This is the raw OCR of La Tarantula: An Erotic Tale of Spain.
La Tarantula an Erotic Tale of Spain
by
Don Luis De V****
Sociedad Erotica of Madrid
1934
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
2
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.
3
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,
4
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.
5
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
6
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
7
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.
8
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.
9
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
10
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
11
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.
12
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
13
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.
14
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.
15
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
16
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
17
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.
18
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
19
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
20
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
21
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
22
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!
23
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
24
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.
25
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
26
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
27
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
28
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.
29
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.
30
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.
31
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
32
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
33
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
34
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!
35
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.
36
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
37
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.
38
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
39
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!
40
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
41
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.
42
The coroner called it accidental poisoning.
But the old greybeards whispered: "The Tarantula has struck again."
43
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
44
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
45
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?"
46
"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
47
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!"
48
"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
49
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
50
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
51
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.
52
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
53
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.
54
"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
55
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.
56
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.
57
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
58
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
59
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
60
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.
61
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
62
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
63
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
64
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
65
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
66
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
67
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
68
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!"
69
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!"
70
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.
71
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
72
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.
73
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
74
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
75
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
76
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.
77
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
78
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.
79
"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
80
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.
81
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
82
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
83
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.
84
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.
85
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
86
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.
87
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.
88
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.
89
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.
90
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
91
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
92
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 protégée 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
93
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
94
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
95
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
96
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
97
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.
98
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
99
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
100
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
101
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.
102
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 protégée, 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
103
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
104
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!"
105
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
106
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
107
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.
108
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
109
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.
110
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.
111
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,
112
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
113
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.
114