La Tarantula an Erotic Tale of Spain
Don Luis De V


CHAPTER ONE

The Tarantula is a poisonous spider.
 
It spins no web as a snare but catches its prey because it is fleet
of foot.
 
Its home in the ground is lined with silk. Remember these things.
 
It is told in the villages that one who is bitten by this dreaded
scourge falls to the floor as one dead. And only by the skilful use of
magic can he be brought out of his deathlike trance. For then the subtle
strains of music excite an overpowering desire in him to dance, until he
falls to the floor bathed in profuse perspiration but secure in the
knowledge that he has been rid of the envenomed virulence. City doctors
from Madrid and Seville, they scoff at this statement. But the old men of
the village who sit in the square after a siesta, in the sun, and soak in
God's sunshine, they know far more about the bite of the Tarantula than do
the august and revered doctors. For they have lived long. They know life.
They know, too, of the human tarantulas that have infested our dear
somnolent Spain.
 
They know of her whom men call La Tarantula.
 
And as these old men of the village soak the suffusing beneficence of
the sun into their bewrinkled faces, they talk through their beards of the
woman whom they knew in their youth as La Tarantula.
 
She, too, caught her prey because she was fleet of foot. For she was
the most agile gypsy dancer in all of Spain. Like her dreaded namesake, she
lined her home with silks and satins and varicoloured laces and shawls,
there to ensnare her men in the oldest trap in the world, her vagina, her
cunt, offering to her victims the million-pleasured joys of its throbbing,
pulsating essences but insidiously marking them with the death's head.
 
For it is recorded that, of all the lovers that La Tarantula
harboured to her bosom, not one there was who died a natural death, not one
there was who in his deathbed was able to smile sweetly up to the ceiling
and receive the prayers of his loved ones gathered around him. All of them
died violent deaths, as men should die, by the sword, by the fire and by
the beast.
 
La Tarantula was ill-starred.
 
She was born in Triana, the gypsy settlement, across the Guadalquivir
in Seville. It was in this section of the city that the notorious Carmen
worked in the cigarette factories for which that part of town is famous.
 
When La Tarantula was born, a porcelain factory close by burst into
sudden flame. It was an ill omen. The world should have known that she was 
both for the pleasure and the death of man.
 
When she was ten years old La Tarantula became a woman. In the south
the blood runs hot. Passions bloom in children like gorgeous hothouse
flowers, before their time. Girls' breasts take on that roundness which
makes them fit the eager palms of man. Their hips take on that snaky
sinuousness that beguiles the male into ecstasies of expectancies. Their
pubic sections become starry with faint hairs that do not hide the tiny
pouting lips of their virgin vaginas but deck them as though with a filmy
curtain of sheer mantilla lace, so that when one sees the jewel between
their legs one's eyes grow wide with desire and one's breath comes in short
laboured gasps out of sheer forepleasure.
 
It was when she was ten years old that she attracted the attention of
her uncle, the notorious Chato Doble. He was a powerfully built gypsy
famous for his strength and agility and cunning in driving a bargain.
 
As a horse trader he had no equal. It was told of him that he filled
an old nag's ears with quicksilver so that they would not droop with age.
 
Once he stole a mule from a tavern keeper in Granada, clipped its
hair and tail, and disguised it so perfectly that he was able to sell it
back to the man from whom he had stolen it. It was this sort of a man who
eyed La Tarantula when she first felt the pangs of womanhood creeping into
her blood.
 
She had awakened one morning to find a few tiny specks of blood in
her bed. At first she thought that it was the blood of some crushed bedbugs
that infested the two rooms in which she and her father lived.
 
But they were much larger than the usual blobs of blood. And when she
saw that there was blood, too, around the warm little hole between her legs
she let out a shriek of fear and fell back against the wall.
 
Immediately, her father came rushing into the room from the outside
where he had been sunning himself. Behind him was the towering figure of
Chato Doble, her father's brother.
 
"What's the matter, child?" her father cried.
 
La Tarantula could say nothing. All she could do was point to the
blood on the bed. Her father shrieked out a curse when he saw the blood.
"Who! what mother's bastard raped you? Venga a Cani! come on, gypsy! tell
me!"
 
La Tarantula could not understand her father. Nobody had raped her,
she whimpered. She had slept alone all night. She did not tell her father
that she had had a beautiful dream in which a beautiful Spanish don from
across the river had kissed her and had fondled her and had made love to
her. "I awoke from sleep," she said, "and there was the blood."
 
Her uncle Chato Doble pushed his way in past his brother who was
standing in the doorway. He looked down at the bloodstains. Then he looked
down at the shapely young body of the girl, his niece. He saw the
well-rounded breasts budding into bloom like a pair of flowers. He saw the
well-rounded loins of a young girl shaping out from what had previously
been an adolescent's slim, ugly shanks. He realized that the child that had
once been a spindly-shanked girl was blossoming out into a woman. And his
heart told him that, although she was his niece, she was still a woman and
she was beautiful. And his penis between his legs told him that her cunt
was beautiful to see and, what was more, more beautiful to fuck. "Cristo!"
he swore beneath his beard as his eyes glittered for her.
 
Then, taking his brother aside, he whispered something into his ear,
the while the girl lay back against the wall and eyed the two men
fearfully. She saw a gleam come into her father's eyes. Then a look of
relief settled into his features. "So that is all," he sighed.
 
"What, father?" she enquired anxiously.
 
Her father advanced toward her and seated himself on her bed. "Cover
yourself up well, my child," he said, "for there are men in the room with
you. You have already become a woman."
 
And she was glad. For she knew now that she was no more a child. That
she could flirt with the bu'ne who came from across the river to see the
gypsy girls dance. That she would be dancing herself soon, feeling their
hot eyes piercing her to the very marrow of her soul.
 
But Chato Doble had seen her naked. He had seen many women naked in
his life. His prick was as long as his life and as active. He had snaked it
thousands of times into the quivering quims of Spanish ladies and gypsy
girls. But never before had he seen a woman's body that compared to the
body of his young niece. There was a velvety smoothness to it that almost
hypnotized the hands, begging the fingers to touch of its sleekness. There
was a curve to her loins that promised a thousand love tricks. And although
he realized that he could be guilty of no greater crime, in fucking the
daughter of his own blood-brother, he still coveted her in his heart. In
fact, he remained at the house of his brother for a much longer time than
he had ever done before. Usually, he dropped into his brother's hovel in
Triana for only a short visit. In no time, after a repast of gazpacho and a
glass of oloroso, he would be off again to Castile or Granada or wherever
his heart so willed. But now, now his heart willed him to remain. To remain
in his brother's house where he might feast his eyes on the loveliness that
was his brother's daughter.
 
Night after night he would turn and twist on his pallet in the
kitchen, dreaming fitfully of the beautiful body that he had seen in the
gloom of the room, but nearly always unable to close his eyes in sleep
because he knew that less than ten feet away from him there reposed that
same glorious body of which he dreamed and for which he ached. Hours he
would spend in sleepless nights detailing to himself the marvels of her
beauty, going over each of her charms like a monk fingers his rosary,
reluctantly allowing each to slip away and avidly seizing another charm and
fondling it in his mind until he almost grew mad with desire.
 
But there were two things that deterred him from getting up and
slipping into his niece's room. One of these deterrents was the heinousness
of the crime of incest. Another was the custom of dido among the gypsies.
He realized that when a gypsy girl was married she must show proof of her 
virginity by staining the white sheets of her marriage bed with the virgin
blood of her maidenhead. This bloodstained sheet would be paraded around
the streets so that all would know that she was a virgin. He realized that
if he stole his niece's virginity, his brother would be forced to avenge
this insult by killing the deflorator of his child.
 
And all the while, La Tarantula would walk around the house attired
only in a thin, torn dress. And when she would kneel sometimes, her uncle
would see the tiny notch of hair that covered her delicious cunny. And he
would clench his fists and suck in his breath and bite his lips to keep
himself from seizing hold of her and throwing her to the ground, there to
puncture her with his prick that was demanding entrance to her loveliness.
 
Once, Chato Doble thought he would try to forget the young girl who
had bewitched his senses. He went into the city across the river. There he
picked up a lumia, a woman of the streets, and took her to a cafetin, a
low-class cafe. He got himself thoroughly drunk on aguardiente. He got his
senses inflamed watching a Spanish wench swing her hips and breasts in a
baile flamenco dance. But when he tried to fuck the lumia he had taken in
from the streets, he saw only a shrivelled-up body with thin bony legs and
an enormous hole of a cunt, a golfa if ever there was one, instead of the
well-rounded shape of his niece with her tiny quim nestling in its maiden
hairs. With a roar, he pushed the dazed lumia away from him, sprang out of
bed and ran stumbling down the street.
 
When he had himself ferried over the Guadalquivir he gave himself
over to thoughts of his niece. And the more he thought of her the more he
desired her. His drunken brain refused to voice the fears that had stopped
him from raping her before. He became potvaliant and, encouraged by the
drunken proddings of his heart, he stumbled out of the boat, down into the
depths of the Triana into the Cava Vieja district where his brother lived
with his niece.
 
The fates conspired with him. On that same night, his brother had
found it necessary to remain the night with his own woman whom he was
fucking at her home. He dared not bring her to his own home because he did
not want to contaminate his lovely daughter. And so, that night, of all
nights, he remained away from home leaving his daughter alone in their
house, sleeping peacefully, dreaming perhaps of a black-haired young
Spanish don who was stroking her buttocks and kissing her wildly on the
lips.
 
Her uncle, meanwhile, had stopped outside in the street and was
debating with himself whether he should go up or not. A faint glimmer of
sense in back of his head had warned him to continue onward. But a stronger
surge of passion coupled with the force of his drunkenness tugged at his
heart and at his penis and painted beautiful pictures in his mind of what
would happen. He saw himself stroking the lovely girl's limbs. He felt her
cool body next to his inflamed one. He could almost feel her tongue
insinuating itself into his mouth, searching every nook and cranny for some
spot to titillate. Was there no wonder that he chose to do as he did?
 
A wine shop was next to the house in which his brother lived. In the
moonlight, he saw the slender necks of wine bottles glinting like jewels.
Wrapping his hat around his fist, he looked cautiously around first and
then sank his fist into the window. A thin tinkling sound broke the night
air. He remained quiet for a while listening for sounds. None came. Not
even in back of the shop was there anyone stirring. With satisfaction, he
swept up a number of bottles of choice wines and ducked into the hallway at
the side of the wine store that led up to his brother's rooms. In the
distance he had seen the glint of the patentleather cocked hats of a pair
of the constabulary.
 
Craftily, he ascended the dark stairs, making no sound. The bottles
in his arms clinked as he took each step. Their contents of wines gurgled
merrily. A brand like grin came to Chato Doble's face. He would ply his
brother with wine and get him drunk. And then, when he would fall off to
sleep in a stupor, he, Chato Doble, would slip into the girl's room and
there partake of that for which he had thirsted, for which his parched
tongue now clove to his palate.
 
He pushed the door open slightly and listened. There was no sound.
All he heard was the faint clicketyclack of the constables' heels on the
cobblestones in the street below. Soon he heard the sounds grow fainter and
fainter until they were no more. He was surprised not to hear his brother's
deep stentorian snores. And when his eyes grew accustomed to the dark, he
looked around. He saw the same bare room he had left before. His pile of
clothes lay in the corner. The charcoal brazier smoked lazily against the
wall. A plate of beans and potatoes, his dinner, had grown stiff on the
table and was covered with hardened fat. A gleam came into his eyes. His
brother was not home. The gleam was changed instantly to a perplexed frown.
Perhaps he had gone out with his niece? Perhaps she, too, was not home. His
heart beating like mad, his breath labouring, Chato Doble edged over to the
door that separated the two rooms. For a second he heard nothing but the
beating of his own troubled heart. Then, faintly, he heard the calm,
beautiful breathing of a young girl.
 
He stepped into her room.
 
The bottles of wine still rested in his arms.
 
In the bed, he saw her, for whom his manhood yearned. Not daring to
breathe for fear of waking her, he stood staring down at her young body
partially uncovered of the quilt which she had drawn over her.
 
Directly in a thin, tremulous shaft of moonlight that had slithered
into the room from the window above her head, he saw her left breast
tumbled out from the confines of her shift, standing out from the darkening
gloom of the rest of her body like a ghostly breast of carved Carrara
marble. And pointing up from this breast, surrounded by an aureole of
pink-tinted flesh, he saw the tiny undeveloped nipple of the girl, standing
up as though erect with passion.
 
Chato Doble could control himself no longer. Sinking to his knee,
with a moan, he dropped his mouth to the firm breast and gently tongued the
nipple, caressing it subtly with his lips, occasionally feeling its tender
flesh stiffen almost imperceptibly under the manipulations of his ardent
organ.
 
He heard his niece sigh and then suck in her breath as though she
were experiencing an orgasm. Immediately he refrained from tonguing her
nipple, anxiously watching her eyes for fear she should awaken before he
had fully aroused her passion. But she sank once more into her deep
slumber. But this time, instead of dreaming that her dark lover was only
kissing and fondling her, she felt him gently insinuate what was between
his legs in between her own legs. In her dream, she realized now what the
thing was for that dangled between her father's legs. It was to go into her
own thing between her legs. That's what it was for.
 
And as she felt her dream lover inserting his into her, she felt a
quiver of pain go through her. But it was a different sort of pain because,
although it hurt her, behind the pain there was a sort of pleasure that
made her gasp with joy and shiver with fright at the same time.
 
Suddenly she opened her eyes.
 
Over her, she saw the dark, bearded face of her uncle, Chato Doble.
 
Unable to control himself any longer, he had lifted the quilt from
off her legs, drawn away the thin shift that covered her nakedness and had
inserted his finger into her little cunny, skirmishing meanwhile for the
little button of pleasure. It was at that point that he saw his niece's
eyes open. But he saw that there was no fear in them. He noted that she did
not shriek. Instead, she stared calmly up at him, wondering why he had
stuck his finger into her hole but knowing that it felt good, that it
seemed to be that for which she had been waiting for all of her years.
 
For a moment, neither said a word. Chato Doble allowed his finger to
remain in her cunny. Then he said in a low tone, his voice quivering with
emotion, the words scarcely spoken, "Are you afraid, my child?"
 
She shook her head from side to side.
 
And her eyes widened.
 
Chato Doble withdrew his finger. Then he took up a bottle of wine
from the floor where he had dropped it. When he pulled the cork out the pop
resounded against the walls eerily. The odour that emanated from the neck
came up to his nostrils. He sniffed it. Muscatel. Sweet wine. Intoxicating
wine. He leaned over the bed to his niece and offered her the bottle. Her
eyes still wide, she took the bottle from him and put it to her lips and
threw her head back. She felt the liquid splash into her mouth and course
down her throat. She felt a suffusing warmth gliding into every vein of her
body. She felt a gentle throb worm its way into her head, like a small
headache. The wall of the room fluttered like a moth crazy with light. The
ceiling pulsated like a rabbit's heart. A ringing came into her ears like
the sound of church bells miles away. And, as though he were as many miles
away, she saw her uncle's face, emerging from a mass of indeterminate
features.
 
Closer and closer she saw the face come, taking on recognizable 
features all the while. Then she felt his lips touch hers. She felt his
avid fingers caressing the stiffened nipples of her breasts. She felt an
enormous stiffness brushing up against the spot between her legs. She
wanted to let out a cry. But the wine in her withheld the cry. She wanted
to seize hold of his busy fingers at her breasts. But the resultant
reactions of his expert fingering made her forget to object. She wanted to
contract the opening of her legs so that he could find no entrance for the
big thing that he was rubbing against her cleavage. But her own desires
made her throw herself open to him. And she felt the tip of his prick go
gently into her, rubbing against the little projection that had already
stiffened like a rod. And she found a delicious warmth glowing up all
around her midsection. But there was pain there. The further in she felt
the thing going the more pain there was. She tried to scream in terror and
pain. But no cry came. Only a deep sigh and a moan. She clutched her
uncle's buttocks in a frenzy and sank her teeth into his cheek. But he
continued to sink his prick down deeper into her.
 
Suddenly, she felt something deep within her break down. An
excruciating spasm of pain tore through her like a jagged spear ripping
through her innards. And she did cry out, like a wounded thing, moaning,
weeping and wailing.
 
Chato Doble immediately withdrew his penis. It was still swollen and
enlarged like an enormous cudgel. The tip of it was splattered with blood.
He looked down at his niece's gaping cunny and saw a thin trickle of blood
issuing from between the pulsing crevasse. No wonder she was so wild. She
was a real virgin. He looked down tenderly at her, tears almost coming to
his eyes, a sob catching his throat when he saw her weeping into her hands.
 
"A thousand pardons, darling! I'm so sorry!" he said, and he stroked
her loins gently and kissed her forehead and eyes, tasting the bitter tears
between his lips.
 
But the girl was a true gypsy. She had seven and one half ribs under
her flanks, as all real sons and daughters of Egypt should have. Stifling
her tears, withholding her sobs, she reached up and took her uncle's head
between her little hands and drew his face down to hers. Then, almost
instinctively, she seized hold of his lips with her own untutored lips and
glued them together, forking her tongue lasciviously into his mouth,
entwining it around his tongue and, with nervous fingers, reaching downward
between the soft fuzz of his bush and seizing hold of his stiffened prick.
 
"Give it to me! give it to me, uncle!" she cried.
 
And he gave it to her. Now that he had already broken her maidenhead,
there was no bar guarding the way of his rampaging cock. Inserting the tip
of it into her hole, he first skirmished around its narrow entrance,
touching her clitoris from time to time, each contact sending delicious
thrills coursing up her spine, like lightning thrusts.
 
"In! in!" she insisted, her voice scarcely able to speak the words,
so intense was her passion, so ardent were her emotions.
 
In he went.
 
Up and back he pumped his gun, first sending its entire length to the
hilt into her cunt and then withdrawing it until only the tip rested on the
ledge of her vagina. And then, when she could not stand its absence any
longer, he would send it ramming into her. And with each cruel thrust she
would give a cry. And with each cry she would catch herself from sobbing.
She seized hold of his flesh and dug her fingernails into his flesh as she
felt his prick course into her, the pain almost overpowering her sometimes.
But she held on to him, helping sometimes as best she knew how, with a sure
instinct for cooperation, taking each violent thrust with a valour that was
worthy of any soldier on the battlefield, because, in her virgin state, the
fucking that she was getting from her experienced uncle was simply tearing
the insides of her tender vagina apart. But she held on grimly, sometimes
biting her lips to keep herself from shrieking, sometimes biting her uncle
out of sheer passion, seizing hold of his lips at times and biting his lips
and tongue and feeling him bite her.
 
Before she knew it, she came.
 
She felt a curious overloading in the vicinity of her loins. She felt
a strange whirling, bubbling inside of her. She felt a choking hot wind
come up to her mouth and nostrils and seize her in an iron vice. Madly she
rotated her hips not knowing what she was doing. Wildly she rolled her
eyes. Panting, her breath came to her like the heavy breathing of one dying
for air.
 
And she came.
 
Bubbling over inside of her she felt something in her overflow itself
and fill herself with its boiling essences. And then she went weak. She
fell back onto her pillow sobbing pitifully because it was all over,
because her climactic emotions were slowly ebbing away and away until it
seemed that she had never experienced them at all.
 
Then she felt a great splashing within her. She felt a series of
great spurts. And the emotions of herself returned partially. And she
seized hold of her uncle and wrapped her limbs around his back and glued
her lips onto his lips.
 
They lay that way together for ten minutes, neither saying a word,
both resting in their own thoughts, each wondering what the other was
thinking of.
 
It was in that position that Chato Doble's brother found them. He
himself, returning home from his paramour's rooms, was sadly ruminating on
the fate that forced him to leave the warm comforts of his love's bed.
Hearing noises in his daughter's room, he stepped into it to see the
enormous back of a man lying over his daughter's naked body. A red film
came over his eyes. He saw nothing-only the hateful back of the man who was
deflowering his virgin daughter. His hot Spanish blood seethed in him. His
gypsy sense of justice came to the fore. Hastily looking around for a
weapon, his eyes fell on the wine bottles his brother had dumped onto the
floor. Taking one of them he smashed its neck against the edge of the wall.
The red wine came spurting out like blood from a severed artery. The top of
the bottle neck flew off, leaving a jagged series of knifelike edges around
the bottle's neck.
 
Raising it high above his head, he sank his improvised dagger deep
into the back of the rapist. Blood gushed forth from the gaping wound and
mingled with the red of the wine seeping out of the bottle. The rapist gave
one cry of terror and then sank limply onto the girl's body, the blood
streaming over her white nakedness like spilt wine.
 
When her father turned the body over in order to extricate his
daughter from the filthy mess, in the shaft of eerie moonlight he saw the
face of his own brother Chato Doble grinning up at him, as though the whole
affair was a huge joke.
 
"Chato Doble!" he cried out.
 
But the girl who was to be La Tarantula, she gave vent to a loud
shriek.
 
The Tarantula had made its first strike.



 
CHAPTER TWO

 
When La Tarantula was twelve years old, her father took her to the
dancing school of the great Don Jaime Otero, than whom there is no greater
dancing teacher of the great Spanish and gypsy dances.
 
Everyone had told him that his daughter was wasting her time dancing
in the low class cafetins and gypsy gatherings. She should be perfecting
herself in the technique of the dance with the great Don Jaime Otero.
 
That was why he had taken her into the bu'ne section of Madrid and
was leading her down the dark corridor that led into the patio where he had
been told that Otero was teaching his class. The daughter, following her
father dutifully, eyed her surroundings fearfully. Never before had she
been away from home. And when she saw the rich surroundings, the vast patio
with its plashing fountain, the green creepers on one wall, a great woven
carpet on the opposite wall, she could not help but shrink within herself,
for fear.
 
From the extreme end of the patio she heard the sound of music,
guitar music. This made her less uneasy. Music always did that to her. It
was as vital to her being as-the air she breathed. She felt the sinuous
strain course into her bones. And her green eyes glittered. She smiled.
 
Don Jaime advanced to them when he saw them approaching. A class of
young girls fell to the flagstones and rested. The two musicians stopped
playing.
 
The father told the great man who he was and why he had come. Otero
looked down at the young girl in tow. He saw a slim, slender slip of a
girl. A wild mop of raven black hair topped her head. Green depthless eyes
smouldered up at him. He looked down at her ankles. They were thinner than
a man's wrist and as supple. He dropped to his knees and took the right one
in his hands. It flexed like a sword of the best Toledo steel. He looked up
at the girl.
 
"Will you dance for me?" he asked.
 
The girl looked up at her father. He nodded his head. "What shall my
musicians play for you?" Otero asked.
 
"The Tango de la Flor, she dances best," the father suggested. Otero
called the number out to the musicians. After a few experimental
flourishes, they started off with the fast, sensuous music. Immediately,
the moment the music started, the young girl became another person.
 
Her body stiffened. Her eyes grew wider. Her arms took on the lines
of twin snakes and coiled and twined like live things. Slowly her torso
undulated with the music the while her hips rolled in and out and around
and her shoulder swayed rhythmically and her buttocks took on the motions
of fornication. At times, she would stamp her little foot or snap her
fingers or throw back her head so that her long hair dangled down her back
in a dark shimmering wave.
 
"Marvellous!" Otero mumbled to himself.
 
"Delicious!" Senor Don Juan Gandulla, one of the guitarists,
murmured, as he watched the thin dress of the young girl mould itself
around her buttocks and in the cavity of her cunt.
 
But the other student girls frowned and one of them hissed.
 
Immediately, Otero leaped up, his eyes glaring balefully. "Who dared
to hiss this marvellous dancer?" he roared.
 
None answered. And so, with an imperious sweep of his hand, he
dismissed the class. "Begone until tomorrow. Today, I must do nothing but
teach this little gypsy girl." He turned to the father.
 
"I must take this young child in hand!" he said.
 
"How much will it cost me?" the father faltered.
 
Otero looked down at the young girl. He saw the budding breasts under
her bodice. He saw the gentle slope of her hips. He saw the finely etched
nostrils blowing like a thoroughbred horse after a workout.
 
"It will cost you nothing!" he said. "I shall take her in hand
personally. I shall teach her all that I, the great Don Jaime Otero, know
about the Spanish dance. She shall live here with me where she shall be
ever ready to be taught. And for all this, I shall pay you the sum of
twenty pesetas."
 
The father looked dubiously at the child and then at the teacher. But
he saw that the teacher was an old man, that there would be no reason for
him to worry about the chastity of his daughter in this great man's home.
Besides, the twenty pesetas would come in handy. And there was the widow
woman, Maria, who was insisting that she was tired of living apart. She was
demanding that he take her into his own home.
 
With the girl away, all would be perfect. She would be in good hands,
she would be taught by the greatest teacher in Spain and, after she was
taught, he could have her back again and she would dance for him in his old
age.
 
He consented to Otero's suggestion.
 
And he crossed the Guadalquivir alone that night. But when he brought
his widow woman to his bed the same night, and while he was fucking her, he
did not know that at the same time his own daughter was lying in the bed of
Senor Don Jaime Otero for the same purpose.
 
Here is what happened.
 
The girl danced all day for the master. By nightfall she was
thoroughly tired from exertion. All day she had been forced to pirouette
and twist, caper and twirl this way and that until she was almost on the
verge of tears. Once she had rebelliously thrown herself to the
grass-tufted flagstones of the patio and had refused to go on with the
instructions.
 
But Otero had allowed her to rest there for half an hour. After that
time, he gently approached her, took her arm and lifted her up again and
continued where they had left off.
 
And all the while, Don Juan Gandulla, who was perspiring over his
guitar, watched the girl craftily and, whenever her short dress swirled
over her knees, his eyes would pop out with desire for what he saw. For she
wore nothing at all under her dress.
 
That night, when her first lesson was completed, Don Jaime gave the
girl over to his duena, Donna Clara, and she took her up to her bedroom on
the second floor of the Otero residence. Never before had the little girl
seen such splendour in a sleeping room. She approached the splendid silk
paned bed and sat on it gingerly and imagined that she would be in heaven
if she were to sleep in that. And she felt so tired, too.
 
But the old duena bade her peremptorily to take her dress off. And
when she did so the old woman almost gasped with surprise when she saw the
marvellous lines and form of the young girl. She stretched her out on a
pallet and there rubbed her tired muscles with smooth sweetsmelling oils,
massaging her body gently and working all of the sore tiredness out with
her expert fingers. Then she bathed her from head to foot with orange
waters and perfumed her hair and all the intimate parts of her body and
then finally covered her with a sheer flimsy nightgown of Madeira lace.
 
All the while, the young girl wondered why she was getting so much
attention. But she did not have to wonder long. For she had not been in
that marvellously soft bed for fifteen minutes, the door had but scarcely
been closed behind the portly old duena and her cheery buenos noches, when
another door in the bedroom opened slowly and Senor Don Jaime Otero himself
crept into the room and walked up to the bed. He saw the little perfectly
formed body outlined under the exquisite silk of the counterpane. He
sniffed the air and noted that the girl had been well perfumed as he had
expressly ordered.
 
The girl saw him come closer to her bed. But she was unafraid. For,
although her father had stringently kept her body from other marauders,
after the unfortunate affair of her uncle Chato Doble, he had been unable
to control her mind. All day and all night she dreamt of that marvellous 
sensation she had experienced when she had felt her uncle's prick poking
into her innards and then that last great climax which had left her panting
from exhaustion. Nothing in her life had ever happened to her like that.
And sometimes, out of curiosity, she had taken a banana and had worked it
slowly up into her hot little cunt, poking it in and out as she had
remembered her uncle had done with his great big thing that hung down in
front of him. And although she had experienced somewhat the same sensation,
although she felt the pearly dew issue from her little hole, she still felt
that there was something lacking. And so she would dream at night of the
goodlooking young bu'ne. But this time, instead of dreaming that he only
kissed her and fondled her intimates, she would dream that he dangled a
great big thing like her uncle had done, and she would struggle and puff
and pant and finally feel the wetness between her legs. And she would awake
from the dream happy that she had come off but sad in the knowledge that
she could not have a man to comfort her.
 
That was why she did not cry out at Otero's approach.
 
The old man bent over her and kissed her gently on the lips. He was
startled when he saw that her deep green eyes were wide open and that they
were smiling up to him, invitingly. The wonder of it all, she was inviting
him to her bed. The marvel of it all, this little girl child, this little
girl woman, was opening herself to him, to take for himself.
 
Slowly, he uncovered her. The fine silk of her nightgown lay against
her body like another skin. It outlined all of her delicious body.
 
Without a word he lifted the silk of the nightgown away from her
body. Then he saw the wonderfully smooth olive skin of the gypsy girl
glowing up at him like a dream of heaven. He kissed her little breasts and
tongued her nipples until he felt them stiffen under his manipulations.
And, at the same time, he allowed his hand to wander down to the furze of
hair around her cunny. Expertly, he inserted his index finger into her
hole. Tight, how tight her little hole was going to be. His fingers came
into contact with the button of her clitoris. As though an electric current
had passed between his finger and the projection, the little button stood
up like a soldier on parade.
 
Almost instinctively, the young girl reached her hand between Otero's
legs and sought for the same swollen prick that she had seen dangling
between her uncle's legs and that had given her so much pleasure when he
had shoved it deep into her Utile hotspot. But when she finally found that
for which she was seeking, a long sigh of disappointment shivered through
her. It was only a small thing. And it was all shrivelled up. She almost
felt like crying out so keen was her disappointment.
 
"Where is it?" she cried lowly.
 
"I am an old man!" Otero wailed, and he realized that he would not be
able to satisfy this ball of fire that was wriggling so passionately under
the ministrations of his searching fingers. But the contact of her warm
moist hand against his prick sent tentacles of passion into his blood.
 
And he felt his manhood arise in him once more, although feebly, for 
he was an old man. He realized that he could not hold himself very long.
So, lifting himself up, he spread the girl's legs wide apart, and inserted
his prick, slightly distended now, into her quivering quim. He felt the
eager muscles in her cunt grasp avidly for his cock. He felt her ass wiggle
around and up and back. He bent his head and kissed her on the lips and
tongued her mouth as he had done a thousand times before that. And then he
came, ignominiously came before the girl under him had a chance to become
acclimated to the limp prick that he had inserted into her.
 
"More! more!" she wailed as she tried to take hold of the little
thing and place it back into her cunny. But it was too small for any such
action again. It lay wrinkled up into its bag like a dead eye, emotionless
and expressionless, like a frog on a toadstool. For half an hour, Don Otero
vainly attempted to work himself up to a fucking pitch again. But it was to
no avail. He had come. The while the little bundle of fire under him ached
for another fuck, yearned for a good stiff prick to shoot into her gaping
cunny.
 
Once she took it into her mouth and kissed it. But there was no use,
the thing was as dead as yesterday's bullring horse that had been gored by
a bull. In desperation, the old man reversed positions so that his head was
between her legs and his face was face down between the hairs of her cunt.
Then, separating the lips of her vagina with his fingers, he inserted his
tongue deep into the cleft until he found the throbbing button. Taking it
into his mouth, he sucked deeply at it, noting with satisfaction that it
stiffened under his lickings. Up and back his tongue shot into her. He felt
her ass twirl once more. Once again the motions of fucking came into her
hips and loins as though she was feeling in her the long lance of her
uncle. And she felt the same emotions as she had felt when she had dreamed
of the young bu'ne at night. That is, although she knew that the boiling in
her loins was soon to come, although she realized that soon she was going
to feel the wet fluid splashing inside her, she was going to feel that
something was going to be missing.
 
Finally, she did come, full into the face of Otero who was working
his tongue like mad into her cunt and around her clitoris. Once, twice,
three times she felt the delicious spasms go through her and she felt
herself spurting fire and passion. Afterwards, she sighed deeply and moaned
and relaxed back against the pillows as though in sleep.
 
Slowly, very slowly, the old man lifted himself away from the girl.
Then he stood up and away from the bed. He stared down at the little quim
still pulsating from the exertions that it had just undergone, the hairs
around it still dewy with the pearly drops that had spurted from her.
 
Then he looked down at his own helpless little penis dangling like a
misshapen worm. And he knew that he was an old man. He knew that,
thereafter, life would hold nothing more for him. He was dead. His
 
body still lived, but the spirit had died. It had taken the little
gypsy girl to bring him to his senses. There was no sense in living any
more.
 
For more gypsy girls would be brought to him to be taught something
of his genius of the dance. And they would all taunt him with their little
breasts and virgin cunts. And he would be forced to endure the torture for
the rest of his life knowing that he could not satisfy them nor himself.
Life was one great big fornication. While it lasted, it was pleasure. After
it was over, there was only death ahead of him.
 
So taking one last look at the young girl lying outstretched on the
bed, he bent over and kissed her on her forehead. Then, slowly, he turned
around and left the room.
 
That was the last that La Tarantula ever saw of him. Lying back on
her pillows, exhausted from her day's work in the dance patio, tired from
her recent orgasm and disappointment, she closed her eyes and tried to fall
asleep. Once she thought she heard a dull thud in the room next to hers.
And she sat up in bed and listened for further sounds. But all she heard
was the gentle plashing of the water in the fountain of the patio outside.
Once more she lay back in the pillows and tried to sleep. But sleep would
not come. For in her mind there hovered the nightmare of an enormous prick,
the prick of her uncle Chato Doble, and she imagined its great length
working its way deeply into her, separating her body into halves, spreading
her apart in a tearing, ripping frenzy.
 
She tried to console herself by recalling the details of the prick,
as much as she could remember. She recalled the foreskin pulled back over
its head with an eye winking solemnly at her. She recalled thick blue veins
that coursed up and down the member swollen with the life blood that was
being pumped into it, pendulant with heavy balls. She recalled how it
tapered from its point down to its butt until, at its end, it was like a
formidable cudgel. And with the picture of that prick in her mind's eye,
she heard a slight noise at the side of her bed. She opened her eyes and
saw jutting out immediately in front of her what she thought was the
selfsame prick that she had been dreaming of. In the dark gloom, it seemed
as though the prick was a separate entity in itself, entirely devoid of a
human body to which it should have been attached. For the moment, she
thought that she was dreaming and that she was seeing only her uncle's
prick in her dream. But, soon, she began to discern the outline of a man
behind the prick. Then she heard a low toned voice.
 
"Sh!" it said, "do not be afraid, for it is I, Don Juan Gandulla."
 
The girl's eyes were on nothing but the outlines of the enormous
prick that jutted out in front of him. Line for line, bag for bag, eye for
eye, it corresponded with the prick that she had envisioned so often in her
dreams.
 
"I could not stand it any longer!" Don Juan whispered as he advanced
toward her. "All day long I watched your beautiful body dancing and a
symphony of music swept across my mind and the symphony I knew was you!"
 
"Don't speak!" she said to him softly, as she drew him down to her.
She entrapped his lips in hers and sucked up his breath in a great heave.
 
And as he lay against her she felt the throbbing of the giant organ 
between them. Again and again she kissed his lips, his eyes, his nose,
nipping them gently from time to time, sighing softly her full content.
 
When she felt mat she had had enough of his lips, she took his head
between her hands and said, "Now! now!" and she closed her eyes and leaned
back and awaited the first galvanic contact of his prick with her cunt. The
intervening second appeared to be an aeon. And involuntarily, she heaved a
sigh of impatience. But at the same moment, she felt the first insertion of
the head of her lover's cock. And oh! the wonder of it! oh! the marvel of
it! oh the enraptured throbs of pure unadulterated unalloyed bliss that
roved over every nerve fibre in her body and filled every cell in her
bloodstream with a tingling such as she never knew existed before.
 
This was love!
 
This was life!
 
This was a man!
 
Slowly, Don Juan inserted his penis, knowingly giving her as much
pleasure as was possible from every inch of his great organ. Inexorably,
she felt the pressing surge of it insinuating itself into the entire lower
portion of her body, spreading her wide apart, opening her completely to
him for his entry. She could stand her inactivity no longer. Throwing her
chest out, she threw her breasts directly into his face.
 
"Suck them! suck them!" she commanded.
 
Lovingly, he took first one nipple into his mouth and then another
nipple, caressing each one with his tongue, feeling the erectile tissues in
them slowly stiffening. And slowly, in and out, he thrust and rethrust his
prick, noting with an immense satisfaction that she was as tight a cunt as
he had ever experienced in his whole life of fucking. He could feel the
smooth slippery walls of her vagina gently stroking against the sides of
his penis with an insistence that made him doubt the capacities that he had
in withholding the spurt of his semen.
 
Suddenly, the girl knew that she was going to have an orgasm. A
boiling up as of a thousand fountains seethed within her. Eagerly, she
threw her arms around Don Juan's back. Hungrily, she cemented her lips to
his, entwining her tongue in his, exploring the very essences of his mouth.
Passionately, she wrapped her slim legs around his loins, locking her feet
behind his back and squeezing with all her might.
 
Then, her muscles tensed, her nerves shrieking madly, her blood
boiling and pulsating in every little vein of her, she awaited the grand
climax of her passion.
 
It came as with a tidal surge.
 
Engulfed in an overwhelming orgasm, she felt oceans of sheer joy and
pleasure coursing through her and around her and over her. And the hotspot
between her legs grew hotter from the hot juices that flowed into it. Out
of sheer passion, she bit deeply into Don Juan's shoulder, leaving the tiny
red marks of her teeth impressed in the flesh.
 
La Tarantula had struck again.
 
But neither of them was aware of that. For, after her orgasm, as 
through a hazy dream, the girl realized that deep within her cunt, the
stiff prick of her lover was still charging rampantly, eagerly anxious for
another joust.
 
Here was a man!
 
Again she gave herself over to the fuck. Again she gave her teats to
him, throwing the nipples into his face, kissing his lips with wild
abandonment. And as he pumped his prick up and back inside of her, she felt
horribly inadequate because he was doing all of the work.
 
What could she do? What could she do?
 
And so she allowed her hands to roam to the spot under his balls
where she felt the wrinkled bag and a few thin hairs. And she felt the
thick veins and she knew that there was in them those essences for which
she thirsted. Out of desperation, she again seized hold of his lips with
her own and once more went through all of the motions of a French kiss.
 
Round and round she whirled her ass. Up and back she threw her hips
in rhythm with his pulls and pokes.
 
Then, of a sudden, she felt the same insistent boiling in her loins.
She was going to come again. And again she prepared herself for it,
wrapping her arms around his back, locking her legs around his loins and
tonguing his mouth for all she was worth.
 
Again she came, the hot passion suffusing her entire innards, a wave
of hot, spasmodic jerks going through her, a series of disconcerting sobs
catching at her throat and restricting her breathing. Out of sheer
pleasure, tears came to her eyes and she wept on his shoulders.
 
But, insistently again, despite the fact that she had come the second
time, she felt his stiff prick still poking about inside of her, still
exploring its myriad crevasses for a resting place. Was the man inhuman,
she thought. Could he continue to give her such pleasures throughout the
night?
 
As if in answer to her question, Don Juan smiled down at her and
whispered, "More?"
 
"But you?" she asked pitifully.
 
"Don't worry!" he panted as he sank his head down to the pillow so
that it could absorb the heavy drops of perspiration that dripped from his
forehead. "I shall come with you next time!" And, without another word, he
set again to his job, throwing himself into it with an ardour such as he
had not demonstrated before.
 
This time the girl felt that she could never rouse herself again to
make the effort to come with him. A lassitude crept over her that seemed to
envelop her limbs, her all with a lackadaisical feeling of ennui. For the
moment, she took objection to the man bumping so agilely on her belly. What
did he want of her? Did he want her to spurt out the very life-blood in her
veins? But that feeling of revulsion was only momentary. For, immediately
afterward, it was supplanted by an overweening enormity of emotion that
drove all objectionable thoughts away from her mind. She did not care what
happened to her now. She knew only that man's prick was in her, that it had
already brought her twice to the peak of passion, that in her there was
already stirring the faint signs of another orgasm.
 
She thought back to the time when she had first come. His face had
been calm and composed. Hers, she knew, had been writhed in the throes of
an exquisite passion that must have distorted her features like gargoyles.
And, again, during the second time she came, she recalled that he had
looked down at her with a sort of leering smile on his face, as though the
thoughts behind his eyes were to the effect that
 
he was her master because he was able to control himself while she
was slave to every zephyr of passion that swept mercilessly through her.
 
She would make him come, spurting his hot semen into her, she
decided. She would watch his features contort with passion the way hers
must have appeared to him smiling calmly over her. And she would stare
calmly up at him and watch him suffer the same agonies of tortured pleasure
as she had.
 
All the while she thought of these things, Don Juan was busy at work
with his still-enlarged penis, swollen now to almost twice its former size.
And his hands were busily stroking her flanks and loins and breasts and his
tongue was lapping at her breasts and lips and eyes and ears in a mad
frenzy that agitated the passion in her. She felt the faint strange
stirrings of the third orgasm marshalling its forces deep down in the very
roots of her, in the vicinity of the small of her back.
 
Something impelled her to cooperate with him in the vicious attacks
of his prick into her heated cunny. Larger and larger she felt the orgasm
bulking within her until it began to assume enormous proportions and she
felt that she could contain it within her no longer.
 
Then a marvellous thing happened.
 
Through the dim haze of passion that obscured her rational self, she
saw that he, too, was touched now and in the same way that she had been.
She felt his fingers clutch at her sides, the fingernails digging deeply
into her flesh. She felt his hot breath pouring over her face as he
breathed heavily into her face and panted with exertion. She felt a new
vigour in his thrusts, she sensed a renascent power surging forward as
though on potent pinions, she saw the lines in his face screwing up, the
upper teeth in his mouth biting deeply into his lower lip. Now she would
enjoy her moment of pleasure as she watched him suffer.
 
But she recked little with herself. For, at the same moment, she
forgot her resolve entirely. For she found herself entirely immersed in the
throes of her third climax. Unknowingly, she searched blindly for his lips
with her own lips. And, finding them, she lighted on them hungrily, sucking
at them with every ounce of strength that she could gather, skirmishing
around with her tongue as though she were seeking some place to thrust it.
And, once again, she seized hold of his body with her hands and threw her
legs around his back. And she squeezed as hard as she could, attempting
mightily to withhold the juice within her from shooting out from her. But,
what was better than before, he was doing just as she was. The same dynamic
forces were impelling him to forget everything but the fact that within him
burned fire and passion and ardour and emotion all fused together in one
grand orgasm of pleasure.
 
Then she knew that they were going to come together.
 
She wanted to scream out fuck, shit, piss-all the dirty words that
she had heard spoken in her father's house. But she was afraid to open her
mouth for fear that she would lose contact with her lover. And so she
contented herself with swimming along with the enraged, boiling current of
her passion, expectantly awaiting the time when she would get the signal
from him that he was about to empty his great load of semen into her.
 
She got the signal. It was an agonizing cry.
 
And she let herself go within herself, feeling that her bottom was
dropping away from underneath her and that her body was soaring away from
it up, up into the heavens of bliss. And, at the same time, she felt the
satisfying flushing of liquid splashing inside of her, one, two, three,
four, five intense jets of juice flying up in her. And she felt a lush
warmth trickling down her legs from her cunt which burned like liquid fire.
 
After that, she knew no more what happened. She knew only that she
was tired, terribly tired, that she had no arms or legs or body, that she
was only mind soaring up and away from her body. And, in that couch of
extreme tiredness, she fell asleep, her arms still around her lover's body,
his prick, limp now, still inserted in her burning hole as though he was
loathe to withdraw it and thus break the contact with her.
 
They were awakened the next morning by the shriek of Don Otero's old
duena. Both of them sat up in bed as the old woman's shrieks sounded and
resounded through the rooms. And, to their horror and dismay, the owner of
that voice, the duena, came running into the bedroom, before Don Juan had
been able to gather his senses and get out of bed. The duena stopped short
when she saw them in bed together. A shriek that she had intended to emit
stuck in her throat, which left her mouth comically open. Then a look of
suspicion came into her eyes.
 
"You! it was you, Senor Gandulla, who killed him!"
 
"Killed?" Both Don Juan and the girl gasped the word out with horror.
 
"Whom have I killed?" Don Juan demanded.
 
The duena leaped over to the bed and seized hold of Don Juan with
both her hands as though she was not going to let him go. "You killed Don
Otero!" she shrieked, holding onto his shoulders and scratching him, "you
killed him so that you could have this filthy cani wench!"
 
In a short while, a pair of important-looking constables, attracted
by the duena's shrieks, entered the room. They went info Don Otero's room
and found the old gentleman lying on the floor. A bloodstained razor lay on
the floor. The blood, which had already congealed, had issued from his
neck, which had been slit from ear to ear so that the head rolled over to
one side in a rather comical fashion, like a droll clown.
 
Blood was spattered all over the room.
 
Then it was that the girl recalled the thud that she had heard during
the previous night. But it was too late. Both she and her lover were seized
and hustled into the jailhouse.
 
The girl was freed on the testimony of the old duena, who assured the
court that Don Juan had even been envious of Don Otero's capabilities and
prowess, and that it was he who had killed her master.
 
To the court, it was quite obvious that Don Juan had killed Don Otero
in a mad fit of passion, fighting over the favours of the young gypsy girl.
And he sentenced the guitarist to be hanged by the neck until he was dead.
 
The execution was carried out on Friday of the next week. Don Juan
was walked up to the gibbet still protesting his innocence mightily.
 
The black cap was drawn over his head. The hangman's noose was
settled over his head and adjusted so that the heavy long knot came
directly over his right ear. Then the trap was sprung. The body fell
through the trapdoor, jerking suddenly to a stop as it came to the end of
the tethered rope on the gibbet. A faint snap was heard as the neck broke.
And jutting from his trousers, the onlookers could see that his penis had
suddenly grown to an enormous size so that it burst the restraining buttons
of the fly flap and sprang out into the open like awhite flagpole.
 
"That usually happens," the hangman commented dryly to a newspaperman
who the next day wrote his account of the hanging and was the first one to
label the young gypsy girl La Tarantula.
 
And so, with her second and third victims, La Tarantula was born.



 
CHAPTER THREE

 
From that day on, the notoriety of La Tarantula was spread over the
breadth of Spain. All knew of her talents as a gypsy dancer. Wherever a
dancer was required it was she who was called in to supply that part of the
entertainment. At the Fairs, at benefits, at special performances where the
services of Gypsy Nina de los Peines, the Girl with the High Combs, who was
the best singer in all Spain, were required, La Tarantula was called in.
 
And as her fame grew, La Tarantula became all the more reserved,
insofar as men were concerned. Somehow or other, she seemed to sense that
the gypsy in her, the wild carefree blood in her made her the superior of
the bu'ne, the ordinary gentiles of Spain. And the more she spurned them,
the greater grew their desire for her. When she would dance for them, their
eyes would follow her every movement, her every nuance of rhythm, and if
she smiled at them, they would boast of the fact to their cronies for weeks
afterwards.
 
But she soon discovered that, though the blood in her was gypsy
blood, nevertheless, it was human blood. The memory of that wild tumultuous
night with the guitarist, Don Juan, remained with her for some time.
 
But she turned all thoughts of fucking away and concentrated on her
dancing. From cafetin to cafetin she danced her way up the pathway of 
success. And in each place, she attracted another string of admirers who
sought her favours. Like the swath of a comet they lay behind her as she
shot her way upwards to the zenith. But to none of them did she give her
cool body. It seemed as though the glorious fuckfest she had experienced
that last night with Don Juan had served to tide her over a drought of men.
 
But this could not go on for any length of time. Hers was hot,
southern blood, Spanish blood, Spanish gypsy blood that burned in her
veins.
 
That was why, one night, after she had spent a severe evening at the
Cafe Soledad in Seville on Calle de la Serpiente, the Street of the
Serpents, she did as she did.
 
Lying back on her chaise lounge, her limbs shaking from fatigue, she
ruminated on the life she was leading. She looked out of the window that
looked down onto the street. Streams of men were winding their way through
the street. Men, men, men of all statures and forms and shapes. Men, men,
all different yet all the same because all had that with which she had
enjoyed herself so immensely.
 
Suddenly, she called out to her personal maid, "Cazuela! Cazuela!"
 
That person came jogging in. She was an evil looking thing. Only one
eye gleamed out of her face. The other was only a dead black socket.
 
You could not tell from looking at her that, at one time, like her
mistress, she had been the leading Spanish gypsy in Spain that her
roughened toad like skin had once been as velvet-smooth as La Tarantula's,
that her shapeless limbs and arms had once been as straight and fine as her
mistress's.
 
Years ago, when she had danced, a lover had beat her up and, in doing
so, had kicked her eye out with the heel of his boot. She became unwanted
from that day on, as a dancer. But she never slept with another man. Them
she hated worse than she hated anything else in the world. She became as
complete a man-hater as there was, carrying her hatred to the point of
lesbianism. She had learned early in life of the pleasures of woman love
and had practiced it incessantly. La Tarantula had picked her up one night,
during the early part of her career. And, from her, she learned of the
subtle arts of the dancer. For Cazuela taught her everything that she,
herself, had known about the art of dancing. Everything she taught her
except one thing. About the love of woman for woman, she said nothing. She
only bided her time until she could feel that her mistress would be most
receptive to its practice. Meanwhile she acted as the personal maid of La
Tarantula and taught her all the intricacies of the baile flamenco and the
Sevilliana and the baile Malaga, the soleadina and the fandango and the
paso doble until La Tarantula became even more adept at them than had been
her teacher. Then it was that she had started on the meteoric rise which
landed her finally as the star attraction at Cafe de las Flores, the most
beautiful cafe on the Street of Serpents in Seville, co-starred with the
greatest romantic tenor of Spain, none other than Senor Don Jose Caloro'a
himself, from Lima, Peru.
 
And that was where we found her at the start of this chapter, in her
dressing room upstairs from the cafe, resting from her labours after an
extremely difficult hour of dancing the paso doble for the customers who
had clapped again and again for encores. Next door, in the other
dressing-room, she heard Senor Don Jose going through his vocal exercises.
Then all was quiet. Then it was that she summoned her maid Cazuela.
 
"Yes, mistress?" she enquired on entering. She saw that the dancer
was lying outstretched in the attitude of complete exhaustion.
 
"I am tired! so tired!" La Tarantula complained.
 
"Does my mistress desire a massage?" the woman asked, continuing
further with, "such as I was taught many years ago by my old dancing
teacher Don Ortega?"
 
"Anything! anything!" La Tarantula cried. "Anything to take away the
terror of the pain in my poor tired muscles! oh! why must I dance? why must
I continuously dance for men, filthy men!" And saying this she turned her
face to the pillow and buried it in her arms and wept.
 
She lay in this fashion for a few minutes, taking pleasure in knowing
that she was suffering, as women are apt to do. Then she felt a pair of
cool hands settle on her thighs. And the hands began to knead the flesh and
muscles to and fro, working the tiredness out of them, flexing the rawness
out of them that made them feel as though they had been weighted with lead.
All over her body she felt the expert fingers of Cazuela roam, until she
felt the tiredness slip away, fall away like a heavy velvet cloak from her
shoulders. It seemed as though she were floating on gossamer clouds now, as
though her body had left her entirely and that she was all mind, and that
her mind was hovering up above her body like a disembodied spirit and
pitying the hulk of a body that lay on the chaise lounge. Lightness,
softness, cushiony nothingness was all about her.
 
Suddenly she felt a throb shoot into her.
 
She opened her eyes wide. There, between her legs, she saw Cazuela,
her face pushed in between the joint of the legs as closely as she could
get it. But, what was more, she was working her tongue into her mistress's
cunt, like forked lightning, touching the button of the clitoris so that it
jerked up in sudden surprise. The jerk of the clitoris caused La Tarantula
to open her eyes. For the moment, she thought of ordering the woman away
from her. Disgust was the first reaction to what she saw. But, pleasure was
the immediate reaction to what she felt.
 
Pleasure, the like of which she had never before experienced.
Pleasure such as she had felt when she had been fucked by Don Juan, and
that she had sedulously kept herself from these last long years. Pleasure,
pleasure filling her with an inordinate amount of desire.
 
In and out she felt the smooth tongue of Cazuela dart, touching, it
seemed, the very vital spot in her system, drawing the blood from her
throbbing heart to her throbbing clitoris so that it stood up now like a
living thing.
 
Before she could realize it, La Tarantula felt the ominous approach 
of the orgasm. Just as she had felt it coming on before, with the man, so
she felt it rapidly drawing nearer, but with a woman.
 
"What should I do?" she wailed, "I am coming!"
 
"Hold it as long as you can!" the maid managed to gasp out between
licks as she sank her tongue deeper into La Tarantula's cunny. "Help me by
tickling my button!" and, in order to aid her, she drew herself up closer
to her mistress and lifted her dress high above her hips. La Tarantula got
the idea immediately. And, as she sucked in her guts and withheld the load
that was piling up within her, she reached over and inserted her index
finger into the throbbing but enlarged cunt of her maid. The first thought
that came to her was a comparative one.
 
She thought of how large Cazuela's cunt was as compared to her own
diminutive one. But this thought remained for only a moment. She had no
time to think. Feelings, emotions, crowded her consciousness until they
threatened to overflow in one vast, heaving surge of passionate floodtide.
 
Thus the pair of them worked together, each trying to titillate the
other into a blessed orgy of spending their essences for each other.
 
Closer and closer La Tarantula felt her own orgasm approaching as her
maid's tongue darted faster and faster in the overheated box that was her
cunt. And under her own fingers she felt the little soldier of Cazuela's
clitoris stiffen to attention. Soon she was panting as though she were
winded, as she panted after an unusually exhausting fandango. And she began
to throw her loins around as though the prick of a man were ramming itself
into her. She heard the same laboured breathing of her maid. And she felt
the severe thrusts of the woman's buttocks, jerking nervously in a Saint
Vitus's dance of passion.
 
Faster and faster each tickled the other. Closer and closer came
their orgasms. Louder and louder grew the sound of their panting.
 
Suddenly, La Tarantula heard her maid moan as though she had lost the
most precious of things. And over her hand she felt the gushing warmth of a
sticky liquid spurting out in hot viscid jets. The moment she felt the
wetness she felt the maid's body exert itself mightily in one grand
upheaval. La Tarantula could hold herself no longer. She felt the
overflowing in the region of her loins, in the small of her back. Her
breath came faster. Her hips vibrated madly. Her tongue clove to the top of
her parched mouth. Not knowing what she was doing, she seized hold of
Cazuela's cunt and squeezed it so that the poor maid shrieked out in pain.
With her other free hand, she dug her fingers into the chaiselounge so that
the lone fingernails ripped jagged tears in the cloth.
 
Then she came!
 
Pouring, spurting out of her abnormally heated cunny came the pearly
fluid full into the face of the maid who was still working on the
pokerstiffened clitoris. For a while both of them continued to work their
bodies jerkily as the intense feeling that swarmed over them remained.
 
But when it started its decline, each fell away from the other, La
Tarantula on her back to the chaiselounge, Cazuela to the floor, each 
gasping from their exhaustion. Completely tired, they remained in those
positions, their eyes closed, their arms outspread, a lush feeling of tired
warmth creeping over their limbs.
 
They were suddenly startled by the sound of clapped palms. La
Tarantula opened her eyes wildly to see that the clapping was coming from
the doorway. And, in the doorway, she saw the immense portly figure of Don
Jose Caloro'a, the South American tenor who was costarring with her that
week. She became speechless. Shame crept over her. Her cheeks reddened like
an over-bloomed rose.
 
"Pretty! pretty! very pretty!" the tenor said, still clapping his
palms together daintily, in derision.
 
"What do you want here?" La Tarantula demanded.
 
"I heard the sound of your ardent lovemaking in my rooms," the tenor
continued with a shrug. "The walls are so thin. I thought it my duty to see
what I could do in the way of helping you ladies!"
 
La Tarantula looked from the tenor to her maid who was reclining on
the floor, hatred shooting from her eyes, hatred for the man who had
interrupted her orgy of lesbianism.
 
"Don't be afraid, my dear!" the tenor continued, advancing slowly to
the pair near the window. And as he advanced, he threw his widebrimmed
sombrero aside and started to take off the velvet pea jacket that he was
wearing.
 
Still neither La Tarantula nor her maid spoke. Instead they watched
the man disrobe, as they were completely hypnotized by his actions.
 
They saw him undo the sash around his great belly and then slip off
his shoes and draw his bellbottomed trousers off. La Tarantula gasped when
she saw his enormous prick shoot out from its confining quarters.
 
But the maid sneered and her lips curled in disdain.
 
When the tenor had disrobed himself completely, he towered over the
two shrinking women like an enormous man-mountain, his girth quivering like
jelly, his cock sticking out from its bed of dark brown hair like a
jousting pole in the arm of a medieval knight.
 
"Really, ladies!" he said, advancing still closer to them, "you are
wasting the charms of two beautiful women when you attempt to draw pleasure
from yourself by yourselves. Woman was made for man's pleasure. And,
likewise man was made for the woman's pleasure.
 
Neither can derive pleasure from themselves. You are women. I am a
man. Quite a man," he continued, stroking his swollen piece as emphasis.
 
But La Tarantula scarcely heard a word he was saying. Her eyes were
for nothing but the projecting prick as big as life, swollen beyond the
size of any other penis.
 
"You like it, eh?" the tenor asked.
 
La Tarantula nodded her head. The maid Cazuela began to lose some of
her disrespect for the man. After all, this was no ordinary man, she
reasoned. Any man with a cock like that stood apart from the world in
general and man in particular. And she too could look at nothing but that 
great big bravo toro, that could have done service even for a stud bull.
 
"Hah!" the tenor laughed, "you are wondering at the size of my tool,
eh?
 
Well, where I come from, from Lima in Peru in South America, we have
what is known as the llama. The cowboys on the vast prairies with no woman
to soothe their desires, they fall in love with the female llamas whose
little cunny is as delicious a quim as any woman's that I have yet
experienced. Once, twice, three times we can fuck those llama in half an
hour. And the more we fucked them, the more they liked it. It is no wonder
that my thing here grew to such a great size!" He caught himself suddenly.
"But why do I speak, why do I waste my precious time in useless gabble? I
have come here to act! I call my thing Caesar, because Caesar is so great,
Caesar is so marvellous. And so, like Anthony, I come to bury Caesar!"
 
With a huge roaring laugh, he eased himself directly over the body of
La Tarantula as she lay back on the chaiselounge wondering what was going
to be the outcome of this strange affair with this strange man.
 
"Spread your legs!" the tenor commanded imperiously. But he could not
see to insert his stiffened prick into her cunt, although she spread her
legs as wide as she could. It was his hanging belly. Like all tenors, he
ate well and had built up a large-sized physique so that he would have
great lungs for a powerful voice. And so his belly, hanging over his prick,
prevented him from directing it into its proper channel.
 
Once, twice, he shot the thing into the cleft of her legs but each
time he was unable to hit the mark.
 
Suddenly he turned to where Cazuela was lying on the floor staring
wide-eyed at the proceedings. "Help me in with the thing, woman!"
 
Slowly, she arose to a kneeling position and took hold of the
rampaging prick. Beneath its skin she felt a pregnancy of power that seemed
to be striving mightily to burst the bonds that were holding it.
 
Life coursed through its entire length with the vivacity of a dozen
men.
 
The steady throb of blood pumping through it made it seem like a
living thing, an entity in itself, as though it were apart from the rest of
the body. Tenderly she wrapped her ten fingers around its heft. All hatred
for the male sex was driven out of her.
 
With her right hand she spread apart the lips of La Tarantula's
vagina as wide as she could possibly force them. Then, directing the
pulsating phenomenon, she guided it slowly, surely between the parted ruby
lips of the quivering quim of La Tarantula, stroking its entire length as
the whole of it slid into the awaiting aperture with a succulent sound of
suction.
 
Immediately there arose from La Tarantula a moan such as of a woman
going through the travail of childbirth. In her she felt the parting of her
body as though a giant crowbar were prying her in two. But it was such
sweet pain. What was Chato Doble? What was Don Juan? This was a man! Her
breath almost left her when she felt the size of the thing pushing its way 
insistently into her, spreading her apart, touching the very quick of her
existence.
 
"Oh! oh! oh!" was all she could say as she tried to keep herself from
working her hips so as to lessen the pain of entry. But, fortunately, the
inner part of her cunt was well-lubricated with the juice of her spurting
brought on by Cazuela's titillating of her clitoris. Otherwise, the tenor's
cock would have ripped her insides to pieces, into raw gaping wounds. But,
as it was now, oiled by the pearly fluids, the same cock was sinking deeply
into her like a machine piston, being moved up and back. But each time it
was moved forward it was shoved in a little deeper. And each time it was
shoved in a little deeper, the girl would cry out, not knowing that she was
crying out, knowing only that in her was the greatest thing in the world.
 
Before she was aware of what was happening, she felt the curious
boiling within her. She was coming. Before she had an opportunity to
prepare for it, she was going to spurt her fluid. It was the size of his
thing that was the reason for it. And so she threw her arms around his
enormous belly and clutched the flesh and panted like a wounded hart. And,
without a warning, she felt herself let go of herself. But, at the same
time, she felt a splashing of fluid within her such as she had never before
experienced. There must have been a whole pint in his bulking balls for she
felt it streaming in hot gushes all over her cunt and, in a short while,
she felt the excess fluid trickling down her leg.
 
Instead of withdrawing his penis, the tenor allowed it to remain
where it had been. "It takes so long for it to come back to its normal
shape, you may as well get as much pleasure out of it as you can," he
explained to her. Tired completely, La Tarantula allowed her head to loll
over to the side. She saw Cazuela frantically fingering her own clitoris,
pitifully trying to bring herself to another climax. And just as La
Tarantula turned her way, she managed to bring herself up to the desired
climax. Her body went through a series of contortions. She locked her legs
together as tightly as she could get them. Her face wrinkled itself in a
spasm of passion. Then she came. And her whole body stiffened up into a
huge knot.
 
There they lay, the three of them, La Tarantula exhausted from the
severe fucking she had received, the tenor puffing from mere physical
exertion of manipulating his prick, and the maid, Cazuela, outstretched on
the floor, the fluid issuing from her stretched cunt and onto the floor.
 
For a while, none spoke a word. The only sounds to be heard were the
stertorous breathing of the three of them puffing like winded runners.
 
La Tarantula's eyes were closed. As she felt the gradual decline of
the cock within her, she felt a curious feeling of reluctance go through
her, reluctance to let go of that marvellous instrument that had afforded
her so much pleasure in such a little time. But she felt it grow smaller
and smaller in her. In time it stopped completely. But she continued to
rest back, her eyes closed, a delicious sense of well-being enveloping her
as the afterfuck settled over her limbs and gave her a feeling of complete 
satisfaction.
 
Again La Tarantula cocked her ears for familiar sounds. In the
distance, faintly, she could hear the concerted twang of the string
orchestra in the cafe, below. Outside, on the street, she heard the cry of
an itinerant lottery ticket seller calling, "the winning number! remember
it! buy now or weep tomorrow!" Gradually, his cry lessened until the street
was quiet once again. The rhythmic breathing of her maid came up to her.
She had probably fallen asleep after her double spurting of dew. But how
about the tenor? Why was he not breathing as heavily as he had done before?
Without opening her eyes, she strained her ears to catch a sound of his
breathing. But no sound came.
 
For a while, she made nothing of it. But a small doubt insisted on
remaining in her mind. Again she tensed herself and listened for the sound
of his breathing. But still no sound came. She was afraid to open her eyes.
Instead, she raised her hand hesitantly to the hulk of a man who was still
kneeling in front of her spread-eagled legs. Hesitantly, her fingers
touched the immense belly jutting out over her own flat stomach. It was
quiet. The life that had just been seething in it had died down. Instead of
the usual rise and fall there was only a calm stillness.
 
She tried to laugh her fears away. She tried to will herself to open
her eyes so that she could confirm her doubts as to her fears. But
something within her refused to allow her to open her eyes. Instead, she
lay back, her heart filled with a dread fear, her throat stopped up with an
unreleased sob. Then, with all her might, she finally managed to force her
eyelids apart. They widened with terror when she gazed at the face of the
tenor hovering directly over her. Instead of the jovial countenance that
had been there before, there was a horrid purple mask. Tiny red veins
seemed to have appeared all over his bloated face. His eyes seemed to have
popped out of their sockets. Tiny flakes of slobber drivelled out of the
corners of his mouth. But worst of all were the great white eyeballs
protruding from their holes like a frog's pop-eyes.
 
La Tarantula shrieked in horror.
 
Then she realized-that her doubts had been correct. On top of her,
astride of her in the attitude of fuck was the hulking body of a dead man.
Already, she felt what had been warm flesh only a short while ago, rapidly
turning cold. Like one gone suddenly berserk, mad, she tried to wriggle
herself free from the dead weight of the threehundred-pound corpse that was
imprisoning her. But with her weakened strength considerably lessened by
the two orgasms she had just undergone, she was unable to get herself away
from under the gruesome cadaver. Her shrieks awakened Cazuela. She, too,
shrieked when she saw the purplish, bloated face of the tenor. Then, when
she came to her senses, when she finally realized the predicament her
mistress was in, she leaped up, seized hold of La Tarantula's arms, and
dragged her slowly from under the triangle of the man's spread knees.
 
Immediately, when this was done, the body toppled over to one side,
its horrible face upward, its body already stiffened in the throes of rigor
mortis.
 
Later on, at the inquest, the coroner called it heart failure. They
did not hold La Tarantula, despite the deaths that had occurred in her
presence previously. There had been no doubt as to the cause of the death
of the tenor. His heart, already overburdened by the enormous weight that
he carried around with him, simply buckled under when he went through the
terrific exertions of that last fuck with La Tarantula.
 
The coroner called it heart failure.
 
But the old men, sunning themselves in the square, they nodded their
heads knowingly and cackled when the news of the inquest was brought
around. They cackled because they knew that the Tarantula had struck again.
They knew that the death's head had shown its ugly face and had brought
down another victim.
 
And when the news of the death of Cazuela, La Tarantula's maid, was
delivered, they nodded their heads again. The reports stated that she had
mistaken a bottle of poison for a bottle of aguardiente. She had been found
lying in the anteroom of La Tarantula's dressing room. Her face was screwed
up into a mass of wrinkles. Bitterness, the bitterness of the wormwood and
the gall of the poison was etched in those lines.
 
Her stomach was distended from the virulence of the poison. A stale
odour of almonds hung in the air.
 
The coroner called it accidental poisoning.
 
But the old greybeards whispered: "The Tarantula has struck again."



 
CHAPTER FOUR

 
Five deaths had already been laid at the door of La Tarantula. Yet
the men of Spain before whom she danced her wild gypsy dances still fawned
at her feet and cast glances of lust at her wherever she went.
 
Perhaps it was the danger that attracted them all the more. For there
are some men who cannot derive pleasure from life unless they live within
the shadow of a volcano, unless they are continuously teetering at the edge
of a dangerous precipice or abyss. And that was the emotion which those
felt who desired to be loved by La Tarantula- there was always danger of
not waking up in the morning after a night of fornication.
 
But La Tarantula refrained from taking another lover to her bed for
some time. For one thing, there was always the spectre of death hovering
over her. When she thought of the five who had found death under the evil
shadow of her baleful influence, she would shudder and all thoughts of
sexual gratification would be driven from her mind. But not completely,
mind you, for she was a woman, a Spanish gypsy woman, than whom there are
no more passionate women in the world.
 
And so, during that second period of celibacy, she managed to divert
the piled-up sexual energies that smouldered and simmered within her, to 
dancing. And it was in that period that she made the name of La Tarantula
ring throughout the land as the greatest exponent of the Spanish gypsy
dance. It was said of her dancing that no normal man could look at her wild
gyrations for any length of time without succumbing to the sinuous rhythms,
without losing all sense of morals, reason and rationality.
 
It was during the performance of her dance in a cafe on the Street of
Serpents in Seville that La Tarantula met El Gallo, the most proficient
bullfighter in Spain, a gypsy, and the most sought-after lover in all of
the Hispanic countries. His real fame had been as a matador. When one spoke
of bullfighting, one thought of El Gallo immediately, together with the
names of the great Belmonte and Joselito. But his name and his name only,
the name of El Gallo, was the only name mentioned when the talk turned to
fornication, that oft-practiced art of which so few men are masters. There
are many women who have attained proficiency in the art of fucking that has
gained for them historical homage. But few men there are who have reached
this pinnacle. Don Juan Tenorio of Seville, the immortal hero of Byron's
poem, is one of these. Casanova, the Italian rake, is another. The third
should be El Gallo.
 
El Gallo was a man with three testicles. There are many who doubted
this claimed duplication of those necessary glands of reproduction. In
fact, during his lifetime, except to those women who experienced the
pleasure derived from his excessive ballocks, and their name was legion,
his three balls were more myth than fact. But when El Gallo was finally
brought low by a bull, when he was lying on his deathbed in the Plaza de
los Toros infirmary, then it was that the medical men and El Gallo's
retinue of picadors and hangers-on were convinced that the myth was, in
reality, fact. For they saw, dangling between his legs, an enormous sac, a
pouch that might have been mistaken as being diseased but which was really
filled with three full-healthed testicles that still gave indication of
their owner's sexual powers, although he lay on his hospital pallet in
death. But I get too far ahead of the story.
 
Let us go back to the time when La Tarantula first met this man of
fucking prodigalities, this paragon of cocksmen.
 
It was a strange fact, but neither had ever seen each other until the
time of their first meeting. While El Gallo was performing in Barcelona, La
Tarantula was dancing at the cafe in Madrid. Or if she was performing in
Seville, El Gallo was proving his mettle in Zaragosa.
 
So it went during the earlier part of their mutual success in their
particular arts. Until they met in the cafe on the famous Calle de la
Serpiente in Seville.
 
It was Saturday night. The day had been a muggy moist one. Few of the
regular cafe hounds were about. They were resting in some shaded nook
secluded from the rays of the burning sun, sleeping in siesta. The waiters
took their orders for wine listlessly, and just as listlessly returned,
shuffling and yawning and wondering when the night would come so that they,
too, could go home to sleep. High up in the wooden rafters of the smoked 
ceiling bluebottle flies droned. The guitarists strummed their instruments
listlessly, almost automatically, the fire of the music lost in the
lethargic, languid drowsiness of the atmosphere.
 
The singers came out onto the stage at one end of the great room,
mopped their brows, and sang their ballads and songs. None was interested
enough to applaud them. Only Beppo, the clown, got a rise out of the few
who comprised the audience, when he drew his handkerchief across his
forehead and then wrung almost a pint of water from the sponge concealed in
his kerchief. Even the fiery matadors on the posters that emblazoned the
walls seemed to have lost their customary vivacity, for their bright swords
did not gleam as of old and their lances drooped like spent penises.
 
Suddenly a change came over the place. It dropped its listless
drowsiness and became alive. For into the cafe had come none other than El
Gallo himself, the great matador who was scheduled to appear tomorrow
afternoon at the Plaza de los Toros. With him appeared a dozen other men,
his picadors and banderilleros together with the usual hangers-on who dog
the footsteps of every important personage, especially those who are as
free with their money as was El Gallo.
 
Immediately, the waiters became galvanized into action. The
bluebottle flies came down from the rafters to the tables where they
glittered among the gold ornaments of the matador's habiliments. The
guitarists' hands moved more quickly and their music took a spurt into the
strains of the gay, intoxicating bars that usually introduced the entrance
of La Tarantula. And Don Balthazar, the proprietor of the cafe, walked back
to the dressing room of his star attraction, for whom he was paying dearly,
and pleaded with her to put her best into her next dance. "He is there!" he
puffed, "he is there!"
 
"He?" La Tarantula asked, "who is he?"
 
"He!" Don Balthazar puffed again, "you do not know who HE is? why!
you only have to say HE is here and all know that HE is none other than EL
GALLO, himself!"
 
"But what has he to do with me?" La Tarantula insisted, shrugging her
shapely shoulders and adjusting a stray curl of black hair under her
mantilla.
 
"It has to do with me!" the little fat man yowled. "When El Gallo is
here, that means that business is here! Come! you are on next! They are
playing your entrance song!" And, without another word, he flounced out
again, bound for the kitchen and the cellar for more orders in regard to
the entrance of El Gallo.
 
In her dressing room, La Tarantula smiled to herself as her maid
touched her up for the last time. "How do I look?" she asked of the maid as
she stared absent-mindedly into the mirror, her mind straying elsewhere.
 
The maid stood back and clasped her hands together in an attitude of
adoration. All she could say was "Adorable!" Then changing suddenly,
 
"but there is the repeat for your entrance, senora!"
 
"They can wait!" her mistress said, her mind still afield.
 
In the cafe, the newcomers were banging on their tables, demanding
the entrance of the dancer. The waiters had already brought their cargoes
of wine bottles, which had been unceremoniously tipped into the throats of
the company. El Gallo was seated a bit apart from the rest of the group. He
was toying idly with a thin-shelled glass of pure white liquid,
aguardiente. He drank nothing else. He liked the absinthe-like odour. But,
better still, he liked the jolt that went through his system after every
drink. For physical jolts to him now were few and far between. Life had
paled. The zest was diminishing.
 
The killing of bulls, once so physically vivifying, had lost its
savour.
 
Even women had become flat and uninviting. Liquor, fiery liquor like
aguardiente was all that was left for him. On the morrow, there would be
thousands to cry his name, there would be bulls to kill. But something
would be missing. And, as he mused so, separated from his companions, El
Gallo twirled his glass and stared into its depths for a hint of some
future interest in life. He did not hear the orchestra take a sudden spurt.
He did not hear the applause that came with it. But, in the rotund belly of
his drinking glass, he saw the reflection of a divine figure enter on the
stage. For the moment he thought that it was only a mirage, that it was
only a figure conjured up out of the depths of his imagination, that he was
seeing only that which he wanted to see. But no! the figure in the glass
remained. It looked alive. Then he became conscious of the sudden
reactivation of his surroundings. He heard the applause. He heard the cries
of "Ohe La Tarantula nina ohe!" He heard the quick rhythm of the twanging
strings under the nimble flying fingers of the musicians. Convinced now
that there was something for him to see, El Gallo half turned in his chair.
In his line of vision on the stage he saw something that made a catch
settle in his throat. His eyes widened. A feeling came to him that he
hadn't experienced for twenty years. Twenty years ago, when he had first
seen a woman's naked body, the body of his mother's maid, he had throbbed
in the first stirrings of an adolescent's passion. And now, after twenty
years, after twenty years of constant fucking, he found himself reacting
like a young lad viewing his first nude woman.
 
The glass in his hand slipped from his fingers and crashed to the
floor.
 
All turned to El Gallo. They saw him staring with a frank
unmistakable gaze at the dancer on the stage. Zurito, the favourite picador
of the matador, edged over to his master. "She is bad medicine, El Gallo!"
he whispered to him.
 
"Who is she?" El Gallo demanded hoarsely.
 
"La Tarantula!" the picador replied. "She is not for us, master. 'Tis
said she kills those she loves. Men shy away from her!"

 
"Not El Gallo!" the matador replied grimly. Already the thrill of
women was beginning to evidence itself in him. The jaded flagging fatigue 
seemed to be dissipating. A feeling of the expectancy of joy replaced it.
He recalled the first time he had sensed that emotion. His first
professional bullfight. His first after his schooling at the novilladas.
The short wait for the first bull. The cries of the crowd who knew that it
was his first bull. The overpowering happiness of expectancy. That was what
he felt recreated in him again. Madre de Dios! What a woman this was going
to be! Already he had but to look at her and his senses reeled in a fever.
And, what was more, there was her name and her reputation. La Tarantula.
The killer of men. Was life going to hold something for him once again? He
settled himself deeply into his chair, his eyes glued to the dancing woman
on the stage, his heart beating time with the barbaric music.
 
On the stage La Tarantula began her dance. The guitarist first gave a
startling introduction of pizzicati on his strings. Then she stamped with
her little feet. But it became more a dance of the body than the feet.
 
And, more to the rhythm of the castanets, La Tarantula moved heir
body languidly like a lily in a pool, her arms shifting sinuously like live
snakes. Her whole body shook in the ecstasy of her dance as wave after wave
of emotion, of pure feeling swept over her limbs, her hips all tremulous
with a subdued fire. Her head lay cocked on her shoulder.
 
Slowly, she opened her eyes. Slowly, she extended her arms for the
unseen lover, her half-opened lips shaping themselves for his kiss. And,
without moving her feet or her knees, she turned her body at the hips as
though she were following her lover's action, every line in her a
confession of her love for him. It seemed as though she were trying to work
her body from the mortal sheath that imprisoned it so that she could give
herself unencumbered to the man whom she adored.
 
Breathing deeply, her body almost succumbed to the voluptuous strains
of the music and the rhythm of the castanets. Life possessed her.
 
She cried out as though in passion. And, as she reached the peak of
emotion, when her hips and limbs and breasts were all shaking madly,
crazily, her body stiffened as though she were already experiencing the
orgasm. The guitars pounded on. The castanets clattered like clucking hens.
The stamps and handclaps of the audience resounded again and again. But,
slowly, her body came out of the stiffness. Her arms stopped their weaving.
Her hips undulated less and less. Her breasts became quiescent. Her pang
like breathing became less forced.
 
She subsided within herself. The music took on a sad, tragic note.
The castanets became quieter and less pronounced in rhythm. The audience
became hushed. Soon her body was entirely still. Her head sank down to her
chest. Her arms drooped to her sides. Her knees crooked in the attitude of
despair. And the guitars gave one last wrenching sob. Then, all was quiet
for a moment.
 
Immediately afterwards, the audience started clapping and whistling
for the return of La Tarantula, who had slipped back into the wings.
 
She did not return. Instead, she hurried back to her dressing room
and freshened herself up with powder and perfume. Her curved nostrils still
quivered from the exertions of the dance. Her breasts rose and fell with
her heavy breathing. Her eyes glistened. Her maid hurried to help her with
her toilette but she dismissed her instantly. And, alone in her room, she
gazed into her mirror and touched the lobes of her ears with her favourite
perfume.
 
A sound came from the direction of the door. La Tarantula did not
turn to look. For in her looking-glass she saw the reflection of El Gallo
stepping into the room. A curl of derision shaped itself around her lips.
 
Rather, it was a curl of triumph. For, during the entire time of her
dance, she had sedulously kept herself from looking at him, yet knowing
that she was dancing solely for him.
 
"Cani!" she heard the matador call out in dikran, her own language.
 
She turned slowly in her chair. Her features were calm and composed.
 
She did not care to show her eagerness for the man. Gypsies are not
as demonstrative as that. Though they love colour and display, they reserve
their emotions. But, when all reason for reserve is unnecessary, their
hauteur wilts and they become primitive women. La Tarantula knew that her
reserve and hauteur would wilt, and that she, too, would become predatory.
But she would not let this bullfighter realize it too soon. She would
 
But before she could finish the thought, she found herself swept into
the arms of the man. He simply bowled her over with his impetuousness. She
felt his arms tighten around her. She felt his hot breath blowing on her
cheek. She felt a tightening in the region of his velvet pantaloons,
affected by matadors.
 
"You are not a woman, La Tarantula!" he said to her, his voice ablaze
with desire, "you are a witch!"
 
She allowed her hand to drop to his penis where the great rising bump
of flesh was almost bursting the buttons. With amazement she felt the
scrotum, the sac that housed the mythical three balls. "You are not a man,
El Gallo!" she said archly, "but you are two men!"
 
"Let me prove it!" El Gallo pleaded, snatching at the shoulders of
her gown and wrenching one of them off so that her plump breast fell out in
pretty confusion. Immediately, his head sank to it. His mouth fell around
the raised surface of the nipple. He sucked deliriously at it, rimming its
contours meanwhile with his tongue, gently tweaking its stiffness at times
with his teeth. With his free hand, he lifted up the front of her gown and
inserted his fingers into the aperture of her cunt.
 
He felt a moistness there as his finger sank deeply into its folds.
Then his finger found what it was searching for, the clitoris. Tenderly he
nursed it up and back until he felt it stiffen. Then he looked down at La
Tarantula.
 
"Why do you use your finger?" she asked of him, "when you have so
excellent a tool for the same purpose. Or is it just a padding in the
region of your cock that appears to be so formidable?"
 
In answer to her question, he unbuttoned the front flap of his
trousers.
 
Like an arrow from a bow, like the floodwaters over a dam, his great
big cock shot out of his trousers straight and true. And hanging from
beneath it there dangled that far-famed ball-sac, the El Gallo triple
testicles.
 
La Tarantula stared at the thing. Then she threw her arms around El
Gallo's neck and seized hold of his lips with her own eager lips. Her
tongue roamed at will in his mouth and nipped his lips coyly.
 
Meanwhile he had lifted her up in his arms, his lips still glued to
hers, and had carried her over to the bed that stood in the corner close by
the open window.
 
Without undressing her, he laid her gently down on the silk coverlet
of the bed. Then he feasted his eyes momentarily on the vision that lay
outspread before him. He could see her long black silk opera stockings all
the way up to almost the cleft of her legs. Red high-heeled sandals were on
her feet. Her bosom still dangled from the neck of her gown.
 
She smiled at him as gypsies only can smile, with that soft
languorous promise of good things in it. Her teeth gleamed an invitation.
Her green eyes glowed in their eyelashes like hidden dusky emeralds.
 
Then she stretched out her arms for him, beckoning with her fingers,
like a child reaching for the moon.
 
El Gallo could do nothing but sink down to her on the bed. He
realized that he was in no condition to be fucking around at that time. He
had a strenuous afternoon ahead of him for the morrow. He should have been
asleep at this time, resting for the killing of the bulls. He realized that
it would go hard with him then. For he would lose his touch with the bulls.
His grace at performing veronicas would suffer for it. But why should he
worry about tomorrow? Today, there was a woman in bed for him who stirred
him strangely. Live then for today. Tomorrow and its bulls would take care
of themselves.
 
And so, adjusting his prick so that it lay between her legs, he eased
himself down over her body and began to free the other breast from the
dress.
 
"My baby!" La Tarantula smiled at him.
 
The breast popped out of its place. The brown nipple in its centre
winked up saucily to him. As is the case with most Spanish women, the area
around the nipple was slightly raised from the rest of the breast.
 
El Gallo tongued this section first, avoiding the nipple itself. When
he felt a series of throbs under his tongue, he allowed it to touch the
nipple ever so slightly. The response was a distinct movement upwards.
 
"Oh! do not tease me!" La Tarantula cried. For, as he was working on
her breasts, she in turn had inserted her hand between the juncture of
their bodies and was stroking his rapidly hardening prick. Out of
curiosity, she allowed her fingers to brush up against the bag that housed
his balls. It was all balls, she discovered. Once she had seen the ball-sac
of a bull. El Gallo's was as prominent as the bull's. She hoped it was as
efficacious.
 
By this time, she felt that she was on the verge of what they both
desired. Already, the little sentinel in her cunny was standing at
attention under the ministrations of El Gallo's free hand. With his other
hand he was doing a curious thing. He had inserted it directly into her
anus where he was massaging the walls. The effect on La Tarantula was odd,
in that never before had she felt anything but her own shit in that part of
her anatomy.
 
"In me! in me!" she cried suddenly when she felt that she could do
without the risen prick no longer. And she seized hold of the stiffened
member without waiting for him to help her and guided it into her own
throbbing hole. At first she could not describe the variance that existed
between the fuck of El Gallo and that of the other men who had had her. But
it suddenly occurred to her that the difference lay in the surge of power
behind the thrusts and, later on, in the force of the spurted stream of
juice from his balls, together with the amazing number of ejaculations he
could have. However, during the first time she was agreeably surprised to
discover that, almost at the exact moment that she, herself, experienced
her own ejaculation, she would feel the hot splash of his semen in her. He
seemed to have perfect control of his comings and goings. And, by watching
her and judging almost minutely the second of her orgasm, he was able to
make their pleasure all the more heightened because of their mutual
simultaneous spending.
 
Puffing under the exertions of her first spendings, La Tarantula was
able to notice that, unlike the other men, he allowed his member to remain
in her hot agitated cunt. Then he tongued her all over instead of confining
himself to her breasts and nipples, licking her navel, her armpits and
every inch of her body that he could reach. Finally, when she could stand
it no longer, when she felt the old ominous boiling inside of her, almost
at will his prick inside of her stiffened. In and out he thrust it. And as
he did so, it seemed to her that besides having the power to lengthen, El
Gallo's prick had the marvellous ability to expand its breadth so that, as
he drew it out or put it in, the friction was increased a hundredfold.
 
It was no wonder that La Tarantula was unable to hold the second
coming. Almost immediately, before she was aware of the fact that she was
to experience the second orgasm, the plasm within her burst its floodgates.
But, marvel of marvels, she found that, despite her inability to hold
herself, he too had come in her. So it didn't matter when she came. He
could control himself to come with her. And that was the beauty of it all.
To come together, to feel the fluxing of the life fluids, to sense the slow
melting together of bodies-all of that was present with them.
 
Later, the novelty of his wonders having worn off, she discovered
that she was better able to control herself. But, no matter how long she
held her spending, he was ever at her heels spending when she spent,
sighing when she sighed, breathing in the fire of her nostrils, joining
them together like no man or woman had ever been joined before.
 
"Where have you been all my life?" she breathed into his ear, 
playfully biting the lobe.
 
"I have been seeking for you," he replied, "but from now on, you
shall find me only in one place!"
 
"And that is?" she asked shyly, although she knew.
 
"In the confines of your hot, palpitating, quivering, trepidating,
effervescing, pulsating, beating cunt!" he replied. And, to emphasize his
statement all the more, he willed his prick right before her eyes to become
hard, without physical manipulation. The sight of this feat sent a
delicious shiver through her. She felt herself stirred again, the fourth
time by him in one hour. She spread her legs wide for his entrance. He
gazed in and saw the swelling of the lips, the steady rising of the
clitoris, the quivering, quaking, convulsive rhythm of the flesh anxiously
awaiting the contact of his own fluctuating tool. He held off a while,
tormenting her. But, out of desperation, and not knowing what she was
doing, La Tarantula assed her way closer to him, until she felt the touch
of the head of his prick. She could control herself no longer, woman that
she was, and she burst out into a severe fit of weeping.
 
Something in the man went weak on him. With a fervour such as he had
not shown the whole night, he edged his cock up into the mouth of her cunt,
rubbing up against the hardened clitoris on purpose before effecting an
entire entree. She still wept. In and out he sent the thing rampaging,
sinking it as far in as he could possibly place it and, as he had done
previously, expanding the width so that every thrust was delicious torment
to her. Before she knew what she was doing, the last tear had been wept.
Weeping was forgotten. There was fucking to do.
 
That was more important.
 
This time, she was determined that she would hold her spending as
long as he could. And so, resolutely, she tried to keep herself calm and
collected, not even co-operating with him by wagging her hips and working
his cock deeper into her cunt with contortions. Even when his fingers
searched every part of her body, caressing them under their nervous tips,
she managed to hold herself although she realized that there was nothing
that she wanted to do more at that particular time than to let herself go.
But she was determined that she would give him as much pleasure as he was
giving her. And so she held herself, clenching her fists tightly so that
her fingernails sank into the flesh of her palms and moaning in actual
pain. Faster and faster his motions became. He thought that he was not
doing enough to bring her around.
 
And so he worked all the harder, sweating under the added exertion
that he was putting into his work, kissing her all over the face and on the
breasts and in her hair, doing everything possible and in exaggerated
degree in order to sense those reactions in her which told him that she had
reached her passion's peak and she was just about ready to blow. But still
no sign came. He looked down anxiously into her face. Just at the same
time, La Tarantula opened her eyes and saw him look down anxiously. She
read the unspoken question in his eyes and despite her suffering, she 
smiled up at him.
 
Then it was that he realized that she was holding herself in for him.
She was trying to repay him in his own coin. And, throwing his arms around
her in a great bear hug, he sank his face into her hair and wept, wept
because he had finally discovered the woman with whom he would be able to
live the rest of his life.
 
His tears affected her. Never before had she seen a strong man weep.
 
But the wonder of it was that he was weeping because of a little
thing that she was doing for him.
 
But she could hold herself no longer.
 
The piston-like prick burned the sides of her cunt. The bubbling of
her vital essences in her loins became an effervescent cauldron. A furore
of passion came over her, seeping into every nook and cranny of her
receptive body. Paroxysms of emotion swept through her in devastating
waves, each of which left her weak yet raring to go again.
 
A rampant, clamorous, tempestuous, irrepressible volcano, simmering
in its incipient deluge of lava fire, shook her.
 
Then the bottom dropped away from her.
 
And she came beautifully.
 
He came beautifully in her.
 
The pearly fluids met and flowed together. And in the amalgamation of
their physical fluxing, there grew the more lasting conjointure of their
spiritual joining. Each knew that they were meant for each other.
 
That the river had found its final harbour.
 
As they sank back exhausted, El Gallo took hold of La Tarantula's
hand and reverently kissed her fingers.
 
That night they fucked fifteen times.
 
La Tarantula discovered that the three testicles of El Gallo were
more than a myth. They were more than fact. They were all of truth bound up
into the compass of one ball-sac.
 
They were her world.



 
CHAPTER FIVE

 
At eleven o'clock that night they were awakened by a pounding on the
door. Hilarious voices came to them from the hallway. "Open up! open!" they
heard. And when the door was opened, Zurito the picador and all the other
pics and banderilleros tumbled into the room in all stages of intoxication,
all hugging some wench they had picked up in the cafe downstairs.
 
"We are going to see the bulls!" Zurito cried out, "are you with us,
El Gallo?"
 
"Perro!" the matador cursed, "get out of this room before I kill you
all!"
 
But La Tarantula had already leaped out of the bed and was adjusting 
her headdress. "No! we shall go, too, El Gallo! I want to see the great
bulls that my El Gallo is going to kill tomorrow at the bullfight!"
 
El Gallo's face dropped. He had wanted to remain the night with his
newly found love. But the others were too drunkenly insistent that he
accompany them. Besides, La Tarantula was also desirous of going with them.
"I shall go if you shall promise to appear tomorrow at the ring to see me
kill them," he cried.
 
La Tarantula gaily promised. Then, locking her arms in El Gallo's
elbow, she pushed at the roistering company. "Come! to the bulls!" she
cried.
 
"To the bulls!" the others all screamed as they turned and exited
down the steps and through the cafe, some of them seizing bottles of wine
and aguardiente from the tables and waving them in their hands and lurching
drunkenly out into the Calle de la Serpiente, their arms around their
girls.
 
The night had been quiet before they came out into it. But they
bruised the silence with their shrieks and cries and ribald songs. Down the
entire length of the street they went, on past the barracks, past the
brewery, past the jailhouse, until they came to the Guadalquivir river.
 
There, in a number of boats, they were ferried across the river to
the Triana section, La Tarantula's birthplace, in which the Plaza de los
Toros, the place of the bulls, was located. On past the Plaza they lurched,
until they came to a rustic spot in the outskirts of the section. It was
the farm where the bulls for the next day's fight were being taken care of.
Here, the aficionados, the bullfight enthusiasts, gather the day before the
bullfight to comment on the bulls to be killed the next day.
 
Most of them go there to talk to the bulls, calling huh! huh! huh! to
them and imagining that, because the bull widened his nostrils and jerked
his head toward the speaker, he had held conversation with him.
 
It was there that the drunken group ended up. Most of the others were
drunk, but El Gallo and La Tarantula, who had not imbibed as yet, were
still sober. For the while they busied themselves in the pens where the
bulls were kept. Occasionally, someone would holler out to El Gallo, "That
Miura bull will show you how well you can make a veronica!" or, "watch out
for that dappled toro! he has a killing look in his eye!"
 
But El Gallo heard nothing. As the others milled around him, the men
hollering, the women giggling from their drinks, he held on to the arm of
La Tarantula and was glum and silent. She, however, being a gypsy, fell
into the gay spirit of the evening. Seizing a bottle of wine from someone,
she drained it at a gulp, the wine pouring down from the corners of her
mouth onto her flimsy dress. Soon, she became as wild as the rest of them.
Time and again she took a swig of fiery aguardiente, each drink making her
drunker than ever. But she was a gypsy. In her there burned blood that
demanded that she cast care to the winds, that she throw herself into the
spirit of joy and untrammelled carefree happiness. And the more she tried
to ply El Gallo with drinks, the more glum he became, refusing the offers. 
Yet, each offer that he refused, she, in turn, tipped into her own gullet.
 
And the rest of the company were doing the same thing. Their stock of
wine and aguardiente had been refurbished at the little vente that stood at
the corner of the pens where there were tables and chairs for any who cared
to sit. And when they grew tired of roistering about the pens, goading the
bulls until they charged the wooden fences and sometimes splintered their
horns, they finally retired to the vente, where they seated themselves at
the tables and were soon opening new bottles of wine.
 
Off in a corner, Zaralito had worked his cigarette girl onto the
floor.
 
There, he was babbling to her that she suck his cock. She, with just
about enough in her to take the dare, suddenly demanded that if he would
stand on the table, she would suck his cock right there in front of the
whole group. Zaralito tried to turn the offer down with disgust. But the
others had heard the proposition and they leaped up and demanded that he go
through with the bargain. At first Zaralito demurred. But under the threats
of dire murder from his friends, he sheepishly condescended to go through
with the performance.
 
Somebody helped him up onto one of the tables, as he was too drunk to
negotiate the step himself. A guitarist in the rear struck up a fast jota.
 
The men stamped in rhythm while the women clapped, heightening the
excitement all the more.
 
Then, amidst a general clamour of laughter and a hullabaloo of advice
and drunken taunts, the drunken cigarette girl arose from her chair and
stepped over to the drunken Zaralito, swaying on his tabletop.
 
Slowly, she inserted her hands into the flap of his trousers. For a
moment she could not seem to find that for which she was seeking. But a
light suddenly came to her eyes as she made the catch. In no time, she had
a limp prick hanging in front of the man. The company howled at the sight
of the thing. There was not enough there to fill a dog's mouth, they
screamed. Others cried to the girl to get herself a real man.
 
But, evidently, the girl was a professional. She saw that, despite
the present size of the penis, there were a number of folds in it which
indicated that, distended, it could reach a sizeable length. And so, after
cocking her head quizzically at it, she went to work on her job. First she
inserted her right hand into his trousers again, where she encircled his
ball-sac with her fingers, diddling the rough surface with nervous
sensitive fingers that sent electric shocks through the staggering picador.
Still no rise came from the limp member. This did not disconcert the woman.
Immediately, she ducked her head so that her mouth came directly under the
tip of the penis. Then she raised her head slowly, opening her mouth at the
same time so that, as her mouth came up, the prick slithered into the
aperture. At the same time she wrapped her tongue around the tip of the
prick, taking in a deep sucking breath. She felt a slight movement in the
prick. She realized that, under the influence of alcohol, it would be
difficult to bring an erection to the drunken picador. But she was a 
professional. And, in no time, what with her tickling of his balls and
inserting her fingers into his anus where she massaged his prostate gland,
she brought the oncelimp cock up to a fairly hard condition. In fact now,
instead of hanging its head in shame, it was beginning to jut out like a
lance. The head of the penis proper was sticking out slightly from its
foreskin and the little eye winked naughtily at the assemblage who were
taking in the spectacle now without a sound. All that could be heard was
the occasional bellow of a bull outside and the sucking, moist, plupping
noises of the girl's mouth filled with saliva as it negotiated the entire
distance of the picador's rapidly hardening prick. Slowly, under her
tongue, the girl felt the foreskin gradually drawing away from the tip of
the prick. Soon, she felt the ridge of the head in her mouth. And a
hardness settled into the whole length of the prick. It slid into her mouth
with not so much effort as previously. Busily her head bobbed up and back
now instead of up and down, for the prick stuck straight out in front of
him. Up and back her head bobbed, the prick shooting in and out of her
mouth like the piston of a railroad engine.
 
When she felt that he had reached the apex of hardness, the girl
stopped suddenly and pulled away from the six-inch cock standing so proudly
now. She looked up at the swaying picador. Then she turned to the company
who by this time were applauding her feat drunkenly.
 
From his vantage point atop the table, Zaralito suddenly called out
petulantly, "What shall I do with this thing now that I have it?"
 
Someone called out, "Fuck the girl now!"
 
The others took up the cry. "Fuck the girl! fuck the girl!" they
ordered, laughing uproariously at the situation of the lanky picador
standing above them, his great cock sticking out in front of him.
 
This time it was the girl who tried to demur. But she was seized by
the others. Her dress was torn off of her back, her underclothes stripped
completely from her. Then she was lifted to the tabletop next to Zaralito.
He looked at her drunkenly, wondering what was going to happen next. She
looked charming there. Her long black hair was coiled atop her head,
crowned with a high comb. Below that there was nothing on her torso, only
two splendid olive-collared breasts with pink nipples winking their eyes in
the nickering lamplight of the room.
 
Lower down the drunk saw a beautiful triangle of dark amid the forest
of hairs. He was scarcely able to discern the cleft of the woman. Had she
not had on her long opera-length black hose and red high-heeled shoes,
perhaps he might not have been induced to go through with the fuckshow. But
something in them thrilled him, the suggestiveness perhaps of the
half-attire. Anyhow, with a cry of joy, he seized the girl and implanted a
rough kiss on her mouth.
 
"Fuck! don't kiss!" the others hooted.
 
But he was too drunk to take notice of them.
 
However, the girl was game to the core. Besides, in the act of
sucking him off, she had created a desire in herself for the fuck. And so, 
although her lips were still glued to his mauling lips, she spread her legs
so as to open up her cunt and seized hold of his potent prick. She had to
make him bend at the knees so as to facilitate insertion into her cunt.
But, with some expert wiggling and facile contortions, she finally managed
to wangle his prick into the hole of her cunt so that, with little exertion
on his part, he could rapidly withdraw and re-insert his stiffened member.
 
The guitarist took his cue again from this frenzied act and struck up
a wild bolero dance. The feet of the men stamped heavily to the primitive
African tomtom beat of the sensual music. The handclaps of the women took
on a staccato effect. Then the veil of drunkenness fell away from the man
on the table. His prick in contact with the heated cunt of the woman, his
instincts came to the fore. In and out he began to shove his prick into the
beckoning suction of the moist cleft of flesh between her legs. Rapidly the
music took on a barbaric tone, the beat coming with every thrust of the
prick. The man seized the woman about the waist. In and out his prick went.
Not knowing where he was he bit her lips and cheeks in frenzied passion,
still pumping his prick into her, still holding her in an iron grip so that
the flesh under his fingers grew white. Louder and louder the stamping of
feet grew.
 
Quicker and quicker the women clapped their hands. The sweat poured
from the man's forehead onto the shoulders of the woman and glistened like
tiny balls in the lamplight. The drunken men and women, but for the sounds
of their hands and feet, had grown very quiet. Their eyes popped from their
sockets. Their tongues laved their lips. Their faces twitched from nervous
tics brought on by the orgy of lust and passion that was being displayed in
front of their very eyes. In themselves, they felt the fires of emotion
slowly gathering their forces.
 
The men felt their pricks harden. The women sensed a glowing in the
vicinity of their cunnies, a stiffening of the nipples of their breasts so
that they stuck out from their bodices like tiny points. And, like the
couple on the table, their breaths started to come in laboured gasps.
 
Their limbs twitched. Occasionally, one of them would allow a moan to
escape from her lips as she ran her tongue over the dry and cracked
surfaces of her upper and lower lips.
 
And still the man on the table poked his member in between the
woman's legs so that it seemed as though, with every violent thrust, he
would push her over the edge of the table. But, they kept their balance on
the table and continued the rhythm of their motions, each twirling their
hips, each swinging their buttocks in mad wide circles, receiving when the
other thrust and thrusting when the other received. The man's forehead
glistened. The woman's breasts shook. The eyes of the drunken mob below
them followed every detailed motion lasciviously, the drool from some of
their mouths dripping from their chins.
 
Suddenly, a tenseness seemed to seize the fucking couple. Their
furious thrusts seemed to take on an added violence. The man's fingers
clutched tighter to the girl's flesh so that she was forced to cry out in 
pain and in passion. Faster and faster they worked themselves up to a
pitch. And those in the audience sensed the imminence of the oncoming
orgasm. They saw it in the tensed bodies of the pair on the table locked
furiously in each other's embrace. They saw it in the bulging eyes of the
man. They saw it in the vehement paroxysms of passion that surged through
the woman's body. And they felt it in their own bodies, sensing the climax
in the performing pair almost as surely as though the juice were about to
spurt within themselves.
 
Then they heard the woman emit a series of heartrending moans, each
moan seemingly coming from the very depths of her plasm. The man clasped
her tighter. Her arms flopped ineffectually about like puppets'. His legs
propelled more powerful thrusts of his penis into her midsection. Her lips
voraciously swallowed up his entire mouth, her tongue engaging his in
combat. Convulsion after convulsion tore through them.
 
Then they came into each other.
 
And, at the same time, on the floor below them, a drunken
banderillero, unable to keep his own passion under check, seized hold of
his panting girl and threw her to the floor. There, throwing up her
flouncing petticoats, he laid her cunt bare to both his gaze and his prick,
which he had already freed from his pants and on which he had been
surreptitiously working for the last few minutes. Riotously, as though he
were raping a virgin, he spread her legs apart, she falling in with the
idea, and taking hold of his prick, she led it into its stall, her avid
quivering quim between her legs, wrapping her legs around his back and
squeezing as hard as she could the while the man atop of her sank the
entire length of his tortured organ into her.
 
Immediately, other couples, their senses inflamed by what they had
seen, seized hold of each other. Soon, the entire floor was a mass of men
and women, their varicoloured petticoats flying about them, a dozen pair of
black stockinged legs fanning the air, each with a hot, impassioned man
astride of them, pumping enlarged pricks into a dozen different waiting
holes.
 
The pair on the table, their fuck complete, slipped down from their
perch to the floor where, with his cock once again in her mouth, the pretty
cigarette girl was attempting to bring the softened penis again to its
height. And as she looked about her and saw the orgy of fucks taking place,
the plethora of stiff pricks sinking into hair-guarded abysses of cunts,
her head bobbed up and down more energetically and her tongue manipulated
itself with an added energy in an attempt to bring the man back to his
former vigour.
 
Moans, sighs, cries, curses; all sorts of noises and sounds came up
from the fornicating masses on the ground. And all were fucking, with the
exception of El Gallo and La Tarantula. He was still seated glumly at his
table, staring at the proceedings disgustedly. La Tarantula, her senses
maddened by the sight of the numerous couples fucking right in front of her
very eyes, begged him with her eyes to simulate the happy pairs. But El 
Gallo only stared at her, his eyes smouldering, and refused to throw her on
the ground for a grand fuck.
 
"Please!" she said finally, "I must get rid of this load that is
piling up inside of me!"
 
El Gallo only shrugged his shoulders.
 
Then La Tarantula borrowed some of the surliness from her lover. She,
too, assumed a mask of glum dourness and eyed the erotic proceedings with
hatred, her nostrils distending like a stallion's, her eyes flaming with
hatred.
 
Soon, a number of couples, having blown off their nuts already, arose
from the floor and went at the aguardiente bottles again with a renewed
vigour. The entire group was shortly on its feet with the exception of the
original pair that had performed on the table. By that time, with his
expert tonguing, the girl had brought the man's prick to its hardness
again. But they were in a very peculiar position on the floor. Instead of
assuming the customary position, they had reversed it.
 
For her head was pumping up and down, her mouth wrapped securely
around his enlarged cock. But his head and face were sunk deep into the
cleft of her legs, immersed in the hairs of her cunt the while his tongue
manoeuvred itself in and out of her hole and licked her clitoris, already
stiffening from her second arousing to passion.
 
Up and down went the girl's head on his penis. In and out went his
face into her cunt. And again, others grouped themselves around this
performing couple and huzzahed and cheered as they sweated themselves into
another orgasm. The guitarist came down from his dais and started a
fast-moving malagueha. The stamping of feet and clapping of hands
accompanied the music. But, while the others were all engrossed in the
sight on the floor, El Gallo and La Tarantula, seated across from each
other at one table, smouldered now in a newborn hatred for each other.
 
Suddenly, Zurito, the picador, came running into the room. His wild
hair streamed in all directions about his head. "Comrades! comrades!" he
called out, holding his hands up in the air for silence. All turned their
attention from the couple on the floor to Zurito.
 
"Comrades and girls!" Zurito continued, "we have prepared the bull
Vibora, the Viper, one of the Miura bulls, for the greatest fuck of the
evening. Come! follow me!" And, with these words, he exited, followed by
the rest of the company. Caught in the movement of the rest, both El Gallo
and La Tarantula were pushed forward with the crowd into the barn behind
the tavern. There they saw a most peculiar sight. Strapped up in a number
of braces and leather saddles was an enormous black Miura bull. His black
coat glistened under the torch-lights like a satin sheen. His mad wicked
little eyes boiled hatred for the puny little men who had trussed him up in
such a ridiculous fashion. For only his hind legs were touching the floor
and they had been anchored down to two iron rings with heavy chains. The
forelimbs and the entire front part of his body had been drawn up on a sort
of pulley contrivance so that he looked like a rearing horse, but 
permanently reared. His front legs had been chained too, so that he could
not do any damage with them. And directly under his belly, right under a
long hair-covered projection at the rear, was a wooden pallet covered with
mats and sacks and rags.
 
"The bullfuck!" one of the men yelled.
 
"Hurray!" another shouted, "what woman is going to be fucked by the
bull?"
 
Before any other woman could make reply, a flaming figure stepped
into the lighted circle where the helpless bull stood trussed up. It was La
Tarantula. Her eyes burned hatred. Her little fists were clenched up. She
turned to where El Gallo was standing and, as though talking solely to him,
she said, "If I cannot get a man to fuck me when I want him to fuck me,
then perhaps I can get a dumb beast, a bull, to satisfy me!"
 
Saying this, she drew her dress up over her head and showed that she
had donned nothing else but the dress, for she was stark naked. Lights from
the reflections of the torches glinted over the highspots of her contours
like fireflies. All the men looked at her and envied the man who could fuck
her and the bull who was going to enjoy her, too. They eyed the proud firm
breasts that asserted their superiority in no uncertain contours. They
marked the gentle slope of her waist as it tapered out to her hips, and
they swore mightily because they could not feel her velvet flesh nestling
between their own thighs. They noted the stark outflare of her perfectly
paired buttocks shaping down to the finely chiselled shapeliness of her
thighs. They saw the mount of Venus abundantly vegetated with finespun dark
hair barely shadowing the tight cunny settled deeply into its odorous
thickets. But, worst of all, they saw her lower herself to the pallet and
spread her legs triumphantly for the enormous prick of the Miura bull.
 
Had Zurito not been drunk, he would never have done as he did.
 
Perhaps he was not as drunk as he purported to be. Perhaps he was
determined to separate his master, El Gallo, from the toils of this arch
creature, La Tarantula, who had already left a stream of dead lovers in her
wake. Anyhow, he did see El Gallo's face standing out in the gloom at the
fringe of the excited onlookers. It was like a madman's grimace, a
gargoyle's horrid countenance, violently distorted by hatred and jealousy
and anger.
 
But Zurito continued what he had already started.
 
Taking a small package from his pocket, he poured a flicker of the
greenish powder onto a bit of moistened bread. Taking this, he stepped on a
ladder which had been adjusted close to the bull's head and climbed up so
that he could reach the bull's mouth. Then he fed the soggy bread to the
bull who seized it avidly and munched it so quickly that it was swallowed
immediately.
 
"Spanish fly!" one of the men whispered to his girlfriend. "It will
make the bull crazy for a fuck!"
 
By this time, Zurito had descended from the ladder and had placed
himself at the rear of the bull, his eyes glued to the tuft of hair under 
the bull's belly from which there would soon emerge a naked rampant pizzle,
a virgin prick that had never felt the inside of a cow's cunt. Bulls for
the bullfights are not allowed to cohabit with cows. This abstinence makes
them all the more fierce and therefore more appropriate for fighting. At
times, Zurito found his gaze wandering from the bull's tuft to the woman's
tuft, spread out wide open in front of him awaiting the entrance of the
bull. For the moment, he felt a pang of displeasure go
 
through him. Why waste that marvellous cunny on an unfeeling beast?
Why not throw yourself onto her and ram her with your own prick which was
already hardened in your pants? he argued with himself. But he looked up
and saw the basilisk glare of El Gallo in the gloom, hideous in the
intensity of its mordant hatred. And he transferred his gaze from the woman
to the bull. In a short while he saw life stirring in the vicinity of the
bull's prick. Its rear feet stamped nervously on the wooden floor. The
chains rattled in their rings. Its front feet pawed the air like a boxer's
feints. Its eyes increased in size almost twofold, a red rage creeping into
the pupils. Its nostrils widened and closed like a bellows, hot air pouring
forth in a wheeze from the holes.
 
A white foam formed at its mouth and bubbled down in excess on the
floor.
 
Suddenly, from the tuft of hairs there emerged a pinkishly white
prick, not exactly thick but almost needle like in its length. Longer and
longer it grew as Zurito leaned forward and pulled up and back at the
flapped skin on the sides of the enlarging prick. Occasionally he would
stroke the enormous ball-sac that dangled between the legs.
 
Meanwhile, La Tarantula lay back quiescently on her haunches, waiting
for the entree. She lifted her head and saw the head of the prick forming
between the tufts. Farther back she saw something familiar. It was the
bull's balls. Immediately, she recalled the sac of El Gallo. And she
twisted her head in order to get a better view of his evil, malign face
gleaming down at her, alive with the snakes of hatred in his eyes, coupled
with an insidious gleam of jealousy. She showed her teeth in a mocking
smile and her laugh resounded through the wooden rafters. The others set up
a mad cheering and a stamping and a whistling as the bull's prick grew
larger and larger.
 
The bull struggled futilely in its straps. Its actions became wilder
and wilder. An enormous wrenching of its heavy haunches shook the building
as the heavy hoofs came down to the floor time and again.
 
Finally, Zurito called out, "Ready!"
 
La Tarantula prepared herself for the bull.
 
Zurito seized hold of the long throbbing prick and inserted it slowly
into the woman's tiny cunny, tiny in comparison with the hulking cock of
the bull. Slowly, Zurito pushed the pallet with La Tarantula on it because
he could draw the prick no further now because of the chains that prevented
the bull from coming forward any more. The wild gyrations of the bull's
haunches took on an elephantine acrobatics. Hot steam poured from the 
dilated nostrils. Red blood gleamed in the enlarged eyeballs. The straps
strained and creaked as the weight of the animal lunged up and back in an
attempt to throw his vast weight behind the prick that had been allowed to
penetrate only a bit.
 
"More! more!" La Tarantula demanded.
 
The onlookers applauded. Zurito carefully pushed the pallet a
halfinch closer.
 
"More!"
 
Zurito again pushed the pallet closer.
 
Closer and closer Zurito pushed La Tarantula as she tearfully
demanded that he continue to push her so that the bull's cock would go
deeper into her than any man's prick had ever been. She felt an enormous
thing spreading her legs apart now. Never before had her cunt been filled
so completely with cock. And it was a virgin cock that had never before
reacted to the sexual pleasures of a female cunt. It was a cock that was
alive with strange vibrant animal fire that no man had ever possessed. The
very devil himself seemed to be filling her, pushing his way into her as
though he were trying to split her apart.
 
But, behind all of this pleasure, there stood the spectre of her
hatred for El Gallo. And she sneered and laughed shrilly in a mad
hysterical tone. And as she felt the old familiar boiling-up within her,
she cried out, "Fool! El Gallo is a fool!"
 
Then she knew no more. She only felt. She felt a stupendous rising
within her mountains high. She felt an overwhelming surging within her
oceans deep. She felt a deep, subversive shuddering go through her entire
body. And she let herself go. And as she came and fell into a coma of
refulgent beatific happiness, she felt a splashing within her as of a tidal
wave of fluid. Between her legs there dripped a hot stream of semen. Above
her she saw as in a dream the black satin coat of the bull breathing
heavily, going like the sides of a bellows. Snorts of passion from the
beast's nostrils came into her consciousness. The rattle of chains. The
stamping of hoofs. The obscene cries of the spectators. The clapping of
hands.
 
But when she opened her eyes, the first thing she saw was the face of
El Gallo. Never before had she seen so pitiful a sight. Gone was the
hatred. Gone was the basilisk glare. Gone were all signs of the gargoyle.
In their place was the sad, disillusioned face of a boy.
 
La Tarantula wept.



 
CHAPTER SIX

 
La Tarantula remembered little after that. She was in the region
between heaven and earth, one moment ecstatically happy, and after that
depressingly sad. And when a singer got up and sang a malaguena, and she 
recalled the sad, boyish look on the face of El Gallo, who had disappeared
from the crowd, she caught a sob in her throat and wept. The malaguena
continued. The singer was weeping, it seemed, and not singing, for such is
the way to sing the malaguena. It is a prolonged lament, a melancholy,
poignant ululation that comes welling up as though from the very vitals of
the singer. And it ends with a series of runs which rise in the singer's
throat like sobs, and dies away in a long slow note which changes from a
wail to a sigh.
 
That was the song La Tarantula heard.
 
That was why she was inexpressibly sad.
 
Even when they walked back to the river again, she could not shake
the mood away from her.
 
Always, she saw the pitiful face of El Gallo. Even when the drunken
hilarious company passed through the beautiful Parque Maria Luisa she was
melancholy. A forest of trees and shrubs surrounded them, giving off
odorous scents. Orange trees, camellias and rosebushes. The ground was
moist with early morning dew that gave out a woodsy odour. And in the
trees, nightingales sang melodiously.
 
But the heart of La Tarantula was heavy with grief.
 
They crossed the slow moving, moon glittering Guadalquivir river from
Triana to the regular part of the city. None seemed to be aware of the fact
that their master, El Gallo, was not in their midst. Not even Zurito, El
Gallo's favourite picador. They were all too drunk and too tired for that.
Most of them were sleeping on each other's shoulders.
 
Only La Tarantula knew of his absence. And she was keenly aware of
it. For, as she stared into the silvery waters of the river gliding by, she
imagined that she could see the dear drowned face of El Gallo in their
turgid depths.
 
Such was her mood all night and all morning.
 
Even in the afternoon, when she had been awakened by the sound of the
pedestrians' and the hawkers' clamour on the Street of the Serpents which
wound out below her bedroom window, she recalled her intense sorrow of the
night before, because her dreams had been shot through with the face of the
one whom she had loved, and whom she had hurt.
 
From among the myriad of conversations coming up from the street, she
was able to pick out one that was clearer to her because the one who was
speaking had a louder voice than the rest. He was talking about the
bullfights that were going to take place that afternoon. And, of course, he
had mentioned the name of El Gallo as being the chief attraction.
 
Immediately, a smile came to La Tarantula's face. She would go to the
bullfight. She would see her beloved once again in the splendour of his
accomplishments, in all the strength and vigour of his beautiful body.
 
And so, calling her maid, she discovered that she had an hour in
which to dress in order to be able to get to the Plaza de los Toros in time
for the first fight. Soon, she was all prepared and she descended to the
cafe. It was deserted. Everyone, it seemed, had gone or was going to the 
bullfights. She went into the street. A stream of people went by her, all
intent on getting to the Plaza de los Toros where the bullfights were going
to be held. She got into the stream. Past the various clubs she went where
majos, the "lady-killers," still loitering over their last drinks, eyed her
and commented on the shapeliness of her buttocks.
 
She preferred to walk instead of taking her carriage because she felt
that, in that way, she was doing penance for the sin she had committed
against El Gallo.

 
When she finally arrived at the Plaza, she was tired. But there was a
warm glow within her. For she was soon to see her beloved El Gallo once
more.
 
Already she could feel little goose pimples of expectation crawling
up her arm. And the short hairs on the nape of her neck stood up like
little penises. For she was riggish. She was as riggish for a man as she
had ever been in her life. She wanted to be seized, to be held tightly, to
be kissed, to be fucked as no man had ever fucked her, by only one certain
man-El Gallo. And as she walked into her box-seat, she seemed to know that
soon her expectations would be fulfilled.
 
An immense crowd had already gathered. She looked around. Across from
her, on the sunny side of the ring in the cheaper seats, there appeared to
be only a solid mass of yellow and red and green handkerchiefs and parasols
and mantillas. On the shady side, where she was sitting, white mantillas
prevailed, for there were the better class of aficionados, bullfight fans.
Vendors coursed through the aisles selling beer and gaseosas (pop). Others,
unable to reach patrons with their wares, threw them accurately across a
dozen rows and, in turn, received their money in the same way. A general
feeling of good humour prevailed, for it was an ideal day for a bullfight.
 
La Tarantula looked around for some sight of El Gallo. In the
callejon, the runway that circled the ring, she saw the sword handlers with
their jugs of water, sponges, piles of folded muletas and heavy leather
sword cases together with the bull ring servants, the police in their
patentleather hats, several plainclothesmen who were there so as to be
ready for any amateur matadors who thought they could jump over the barrera
to handle the bull as they saw fit, photographers, doctors and the
delegates of the government. Everyone was there but he for whom La
Tarantula sought. But she knew that soon her lover would appear.
 
She was conscious of a hundred pairs of opera glasses being trained
on her from men scattered around the ring. But she gave them no heed.
 
Her thoughts were only of one man, El Gallo. She knew that he would
be in the patio de los caballos where the horses were. Soon, he would line
up with the other matadors, three abreast, their picadors and banderilleros
strung out behind them. Then the trumpet would blow for the fighting to
begin.
 
She looked up at the president's box. Sure enough, at that same
moment, she saw the president enter. A buzz of excitement swept through the
crowd. Matters took a busy turn. The ring servants in their red vests
became more active. Everyone took on a look of motion.
 
Suddenly, the trumpet blew. The president had waved his handkerchief
for it. A burst of clapping ensued. And, from the patio de los caballos,
two mounted men dressed in ancient costume issued forth and rode across the
sand of the ring. They galloped across the ring, doffed their hats and
bowed low to the president's box. Then the music of the band started and
from the opening in the courtyard of the horses came the procession of the
bullfighters in paseo parade. The three matadors walked abreast. Their
dress capes were furled and wrapped around their left arms while their
right arms were balanced. All walked with a loose-hipped stride, their arms
swinging, their chins up, their eyes on the president's box. Behind them
filed the picadors and banderilleros.
 
La Tarantula shuddered. For as they came closer to her to bow to the
president in his box, she saw that the familiar figure which she had come
for was not there. El Gallo was not among the matadors!
 
Immediately, a concerted growl came up from the audience. They had
come to see El Gallo, the great El Gallo. But El Gallo was not in the
parade.
 
Tears came to La Tarantula's eyes. Her face fell to her lap.
Suddenly, a roar arose from the crowd. From all sides she heard the name of
El Gallo! El Gallo! bravo El Gallo! A loud period of hand-clapping and
whistling resulted. La Tarantula looked up. Far in the distance, coming out
of the horse yard, she saw the strangely lonesome figure of a matador
dragging his cape on the ground, slumping tiredly across the sand. It was
El Gallo. But this was a whipped El Gallo. His eyes were dead. His body was
listless. His arms hung down from his shoulders like wooden weights.
 
Something in his pitiful bedraggled figure caught at La Tarantula's
throat. She could not control herself any longer. With a sigh, she leaped
down the tiers of steps, down, down, avoiding the grasps of those who tried
to stop her, crying aloud, "El Gallo! El Gallo!"
 
At the barrera that separated the seats from the ring proper, she was
seized by one of the plain-clothesmen stationed there. But she tore herself
from his grasp and threw herself over the fence. She fell but she got up
and started to run after the figure of the man she loved, still calling his
name.
 
He stopped dead in his tracks. But when he saw that it was La
Tarantula who had called him, the deadness in his eyes became alive.
 
His deadweight arms took on life. The fingers in his hand twitched
for the feel of her. And when she threw herself stumbling, weeping
hysterically into his arms, he knew that once more life was going to be
worth living. And he, too, wept. And there, in front of fourteen thousand
aficionados who had come to see him kill bulls, he kissed her again and
again on her lips and her nose and her eyes, murmuring all the while that
he loved her.
 
"We were mad last night!" she moaned.
 
"That was last night!" he cried.
 
"Oh! take me! take me!" she managed to gasp out between her racking
sobs. "I have been so lonely for you!" She saw him look around. "There's
still time for your killings. Let the other matadors kill first. You shall
have the last bulls. I must have you first!" she implored him.
 
El Gallo hesitated momentarily. But when he looked down into her
tearful face, when he saw the bulge of her bosom at her bodice promising a
bevy of beautiful breasts, when he saw her nostrils dilating in passion for
him, he realized that he could decide in only one way. So, taking her up in
his arms, he carried her to one side where the infirmary was. And all the
while, the thousands, sensing his object, laughed and cheered and whistled
and called bits of advice for him.
 
Zurito, the master's picador, came rushing over to him. "But not
before the fight, master!" he protested.
 
"Go fuck yourself!" El Gallo called out gaily.
 
But Zurito was happy. For, all night before, he had seen the mad
light in El Gallo's eyes. Now, the mad light was gone. He was happy once
more. Perhaps this fuck before a fight might weaken him. But, after all, he
was El Gallo, than whom there was no better matador. He would be somewhat
weak, but there was no bull born yet who could subdue the master matador,
El Gallo. And so Zurito stared at his master staggering with his load of
woman into the infirmary, and sighed and returned to his place in the
parade.
 
In the infirmary, the pair found the place empty. The doctors and
internes and nurses had all left for their seats in the ring to view the
fights. Not until someone got a cuerno from a bull would they interrupt
their lovemaking. Both of them hoped fervently that none would be gored by
the bulls that afternoon so that they could fuck to their hearts' content
without fear of being bothered by interlopers.
 
"Hurry! hurry!" La Tarantula murmured as El Gallo began to divest
himself of the heavily embroidered jacket he wore in the bull ring, the
while she began to take her own clothing off.
 
"No!" he commanded, "that is for me! I shall undress you!" and with
these words, he threw his jacket aside and leaped to her as she stood next
to a low hung operating table covered with a white sheet. Almost tearing
the hooks away, he seized her dress and lifted it tenderly as though he
were drawing away the holy veil from the temple of Isis.
 
Underneath he discovered only pure clean nakedness, the delicious
nakedness of La Tarantula's warm luscious body. He took a soughing intake
of breath at the sight that confronted him. Entirely unashamed, La
Tarantula now stood in front of him, displaying all of her varied charms.
Her long black silk stockings, drawn almost to the cleft of her cunt,
accentuated the lighter shades of her olive skin. Her breasts rose and fell
in the rhythm of passion that had seized her in its toils and was
tightening in her with an iron vicelike hold. Nakedly, unashamedly, she
allowed his gaze to wander to her hair fringed cunt and his eyes lingered 
there, like a food connoisseur who is loathe to take his eyes from a choice
viand, taking in each curve, each line, each intimate detail of her
femininity.
 
"Take me!" she implored, holding her arms up to him. El Gallo stepped
up to her. Wonder was in his eyes. Desire was in his fingers. Passion was
in his cock which had already doubled itself in size and rigidity. And as
he threw himself in La Tarantula's arms she felt the great pulsing thing
alive in his trousers. And as he kissed her wildly, she allowed her hand to
roam down to his trouser flap and unbutton it. Then she inserted her hand
into the opening and wrapped her slim fingers around the already-hardened
organ. Immediately it took a sudden spurt like a runner receiving his
second wind. It shot out like a racehorse from the barrier. And as she drew
the flap aside, it tumbled from its resting place and against her nakedness
where it pulsed like a mad thing. Again La Tarantula inserted her hand to
his cock. But this time her busy fingers wrapped themselves around that
amazing ballsac that harboured the famous triple testicles. She felt the
rough wrinkled skin. She reacted pleasurably to the tiny hairs scattered
over its surface. But most of all she reacted to the pulsations that
throbbed through it, the pulsations that were being caused because of her
own provocative proximity.
 
All this while, El Gallo himself was not caught napping. He had taken
hold of her nipple in his mouth and with tender lippings was nuzzling it to
a stiffness that indicated the enormity of the passion that was flooding
through her. At times he would bite playfully at the lobe of her ear, for
he had discovered that little action to be quite exciting to her. And when
he felt her fingers stroking his balls and prick, he went at his task with
an added virility, not knowing what else he could do in order to
demonstrate his love for her.
 
By this time they had worked each other up to the heat necessary to
assuring themselves of a good fuck. La Tarantula was murmuring, "I love
you! I love you!" El Gallo was demanding of her the reason for her untoward
actions the night before when she had allowed the bull to have his bestial
cock inserted into her beautiful cunny.
 
But La Tarantula was too impatient for the oncoming fuck to bother
her head over answering. All she could do was gasp out love endearments to
him the while she stroked his balls and buttocks and cock with hot rapid
palps of fingers. They could excite themselves no higher. Already, both
were panting from their exertions. La Tarantula was working her hips and
buttocks in the familiar sexual circle as she felt the bulk of El Gallo's
prick press against her and nestle among the pubic hairs.
 
Finally, El Gallo could withhold himself no longer. Taking her up in
his arms once more, he carried her over to the operating table where he
placed her tenderly outstretched on the white expanse of sheet. There, she
spread her legs out wide for him. For the minute he smiled when an odd
thought came to him.
 
"You are lying in the right place!" he said.
 
"Why?" she asked wonderingly.
 
"Because when the matador receives a cuerno from a bull, he is
brought here and he is laid out on this bed where his gaping wounds are
treated by the doctors."
 
"And I?" she asked.
 
"You too have a gaping red wound," he said with a grin, inserting his
finger into the gash that glowed between her legs. His finger sank into the
moist flesh pulsing under his finger's touch. He raised the digit to come
in contact with a stiff little facsimile of his own elongated penis.
 
"What does the doctor do when the matador with the gaping red gash of
a cuerno is brought here?" La Tarantula asked archly.
 
"He closes up the wound!" El Gallo replied.
 
"I suffer greatly from my deep gash, good doctor El Gallo!" she
answered.
 
"And I am ever handy with the needle!" El Gallo replied. And, suiting
the action to the word, he leaped up onto the bed, spread her legs still
wider and adjusted his cock so that it barely rested in the aperture that
God had placed in woman's body for that purpose. For a few seconds he
teased her by merely allowing the tip to rest in the entrance so that she
could feel it was there but not all there. Then, when he saw a petulant
frown come into her face, he leaned his entire weight against the bloated
pecker, sinking its entire length in to the hilt and wrenching from the
lips of the joy-anguished La Tarantula below him the deepest moan of
combined pleasure and pain. Back and forth his body went, each time drawing
the needle in and out. And, as he drew the penis out, La Tarantula began to
practice one of her artful tricks on him. Instead of allowing him to
withdraw easily, she contracted the muscles in her cunt so that they
wrapped themselves around his cock like iron bands. The result was an
intense pleasure as though he was being milked.
 
"There!" he said as he continued to pump the organ into her, and
between grunts. "Is that ugh!.. not better than ugh!.. that foul ugh! 
beast?"
 
La Tarantula was unable to make answer. Instead, she took hold of his
face between her hands and drew his head down to hers. Then, opening her
mouth as wide as she could, she made as though to swallow his whole mouth
in hers, nipping his lips and his tongue with her front teeth, darting her
active tongue into crevices of his mouth that even he himself was unaware
existed. Nose to nose they breathed in the fire from each other's nostrils,
the saliva from their mouths mingling in sweet fluxion, their busy fingers,
roaming over every part of their bodies, exploring for sensitive spots,
eagerly trying to ferret out some place that had not been lovingly
caressed.
 
From the outside, La Tarantula heard the sounds of the bullfight. A
bull bellowed and roared. A horse whinnied out as the bull's horns sank
deeply into its entrails, while the picador on the horse sank his pic into
the muscle hump on the back of the bull. So absorbed did she become in the 
external sounds, ruminating and conjecturing on their causes, that she did
not sense the oncoming orgasm until it was almost ready to come upon her.
Then, she was suddenly brought back to the fact that she was being
deliciously fucked by El Gallo, the El Gallo, and that in the background of
her consciousness, there lurked the first signs of an approaching spasm of
passion. Slowly and slowly the orgasm gathered its forces, piling up in
back of her body like floodwaters behind the dike, seething within her with
the same impetuous rhythm that precedes an inundation.
 
Then it was that she experienced the strangest of emotions. Time and
time again she had been brought to the same point. The seething, boiling
millrace within her was an old story. This emotion was a different emotion.
This passion was the old passion magnified a hundredfold.
 
This was love!
 
At last she was experiencing that most elusive of sensations. She had
read of love in the romantic novels of Spain. She had heard the young girls
tell of love. Love was on everyone's lips. Love, it was said, made the
world go round.
 
This was love!
 
Those supposed passions of the past, they had not been love. They had
been imitations of love. This was love. Behind the physical pleasures there
peeped a spiritual awakening, the birth of a regard for her love partner
that had never been present in her. She looked up into the face of El
Gallo, the sweat streaming from his forehead. She saw a light in his eyes
that she had never seen there before. He was in love with her too. That was
why he had looked so sad last night. That was why he had wept. He loved
her. And she loved him. That was love! That was why this old passion was
magnified to a point where she thought that she could not stand the
pressure of her boiling orgiastic senses. And as she felt his long cock
travelling the length of her vagina, touching, titillating the mouth of her
womb it seemed, she knew that she had found the one man to whom she could
respond wholeheartedly. Then and there she sensed the orgasm. Then and
there she succumbed to her emotions. She almost swooned in the resultant
pleasures that swarmed over her like the enemy in an attack.
 
"I'm coming!" she whispered, "I'm coming!"
 
"Me too!" he answered laconically.
 
Then she came, her ass ploughing up and back in an attempt to match
El Gallo's fierce thrusts. Her plasm flowed all over her and under her and
about her, enveloping her in its effulgent caresses. And, at the same time,
she felt three short spurts against the walls of her cunny together with a
pleasing, smooth, fluidic inundation of his juice gushing into her.
Together they lay and she wrapped her legs around his legs. And she stuck
her mouth to his mouth. She cleaved her tongue to his tongue, and rolled
her hips to his hips. She knew that nothing now was ever going to part
them, that their bodies were one, their lives were one, their future was
one.
 
Their orgasms over, neither said a word. Both were puffing mightily.
 
As if to heighten his emotion, La Tarantula nipped the flesh of his
cheek playfully. It sent an electric current through him so that he gave
his limp prick in her moist cunny a muscle jerk. She reciprocated in turn
with the muscles in her cunt, contracting them so that they felt like a
ring of fire around his cock. They continued to do this playfully for some
time, the while their laboured gasps became normal. But, by the time they
had managed to breathe right, they discovered that, in their playfulness,
she had worked his quondam flaccid prick up to a hard-on again, so that it
bulked in her quim once more. And, to boot, she had worked herself up to
another pitch where she itched for the violent fuck thrusts once again.
There was nothing that could be done about it except fuck. And so, having
rested from the terrific ardours of the first orgasm, El Gallo set to work
once more, throwing his enlarged prick into his lover's awaiting organ,
sensing the lovingness with which she followed his every motion, his every
action, his every labour of love.
 
He too sensed the fact that this was different. That this was love
such as he had never before known to be existent. His frequent fucking
jousts with the putas and lumias of the streets and the stage, they,
compared to his reactions now, had merely been knotholes in a fence. Their
simulated attempts at passion were as child's play compared with this
flaming volcanic eruption of love under him, that loved every inch of him
and for whom he had regard such as he had never before known.
 
She was as vital to him now as life itself. He must never let her go
from his sight.
 
She, too, was thinking the same thing. And when she told him her
thoughts, the while he was pumping his cock into her, they sealed their
marriage, as it were, with a pure lipkiss that was devoid of the customary
passion and tricks that they practiced.
 
Again La Tarantula became aware of the closeness of another orgasm.
 
Again she whispered to El Gallo that she was going to come. Again he
prepared himself so that he could come into her the moment he felt her body
stiffen under him with her legs wrapped around his legs, her hands
clutching his torso, her tongue amorously searching for contact with his
tongue.
 
Again they flooded each other with bliss. Their bodies churned in the
throes of the passionate maelstrom. His cock bolted in and out like a
stallion. Her cunt received it avidly, sucking its entire length into its
cavity. They laboured in panted breaths. And then they receded into the
afterfuck that comes as a postlude to passion and lay still, their hearts
beating, bodies electric with love, their limbs quivering in the wake of
their excitement.
 
For a while, El Gallo allowed the shrivelled cock to remain in her
cunt and wallow in the fluids there. But soon he turned over on his back
and stared up at the ceiling, the while he played with her breasts.
 
At that point, they heard the sound of voices approaching.
 
Immediately, El Gallo leaped up from the bed, helping La Tarantula to
her feet, too. She scampered into a side room with her dress. When she
returned calm and composed, but her cheeks flushed, she saw Zurito and a
number of others of El Gallo's cuadrilla of aides imploring with him as he
adjusted his trouser flap. Zurito was helping him on with his elaborate
jacket and cape.
 
"They are demanding El Gallo!" he begged.
 
"Then it will be El Gallo they shall get!" he said, preparing to
leave. He took La Tarantula in his arms and kissed her. "Boys!" he said,
"this is to be the future Senora El Gallo!" Then he swept out of the room
crying,
 
"A los toros! to the bulls!"
 
When La Tarantula found herself once more in her box, she discovered
that the picador Zurito had mounted his rangy horse and was preparing his
long lance like pic for the bull. Her El Gallo was standing to one side
watching the proceedings. Her heart went out to him when she recalled the
hectic half hour they had just spent together.
 
Then she saw him place himself behind a flat plank shelter jutting
out of the barrera. One of the officials, the alguacil, rode over to the
president's box and asked for the key to the red door behind which the bull
to be killed was waiting. He caught the thrown key in his plumed hat as the
crowd clapped. Then he rode over to the bullpen where he gave the key to
the doorkeeper. Ring servants smoothed down the hoof prints of the horse.
El Gallo stood behind his burladero. Two banderilleros, one on each side of
the ring, stood against the fence. It was very quiet now. La Tarantula's
heart beat faster because she realized that this was all for her lover, El
Gallo, whose name had just been shouted to the skies by the excited fans.
The president gave his signal with a wave of his white handkerchief. The
trumpet sounded.
 
And an old white bearded man unlocked the door of the toril where the
champing bull was penned, pulling heavily on it.
 
The bull came bellowing out of the toril. La Tarantula gasped. It was
the Miura bull of last night! It was the bull that she had allowed to fuck
her. A deep sense of shame crept over her. But this was changed immediately
when she saw that El Gallo, too, had recognized the Miura. For he looked up
to where she was seated and waved to her. He would avenge this insult with
the death of this bull, he would kill it cleanly and neatly and with
dispatch.
 
One of the banderilleros ran across the course trailing a cape. The
bull followed the cape. Then the matador El Gallo stepped out from his
shelter. Standing in front of the bull, he waved the cape. El Gallo began
to put him through his paces. He cited him from the front, standing still
as the bull charged, and with his arms moving the cape slowly just ahead of
the bull's horns, passing the bull's horns close by his body with a slow
movement of the cape, seeming to keep him controlled in the folds of the
cape, bringing him past his body each time as he turned and recharged. He
did this five times and then finished off with a swirl of the cape that 
turned his back on the bull, thus cutting the bull's charge brusquely and
fixing him to the spot.
 
La Tarantula thrilled when she saw her man, puny compared to the huge
hulking beast, playing tricks with the animal, it being completely at his
mercy. And when she saw the dangling sac of the bull's balls, she thrilled
in the knowledge that her man, too, was endowed with almost as large a
ball-sac, and, to top it off, he had three instead of two balls. Thoughts
such as this made her squirm, for a hot spot appeared in the region of her
cunny and she became riggish for the feel of El Gallo's prick.
 
The three acts of the bullfight had begun in earnest now. Picadors on
horses, armed with long spiked poles, prodded the point of the pole into
the muscle hump of the bull, enraging it to a point of madness.
 
Three horses were gored by the bull, their entrails trailing out from
their guts like a string of ribbon. Soon they were covered by canvases and
the ring made ready for the second act, that of banderillas long sticks of
about a yard long with a harpoon-shaped steel point. These were placed two
at a time in the humped muscle at the top of the bull's neck as he charged
the banderillas who held them. They, too, were designed to slow up the bull
and regulate his carriage. Four pairs of banderilleras were stuck into the
bull.
 
Then El Gallo came out of his burladero. Directly to the spot beneath
La Tarantula he came and there dedicated the ear of the bull to her, his
espoused one. The audience cheered them both when they heard this
announcement. Word of the news travelled through the ring. But the bull was
to be killed. Bowing again, El Gallo backed away to prepare for his work
with the muleta, a scarlet cloth folded over a stick which has a sharp
spike at one end and a handle at the other. The matador uses this to master
the bull, preparing him for a killing and finally holding it in his left
hand to lower the bull's head and keeping it lowered while he kills the
animal with a sword thrust high up between his shoulder blades.
 
El Gallo went through the whole rigmarole of the matador's craft with
the aplomb of the master that he was. Time after time, after a difficult
trick, the audience would applaud his daring, marvelling at the grace he
displayed in avoiding the mad rushes of the bull, imploring with him at
times not to take such risks in allowing the bull's horns to brush so
closely to his stomach. But El Gallo was reborn. He had found his first
love. He was displaying his prowess before her right now. The peacock
struts its finery in front of the female. And so, El Gallo strutted his
knowledge for La Tarantula.
 
Then came the time for the killing. The bull, dazed by the tricks of
the matador, stood square on his four feet facing the man who was about
five feet away from him, his feet together, his muleta in his left hand and
the sword which he had drawn out of a leather scabbard in his right. El
Gallo raised the muleta to see whether the bull followed it with his eyes.
Then he lowered the cloth, held it and the sword together, then turned so
that he was standing sideways toward the bull, made a twist with his left 
hand that unfurled the cloth over the stick of the muleta, drew the sword
up from the lowered muleta and sighted along it to the bull, his head, the
blade of the sword and his left shoulder pointing toward the bull, the
muleta held low in his hand. El Gallo drew himself up taut and started
toward the bull. Immediately, the bull charged the man.
 
La Tarantula held her breath. She saw the hulking beast charging her
lover. She saw El Gallo lower his muleta, thus lowering the head of the
bull. Then he shot his right arm forward, the sword entering the exact spot
atop the bull's neck.
 
Suddenly, a flicker of wind swept the cloth of the muleta upward.
 
Instantly the bull's head followed the wind raised cloth. Squarely
into El Gallo's guts the cruel, jagged horns of the Miura went. Impaled on
the horn, El Gallo went upward. When the bull's head came down, El Gallo
rolled off. The bull again rushed forward, nuzzling the prostrate figure
with his bloodied horn so that El Gallo's guts issued from his belly in a
pool of blood.
 
The audience groaned. The bull bellowed once and then fell over on
its back, dead, the sword having finally done its work.
 
But across the breadth of the ring there sounded the strange eerie
cry of a woman in pain. La Tarantula had struck again. The bull that had
had its enormous prick in her lay in the dirt, its legs stuck stiffly up
into the air. The man who was going to become her husband lay next to the
bull, his life blood oozing out from a jagged hole in his belly.
 
When the ballad singers went through the village the next morning
singing: Oh! hear of the death of El Gallo the great! they knew that they
couldn't sell their printed ballad to the old men who sat in the street
drinking sunshine. For they were mumbling into their beards of how La
Tarantula had struck again.
 
Once the bull.
 
And again the matador.



 
CHAPTER SEVEN

 
La Tarantula died at the bullfight when her lover, El Gallo, was
gored to his death. That is to say, her body still remained alive but her
soul had died. She did not rush down to the infirmary where they carried
the beloved body of the gored matador. She did not even attend his funeral.
She did not want to see him in death. It was in life that she had last seen
him, robust lusty life, redolent with the bloom of youth. That would be the
memory of him that she would always carry with her.
 
Before this, she had laughed at the insidious rumours regarding her
evil malignant influence over those who loved her. Now, her attitude toward
herself had changed. She was ill-starred. Any who came into contact with
her were doomed to death. Even the Miura bull was fated to die because of 
his contacts with her. She was poison to man.
 
But she continued to dance. In all of the cafes of Spain she danced.
 
Previously, there had been always a wild abandonment in her dancing.
 
Never had there been a hint of sadness. But now, she danced as though
the sorrows of the world had been heaped onto her shoulders. The music she
chose to dance to was always the sad, sombre type of the malagueha. But
despite the melancholy of her dancing, she stirred the imaginations of
those who watched her dance. The rhythm of her sensuous body attracted the
lewd eyes of the men. They still camped at her feet begging her favours of
her, willing to lay down everything, including life, for but one night in
her arms.
 
But she lived for her dancing only. For in her dance she would
imagine that there was only one person in the room, El Gallo, and that her
movements, her actions, her desire as expressed in the posed attitudes and
the muscle contortions were for him and for him only.
 
Over the entire breadth of the land she travelled, keeping herself
from man, yet stirring them for her so that she was forced to keep moving
from city to city in order to escape the advances of some hot-blooded male
who was unable to control his sanity any longer.
 
That was how she found herself in a Moorish cafe about a year after
her affair with El Gallo. Even into Africa, into Tangier, her fame as a
dancer had penetrated. At first, she had turned down the offers to leave
Spain. But, in time, when the men became too importune, and after she had
crossed and recrossed the country, even having gone into Portugal, she
decided to make the boat trip from Gibraltar to Tangier to fill an
engagement at the Moorish Cafe, near the Soko Chico section.
 
The place she danced in was a long room with immense rafters on the
ceiling. Matting carpeted the floors. Benches ranged around one side of the
room. Chairs and tables filled the centre. A greater part of the floor,
two-thirds of it, was occupied by sitting figures, musicians, about fifteen
of them, seated cross-legged, their slippers removed, darkskinned men with
white burnouses, filled the room. Here, there were no white visitors. This
was a native place kept exclusively for natives. That was why the
management had gone to the expense of hiring Spanish dancers. Their own
dances had lost their savour by constant repetition.
 
For the while, these musicians danced and sang Arabian love songs.
 
During the intermissions, the men smoked long pipes and drank thick
syrupy coffee from tiny cups.
 
Suddenly, the musicians struck up a song that was entirely foreign to
the tunes they had previously played. The men in the audience sat up and
took notice. For the music was a slow Spanish malaguena such as they had
heard, some of them, across the water in Cadiz and other parts of Spain.
The gypsy girl, La Tarantula, they knew was going to dance next.
 
She issued from a froth of curtained veils to one side of the room.
Her eyes seemed to be deep expressionless pools of brackish green water.
 
Her gaze was still a million miles away, harking back to a time a 
thousand years ago, it seemed. Only her body was there dancing for them.
Her mind was dead.
 
Slowly the music from the guitars and the mandolins took on a rising
tempo. The tomtoms beat a heartbeat rhythm, enchanting the senses of the
onlookers, hypnotizing their steady stares at the new gypsy dancer.
 
Gradually, the steady monotonous rhythm insinuated itself into their
consciousness so that they forgot the time of the present and knew only
that time had flowed by them and that Nirvana itself was encircling them.
 
Their eyes followed every movement of La Tarantula's body. Snakelike
it swayed in front of them and entranced their senses. Like the flowing of
fluescent waters, her body wove itself into a series of convulsions, an
invitation sometimes suggesting itself in her body's grimaces, a repulsion
always in the background. And as the movements of her body varied, so
varied the masks on her face, changing when her body suggested unholy lust
and then, in the next second, adjusting its features into a mask of utter
virginal simplicity, as the body took on those attributes.
 
On and on she danced, her flowing arms and legs and muscles seemingly
carrying her along on air currents. The music, once risen to a quick tempo,
had subsided once more into the slow measures of its opening chords. The
strings sobbed melancholy tears. The tomtoms beat out the rhythm of a dying
heart. The castanets clacked dismal sounds. Slowly, slowly, her body
subsided into a slow weaving of her torso, gradually sinking to the floor
in spasms until, as the music died out into almost soundless notes, her
poor tired body was inert on the floor.
 
For a full minute, all was quiet. Then the applause broke out in the
audience. The Moors applauded wildly. The native guides who frequented the
place when business was bad promised themselves that they would bring their
next foreigners here for the gypsy dancer. In one corner of the room, his
head almost completely immersed in the white burnouse of a native, a
dark-skinned Berber was watching the proceedings. His beady eyes glittered
at the sight of the gypsy body.
 
His tongue laved his dry lips. Clapping his hands together, he
summoned the waiter, and gave him a curt order. Then he settled himself
deeper into his chair and continued to stare at the gypsy girl.
 
His eyes closed until they were mere slits. The muscles in his chin
worked like mad.
 
La Tarantula lay on the floor breathing heavily from exhaustion.
 
Tensely, her body awaited the opening strains of the next dance. This
was to be the most sensational dance she had ever done. It was going to be
danced with another gypsy dancer, La Niobe, a girl whom she had picked up
in the Triana gypsy settlement and whom she had been teaching for the past
year. It was only because of her interest in this young girl of seventeen
that she had been able to keep herself alive.
 
All year they had been rehearsing this one dance. It was going to be
the climax of her entire dancing career. Nobody had ever seen it before.
Even the musicians had played their music without ever having seen the 
actual dance. Now, La Tarantula awaited the opening chords that would start
them off. A tense air of excitement crept over the place. Word had gone
around that La Tarantula was going to introduce a new and sensational
dance. All eyes were glued to her figure on the floor. The lights were all
turned off with the exception of one that spotlighted the recumbent figure
on the stage.
 
The man in the white burnouse still stared out of his narrowed eye
slits and laved his lips with his tongue.
 
The music began. First one instrument essayed a few hesitant notes,
as though distantly, dimly. Gradually it became louder. Then the other
instruments came chiming in, each adding a new colour to the music.
 
And the sum total of it all was a strangely barbaric chant that was
not barbaric. Something of the barbaric masculine was missing from it. But
in its place was the barbarism of women, the sweet effulgent love music
that women love.
 
Through the veil of curtains floated the figure of La Niobe. A gasp
went through the men when they saw that she was entirely nude. Her young
girlish figure stood out like a piece of vivified alabaster. As she
 
stepped cautiously, softly into the light, her tiny breasts jiggled
sensuously so that more than one old man in the audience sucked the breath
through his teeth with the bitterness of impotency. Hesitantly she danced
around the figure of La Tarantula on the floor, wondering why she was
there. Then, as the music took on tempo, she became more sure of herself.
Taking a drape of La Tarantula's in her hand, she lifted it away from the
tired body. One breast of the dancer rolled free, its flesh quivering as it
fell away from the confines of the cloth. Again the young girl lifted
another drape away from La Tarantula's body. The other breast rolled free,
shaking gelatinously with freedom. The girl allowed the two drapes to
flutter softly to the floor.
 
Piece after piece the girl lifted away from La Tarantula until it
became quite obvious to the spectators that the gypsy dancer was now as
naked as her dancing partner. At this point the soft sad music took a turn.
It became more animated. Life crept into it like the warmth of the morning
sun into a cold room. A quiver went through her. Her arms moved slightly.
Then her legs moved. And then her head. Soon, every part of her was moving,
weaving and twisting as she sat seated on her haunches. And, around her,
her young protegee danced gracefully, pleading with her as it were to enter
into the spirit of the dance with her. Soon, La Tarantula had arisen from
her sitting position and was dancing with La Niobe. But this was an
entirely different dance than had ever been performed before. Now, instead
of interpreting in her dance the sexual act with man, she was doing the
same for woman.
 
Round and round her hips rolled as though she were inviting the hairy
cunny part of the young girl, La Niobe, to come closer so that she could
rub her own hot cunt into it. Hotter and hotter the music became. Their
eyes rolled. Their fingers twitched Closer and closer their bodies 
approached each other, the naked flesh gleaming in the lone light. A mad,
bad note took hold of the music. Strange, esoteric rites were suggested by
it. The weeping wailing of disembowelled ghosts crept into it.
 
Soon, the pair of quivering naked bodies were almost together. Their
bodies shook. Their shoulders shook. And as they shook the nipples of their
breasts touched each other as they swung from side to side. The contact
made them stand up stiffly. Closer and closer the breasts closed in with
each other. And the bodies were soon touching. Soon, with all the fervour
of a love bout, of a perfect manfuck, they were rubbing their cunts
together with a series of moans and ahs and ohs that seemed to have found
life in an overwhelming passion. Faster and faster they whirled their
abdomens, rubbing each other's pubic sections so that it seemed that sparks
were made by the friction. When it seemed that they could stand the
contacts no longer, they suddenly seized hold of each other tightly around
each other's waist and danced together, whirling their buttocks now,
kissing each other on all parts of their bodies, moaning and weeping. The
music wailed on. The dance continued. With one heart deep scream from La
Tarantula, the pair fell to the ground still in each other's embrace. There
they licked at each other's breasts and, when they could contain themselves
no longer, reversed their positions so that La Tarantula's head was between
the legs of La Niobe and vice versa. Then, timed to the beat of the music,
they sent their heads and their tongues bobbing into the hot cuntboxes of
each other's hotspots, wrapping the tips of their tongues around the
stiffening clitorises of their cunnies.
 
The music rose to a higher pitch. Their bodies were soon in the
throes of a double orgasm. Their heads still bobbed between their legs. The
young girl La Niobe was the first to experience her orgasm. She let out a
scream as though she were suffering the most severe tortures. Her thighs
trembled. Her eyes popped. Her fingers clutched the hair of her partner. At
the same moment, La Tarantula felt herself give way. And she, too, came,
inundating the face of La Niobe with a sweet delicious flood of fluid. They
quivered, they panted, they shook in passion. And, all the while, the
sensuous music throbbed on, accentuating their movements so that they took
on the grotesqueness of puppets.
 
The men in the audience became restless. Some had reached into the
folds of their trousers and were tugging at their arisen members.
 
Others could just about keep themselves from leaping onto the dais to
separate the two women and show them that they were made for the pleasure
of man and not woman. But, in his corner, the dark-skinned Berber stared at
the proceedings with his half-closed eyes and smiled enigmatically to
himself.
 
The music stopped almost as abruptly as it had begun. The two women
lay together on the stage in each other's embrace, resting from their
labours. At the same time, an immense veil floated down from the ceiling
covering their naked bodies. Then the lights were completely extinguished.
A moment later, when they were turned on, the stage was seen to be bare of 
the two women and, in their places, were the musicians about to sing and
play love songs.
 
A deafening thunder of applause greeted the lights. And the clapping
continued. But neither of the women returned to the stage. For that matter,
neither of them ever returned to the stage. Almost as if by magic, the
young girl was whisked away by a group of sinister coffeecollared
individuals in burnouses. La Tarantula was seized as she stepped into her
room. A gag was placed around her mouth. Then she felt herself being
carried downstairs. Exhausted from her dancing, she lost consciousness.
When she came to, she found herself resting on a divan in an immense,
richly furnished room. With the exception of a filmy diaphanous gown, she
was naked. As she opened her eyes, she saw seated across from her a
darkened, narrow-eye-slitted Arabian.
 
"You are awake!" he said.
 
She nodded her head. Instantly he clapped his hands together and a
number of Negroes appeared, bearing trays of choice steaming viands and
wines. They dined. When La Tarantula was satisfied, she asked the Arabian
the reason for her being seized so summarily. Dryly, the Arabian said,
"Need I tell you why I want you?" His eyes roamed over her body and
caressed her breasts and the hair-rimmed cunt barely visible through the
filmy gown.
 
Again, the Arabian clapped his hands. This time, the Negroes brought
in two pipes. "Hasheesh!" the Arabian explained, as he tendered one of
 
the pipes to La Tarantula. She accepted it hesitantly. "Do not be
afraid," he said. "It will give you strange but pleasant dreams!"
 
"But why must I smoke hasheesh?" she asked.
 
"Because I would fuck you!" the Arabian answered.
 
"But why the hasheesh?" she continued.
 
As if in reply, the Arab turned the flap of his gown aside and
uncovered the region of his penis. There, nestling in a wad of hair, La
Tarantula saw the cock of a boy of ten, like a little worm, seemingly
inadequate for intercourse even with a rabbit.
 
As though he read the puzzling question in her features, the Arab
explained. "Hasheesh gives you dreams of exaggeration. Everything around
you takes on an enormous stature."
 
La Tarantula needed no more explanation. Taking the preferred lighted
pipe, she inserted the stem into her mouth as she lay reclining on her
elbow on a mattress of soft pillows on the divan. Taking in one deep puff
of the smoke, she inhaled deeply, allowing the acrid fumes to sink into her
lungs, almost choking from it. Seated across the room she saw the Arabian
preparing his own pipe, stuffing the tiny bowl of his pipe with the fine
golden greenish-tinged power called bhang but known as hasheesh. "I shall
smoke only one pipe for company with you," he said, "after that, I shall
drink it in my coffee for smoking it has no effect on me!"
 
Lying on her elbow, La Tarantula felt an hilarious laugh running
through her body. Something about what the Arabian had said sounded 
uproariously funny. And she gave vent to a loud laugh which subsided into a
series of giggles.
 
The Arabian watched her through guarded narrow eyes and nodded his
head. He knew that this was the effect of the first stage of hasheesh
smoking. Soon she would be holding her sides with laughter, roaring at any
chance remark that he might make, imagining that every word he spoke was
marvellously humorous. But La Tarantula was laughing at something else
besides what she thought was the Arabian's wit. She was laughing because
she wondered what the poor fellow was going to do with that little, up-up
thing he called his cock. And, as she tried to imagine it being inserted
into her cunt, she knew that it would be lost in her hole like a needle in
a haystack.
 
Deeper and deeper she puffed the fumes of the pipe. And with each
puff, she seemed to feel that her body was shrinking up within her and that
her surroundings were gradually taking on the proportions of a giant's
room. A plant in one corner seemed to appear like an enormous swaying palm
tree. A tinkling fountain in the patio that she could just about glimpse
through Moorish archways in the other room was a gigantic display of
waterworks thrusting an immense needle of water into a great spray from
which there roared the sound of a Niagara waterfall. Outside, a horse and
cart jogged over the cobblestones on the street. But what she heard was a
mighty rumble of thunder reverberating in a chasm of infinity, sounding and
resounding through measureless mountain passes. In another room, a musician
was playing a violin. But, although the strings had been muted, the
resultant music to La Tarantula was like the music of the spheres sounding
in majestic diapason from planet to planet, heavenly music swelling in
mighty chords that could be heard a million miles away as from an orchestra
of ten million instruments and a whole world of singers.
 
Then she looked down at what had once been a tiny worm of a prick
between the legs of the Arabian. What she now saw was the bulking cock of a
Don Juan, the balls of an El Gallo, the rampant galloping cock of a true
fuckman. Immediately, her fingers shook nervously for contact with the
great big thing.
 
Her cunt quivered for cuntact. Her ass shook for cantact. Her lips
quavered for kintact. Her soul longed for kentact. Everything about her
ached to have that overcharged battery of sexual dynamite exploding within
her. She moaned. She sighed. She extended her arms to his cock beckoning
for him to come to her hastily before it might diminish in size.
 
Tenderly, she took the seemingly enormous prick into her hands and
stroked its length with her fingers. Under the massage, the thing seemed to
take on added stature. For, with a series of spurts it grew larger and
larger so that La Tarantula became riggish with the desire to have the
thing already in her and poking her vitals about madly.
 
Slowly, the Arabian adjusted himself over the tremulous body of the
olive-skinned gypsy girl lying outstretched on the divan. Through the
diaphanous gown he saw the brown triangle of hair at her cleft.
 
Reverently, he lifted the gossamer away, gradually bringing to view
the unadorned beauty of her cunt. When he spread her legs wide and saw the
gaping hole awaiting the entrance of his boyish worm of a cock, he
fervently hoped that the results of the hasheesh would suffice for him to
complete the fuck. Otherwise, she would come to her senses and realize
that, instead of a huge mastodon of a prick in her there was only the
undeveloped penis of a child. It did not take him very long to insert his
stiffened fingersize prick into her. But as he did so, he managed to keep
his index finger alongside of it so as to stiffen it all the more and to
give it the feeling of more body. And as he guided it into the receptive
hot hole, he allowed his finger to brush up against the button that stood
sentinel over her cunny, and thus give the sensation that it was his prick
that was fucking her and not his finger.
 
But La Tarantula was unaware of the deception that was taking place
in her avaricious cunny. The effects of the drug still had a firm hold of
her senses. She still imagined the violin playing was music of the spheres.
She still imagined that the cock within her was an oversized behemoth of a
veritable Gargantua filling every inch of her cunt with its expansive
magnitude and almost bursting her bottom in its monstrous plunges into her.
 
At times she imagined that she was unable to stand the pressure of
the fuck any longer. The insistent cock pushed into her again and again and
she felt certain that it was tearing away the delicate tissues that lined
her quim. What an immense thing this Arabian had, she thought.
 
Never before had there been such a prick up inside of her. Never
before had her bottom been so distended with live active cock. Back and
forth she felt the monster shoot it into her and with each movement her
body seemed to fill out with its bulk.
 
She didn't know how long this went on.
 
Time became non-existent to her. All she knew was that fucking her,
pistoning her, burgeoning inside her, there was a prick, a man's prick, a
prick such as the world had never before imagined could have existed.
 
But the wonderful thing about it all was that that marvellous prick
was inside of her at that very minute. And that, in a few seconds, it would
bring her to an orgasm.
 
Sure enough, just as she thought of it, she felt the insistent
boiling up in her loins. The small of her back ached with a steady pain.
She heaved her guts wildly. Her hips she whirled in insane gyrations.
Avidly, her lips sought the bewhiskered lips of the Arabian. Crazily, her
hands sought his body, sought the secret parts of his body so that she
might enjoy every part of him when the climax evidenced itself.
 
But he, the Arabian, was suffering damnably. Looking down at her, he
saw her face crease in the throes of an engulfing passion. Her lips formed
themselves succubus-like over his lips. Her tongue roamed around his mouth.
Her teeth bit his lips gently. Her hands sought his private parts with
trembling fingers. But he was cold. He was unable to work himself up into
the same pitch that she was now undergoing. For, though she imagined and 
felt the man-sized prick in her and reacted physically to it, he knew that
he had in her only a boy's-size piddler that diddled around ineffectively
in her boiling cunny. A red rage came over him. He must work himself up
into the same passionate fervour. If for this one time only, he was going
to bring himself to a man-sized passion even though possessing of only a
boy's-size prick.
 
And so, seizing hold of her delicious body, he began to poke his tiny
thing into her. Faster and faster he moved his ass. Once the prick fell
out. But he managed to work it in again and continued in his strenuous,
zealous caperings above her.
 
Suddenly, he felt her body stiffen under him. He felt the fingers of
her hand dig into his flesh. He felt her teeth nip his lips. He felt the
hot breath from her nostrils fanning his cheeks as she panted in the apex
of passion that was coursing through her. Already the sweat was dripping
from his forehead from his untoward exertions. His own breath was coming in
deep laboured gasps, but not from the exertion that comes with passion.
Rather, it was the exertion that comes with the travail of manual labour.
Tiny black spots danced before his eyes.
 
He felt his heart pumping alarmingly fast in his breast. His pulse
raced like a trip hammer. But, despite this, he made an extra supreme
effort to bring himself around. And with many puffs and sighs and groans,
he worked his belly and his thighs in an entire abandonment of reason.
 
And when he felt the severe spasms of her orgasm drenching her inner
cunt with its pearly fluid, he spurred himself to another great,
overweening heave into her cunt. And with this last desperate shove, he
thought he detected the faint signs of an oncoming orgasm. But, at that
exact moment, something in his heart wrenched itself with a sharp stab
inside his breast.
 
After that, he knew no more, he felt no more. He fell heavily to La
Tarantula's chest, a deadweight.
 
And then he rolled off her to one side of the bed face-downward,
where he remained quiet and motionless.
 
Meanwhile, La Tarantula, who had already experienced the sweet
painful pleasures of her orgasm, lay back on her pillow and rested. A
coolness, a delicious languor suffused her arms and legs, stole over her
entire body with a lush velvety creeping. And, with her eyes closed, she
still retained her consciousness, but her thoughts wandered in an immense
reverie. Her body which had just been so vitally alive, so dynamically
existent, now ceased to exist. Now she was spirit, pure spirit making giant
strides across rivulets that were mountain passes on the earth. At times
she felt as though she were riding a horse on pillows of billowing clouds
crossing immense vistas of space that were timeless, formless and almost
ephemeral.
 
But gradually, she felt the grandeur reduce itself in size. Her
feelings grew less ecstatic. The clouds dropped away. She began to descend
to earth. The room began to take on the aspects of a room and not a hall.
 
The tinkle of the fountain became only a tinkle. The violinist's
violin played muted music, mournfully, dismally, as only the Orientals can
play their minor-chorded music. Infinity became closer and closer until she
began to be aware of time.
 
The awareness of her surroundings struck her like a dull-edged knife.
 
She opened her eyes and thought that she was coming out of a dream.
 
But this dream had been different. She remembered nothing of what had
transpired. The seconds, the minutes, the hours that had passed were
compassed into a period of lost time. It was as if they had never existed.
When she turned her eyes and saw the inert figure of the Arabian at her
side she gave a startled gasp and drew back away from it. Something in the
still stiffness repelled her. And when she finally got up enough courage to
extend her fingers to touch the flesh of the man she felt cold dead flesh
under her skin, and she recoiled in horror.
 
La Tarantula had struck again.
 
In the throes of his passion, the Arabian had passed away with a
severe attack of his heart.
 
In a dark alley of the native quarters of the city, deep in the murky
purlieus of the narrow winding streets, the slim young body of La Niobe
lay, a smudge of blood spread over the region of her debauched cunt. Wide,
cruel tears extended from the top and bottom of the bloodied lips. A
hundred men, it seemed, had shoved enormous rapacious pricks into her
until, swooning from pain and finally become insensate to all that was
happening, the poor girl sank to the dust of the street, bleeding to death.
 
La Tarantula had struck again.



 
CHAPTER EIGHT

 
It took a long time for La Tarantula to recover from her experiences
in Tangier. Returned to Seville, she hovered between life and death in the
throes of an undulant fever that sapped all her strength from her.
 
Forever, she was envisioning the bodies of those that had died in
sexual service to her. Her uncle Chato Doble, Otero, the dancing master,
Don Juan Gandulla, the guitarist, Cazuela, her maid, Don Jose Caloro'a, the
tenor, El Gallo, the matador, Vibora, the Miura bull, the Arabian and La
Niobe, her young dancing protegee, all of them fled across the miasma of
her mind. Like disembodied spirits, their wraiths hung about her, taunting
her with the death's head that overshadowed her lovers.
 
For a whole year she malingered, wasted almost to a shadow of what
once had been the notoriously beautiful La Tarantula, the gypsy dancer.
After a year she began to take on weight. Desire to live returned. The
shadows of the dead past died down so that they became scarcely
perceptible. But they still remained. For that is the tragedy of life. The
dead do not die. For they live on in memory in the minds of those who are 
alive. They cling tenaciously to life although their bodies have rotted
away into dirt and their skulls have become nests for scorpions.
 
But lying in the beneficences of the Spanish sun, she gradually
became healthier until soon she had regained her once-resplendent figure
and virility. In no time she was being booked throughout the city for
appearances in her famous dances. But men avoided her as though she were
the plague. No matter how they thrilled at her dancing, no matter how they
desired to get the provocative gypsy into bed, there to fuck the life out
of her, they never approached her. They avoided her, for the death's head
glowed evilly above her like a dead star.
 
But she continued to dance all the while. Apparently, the fire, the
zest was still with her. But, she herself knew that she was only a
consummate actress, that the passion she simulated was only a cheap tawdry
imitation of what had once been genuine feeling and emotion.
 
Being a woman and being even more than a woman, for she was La
Tarantula, she felt the urge of sexual pleasure demanding some sort of
consideration. She could not see a pair of flies on the windowpane but she
was forced to think of herself in a similar position with a man on top of
her jousting away merrily to a pleasurable orgasm. In her mind's eye, she
roved backward to all of the fucks of the past, going over the details of
each one, retracing her actions and emotions at each fuck, working herself
up to pitch until she could control herself no longer.
 
It was when she dreamed of El Gallo that she awoke from her sleep one
night, her forehead bathed in sweat, a tremendous itching in the vicinity
of her cunt distracting her. A bowl of bananas lay on the night table close
by. Without thinking, without knowing what she was doing, she seized hold
of one of the bananas and pressed it slowly between the lips of her itching
hole. She squirmed in pain as the rough edges bit at the tender flesh. But
it was a pleasant pain for it made her think of El Gallo's prick. And all
the while, as she pushed the dildo up and back inside of her, she imagined
that the matador was lying on her and that it was his prick that was
stirring her and not an ordinary banana.
 
Soon, stimulated by the action of the implement, she began to feel a
suggestion of her former emotions returning. Her breath came faster.
 
Her nostrils quivered. Her ass worked itself impetuously about on her
bed sheets. Up and back she thrust her hips, attempting to sink the shaft
of the banana in as deeply as she could get it. Suddenly, as she made a
violent thrust, her fingers slipped off the end of the banana and the thing
shot into her cunt, stopping at the end of her cervix.
 
Immediately the contact sent an electrical thrill through her.
Puffing madly now, she separated the lips of her outer cunt with her left
hand and, with her right hand, inserted her forefinger into the throbbing
surfaces of the inner cunt and there she seized hold of the
alreadystiffening clitoris. Then, bending her chin down onto her breast as
far as she could, she tried to seize hold of the nipple of her breast with
her mouth. With the aid of her right hand, she lifted the nipple up to her 
lips and she seized hold of it avidly, sucking at it and mouthing noises
like a babe at its mother's breast. Thus, diddling her clitoris with her
right hand, stiffening the nipple of her left breast with her left hand and
sucking the nipple of her right breast with her lips, the shaft of the
banana sunk deeply into her hole and touching her innards, she managed to
work herself up to a supreme orgasm. Up and down her body worked itself
spasmodically. The bedsprings creaked. The bed shook. Her breath steamed
from her nostrils. Moans issued from her lips as she tongued her nipple.
 
Then she came in a grand overrushing spasm, the fluid spurting over
her fingers and dripping from the lips of her cunt. Tiredly, she dropped
the tit from her mouth. Her busy fingers fell away from her lips. But the
fingers of her other hand remained in her cunt, feeling the passionate
vibrations of the muscles therein and the hot fluid of her orgasm
moistening the entire hole.
 
But as she lay back against the cushions, she saw a black hooded
figure emerge from the window that opened up into a balcony that ran around
the patio.
 
In the chill morning gloom she saw the figure put her finger to her
mouth as though commanding her to silence. When her eyes became accustomed
to the dark, La Tarantula saw that her visitor was a nun from the nearby
convent. Still wordless, the nun helped her on with her clothes, although
La Tarantula noticed that the nun was not overly fast in helping her do
that but allowed her hands to linger on her buxom breasts and curvetted
flanks.
 
"What do you want?" La Tarantula asked.
 
The nun said only, "Come!"
 
They went. The nun led her down the steps and out onto the street.
 
Through the dark streets of the night they went, La Tarantula
following faithfully after the nun, not daring to speak a word in objection
because, after all, it was a nun who was leading her. Besides, the
situation smacked of something different, something to change the awful
deadly monotony of life as it had existed for La Tarantula in the past
year.
 
Out of the gloom, La Tarantula saw a great hulk of a figure bulking
like a fortress. At first she did not recognize it. But when they got
closer she saw that it was the old nunnery of La Novedad. Wild conjectures
flew about in her head. What did the nuns want with her? Why were they
bringing her there? What had she done? Was she to repent for the death of
her lovers?
 
The nun pulled a knob. A bell tinkled faintly in the bowels of the
inside. The heavy door slid open a few inches. The nun, leading her charge,
slithered into the slim aperture. La Tarantula saw that they were in a
moonlit patio. About fifty other black-robed nuns were grouped around an
inner circle. Two of them had guitars which they were strumming
occasionally. She found herself being led up to the centre of the ring. An
elderly nun beckoned to her. She was the Mother Superior, La Tarantula 
knew. Breathlessly, she advanced to the nun.
 
"You are she who is known as La Tarantula?" the nun asked her in a
low voice.
 
La Tarantula nodded her head.
 
"Good!" the other said, "we are here to witness your notorious
dance!" and with a wave of her finger she indicated something to the nuns
who were at her side. Immediately, with an avidity that was alarming, they
set upon the frightened girl and began to strip her clothing from her.
 
Lasciviously, their eyes followed every bared spot on her. Lewdly,
their fingers lingered on her breasts, her hair, her thighs. She felt their
hot breath breathing on her flesh. And, as each new feminine delight was
displayed, she could hear definite sighs coming from the group of nuns
circled about her.
 
In a few moments, she stood there in front of them stark naked. In
the silver moonlight that streamed over her olive-skinned body she appeared
to be an alabaster statue carved from the purest of stone. The hollows and
the shadows in her glowed dully. Her breasts, their contours accentuated by
the shadows which they cast, stood out like twin beauties. Her pubic
section with its triangle of hair and its jewel of a cunt nestled in it
like a dark ruby in a case, brought a chorus of sighs and moans from her
audience.
 
"Dance!" the nun commanded.
 
The two guitarists set up a strumming on their instruments. For the
moment, La Tarantula stood where she had been placed, her body quivering
from the cold. But when she felt the power of the music insisting itself
into her body, she began to dance as she had never danced before. Something
told her it was going to be the last time she was going to dance. The music
rose to an ecstatic pitch. Faster and faster the fingers of the players
twanged their strings. Faster and faster La Tarantula moved every muscle in
her anatomy to the rhythms of the music. Her breasts swayed as her torso
shook. The moonlight's shadows fluttered about her body like black moths.
Sinuously she whirled her hips, shaking her whole body from side to side as
though she were involved in a great orgasm. She saw many of the nuns lave
their lips with their tongues. Others' fingers clutched at their habits.
 
One, in particular, she saw insert her hand between the folds of her
gown and there push it up and back excitedly.
 
Suddenly, in the midst of a particularly fast and furious caper, one
of the nuns could control herself no longer. Opening her black habit wide,
she displayed that she was stark naked beneath it.
 
Unhesitatingly, she leaped to the circle and seized hold of La
Tarantula. There, she kissed her madly and inserted her finger into the
dancer's cunt. She withdrew her finger in a short time and began to rub
cunts with her, kissing her lips and her breasts and her nipples, seizing
her in long fingers that gripped the dancer's flesh with deep scratches.
 
Almost as suddenly, another of the nuns doffed the single garment
that covered her and leaped into the circle naked. She seized La Tarantula 
from the grasp of the first nun and began to do with her as the first one
had done, moaning loudly and weeping. Others in the circle threw off their
habits. Some took great big dildoes from their pockets and inserted them
into either their own throbbing cunts or their neighbours'. A mad period of
kissing and rubbing of cunts ensued. The air was filled with the concert of
their cries and moans. Soon, the circle was a circle no more but a milling
mob of naked women fucking each other with artificial pricks, fingerfucking
themselves, kissing other women's tits, and doing all those things that
women take pleasure out of when they haven't a man for the job. The
guitarists played on. The orgy continued.
 
But La Tarantula was not there when it ended. For, suddenly, in the
midst of the sexual tumult, she felt a hand thrown over her mouth and an
arm drawn about her waist. Somebody was dragging her along in the darkness.
She saw the trees of the patio disappear. Then she felt herself being
carried down, down into damp subterranean tunnels. In the gloom, she saw
water dripping from the ceiling of the labyrinth through which she was
being carried. Finally, she heard a heavy grinding of a gate on rusty
hinges. Then she felt herself being eased onto a soft bed. When her eyes
became accustomed to the darkness, she saw an immense black-cowled figure
of a monk towering over her.
 
His eyes, fanatic in their intensity, glowered down at her like
fireflies in the dark. He was panting from the exertion of having carried
her.
 
La Tarantula looked around her. She saw that she was in a monk's
cell, bare and stark. The only furniture in it were some odd-looking
instruments with chains and a number of whips lying scattered about.
 
"You are La Tarantula!" the monk growled.
 
La Tarantula nodded her head.
 
Without saying another word, the monk strode over to the table on
which a heavy bullwhip lay. Taking it up in his hand, he tested it,
snapping the thing with a loud report. La Tarantula stared at him
wild-eyed. And when she saw him approach her again with the tail of the
black whip trailing the floor she saw from the monk's mad eyes that he
meant to do her harm. Without another word, he raised the whip high over
his head and brought it brutally down on the bare back of the cringing
dancer. She let out a wail that re-echoed through the cell. A red welt
appeared on her flesh. Drops of blood oozed from a dozen places. Tears came
to the girl's eyes. Again and again the whip rang through the air and came
down on the poor girl's back. Blood spattered all over the bed on which she
had been thrown. Her groans and wails filled the room.
 
The monk spoke. "I am the direct descendent of the Holy Torquemada.
 
You have been sinful with man. You have been sinful with woman.
 
You have been the death of almost a dozen. For you the whip, the rack
and the thumbscrews!" And with these words, he brought the whip down again
on her already lacerated body.
 
Then, taking up her already limp body, he carried her over to an 
instrument of torture, the rack. It was an oblong frame of wood slightly
raised from the ground, having at one end a fixed bar to which he fastened
La Tarantula's legs. At the other end was a movable bar to which he tied
her arms. By a series of pulleys and levers, he began to stretch her arms
and legs so that she looked like an X. Tighter and tighter he drew it. The
girl had screamed and cried so much by this time that she could only moan
pitifully. When he had drawn her as tightly as he could, he began to lash
her again with the heavy bull whip. By this time, the blood was streaming
down her back in rivulets.
 
When he untied her from the instrument, La Tarantula was unable to
stand on her feet. Limply she sank to the floor, a beaten, broken heap of
flesh. Lying there so helpless, something about her position caught the eye
of the fanatic. With his whip upraised, the tail of the whip dangling like
a murderous snake, he stared at her figure on the floor.
 
The whip-hand sank slowly to his side. He looked down intently at her
body. He saw the proud highflung breasts dangling provocatively from her.
He saw the nipples delicately tinged with brown. Rubbing the back of his
hand over his eyes as though to wipe the sight away, he raised the whip
again as if to strike her. Again his eyes turned to her body. This time he
saw the gentle curving slopes of her ass quivering like live flesh, a
woman's live flesh, a beautiful woman's live flesh. He stepped closer to
her inert figure. Extending his hand, he touched the flesh with his
fingers. It was warm to his touch.
 
After all, he was a man.
 
With a cry, he threw the whip away from him. Then, bending over her,
he tenderly lifted her up and carried her to his bed. There he laid her
down gently and stared down at her lovely body. The fanatic look softened.
Now there was a look of adoration, of mute desire. Now, there was no more
hatred but love, love of a man for a woman.
 
Tenderly again, he stroked the line of her flanks, wondering why he
had been such a fool to harm such a beautiful thing. His fingers went up to
her breasts. They were delicious. They were a woman's breasts.
 
They were to be fondled by a man. And he was a man although he had
taken the vow. For even then, as he stood over her, wasn't there a stirring
in him, a desire to fuck this woman? Wasn't his cock under his habit taking
on a hardness and a rigidity that indicated to him quite amply that he was
a man?
 
His curiosity aroused, he turned La Tarantula over on her back. He
saw the region of hair with the puckered quim barely visible. Parting the
hair aside, he saw the pouting lips better now. Desire seized him in iron
talons. He spread her legs wide apart and sank his head between so as to
see her delicious cunt all the more. With his fingers he spread the outer
lips apart. The touch of the warm moist flesh on his hand made him gasp
with pleasure. Gently, he touched his finger to the clitoris of the
semi-conscious woman.
 
As though it were a whiff of a restorative, La Tarantula suddenly 
came out of her coma. And when her eyes opened, when she saw the man
bending over her, when she felt his fingers touching her to the very quick,
titillating her dormant passions so that they strove mightily to assert
themselves, she wondered whether she was dreaming. But, no! the same man
who was tickling her button was the one who had cruelly wielded the whip.
But, he was a man. That was enough for her.
 
And, although her back pained her terribly from the raw welts on it,
although her muscles and joints ached from the horrible torture of the
rack, still she smiled down at the monk, and she moaned, not in pain but in
pleasure.
 
Immediately, the monk turned to look at her face. He saw a welcoming
smile there. He noticed that she was not objecting to his attentions to her
cunt. And so he went at his diddling with even greater vigour.
 
Apparently impatient, he withdrew his finger from her hole and sank
his face down directly into the aperture. Then, with his hot tongue, he
continued to lap the button, feeling it stiffen with passion as the heated
blood flowed into its veins and caused it to blush prettily. All the while
that was going on La Tarantula felt the old-time passion stirring within
her again.
 
"Oh! oh!" she cried, unable to control herself, so intense was the
rebirth of the fucking pleasure.
 
The monk lapped all the faster when he heard this and he squeezed her
buttocks in both his hands and almost wept for passion. Soon, La Tarantula
felt that she could not stand being without a man's prick in her any
longer. Fiercely she reached down to his head and seized him by the hair
fringe on his head. She lifted his head up and away from her cunt.
 
"Fuck me before I come!" she breathed, scarcely able to speak because
of the sobs of passion that tore at her throat.
 
The monk needed no second invitation. Already, his cock was extending
in a great hump inside of his habit. It took only a second for him to lift
the edge of his gown away. An enormous prick stuck out in front of him. La
Tarantula gasped at the size of it. But she was glad. She was overwhelmed
as she gave thought to the delicious sensations that she was going to
experience. Then, reverently, she put her hand forward and took hold of the
thing. A strange emotion of happiness stole over her. Once again she was
holding a man's cock in her hands.
 
Once again she was feeling the exultant surge of blood through the
distended veins that lined the enormous tool. Once again, she could feel
the rough hairy surface of his ball-sac loaded with lovejuice that was soon
going to be spurted hotly into her receptive cunny.
 
She could handle it no longer. Guiding it down between her legs, she
inserted the tip of it into her expectant cunt. The touch of the tip was
like the acme of happiness, pleasure, joy and bliss all rolled into one.
 
But when she felt the long length of it slide suckingly into her
vagina, she sucked her guts in out of sheer voluptuousness and she wept
real tears, so intense was the joy she received from the act. And when she 
felt the tip nestle against the bottom of her womb, there were no words to
describe her emotions then. For she became all body, all feelings, all
emotions sizzling electrically, quivering like a tingled bundle of nerves.
She could do nothing but moan and weep and clutch the bedclothes in tight
grasps.
 
Back and forth the prick went inside of her like a ramrod into a
cannon, like a piston into a cylinder, pumping love friction into her,
exciting the delicate walls of her vagina, sliding along her clitoris and
bringing her to even greater passion. Her eyeballs popped out. Her lips
fell open a trifle as she expectantly awaited the signal in her that would
warn her that an orgasm was imminent. Her fingers now clutched his body.
Soon, they would be digging into his flesh.
 
Soon came immediately. Before she knew it, she was in the middle of
her orgasm. Through her, in short spasmodic jerks, waves of sensations
seethed, pumping exotically in her veins, throbbing in her temples, causing
her to breathe labouredly. Her belly began to move like a mass of jelly.
Her thighs took on a furious motion. Her ass wound itself around,
attempting to throw the bulk of his prick deeper into the chasm of her
cunt. And although her loins seethed, although she realized that it was but
a matter of moments before she would have to come her pearly fluid, she
made an effort to withhold the climax so that she could come simultaneously
with the monk.
 
Thankfully, finally, she felt his body stiffen under her grasp. His
rhythmic pumpings became more furious. His hips sank themselves deeply into
her cunt with no care for her comfort. His hands went around her back and
squeezed her unmercifully so that the stillpainful welts of the whipping
cut into her like knife thrusts. But the pleasure of passion superseded the
pain which remained in the background, adding zest to the overflow of
sensations. His lips sank down to hers. She opened her mouth widely so that
his entire mouth sank into it. A suction resulted and their tongues became
as one tongue and their saliva became as one fluid.
 
And then they came, exactly at the same time, the fluid of their
organs combining in her overheated quim. Faster and more furious he pumped
his prick. But the orgasm was over. Gradually, it grew softer and limper.
Finally, it lay in her cunt, quiescent. La Tarantula lay in a state of coma
almost. The extreme exertions she had made in the orgasm had left her weak.
And that, coupled with her whipping and the tortures of the rack, made her
he back on her pillow almost unconscious of her surroundings, merely
cognizant of the fact that she was divinely happy once more because she had
again been fucked by a man.
 
But the man was thinking other thoughts. Already, doubts and
misgivings began to assail him. Now that the fuck was over, as a monk he
began to revile himself for having forgotten his vows. The ascetic came to
the fore. His eyes again took on the glare of a fanatic's. Slowly he lifted
himself away from La Tarantula's body. He stared down at her twitching
hole. There it was where the devil resided. She it was who was responsible 
for his having given in to the importunings of the devil.
 
A leer came to his face. Hatred supplanted the features of love.
Slowly he stepped away from the bed and onto the floor. He must continue
with his vowed purpose. In a dream, he had been told that he must do away
with this foul creature, this despicable killer of men's bodies and souls.
 
He walked over to a corner of the room and took up a small hamper
from it. Then he advanced to the white outstretched body on the bed, lying
calmly now in the afterglow of bliss that comes after a supremely
delightful fuck. For a second, he hesitated in his resolve. But he recalled
his vows. And he unhooked the cover of the basket and tipped it over. From
its mouth dropped a mass of wriggling, manylegged, hairy insects, some of
them almost an inch long. Straight onto the hairy cunt they fell, swarming
over her like a horde of soldiers, nipping deeply into her flesh and
filling her with the virus of their poison. La Tarantula, deep in her coma,
felt their nips like needlethrusts. She felt the burning flame of their
poison seeping into her bloodstream. And she knew that she was going to
die. But she did nothing. Because now she wanted to die. She had lived. She
had loved.
 
She had fucked. Death was the next adventure. And so she did not
rouse herself out of her sleep, but succumbed gradually, until she passed
out completely.
 
She did not know that some of the tarantulas had slipped down to the
floor, where they attached themselves to the bare feet of the monk as he
stood at her side and watched the awful ravage of the tarantulas.
 
She did not know that the monk sank down to the floor in pain and
anguish the while more of the tarantulas slipped from the bed onto his
body.
 
She did not know that, for the last time, La Tarantula had struck
again.
