This story contains non-consensual sex. It is a work of sheer fantasy in all respects, and is intended for the purposes of erotic entertainment only. In real life it is incumbent on all of us to ensure consent in any situation, and to show respect and empathy to those around us—not just with regard to sex, but in every aspect of life.

I appreciate positive comments and constructive feedback. I hope you enjoy it.

Isabel took her seat in the cozy, dimly-lit space, and wondered what to expect. Her dancing days were behind her now, but she still had connections in the art world and usually had a pretty good handle on what a show would entail before it started. This time, though, the whole thing was a black-box, and it was kind of exciting.

Not that Contraimperial hadn’t generated buzz. Only one performance had been announced, and it was to be held in Madrid. The word of mouth had gone viral, monopolizing the attention of the city’s trend-setters for months. And yet, maddeningly little information had leaked about what the show might actually be like.

All this mystery only heightened Isabel’s gratification in being here. She was going to be one of the lucky few to get to experience it—and from the front-row no less!

To her left, Camile was babbling with anticipation. It was she who had nudged Isabel into coming in the first place. Camile still harbored artistic ambitions, and hoped the inspiration she received tonight (and maybe the contacts she made?) would revitalize her flagging career. Now that it was actually happening, she was downright ecstatic. “Oooh, hermana, can you believe they made us do NDAs? And the waivers they made us sign?! I’m so keyed up I could pee myself. They say Catequil is a real asshole, but you can’t deny the man’s a genius. This is going to be a goddamn mind fuck, you know?!”

To Isabel’s right, her fiancée Pedro shifted in his seat and rolled his eyes. He had little patience for Camile’s dramatics. To be fair, their disdain was mutual. Pedro was a good bit older and worked in international finance. In Camile’s view, he was also stuffy, repressed, a sellout, and quite possibly crypto-fascist—and she didn’t care who she told.

Well, Isabel could get where her friend was coming from. Not so long ago, she might have said the same thing. She’d spent most of her twenties trying to break into the modern dance scene. As a woman hovering hopefully on the fringes of the creative set, identifying as a free-spirit, she wouldn’t have given Pedro a second glance either.

Recently, however, Isabel’s perspective had begun to change. All the years of rejection and deprivation had finally wrung most of the joy out of the art game for her. And at the same time, even if the ticking of her biological clock wasn’t an issue yet, she’d begun to foresee a day when it would be. So, abruptly, on her 29th birthday, she’d quit dancing cold—just like that. From that moment on, she resolved to put her energy into building a ‘normal life’: settling down, finding a husband, having some kids.

Soon afterward, she’d met Pedro, and discovered there were some real advantages to the sort of stability, predictability, and lavish lifestyle he was able to offer. Tonight was a good case in point. There’s no way Camile or Isabel would have been here at all without access to her fiancée’s bankroll. The price of admission had been astronomical!

Pedro had resisted paying for the tickets, of course, and Isabel could understand why. Whatever Contraimperial was, it seemed a good bet that Pedro would hate it. But, Camile had been so eager that Isabel made it her mission to win him over. She’d argued that it would do wonders for his social-standing to be seen in such an exclusive venue—and she had no doubt this was true. Then, she’d thrown in a very dutiful blowjob, just to seal the deal.

Soon the lights lowered from murky to pitch-black, and an expectant hush fell on the audience. A chill ran down Isabel’s spine, as a deep, resonant voice filled the chamber.

“When the conquistadors came, they didn’t ask. They didn’t seek consent. They just took. If they wanted what we had, they took it. Our wealth. Our freedom. Our culture. Our women.”

The unearthly wail of a quena flute pierced the air. “Five centuries later, you live in luxury apartments, and watch Eurovision on your screens. How is it possible for me to convey the essence of that raw, savage encounter, that happened so very long ago? How can you, the heirs of empire, truly grasp the rapacious appetites of your forbearers? And how can I, Catequil, the modern indigenous warrior, ever hope to reclaim the manhood which your ancestors stripped away...?”

A burst of illumination flooded the space before Isabel. Three men stood there, bathed in light, still as statues. The Andean tunics they wore were blazoned with vibrant colors and patterns, and overlaid by opulent white robes, and they showed off the men’s powerful, well-formed limbs to good effect. All three of them were tall, and their height was further accentuated by elegant feathered headdresses. The men’s solemnity, their gravitas, was like a palpable force, washing out over the audience.

For a moment the quena continued to play alone. Its tones were less jarring now, almost lilting, wafting in from somewhere off in the darkness. Soon, it was joined in stately harmony by the rondador pipes and an ocarina of a slightly lower pitch. Keeping time was the calm, steady beat of the wancara drum.

As the music swelled, the men began a slow, ceremonial dance. “We colonized people had our civilization,” Catequil’s disembodied bass intoned, “though the white men tried to deny it. It was a thing of beauty.”

The men’s movements were unhurried, deliberate, hypnotic. There was something aristocratic about them, Isabel thought—a hereditary sort of nobility, written plainly in their high cheekbones; liquid brown eyes; and emotionless expressions.

Her attention was drawn especially to the figure in the middle. He was even taller than his comrades and a bit older (40, maybe?), and his gaze seemed to go right through her. She had recognized him at once by his sharp nose and broad forehead. This was Cataquil himself. Isabel was struck by the way his ethereal, pre-recorded voice was juxtaposed against his silent, corporeal form. The combination of the two was eerie—it gave her goose bumps.

Everyone in the international art world had an opinion about Catequil. The Ecuadoran provocateur’s shows were infrequent and unpredictable, and notorious for pushing the bounds of what was acceptable. Many people wrote him off as nothing more than a derivative shock-artist. Those with more discerning taste, however, usually agreed with Camile—that he was a man with rare talent for jolting his audiences into new levels of awareness, by whatever means necessary.

The dance proceeded for a time. The patterns of movement were complex and fascinating—gradually becoming more and more elaborate, but always with the same aura of measured formality. Then, at length, the pipes ceased, and only the drum went on, banging out a slow, muffled cadence. The men became statues again, and the voice resumed.

“The conquistadors had a veneer of civilization, but they shed it soon enough—revealing the savagery that festers at the heart of all men. And over time, in the course of their brutality, they robbed us of our civilization, too—bringing us down to their level of degradation.”

Catequil stirred, and with methodical, ritualized movements, began to undress his comrades. First he carefully removed their headdresses, one by one, and carried them off into the gloom at the edges of the room. Next he took their sandals, their robes, and finally their tunics. Isabel shared a conspiratorial grin with a wide-eyed Camile. The men had nothing on underneath!

The lights went out for a moment and the music ceased, leaving Isabel alone with her thoughts. Then the spotlights flickered back into brilliance. Now, all three men stood before them naked, Catequil in the middle. Their faces remained blank.

Pedro slumped down in his chair and half covered his face, grimacing as if to convey that he hadn’t paid all this money to see a parade of South American sausage meat. Isabel didn’t mind, though. As a dancer she had always found inspiration in the beauty and power of the human form. And these particular forms? Well, they were frankly gorgeous.

She allowed her eyes to range over the men’s bodies unashamedly, drinking in their smooth, bronze skin; taut muscles; broad shoulders ... And although it would have been bad form to say so, she couldn’t help noticing that they were also packing, um, a lot of sausage meat. She’d attended a nude production once before, years ago, and found herself cringing on behalf of the male dancers there, who were so courageous in flaunting the fact that they just didn’t have much to flaunt. It had been a little distracting, to tell the truth. Tonight’s spectacle, by contrast, was purely beguiling.

“Who are the other two?” she whispered to Camile, seeking to put names to, uhhh, faces.

“That one’s Paricia,” Camile murmured, “and that’s Urcaguary. They work with him a lot.”

Catequil’s voice sounded again. “What is empire, after all, if not organized savagery? And once that cycle of savagery has been set in motion, who can say where its trail of victims will end?”

A crash of drums rolled out of the darkness, startling Isabel and sending a wave of vibration surging through her body. At that moment, the impassive expressions on the men’s faces changed—contorted in an instant into disturbing masks of ferocity and passion.

Immediately, the percussion launched into a wild, frenzied beat—wancaras and bombos and uncanny chajcha rattles, all echoing and embracing each other according to an otherworldly logic of their own. Together, they surged and pulsed in Isabel’s chest, sitting uneasily, dissonantly, against the pace of her own heart. The rhythm was maddening, compulsive, and her muscles ached to move to its tempo.

At the sound of the drums, the men burst into action too. Again they danced, but this time there was nothing controlled or sacramental about it. Now their movements were extravagant, greedy, almost unhinged. They swayed and twirled and vaulted. Feverish emotions flickered across their faces, one after another—rage, triumph, lust, despair—and their limbs and torsos bent into shapes of surreal, appalling beauty. It was unsettling to watch, yet Isabel found it impossible to look away.

Soon their chests were heaving, and a sheen of sweat glistened on their skin. Being a dancer herself, she knew how much energy they must be expending. As the minutes continued ticking by, her mind began to reel at their stamina. Even the most well-conditioned professionals she knew would have been staggering to keep up this pace. Yet these men weren’t just keeping up—the dynamism and athleticism of their movements only seemed to increase as time went on.

And there was something else. At one point, Camile gave her a little nudge in the ribs, raising an eyebrow and flicking a finger toward the performers. Following the line of the gesture, Isabel realized that all three of the men had unquestionably become quite hard. That hadn’t been true when they’d started—they’d been flaccid, flopping around much as one would expect. But not anymore. Now their members were stiff, stony, massive. It made her wonder if they experienced this dance as an expression of eros.

Isabel’s crotch felt damp. What kind of art was this?

It wasn’t long afterward, that Isabel’s evening took a decisive turn toward the unexpected and unnerving.

One minute, all three men were still gyrating in the circle of light. The next, Paricia and Urcaguary had strode forward toward the audience, lifted Isabel by the upper-arms, and carried her bodily into the performance space with them!

It all happened so quickly, she was hardly able to resist. She wasn’t even sure she should. And it might not have made a difference anyway. She couldn’t say the men were violent, but their grip constrained her with an iron firmness, and their faces were frightening in their intensity.

Out on the floor—pinned down under the curious stares of the audience, dazzled by the lights glaring in her face—Isabel felt the presence of Catequil loom up behind her. The musk of his exertion and the heat of his breath on her neck were disconcerting, and her first impulse was to run. Yet, she remained torn; and her gaze ranged frantically over the shadowy forms of the crowd, searching for any hint of counsel or support. Pedro’s folded arms and sour expression showed that he just wanted to wash his hands of the whole thing. But as for Camile, her eyes were shining in the darkness, lit up by the idea that a friend of hers was actually participating in a Catequil production.

Well, Isabel thought, maybe her amiga had the right idea. Maybe this was a good thing. She allowed herself to relax a notch, kicking off her shoes, and savoring the tempestuous rhythms that reverberated through her torso ... Then, feeling the confident, persuasive hands of Catequil at her hips, she began swaying her body in time ... And at last, enchanted by the beat and the performers and the magical atmosphere of the evening, the female gave in—surrendering herself entirely to the magnetic potency of the music.

God it felt good to dance again. Isabel threw her whole being into matching the raw abandonment of the Andeans, channeling a kind of freedom and boldness that wasn’t at all natural for her. She found herself being passed from one of the men to another, her movements shaped and directed, in the subtlest of ways, by their touch and gesture. It struck her that even if she hadn’t spent years as a professional dancer, somehow their guidance alone would have been sufficient to integrate her into the choreography, and she marveled at their proficiency.

Isabel didn’t think she had ever danced this well before. It was inspiring, intoxicating, to press so close to the bare, glistening, vigorous bodies of these men, feeling every ounce of their masculine power and artistry. She did her best to hold up her end, writhing and grinding with as much energy and passion as she could, flinging her long, raven tresses to accentuate her grace and fluidity.

She felt sexy. Isabel knew she looked good in the sky-blue satin gown she’d worn tonight. It was slinky and sleeveless, with a plunging neckline and high side slit. She loved how the hem of it twirled, and how the slit showcased her shapely legs. The stroke of the fabric against her nipples as she gyrated was exquisite, and she could sense them getting hard. It was beginning to seem an extended date with her vibrator would be in order when she got home.

Then, abruptly, the drums ceased and the dancers froze—Catequil laying a hand on Isabel’s bare shoulder to still her movements.

Something sharp glinted in the air, and she glanced up. Evidently, one of the men had tossed a knife from the wings, because Catequil caught it deftly by the hilt, a foot or so above her head.

This was intimidating, naturally; and before Isabel could even react, she felt a little flick at each shoulder, followed by her bodice flopping down around her waist.

Fuck—the man had cut her straps!

Cool air wafted over Isabel’s breasts. Her large, puffy, pale-pink nipples poked out cheekily, and her bare chest heaved as she sucked in mouthfuls of air.

Isabel had always had a little more bust than was ideal in a dancer, but she was still small enough that bras were usually optional, and certainly not something she’d wear under an elegant evening-gown. The result now, though, was that her tits were out for all to see.

The woman’s lips parted slightly in unspoken question. But before she could find her voice, there came the sound of ripping fabric, as Catequil gutted her dress from top to bottom. The garment fell in a heap around her feet, leaving Isabel wearing nothing but her panties. Dazed and disoriented, she peeked down to recall which briefs she’d put on. It was a bit of relief to find they were attractive—a stylish, charcoal-grey, french-cut design that accentuated her curves.

By the time Isabel glanced up again, the totality of the situation was beginning to break through, and her peaches-and-cream complexion was shading toward a deep rose hue. Over the years, she’d met many artists who seemed to lack all inhibitions; or, at least could set them aside to pursue some commercial or creative goal. Isabel had never been like that, though. Perhaps self-consciousness was the thing that had held her back in her career—it was hard to say. But the upshot was that being topless on stage was deeply uncharted territory for her, and disturbing to say the least. Hell, she never even took off her bikini top at Ibiza.

Still unsure how to process all this, she locked eyes with Pedro, seeking ... she didn’t know what—assistance, maybe, or perhaps reassurance. It did appear that the provocation had roused the man from his earlier lethargy, at least. He was sitting bolt upright now, scowling, foot tapping impatiently. He made a move as if to get out of his chair (to come rescue her?), but Camile intervened. Reaching across Isabel’s empty seat, she put a hand on his chest and said something, and he hesitated.

Did her friend really believe she should continue with the performance? A part of Isabel was desperate to flee; but she feared that would only accentuate her humiliation. If, on the other hand, she acted like this was normal, then maybe it would be. And, deep in her heart, Isabel really did want the show to go on. The energy of the evening, the charisma exuding from Catequil’s every pore, the chance to dance again—she just wasn’t ready for it to end...

And thus, she was still dithering when the maestro gave a couple more flips of his knife, and the tattered remnants of her panties dropped to the floor.

For a brief second, Isabel thought she would die. Or at least wished she would. She was utterly naked, now, before the cultural cream of Madrid: bathed in spotlights, exhibited for the salacious pleasure of a thousand probing eyes. It was like the plot of a bad dream—the one where you run out on stage without your leotard on.

True, she’d always been proud of her porcelain skin, trim figure, graceful hips, willowy legs. But she’d never wanted to parade them this way. Moreover, hers was the kind of body that had not a shred of in-built modesty. Knowing that the audience could witness the elegant dangle of her tits, and the audacious thrust of her nipples? That had been bad enough. But now, thanks to her wax-job grooming and the gap between her thighs, not a blessed thing remained concealed between her legs either—the onlookers were free to soak in every last inch of her pussy. And there was a lot for them to see. With her blood pumping and libido roused, her labia had obligingly unfurled, so that her plump, ruddy clitoris poked down jauntily in-between. The mental picture of it was almost unendurable.

Isabel’s feelings of shame and mortification were mirrored in the expressions of her companions. Camile’s mouth had formed into a scandalized O, as if things had gone a bit too far, even for one of her avant-garde proclivities. Pedro, meanwhile, was simply boiling—face red, brows glowering. Isabel knew there was one hell of a couple’s-argument looming in their future.

Still, for the moment, neither her friend nor her fiancée made a move to intervene. Some paralyzing mixture of shock and bewilderment kept them rooted in their seats.

As for Isabel herself? Well ... after a few tense heartbeats, she was startled to find her own embarrassment beginning to ebb.

After all (she told herself), the three indigenous men felt comfortable in their skin, so why shouldn’t she? And really, wasn’t this exactly what she’d been striving for all those years as a dancer—the chance to put her talents to use in an elite production, run by a trend-setter like Catequil? How stupid would she be to throw over the opportunity now, merely from an excess of prudishness? Perhaps this was her big break: the moment her career would rise from the ashes and truly begin! And even if not, it would still be a unique experience—a youthful adventure to look back on fondly when she was boring and middle-aged.

As Catequil tossed the knife away, and the unseen drummers again struck up their crazed tattoo, Isabel made her choice. Abandoning her reticence, casting aside all thoughts of prudence or decorum, she joined the uninhibited gyrations of Catequil and his men. All four of them whirled and writhed and leapt about the pool of light, straining every muscle to convey the force of their inner turmoil. Oh, some part of her was aware of what a pornographic image she must present—a small voice whispered in her ear that she could at least try to keep her breasts from bouncing so exuberantly; at least try to keep her legs together as she undulated on the floor. But she was deaf to it. In that moment, she simply willed herself not to care.

On and on they went. Soon her skin was flushed with exertion. Then, perspiration dripped down her flanks. Eventually she was gasping for oxygen, ebony tresses lank and tangled. And still they danced. She put everything she had into it—every ounce of energy, emotion, endurance. It was alarming, and erotic, and beautiful, and free. She had never felt more alive. And still they danced...

She couldn’t keep up this maniacal pace forever, though. At last, Isabel began to falter, and then finally ground to a halt. Around her the men continued to spin and vault in seemingly inexhaustible fashion. But her muscles trembled, and refused to obey her anymore. It was an honest, healthy kind of fatigue—it felt good. She accepted it, like she had accepted everything else on this strange, strange evening. Grateful for stillness after so much motion, she sank gently to her knees, panting quietly, mind blank.

Soon the men slowed too, and came to a stop. In a triangular array, they enveloped her—faces impassive, bodies lithe and tensed to spring like a jaguar. Catequil’s basso rumbled through the hall for the first time in what seemed like hours. “The conquistadors used violence, but also cunning. They made us desire what we should not, do what we should not. They made us complicit in our own destruction.” Isabel strained her weary brain to think—what did it mean?

She was still puzzling when a shove between her shoulder blades toppled her over onto all fours. She tried to rise, but a heavy weight kept her down. Glancing up through disheveled locks, she met the inscrutable gaze of Paricia, who had fixed one of his massive brown hands at the base of her neck, trapping her body in place.

As their eyes met, the corners of the man’s lips bent into a thin, mirthless grin. Shaken by it, Isabel coiled herself, and then lunged to wrench free of his iron grip. But it proved impossible: she was too drained, too weak. At last, she gave up the struggle, bowing her head and staring vacantly at the floor. She felt depleted, baffled, defeated—and distressingly unsure of what lay in store for her.

Urcaguary’s bare feet paced over, coming to a stop in front of her. Before she could even begin to guess at his intentions, the man’s fingers had threaded through her hair, and her head was being hauled upward again. There was nothing sadistic about the gesture, but it left no room for negotiation or refusal either. The only option for Isabel was compliance.

Calmly, firmly, he raised her face to the level of his groin. There, the man’s huge, engorged, uncut phallus dangled menacingly before her eyes—twitching and throbbing like it had a mind of its own, filling her frame of view.

She blinked, trying desperately to make this all make sense.

Keeping a steady grasp of her mane, Urcaguary shifted his body so that the tip of his penis drew closer to her lips. Then still closer. Isabel gulped and felt queasy. Suddenly she understood exactly what lay in store for her—and so did everyone else in the hall.

It was impossible to believe this was happening, it felt unreal; yet her instincts left no margin for doubt. She was about to be victimized, right here in the middle of the performance! God, she needed to resist. Only ... she couldn’t seem to rally herself to fight. These men were so strong, and she was so tired. How could she ever expect to defy them?

Catequil stood just a little way off. He was watching her like a basilisk, arms folded, muscles bulging, skin gleaming with sweat. It occurred to Isabel that he was the one in charge here—maybe he could still be persuaded to take pity on her? Unable to turn her head, she had to meet his gaze sidelong. Then, making her eyes soft and imploring, she groveled wordlessly: Please, please, don’t let him do this to me...

But the face staring back at her was grim and unyielding, with an expression that seemed to mock her: Ah, charming Spanish puta—do you still not understand your predicament? Today I am the conquistador. And when did a conquistador ever show mercy? With sinking heart she noted that Catequil, too, was prodigiously erect.

All at once, a commotion over the dancer’s shoulder caught her attention. The looming danger to Isabel’s honor must have finally spurred Pedro to action. He had bounded out of his chair, and was storming toward the three men now, shouting unintelligibly.

For a brief moment, the woman’s hopes soared. She was saved!

But Pedro was no warrior, and the Ecuadoran artist had at least 7 inches on him. Pivoting smoothly, Catequil dodged a clumsy punch without difficulty. Then, almost effortlessly, he leveraged Pedro to the ground—twisting one arm painfully behind the man’s back to immobilize him.

Isabel’s fiancée was left face-down on the floor: breathing hard, grunting with rage and discomfort, face turning a florid, frustrated crimson. His bespoke suit was hardly creased—yet, no matter how he strained, he remained pinned there, impotent; while Catequil crouched over him, quite unperturbed, eyes still fixed on Isabel.

Seeing Pedro flattened so easily, almost within reach of her, Isabel knew her fate was sealed. No one else would be rushing from the audience to defend her. Camile was frozen at the edge of her seat, torn between horrified empathy for Isabel, and blind devotion to the cult of ‘high art.’ As for the rest of the crowd, they simply appeared eager to observe what would happen next.

“No-” Isabel murmured helplessly, nearly inaudibly...

... and immediately realized she shouldn’t have opened her mouth. Because, as soon as she did, Urcaguary plunged his steely pole between her lips.

Isabel jerked and spluttered; but Paricia’s heavy hand at the base of her neck reminded her she had nowhere to go. Urcaguary kept a tight grip on her tresses as well, and showed no signs of wavering in his determination. Inexorably, he pressed himself further in, wedging her jaws apart.

Later, she wondered if her assailant had any qualms about putting himself in such a vulnerable position. But the fact was that even if Isabel had all her wits and strength about her, she could never have brought herself to bite back. That type of combativeness simply wasn’t part of her makeup. At core, she was compassionate, accommodating, maybe a little passive—the sort of person who gave a rude waiter an extra-large tip, because ‘he must be having a bad day.’ Now, added to that, she felt physically exhausted and emotionally deflated as well. There just wasn’t a scrap of defiance left in her, and Urcaguary must have sensed it.

Assertively, rhythmically, skillfully, he began to thrust with his pelvis, holding her head steady and using her mouth to pleasure himself. As he did so, Isabel’s face burned with shame. She may have been weary and confused, but she wasn’t oblivious to what was happening. She had just been coerced into blowing some stranger in front of a crowd of witnesses—in front of her fiancée, no less! It was humiliating to be used like this. Demeaning.

And, there was one other thing that made it a thousand times worse: she could sense herself responding to it.

Well, perhaps it shouldn’t have been so surprising. All night she had been primed for arousal, her excitement level steadily building. Everything about the event had stirred her up—the rarefied atmosphere of creativity and mystery; the grace and physicality of the male performers; the exuberance and heedlessness of her dancing; the crazy, unnerving indecency of being stripped before an audience; and the vitality and beauty she admired in her own nude physique.

In a way, therefore, it felt as if the logic of the evening had been leading this direction all along. And although she didn’t actually want the man’s dick in her mouth—truly, she told herself, she didn’t—it was impossible to deny that some unthinking, atavistic part of her welcomed it. Hell, anyone standing behind her could have seen the proof of that. It was written in the soft, pink, exposed pleats of her genitals—in the way they had relaxed and unfolded to disclose her vagina; in the way they had slicked up with the wetness of her own desire; in the way they shivered at the tender caress of air flowing freely over them...