Conquest of the Americas

As for Isabel herself? Well... after a few tense heartbeats, she was startled to find her own embarrassment beginning to ebb.

After all (she told herself), the three indigenous men felt comfortable in their skin, so why shouldn't she? And really, wasn't this exactly what she'd been striving for all those years as a dancer--the chance to put her talents to use in an elite production, run by a trend-setter like Catequil? How stupid would she be to throw over the opportunity now, merely from an excess of prudishness? Perhaps this was her big break: the moment her career would rise from the ashes and truly begin! And even if not, it would still be a unique experience--a youthful adventure to look back on fondly when she was boring and middle-aged.

As Catequil tossed the knife away, and the unseen drummers again struck up their crazed tattoo, Isabel made her choice. Abandoning her reticence, casting aside all thoughts of prudence or decorum, she joined the uninhibited gyrations of Catequil and his men. All four of them whirled and writhed and leapt about the pool of light, straining every muscle to convey the force of their inner turmoil. Oh, some part of her was aware of what a pornographic image she must present--a small voice whispered in her ear that she could at least try to keep her breasts from bouncing so exuberantly; at least try to keep her legs together as she undulated on the floor. But she was deaf to it. In that moment, she simply willed herself not to care.

On and on they went. Soon her skin was flushed with exertion. Then, perspiration dripped down her flanks. Eventually she was gasping for oxygen, ebony tresses lank and tangled. And still they danced. She put everything she had into it--every ounce of energy, emotion, endurance. It was alarming, and erotic, and beautiful, and free. She had never felt more alive. And still they danced...

She couldn't keep up this maniacal pace forever, though. At last, Isabel began to falter, and then finally ground to a halt. Around her the men continued to spin and vault in seemingly inexhaustible fashion. But her muscles trembled, and refused to obey her anymore. It was an honest, healthy kind of fatigue--it felt good. She accepted it, like she had accepted everything else on this strange, strange evening. Grateful for stillness after so much motion, she sank gently to her knees, panting quietly, mind blank.

Soon the men slowed too, and came to a stop. In a triangular array, they enveloped her--faces impassive, bodies lithe and tensed to spring like a jaguar. Catequil's basso rumbled through the hall for the first time in what seemed like hours. "The conquistadors used violence, but also cunning. They made us desire what we should not, do what we should not. They made us complicit in our own destruction." Isabel strained her weary brain to think--what did it mean?

* * * * *

She was still puzzling when a shove between her shoulder blades toppled her over onto all fours. She tried to rise, but a heavy weight kept her down. Glancing up through disheveled locks, she met the inscrutable gaze of Paricia, who had fixed one of his massive brown hands at the base of her neck, trapping her body in place.

As their eyes met, the corners of the man's lips bent into a thin, mirthless grin. Shaken by it, Isabel coiled herself, and then lunged to wrench free of his iron grip. But it proved impossible: she was too drained, too weak. At last, she gave up the struggle, bowing her head and staring vacantly at the floor. She felt depleted, baffled, defeated--and distressingly unsure of what lay in store for her.

Urcaguary's bare feet paced over, coming to a stop in front of her. Before she could even begin to guess at his intentions, the man's fingers had threaded through her hair, and her head was being hauled upward again. There was nothing sadistic about the gesture, but it left no room for negotiation or refusal either. The only option for Isabel was compliance.

Calmly, firmly, he raised her face to the level of his groin. There, the man's huge, engorged, uncut phallus dangled menacingly before her eyes--twitching and throbbing like it had a mind of its own, filling her frame of view.

She blinked, trying desperately to make this all make sense.

Keeping a steady grasp of her mane, Urcaguary shifted his body so that the tip of his penis drew closer to her lips. Then still closer. Isabel gulped and felt queasy. Suddenly she understood exactly what lay in store for her--and so did everyone else in the hall.

It was impossible to believe this was happening, it felt unreal; yet her instincts left no margin for doubt. She was about to be victimized, right here in the middle of the performance! God, she needed to resist. Only... she couldn't seem to rally herself to fight. These men were so strong, and she was so tired. How could she ever expect to defy them?

Catequil stood just a little way off. He was watching her like a basilisk, arms folded, muscles bulging, skin gleaming with sweat. It occurred to Isabel that he was the one in charge here--maybe he could still be persuaded to take pity on her? Unable to turn her head, she had to meet his gaze sidelong. Then, making her eyes soft and imploring, she groveled wordlessly: Please, please, don't let him do this to me...

But the face staring back at her was grim and unyielding, with an expression that seemed to mock her: Ah, charming Spanish puta--do you still not understand your predicament? Today I am the conquistador. And when did a conquistador ever show mercy? With sinking heart she noted that Catequil, too, was prodigiously erect.

All at once, a commotion over the dancer's shoulder caught her attention. The looming danger to Isabel's honor must have finally spurred Pedro to action. He had bounded out of his chair, and was storming toward the three men now, shouting unintelligibly.

For a brief moment, the woman's hopes soared. She was saved!

But Pedro was no warrior, and the Ecuadoran artist had at least 7 inches on him. Pivoting smoothly, Catequil dodged a clumsy punch without difficulty. Then, almost effortlessly, he leveraged Pedro to the ground--twisting one arm painfully behind the man's back to immobilize him.

Isabel's fiancée was left face-down on the floor: breathing hard, grunting with rage and discomfort, face turning a florid, frustrated crimson. His bespoke suit was hardly creased--yet, no matter how he strained, he remained pinned there, impotent; while Catequil crouched over him, quite unperturbed, eyes still fixed on Isabel.

Seeing Pedro flattened so easily, almost within reach of her, Isabel knew her fate was sealed. No one else would be rushing from the audience to defend her. Camile was frozen at the edge of her seat, torn between horrified empathy for Isabel, and blind devotion to the cult of 'high art.' As for the rest of the crowd, they simply appeared eager to observe what would happen next.

"No-" Isabel murmured helplessly, nearly inaudibly...

...and immediately realized she shouldn't have opened her mouth. Because, as soon as she did, Urcaguary plunged his steely pole between her lips.

* * * * *

Isabel jerked and spluttered; but Paricia's heavy hand at the base of her neck reminded her she had nowhere to go. Urcaguary kept a tight grip on her tresses as well, and showed no signs of wavering in his determination. Inexorably, he pressed himself further in, wedging her jaws apart.

Later, she wondered if her assailant had any qualms about putting himself in such a vulnerable position. But the fact was that even if Isabel had all her wits and strength about her, she could never have brought herself to bite back. That type of combativeness simply wasn't part of her makeup. At core, she was compassionate, accommodating, maybe a little passive--the sort of person who gave a rude waiter an extra-large tip, because 'he must be having a bad day.' Now, added to that, she felt physically exhausted and emotionally deflated as well. There just wasn't a scrap of defiance left in her, and Urcaguary must have sensed it.

Assertively, rhythmically, skillfully, he began to thrust with his pelvis, holding her head steady and using her mouth to pleasure himself. As he did so, Isabel's face burned with shame. She may have been weary and confused, but she wasn't oblivious to what was happening. She had just been coerced into blowing some stranger in front of a crowd of witnesses--in front of her fiancée, no less! It was humiliating to be used like this. Demeaning.

And, there was one other thing that made it a thousand times worse: she could sense herself responding to it.

Well, perhaps it shouldn't have been so surprising. All night she had been primed for arousal, her excitement level steadily building. Everything about the event had stirred her up--the rarefied atmosphere of creativity and mystery; the grace and physicality of the male performers; the exuberance and heedlessness of her dancing; the crazy, unnerving indecency of being stripped before an audience; and the vitality and beauty she admired in her own nude physique.

In a way, therefore, it felt as if the logic of the evening had been leading this direction all along. And although she didn't actually want the man's dick in her mouth--truly, she told herself, she didn't--it was impossible to deny that some unthinking, atavistic part of her welcomed it. Hell, anyone standing behind her could have seen the proof of that. It was written in the soft, pink, exposed pleats of her genitals--in the way they had relaxed and unfolded to disclose her vagina; in the way they had slicked up with the wetness of her own desire; in the way they shivered at the tender caress of air flowing freely over them...

God (Isabel moaned), how her crotch ached to be touched! Absent that, however, her mouth seemed unforgivably eager to lap up whatever stimulation Urcaguary's penis could provide. The warm, supple skin of her lips tingled to feel his smooth silky shaft running across them, again and again. The springy flesh of his glans probed ever deeper in her mouth, tickling the gentle roughness of her tongue, and grazing over her palate. The man was extremely well-endowed (in fact, all three of them were bigger than any lover she'd ever been with), and his girth and solidity crammed her mouth with a satisfying, round fullness.

At one point she peered up through her scattered bangs, and was startled to meet her adversary's gaze. She froze for a second or two, before looking away in embarrassment. The man's expression remained impenetrable--yet, some dark glint in his eye betrayed that he was enjoying his mastery over her immensely.

Well--she told herself--she wasn't enjoying it at all...

But (damn it!) she knew it wasn't true.

* * * * *

He continued working Isabel's mouth with brisk efficiency. And ok, fine, there was a filthy animal pleasure to the sensations she received. Gradually, though, a hint of uneasiness took hold of her as well. Nothing she gave the man seemed enough to satisfy him. His prodding not only grew faster, it became more insistent, relentless, hungry. Every time he launched himself between her lips, he dove in a little deeper.

The whole thing had a note of belligerence about it that kept her edgy and off-balance. Just how far did Urcaguary intend to take this? She wished she could fend him off, push him away--at least gain herself some time and breathing room. But Paricia's rugged grip discouraged her from even trying.

In all her life, Isabel had never come close to deep-throating a man. Now, she shuddered with the growing certainty that she was about to. Unconcerned with her feelings, intent only on his goal, Urcaguary pushed on recklessly, ruthlessly--taking what he wanted without opposition or hinderance:

...driving himself over the back of her tongue...

...plunging past her tonsils...

...and finally stabbing clean down her gullet.

For a few seconds, Isabel hovered close to panic, fighting hard to avoid gagging or retching. The sensations were overwhelming--more than she could bear. Her jaws ached and her head felt stuffed full of cock. There was a dreadful intimacy to it--to feeling her face pressed against the tautness of his abdomen, her nose smashed into the tickly curls of his pubic hair, her chin caressed by the soft velvet of his ball-sac, her larynx set a-tremble by the throbbing pulse of his manhood so deep inside her neck...

And then, unexpectedly, something snapped in her brain. Isabel's throat relaxed of its own accord, and her body unclenched. Choking down her anxiety, and her will to resist, she somehow reconciled herself with what was happening. Accepted being reduced to a vessel for this male's gratification. Became capable of letting him do what he would to her, and simply allowing it to happen...

At that instant of surrender, it almost seemed as if Isabel's psyche had been riven in two.

Released from the burdens of resentment and fear and inhibition, her animal-self was free to wallow in the raw physicality of the moment. As Urcaguary began fucking her face in earnest, Isabel's body rose to a boil of undeniable, mindless ecstasy. There was heady biological intensity in having the man's hot, potent, meaty organ driven down her esophagus, over and over again. It sent lightning bolts of sexual energy running through her body--radiating out from the delicate nerve endings of lips and tongue, arcing irresistibly along her spine, and stoking up the smoldering embers in her crotch. Involuntarily, her thighs started to squirm and her hips to twist, in an effort to appease the tormented longing between her legs. But the effort was in vain. No amount of wriggling would be enough to scratch this itch.

Meanwhile, at the very same time, her rational-self stood aloof from how she was being used--like a detached observer, or a member of the audience. In her mind's eye, she could see the grotesque way her neck bulged out each time he rammed home. She could envision how her lips stretched to accommodate him; how her eyes streamed and her mascara ran; how red her cheeks were; and how the drips and bubbles of spit collected at the corners of her mouth, and drooled down her chin. She grasped that with each thrust, the man was stripping away a little more of her dignity and self-respect. But there wasn't a thing she could do about it; and she wasn't even sure she cared anymore...

* * * * *

Urcaguary was patient and thorough in his conquest. The longer he went on throating her, the less Isabel was able to remember a time when the man wasn't using her this way. Stroke by stroke, he obliterated even the possibility of resistance from her mind--until, in the end, having his cock snaked down her gorge simply felt like her natural state of being.

The brute couldn't really go on this way forever, though--his arousal was just too great. Eventually, something in his manner changed. His coppery face reddened slightly; and with a grunt, he pulled out of her mouth, dragging long, slimy strands of saliva from deep within her throat.

Isabel gasped for air, and for a split second she felt weightless, released at last from the bondage of servicing the man. But then--sensing his hand tense its grip on her hair, seeing his groin muscles twitch and his weighty testicles tighten--she braced herself and squeezed her eyes shut...

And just in time, too, because the first enormous, sloppy glob of semen landed smack on her right eyelid. Isabel winced in disgust. Urcaguary's next shot was a bullseye in the middle of her forehead, followed by several thick, pearlescent ropes sprayed into her bangs. It seemed as if the man had been saving himself for a month, because he went on ejaculating like this for a remarkably long time, dotting a messy, white abstract masterpiece across her nose, cheeks, chin. She had never thought to close her mouth, so he jetted his last few dollops between her puffy, red lips. Isabel choked as the man's seed hit the back of her throat, and unwillingly, she gulped it down.

Finally, with a flourish, the bully released his grip--conveying with his body language that he was through with her at last.

In the aftermath of this dousing, Isabel felt the cum begin to ooze and congeal on her skin, and found it hard not to grimace. A drip fell from her hair, and the light plop it made on the floor was clearly audible in the dead-silence of the hall. Hell, they could probably even hear it in the back row.

Bravely, she tried to hold her head high--to show she hadn't been diminished or cheapened by the treatment she'd received. But something in her eyes confessed to the burden of shame in her soul. How (she asked herself) could she have allowed herself to be humiliated so acutely, or so publicly? She almost found herself wishing that Urcaguary had poured all his sperm down her gullet. Even just the notion of it was deeply revolting; yet at least then the man's sick badge of ownership wouldn't be plastered all over her face.

These uncomfortable musings--on how she must appear, on what that appearance signified--prompted her to cast a nervous glance toward Pedro. He was still flat on the floor and thoroughly subdued. Perhaps the woman had hoped to find compassion or absolution when she looked in his face; but if so, she was sorely disappointed. What she witnessed instead was an ugly mix of disgust and jealousy. It appeared that her fiancée had taken Isabel's ill-treatment as a personal affront--like he saw her as some rare and valuable possession of his, that had now been disfigured or vandalized by a rival...

And just then, as if on cue, Catequil's recorded voice rang out through the stillness. "Whether by word or deed, the conquistadors never missed an opportunity to show the colonized that they were inferior--to stamp them as lesser beings, worthy only of being abused, exploited, and discarded."

* * * * *

As soon as the voice died away, the drums sprang back to life, this time thumping out a slow, solemn beat.

Isabel took the change to mean that her part in the pantomime had come to an end--and, feeling irrationally certain of that conclusion, she breathed a grateful sigh of relief.

Bizarrely, though, as her mind shifted to thinking of the evening in past-tense, she found herself bending over backwards to put a positive spin on the experience. Of course, she reflected, she would never be able to forgive the dancers for objectifying her this way. That went without saying. Still, if she was dispassionate about it, she believed she could grasp the deeper meaning they sought to elicit. Clearly what the show was about was turning the tables of imperialism--making the Spanish oppressor into the oppressed, and using that inversion to challenge prevailing power relations and civilizational assumptions.

Not that she didn't face her own oppression as a woman in modern Spain! And nor had she ever subjugated any Incas either. But (she told herself), she needed to try not to take it personally. This wasn't really about her at all--it was art. Catequil trampled social norms strategically, in order to shock the audience out of their complacency, Only then could they engage with the complex questions he raised--about themselves, their history, and the living legacies of imperialism. So, his goals were worthy. It was just that his methods, in this instance, were a tad, umm, problematic...

Still rationalizing, Isabel made an effort to rise, hoping she could slink back to her seat and escape the building before the show ended. But she found she couldn't move--Paricia continued to hold her firmly in place, on hands and knees.

Very quickly, her labored attempts at being 'philosophical' evaporated. Anger flared in Isabel's eyes and she gritted her teeth. God, this had gone far enough--it needed to stop!