The Storyteller (6 page)

“You keep this position and you count the blows,” he ordered. “Each time, you remind me how you will run the hand.”

“What?”

“That one to the leg doesn’t count because you moved. That was only to get you in the right stance. We’ll be starting over.”

“What the fuck?”

The question turned to an outright shout as the first official strike came across her ass, blasting between the cheeks and getting both of them.

“Jesus Christ!” she screamed, moving from her position and throwing her hands over her buttocks. She felt where the belt had landed and did it ever hurt.

“Get back there and don’t move again,” came the order. “You count and you tell me you will run the hand.”

“One,” Angela grimaced as she repositioned herself once more. “I will run the hand.”

“That’s better,” Mariano snarled. “Now get ready for the next one!”

The matador deliberately waited, making her shiver as she anticipated the great sting to come. She bit her lip, determined not to scream and vowed to hold in any tears she feared would pour from her, but she knew it was a losing battle.

“Take this!”

Again the belt blazed across her bottom, this time hitting her left cheek alone.

“Ow!” Angela screamed, then remembered to count or else. “Two. I will run my hand.”

She did not have to see to know there was going to be a red mark on her. A horrible feeling told her by the time this punishment finished. Her entire backside would be aglow like the siren on a fire truck.

The third strike came, this time slapping across her right cheek with equal force that brought so much pain it caused her to jump.

“Ow!” she again cried. “Three. I will run the hand!”

The fourth blow smacked across her flesh, again on the right side, but above where she had just been struck. Another burst of agony stabbed through her flesh. She had been brutalized by a snake with a tongue of fire.

“Four. I will run the hand!”

The fifth blow was so hard she could only scream. The matador waited, relentless in his command and twirling the belt menacingly as he encouraged her onward.

“Five!” she cried out, but her voice was garbled. How badly she wanted to place her hands on her punished rear end and rub the pain away. She was in need of rescue, but none would come.

“And what are you going to do?” the matador reminded her.

“I will run the hand,” came the reply, but the words were almost indistinguishable. She was starting to cry in spite of her inner promise.

“That’s right,” Mariano instructed as he brought the belt down, striking her harder still.

“Owwwwwwwwwwwwmmmmmmmm!” Angela screamed.

From behind, she heard the bullfighter’s angry voice.

“Ow is not an answer. Do we need to start over?”

“Sorry,” Angela wailed. Her tail was hurting so badly she was ready to run away as it was, tripping over the pants at her ankles as she did, just to make an escape from this punishment. The matador was making a point alright, and she hated every second of it.

“And what will you do?” Mariano probed.

“Run the hand!” Angela cried. “Now stop this, please!”

“How many was that?”

“Six! Six! Six!”

“You’re going to take it,” came the undesired reply. “We have a long way to go. You’re getting twenty, and if you lose count we start over again!”

“Twenty,” Angela protested, but her words turned into yet another scream as the belt struck her.

“How many is that?” came the question.

“Seven,” Angela whimpered. “Seven, and I’ll run my hand. Jesus, stop! I promise I’ll run the hand!”

“We will stop at twenty,” Mariano informed her. “That way we’ll be sure you’ll remember this.”

Again the belt came down, this time striking the quivering girl on the upper leg below her left buttock. At least it took some of the mounting pain from her rapidly reddening ass away, but it also created a new discomfort in yet another spot.

“Eight,” Angela shrieked. “Please. Please. I will run the hand. I will run the hand.”

“Of course, if I didn’t care about you, I wouldn’t do this,” Mariano reminded her. “This hurts me more than it hurts you!”

Angela hated that cliché. Her father had used it when she was twelve and caught her smoking. He’d bent her over the bed with her pants down just like this and blistered her behind with a belt as well. The only thing was his punishment was not as hard or as drawn out. Likewise, she had been a kid then and not an adult as now. Discipline was for little kids and not grown women.

“Nine,” she hissed, biting her lip after the next blow came, again on her ass. “Nine, and damn this! Nine! I will run my hand!”

“Do not get defiant on me,” Mariano ordered. “This is for your own good!”

“I hate it,” Angela protested. “This is stupid.”

“No, it isn’t,” the matador responded, striking her the hardest blow as of yet to make his point. The stroke brought a literal shriek from Angela, who could no longer help herself. Crying more furiously, she dared to move her hands and place them over her badly busted ass, trying to afford it whatever protection she could.

As she bawled, she turned to face her assailant.

“Please,” she begged. “I want to learn to be a bullfighter. I want to run my hand. Now please let me train. Skip this. This is stupid. I’m not a little girl.”

Mariano lowered the belt and looked at her without anger. There seemed to be an odd mingling of pity and caring in his face. As her teared up eyes drifted downward, however, she noted an obvious bulk in the bullfighter’s pants. He was enjoying this.

“We’re halfway done,” he instructed with a tad of kindness in his voice. “Halfway done. Now turn and take the rest of it. Then it will be over.”

“I’m sorry,” Angela bumbled. “I’ve learned my lesson. This really hurts!”

“It’s going to hurt more,” Mariano grumbled, with severity returning to his voice. “Now you turn around and get back in position.”

Reluctantly, Angela turned and stooped in the same way she had been before. Her bare bottom was aflame and she dreaded to see what it looked like even though she had only taken the belt ten times. She knew she was being whipped raw.

“How many will this make?” the matador asked wickedly.

“Eleven,” Angela cried, but the count was mixed with a scream as the blow snaked across her bottom once more, catching both sides.

“And what will you do?”

“Run the hand,” Angela protested. “Run the hand. Run the hand!”

The next blow was another leg shot, catching her on the right side this time, just below the ass. This was the most painful slap to date.

“Owwwwwwww!” she again shrieked. “Owwww!”

“Count,” the matador barked out.

“Twelve,” Angela pleaded, as more cries left her lips, piercing the El Toreo’s air.

“Owwwwwwwwwwww! Owwwww! Owwwww! Owwwww! Oh God! God! Ow! Twelve! Let’s stop now!”

The answer sent a chill through her.

“We end at twenty.”

The thirteenth blow caught her in the center of her ass again and brought forth another uncontrolled howl from her mouth. She had never bellowed such a sound before, like a rooster at daybreak mingled with human emotion.

“Oooooohhhhhhh! Ohhhhhhhhhh! Oooooohhhhhhh!”

“Count,” Mariano ordered.

“Thirteen! I will run my hand!”

The pain was unbearable, but with it grew another sensation that seemed totally inappropriate. Angela was growing aroused.

“You have to know this is for your own good,” Mariano reminded her as he let the belt fly again, recoiling as he heard the loud whipping sound and thinking that one had been too hard, even from him.

“Fourteen,” Angela again cried out as she moved her butt back and forth in the midst of this devious discipline.

She hoped by fanning the air, she would relieve some of the agony, or at least cool her tortured buns.

“And?”

“I will run the hand! I will run the hand!”

By the time the fifteenth blow came, she was teary like never before and broken in will.

Mariano had kept her waiting, deliberately antagonizing her, and again, there was no mistaking the added feeling on the other side of her busted backside. She was ready to orgasm.

“Fifteen,” she gasped. “That’s fifteen. I will run the hand!”

She said the words so fast, they all ran together.

“Owwwwwwwwwwww!”

The sixteenth blow was landed on her upper right leg again, in the same spot as before, which increased the pain.

“I will run the hand!”

She nearly forgot herself and announced she was coming, which she was about to. It made no sense at all. Her ass was whipped red, and somehow this was turning her on.

“Owwwwwwwwwwww. I will run the hand! That was sixteen!”

Angela was gasping for breath as this unfamiliar mixing of deep pain within pleasure came about. There was a volcano between her legs that was about to erupt.

“Seventeen,” she cried in unison with the next cruel strike. “I will run the hand. Oh, let it end!”

The plea was for dramatic purposes only, for somehow she did not want this to cease. She was about to climax without fucking or even fingering. Her ass was hurting beyond description, and yet this sensation was overruled. Her hairy brown pussy was now a keg of dynamite about to blast off with a very short fuse affixed.

The eighteenth blow came and Angela screamed again, jerking with the force of the belt, which coiled over her ass like a live thing.

“Owwww! My God! Owwww!”

Rather than place her hands over her wounded rear, she now longed to shove her fingers deep into her front end instead, but she dared not do so.

“Eighteen! I will run the hand!”

“You aren’t going to be able to sit down for a long time,” the matador told her, as if this was news. “I am sure I can bet you are going to run your hand right from now on though.”

“Yes,” she cried. “Yes! Yes! Yes!”

The tone was like what she emitted during sexual intercourse.

“Yes! Yes! Owwwwwwwwwwww!”

Blow nineteen seemed lighter, but her ass was so streaked and striped it didn’t matter.

“Nineteen! Oh, God! I will run the hand! I will run my hand! I’ll run it like Joselito!”

The last of the whipping was coming. Relief at last? But did she really want relief?

“Mmmmmmmm,” was the only noise she made, as she tensed for the last blow.

“The climax,” Mariano scolded, which was perhaps a poor word choice. “The climax of your lesson.”

Angela was certain he’d brought it from a mile away. Pain burned not just through her ass, but her entire body, and as it did, she cried triumphantly.

“Twenty! I will run my hand!”

Her insides overflowed with a flooding, rushing torrent. Falling to the warm sand, she groped with one hand between her legs and the other over her naked bottom, feeling the heat from both places.

Cringing, she sprawled in the dirt, overcome with emotion. She was grateful the punishment was over, but what was with the sexual pleasure this had evoked? Had Mariano seen? Did he know?

“Stop whimpering,” the matador ordered. “Pull up your pants, quit crawling on the sand like a crab and run your hand.”

A variety of emotions were soaring through Angela as she tried to regain her dignity. She was ashamed she had let herself be placed in such a situation and actually allowed her trainer to abuse her in such a way. She was even more confused by her bodily functions, which went against common sense. She should have slapped Mariano straight in the face and left, but abandoning him meant abandoning her chosen life as well. Likewise, the urge to take the sexual element further was boiling over, just like her loins had been.

Inside her mind, she wished she had not been ordered to pull up her pants and start training, but to strip completely nude and run naked laps around the ring. She then found herself wanting to have the bullfighter inside her until she had a second orgasm.
“Get up and run the hand,” Mariano commanded once more.

Trying to fight back the shots of pain and embarrassment, Angela shuffled to her feet and leaned against the fence, facing her head toward the clouds. Pausing briefly to rub her punished ass, she reached down to pull her panties and pants back up, with a new round of knife stabs coming when she did. Her bottom half was so hot from both sides.

With the fury of a chastised little girl running to her room, she turned and charged toward the center of the ring where she scooped up the cape and sword, positioning them for the fight of a lifetime.

“Ha,” she called out. “Ha, toro.”

Caping an imaginary bull, she stretched her arm at full length and pivoted in a circle, running the hand like a seasoned pro.

“Ole,” mouthed Mariano, with renewed confidence now in his voice. “Again.”

Once more, Angela performed the derechazo pass, stretching and profiling as she led an invisible bull past her.

“Owwww!”

The moment as she bent at the waist caused her pants and underwear to brush against her furnace of an ass, but the sensation was overcome by the feeling of burning determination.

“Si!” the matador shouted, forgetting himself and speaking his Spanish. “Si. Poder, mandar y temple!”

Again she did it, then again and again, until her mentor was convinced she had learned her lesson well.

“Bravo,” Mariano shouted and came to her with a satisfied smile. “Let’s hope we don’t have to teach you the hard way again!”

Uncontrollably, Angela dropped the lure and flung herself upon the matador, kissing him madly. As their mouths and tongues collided, it was clear a new relationship was about to begin.

“Run the hand.”

Angela opened her eyes to find herself in the empty bullring once more. She was back in the present, which at the moment was nowhere near as preferable as the past.

“What was that?”

For an instant, she thought she heard the band high above starting to play the opening notes to the song, Cielo Andaluz. Like Mariano, the melody had been a part of her. She knew the music all too well...

“Don Ignacio.”

The elderly promoter, long dead, stood alone in the front row, watching her.

“Are you sure what you are planning is wise?” he asked. “This plaza de toros welcomes you as you know, but are you really ready to stay?”