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Authors: D. P. Adamov
Tags: Erótica
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before him. He was middle aged and wore a cloth cap over his head, like many bullfighters and fans. He also wore dark glasses, which looked ridiculous in a hotel at night.
“Yes,” Manolo answered. “And you are…”
“Satan,” came the casual reply.
“Satan?”
The figure nodded.
“I’ve got a deal for you.”
Manolo looked at him with obvious reluctance. What mental institution had this fool escaped from?
“Satan? A deal?”
The intruder again nodded.
“I can save your life, but if I do, I want you to make a deal with me.”
Manolo placed his hand below the bathrobe, feeling where the scar from the massive goring had been.
“A deal? I suppose you want my soul and you want me to sign a contract in blood?”
The stranger shook his head in the negative.
“Then what do you want?”
The devil smiled.
“I want you to kill Gaditano.”
Manolo was taken aback by this.
“You don’t want me to sell you my soul? You want me to kill a bull?”
The devil nodded in the affirmative once more.
“Hey, don’t blame me. This is your fucking dream, not mine.”
Manolo Garza opened his eyes to find himself in a Hermosillo hospital room. What he had just experienced had indeed been a bizarre dream, but now he was awake, though still quite badly wounded.
“I live,” he whispered, gazing up at the ceiling.
His eyes took on a glaze and an animalistic snarl crossed his lips as a new vow came to him.
“Death to Gaditano.”
Chapter Six
Lucinda sat in the hotel room of the Hotel Cesar in Tijuana, staring at the new pink and gold suit of lights draped across the chair. A year had passed and times had changed for them. Manolo had mentioned his strange dream in the hospital, and oddly enough things had worked out much like he had envisioned them. As a pair, they were quickly engaged, but long before, they had become lovers. They had each accepted this as their destiny and were married in a ceremony at the rodeo ring in Agua Prieta rather than a church.
The goring had made Manolo Garza famous overnight, as news of a young man being badly injured on a ranch and coming through made the public want to see him. The internet had seen to that.
Even before he was released, the retired banderillero who had helped save Manolo’s life in the truck that awful day, compressing the wound and holding him steady had come to visit alongside Eliseo Manzano himself.
The banderillero’s name was Rafael Gonzalez, not Rafael Something-or-other as Manolo had called him behind his back, and he offered the recuperating aspirant a contract. Manolo now had a manager.
There was, however, something else odd in the conversation, not with his new representative, but the bull breeder. Manolo had been emphatic about him saving Gaditano for down the road.
Even stranger behind the scenes was a superstitious ritual Manolo had developed. He somehow thought that giving Lucinda a spanking in one form or another before a bullfight would bring good luck.
She had done some reading in the past and found how other bullfighters had their peculiar quirks. Carlos Arruza thought purple and gold costumes brought bad luck, because he had received three major gorings while wearing this shade. The last of which was in Colombia, where like Manolo, they had to make a mad dash to the hospital to save his life. El Gallo, on the other hand, insisted green brought bad luck, as did the American, Walter De La Brosse.
The spanking thing was unique and a ritual never spoken about to the reporters. It was also something she hated.
It was questionable how this absurd rite would bring luck for anyone, for Manolo had given her that impromptu lesson in discipline during their training session and the following day had come within a pussy hair’s length of getting killed.
The logic?
Manolo insisted he had survived.
Aside from this and her refusal to ever perform oral sex still left them as spicy hot lovers in the bed. Or the shower. Or the floor.
After a very
“Yes,” Manolo answered. “And you are…”
“Satan,” came the casual reply.
“Satan?”
The figure nodded.
“I’ve got a deal for you.”
Manolo looked at him with obvious reluctance. What mental institution had this fool escaped from?
“Satan? A deal?”
The intruder again nodded.
“I can save your life, but if I do, I want you to make a deal with me.”
Manolo placed his hand below the bathrobe, feeling where the scar from the massive goring had been.
“A deal? I suppose you want my soul and you want me to sign a contract in blood?”
The stranger shook his head in the negative.
“Then what do you want?”
The devil smiled.
“I want you to kill Gaditano.”
Manolo was taken aback by this.
“You don’t want me to sell you my soul? You want me to kill a bull?”
The devil nodded in the affirmative once more.
“Hey, don’t blame me. This is your fucking dream, not mine.”
Manolo Garza opened his eyes to find himself in a Hermosillo hospital room. What he had just experienced had indeed been a bizarre dream, but now he was awake, though still quite badly wounded.
“I live,” he whispered, gazing up at the ceiling.
His eyes took on a glaze and an animalistic snarl crossed his lips as a new vow came to him.
“Death to Gaditano.”
Chapter Six
Lucinda sat in the hotel room of the Hotel Cesar in Tijuana, staring at the new pink and gold suit of lights draped across the chair. A year had passed and times had changed for them. Manolo had mentioned his strange dream in the hospital, and oddly enough things had worked out much like he had envisioned them. As a pair, they were quickly engaged, but long before, they had become lovers. They had each accepted this as their destiny and were married in a ceremony at the rodeo ring in Agua Prieta rather than a church.
The goring had made Manolo Garza famous overnight, as news of a young man being badly injured on a ranch and coming through made the public want to see him. The internet had seen to that.
Even before he was released, the retired banderillero who had helped save Manolo’s life in the truck that awful day, compressing the wound and holding him steady had come to visit alongside Eliseo Manzano himself.
The banderillero’s name was Rafael Gonzalez, not Rafael Something-or-other as Manolo had called him behind his back, and he offered the recuperating aspirant a contract. Manolo now had a manager.
There was, however, something else odd in the conversation, not with his new representative, but the bull breeder. Manolo had been emphatic about him saving Gaditano for down the road.
Even stranger behind the scenes was a superstitious ritual Manolo had developed. He somehow thought that giving Lucinda a spanking in one form or another before a bullfight would bring good luck.
She had done some reading in the past and found how other bullfighters had their peculiar quirks. Carlos Arruza thought purple and gold costumes brought bad luck, because he had received three major gorings while wearing this shade. The last of which was in Colombia, where like Manolo, they had to make a mad dash to the hospital to save his life. El Gallo, on the other hand, insisted green brought bad luck, as did the American, Walter De La Brosse.
The spanking thing was unique and a ritual never spoken about to the reporters. It was also something she hated.
It was questionable how this absurd rite would bring luck for anyone, for Manolo had given her that impromptu lesson in discipline during their training session and the following day had come within a pussy hair’s length of getting killed.
The logic?
Manolo insisted he had survived.
Aside from this and her refusal to ever perform oral sex still left them as spicy hot lovers in the bed. Or the shower. Or the floor.
After a very
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