Astrologically
Inspired Erotica
"Taurus," an erotic story by Laura
Roberts
Red Dress by Alan Daniels, available at Obsession Art
The crowd screams in ecstatic frenzy,
whipped and spurred to this froth-mouthed passion by a skilled entertainer.
Though there is the glamour and spectacle of a rock star's vision, this is not
a rock concert. Though there are men speaking in tongues and the shrieks of
holy fury, this is not an evangelical tent revival. Though there are fists
thrown capriciously, this is not a fight club. The sweating, seething mass
gathered in this arena is here for blood. All eyes focus on one man, dressed in
spangled black and gold, fluttering a scarlet cape before an enraged, horned
animal, muscled and deadly.
Toreador and bull, a contest of wills. The
crowd wants to see blood spurting and congealing in the dust. Every man
envisions himself as the conquistador. Cheers spread for the matador, who will
end this assault in victory, claiming the bull's death as one might claim new land
for the mother country. These are strong, brave men who know exactly how to
pierce the animal's heart with their battle-hardened swords. It is their
god-given right to destroy, and they howl this at the tops of their lungs.
I am the only woman in this
testosterone-fueled mob, and I wonder whether these are men merely behaving
like men, or if they are caricatures waiting for their chance to see something
beautiful destroyed. Do they wish to see the bullfighter gored? Whose side are
they on, anyway? I sit quietly, listening to the madness surrounding me,
watching arms pumping and mouths moving in concert. I shuffle my feet
nervously, like a caged animal. The faces around me look strained, bestial.
They are contorted with what looks like rage, but the words that flow from
mouths like lava are words of encouragement, spurring the toreador to glory.
“Si! Faster! Harder!”
I think of the look on your face when you
cry out your orgasm, and suddenly I see this look reflected in the faces of the
men around me: pleasure and pain, simulation of stimulation. I wonder how they
achieve this look in bed. I wonder if they ever reach this height of frenzy
with their lovers. Perhaps they come to this arena to get what they've been
missing in love, to indulge in love's more dangerous cousin—hate.
I watch their twisting mouths and sweaty
faces. I survey veins in necks, foreheads. I calculate the time it will take
for drops of sweat to drip from curly hair, strong jaws, chiseled abdomens
bared in the heat. Everyone shimmers on the edge of heat stroke, like a mirage
in the desert of the real, but the roar of thousands of voices assures me that
this exists. My mind is not sunk in some vat; I am connected to this beast and
crawling somewhere within its soft pink belly.
“Señorita.”
A voice in my ear, a hand offered to pull
me to my feet. A stranger in white beckons me to follow. Curious, as always, I
allow myself to be led upstairs to the shade of the stadium's guts. I refrain
from asking the time-honored questions: Who are you? What do you want? Where
are we going?
I already know.
How many times has he done this? With how
many curious, young women, alone in the crowd? Do I really want to know? Does
it really matter? We are young and beautiful. We are ready for action. We have
been trained to do this, primed by the toreador's spectacle. The possibility of
injury and death hanging over this arena drives us in the opposite direction.
We accept our fate. He leads me to a darkened hallway, waves me on like the
matador with his cape.
I ponder for a moment, twisting my toe in
the dust, then rush for my target. We lock horns in combat, struggling for
control. His tongue twists hot against my neck, savoring my perfumed sweat and
dusty sheen. He pins me against the whitewashed stadium wall, my arms pinned
that he may take advantage of my upturned breasts, heaving in the heat, perched
atop my bra's balcony. Tearing the ribbons from my peasant shirt's bodice,
impatient for the sight of my pink nipples swelling with desire, he feasts upon
them like a starving man. I am suckled and squeezed and tongued to full
attention, and the hyacinth in my hair drops to the ground as my head lolls
back with pleasure.
I hear the crowds inside the stadium
cheering as one voice, growing louder, dropping off suddenly into silence, and
then crashing forth like a mighty wave once more. My opponent is spurred onward
by their applause and moves in for the kill, unsheathing his mighty sword.
Like a true champion, he gores me simply
and without malice. I gasp as he does it, pressing against me with
determination. His hardness is tempered by the words that trickle from his
mouth. I don't understand a word, but the way he whispers reverently, makes me
think of the prayers the matador whispers to the bull, calming it and speeding
its soul's trip to heaven. His eyes are closed as he thrusts, his movements
fierce but his words gentle. My pussy twitches with pleasure as he buries
himself to the hilt, grasping my buttocks firmly and emptying himself
completely.
I writhe and sweat beneath his unyielding
body, searching for my own release, knowing I have but a few seconds left. I
concentrate on the shouting crowd, close my eyes, feel their waves of
excitement build inside me and take my pleasure on the matador's sword even as
they proclaim his victory. My clit flicks hard and my orgasm is sudden,
powerful like dashing myself against the waves as they crash down upon me. I go
limp, and he pulls out gently, cradling me in his arms, kissing my neck softly
and whispering his goodbye.
Our
destinies have twined for but a moment, and the cord is cut. Pleasure and pain.
The intimate dance of the bullfight continues as we couple, part. I no longer care about the outcome of the fight
inside, as my matador disappears back into the stadium.
Originally published April 2010