The first time I had seen him was in the Plaza de Toros, under the blazing summer sun. The rays had fallen on him in a way that crowned that black hair of his, like a halo. In the same sense as a spotlight beautifying the ballerina, sunbeams were his limelight, every curve of his movement illuminated under the heat. And come the climax of the fight—where he’d drive his estoque into the heart of a raging bull—blood upon his chest, sweat upon his brow, and pride in his smile, I too, had been possessed by the same charm he had swayed the crowd with.
So much so, I had ended up in his dressing room the night after, the heat of his body on mine that no sun could replicate. A certain type of estoque was driven into me that night, touching more than just my heart, but a certain spot in my mind only he could tap into. A frenzied state of pleasure, where night after night, I’d leave with a certain dryness in my throat. That was his way of imprinting my tongue so that it may not speak another word but his name.
These trysts became tradition between us. I’d meet him just as the sun began to dip below the horizon, and as the orange hues filtered through the windows of his room, he’d vent all that he felt about his fight on me, making sure I felt every way he drove himself into me over, and over, and over again.
And I’d come crawling back for more, each time my heart leading me slightly more than the wants of my body. We had promised each other nothing more than a casual relationship, yet something in me hungered for him in the same sense he chased danger. At first, I shook this feeling, mistaking it for clarity after a night with him. But in the post-coital afterglow, when he brought me close into his arms, and I could feel the curve of his trained bicep accompanied by the beating of his heart, the feelings I had grew undeniable.
But they remained unspoken.
Not until the last time I’d see him, wherein he’d tell me that he’d be going away for a while, and that our relationship couldn’t carry further. He had delivered that blow with such tender sorrow, nothing but sweetness in the way he called me his love, apologies spilling from his tongue the same way his name would spill from mine had it been any other night.
But, I wasn’t going to have any of his bullshit.
If there was one thing I gauged from all the times he fucked me, it was that he got off on the danger of it. Getting caught, the possibility of repercussion, knowing just how much he could get away with it. Having rapidly risen to fame, he was the people’s prince. Young, handsome, courageous… Countless women pined to experience with him what I’ve taken for granted. If our relationship had been made public, everyone and their mother would line up to riot, no doubt pointing a finger at me.
What this had to do with the sweetness in his apology that bothered me was that there hadn’t been any form of sincerity behind it. Or at least, for the reasons that he claims. Truth may be that he loved me, but not enough to stop basking in the thrill of danger. I wasn’t a competition against his masochism with peril. When I read the letter on his nightstand a morning after—one encrusted with a peculiar sigil—I knew it was taking him away for good. And in my own right to selfishness, I was lured to his doorstep, in the shroud of dusk, for a final time.
Cast upon his face when he answered my fervent knocking was something that felt like an amalgamation of shock, heartbreak, and disappointment. There wasn’t even a trace of that excitement he used to greet me with.
“You know you shouldn’t be here,” Herenando mumbled, contrasting the boldness he used to envelop me with. He was halfway through closing the door, and would’ve been successful, had I not wedged my foot between the gap.
“Let me in,” I pleaded, “I just want to talk.”
That cast of disappointment cracked, and there shone a glimmer of why he hadn’t shunned me away harder: excitement. That thrill for something forbidden, doing something he knows he shouldn’t. He felt it, despite his moral conflictions—it was engraved in his bones.
And no was not something he could utter. Not for me.
In a defeated breath, he stepped aside, allowing me room to enter.
“It’s dangerous for you to be out in the night like this,” He began, peeking out the door for a moment before shutting it. When his attention finally settled back to me, I didn’t hesitate to bring him into a kiss, my arm hooked around his neck, forcing his head to dip to my height. Not that there was much resistance, or even shock in the motion. These encounters had been so frequent that every muscle in his body was conditioned to relax upon the feeling, and it wasn’t long before his hands did what felt natural to him.
But when I pulled away, did the clarity of circumstance settle back in. Hernando brought a hand up to my face, his finger brushing a strand of hair sticking to my forehead with the sweat of the journey here. There was a certain sadness laid upon his brow and seeping into his eyes. From that expression alone—the pain brought upon by just my presence—I knew that I had been loved.
“Is this your way of convincing me to stay?” He raked his fingers through my hair before cupping my cheeks in his palms, “My sweet girl…”
“I’m not here to convince you, Hernando,” I muttered, my breath against his lip, “we’re both smarter than that.”
I watched how flushed the skin of his cheeks turned, every freckle sitting atop a wave of pink. Now he was getting it.
“My darling, I leave tomorrow. I can’t…” His eyes fluttered as breathing seemed to become a chore for him. I watched as his chest heaved, skin spilling out of his loose collar just from the sheer size of his pectorals.
“Yet, you still hold me so close,” I curled a strand of hair from the back of his head around my finger, “something tells me you can.”
That was all it took for me to get what I wanted. A bit of poking to the embers of his fervor that remained kindled despite his attempts at extinguishing. Hernando was easy; all it took was the right thing to say.
He ensnared my mouth in a kiss that condemned me to this whole relationship with him anyway. It was messy, heated, disgusting in the way he salivated for me.
And I took that into my mouth with acceptance. He ground his teeth against my bottom lip, the sensation of his canines burrowing into the tender flesh, craving to draw blood. His hands groped around desperately at whatever he could, down my waist, up my bosom, whatever crevice he could hook his fingers around, he did. When the tinge of copper began to flavor my saliva, Hernando swiped the rivulets with his tongue before forcing entry into my mouth. There was that animalistic instinct that made him no better than the bulls he fought, driving him to consume every part of me he could. To leave nothing of me. That is what he knew I deserved, and it seeped in the way he relished the carnal taste of me.
“You’d think that, by now, I’d be able to say no to you,” Hernando broke away, whispering in a strained breath against my cheek. I felt the stickiness of blood that was smeared upon his lip as it grazed a sheer layer on my skin. He brought a finger to my chin, tilting it upwards to meet his gaze. It was my blood that colored his lips a vibrant red, a droplet of saliva, and hemo trailing down his scar from his reddish, swollen lips. There was a trail of faint crimson left in its wake.
From my own bottom lip—without Hernando to continuously suck the blood from the puncture his teeth created—it began to trickle out of my agape mouth. A tiny droplet slid from my chin, landing along my neck, one extending as far as my bust. His eyes followed the pearls, stopping at the concave shadow that sat just between my breasts.
“...But I’m not a man to deny temptation, mi amor. Now take this damned thing off.”
Henando’s hands began to pull at the lacing of my gown from behind. When it had come loose, Hernando shrugged it off my body, drinking in the sight he worshiped, hiding just beneath one measly layer of cotton. He looked like he wanted to say something, but held back as if reminded that words were a waste of time. He leaned into the crook of my neck, his tongue lapping up the drop of spilt blood before tracing it up to my jaw. From there, he planted kisses down my carotid. He knew that it was a sensitive spot there, and when he began sucking on the skin in some areas, I couldn't help but mewl something that sounded faintly like his name.
I wrapped a leg around his waist, gasping softly, while he left o-shaped bruises on my neck down to my collarbone. The wound on my lip had clotted, so it had stopped bleeding by now. But that wasn’t as far as Hernando was willing to go in his mission of ravaging me to the bone. He was the kind of man who went to extremes for the love of it, and there was still a part of me left untouched (though not for long), dripping in a ripeness only for him.
“Hernando, please,” I pleaded as the ache for him grew unbearable. I’d touch myself if I could, satiate the desire just a little, but I know he’d reprimand me. Then, for that small moment of pleasure, he’d punish me by extending his time toying around and teasing me rather than giving me what I wanted. That leaves me begging pathetically beneath him, hoping that he’d listen.
“Please what, amor?” He mocked, his hand snaking down my body with a ghost-like touch. He watched as I reacted in a soft whimper, amused by how little I had become in my lust, compared to his presence that commanded dominance. His fingers began to slide up my thigh, hiking up the hem of my chemise the higher they had gone.
“Don’t make me beg for it,” I scoffed in an out-of-breath laugh. He only looked at me with this amused little smirk, and I knew that no matter what, he’d get what he’d want.
“Is this not what you want?” He asked before placing his index and ring finger over the sensitive bud between my folds. In a slow manner, as if to ridicule my desire, he began making a circle-like motion with his fingertips. Just that alone felt like my nerves undoing themselves, the sudden tingly feeling pulsing from between my legs, drawing a shamefully loud moan.
“Now, I can go faster, or even use my tongue,” He whispered into my ear, his fingers moving in that same, excruciating pace, “all you have to do is be good, and tell me what you want.”
After leaving me with that choice, he peppered my helix with kisses. He knew my decision, but still decided to hear it because it got him off. Me begging, submitting. This was his capote, these moves all for the purpose of entertaining him before he actually got around to fucking me.
“Give me your tongue, Hernando,” I demanded, looking at his face. It was scarred up—rugged, even—but it still retained such refined beauty that it keeps me crawling back to his room, begging in the same way that I am now. “I want to see your face between my legs. I want to feel your tongue down there… please.”
Hernando let out a breathy laugh, placing a kiss on my cheek, “There we go. It wasn’t hard, was it?”
He moved his head down, lifting my leg over his shoulder. His face was obstructed as the edge of my chemise lay draped over his head. But the idea of him being down there was enough for me, even if I had begged for that sight.
I could feel him spread apart my labia before a familiar slickness swiped over my clit, sending an overwhelming jolt of pleasure throughout my body. I pressed my back into the wall behind me, trying to find stability as Hernando began working his tongue. God, he was eating me out like fruit on a summer’s day, saliva and juice undoubtedly dripping down that marred chin of his. It didn’t help that amid my breaths and babbling, I could still hear the soft slurp and suckling on his end. It was so filthy, it made me wonder if his fans knew that their prized matador—their heroic figure of courage—was on his knees after nearly every match, eating women out.
“You go a week without me,” I managed to breathe out, “and now you’re back on your knees, eating me as if you were starved.”
Hernando stopped, peaking his head out from my chemise to look at me. He wiped the wetness off his chin with the back of his palm, “I missed you, amor. You know that.”
He dipped his head back beneath, but not before muttering, “The taste of you is like no wine I’ve had before. It drives me crazy, knowing how long I have to go without you.”
The pace of his tongue quickened, and balance became an impossible task to maintain. From my thigh down, the leg I was standing on began to tremble as Hernando flicked the edge of his tongue side-to-side against my clit, which he fully exposed for his own greediness. I grasped at the crown of his head, fingers intertwining around the little waves Hernando had for strands, pulling just a bit at his scalp. I think it hurt him, given the groan he emitted. But something told me, with how he moved his tongue a little faster, that he didn’t mind.
I felt something prod around my entrance, and in a slow manner—as if to see how much it’d accept—Hernando began to slide a finger in. He pumped it slowly, fingertip to joint, at first. Then, when it was back at the fingertip, he’d go all the way down to his knuckle, all while his tongue continued working in the motion that it did. There was a rhythmic pattern to his skill—each pump of his finger coordinating with a swipe of his tongue.
“Hernando… Please…” There was an onset of tears beginning to take hold as he worked a knot within my gut. In every way, I needed him to undo it. To unravel me. I felt the way his tongue moved against my most sensitive points. I felt the way he curled his finger when it was deep inside. I felt it all, and now, what I needed the most was that overwhelming wave of euphoria only he could bring me to.
A familiar succession of loudening moans escaped my moistened lips as I gripped his scalp just a tad bit harder. This, not being Hernando’s first rodeo, he knew I was close to finishing and kept his pace. There was no quickening or slowing, just pure consistency until he felt that familiar tensing around his fingers, and heard an incoherent wail that vaguely resembled his name. My thighs twitched, my core squeezing together as I rode out my orgasm, his fingers still burrowed within me. He showed no sign of relent, even with all the thrashing about I had done because Hernando knew it was an addicting pleasure that I loved. The sensitivity post-orgasm, how weak and vulnerable he had worked me, to the point where small flicks were enough to draw out a twitch from the muscles in my body.
Perhaps this is what he felt, chasing danger, that pleasure to the point of physical discomfort. And he wouldn’t stop either, even amid the sobs. He’d only get enough when my body began to physically reject him. When my hand, against all my feelings, pushes his head away. That’s when he pulled out his fingers, withdrawing his head from between my legs—but not before placing light kisses against my inner thighs—revealing a disheveled man with slick, slightly swollen lips.
“Let’s get you to the bed, sweet thing,” He groaned as he got up from his crouch. I only nodded as I tried to catch my breath and stabilize myself. Hernando never gave me much of an option of carrying myself there. Before I could take a step, he had swept his forearm against my popliteal, throwing me off balance, forcing me to land into his other forearm. From there, he took me off my feet in a quick, effortless motion, my calves dangling from his antebrachium.
“Yes… Hernando…” I breathed, still in a bit of a daze, “my sweet Hernando… Can you be gentle? ”
He lay me down against the sheets, gently crawling on top of me until his legs straddled my waist. Hernando dipped his head down, sweetly kissing the side of my face.
“How about you get on top tonight, hm?” Hernando offered, between kisses, “You control the pace.”
“You wouldn’t mind?” I asked, propping myself up on my elbows. God, just getting a sight of him now—hair unkempt, sticking to his face and neck with sweat, eyes half-lidded with an almost melty look to them, skin spilling out of his clothes. Lord, what was he even doing with those still on? I extended my arms to the buttons of his blouse, promptly unclasping them.
“Seems like someone’s down with the idea,” Hernando cooed, a soft whistle escaping his lips as his eyes glanced down at my handiwork. He grasped my wrists, however, preventing me from taking his shirt completely off. With a sweep of his knee, Hernando rolled himself onto his back, landing me on top.
“But isn’t this a better angle?” He retorted, making a shooing motion with his hands, “Go on now, continue.”
I did as I was told, undoing the final few buttons before sliding the blouse off his shoulders completely. I ran my hands down his stomach, feeling every rise and curve of the sculpting Hernando had obtained over the years. His physique resembled that of a divine statue, like he had been the muse of some sculpture of Ares, or a great warrior. But he had the sensitivity of a frail virgin, and when I touched him, his breath shook.
I was lucky to have him in my hands as he is, and taking advantage of the moment, I took my liberties to kiss along the scars across his chest. I bit and sucked on some patches of his skin, just as he had done to my neck. Before he left, I at least wanted to leave one marker of myself on him, even if it was temporary. I had sucked six lovebites onto him, each of them a vibrant red, bound to turn a deep purple over the next few days.
I admired my doing, dragging my eyes up his heaving, flushed form. He had a subtle farmer’s tan, the outside of his arms being a fair bit darker than his torso. But just staring at his vulnerability isn’t going to soothe my greed for further intimacy. I traveled my hands down to his pants—a faint stain splotching the center of the tent his erection created—unbuttoning the clasp, and pulling them down along with his underwear. The first time I had seen Hernando’s size, it had intimidated me greatly, despite it not being my first experience with one. He really packed on unforeseen length, especially when it stands upright as it does now. On the times that I’d take him into my mouth, I could hardly make it halfway before shamefully gagging.
There was a sheen coating the tip of his penis, droplets of precum trailing down to his base. Poor boy, he had been hard for this long. It doesn't matter now, though. I was finally reaching why I had been drawn to his doorstep, and why he hadn’t slammed the door on me.
I lifted my chemise and deepened the straddle I had on his waist, opening my thighs further as I began to lower myself onto his tip. There was a bit of a pinch that came along with his girth, but it was something that quickly subsided once he situated himself fully within me.
“Oh… My,” Hernando moaned, his voice coming out muddled with breath. His calloused fingertips grazed the flesh of my hips, resembling little bites in the roughness of its texture, contrasting the way he held me down so tenderly. He grasped my hips like the hilt of a sword—trained on where precisely to hold, that death would unravel him if he held me the wrong way—all while I began rocking my hips up and down on him.
I started off at a slow pace, as Hernando had allowed me previously. I spent most of my attention exchanging wet, sloppy kisses with the matador, quivering against the lips of his open mouth. As I pulled away to get in the rhythm of moving faster, he propped himself up on an elbow, using his other arm to reach around my neck and bring it down to his height. He buried himself in my clavicle, his lips attaching onto any patch of skin he could. He began thrusting his hips in tandem with mine, hitting a deeper spot within me that shot a tingle up my spine.
“Hernando…” I sputtered out, “Please, it’s really sensitive there.”
Of course, though, I should’ve known better than to express that. He was a man who angered and fought bulls for a living. It was in his character to have that tinge of sadism, to get off on abusing my sensitivity.
“Is it now?” he asked in a mocking tone, wrapping his arms around my waist, forcing me to close the space between us. With my body pressed against his, I had no choice but to hang onto his neck as he began to buck his hips faster into mine.
“Hernando..! I.. really,” I cried out, only for him to interrupt by pressing his lips onto mine. A string of saliva connected our mouths, even after he parted (though, not by much) for a breather. He shushed me softly as my pleas for mercy became incoherent babbling, given the immense pleasure coursing through my body in waves.
“Shh… You can take it, yeah?” He reassured, pressing my cheeks together with his thumb and index finger, “Let me go faster. I know you can handle it, mi amor. All you have to do is sit, as you are now.”
I should’ve known that he had given me a faux sense of control. Having the upper hand was a tendency he carried even into the bedroom, which I didn’t mind all too much. I liked how he thought for me and how little I had to do to please him. Even now, despite my begging, I really didn’t want him to stop, and it worked both ways for us. He derives pleasure from my begging; I derive it from his reluctance.
I nodded, relaxing my hips—and with it, my movements—as Hernando began to take charge. He pushed me off him and sat me upright, insistent on watching how my body moved as he rammed into my pelvis. He trailed his hands down my body, pulling down the hemline of my gown, exposing my breasts for him to see. His eyes were glued on them for a bit, mesmerized by how they moved in tandem with the rocking. Then, he reached out, feeling them for himself, even if it wasn’t something new. He placed my nipples between his fingers, pinching and twisting them slightly as his cock dug into my walls hard and deep.
“What happened… To me, taking control?” I couldn’t help but ask, despite the fact that I was practically drooling senseless over Hernando thrusting into me.
“Sorry, amor,” He groaned, a faint laugh trailing off at the edge, “but you weren’t going fast enough for me.”
I threw my head back as he quickened his pace to the fastest he could go, the perverted sound of squelching, skin slapping, and our combined moans echoing about the room. It sounded like a brothel scene with just how shamelessly loud we had been in our acts. I wouldn’t mind being a personal night lady for him, if I wasn’t practically that already. God, he was fucking me senseless every so often; it made me forget I’d never see him again after this.
One thing about fucking a matador is their seemingly endless stamina. Hernando could keep his pace without slowing down for a good while, and this consistency had been the leading cause of my orgasms many times. His hands were back down to my hips as he guided them to match his movements, as if I were a doll for him. But God, just on his own, he was hitting all the right places at the right pace, there wasn’t much I wanted to do but “take it,” as he said.
“Hernando..!” I panted out, the syllables coming out broken up because of the movement of my body. He was taking me to that precipice of pleasure again, and I was going to ride him right off of it. I placed my hands on his wrists, digging my nails into the tanned flesh, a string of slurred pleas and whiny calls for his name escaping my lips in rapid succession.
“I’m gonna cum,” I rushed out in a singular breath, “Hernando… Fuck…!”
Shortly after I had announced that, every muscle from my bosom down had begun convulsing with the overload of pleasure. He slowed, just a bit, to let me ride out the feeling, stealing a kiss from my lips as I finished on him. He slid out, panting to catch a breath. But of course, though, this wasn’t over until he finished.
“Turn around,” He instructed, and like a lamb, I listened. I got on all four’s, sticking my ass in the air, and he slid himself in again. This time, he was fucking me for his own pleasure only, starting up at that same, rapid pace that he had made me cum with.
Of course, his pleasure also included overstimulating every part of my sensitive vagina. Despite being occupied with his thrusting, Hernando managed to loop an arm around my hip, fingers reaching right between my legs. He touched the same spot he flicked with his tongue, though this time he was moving his fingers in a quick, circular motion. At this point, I had been crying from the sensation again, tears wetting his pillowcase that I burrowed my face into to help muffle the screaming.
Hernando leaned down, kissing up my scapula until he got to my ear, with which he whispered with a strained groan in my ear, “See how good you are? What am I gonna do without you…?”
“I can touch myself, but it won’t be enough,” he added, his movements growing messier, a big indication of his climax, “I… could… I… Fuck…”
His breath was getting ragged now, and I pulled my face out of the pillow.
“Kiss me, Hernando,” I pleaded, turning my head to face him. He listened, leaning down over my shoulder, his kiss rough and wet.
“Say it again. My name,” He groaned, driving himself deeper, “please.”
His name left my mouth in a bitter sweetness. He knew he wouldn’t hear it again, and he was making the time of it now.
“Oh, my sweet girl,” he quivered, his movements sputtering, “oh God, I’m gonna finish.”
He had given about a few more thrusts before a slickness filled my canal, evoking a whimper, almost in unison with his moaning. He kept it in there for a bit, pumping every last load he had into me, before sliding out, his dick covered in a mixture of our bodily fluids. Exhausted, I could do nothing but lie as is, panting for air as Hernando reached for a spare cloth to wipe me with. When he cleaned the scene up, he began to dress himself. I stayed sprawled upon his bed, engulfed in sheets that smelled like him, savoring it before it was gone.
“Amor, you can’t sleep here tonight. I leave early,” Hernando crawled over to me, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear as he stroked my head sweetly, “I’ll help you put your clothes back on.”
As much as I wanted to stay, I understood his sentiments as well. I had come here to squeeze one last, good fuck out of him before he ships himself off to some place far. I didn’t want to overstay that. I peeled myself off his sheets, giving him a glance more poutier than I would’ve liked. I paused for a moment, wanting to express something, but nothing ever came out.
Instead, I just kissed him on that chin scar of his before getting dressed. He had kissed the top of my forehead in exchange. The process was wordless, and as he waved me out the door, the final glance I had given him must’ve been what Orpheus felt on his way out with Eurydice—a final look back.
