Viva la Revolución

"Thank you," Zapata said. "Thank you." Villa was struck by the sincerity in his voice. Something about it irked him. It was as if, no matter what he did to Zapata, he could not really hurt or humiliate him because Zapata would enjoy it. It made him want to hurt him more, to see how much he could take before he begged for mercy. He yanked Zapata's head back by his hair and gripped his neck with the other hand, limiting his breath. Then he tightened his grip, blocking Zapata's breath completely, then loosened, then tightened again, holding Zapata breathless and motionless in his grasp.

Zapata looked up at Villa determinedly, pressure building up in his chest and neck. He could sense the current of dominance coursing through Villa; he could see that the power Zapata was giving Villa was beginning to overtake him. He liked this arrangement. It put him and Villa on paradoxically equal ground-Villa drunk with power, Zapata drunk with submission. His chest and neck burned and tingled, and he began to feel light-headed, but he stayed where he was, waiting for Villa to release him.

Finally, Villa released his hold on Zapata's neck and pulled Zapata up to a standing position. "Bedroom. Now," he ordered, guiding Zapata toward the room next to the kitchen where he had deflowered Josefa only an hour earlier. He threw Zapata face first onto the bed and ordered him to strip from the waist down. Zapata obeyed readily. Villa, meanwhile, was loosening his own belt.

"I can hit you with this, right?"

"Yes! Please."

"Be careful what you wish for, pretty boy," Villa growled, grinning. As Zapata lay face down, pantsless, his rear end exposed, Villa slashed at him with the belt. Once, then twice, then a third time. Zapata yelped and flinched as each stroke of the belt imprinted a thin strip of red onto his backside. Villa struck again, hard, on the same spot he had already struck, making Zapata cry out more desperately than before and clutch the bed posts. "Yes, take it, Emiliano," he ordered. "I won't stop until I've made you beg me for mercy."

"Aahhhh! Yes!" Zapata gasped as Villa brought the belt down across his buttocks again, then again. Zapata felt each blow more acutely than the last one, and the pain made him clench his muscles and gasp involuntarily. He felt as if his skin were being rubbed raw, as if each blow reached deeper and deeper into him. He groaned and whined and shuddered as Villa hit him, and the more that Zapata lost himself to the pain, the more fervently Villa struck him.

Villa wanted to beat the smile off of Zapata's face, to hurt him until he could not take it anymore and begged him to stop. To Villa, that would be winning-to beat Zapata into admitting that, even though he was perversely aroused by the pain, Villa still had the power to injure him. And his beating seemed to be having exactly the desired effect on Zapata. With each blow, his cries became more desperate, his reactions less controlled.

At last, the words that Villa had been longing to hear came. Just as Villa raised his arm to deliver another blow, Zapata contorted his body and mumbled in a subdued voice: "Please."

Villa stopped, his arm still in the air. "What did you say?"

Zapata looked up at him. "Please have mercy."

In answer, Villa brought the belt down across Zapata's buttocks again in a savage blow that brought tears to Zapata's eyes. "Beg me to stop, like you mean it."

Zapata stammered, "P-please, Señor Villa, stop hitting me. I'll do anything, I'll let you fuck me, I'll make you feel so good..." He pleaded with Villa with his eyes.

This was good enough for Villa. Zapata's surrender filled him with a giddy sense of dominance, throbbing throughout his body. He dropped the belt and stepped out of his trousers. "Thank you," Zapata murmured, splayed out face down on the bed, breathing heavily. Villa noted the redness of Zapata's buttocks with satisfaction. He stroked his staff and allowed Zapata a moment to recover from the beating. When Zapata's breathing slowed to a more regular pace, Villa straddled him and prepared to penetrate him.

"Wait," interjected Zapata, "can you use your fingers first?"

"Oh. Okay, sure." Villa felt slightly guilty that he had not thought to do this himself. He spat on his hand and inserted a finger into Zapata. "Like this?"

Zapata moaned. "Ohhhh yes. Stretch me out, Pancho."

"Oh I'll stretch you out alright." Villa inserted another finger, probing the walls of Zapata's channel as they resisted his penetration. He pushed against them steadily, making room for at first two then three of his fingers. Zapata moaned, seeming to reach deeper recesses of pleasure the deeper Villa probed. Villa wet his cock with saliva, positioned himself so that he was ready to enter him, and slowly but deliberately pushed his cock down Zapata's channel.

"Ohh!" Zapata gasped, drawing labored breaths in and out. Villa's penetration was painful but pleasurably so, stretching Zapata just enough that it was uncomfortable-an ever-present reminder that Villa was on top of him and inside him, extracting pleasure from his body.

Villa's pumps were accelerating as Zapata's tight entrance began to yield room for him. Just as he had only an hour earlier when he had penetrated Josefa, Villa relished in the effect that each pump of his pelvis had on the quivering body of the man beneath him. He could make Zapata gasp with pleasure or yelp with pain with only a few small movements of his body. It was this thrill that riled up Villa for orgasm. Feeling an orgasmic power collect in his groin, he pounded faster and faster, egged on by Zapata's whimpering.

"Tell me you like it," he ordered

"Aaahh! I like it!" Zapata gasped dutifully, clutching the bedposts for support.

"Beg me to come inside you."

"Please come inside me!"

In a final, deep thrust that made Zapata cry out in pain, Villa ejaculated into Zapata. Zapata lay there, Villa's cock deep inside of him, feeling totally and utterly taken.

Presently, Villa extricated himself from Zapata and went to wash himself off in the water jug by the nightstand. Zapata still felt the aftershocks of the penetration, overtaking him like seizures. He was sore all over, and he had not himself had an orgasm, but he felt quite satisfied. With some effort, he sat himself up on the bed, reached into the pocket of his jacket, and pulled out a pouch of tobacco.

"Cigarette?" He offered.

"Sure," said Villa.

Zapata rolled two cigarettes, lit his own, then offered one to Villa. Villa took it, sat down next to Zapata on the bed, and took a deep drag.

"How do you feel?" Zapata asked.

Villa was not sure how to respond. In truth, he felt elated. Even post-orgasm, he could still feel the intoxicating thrill of power coursing through him. He would not soon forget this encounter; in fact, he had a feeling that it would haunt his fantasies for some time. But he responded with feigned nonchalance. "You're a good fuck," he said.

Zapata smiled. "Thanks. You too."

"What..." Villa hesitated. "What does it feel like?"

Zapata looked at Villa, trying to ascertain his motives for the question, but Villa's expression was unreadable. Zapata answered honestly. "It's...thrilling. Like I'm outside myself."

Villa considered this. "Is that how women feel, do you think?"

"Yes, sometimes. I think it is. It makes you feel very intimate, to be vulnerable."

The two men sat in silence, finishing their cigarettes. Zapata got up, dressed himself, and began combing his disheveled hair in the mirror, parting it evenly down the side and smoothing it out along the part. When he finished with his hair, he ran the comb through his moustache. Villa stayed on the bed, watching this ritual with fascination.

"Well, Pancho," Zapata said, turning around and facing Villa, "can you be straight with me, after everything we just did together?"

"Yes."

"Are we really on the same side in this revolution?"

Villa was taken aback. He had almost forgotten the original purpose of his meeting with Zapata. He sighed. "Emiliano, if you're determined to oppose Madero, then I can't honestly promise you that I won't side with him over you. I don't know yet how this revolution is going to play out."

Zapata walked over to Villa and stood over him as he sat on the bed, "I'm not determined to oppose Madero. I'm determined to oppose the slavery of the peasants by the wealthy landowners. You tell me-does Madero oppose those things too?"

Villa saw the fire in Zapata's eyes. At once, he could see why the resistance had chosen Zapata as their frontman. Zapata's conviction was hot but steady, fierce and unwavering-a rare combination. It made Villa want to be as honest with Zapata as he could. "I don't know. Okay? I just don't know. But I'll do my best to make him care. On that you have my word. That's the best I can do."

Zapata decided that Villa was telling the truth. He reached down and tucked one of Villa's loose curls behind his ear. "Just remember this, Pancho," he said. "When Diaz is overthrown and we've won the revolution, remember where you came from. You're like me. A campesino and a mestizo. We deserve our land."

Oh he's good, Villa thought. Even Villa, idealistically hardened as he was, felt something stir within him at Zapata's speech. "Does this mean I can count on your alliance?" He asked.

"Until we run Diaz out of Mexico, yes."

"And after that?"

"We'll see how the revolution plays out." Zapata straightened his jacket and turned to leave.

"Wait!" Villa interjected. "Will...will I ever get to share with you again?" Embarrassed that the question had escaped his lips, Villa waited for Zapata's response.

Zapata turned around toward him and considered this question. He smiled wryly. "When I see you again in Mexico City. When we've won the revolution, not just for the landowners but for all the people. Then I'll let you do anything you want to me."