“Why, indeed?" I murmured.
“It’s so much more humane.” Her massaging fingers grew more intimate.
“And how!”
“I too go into the arena tomorrow,” she told me.
“You? As a bullfighter? I didn’t know they let women do that in Spain.”
“It is very unusual. I am one of the first. And in Pamplona only one other woman has fought a bull before.”
“But why—-?"
“A woman too must have her moment of truth.” A long, sharp fingernail strayed between my legs. “So you see,” she added with meaning, “tonight the bull and I have much in common.”
“I see.” The cow emitted a high-pitched lowing sound. It was a bovine giggle, openly erotic.
The redhead chuckled an echo. “She sounds very contented, doesn‘t she?”
“Well, from the looks of that bull, she’s got what to be contented about.”
“He is magnificent, isn’t he?” There was a teasing note in her voice that told me she knew her manipulating fingers were having their effect on me.
“He sure is monstrous big,” I commented.
“Isn’t he, though?" She giggled. “I wish I knew that heifer’s technique.” One of her hands was a groping fist now, and she wasn’t even making a pretense at rubbing in the liniment any more.
“There’s nothing wrong with your technique.” I braced my feet farther apart.
“Ahh, so you have noticed, Señor.” The fist became a hand again and stroked my flanks enticingly.
It was at that moment that the cow had a sudden moment of coyness. She surged upward, shook her head and snorted teasingly, eluded the bull, and ran over to the fence where I was bent over it. Before I realized what the damned heifer was going to do, she had done it. She opened her mouth, a yard and a half of tongue rolled out, and she took one long lick from my knees to my navel.
“What the hell!” I jumped back, tripped over my pants, and damn near pole-vaulted out the door by which I’d entered. When I straightened up, I was protruding like a sexmad hatrack.
“She must have heard me,” the redhead giggled. “And so she decided to demonstrate her technique. One can always learn from the beasts of the field, eh? And judging by the result, I’d say the lesson was most effective!"
“It’s not polite to stare.” I struggled to pull up my pants.
“Tell that to the bull,” she suggested. “The way he’s glowering at you, I think he’s jealous.”
I turned my head and saw that the bull was indeed glaring hatred at me. He stood still for a moment, then lowered his head and pawed the ground. For a minute it looked as if he was about to charge the fence separating us. I had my doubts about whether that fence would hold if he did. The cow saved me from finding out. She bounded over to her lover and distracted him. The bull forgot all about me as he bore down into the dust. I turned back to the redhead.
“You’re still staring,” I told her.
“It looks so funny that way. How will you ever be able to close the zipper?"
“You’ve got a point there."
“So have you.”
Puns yet! And in Spanish, no less! “Maybe I won't bother closing it," I told her.
“I was wondering when that was going to occur to you. I was beginning to fear that I didn’t appeal to you."
“Oh, you appeal to me, all right.” I stared pointedly at her bosom. The blouse she was wearing was one of those deep-V affairs. The top two buttons were unbuttoned so that it only really met at her waist. The inner roundness of both breasts, separated by a well-defined cleavage, was distinctly visible. She was breathing very quickly, and with each breath her nipples arched upward against the silken material as if eager to be free. “And besides,” I added, “I feel a decided obligation to do my little bit to see that you’re in top form to fight El Toro tomorrow.”
“You are very generous,” she told me. “But you have a tendency to talk too much. The time for talk is over now. It is the time for action."
“Okay. But where?" I looked around me at the stalls. One or two bulls were peering at us over the gates. “Unlike our bullish friends,” I told the redhead, “I don‘t really like an audience. It tends to inhibit me.”
“Follow me.” She took my hand. “I’ll show you.”
She led me to the rear of the building, and we mounted a ladder. It led to a haystack. “Looks awfully itchy,” I observed.
“That is easily overcome.” She rummaged in the hay for a moment and came up with a sleeping-bag. “Thee will love me well when we are together in this device," she predicted.
“Shades of Hemingway,” I muttered.
“Pardon, Señor?”
“Nothing.” I grinned to myself as she ran her fingers casually through her short-cropped red hair. “I’ll bet you’ve got one of those winebags somewhere around here, too,” I guessed.
“But of course.” She pulled a winebag out from under the hay and held it up. She opened her mouth, aimed it, and the wine spurted neatly down her throat. “And now you.” She passed it tome and watched with a little smile as I emulated her. “I am ready now,” she sighed. “I am ready to obscenity thee.”
She peeled off the blouse. Her breasts were really lovely. Not quite as large as Françoise’s, but exquisitely shaped and pulsating with desire.
“And thee?” she asked. “Why does not thee take off thy clothes the better to obscenity?” She was pulling off her slacks now, and she stroked her obscenity invitingly.
I quickly got out of my own clothes and started for her, my own obscenity preceding me like a tilted flagpole. She crawled into the sleeping bag and held it open so that I might join her. As I slid in beside her, she stroked my obscenity with fondness.
She of the cropped hair. So warm was her skin, so moist and clinging her lips, so fluttery—like twin, frightened rabbits—her breasts, so slick and clutching her obscenity. I ran my hand the length of her long, slender legs, over her smooth, streamlined hips, up her flat belly to the mounds of her breasts and then the column of her neck to her face, which I cupped in my hands and kissed.
“Do I please thee?” she asked in a trembling voice.
“Yes. I am pleased. You please me.” I dropped my hand again and stroked the triangle of curls over her obscenity.
“Oh! Obscenity! Obscenity! Obscenity!” she cried out. “And be quick about it, please!”
I rose up in the sleeping-bag, descended upon the softness beneath me, and obscenity’d her like crazy. It was even better than Françoise. Better than Gina. The best obscenity I’d had in a long time.
“Obscenity! Obscenity! Obscenity!” she moaned again as our thrashing bodies exploded the way nitro explodes when it is placed under a bridge by a true expert, one who takes pride in his work, in doing it well, the act itself I mean.
I did it well. A thousand fragments of passion flew into the air. And, just as with the bridge when the exploding had been done, there was a deep stillness afterward.
The girl, serene now for the moment, broke the stillness in a crooning voice which really did not impose on it. “Thee,” she sighed. “Thou art an expert obscenity-er.”
“It is but my job," I told her. “It is my work for O.R.G.Y. and I am satisfied to do it well. And you are quite a little obscenity-ing lover yourself.”
“Gracias. Muchas gracias. But why do we speak as if the night were at an end? It is early yet. Surely we can obscenity some more.” She of the cropped hair spoke plaintively.
“It is a surety,” I told her. “Only please to remember that I am not a bull.”