cape over him in a perfect Veronica move.

The Bull would think twice about that, I thought, with a stab of self-congratulations. Bet the Bull didn't think I had that maneuver in my repertoire. But Bulls don't think. They just impetuously do. And their appetites are large and gross and insistent—and totally selfish, I might add. That was why the relationship between a matador and a bull never really worked out. Both were totally self-absorbed. So, naturally, one of them had to die.

But I was thinking too much and it was slowing me down. The Bull charged me again and caught the satin of my breeches and tore a chunk of the material away at my hip. First blood. The first blood had gone to the Bull and all because I was mentally screwing around with the Bull and not taking any of this seriously. But it had gotten serious now. These breeches couldn't be taken back now.

The Bull really had drawn blood. there was a thin slice across my bared hip. The drawing of the blood made me angry. But it seemed to stimulate the Bull. The Bull looked at the wound and snorted in victory and pawed the ground, ready to charge again.

In this pass, I thumped the Bull on the nose in passing and was rewarded with a squeal of pain and raw anger. I thought the Bull properly unhinged then, but the Bull showed me that big and bulky could be agile too.

I had feinted to the right one too many times on the nose-thumping pass. The Bull outguessed me and turned that way too, lowered his head, and hit me in the midsection full force, knocking me to the ground and knocking the wind out of me as well in the process.

And he held me pinned there to the ground with the top of his head in my midsection and me writhing under him, trying to get his massive weight off me. But it was no use. He was pawing at the rent in the satin at my hip, ripping the breeches away, and then his sensuous big lips went to my cock and he was swallowing me and pumping me with his brutish mouth.

"Pasquale, enough, enough. I give," I was crying out to him. "The estocada is yours. You have struck the death blow. Stop. Stop!"

But the man bull Pasquale wouldn't stop. I'd aroused him. I'd aroused him on purpose, and I only had myself to blame that I was being ravished. He was sucking my cock relentlessly, and he had one big hoof in my sternum, holding, me to the ground and the fingers of the other hand were searching, finding my rim, opening me to the inevitable sinking of that monster cock inside me.

"Gawd, Pasquale, if you didn't want to go to the costume party, why didn't you just tell me you wanted to stay home and fuck? Just look at this costume. I can't return this now."

Not a word from Pasquale, just lustful grunts. He was spreading my legs and lifting my butt cheeks.

"Oh, Pasquale. Not so . . . Ohhhhh, Pasquale! You're splitting me! Ohhhh, Ohhhhhhhhh! Gawd, Yesssssss! You . . . are . . . the . . . B-U-L-L!"