Fools' Gold Ch. 06

CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!

The church bells slam into my skull like conquistador fists, which--funny thing--is exactly what they are. Spanish bells, Spanish schedule, Spanish boots stomping through what used to be my--Chel's--chambers. Now it's just another corner of stone floor I share with nineteen other women who've learned that the phrase "golden city" has a very different meaning when you're scrubbing golden artifacts before they're melted down for Spanish coins.

"¡LEVÁNTENSE, PUTAS SALVAJES!"

The morning greeting crashes through our quarters, delivered by Sister María Purísima de la Virgen de la Conquistadora de los Salvajes Paganos--or as we call her when she's not listening, "that bitch with the switch." She's built like a wine barrel that's discovered religion and weaponized it, her face permanently frozen in an expression that suggests she's smelling sin everywhere and it's giving her a migraine.

My body--this treacherous, curvaceous, utterly-impossible-to-hide body--protests as I roll off the thin mat that passes for bedding. Two weeks. Two weeks since Cortés rolled into El Dorado like death incarnate, and already my knees have memorized every stone in this floor. My back cracks like Spanish musket fire.

Great. Even my joints are collaborating.

"Faster, you lazy whores!" Sister María's switch whistles through the air, catching young Itzel across the shoulders. The girl doesn't even flinch anymore. None of us do. Flinching is a luxury we can't afford, like full meals or believing tomorrow will be better.

I struggle into the rough-spun tunic that's supposed to "modest-ify" me--Sister María's word, not mine--but there's only so much heavy fabric can do against these fucking tits. They are determined to exist in defiance of Spanish Catholic sensibilities, turning even this potato sack into something that makes the soldiers stare.

Chel could've been a flat-chested woman. A nice, invisible, A-cup woman who could blend into walls. But noooo...

"HAIR!" Sister María barks, and twenty pairs of hands fly to twenty heads, braiding with the efficiency of the condemned. The Spanish have decided that loose hair is the devil's fishing net or some shit, so every morning we transform ourselves into their vision of propriety. My hair--once Chel's pride, flowing to her waist--now barely touches my shoulders. Sister María had taken sheep shears to it the second day, declaring long hair "an invitation to sin."

Lady, have you SEEN these hips? My hair is the least of sin's invoices.

I manage something approximating a braid, though my fingers still fumble with the feminine ritual. Beside me, elderly Ixchel reaches for the jade plugs she's worn for sixty years--worn every day until--

"VANITY!" Sister María's switch cracks across Ixchel's knuckles, then her grabby sausage fingers rip the jade away. Blood trickles from Ixchel's ears. "You think God cares for your pagan decorations?"

Pretty sure God's got bigger concerns than ear jewelry, but what do I know? I'm just a fake woman in a real woman's body pretending to be a temple dancer who can't dance, trapped in a conquered city run by people who think bathing causes plague.

Sister María turns her attention to me, her piggy eyes narrowing as they travel down my figure. Despite the tent-like tunic, my body insists on exhibiting... dimensions.

"You," she spits in broken Mayan, then switches to Spanish, assuming I don't understand. "Puta presumida. Cover yourself better."

I duck my head, playing dumb while understanding every word. Lady, I could wrap myself in a ship's sail and these curves would still show. That's not presumption, that's just physics. Terrible, bouncy, attention-grabbing physics.

We shuffle outside for morning prayers, and that's when we're all reminded of what two weeks of Spanish hospitality has done to El Dorado.

Where vibrant market stalls once displayed jade and feathers, Spanish soldiers now lounge beside piles of "inventory." The sacred pyramid, once gleaming with gold leaf, looks like a skeleton picked clean. Scaffolding crawls up its sides where natives--my people, Chel's people, fuck, I don't even know anymore--chip away centuries of artistry to feed Spanish furnaces.

The fountain that once bubbled with clear water has been replaced by a massive wooden cross, thirty feet of "fuck your culture" carved in oak. At its base, Franciscan monks force children to kneel on sharp stones while memorizing Latin prayers they don't understand.

But it's the center of the plaza that makes my empty stomach clench.

Three posts. Three bodies. Three fools who thought they were gods.

Miguel hangs from his wrists, shirtless, his back a roadmap of whip marks. A sign around his neck reads "FALSO PROFETA" in charming Spanish hospitality. His head lolls forward, and I think he's unconscious until--

"IS THAT THE BEST YOU CAN DO?" His voice cracks across the plaza, hoarse but unbroken. "MY GRANDMOTHER HIT HARDER! AND SHE HAD ARTHRITIS!"

A Spanish soldier storms over with a bucket. SPLASH!

Miguel sputters awake fully, water streaming down his face. "Oh good, a bath! First one you've given me! No wonder you don't bathe--you're saving all the water for torture! Very economical!"

The soldier raises his whip.

"Joaquín!" A voice cuts through the morning air like a blade through silk. "Save your energy. We have gold to count."

Cortés.

The plaza goes silent the way mice go silent when a snake enters the room. Even the children stop their whimpering as Spain's most successful psychopath descends from what used to be the Chief's palace. He moves with the casual confidence of a man who's never met a situation he couldn't solve with superior firepower and a complete lack of conscience.

Two weeks have aged him well--conquest agrees with him like wine ages in a cellar, getting more complex notes of cruelty with each passing day. His black beard has been freshly trimmed. His burgundy doublet probably cost more than most Spanish villages see in a year. The gold crucifix hanging from his neck definitely isn't his--I recognize it as Chief Tannabok's ceremonial piece, re-purposed for Catholic intimidation.

He pauses at the prisoner platform, looking up at Miguel with the expression of a man examining produce at market.

"Still spirited, I see." His Spanish is cultured, almost gentle. "Good. Breaking you slowly is so much more... instructive for the natives."

He turns to the second post, where Chel--in my old body, my MALE body, and god, it's still weird seeing my own face twisted in pain--hangs with a fool's cap jingling mockingly in the morning breeze. The sign reads "ENGAÑADOR DE PAGANOS."

"And our quiet one. Tell me, does your tongue still work? Or have you finally learned the value of silence?"

Chel spits, achieving an impressive amount of distance. Right on Cortés's polished boots.

The plaza holds its breath.

Cortés looks down at his boots, then up at Chel, then smiles. It's the kind of smile that makes you want to check if all your internal organs are still where you left them.

"Delightful." He produces a handkerchief--because of course he does--and cleans his boot with theatrical precision. "Tzekel-Kan? Add another day to their sentence. And no water for this one until sunset."

Tzekel-Kan scurries forward from the shadows like the world's most eager-to-please rat. The past two weeks have transformed him from high priest to high collaborator, his new Spanish-gifted robes making him look like a bat that's discovered fashion but hasn't quite figured it out yet.

"Of course, my lord! The false gods must learn their place!" He literally wrings his hands. It's disgusting. "Perhaps we could also--"

"That's sufficient." Cortés cuts him off with the casual dismissal you'd use on a particularly annoying insect. "Chief Tannabok? How goes your morning recitation?"

And there, forced to kneel at the base of the platform in chains that are comedically too small for his massive frame, is Chief Tannabok. They've painted Spanish insults across his broad belly: "GORDO PAGANO" and "REY DE NADA" in white paint that stands out against his bronze skin.

"I..." The Chief's voice is barely a whisper. "I renounce my false authority. The Spanish crown is... is the only..."

"Louder." Cortés doesn't raise his voice. He doesn't need to.

"THE SPANISH CROWN IS THE ONLY TRUE AUTHORITY!" Tannabok shouts, and I can see each word cutting him deeper than any whip. "I WAS A FOOL TO RESIST GOD'S CHOSEN PEOPLE!"

"Better." Cortés nods like a teacher approving a slow student. "Perhaps tomorrow we'll work on enthusiasm."

This is our new morning routine. Humiliation served with sunrise, torture as a breakfast appetizer, degradation as the main course.

"Now then." Cortés claps his hands once, the sound sharp as a musket shot. "Today's quotas won't meet themselves. Father Domingo?"

A walking skeleton in a brown robe emerges from the mission building. Father Domingo makes Sister María look like a beacon of warmth and comfort. His face could be used to illustrate the concept of joy leaving the universe.

"Seventeen more children for morning conversion," he reports in a voice like grinding stones. "Three refused to renounce their pagan ways."

"And?"

"They're learning the error of their thinking in the confession box."

The confession box. Right. That's what we're calling the iron maiden they brought from the ship. Very theological.

"Excellent. Señor Rodriguez?"

A sweaty administrator waddles forward with a ledger. "Gold production is up twelve percent from yesterday, my lord! At this rate, we'll strip the city bare within--"

He catches himself, coughs nervously.

"Within the month," Cortés finishes smoothly. "Just in time for our departure. Perfect."

My heart does something complicated in my chest. A month. The full moon is in six days. If we don't get that mirror...

"Agua! ¡Necesitamos agua!"

The call for water. My cue to stop thinking and start serving. I grab one of the massive clay jugs--and Jesus Christ, these things are heavy when you have noodle arms and a center of gravity that's migrated to your chest--and join the line of women heading to the sacred cenote.

We shuffle past the prisoner platform. As I struggle with the water jug that seems determined to pull me face-first into the ground, Miguel manages to catch my eye.

Despite cracked lips and what must be agonizing pain, he whispers: "Nice day for a swim."

I nearly drop the jug. What?

But there's something in his eyes, a glimmer of the old Miguel mischief that two weeks of torture haven't quite extinguished. He flicks his gaze toward the cenote path, then back to me.

He's noticed something.

I shuffle on, but now I'm paying attention. The Spanish soldiers escorting us are... relaxed. Bored, even. One's flask catches the morning sun--definitely not water in there. Another yawns so wide I can count his gold teeth (three, probably pulled from native corpses).

Two weeks of easy conquest. Two weeks of no resistance. They're getting comfortable.

Comfortable conquerors make mistakes. And mistakes, well... those we can work with.

The path to the cenote winds through what used to be gardens and is now Spanish "improvement zones." They've cut down the flowering vines--too pagan. Ripped out the medicinal herbs--witchcraft, obviously. Replaced everything with neat rows of European vegetables that are dying in the tropical heat because surprise, surprise, Spanish turnips don't appreciate Yucatan humidity.

Sister María waddles at the front of our water brigade, switch at the ready. "No dawdling! No speaking! Eyes down, thoughts on God!"

Bold of you to assume I have thoughts beyond "don't drop the jug" and "why do breasts exist to ruin everything."

We're almost to the cenote when it happens.

A soldier--young, drunk on power and probably actual drink--decides to have some morning entertainment. He grabs Itzel, the girl who got switched earlier.

"Ey, bonita, give us a smile."

Itzel tries to pull away. Her water jug tilts.

"I said SMILE!" His hand moves to his belt knife.

And that's when my body decides to act without consulting my brain. I lurch sideways--accidentally, of course--and my overfull water jug crashes into his.

SPLOOOOOOSH!

The world goes slow-motion as approximately one million gallons of water explodes everywhere. The soldier gets the full facial. I get drenched. The rough-spun tunic that's supposed to hide my figure?

Yeah. About that.

Wet fabric clings like a desperate ex. Every curve, every dimension, every bit of Chel's ridiculous anatomy is suddenly outlined in high definition. My nipples could cut glass. My hips look like they're trying to escape the fabric. The water's cold, I'm basically wearing a full-body wet t-shirt contest entry, and every eye in the vicinity has suddenly found something new to stare at.

"PUTA TORPE!" The soldier splutters, water streaming from his conquistador mustache. He raises his hand to strike--

"Alto."

The voice cuts through the morning air like a sword through silk. Casual. Commanding. Terrifying in its complete lack of emotion.

Cortés.

He appears like he's been summoned by the promise of violence, still immaculate despite having apparently followed our water brigade. His dark eyes take in the scene: the soaked soldier, the cowering women, and me--posed like a fertility goddess who's just lost a fight with a waterfall.

"Interesting," he murmurs, circling me slowly. I can feel his gaze like hands, cataloging every water-highlighted curve, every place where fabric clings and reveals. "I thought I'd seen all the pretty ones."

Please let the ground open up. Please let lightning strike. Please let literally anything happen except what's about to happen.

"My lord," Tzekel-Kan materializes like the world's worst genie. "This is the temple dancer! The one who claimed to be the gods' vessel! You shouldn't--she's trouble, this one. A bad influence, a--"

"Did I ask for your opinion?" Cortés doesn't even look at him.

"No, my lord, but--"

"Then why are you still talking?"

Tzekel-Kan's mouth opens and closes like a fish discovering air isn't water. "I... that is..."

"Tell me," Cortés continues, still circling me like I'm a particularly interesting mathematics problem. "Do you presume to know my mind better than I do?"

"No! Never, my lord!"

"Do you think me incapable of deciding which natives deserve my attention?"

"Of course not!"

"Then perhaps," and now his voice drops to that whisper that makes grown men wet themselves, "you should remember your place. Which is serving my interests. Not questioning them."

Tzekel-Kan actually whimpers. "Yes, my lord. Forgive me, my lord."

"Better." Cortés dismisses him with a wave, then returns his attention to me. His hand rises to touch my face, and I force myself not to flinch as his fingers trace my jaw with the clinical interest of someone examining livestock.

"You're different," he says, probably testing if I understand. "Were you noble? A priestess?"

I keep my expression blank, playing the confused native who doesn't speak conquistador.

Tzekel-Kan, desperate to regain favor, pipes up: "She was the temple dancer, my lord! The one who danced at the false gods' feast! Who served them!"

His hand moves from my jaw to my hair, fingering the shortened strands. "Such a shame about the hair. Though I suppose modesty has its place." His smile suggests modesty is the last thing on his mind. "Bring her to my chambers tonight. Cleaned and properly dressed. I would hear more about your... false gods."

No. No no no no no--

"My lord," I manage in halting, accented Spanish, playing the role. "I... I am just servant now. Nothing to tell."

"Oh, I doubt that." He leans closer, and I can smell expensive wine and the peculiar scent of a man who thinks bathing more than monthly is suspicious.

He steps back, addressing Sister María: "See that she's prepared appropriately. None of your potato sack fashions. Something that... honors her former position."

Sister María looks like she's swallowing a lemon soaked in vinegar. "But my lord, modesty demands--"

"Modesty is for women worth being modest about." His eyes travel down my soaked form one more time.

With that, he turns on his heel and strides away, leaving me standing there dripping, shivering, and wondering if drowning myself in the cenote would be too obvious an escape plan.

"You heard him!" Sister María's switch finds my shoulder blades. "Move! We have preparations to make, you disgusting--"

But I'm not listening. I'm watching Miguel on his post, and despite everything--the pain, the humiliation, the torture--he's looking at me with something that might be hope.

Sister María is stomping around like a constipated bull, muttering prayers that sound more like curses, while this ABSOLUTE PEACOCK of a male attendant--Juan Carlos or Carlos Juan or whatever Spanish naming convention makes them think two first names equal one personality--is having the time of his life.

"You call THIS fashion?" He holds up what looks like a torture device made of whalebone and good intentions. "My grandmother's burial shroud had more style!"

"It's a CORSET, you sodomite!" Sister María snaps, crossing herself immediately.

"A corset? This is a war crime!" Juan Carlos--definitely Juan Carlos, he has that energy--waves it around like he's conducting an orchestra. "Where's the artistry? The ROMANCE? This girl is about to please a CONQUISTADOR, not milk cows!"

I'm about to do WHAT now?

The word 'please' sits in my brain like a toad in a punch bowl. Please. Hernán fucking Cortés. The man who looked at an entire civilization and thought "mine now." The man currently using Miguel as a conversation piece and treating the Chief like a footstool.

But he's also the man with access to the mirror. And the boats. And the not-being-tortured-to-death permits.

"Just put it ON her!" Sister María shoves the corset at Juan Carlos, who recoils like she's handing him a live snake.

"I wouldn't put this on my worst enemy! And I have SEVERAL!"

While they're arguing about the theological implications of properly displaying tits--because apparently that's where we are now--I'm doing math. Horrible, survival-based math.

Option one: Resist, maintain dignity, die. Option two: Play along, definitely lose dignity, maybe live. Option three: Play along SMART, use what I've got, and possibly...

"EXCUSE ME!" I shout in my deliberately terrible Spanish. Both of them turn to stare. "Maybe... we could... make compromise?"

Juan Carlos clutches his chest. "She speaks! And with such a TRAGIC accent!"

"What compromise?" Sister María's eyes narrow to slits that could thread needles.

I gesture at my body--these curves that have been nothing but trouble since I woke up in them. "Señor Cortés... he wants see... temple dancer? Not Spanish lady?"

Juan Carlos GASPS. "She's RIGHT! Oh, this savage is smarter than she looks!"

"Don't call me savage," I mutter, but he's already spinning around the room like a hurricane made of fabric and opinions.

"We need COLOR! MOVEMENT! Something that says 'I'm exotic but also fuckable!' "

Sister María looks like she's swallowing glass. "The girl needs to be MODEST--"

"The girl needs to make Cortés happy enough to not murder us all," Juan Carlos snaps, and wow, okay, he just said the quiet part loud. "You think he asked for her because he wants to discuss THEOLOGY? He hasn't had his cock wet since Cuba!"

And there's that image burned into my brain forever. Thanks, Juan Carlos.

"Fine." Sister María throws up her hands. "But if she ends up looking like a whore--"

"She'll look like an EXPENSIVE whore," Juan Carlos promises. "There's a difference!"

Is there though? Is there really?

What follows is the single most humiliating hour of my existence, and I'm including that time I had to help Altivo get his jollies.

The corset, when Juan Carlos is done "improving" it, is somehow WORSE. He's cut away sections to make it "breathable"--which really just means my tits are now being presented like they're the main course at a feast. The stays dig into places I didn't know I had places, and breathing becomes a distant memory.

"Now POSTURE!" He's walking around me with a measuring tape like he's planning to build a second, somehow sluttier me. "You hunch like a question mark!"

"These things are heavy!" I protest, my primitized Spanish starting to get a bit too Tulish. The movement makes them bounce. Juan Carlos applauds.

"MAGNIFICENT! Do that when you meet him!"

"I- I am not going to--"

"You're going to do whatever keeps him happy," Sister María cuts in, her voice flat.

The white chemise goes on under the corset, and it's so thin I might as well be wearing spider webs. Every curve shows through, and when Juan Carlos steps back to evaluate, he actually fans himself.

"I'm an ARTIST," he declares.

"You're something," I mutter.

The skirt comes next--bright turquoise and gold fabric that would be beautiful if it wasn't being weaponized against my dignity. It sits so low on my hips I'm convinced one wrong move will have it around my ankles. And it's short. So fucking short. When I move, it swirls up to show... everything.

"I can't wear this!" I protest. "I'll be arrested!"

"By who?" Juan Carlos laughs bitterly. "The friar will not complain so long as Cortés is happy, little flower."

The gold collar goes on last, and it's the worst part. Not because it's heavy--though it is--but because Juan Carlos has to explain where it came from.

"This?" He holds it up with trembling hands. "Was on some statue. They melted down her body but kept the jewelry for... distribution."

My stomach drops through the floor. That fertility statue had probably stood for centuries, blessing marriages, welcoming children into the world. Now she's Spanish coins and I'm wearing her fucking collar like a--

"Stop crying!" Sister María snaps. "You'll ruin the kohl!"

I hadn't even realized. The tears just happen these days, at weird moments. When I see kids being taught Spanish hymns. When I smell something burning and realize it's codices--centuries of knowledge going up in smoke. When I hear the sound of picks on stone and know they're strip-mining our pyramids.

Not our. Theirs. I'm not really Chel. I'm not really anything.

"There," Juan Carlos steps back, and I catch my reflection in a polished shield some conquistador left lying around.

I look like Spain's wet dream of a native whore. The corset has transformed my already ridiculous tits into some kind of pornographic art installation. The skirt barely covers my ass. Gold drips from my ears, wrists, ankles--all of it stolen from our gods, repurposed to mark me as conquistador property.

"Beautiful," Juan Carlos whispers, but it sounds like an apology.

Sister María just grunts. "The soldiers are here. Try not to embarrass the faith."

Right. Because Jesus is super invested in all this.

The two soldiers who escort me don't even pretend to be professional. One keeps "accidentally" brushing my ass while the other makes comments in Spanish he assumes I don't understand.

"Bet she bounces nice."

"Cortés gets all the best pussy. Remember that Taíno girl in Hispaniola?"

"The one who bit him?"

"Yeah. He had all her teeth pulled, then kept her anyway."

Fantastic. Love this for me.

The walk to Cortés's quarters is a brand new tour of hell, decorated in Spanish efficiency.

Where the market used to sell jade and obsidian, Spanish soldiers now sort gold into neat piles--ritual objects in one, jewelry in another, "scrap" in a third. A woman I recognize from the temple kitchens is on her knees, scrubbing blood from cobblestones while a conquistador watches, occasionally nudging her with his boot when she slows.

The children's school has become a conversion center. Through the windows, I see kids--some barely walking--being forced to kneel on corn kernels while reciting the Pater Noster. Father Domingo walks between them with a rod, correcting pronunciation with sharp taps.

"Danos hoy nuestro pan--" WHACK. "Again. Properly this time."

The sacred ball court has been converted to a stable. Spanish horses shit where warriors once played for the gods' favor.

But it's the pyramid that breaks something in me. They've pulled down the top temple, where we played at being gods--and erected a massive cross. Below, I can see tiny figures hauling baskets of gold down scaffolding. The pyramid is being hollowed out like a gourd, its treasures scooped clean.

"Keep walking, puta," one soldier grunts, shoving me forward when I slow.

A woman I recognize from the servant quarters struggles past, carrying water to the workers. Her son, maybe six years old, trails behind with a smaller jug. Both wear the rough tunics that mark them as property now. She sees me in my turquoise-and-gold mockery of finery, sees the soldiers escorting me, and her face goes through a journey--surprise, understanding, disgust, pity, resignation.

They all know.

As we pass the central plaza, I see them. Still on display like trophies.

Miguel hangs limp, but his eyes track our movement. When he sees me--sees what I'm wearing, where I'm being taken--his face twists. He tries to shout something but only manages a croak. Two weeks of limited water will do that.

Chel raises his head with effort. Our eyes meet. His expression is unreadable, but he mouths one word I don't quite get.

The Chief's palace--Cortés's headquarters now--looms ahead. Where jade masks once decorated the entrance, Spanish shields hang.

"Up the stairs, savage," the handsy soldier says, giving my ass a squeeze that makes my skin crawl.

Every step up those stairs feels like signing my own death warrant. But what choice do I have? Die proud or live humiliated? The old Tulio would have had a snappy answer. The new me just puts one foot in front of the other.

The doors to what used to be the Chief's receiving chamber are flanked by more guards, muskets at the ready. They leer as I pass, and I hear one mutter something about "Cortés's dessert arriving."

Inside, the transformation is complete. Where the Chief held court among flowers and fountains, Cortés has created a military command center. Maps cover every surface. The smell of ink and steel replaces incense. And there, in a carved chair that used to hold Tannabok's generous frame, sits the architect of our destruction.

Hernán Cortés, in half-armor despite the heat, feet propped on a table that was probably an altar last week. He doesn't look up when I enter.

The room smells of leather, gun oil, and that particular musk I only recently had realized was endemic to Europe. Candlelight catches on the gold. Chalices, plates, religious artifacts repurposed as paperweights.

Two weeks have aged him well. His black beard is freshly trimmed, shot through with distinguished gray. The burgundy doublet he wears probably cost more than most Spanish families see in a lifetime. Around his neck hangs a heavy gold cross--newly minted.

His eyes, when they find me, are like obsidian. Cold, calculating, seeing everything and caring about nothing.

"The temple dancer." He doesn't smile. He does something worse--he looks satisfied.

I duck my head, playing the submissive native. "Señor."

"My lord," he corrects casually. "But we'll work on your education."

Cortés continues reading for another full minute, leaving me standing there like furniture waiting to be arranged. When he finally looks up, his eyes do a slow crawl from my feet to my face, cataloging merchandise.

"Exquisite," he murmurs, speaking in that rolling Castilian accent that makes murder sound like poetry. "These savages certainly know how to breed for pleasure."

I duck my head, playing dumb, while inside I'm screaming I GRADUATED FROM SPANISH CON ARTIST UNIVERSITY, YOU POMPOUS FUCK.

He rises with the controlled grace of a man who's never met a situation he couldn't dominate. Even without the full armor, he towers over me. The sword at his hip isn't decorative. Neither is the dagger in his boot.

"Do you understand me, little thing?" He switches to broken Mayan, speaking slowly like I'm both foreign and stupid. "Comprende?"

"Little... bit," I manage in mangled Spanish, playing up the accent. "You... teach?"

His smile is winter cold. "Oh, I'll teach you many things."

He circles me slowly, and I fight the urge to turn with him, to keep him in sight. Predators notice prey that tracks them.

"Two weeks," he muses in Spanish, confident I can't follow. "Two weeks since we liberated this nest of devil worship, and already we've extracted enough gold to make Philip weep with joy. But there's more, isn't there? These primitives didn't conjure gold from the air."

His hand lands on my head, heavy as judgment. The weight of it--the casual ownership--makes my knees want to buckle.

"Do you know what this is?" He moves to the table, picks up a document, still keeping one hand on my head like I'm a dog that might run. "This is the Requerimiento. A generous offer from His Most Catholic Majesty to your people. Shall I read it to you? Consider it your first lesson in civilization."

He doesn't wait for an answer.

"'On behalf of His Majesty,'" he begins, his voice taking on the cadence of scripture, "'I notify and make known to you that the Lord our God, living and eternal, created the heaven and the earth, and one man and one woman, of whom you and we, and all the men of the world, were and are descendants.'"

His hand moves from my head to my shoulder, gripping just tight enough to establish ownership.

"Do you understand so far? One God. Not your demon jaguars or feathered serpents. One God who gave dominion over all the earth to one man called Saint Peter."

"I... I try understand," I whisper.

"Good girl." The praise feels like spiders on my skin. "And Saint Peter gave that authority to the Pope, who gave it to our Most Catholic Majesties, who sent me. A perfect chain of divine authority. Your people could have accepted this peacefully."

His other hand joins the first on my shoulders, and suddenly he's turning me to face him, his dark eyes boring into mine.

"But you chose resistance. False prophets. Deception." His thumb traces my collarbone. "Such a waste. Still, God is merciful. He provides... opportunities for redemption."

One hand moves to my face, tilting my chin up. "You're going to be my opportunity, aren't you? My little civilizing project."

"If... if lord wants," I manage.

"What I want," he says conversationally, like we're discussing weather, "is to find where your people hid their mines. They claim they're all exhausted, but I know better. Savages always hide their treasures. We'll find them. Work these heathens until someone breaks and reveals the location. Then return with proper mining equipment. Perhaps enslaved Africans--they're more durable than these jungle folk."

I bite my tongue hard enough to taste copper. The mines ARE exhausted, you genocidal fuckstick. El Dorado's wealth came from generations, not some magic gold mountain.

"But that's future planning," he says, hand sliding from my head to my shoulder. "Tonight is about immediate concerns. Do you know what the greatest challenge of conquest is, my savage beauty?"

"No... my lord."

"Morale." His thumb traces my collarbone through the thin chemise. "Spanish men get... restless when too long from the comforts of home. Cantinas. Women. Civilized female companionship."

His other hand cups my chin, tilting my face up to meet his cold stare. "And here I find this perfect little specimen. Indigenous innocence packaged for Spanish enjoyment."

The way he says "specimen" makes my stomach clench. I'm a bug under glass to him. A curiosity. A THING.

"Look at these," he murmurs, hands moving to the corset's edge. Without ceremony, he pulls the fabric down and my tits SPILL out, bouncing heavily in the candlelight. "Mother of Christ, what breeding."

SLAP!

His palm cracks against my right breast, making it wobble obscenely. I YELP, eyes watering.

"Magnificent milk sacs," he breathes, weighing them like fruit at market. "Built to feed conquistador offspring. Tell me, jungle kitten, how many children has this body produced?"

"None!" I gasp as his fingers find my nipples, pinching hard enough to make me see stars.

"Virgin breeding stock," he grins, twisting the sensitive nubs. "Even better. Spanish seed will civilize this savage womb first."

PINCH! TWIST!

"AHHH!" I can't help the cry as electricity shoots from my nipples straight to my traitorous pussy. Two weeks without any sexual contact has left this ridiculous body PRIMED, and I fucking HATE it.

"Responsive little slut," he observes clinically, like documenting new territory. "Your kind are more honest than European women. No false modesty when aroused."

He twists both nipples again. The sounds I make are high, desperate, FEMALE.

"S-señor--"

"Listen to that mewling. Like a cat in heat." He yanks me against him by my nipples, making me stumble. "Feel that?"

Something MASSIVE presses against my stomach through his breeches. Hot. Insistent. Definitely not a ceremonial sword.

"Two weeks," he says, breath fanning my face. Wine and expensive tobacco. "It's been too long. My chambermaid in Cuba used to drain me nightly. Eager little mestiza, that one."

His hands roam lower, one sliding between my legs through the skirt fabric. I try to squeeze my thighs shut but he forces them apart.

PRESS.

His palm grinds against my mound through the layers, and my stupid body RESPONDS. Heat blooms between my legs despite my brain screaming in protest.

I want to spit in his face. I want to knee him in his conquistador balls. I want to--

"HNNNGH!"

He pinches my clit through the fabric, a sharp shock that makes my knees buckle.

"Those false gods must have sampled you thoroughly. Tell me, which one rutted between these thick thighs? The skinny one? The one who thinks he's clever with words?"

Oh god. He's talking about Miguel and... well, me.

"They... they never..." I pant.

"Never?" He laughs, the sound like breaking glass. "Two healthy males travel with prime breeding stock and never mount her? They're sodomites then, I should have known."

He grabs both tits, squeezing until the flesh bulges between his fingers, then LIFTS them, watching them drop and bounce.

SLAP! SLAP!

Both hands crack against my tits simultaneously, making them collide in the middle before swinging outward. The STING is incredible, but worse is the way my pussy CLENCHES at the rough treatment.

A month ago I was a Spanish con man. Now I'm getting my borrowed tits slapped by the worst human in history while my pussy drools like it's auditioning for a flood myth.

"Tell me something," he says conversationally while pinching my nipples like he's tuning an instrument. "Do you know what happens to lying whores in Spain?"

"N-no, señor."

"The pillory. Public display. Any man who wants can use her holes while she's locked in place. Very educational for the community."

He leans close, tongue dragging up the side of my neck. I shudder, goosebumps erupting across my skin.

"But here? No pillories yet. So I'll have to be... creative with your punishment if you displease me."

PING!

He flicks my left nipple hard enough to make it sting.

"I want- to make you feel good," I whisper, hating how small my voice sounds.

"Good?" He steps back, admiring his handiwork--my tits out, nipples hard as diamonds, face flushed with shame and unwanted arousal. "We'll see. On your knees."

The stone floor is cold through the thin skirt. I kneel, hyperaware of how this position makes my tits jut forward, how my ass curves out behind me. Everything about this body PRESENTS itself for use.

"Undo my breeches," he commands, settling into his chair like a king on a throne. "Let's see if those cock-sucking lips are just for show."

My hands shake as I reach for his lacings. The bulge beneath is... considerable. As I work the ties loose, I'm hit with the scent of him. My nose wrinkles.

"Problem, little one?"

"No, my lord."

"Good. Because Spanish cock is the pinnacle of God's creation. You should be honored to taste it."

I used to have my own. It wasn't that special.

But what emerges when I finally free it is... unfortunately impressive. And terrifyingly unhygienic.

Cortés's cock springs free like some medieval siege weapon--thick as my wrist, angry purple-red, and DEFINITELY not fresh from any bath. The head is partially covered by foreskin that looks like it's hosting its own ecosystem. Veins rope around the shaft like a topographical map of masculine entitlement. And the SMELL--

"The same cock that's seeded half of Cuba," He grips the base, making it bob heavily.

Pre-cum oozes from the tip in a thick, yellowed strand that stretches toward the floor. I watch it elongate, hypnotized and horrified.

"Well? It won't suck itself, jungle kitten."

I stare at that monstrous cock--this purple-veined conquistador battering ram--and feel my brain split in two. The Tulio part screaming RUN RUN RUN while this body, these lips, this throat... they're already producing extra saliva like good little cock-cleaning equipment.

"Spanish cock..." I breathe in deliberately broken language, forcing awe into my voice while mentally gagging. "So... big. So..."

"Divine," Cortés finishes, gripping the base to make it bob. "The rod of civilization itself."

Right. Sure. If civilization smells like a cheese merchant's armpit fucked a fish market.

But I lean forward, letting my tits swing heavy and free--those golden bells in my hair tinkling like tiny witnesses to my degradation--and run my tongue along the underside from balls to tip in one long, wet stripe.

SLURRRRRRRP

"Mmmmmm," I moan theatrically, though the taste makes me want to gargle holy water. Salt, musk, and something fungal that definitely shouldn't be there. "Taste like... victory?"

"Clever little savage," he chuckles, hand finding my hair. "You understand more than you let on."

You have no fucking idea, conquistador.

I work my way around his shaft, tongue-bathing every veiny inch while my tits sway and PLAP together softly. The precum oozing from his tip has turned stringy, stretching between his cock and my approaching lips like some horrible spider's web of masculine neglect.

Fuck it. If I'm going to be a whore, I'm going to be the best whore he's ever had.

GLUK!

I don't flinch. Can't afford to. Instead, I look up at him through my lashes, making my eyes go soft and hungry while internally I'm screaming.

"Mmmmm," I moan, like I've just tasted fine wine instead of dick cheese. "So... big. So strong."

"That's right," he grunts, hand tangling in my shortened hair, making the little bells jingle. "Worship your conquistador's sword."

Your 'sword' needs a whetstone and about seventeen baths, but sure.

I drag my tongue up the entire length, feeling every vein, every ridge. His cock THROBS against my tongue, pre-cum oozing steadily now, mixing with my saliva to create strings of nastiness that connect us.

"You so much bigger than..." I pause, pretending to search for words while actually letting him fill in the blanks.

"Of course I am," He chuckles darkly. "Spanish blood runs thicker, hotter. We conquered your empire with five hundred men because we're BUILT superior."

"GLUK... GLUK... GLUK..."

"Eager little savage," he observes, fingers tightening in my hair.

My tits sway heavily as I work, occasionally PLAPing together when I shift position. I arch my back, making my ass stick out, the bells at my hips chiming softly. Playing the part. Being the exotic fuck-toy he expects.

I lick a particularly prominent vein, thinking about how it's probably carrying syphilis.

"Cuban girls," he muses, relaxing back in his chair while I service him, "they fought at first too. But Spanish cock always conquers. Just like Spanish steel."

I take him deeper, suppressing my gag reflex as the head hits the back of my throat. His pubic hair is wiry, unkempt, probably hosting colonies of lice. But I nose into it anyway, making appreciative noises.

"Mmmmm, you taste like... like victory..."

"Ha! Victory, yes." His other hand joins the first in my hair. "Velázquez, that fool, tried to stop me from sailing here. Said I was too ambitious."

GLUK GLUK GLUK

My throat makes obscene sounds as he starts to casually thrust, using my mouth like a convenient hole while he reminisces about his rise to power.

"Eleven ships I stole from that fool. Mortgaged everything, promised the men riches beyond dreaming." He grins down at me.

Tears stream down my face as he pushes deeper, but I maintain eye contact, projecting adoration while internally cataloging every war crime.

GLUK GLUK GWAK GLUK

"Do you know what Velázquez did when he heard I'd sailed anyway?"

I shake my head as much as his grip allows, sending spit flying.

"Sent ships after me! To arrest me! ME!" He punctuates each word with a thrust. "God's chosen instrument of civilization!"

SCHLORP GWAK GWAK GLUK

"But divine providence cannot be chained. We outran them. Outsmarted them. And here--" he gestures at the room full of stolen gold, and one glittering mirror, "--here is the proof of God's favor."

My throat is making obscene sounds now--wet, desperate, the sound of flesh surrendering to use. Tears stream down my face, mixing with snot and drool and precum.

He PULLS my head down while thrusting up. His cock spears further into the DEPTHS my throat with one brutal slide. His entire cock is embedded in my neck.

"GLLLAAAACK!"

"THERE we go," he grunts, holding me in place as I choke and sputter. "The Mayor of Santiago taught me this trick. Had a Taíno girl who could take a man to the root."

He pulls back just enough to let me gasp a breath, then SLAMS deep again.

"GHHHKKK! GLUK! GLUK!"

My throat is making sounds I didn't know were possible. Each thrust forces out wet, choking noises that echo off the stone walls. Snot runs from my nose, mixing with the tears and drool to create a mess of fluids.

"You know what Saint Augustine says about your kind?" He's fully face-fucking me now, using my throat like a cock-sleeve while delivering a theology lesson. "'The flesh of woman is the gate of the Devil, the road of iniquity, the sting of the scorpion.'"

GWAK GWAK SCHLORP GWAK

"But I say--UNNGH--why not USE the Devil's gate for God's glory? Every savage throat that services Spanish cock is one step closer to civilization!"

My hands grip his thighs desperately as he rails my face. My tits bounce violently with each thrust, sometimes slapping up against his balls when he goes particularly deep. The bells in my hair create a mocking melody--jingle jingle GLUK jingle GWAK jingle.

Between my legs, that horrible heat builds. This body doesn't care that I'm being facefucked by a genocidal maniac. It just knows there's a dominant male using it, and that's apparently enough to get the waterworks flowing.

Great. Just great.

"GLUK GLUK GWAK GLUK!"

Each thrust makes my tits swing like church bells announcing the death of my dignity. The weight of them--god, THE WEIGHT--pulls at my chest as they THWAP against his thighs.

"Tighter," he commands, gripping my hair harder. "Use that throat like--UNGH--like you're trying to--FUCK--milk me dry."

Oh sure, let me just manually operate muscles I didn't know existed until two seconds ago when your dick found them.

I try to swallow around him, my throat spasming and clenching, which apparently feels amazing because he groans like I just discovered the secret to eternal life.

"YESSS--FUCK!"

The bells in my hair continue their humiliating thing: jingle-GLUK-jingle-GWAK-jingle-SPLORCH!

My pussy--the bitch--is practically FLOODING. I can feel this trickle running down my legs.

Four out of five orgasms. One more and I'm stuck like this forever. This is fine. Everything is fine.

He suddenly pulls out and I GASP, strings of throat-slime connecting us like the world's grossest suspension bridge. Oh wait, are those invented yet? I mean, the world's grossest normal little wooden bridge. My lips feel swollen, probably look like I've been making out with a beehive.

"Hands on your tits," he orders, stroking himself with one hand while the other stays tangled in my hair. "Push them together."

I cup my breasts and create a canyon of caramel cleavage. They're so heavy my arms already ache from holding them up.

"Look at those fat native udders," he grunts, his cock an angry purple, the head flaring. "Going to civilize you with Spanish seed."

Oh goodie, another racial metaphor. Just what this moment needed.

"Please," I gasp, and then--FUCK--my desperate brain makes me add, "I need your conquistador's blessing!"

He pauses mid-stroke. "Your Spanish is improving rapidly, kitten."

SHIT SHIT SHIT

"I... I learn from... from watching?" I stammer, trying to dial back the fluency. "Want to... to please my lord?"

His eyes narrow but his cock throbs harder, a bead of precum oozing out to drip on my pressed-together tits.

"Open your mouth," he commands suddenly. "Tongue out. Far as it goes."

I obey, tilting my head back and extending my tongue. He reaches down with his free hand and--

"AHHH!"

--GRABS my tongue between his thumb and forefinger, PULLING it out further like he's examining livestock at market.

"Perfect," he grunts, aiming his cock. "Stay completely still. Move an inch and I'll have you flogged."

Great, performance anxiety while someone's literally holding my tongue. This is a new low. The old low was yesterday, but we're really excavating here.

His cock SWELLS, veins standing out like rope, the head going almost purple-black--

"TAKE IT ALL, SAVAGE!"

SPLOOOOOOOOORT!

The first blast hits like a dense hose of pudding. Hot, thick, CHUNKY cum floods across my extended tongue, filling my mouth instantly. The taste--oh FUCK the taste...

SPLURT! SPLURT! SPLORRRRRRT!

He's still holding my tongue, making sure I can't close my mouth as rope after rope of nasty ball-batter paints the inside of my mouth. Some shoots straight down my throat. More overflows, dripping down my chin in thick globs.

"HNNNNGH!"

SPLAT! SPLOOOORT! SPLURRRRRT!

My mouth is a cum lake. I can feel it pooling behind my teeth, coating my gums, filling my cheeks until they bulge. The sheer VOLUME--where does he keep it all? Some cosmic joke where the worst men get the biggest loads?

His cock keeps THROBBING, each pulse delivering another glob of conquistador cock-snot. My eyes water as some goes up my nose--because OF COURSE it does--making me want to sneeze but I CAN'T MOVE.

"YESSS! DROWN--UNGH--IN IT!"

splurt... splort... plop...

Finally--FINALLY--the fountain slows to a dribble. He releases my tongue and I immediately want to spit, to gag, to gargle holy water and possibly set my mouth on fire.

"Show me," he commands.

I part my lips carefully, letting him see the absolute LAKE of cum filling my mouth. It's started to separate--thicker chunks floating in thinner liquid like the world's worst lava lamp.

"Beautiful. Now swallow. All of it. And smile."

This is it. This is how I die. Drowned in conquistador cum. They'll find my body and the coroner will just write "Died of Irony" on the death certificate.

I close my mouth and force myself to swallow. It goes down in horrible, thick GULPS.

GULP... GLUCK... GULP...

The consistency is like swallowing warm cottage cheese mixed with uncooked eggs. My throat works desperately, each swallow making obscene sounds. Some of it tries to come back up but I force it down, maintaining eye contact like a dedicated cum-dumpster.

"Good girl," he says as I finally manage to choke it all down, gasping. "Now clean yourself."

I use my fingers to scoop the overflow from my chin, making a show of licking them clean while my stomach churns. Between my legs, my pussy THROBS with need, completely ignoring my brain's screaming protests.

This body is broken. Defective. I want a refund.

"From now on," Cortés says, tucking himself away and already looking bored, "you belong to me. You'll have freedom to move about, but you come when I call. Any man who touches you deals with me. The guards will be informed."

"Thank you, my lord," I whisper, voice wrecked.

"Also," he adds casually, "if you're as clever as I suspect, you'll be useful in other ways. My translator is... inadequate. But we'll explore that later."

Just great.

"Now get out. I have letters to write."

I struggle to my feet on shaky legs, trying to stuff my abused tits back into the corset with trembling hands. Sister María's going to have opinions about the state of this outfit.

The guards at the door smirk as they escort me out. One mutters something about "breaking in the new mare" and they both chuckle.

I keep my head down, playing the conquered native, bells jingling pathetically with each step. Just another savage brought low by Spanish superiority. Nothing to see here.

But pressed against my lower back, secured by the corset stays and hidden by the fall of my ruined hair, something hard and round digs into my spine.

The Mirror of Xibalba.

Grabbed in that split second when he was lost in his orgasm, when his eyes rolled back and his grip loosened. When I was just a mouth to him, not a person worth watching.

Six days until the full moon. Six days to not orgasm. Six days to free Miguel and my body and get the fuck out of here.

The guard shoves me toward the servants' quarters and I stumble, playing up the "recently face-fucked and unsteady" angle.

Inside, behind sore lips and a cum-coated throat, I smile.

The greatest trick the Devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn't exist.

The second greatest? Convincing Cortés that this Devil gives great head.