The following story contains profanity and graphic imagery which may not be suitable for itty bitty babies. This is a loving parody of Ernest Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises, written for Shipwreck SF. For the live show, each writer is assigned a character to use as the centerpiece of an erotic fan-fiction. I was assigned “The Running of the Bulls” as my character. Enjoy!

 

In the morning it was all over. The fiesta was finished. I took a painful hangover shit, dressed, and went downstairs. The square was still waking up. A few children were picking scraps of burnt fireworks and shards of broken glass off the cobblestones. A shopkeep was hosing off his front steps, letting the congealed blood of wounded tourists trickle down the street. The fiesta was over.

I sat outside a cafe and snapped my fingers until a waiter brought me some coffee. After a while Montoya came over. He sat in a wicker chair and rested a hand on my shoulder.

“Well, my friend, you enjoyed the fiesta?”

“Yes, quite. The matadors were fine. Some of the finest I’ve seen in years.”

Montoya shrugged, letting his hand slide down my arm. In a whisper meant only for me, he spoke one word: “Romero!”

“Romero,” I sighed in agreement.

Montoya suddenly looked very serious. He squeezed my hand. “Señor Barnes, may I ask you to stay another week in Pamplona?” His gentle voice cracked, “I would like you to be my guest for something muy especial. No foreigners allowed, unless they have… aficion.”

He gripped my hands. I thought the square had gone quiet, then I realized I was holding my breath.

“Yes. Yes, I’ll stay.”

We both relaxed. Montoya’s serious look vanished, replaced with a shy smile. I watched him walk back across the square, then ordered a whiskey for lunch.

 

The days passed slowly as the tourists left. One day I thought I saw Robert Cohn lurking in the church belfry, but that was after three goblets of sacramental wine. I was the only foreigner who saw the fiesta come back to life. The week before, workmen had assembled wooden gates to guide the bulls. Now they stacked bales of hay covered in blankets of soft wool. Freshly-picked wildflowers were strung between every balcony. How had Pamplona kept this event a secret from the rest of the world? “It is a celebration of life” was the most Montoya would say about it. “Just be sure to eat plenty of fiber,” he added.

I awoke at dawn on Sunday morning to the sound of my door crashing into a tower of empty wine bottles. Montoya walked into my room, clumsily carrying a bull’s severed head. Seeing my surprised face, he quickly set it down and placed a hand on my shoulder. In a soft voice he explained it was a mask that guests of honor wore to the ceremony.

I scoffed. “Look, Monty, I thought we just going to get drunk and try some butt-play.”

“Pero, Señor Barnes, today is much more than that! Mañana está jodida de toros.”

My spanish missed some of that, but his erotic gestures made me want to be el toro for whatever was about to come. He helped me put on the mask. The carved-out eye sockets turned my vision red. Montoya handed me a small bottle of foul-smelling liquor.

“What’s in this?” I asked, handing him the empty bottle.

“Mostly absinthe and espresso. Also, peyote.”

“But peyote only grows in Central America, where it has been a staple of Mexican religion for hundreds of years. Its hallucinogenic properties won’t be appropriated by western culture until the nineteen-sixties!”

“Esta bien. When you get outside, you must keep running. This will help you. Many will want you to charge them, but you must keep running. At the end, I will be waiting for you.”

He rested a hand on my cheek. I blacked out.

 

When I came to, I was shoving my way through a lubed-up crowd of naked spanish men wearing bull masks. A rocket exploded behind us and we lurched forward as one sweaty, hulking mass.

I burst through the gates of the corral. A bull fell to the ground at my feet, and I slipped as I tried to run across his oily back. I thrust my hands forward, searching for a soft landing, but finding two rock-hard cocks. With a quick jerk I steadied myself, pushed forward, and sprinted down the street.

All the balconies were crowded with nude revelers. Some tried to shoot streams of wine onto the heads of running bulls. I caught some in my mouth, missed a turn, and went careening into a stack of hay bales. The moment I landed there was an ass in my lap and breasts in my face. They screamed at me: “Stick us with your horns, señor!”

I nearly came at the idea of having sex without paying for it. But then I saw Montoya’s sweet, bearded face floating above me.

“I’m waiting for you. You must keep running.”

The image made my heart swell. Well, that may have been cardiovascular disease brought on by alcohol and caffeine. But the peyote helped me push through. I cast off the sexy señoritas, brandished my bull horns, and ran on.

 

The gates of the bullring closed behind the last masked runners. We sloshed through an ankle-deep pool of vaseline that filled the arena. Men with sword-length dildoes prodded us into pens. Then the matadors entered in their tight leather outfits. I could not hear my own aching moans over the roar of the crowd. A dildo pushed me forward into the ring where a single matador stood to face me: Romero!

“Toro!” he cried, ripping away his pants. I charged, desperate to wrap my lips around his throbbing cock. I could almost taste it when Romero shifted his hips — an effortless dodge. I slid across the lubed ground, turned, and charged again. He let me pass five times, until I was left sprawled, spent, and yearning for The D.

“Stick me, you beautiful boy! Run me through with your nineteen-year-old spear!”

“No, my friend, I am not the picador today.”

As he spoke, a woman climbed down from stands. My eyes were transfixed by the massive horn protruding from between her legs. It was smooth, curved, and the color of dirty ivory. My anus tingled as Lady Brett Ashley approached us.

“Hello, you chaps!” she called. “I say, do you like it? We spent most of a week in Madrid getting it carved and polished. But I can hardly fuck the man I love in the ass with any old strap-on.”

There was nothing more to say. I presented myself to her. The excitement made my prostate jump into my throat, yet I was shaking with nervousness. I didn’t believe I could fit that long horn inside me, no matter how much I needed it. I sat up, ready to call it off, but there in front of me was Montoya.

He bent down and whispered in my ear: “I am here, mi amor. You made it.”

The curls of his beard tangled with mine. Our lips met. Brett lathered vaseline over my butthole. Montoya’s tongue and the tip of the horn slid into me at the exact same moment. I sucked his tongue, then his cock. Brett pounded away at me.

“Hold on, Jake. We’ll all cum at the same time!” she cried.

“Yes,” I said, my jizz gushing onto the arena floor. “Isn’t it pretty to think so?”