Dancing with the Matadors

I was wrong in my thinking why my father-in-law brought me on this business trip to Portugal. I'd thought he couldn't chance me staying in Texas with my wife, his daughter, Janis, with him gone--that I'd tell her what we'd been doing, my boss, Buck, and I. Not just what he had been doing with me, but what I, only nineteen to his fifty-four, had eventually willingly let him do. I hadn't done it too happily because there was nothing romantic in the land baron's doing it. When I surrendered, there was no affection involved. He was a conquering master. I laid back, fully open to him, and he took what he wanted by brute force. But it wasn't fully a case of forced taking. I was content enough in getting attention that I didn't get otherwise--certainly not from my wife of convenience. All of her attention went to our baby, which was not even mine.

But I wasn't ignored by Buck Thornton, my father-in-law. He'd always paid attention to me, even when he was buying me for a daughter who was pregnant and without a man. Sometimes I thought he only picked me for her to get to me. I hadn't made it all that hard to get me. I liked men. Besides, he'd blackmailed me. My unusual name, Jai, Jai Jensen, pointed to the issue. My father had been a missionary doctor in India; my mother was a native of what was then Bombay and is now called Mumbai. They came to the States and never bothered to become citizens. I was a student in animal husbandry at Texas A&M University north of Houston when, while going to college, Thornton hired me as a ranch hand on his gigantic cattle ranch near the Sam Houston National Forest and Huntsville.

Thornton found me attractive and exotic, as many others had found a mixed Indian and Danish eighteen-year-old, and when his problem with becoming the grandfather of a bastard met with his discovery that I was, essentially, undocumented, it all came together with him getting me into his bed. Subsequently, as his son-in-law, he was grooming me, or so he said, to take more responsibility in the family cattle-raising business.

Now, however, in Lisbon, sitting in the president's box of the Campo Pequeno bullfighting stadium, sitting between my father-in-law and the man he was here to close a business deal with, I understood why I was here. Senhor Enrique Mendes was an important man here in Lisbon, and especially in the bullfighting world. He was an impresario. He managed bullfighters and the bullfights themselves, here in the main stadium and elsewhere in Portugal, as well. And he acquired the bulls, the special bulls of specific bloodlines, to run in the arena. Portugal, in contrast to Spain, didn't kill the bulls in a bullfight, but most of them wound up too wounded from the succession of spearings that defined the progress of the spectacle or became too savvy in how to face the bullfighters to be used more than a couple times before they were butchered for their meat, which, I was told, only the Portuguese knew how to make tender enough to chew. Sometimes, for bulls becoming famous, they are restored to health and set to stud. This is rather rare, though. So, there was a continuing need to procure the special bulls.

Men like my father-in-law and Senhor Enrique Mendes could be said to be the human equivalent of such special bulls. And I wasn't entirely innocent in being covered by such men.

Raising a special bull to put in the ring was a highly ceremonial and expense operation in Spain and Portugal. Some impresarios, like Senhor Mendes, were looking for a cheaper source for the bulls. My father-in-law was interested in accommodating this need. He raised a special breed of fighting bulls, Vegahermosa bulls, on his ranch in Texas, and he wanted Mendes to buy them for use in the ring in Portugal. He had tried to sell them to Spain, but they weren't interested in any but Spanish bulls there. Mexico wasn't picky enough on the breed of the bull to put into the ring to make selling there profitable, although this prospect is what had led my father-in-law to invest in the bulls to begin with.

Senhor Mendes had visited us in Texas to inspect the bulls. He stayed with us, and it became quite clear he inspected me too. I now know that he had my father-in-law's acquiescence for doing so and that my tail was on the line and was tied up in a possible deal between the two men. He had been bold enough to say that he had no idea what parentage had made me small but well-formed, brown as a berry, but with blue eyes, Anglo-Saxon features, and blond highlights in my black, curly hair, but that he found the combination fascinating.

Somehow, I now was learning, I had become part of this bull-buying deal. Mendes wanted to be a bull with me and was making having me under him a contingency in the negotiations. My father-in-law wasn't objecting to that. I might have been interested--I was exploring my preferences and Thornton had helped develop those--but Mendes was old and ugly--and fat. And he was hairy and sweated easily and he couldn't keep his hands to himself.

That's how I knew why I was here, in Portugal, for a deal between the two human bulls. We sat, watching the many-faceted show in the ring, me being seated between my father-in-law and Senhor Mendes. The man kept touching me. I looked over to my father-in-law to see if he saw how familiar the man was getting, and I was shocked that he, indeed, saw it and signaled to me to cooperate with it.

Until I realized what my role was on this business trip, I had found the trip very interesting. Even though my citizenship in the United States was a bit uncertain, although improved, as I'd married an American, I'd never been anywhere else, anywhere outside the United States, to this point. I had been afraid that, if I left, I wouldn't be able to get back into the States again. My father-in-law had assured me that this was all taken care of for this trip.

Lisbon was an old city that was very different from anywhere I'd been in Texas. It seemed so much older and the buildings so much fancier. But, then, it did have so much more history that Texas did. We had arrived just the day before and we were staying at Senhor Mendes's mansion in the city, very close to the stadium. The land baron, Thornton, lived in a sprawling log house that was luxurious but had always come a distant second to the construction needs of the ranching buildings; Senhor Mendes lived in an ancient palace, one with many well-appointed bedrooms, and there he housed the toreos, those who worked for him in the bullring, not all of whom were matadors.

The palace was crawling with young men. Senhor Mendes introduced or pointed to them as we were shown through the place as men working for him in some capacity or other, either in maintaining his lifestyle in the large mansion itself or in the various roles as toreos in the bullfighting events. He was as familiar with all of them as he was trying to be with me, and they all took it with smiles. I was surrounded by young men who serviced Mendes. What defense did I have against his intentions in this venue?

His urban palace was fascinating, but it wasn't anything as strange and wonderful as the nearby bullfighting arena, the Campo Pequeno, that he brought us to on this day, was. The stadium, in the center city of the ancient Portuguese capital, was well over a hundred years old. It was built of orange bricks and had octagonal towers with domes on top of them--all very exotic, which Senhor Mendes explained was the Moorish influence on architecture on the Iberian Peninsula, which had once been under the control of the Arabs.

The spectacle of the bullfighting was even more ceremonial and involved in Portugal, where it was called corridas de touros, than it was in Spain, and the Portuguese version didn't often have even a single matador facing the bull, which wasn't killed.

There were two parts of the entertainment here--the spectacle of the cavaleiro, where horsemen in fantastic costumes from two hundred years ago toyed with the bull and with danger to themselves and during which the bull is stabbed with three or four decorated spears, called bandeirilhas. Following this, the horsemen leave the ring to be replaced by eight costumed men on foot, the forcados, in the pega, during which they take their chances toying with the bull as well. Normally, in the Portuguese version, these men have to wrestle the bull down and exhaust it, after which trained oxen come out and guide the bull out of the ring. On rare occasion there is a matador at the finish, though, dancing with the bull and stabbing it with the bandeirilhas. These matadors usually come from Spain and are the most dashing of the performers.

It was just such a matador, half Spanish and half Portuguese, Juan Falcao, who was performing today and who Senhor Mendes managed. He was being hosted at Mendes's palace, just as we were, but he had been preparing for today the previous night and I'd only gotten glimpses of him then. He was a very handsome man, though, trim; moving like a dancer; dark, with flashing eyes; twenty-nine years old, I was told; perfectly formed; and quite proud of himself, as he had every right to be. I had found him mysterious and arousing. He already had given me knowing smiles from afar and briefly, which had sent my body shimmering. As Senhor Mendes had handled the young man's career, I had to assume that the matador had sex with men--I had already come to understand that was necessary if Mendes handled you.

This was the sort of man I went with in my fantasies.

Today, costumed as a matador, and dancing with the bull in the Campo Pequeno bullring, he was exquisite, masterful, and god-like. I melted to him. I'm afraid that Senhor Mendes was thinking it was him I was melting to.

The performance of the horsemen, the cavaleiros, with two of them being women, was so exciting that the spectators were often on their feet, cheering or groaning at the danger the riders were putting themselves in with the bull. It was then that I became sure not only of Senhor Mendes's interest in me but also that my father-in-law encouraged me to let the man enjoy his interest. Mendes had already been touching me and whispering to me how nice I was--how young I looked, how slender, how narrow my hips were, that he thought dark-skinned youths with blue eyes were the most beautiful men in the world--and my questioning looks to my father-in-law were not receiving sympathy. The man spoke very little English, but what little he could convey to me in language was augmented by what he could convey to me in looks and with his hands. I had no trouble understanding his wishes and intentions.

"Have you found a particular affinity to young men narrow at the hips, Senhor?" he had asked my father-in-law across me, touching me on the hip with fingers and speaking as if I wasn't there? To this my father-in-law had just grunted, but the man had taken that as assent. "Especially if you have something extraordinarily large to force between them." My father-in-law had just grunted again, leaving it there as a flurry of activity had risen in the ring.

When the activity had quieted down again, with the changing of the bull in the ring, Mendes, touching me on the hip again, told me he liked his men very young and asked if I understood what he meant. I shrugged, not wanting to say that I did know what that meant. He asked me how old I was, knowing, I'm sure how old I was. When I told him, he said I looked younger but that it was good that I was nineteen. He wanted me to ask him why, I think, but I didn't.

"I know what you do with Senhor Thornton," he said. "You can do that in America because you can say yes at that age there. Did you know that you can say yes much younger here in Portugal?"

No, I didn't know that. I was hoping not to have to say yes to this man, though. I knew he wanted me to be the first one to mention--and say yes to--sex.

"Tell me," he went on to say, "How many centimeters--inches--are you around the hips? Do you know? I don't know when I've seen a young man with such narrow hips."

I didn't have to answer because just then the cavaleiros performed a spectacular movement with the bull in the ring and everyone was up on their feet. When we went back down, though, Senhor Mendes reached between my thighs and gripped my crotch, pulling me back down into my seat beside him. What was going on in the bullring was exciting to all of us. I was as excited as anyone, but not excited in the same way Senhor Mendes was. The working with the bull seemed to arouse the man sexually. He was panting, and whereas he was touching me earlier, now he was pawing me--and unzipping me and putting his hand inside my fly.

Mendes was leering at me, knowing that Thornton controlled me and this was OK with him. I looked to Thornton in panic, but he just murmured, "Take it," in a hard voice. Mendes took it. In resignation, I slouched back into the seat and spread my thighs.

I was small and young looking. No one around us seemed to notice me being manhandled this way. We could just be seen as a man and his son being close in sharing the excitement of the bullfighting. There was nothing for anyone else, other than my father-in-law, the only other person in the box, to see because the president's box had a wall around it to chest level when we were sitting and a wall behind it going up to the top of the stadium so whoever was sitting here was protected from behind and above.

It became even more intimate. Senhor Mendes unzipped himself. He flared his trouser fly. He was doing something with my shorts too, trying to pull them off, I think, before moving me over into his lap. I thought the man was going to fuck me right there in the stadium. I resisted that and he gave up, but only to change tactics. He had a hand cupping my neck and I think he was going to pull my face down to his lap and make me take his shaft in his mouth.

He was murmuring, "You do it for Senhor Thornton. He says you'll do it for me. Luscious. Such narrow hips."

Thornton was just sitting there beside us, playing like all of his attention was going to what was unfolding in the bullring, but I know he was watching Mendes manhandle me as well. He was just smiling, showing no sign of intending to intervene. I was only saved by the exit of the cavaleiros and the entrance of the forcados, the eight men who would play with the bull on foot. The crowd welcomed them by rising to their feet and cheering. I used that to pull away from the senhor's grip, zip myself up as I did so, and move up to the pathway above the boxes.

I remained up there and, when the matador, Juan Falcao, pranced into the ring and danced with the bull, I became as mesmerized as everyone else in the stadium and forced any thoughts of Senhor Mendes's intentions from my mind.

My father-in-law and I were sent back to the palace after the bullfight in Senhor Mendes's black Mercedes. Mendes remained at the stadium to close out on the event. The drive was short, but I made an effort to ensure my father-in-law knew of the liberties our host had tried to take with me. But there was no comfort in that direction.

"You do it for me," he said. "You are in the family business now. We need this deal. You will do it for him too."

I turned my head and looked out of the window. There was a difference. My father-in-law was a handsome, fit man--and, though forceful and cruel, he didn't smell and he wasn't crude. The Portuguese man was old, ugly, fat, and crude. But in the end, I suppose, there wasn't really a difference. One cock was much the same as the next one. I was already learning that.

I was wishing it would be that sexy matador, Juan Falcao, though.

My hips were thirty-five inches. My buttocks weren't bulbous, but they were well rounded. It was the first time I thought of the narrowness of them being a sexual fetish for some men.

* * * *

I soaked for an hour in the tub of my en suite bedroom at Senhor Mendes's palace that night. I'd been given a luxurious room with a sitting area, an alcove with a four-poster canopy bed, and a huge tiled bath with a large soaking tub in it. I was somewhat surprised that my room was nicer than the one given to my father-in-law and I almost said something at the time, but there really wasn't anyone to say it to. The attendant who showed me to my room and pointed to where my father-in-law's room was didn't appear to speak English. Thornton didn't seem to mind. It was only later that I understand why I was given the nicer room, and it wasn't a mistake. I needed the soak. I was bruised--not badly enough for it to show; he was always careful about that--but enough to ache. The most noticeable bruises were on my hips, where he had grasped me so firmly to hold me in place that there were bruises where his fingers had dug in.

I had displeased my father-in-law and when I retired, early, saying the day at the bullring had been too exciting for me after the flight from Texas the previous day, Thornton had followed me upstairs a half-hour later, chewed me out, slapped me around, and fucked me. He said it was to show me who was boss and to bring me into line, but I knew he liked to fuck me and that he particularly liked doing it when it could be passed off as discipline. When he'd watched Mendes try to assault me in the bullring, I could tell that it turned him on. He wanted the man to carry through and do it. He wanted to do that too. When I went to my room, he came and did that. The Texas ranch owner was quite authoritarian that way. He'd slapped me around after saying I'd spent too much time mooning over the matador, Juan Falcao, at supper and then afterward and hadn't given enough favor to Enrique Mendes.

Well, he and Mendes were tucked away in the man's study after dinner. I could not have shown favor to Senhor Mendes then. It wasn't my fault that Juan Falcao didn't go out to find his friends.

"We are here to strike a deal with Mendes, not for Falcao to dance around with you as he does with the bulls," my father-in-law had said. And he slapped me around, and he put me over his knee, and spanked my bare buttocks like I was a schoolboy--spanking me seemed to be one of his favorite fetishes as was fucking younger and smaller men--and then, while I was bent over his lap, he penetrated me with his fingers. That put him in heat, and he bent me over the arm of an easy chair in my bedroom, mounted me, and fucked me.

I don't think there was much I could do at supper that I didn't do to be a good guest. I didn't try to stay Senhor Mendes's hands when he was touching and fondling me. And I didn't determine the place sittings at the table. Apparently, Falcao was blessing us with his presence to be here after his day in the ring. Matadors only were included in Portuguese bullfights a couple of times a month during the bullfighting season, and there were several matadors performing in the country, most of them brought here from Spain where the work was more steady. On a night after a bullfight in the Camp Pequeno stadium, a matador usually went out on the town, taken out to carouse all night by his fans. Falcao had plenty of fans in Lisbon. But on this day he attended the supper hosted by Mendes instead.

I heard them arguing in the foyer when Falcao arrived, but I didn't speak Portuguese, so I don't know what he and Mendes argued about. When they came in where we were having drinks before dinner, Mendes said that Falcao would be there for dinner but would join his fans again afterward. Falcao looked irritated when we went to the table, but he sat across from me, and he became progressively friendlier and conversant with me. Mendes didn't seem to mind. He spoke English with an effort that, after a while, seemed to irritate him, and I spoke no Portuguese. We could say simple sentences to each other in English, but that was a chore--Mendes obviously had become tired out in trying to speak English with me when we were at the bullring--and language barriers didn't encourage small talk. Falcao, conversely, spoke beautiful English, and we chattered away. Both my father-in-law and Mendes spoke good Spanish, so they entertained each other in that language during the meal.