Kindred Spirit Lodge Presents
Heron's Fan Fiction
DISCLAIMERS: This is a not-for profit uber fan fiction. Any resemblance to Xena and Gabrielle who belong to those lucky folks at MCA/Universal/Renaissance, is intentional. No copyright infringement is intended. The rest of the tale is mine with all copyrights thereto. EXPLICIT SEX & MILD VIOLENCE: This story depicts explicit sex between two adult women and some mild S & M. Rated NC-17. © P. Lord, Jan. 2000. Feedback to HeronW@AOL.com
A young journalist in Spain receives a lesson on the meaning of focus from an unusual woman.
"Damned stupid barbaric custom, and they call it a test of honor and courage? And the magazine wants me to write a piece condoning this bloodshed?"
"Tickets to La Fiesta Brava," said a heavily accented voice as I read the order for my next magazine article.
I looked up at the hotel employee, "The what?"
"The corrida, the bullfighting ring, front row for Alysse deFleur," announced the steward, as he walked into my suite in the Hotel Cadiz. "DelOro is a lidiador, a true craftsman of the art."
I slammed the telegram down and practically tore the thin blue cardboard piece out of his hand. Once again, my son of a bitch of an editor had screwed my vacation by underhanded maneuvering. Considering he was my ex-fiancé, the metaphorical aspect was worse than the physical had been. I owed him a considerable sum of money for financing my master's degree in journalism. This was his way of me working it off since I refused to go horizontal with him, just as a friendly gesture, you understand.
Now I get to spend several unbearably, hot humid hours under a moldy canopy, breathing garlic from the mayor's enthusiastic interjections, while so-called heroes kill farm animals. Magnifico, bah.
My head was pounding as I watched the dirty yellow puffs rising from the sand, scoured by the picadors' mounts and the troupe of banderilleros with their short spears. Nearly the end of the parade of fashionable machismo, the piece de resistance sauntered over and bowed to the mayor.
Black leather slippers, lavender hose to the knees, tight white pantaloons with incredible golden embroidery, close about well-muscled legs, then rising and cupping the full nether cheeks. These I saw as the matador turned, bowing to the rest of the arena. A fitted silk bolero jacket, still immaculate in all this dust, and the figure turned again, the matching arabesque stitched vest underneath, buttoned taut about a slender waist, then a narrow black silk tie over a pure milk white shirt and a face.
A woman's face.
Glossy raven hair pinned about under the black felt montera, a lush mouth, sculpted cheekbones, and startling eyes, bluer than the noon Madrid sky and sharper than Toledo steel. They held me, scooped me out of the humidity and the smell of too many people and not enough soap.
"La Bianca! La Bianca DelOro! La Bianca!" Her name, ivory and gold like her costume. A woman as tall as a man, as bold as a man, as daring and more. She took off her hat and bowed, keeping her cerulean gaze on me, in challenge.
I felt distaste; that she would play this stupid bloody game, not realizing she was a harlequin. Did she think they took her seriously? I knew it was a man's world and I hated it, and here she was playing in their divertissement, like she could make a difference. Taunt and cripple a beast, then kill it when it's exhausted, in a grotesque three-act farce. The satirical play of cowards for cowards.
On the first pass, the beast charged; snorting and chuffing as the woman stood erect and calm. She was graceful indeed, seducing the great black bull to come and miss her by the whisper of a magenta capote, the full cape with its brilliant royal blue lining that complemented her eyes. Then she knelt on one knee, in the trincherazo pose, guiding the near ton of angry ebony bull around her.
Now La Bianca's pose was a split stance, the back leg moving in the same direction as the bull in the cargar la suerte, to extend the pass of the beast with the least movement from her body. She followed the axiom, lagartijo that either she moved or the bull moves her. With concentrated finesse, she took the ballet delicately between the razor's edge of a stunning montage of deliberate misdirection and a raging frenzy of crippling death.
Next, came the picadors on horseback, in their silver trimmed costumes and steel leg armor, stabbing the misogynist bull with their short lances. I could see the blood on the dark dusty flanks; the ever-present flies were quickly drawn to this fortuitous feast. The banderilleros planted their gaudy beribboned barbs in the beast's hump, damaging the muscles and forcing the bull's deadly horns down.
After an interminable time that was no more than ten minutes, as I realized afterwards, La Bianca switched to the muleta, the short red flannel cape signaling the actions of the faena. This was the signal for the final tercio, the last act of the show, and the death of the bull. The beast was frothing with a dozen fluttering shafts flopping between its shoulders. Each ending pass of the abbreviated cape became the beginning of the next pass as the dark woman molded the animal to her will.
Exhausted, with red rimmed eyes, it finally collapsed on its fore knees. La Bianca stood, not even breathing hard as she waited; the president of the ring made a motion and granted an 'indulto', a pardon for the intensity and courage of the bull. She gave the brindis, the matador's salute in honor to her four-legged, dumb broken opponent. He had performed well and would be allowed to live; he proved his desire to die fighting rather than flee. She pantomimed his death via her estoque, the sword thrust deep, as if to sever the great artery of the heart.
La Bianca came forward and bowed again before the mayor to rising cheers and falling roses as the dazed bull was lead away to stud service for the rest of its natural life. Her eyes demanded mine as I fanned away the heat and yawned. A second lesser bull was released, teased and tormented until La Bianca performed the coup-de-gras and was rewarded los maximos trofeos, the triple trophy of two ears and a tail. What a waste.
I left begging pardon for near fainting from the heat and without slobbering over me too much, the mayor acquiesced, and had his aide convey me back to the hotel.
My temples were throbbing from the noise and heat. I stripped and turned back the bedspread to lie on the cool sheets. Fortunately, room service had left the curtains drawn against the torrid summer afternoon. Through the open windows, I could hear from the corrida, the aficionados' faint exclamations as they ebbed and flowed over La Bianca playing matador.
The darkness hummed as I stood in the center of a spotlight in the sand of the bullring. All about me was solid shadow save for the eight-foot bright diameter. I looked down and saw that my feet were bare, indeed I was completely naked. I knew that beyond were tiers filled with avaricious eyes tantalized by my nudity. I am not a tall woman but I keep my compact shape by moderation in my meals and exercise. That's the only thing I have any control over. Just at the edge of the circle of light was a pile of red cloth. I plucked it up and saw that it was a capote, long enough to cover myself decently. I heard a hissing of disapproval from the disappointed throngs in the stands but I didn't care.
I walked to the edge of the light to find my way blindly through the darkness if I must, but something stopped me. An intangible force wouldn't permit me to go on. I was bound within the blinding arc, alone and afraid. I peered into the inchoate darkness but I could see nothing, oddly, sounds were magnified and I heard muffled inhales and exhales, coarse and ragged. Something was outside my ken, waiting in the darkness.
I felt a trembling under my bare soles grow more intense as it drew closer. Suddenly La Bianca swept by me, catching my covering and spinning me around, tearing off a goodly piece, laughing and rushing back into the darkness. She was no longer in white and gold but in unrelieved black, a seamless, ebon leather fitting as a second skin. Her eyes were feral and her hair unbound, cascading behind her. There were horns resting upon her brow as if they grew there naturally. La Bianca reminded me of a goddess of the moon, the crescent horns a part of her, yet their massive weight were of no consequence. She was watchful, ever vigilant then between one frantic heartbeat and the next, she was vengeance released upon the wrongdoer.
But what had I done to deserve this?
I heard her laugh, a low, eerily musical sound, the predator was pleased, her prey was caught fast in the mesmerizing coils of a nightmare. I knew it for such but that made it no easier to bear. How had the influence of La Bianca insinuated herself into my mind? I didn't know, and worse, I couldn't stop it.
La Bianca charged again and tore away another piece and another, twirling me about in the bright disc of sand, the clouds of dust kicked up by my feet and her boots, drifting off into the infinite night. She ran and she leaped and she danced, flipping her body through the air like one of the ancient Minotaur dancers depicted on a Minoan urn from six millennia past. Then she'd brush softly, sliding against me, snagging another scrap of cape and ripping it free. She said nothing, merely laughed with a voluptuous mocking to my mute rebuttal, begging to end this hideous farce.
Soon I had barely enough to shield myself for modesty's sake and I wept with frustration as she yanked that last precious piece from my grasp and let it fall into tiny rose petal snips, floating to the earth. Again, I ran to the edge of the light, but I couldn't penetrate the edge into darkness and into oblivion.
La Bianca slid past me, her hands stroking all over my body. The inky leather extended down from her sleeves to her hands, covering the backs with loops over the middle and ring fingers of the left hand and the fore and little fingers of the right. I felt shivering fiery paths wherever those leather covered fingers touched, about my cheek and throat, from my forearm to hand, my shoulder down to my spine. Then her fingers grew bolder, tracing over my ribs and under my breasts, around my thigh and over my buttocks, trailing through my hair to flick back and forth over the tips of my breast. At that, lightnings stabbed to my core and she retreated into the shadows.
I gasped at the rush of sensations, innervating me and immobilizing me at the same time. The dark woman stood before me, crossing her hands at the wrists, fingers open, held at the level of her brow. Her arms lowered slowly, and as they did, a miniature sun followed. The horns were absorbed by the light and to my horror, they reappeared at her groin as a twinned phallus. Terribly large, molded at the base to the juncture of the tight leather pants as if they grew from her, they stood aright, ready to do battle.
La Bianca pressed behind me, her covered body flush against my nakedness. The cool leather felt so good on my skin. Her full breasts pressed against my shoulders and I felt weak. As if sensing this, one arm slid about my waist, lifting me, holding me. She began to move the length of her lean torso against me in erotic undulations. I heard the crowd chanting in whispers but I couldn't make out the words.
"What do you think of the bullfighter now, querida?"
I had no reply but the pressure building up inside. I was moaning as her free hand slid over my flat stomach to rest over my mons. Her long digits combed through the coppery curls, like she would caress a pet. Then her fingertips dipped lower. I arched against her as the leather rasped over my ultra-sensitive bud, circling and squeezing. I was wet, more than ready as my arousal flowed sluggishly onto my thighs. La Bianca's fingers swirled through the flood between my fleshy lower lips. The assembly murmuring louder in approval and anticipation.
I was without shame, instinctually opening my thighs for better access for La Bianca. I felt a hardness probing into my cleft, thick, insistent, moving to and fro, spreading out the wetness. She opened my labia and the persistent bulk strayed into my center. I stopped rocking, feeling another something firm prodding at my hindmost quarter. Nothing had ever touched there before, but now a second shaft, liberally coated with my essence invaded the tightness.
"Now the bull has you!" La Bianca growled into my ear, as the twinned phallus stretched both narrow orifices ramming in without further ado. I screamed as they filled me completely, slamming up and out as the taller woman rocked behind me, their serrated thickness paired in an unbearable rhythm.
"ToroOroToroOro" the spectators roared as La Bianca's thrusts crudely exposed me, opening my sex to their lascivious gaze. Her left hand held me fast, her right playing with rabid abandon over my throbbing pearl that strained for her masterful touch, no matter how I tried to deny my body's response.
I writhed in her grasp, her horns plunging greedily deeper and deeper, feeling one rub against the other through a tissue thin membrane. The squishing and sucking noises from my over-abundant responses increased as La Bianca went deep and withdrew, harshly pounding our hips together.
She plucked and rubbed and scraped my tumescent nub near to bursting. Each penetrating invasion lifting me off my feet, legs splayed wide, the scent of my lust a thick invisible concoction, impossible to resist.
"Now…" the dark woman ordered softly and I screamed as my senses were condensed to one indelible nova of pleasure, incandescent, shattering the world.
The next morning I was given a letter requesting my presence at a training facility for bullfighting. This would help fill out my article. At least my appearance was not expected until sunset; that would give some relief from this damnable heat, and a dream I only half-remembered.
The cab dropped me off and left without a word of thanks for the tip. I wasn't pleased with the driver's rudeness so the feeling was mutual. Tomorrow I would be free of this place and everything within it. I could put up with some sweaty adolescents yelling olé for a bit and showing off fledgling steak on the hoof.
It was quiet, a small blessing. I made sure the door was securely closed behind me, against any stray calf trying to bolt for freedom. Yes, growing up on a farm had bred some sense in me.
"'Hola!' Hello?" Could I have gotten the place wrong? No, this was the only breeder on the northern outskirts of Segovia. "Damn it. Is there anyone here with half the wit, god gave a goose?" No answer.
The building was vaster than I imagined. Roomy stalls stretched along both sides, the comforting smell of dry hay and oats filled my nostrils as the beasts ate their leisurely dinner. Fed and sheltered in comfort, the beasts in here were less than impressive against their punctured embattled cousins. At the far end, another door was opened a crack. The night was closing in quicker, those rainclouds wouldn't hold off much longer and it was hard to see inside.
I stepped through into a smaller version of yesterday's ring. The curved sides were fifteen feet high with no seats, thick sturdy walls of heavy planks fitted tightly together could withstand a charging bull. A few barrels stood against the walls. There was one other door at the far end. The corrida was a mere hundred feet by fifty, and virtually palpating with heat stored up from the day coming up through the hard packed dirt. I took off my jacket and loosened my collar. I was getting fed up with this land of Spaniards and their silly games.
"If this is someone's idea of a joke, it's over."
A figure leaped down from the far wall. The shadows were too deep there to see plainly.
"Senorita Alysse, Alysse." A low contralto purred before me, the voice lightly accented.
The person came closer, La Bianca in tight black pants and a full white shirt, damp with sweat and clinging to her full breasts. It was obvious she wore no undergarment, her nipples thrust out challenging, almost daunting. Her mane of black hair was wild and unkempt, falling halfway down her back; she was quite a stunning woman.
"No trick, only a lesson. You scorn the fighter and the bulls, you have only contempt for our honor, for the grace and the power." Her eyes were like sapphire lightnings in the heavy heat.
"Look, I have an article to write. I'll be leaving tomorrow and you can go on collecting ears and tails."
"No, not without that you comprende, understand."
"Oh, and you're going to teach me? No thanks." I turned to go. A strong hand on my arm brought me back; her dark expression made me hold my breath for a moment.
La Bianca tossed my jacket into the dust and ripped open my blouse.
"You uncivilized bitch!" I went to slap her but her hand struck first and I fell heavily. She strolled over to the nearest barrel as I got to my feet.
A sword tip was level with my heart. A magenta cape was draped over the length of the blade. La Bianca held a block of wood with a pair of long sharp horns attached via a piece of skull.
"Take off everything, and hold these, Alysse."
"You're mad, Andele! Hurry someone! Help!"
"We are far from any neighbors, no one will answer your call. They respect their Contessa's wish for solitude tonight."
"The Hotel Cadiz-- the Mayor Stephano--"
"--Are all servants of the Contessa." The tip of the sword sliced through the threads separating buttons from cloth from the uppermost part of my blouse. My hands shook as I pulled out the shirttails and finished undressing down to my knee-length underdrawers. Her gaze grew cool and appraising as I removed the last vestiges of clothing and stood naked before her.
"Green-eyed, flame-haired. An English bloodline. That is important in breeding, to decide which beast has the fire, the heart." La Bianca handed me the horns; they were heavier than I first thought.
"And you're going to run me through, another slaughter in the dust. And you expect me to try and defend myself with this?" I dropped the grisly souvenir in front of her bare feet.
The flat of the blade slapped smartly on my backside and I cried out.
"Pick it up, Alysse. I don't believe you wish to die so young, so angry." She loosened the ties and removed her shirt. The dark woman was condescending to be less protected by a bit of cloth. I saw the smooth sloping muscles and then the tracings of scars on her firm breasts and on the sides of her ribs, on her arms and disappearing under the waistband of her black pants. From faint and faded to new pink rippling lines. She had not fought unscathed; she was truly a matador, not just a dilettante.
I felt a small grudging respect for her and something else, unwittingly; that I was sorry to see such a lovely woman scarred like this. The skittering lines were like the cracks of misuse and neglect on a treasured Goya or an El Greco.
La Bianca's startling gaze held approval as I knelt and picked up my weapon.
The clouds held off as I roared and ran at her with an undeniable rage. If I could hurt her, she'd have to let me go. She spun and leaned back and I stumbled past her, yelling in frustration for the tenth or twelfth time.
"Toro," La Bianca whispered, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw her arm come down.
I screamed in surprise and real pain as something struck between my shoulderblades. I couldn't see it, it burned.
"Get it out-- Get it out!" I felt an awkward weight bobbing back and forth. I dropped the horns and fell to my knees, gasping, twisting to see part of a half-sized version of the barb and its blue ribbons fluttering nonchalant about my agony.
"You were clumsy," her sword point rested between my bare breasts. "The banderilla is a goad for better performance. And you will do better, Alysse. Get up." She backed off, tossing her aside her black mane. I retrieved the horns and staggered to my feet. We played the game.
I was panting, sweat pouring off my face and chest as I ran and turned and fell to my knees, crying out again as a fifth banderilla was jabbed into me. I could feel the slow warm trickles of blood and sweat over my back and buttocks.
"Finish it, I don't care anymore."
La Bianca slowly walked over. I wiped my brow and saw how the dust had muted her pants into grey tones; it covered her shapely feet like forgotten marble left untouched for years. I waited.
"What do you want, Alysse?" she asked.
Did she really expect an answer? "It doesn't matter--" I slammed the heavy horned block into her shins and lunged up into her stomach, knocking the wind from her as she fell. A horn scored on the outside of her left breast as I sat straddling her hips, panting, the picks dragging at my back. The exertion had sharpened her pale rosy nipples into flinty prominence. Her blood was lighter than that of the bulls, showing scarlet on her ivory skin.
"I'm so tired of fighting," I confessed.
"No," she repeated softly, in disbelief, shaking her head and I froze, feeling a deep biting. I was hot and cold at the same time. I followed her eyes to her outstretched right arm and the graceful hand holding the sword at an angle, the tip vanishing into my side. I fell atop her, our breasts pressing together in an odd sort of intimacy. The last I knew was her hand cupping my cheek.
"Alysse, querida. Open your eyes, little one." A cool wet cloth was taken off my forehead.
That husky tone. I knew that voice; I wanted to hear that voice again.
"Am I dead?" I opened my eyes and saw her sapphire gaze studying me. La Bianca hadn't put her shirt back on, but the shallow gouge I had given her had already crusted and dried. There were candles lit in the bedroom, hers.
"No, it was heat stroke," she smiled, and lifted a damp tendril of hair off my brow.
"But your sword--"
"Hardly more than the scratch you gave me. I put a small bandage on it. You English are not used to our sultry summers. Sip this." She held a glass of lemonade for me as I sat up on the bed. I don't think I've ever tasted anything that good before. I drank half and leaned back on the pillow. My back felt sore but not as pained as it should.
"I took them out before I carried you in the house. The hooks left only tiny holes. They'll be gone in less than a week. You are so beautiful, querida, but you have so much anger inside."
I realized I was still naked and I felt ashamed and angry. "How can you do it? You lured me here to torment me!"
"Look about you Alysse. What do you see?"
I looked around, "Flowers on the walls."
"Paintings of roses spilled across sand, thorns tangled with the capote and muleta, and all the backgrounds matte black, fuliginous, and unadorned like the hide of the bull. No blood, no violence, just peace and a stillness, of coming to terms with myself. Of all the suffering and all the pain in my life, from nature and man and beast, I chose. I chose."
I search her face for the answers she would not tell me. The lines about the edges of her eyes, from one who lived with the elements, of laughter and of sorrow too. She was older than I first thought, easily in her fourth decade but hers was a youth that had aged wisely. And it wasn't from useless pampering or unfocused effort.
"I don't understand. Submit to their codes and their expectations? Play their games?"
"No man sets my limits. No one can stop me from believing in myself, from being who I am, to become my art." She touched my cheek. "I see the need in you, just waiting to be released. You know what to fight, now know what to give up. Let it come, Alysse."
"I remember my dream, you were the darkness, shedding my defenses. Only naked could I leave the false light and come with you. I couldn't make that choice then."
"And now, querida?"
I reached up to stroke La Bianca's dark locks, she drew me to her. When we kissed; it was the first time I'd ever explored a woman's mouth, sweet and warm. There was the scent of dust and straw, her sweat and mine, and a darker musk that rose to cover us. Then she moved down to take my breast into her mouth and I felt a delicious fire tumbling down to my core.
She loved me with lips and hands and more, delving deep inside with her fingers, her tongue swirling and teasing and causing the world to burst in a thousand roars. I took her teachings to heart and paid back the dearest debt I ever owed. La Bianca shuddered and screamed my name. We could not tell where one flesh ended and another began, that night.
The starlings squabbled in the courtyard below. I was afraid that this time, if I opened my eyes, it would all disappear. I felt lips brush my eyelids and I saw my love.
"What happens today? I asked.
She stretched back to a side table and pulled over the brimless black felt hat. She set it atop my unruly red gold locks at a jaunty angle.
"This time you can be the matador, querida."
She kissed me, firmly and thoroughly.
"Brava, La Bianca," I replied as I began to learn the art.
The End - 'Matador' - by Heron
Heron's Fan Fiction Index