The Long Day of Revenge by D. P. Adamov

changed her mind. Being period time, she had been allowed to leave her pants up for that one, but she was spanked into submission again.
    Manolo did not consider what he was doing to be abusive and neither did Lucinda. She could have refused to be spanked at any given time, though it would have probably meant a breakup. To him at least, it was an extension of love, no matter how uncanny that would seem to outsiders. He constantly reverted back to the first time in the rodeo ring in their home town and what had happened when he’d yanked the back of her sweat pants down and started whapping her. What a chain reaction that had started.
    Outside of the spanking rituals, they had a strong relationship. To the rest of the world, they made a perfect couple.
    Had fans been allowed into the hotel rooms when the pair traveled together, however, they would have had a far more interesting show to view.
    Lucinda was starting to exhibit some strain, but Manolo, escalated to stardom in the ring, failed to notice.
    Where something told him they were in great shape, there was still a nagging feeling behind that whispered warnings all was not so perfect. If Lucinda was not tiring of the spankings, be they foreplay or actual discipline, as their usage varied with each situation, she was beginning to tire of his fixation on the bull, Gaditano.
    Lucinda was not with him in Nogales, and without her, the temptation to step out was big. His rational was if he did not engage in outright sex in any form, be it oral, vaginal, or anal, he was not committing adultery. After all, he’d seen all the old movies – Blood & Sand, Moment of Truth, and the like. Bullfighters who cheated on their wives were nothing new, in real life or in pictures, but in the latter, the end was always the same. They died in the ring, as if God chose to punish them for their infidelity.
    He was, however, interested in trying something new. He was tired of Lucinda’s protests when he wanted to exercise his particular fetish. Thus, he had decided to search for something different.
    Fernando De La Torre, who was well versed at cheating on his own wife, without any qualms about performing the sex act in any or all three orifices, had suggested an appointment at the Casa De Campo, which was famous, but served an exclusive clientele. The place advertised on the web, in swinger newspapers across the border, and even offered merchandise for sale. The price, however, was out of the reach of college students and their ilk.
    Discretion was not a problem, or so he had been told. Famous people from all walks of life visited the Casa. They all had something in common. A need to be punished or to punish was just one of the categories catered to. Appointments had to be set up in advance, and just about any need could be met if the financial arrangement was right.
    Manolo had done his best to look like the traditional matador from out of the films and novels, wearing his cloth cap and smoking a big cigar as he made his way down the side streets. This was not a part of the red light district on Canal Street, but a business all its own.
    How De La Torre had found this spot was anyone’s guess, but he was quick to recommend it to others when in Nogales. He wondered, since they were performing together the next day, if he was himself going there for some form of session. If not, he was surely on Canal Street with the true whores, rather than the specialists here. It was hoped he used a condom.
    Manolo found the two story house and rang the doorbell, wondering how many rooms were on the inside.
    No answer came.
    There was still time to turn back.
    The devil made him ring the bell again, and this time a woman answered. She was clearly not one of the working girls, but an overseer who ran the show. To call her a madam seemed inappropriate, for this was not a simple place for the horny to buy a piece of ass.
    “I am Eva,” she announced. “You are here for the eight o’clock