The Feast of the Goat - Mario Vargas Llosa [223]
“He was still very excited, I think. When he began to touch and caress me. And kiss me, his mouth always forcing my mouth open. Kissing my breasts, my neck, my back, my legs.”
She did not resist; she allowed herself to be touched, caressed, kissed, and her body obeyed with the movements and postures that His Excellency’s hands indicated for her. But she did not return the caresses, and when her eyes were not closed, she kept them glued on the slow blades of the fan. Then she heard him say to himself: “Breaking a virgin’s cherry always excites men.”
“The first dirty word, the first vulgarity of the night,” Urania declares. “Later, he would say much worse. That was when I realized that something was happening to him. He began to get angry. Because I was still, limp, because I didn’t kiss him back?”
That wasn’t it: she understood that now. Whether or not she participated in her own deflowering wasn’t anything His Excellency cared about. To feel satisfied, it was enough for her to have an intact cherry that he could break, making her moan—howl, scream—in pain, with his battering ram of a prick inside her, squeezed tight by the walls of that newly violated intimate place. It wasn’t love, not even pleasure, that he expected of Urania. He had agreed to the young daughter of Senator Agustín Cabral coming to Mahogany House only to prove that Rafael Leonidas Trujillo Molina, despite his seventy years, despite his prostate problems, despite his headaches with priests, Yankees, Venezuelans, conspirators, was still a real man, a stud with a prick that could still get hard and break all the virgin cherries that came his way.
“I had no experience, but I knew.” Her aunt, cousins, and niece lean their heads forward to hear her whisper. “Something was happening to him, I mean down below. He couldn’t. He was about to go wild and forget all his good manners.”
“That’s enough playing dead, beautiful,” she heard him order, a changed man. “On your knees. Between my legs. That’s it. Take it in your hands and mouth. And suck it, the way I sucked your cunt. Until it wakes up. Too bad for you if it doesn’t, beautiful.”
“I tried, I tried. In spite of my terror, my disgust. I did everything. I squatted on my haunches, I put it in my mouth, I kissed it, I sucked it until my gorge rose. Soft, soft. I prayed to God it would stop.”
“That’s enough, Urania, that’s enough!” Aunt Adelina isn’t crying. She looks at her in horror, without compassion. Her eyes roll back in her head, the whites bulging, sclerotic; she is shocked, violently agitated. “What are you telling us for, Urania? My God, that’s enough!”
“But I failed,” Urania insists. “He covered his eyes with his arm. He didn’t say anything. When he moved his arm away, he hated me.”
His eyes were red and his pupils burned with a yellowish, feverish light of rage and shame. He looked at her without a hint of courtesy, with belligerent hostility, as if she had done him irreparable harm.
“You’re wrong if you think you’re leaving here a virgin so you can laugh at me with your father,” he spelled out, with mute fury, spitting as he spoke.
He seized her by the arm and threw her down beside him. Assisted by movements of his legs and waist, he mounted her. That mass of flesh crushed her, pushed her down into the mattress; the smell of cognac and rage on his breath made her dizzy. She felt her muscles and bones crumbling, ground to dust. She was suffocating, but that did not prevent her from feeling the roughness of that hand, those fingers, exploring, digging, forcing their way into her. She felt herself pierced, stabbed with a knife; a lightning bolt ran from her head down to her feet. She cried out, feeling as if she were dying.
“Go on and screech, you little bitch, see if you learn your lesson,”