"Spawn of Gypsy" is an outstanding erotic classic by a young Spanish author. This daring sex novel of gypsy life was first published underground in Madrid. When all available copies were seized by the Franco government and an order for arrest of the author issued as an "offender against the public morality" he fled to Paris. The book was republished there in a limited edition and was soon sold out to libraries and collectors of erotica.
The true genesis of hot-blooded gypsy sex has rarely been told with such valid documentation. It might be said that "Spawn of Gypsy" is the untold story of "Carmen," the seamy sex side of Spanish gypsy life and love that no writer has dared to depict before. In showing the development of the heroine from an innocent young girl, who is deflowered by her own blood relative, to one of the most notorious prostitutes in Spain, the writer has held back nothing. The reader gets the actual sensations experienced by the heroine in every one of her bizarre love situations, from her original rape onward.
It is interesting to see the ease with which the various characters run the gamut of socalled "normal" sex-practices to what in our society are still considered far-out perversions. Part of the fury with which the Spanish police suppressed this book may be due to its frankness, which outraged the authorities with its frank depiction of all of the sexual and psychological deviations.
Spanish gypsy life, customs and character are revealed by the author with the keen insight of a native. With the perception of a skilled psychoanalyst he shows how the heroine's rape as an adolescent girl makes sex repellent and strangely attractive to her at the same time. He makes us realize that the traumatic reaction of a girl to the violation of her maidenhead may lead her sexually to extreme and bizarre behavior. Her inner problems stem from a feeling of being flawed because of the loss of virginity, which in turn motivates a pathological desire for revenge on all males. Given a very attractive female with these psychic mainsprings of behavior can lead to violent and peculiar sexual adventures with males seeking amatory satisfaction.
In fact, the flawed basic psychic needs of the heroine may in a large part explain the series of misadventures which befall the recipients of her heady physical love. The author manages to show with extreme subtlety how her subconscious mind works to revenge itself on the male penis which originally violated her purity. Along the road of her sexual adventuring, we gain first-hand knowledge of various aspects of Spanish life. It ranges from the slum-dwelling gypsies of Madrid, to the sex-practices of the socially elite of Spanish society and those national heroes -the matadors.
"Spawn of Gypsy" is a very different tale indeed. But as Freud has so brilliantly noted, "No matter what superficial changes may occur in physical environment, female psychogenetic maturation remains the same, and if repressed will surely erupt in unconventional sexual expression."
American readers will find much to interest them in this unusual erotic history, published in its complete entirety exclusively by Continental Classics. It is recommended only for mature readers and collectors of erotica.
Allen Saunders, M.A. New York City, October 1967
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. It's 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 skillful 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 ridden 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 somnolescent Spain.
They know of her whom men call "La Tarantula."
And as these old men of the village soak in the healing warmth 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 varicolored laces and shawls, there to ensnare her men in the oldest trap in the world, her vagina. Her cunt was one of the most irresistibly enticing a woman ever had between her legs, luring her victims with the million-pleasured joys of its throbbing, pulsating essences but insidiously marking them with the death's hand.
For it is recorded that, of all the fuckers that "La Tarantula" harbored to her cunt, not one there was who died a natural death, not one there was who in his deathbed was able to smile sweetly up to the ceiling and receive the prayers of his loved ones gathered around him. All of them died violent deaths, as men should die, by the sword, by the fire and by the beast.
"La Tarantula" was ill starred-a deadly lay.
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 hump 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 and nipples quickly take on that roundness which makes them fit the eager palms of man. Their hips take on that snaky sinuousness with the full curves that beguile the male into ecstasies of expectancies. Their bushes 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 moist pink jewel between their legs, one's eyes grow wide with desire and one's breath comes in short labored 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, agility, and the tremendous size of his cock and balls. Tales of the virile conquests of his magnificent prick were legendary among the Romany people all over Europe. As a horse trader his cunning had no equal. It was told of him that he filled an old nag's ears with quicksilver so that it would not droop with age. Once he stole a mule from a tavernkeeper 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" with a hard-on stiffening his fabulous dick when she first felt the pangs of womanhood creeping into her blood.
She had awakened one morning to find a few tiny specks of blood in her bed. At first she thought that it was the blood of some crushed bedbugs that infested the two rooms in which she and her father lived. But they were much larger than the usual blobs of blood. And when she saw that there was blood, too, around the warm little hole between her legs she let out a shriek of fear and fell back against the wall.
Immediately, her father came rushing into the room from the outside where he had been sunning himself. Behind him was the towering figure of "Chato Doble," her father's brother.
"What's the matter, child?" her father cried.
"La Tarantula" could say nothing. All she could do was point to the blood on the bed. Her father shrieked out a curse when he saw the blood. "Who! What mother's bastard raped your innocent cunny? What sneaky prick pierced your little cherry? I shall slice off the dog's balls and toast his treacherous dick over a slow fire! 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 handsome Spanish don from across the river had kissed her and had fondled her pussy and had fucked her beautifully in her dream. "I awoke from sleep," she said, "and there was the blood."
Her uncle "Chato Doble," pushed his way in past his brother's body 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 golden Seville oranges. He saw the well-rounded ass of a young girl shaping out from what had previously been an adolescent's slim, bony 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 huge penis already leaping into a hard-on between his legs and an ache in his balls told him that her cunt was beautiful to see and, what was more, more beautiful to fuck. "Christos!" he swore beneath his beard as his eyes glittered at the sight of her downy bush hair and mature cunny-lips.
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 inquired anxiously.
Her father advanced toward her and seated himself on her bed. "Cover up your naked body, my child," he said, "for there are men in the room with you. You must learn that these charms are not to be exposed freely. Your intact maidenhood is worth much silver to me. 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 men who came from across the river to see the gypsy girls dance and show their naked thighs as their swirling skirts rose. If they threw silver, they could see glimpses of bush-hair. And when their blood ran hot, for more silver they could take the dancer of their choice in her locked wagon.......
She was glad she would be dancing herself soon, feeling their hot eyes piercing her to the very marrow of her soul, looking at her sex.
But "Chato Doble" had already seen her naked. He had seen many women naked in his life. His prick was as long and thick as his life and as active. He had thrust it thousands of times into the quiver ing 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 her skin that almost hypnotized the hands, begging the fingers to touch of its sleekness. There was a curve to her buttocks that promised a thousand lewd lovetricks. And although he realized that he could be guilty of no greater crime than fucking the daughter of his own blood-brother, he still coveted her virginity 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 cottage in Triana, for only a short visit. In no time, after a repast of soup, cheese and a glass of "oloroso," he would be off again to Castile or Granada or wherever his heart so willed. But now, now his insistent hard-on willed him to remain. To remain in his brother's house where he might feast his eyes on the loveliness of the alluring ass, saucy tits and sensuous face that was his brother's daughter.
Night after night he would turn and twist on his pallet in the kitchen, dreaming fitfully of the beautiful naked 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 virgin pussy of which he dreamed and for which his prodigious penis actually 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 her tits, pussyhps and clitoris 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 and letting his hard-on pierce her cherry as she lay sleeping. One of these deterrents was the heinousness of the crime of incest. Another was the custom of proving virginity 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 maidenhood. 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, according to ancient gypsy custom, 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, transparent dress. And when she would kneel sometimes, her uncle would see the downy bush-hair that covered her delicious cunny. And he would clench his fists and suck in his breath and bite his hps to keep himself from seizing hold of her and throwing her to the ground, there to fuck her with his prick that was demanding entrance to her alluring cunt.
Once, "Chato Doble" thought he would try to forget the young girl who had so bewitched his pecker. He went into the city across the river. There he picked up a prostitute, a woman of the streets, and took her to a "cafetine," a low class cafe. He got himself thoroughly drunk on brandy. He got his senses inflamed watching a Spanish wench swing her hips and breasts in a sexy "flamenco" dance. But when he tried to fuck the whore 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 dog if ever there was one, instead of the well rounded shape of his niece with her pink-lipped quim nestling in its maiden hairs. With a roar, he pushed the dazed whore, whose legs were spread awaiting his cock, away from him, sprang out of bed and ran stumbling down the street.
When he had himself ferried over the river he gave himself over to thoughts of his niece, indeed the picture of her luscious cunny, a fruit ripe for picking, had never left him. 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 recklessly brave from the strong cognac and encouraged by the drunken proddings of his heart, he stumbled out of the boat, down into the depths of the Triana into the slum 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 mistress 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 innocent daughter with the sight or sounds of the hot screwing they indulged themselves in. His woman was wont to shriek as if she were being murdered when he ejaculated in her torrid twat. 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 blackhaired young Spanish dom who was stroking her buttocks and kissing her wildly on the lips before inserting his noble prick in a most gentlemanly way up her pussy.......
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, a truly painful hard-on troubling his big, thick prick, coupled with the force of his drunkenness tugged at his aching balls 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 young body next to his inflamed delirious dick. 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? He had always been a prisoner of his powerful pecker.
A wineshop was next to the house in which his brother lived. In the moonlight, he saw the slender necks of winebottles glinting like jewels. Wrapping his hat around his fist, he looked cautiously around first and then sank his fist into the window. A thin tinkling sound broke the night air. He remained quiet for a while listening for sounds. None came. Not even in back of the shop was there anyone stirring. With satisfaction, he swept up a number of bottles of choice wines and ducked into the hallway at the side of the winestore that led up to his brother's rooms. In the distance he had seen the glint of the patent-leather 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 broad grin came to "Chato Doble's" face, the fantastic head of his cock throbbed pleasurably with anticipation. 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 sweet, honeyed cunt 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 constable's 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 a plate on the table and was covered with hardened fat. A gleam came into his eyes. His brother was not home, was this not the night he fucked that piece of ass he had in the city? The gleam was changed instantly to a perplexed frown. Perhaps he had gone out with the girl? Perhaps she, too, was not home. His heart beating like mad, his breathing labored, "Chato Doble" edged over to the door that separated the two rooms. For a second he heard nothing but the beating of his own yearning heart. Then, faintly, he heard the calm, regular breathing of a young girl.
He stepped into her room.
The bottles of wine still rested in his arms.
In the bed, he saw her, for whom the biggest cock of the Romany people yearned. Not daring to breathe for fear of waking her, he stood staring down at her young body partially uncovered, the quilt covering her tossed aside in her sleep. 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 tumble out from the confines of her shift, standing out from the darkening gloom of the rest of her body like a white breast of carved Carrara marble. And pointing up from this perfect tit, surrounded by an aureole of pink-tinted flesh, he saw the ruby nipple of the girl, standing up as though erect with passion.
His throbbing balls ached so at this sight that "Chato Doble" could control himself no longer. Sinking to his knees, 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 tip stiffen almost imperceptibly under the manipulations of his ardent, hot tongue.
He heard his niece sigh and then suck in her breath as though she were experiencing an orgasm in her twitching young cunny. 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 only that her dark lover was only kissing and fondling her, she felt him gently insinuate the noble, swarthy cock that was dangling elegantly between his legs in between her own legs. In her dream, she realized now what the big cock was for that hung between her father's legs and which she heard him piss through. It was also to go into her own cunny-hole between her legs. That's what it was for. And as she felt her dream lover inserting his ideal dick 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.
Looming 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 sweet cunny, skirmishing meanwhile for the little button of pleasure, her clitoris. 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 shoved 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 moving it gently. Then he said in a low tone, his voice quivering with emotion, the words scarcely spoken, "Are you afraid of what I am doing down there, my child?"
She shook her head from side to side.
And her eyes widened at what her uncle did next.
"Chato Doble" withdrew his finger. Then he took up a bottle of wine from the floor where he had dropped them all. When he pulled the cork out, the pop resounded against the walls eerily. The odor that emanated from the neck came up to his nostrils. He sniffed it. Muscatel. Sweet, heavy 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 hps 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 pulse its way into her head, like a small headache. The wall of the room fluttered like a moth crazy with light. The ceiling quivered 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 a thick, enormous stiffness brushing up against the pink, moist lips of the cunny between her legs.
She wanted to let out a cry. She wanted to seize hold of his fingers at her titties. But the resultant reactions of his expert fingering on her tingling hard nipples 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 wet pussy. She wondered why she felt as if it were drenched with warm, flowing juice from somewhere deep within her belly.... But her own desires made her throw her thighs open to him. AreH she felt the tremendous tip of his prick inching gently into her, rubbing against the little clitoris 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 his huge 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 thrust his prick down deeper into her cunny.
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 from her wriggling pussy. It was still swollen and enlarged like an enormous club. The tip of it was splattered with blood. He looked down at his niece's now gaping cunny and saw a thin trickle of blood issuing from between its pulsing crevice. No wonder she was so wild. She was a real virgin and he had just torn her maidenhead with his willful cock. 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 ass gently and kissed her forehead and eyes tasting the bitter tears between his lips.
But the girl was a true gypsy, and the women of Romany have always known instinctively how to handle a virile cock. 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 withdrew his face down to hers. Then, almost instinctively, she seized hold of his lips with her own untutored lips and glued them together, forking her tongue lasciviously into his mouth, entwining it around his tongue and, with nervous fingers, reaching downward between the soft fuzz of his thick bush and seizing hold of his enormous, stiffened prick.
"Give it to me! give it to me, uncle!" she cried, as she felt the superb shaft of the biggest penis of all Romany burning in her palms.
And he gave it to her. Now that he had already broken her maidenhead, there was no bar guarding the thrust of his rampaging cock. Inserting the tip of it into her hole, he first skirmished around its narrow entrance, touching her clitoris with the tip of his knob from time to time, each contact sending delicious thrills coursing up her spine, like lightning flashes.
"Shove 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, ramming his shaft with a full thrust of his strong loins.
Up and back he pumped his dick, first sending its entire length to the hilt into her cunt and then withdrawing it only until the tip rested on the lips of her vagina. And then, when she could not stand its absence any longer, he would shove it ramming into her. And with eachocruel 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 filling her virgin cunt, the pain almost overpowering her sometimes. But she held on to him, moving her ass and thighs as best she knew how, with a sure instinct for taking each violent hump-thrust with a valor that was worthy of any soldier on the battlefield, because, in her virgin state, the fucking that she was getting from her big-pricked uncle was simply forcing the walls 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 hps at times and biting his lips and tongue and feeling him bite her. Frigging a male dick, no matter whose, was instinctive with her.
Before she knew it, she came.
She felt a curious overloading in her belly and ass. 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 vise. 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 gasping of one dying for lack of air.
And she came-for the first time!
Bubbling over inside of her she felt something in her overflow itself and permeate her whole body and soul with its boiling hot essences. And then she went weak. She fell back onto her pillow sobbing pitifully because it was all over, because the intense thrill of 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 torrid splashing within her. She felt a series of jetting spurts. And the emotions returned partially. And she seized hold of her uncle's quivering ass and wrapped her limbs around his back and glued her lips onto his lips.
They lay that way together for ten minutes, as his cock kept shooting his semen up her pussy, until her cunt actually overflowed with the whitish stuff. Neither said a word, both resting in their own thoughts, each wondering what the other was thinking of.
It was in that position that "Chato Doble V brother found them. He himself, returning home from his steady hump's rooms was sadly ruminating on the fate that forced him to leave the warm comforts of his piece of ass's bed. Hearing noises in his daughter's room, he stepped into it to see the enormous bare ass of a man lying over his daughter's naked body, her legs spread wide apart in screwing position. A red film came over his eyes. He saw nothing only the hateful back of the man who was deflowering his virgin daughter. His hot Spanish blood seethed in him. His gypsy sense of justice came to the fore. Hastily looking around for a weapon, his eyes fell on the wine bottles his brother had dumped onto the floor. Taking one of them he smashed its neck against the edge of the wall. The red wine came spurting out like blood from a severed artery. The top of the bottle neck flew off leaving a jagged series of knifelike edges around the bottle's neck.
Raising it high above his head, he sank his improvised dagger deep into the naked 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 mortal cry of terror and then sank limply onto the girl's nude 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 gruesome mess, in the 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 known as "La Tarantula" gave vent to a loud shriek. The Tarantula made its first strike.
CHAPTER TWO
When "La Tarantula" was twelve years old, her father took her to the dancing school of the great "Don Jaimo 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 cafes and gypsy gatherings. She should be perfecting herself on the technique of the dance with the great "Don Jaimo Otero," with her remarkable talent and figure.
That was why he had taken her into the elegant 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 splashing fountain, the lush green ivy on one wall, a great woven carpet on the opposite wall, she could not help but shrink within herself, for fear at this unfamiliar luxury.
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 melody seep into her bones. And her green eyes glittered. She smiled.
Don Jaimo advanced to them when he saw them approaching. A class of young girls dropped 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, yet strangely voluptuous girl. A wild mop of raven-black hair topped her head. Green depthless eyes smoldered up at him. He looked down at her ankles. They were thinner than a man's wrist and as supple. He dropped to his knees and took the right one in his hands. It flexed like a sword of the best Toledo steel. He looked up at the girl.
"Will you dance for me?" he asked.
The girl looked up at her father. He nodded his head. "What shall my musicians play for you?" Otero asked.
"The Tango of the Flowers, she dances that 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. "She is a girl, yet becomes a woman when she dances."
"Delicious!" Senor Don Juan Gandulla, one of the guitarists, murmured, as he watched the thin dress of the young girl mold itself around her lovely ass-cheeks 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 womanly slope of her hips. He saw the finely etched nostrils blowing like a thoroughbred horse after a workout.
"It will cost you nothing!" he said. "I shall take her in hand personally. I shall teach her all that I, the great Don Jaimo 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, 1 shall pay you, the sum of twenty pesetas.
The father looked dubiously at the girl 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 his steady hump, 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, he and Maria could screw conveniently to their heart's content. 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 and bring him much silver in his old age.
He consented to Otero's suggestion.
And he crossed the river alone that night. But when he brought his widow woman to his bed the same night, and while he was eagerly 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 purposeHere is what happened.
The girl danced all day for the master. By nightfall she was thoroughly tired from exertion. All day she had been forced to pirouette and twist, caper and twirl this way and that until she was almost on the verge of tears. Once she had rebelliously thrown herself to the grass tufted flagstones of the patio and had refused to go on with the instructions. But Otero had allowed her to rest there for half an hour. After that time, he gently approached her, took her arm and lifted her up again and continued where they had left off.
And all the while, Don Juan Gandulla, who was perspiring over his guitar, watched the girl craftily and, whenever her short dress swirled over her knees, his eyes would pop out with desire at the glimpses of naked thigh and black, hairy bush he saw. For she wore nothing at all under her dress.
That night, when her first day's lesson was completed, Don Jaimo gave the girl over to his housekeeper, 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 splendor 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 housekeeper 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 womanly form of the young girl. She stretched her out on a pallet and there rubbed her tired muscles with smooth sweet-smelling 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 orangewaters 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 housekeeper and her cheery "good night," when another door in the bedroom opened slowly and Senor Don Jaimo Otero, himself, crept into the room and walked up to the bed. He saw the lithe, 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. Pussy odor always repelled him.
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 rape of her maidenhead by 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 thrusting into her cunt and then that last great climax as his sperm shot into her which had left her panting from exhaustion. Nothing in her life had ever thrilled her body as sensuously as that. And sometimes, out of curiosity, she had taken a banana and after coating it with olive oil had worked it slowly up into her hot cunt, poking it in and out as she had remembered her uncle had done with his great big prick that had stuck out in front of him. And although she had experienced somewhat the same sensation, although she felt the pearly dew issue from her hot hole, she still felt that there was something lacking. And so she would dream at night of her good-looking young dream lover. But this time, instead of dreaming that he only kissed her and fondled her tits and pussy, she would dream that he sported a great big dick like her uncle had, and she would struggle and puff and pant and finally feel the wetness of come-juice 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 really shove his prong into the void of her hot pussy.
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 at him, invitingly. The wonder of it all, 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 young sex. 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 round breasts and tongued her pink nipples until he felt them stiffen under his manipulations. And, at the same time, he allowed his hand to wander down to the furze of hair around her cunny. Expertly, he inserted his index finger into her hot, moist hole. Tight, how tight her cute 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 stiff 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 thick, lusty 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 cunt. But when she finally found that for which she was seeking, a long sigh of disappoint merit shivered through her. It was only a small, limp thing. And it was all shrivelled up. She almost felt like crying, so keen was her disappointment.
"Can't you make your cock bigger?" she whispered urgently.
"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 a hard-on very long. So, lifting himself up, he spread the girl's legs wide apart, and inserted his prick, slightly distended now, into her warm, wet quim. He felt the eager muscles in her cunt grasp avidly for his cock. He felt her ass wiggle around and up and back, massaging his old dick. 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 with a dribbling of tepid sperm before the girl under him had a chance to become accli mated to the limp prick that he had inserted into her.
"More! more!" she wailed as she tried to take hold of his flabby cock and place it back into her cunny. But it was too soft for any such action again. It lay wrinkled up into its bag like a dead worm, emotionless and expressionless, like a weekold dog dropping. For half an hour, Don Otero vainly attempted to work his cock up to a fucking pitch again. But it was to no avail. He had come. The while the little bundle of cunt-fire under him ached for another fuck, yearned for a good stiff prick to shoot into her gaping pussy.
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 wet lips of her vagina with his fingers, he inserted his tongue deep into the cleft until he found the throbbing clitoris button. Taking it into his mouth, he sucked deeply at it, noting with satisfaction that it stiffened under his tongue lickings. Up and back his tongue shot into her twat. He felt her ass twirl once more. Once again the motions of fucking came into her hips and cunt as though she was feeling in her the thick, long cock of her uncle. And she felt the same emotions as she had felt when she had dreamed of the young gentleman at night. That is, although she knew that the boiling in her cunny was soon to come, although she realized that soon 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 her burning 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 half-dead worm. And he knew that he was an old man. He knew that, thereafter, life would hold nothing more for him. He was dead.
His body still lived, but the joy of putting his cock into a woman's cunt had died. It had taken the little gypsy girl to bring him to his senses. There was no point in even looking at a pussy 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 enticing 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 the joy of fucking new and ever-changing cunt lasted, it was pleasure. After even the possibility of a hard-on 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 pussy, sniffing her musky odor. 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 splashing 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 giant-cock of her uncle Chato Doble, and she imagined its great shaft working its way deeply into her, separating her cunt into halves, spreading her hole 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 hard head with a pee-hole eye winking solemnly at her. She recalled thick blue veins that coursed up and down the member gorged with the life blood that was being pumped into it, pendant with sperm-heavy balls. She recalled how it tapered from its point down to its butt until, at its end, it was thick as a formidable club. And with the picture of that prick in her mind's eye, she heard a slight noise at the side of her bed. She opened her eyes and saw jutting out immediately in front of her, what she thought was the selfsame prick that she had been dreaming of. In the dark gloom, it seemed as though the prick was a separate entity in itself, entirely devoid of a human body to which it should have been attached. For the moment, she thought that she was dreaming and that she was seeing only her uncle's cock in her dream. But, soon, she began to discern the outline of a man's body behind the prick. Then she heard a low voice.
"Sh!" it said, "do not be afraid, for it is I, Don Juan Guadulla."
The girl's eyes were on nothing but the outlines of the unbelievably enormous prick that jutted out in front of him. Line for line, ball for ball, shaft for shaft, 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 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 sucking motion with her tongue. And as he lay against her she felt the throbbing of his outlandish dong between them. Again and again she kissed his lips, his eyes, his nose nipping them gently from time to time, sighing softly her full contentment.
When she felt that she had had enough of his hps, she took his head between her hands and said, "Now! now!" and she closed her eyes and leaned back and awaited the first thrusting contact of his prick with her cunt. The intervening second appeared to be an eon. And involuntarily, she heaved a sigh of impatience. But at the same instant, she felt the hot 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 her whole cunny with a tingling such as she never knew existed before.
This was love!
This was life!
This was a man!
Slowly, Don Juan rammed up his penis, know43 ingly giving her as much pleasure as was possible from every inch of his delightful dick. Inexorably, she felt the pressing surge of it insinuating itself into the entire lower portion of her ass and belly, spreading her wide open, opening her completely to his cock-head 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 re-thrust 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 usual ability that he had in withholding the spurt of his semen.
Suddenly, the girl felt 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 ass. Hungrily, she cemented her hps to his, entwining her tongue in his, exploring deeply the very essences of his mouth. Passionately, she wrapped her shapely legs around his loins, locking her feet above his ass-hole crack and squeezing with all her might. Then, her muscles tensed, her nerves shrieking madly, her blood boiling and pulsating through her pussy and womb, she awaited the grand climax of her passion.
It came as like a tidal surge.
Engulfed in an overwhelming orgasm, she felt oceans of sheer joy and pleasure coursing through her twat and around her and over her. And the hotspot between her legs grew hotter from the torrid 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 more of this delightful fucking.
Here was a man with a real pair of balls to him.
Again she gave herself over to the fuck. Again she gave her teats to him, throwing the nipples into his face, kissing his hps with wild abandonment. And as he pumped his huge prick up and back inside of her cunt, she felt horribly inadequate because he was doing all of the humping. 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 bush hairs. And she felt the thick veins and she knew that there was in them those male essences for which she thirsted. Out of desperation, she again sezied hold of his hps with her own and once more went through all of the motions of French soul kiss. Round and round she whirled her ass. Up and back she threw her hips in rhythm with his pulls and thrusts, her buttocks quivering.
Then, of a sudden, she felt the same insistent boiling deep in her twat. She was going to come again. And again she prepared herself for it, wrapping her arms around his back, locking her legs around his ass and tonguing his mouth for all she was worth.
Again she came, the hot passion suffusing her entire womb and vagina, a wave of hot, spasmodic jerks going through her, a series of disconcerting sobs catching at her throat and restricting her breathing. Out of sheer pleasure, tears came to her eyes and she wept on his shoulders.
But, insistently again, despite the fact that she had come the second time, she felt his stiff prick still ramming inside of her cunt, still exploring its myriad folds for a resting place. Was the man inhuman, she thought. Could he continue to give her such vaginal 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 in you next time!" And, without another word, he set again to his screwing, throwing himself into her cunny with an ardor such as he had not demonstrated before.
This time the girl felt that she could never rouse herself again to make the effort to have another orgasm with him. A lassitude crept over her that seemed to envelop her limbs, her very pussy with a lackadaisical feeling of ennui. For the moment, she took objection to the man humping so agilely on her belly. What did he want of her? Did he want her to spurt out her very lifeblood in her veins? But that feeling was only momentary. For, immediately afterward, it was supplanted by the overwhelming enormity of his thrilling dick that drove all objectionable thoughts away from her mind. She did not care what happened to her now. She knew only that a real man's prick was in her, that it had already brought her twice to the peak passion, that in her there was already stirring the faint signs of still another climax.
She thought back to the time when she had first come. His face had been calm and composed. Her's, she knew had been writhed in the throes of an exquisite passion that must have distorted her features like a gargoyle's. And, again, during the second time she came, she recalled that he had looked down at her with a sort of leering smile on his face, as though the thoughts behind his eyes were to the effect that he was her master because he was able to control himself while she was a slave to the cyclones of passion that he caused to sweep mercilessly through her twat.
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 climax pleasure as she had.
Ad the while she thought of these things, Don Juan was busy humping with his still enlarged penis, swollen now to almost twice its former size. And his hands were lewdly stroking her flanks and ass 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 her very uterus, tingling through to her ass-hole. Something impelled her to cooperate with him in the vicious attacks of his prick into her heated cunny. Larger and larger she felt the organ 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 feeling and writhing now and in the same way that she had been. She felt his fingers clutch at her ass, 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 vigor 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 in the bittersweet throes of orgasm.
But she recked little with herself. For, at the same moment, she forgot her resolve entirely. For she found herself entirely immersed in the throes of her third climax. Unknowingly, she searched blindly for his lips with her own lips. And, finding them, she lighted on them hungrily, sucking at them with every ounce of strength that she could gather, skirmishing around with her tongue as though she were seeking some haven to thrust it. And, once again, she seized hold of his body with her hands and threw her legs around his ass-cheeks. And she squeezed as hard as she could attempting mightily to withhold the juice drenching within her from shooting out from her cunt. 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 ardor and emotion all fused together in one grand orgasm of pleasure.
Then she knew with gypsy intuition 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 and in the gypsy slum. 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 crucial instant when she would get the signal from him that he was about to shoot his great load of semen into her.
She got the signal. It was an agonizing cry that seemed to tear out of his very guts.
And she let herself go within herself, feeling that her cunt and ass were dropping away from underneath her and that her body was soaring away from them, up, up into the heavens of bliss. And, at the same time, she felt the satisfying spurting of hot, creamy come splashing inside of her, one, two, three, four, five intense jets of juice flying up in her cunt. And then she felt a lush warmth trickling down her legs from her cunt-lips which burned like liquid fire.
After that, she knew no more what happened. She knew only that she was tired, terribly tired, that she had no arms or legs or body, that she was only mind soaring up and away from her body. And, in that couch of extreme tiredness, she fell asleep, her arms still around her lover's body, his prick, limp now, still inserted in her twitching hole as though he was loathe to withdraw it and thus break contact with her cunny.
They were awakened the next morning by the shriek of Don Otero's old housekeeper. 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 housekeeper, came running into the bedroom, before Don Juan had been able to gather his senses and get out of bed. The housekeeper 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 housekeeper 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 fuck this little gypsy whore yourself!"
In a short while, a pair of important looking constables, attracted by the housekeeper's shrieks, entered the room. They went into 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. Oddly, he was holding his pathetic old dick in one of his hands. It was stiff with rigor mortis-stiffer than he had ever been able to get it in his old age....
Then it was that the gypsy girl recalled the thud that she had heard during the previous night. But it was too late. Both she and her lover were seized and hustled into the jailhouse.
The girl was freed on the testimony of the old housekeeper who assured the court that Don Juan had ever been envious of Don Otero's capabilities, prowess and young mistresses, and that it was he who had killed her master.
To the judge, it was quite obvious that Don Juan had killed Don Otero in a mad fit of passion, fighting over who should hump 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 the body 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 flyflap and sprang out into the open like a white flagpole. A blob of semen spurted from the rigid cock as the body jerked in its death throes.
"That usually happens," the hangman commented dryly, to a newspaperman who, the next day wrote his account of the hanging and was the first one to label the young gypsy girl, "La Tarantula."
And so, with her second and third victims, "La Tarantula" was born.
CHAPTER THREE
From that day on, the notoriety of "La Tarantula" was spread over the breadth of Spain. All knew of her talents as a gypsy dancer. Wherever a dancer was required it was she who 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 were required who was the best dancer in all of Spain, "La Tarantula" was called in.
And as her fame grew, "La Tarantula" became all the more reserved, in so far as fucking men was 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 average person, the ordinary gentlefolk 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 twirling skirts and ass, 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 also human blood. The memory of that wild hump 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 cafe to cafe she danced her way up the pathway of success. And in each place, she attracted another string of admirers who sought her physical favors. Like a 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 sexy body.
It seemed as though the glorious fuckfest she had experienced that last night with Don Juna, had served to tide her over all normal female desire on her part for the sensuality of sex.
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 Avenue de Sierpe, she did as she did.
Lying back on her chaise lounge, her limbs numb 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 wending their way through the street. Men, men, men of all sizes and forms and shapes. Men, men, all different yet all the same because all had that attribute known as a penis, with which she had enjoyed herself so immensely. She recalled the various cocks which had thrust up her vagina in her turbulent young life.
Suddenly, she called out to her personal maid, "Cazuela! Cazuela!"
That woman came jogging in. She was an evil looking thing. But 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 best dancing gypsy in Spain, that her roughened toadlike 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 beaten her up when he found her screwing with his best friend 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 ex cept 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 receptive to its practice. Meanwhile she acted as the personal maid of "La Tarantula" and taught her all the intricacies of the "Flamenco" and the "Sevilliana" and the "Malaga," the "Soleadina" and the "Fandango" and the "Paso Doble" until "La Tarantula" became even more adept at them than had been her teacher. Then it was that she had started on the meteoric rise which landed her finally as the star attraction at Cafe de las Flores, the most beautiful cafe on the Street of Serpents in Seville, co-starred with the greatest remantic tenor of Spain, none other than Senor Don Jose Caloro'a, himself, from Lima, Peru.
And that was where she now was. She was in her upstairs dressing room at the caflfejesting from her labors after an extremely difficult hour of dancing the "paso doble" for the customers who had applauded her 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?" the maid inquired as she entered. She saw that the dancer was lying outstretched, her luscious body in the attitude of complete exhaustion.
"I am tired! so tired!" "La Tarantula" complained.
"Does my mistress desire a refreshing massage?" the woman asked, "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 prick-pushers all!" 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 her 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's soft skin 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 calm mind, and that her mind was hovering up above her body like a disembodied spirit and pitying the hulk of a body that lay on the chaise lounge. Lightness, softness, fleecy nothingness was all about her.
Suddenly she felt a throb shoot into her, a hot warm sensation in the region of her cunt.
She opened her eyes widely. There, between her legs, she saw Cazuela, her face pushed into her black bush hair as closely as she could get it. But, what was more, she was working her tongue down into her mistress!s cunt, like forked lightning, touching the button of the clitoris so that it jerked up in sudden surprise. The erection of her 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 not experienced for a long time. Pleasure, such as she had felt when she had been fucked by Don Juan's prodigious prick. This thrill she had sedulously kept herself from these last long years. Pleasure, pleasure filling her and welling up in thrilling waves from her parted pussy-lips and erect clitoris. She began to feel an inordinate amount of desire.
In and out she felt the smooth tongue of Cazuela dart, touching it seemed, the most vital spot in her being, 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 thunderous 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 juice-drenched 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 come-load that was piling up within her, she reached over and inserted her index finger up to her knuckles 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 tighter hole. 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 their twats 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 hot button 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 ass around as though the prick of a man were ramming into her cunt. She heard the same labored breathing from her maid. And she felt the twitching thrusts of the other woman's buttocks, jerking nervously in a Saint Vitus dance of passion. Faster and faster each frigged away at the other's twat. Closer and closer came their orgasms. Louder and louder grew the sound of their panting.
Suddenly, La Tarantula heard her maid moan with loud, doleful cries 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 cunt work mightily in one grand upheaval. La Tarantula could hold herself no longer. She felt the overflowing begin in the region of her ass, in the small of her back. Her breath came faster. Her hips swiveled madly. Her tongue clove to the top of her parched mouth. Not knowing what she was doing, she grabbed 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 chaise lounge so that the long fingernails ripped jagged tears in the cloth.
Then she came!
Pouring, spurting out of her abnormally heated cunny came the pearly fluid, drenching into the face of the maid who was still working on the poker-stiff clitoris. For a while both of them continued to twitch their bodies jerkily as the intense feelings that swarmed through them remained. But when the climaxes started to decline, each fell away from the other, La Tarantula on her back to the chaise lounge, Cazuela to the floor, each gasping from their exhaustion. Completely tired, they remained in those positions, their eyes closed, their arms outspread, a satisfied feeling of tired warmth creeping over their limbs.
They were suddenly startled by the sound of applause. La Tarantula opened her eyes wildly and saw 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 co-starring with her that week. She became speechless. Shame crept over her. Her cheeks reddened like an over-bloomed rose.
"Pretty! pretty! a lovely show!" the tenor said, still calpping his palms together daintily, in derision.
"What do you want here?" La Tarantula demanded angrily.
"I heard the sounds of your frigging and 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 wide-brimmed sombrero aside and started to take off the velvet pea jacket that he was wearing.
Still neither La Tarantula nor her maid spoke. Instead, as they watched the man disrobe 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 bell bottomed trousers off. La Tarantula gasped in amazemen when she saw his enormous prick shoot out from its confining underwear. 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 unusually thick, large cock sticking out from its bush 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 your pussies 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 fully erect penis for emphasis.
But La Tarantula scarcely heard a word he was saying. She had eyes only for the tenor's projecting prick as big as a picador's lance, long and thick beyond the size of any other penis.
"You like it, eh?" the tenor asked.
La Tarantula, hypnotized by his terrific tool, 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 an amazing cock like that stood apart from the world in general and other men in particular. An d she too could look at nothing but that great big "bravo toro," that could have done service even to a stud bull.
"Hah!" the tenor laughed, "you are wondering at the size of my cock, eh? Well, where I come from, from Lima in Peru in South America, we have what is known as the llama. The cowboys on the vast prairies with no woman to soothe their desires, they fall in love with the female llamas whose soft 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! I fucked more llamas than any cowboy in my part of the country!" 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 pecker 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 chaise lounge wondering what was going to be the outcome of this strange affair with this strange man.
"Spread your legs!" the tenor commanded im~ periously. But he could not see to insert his stiffened prick into her cunt, although she spread her legs as wide as she could. His big hanging belly was in the way. 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 her crack. Once, twice he shot the thing into the cleft of her legs but each time he was unable to get the head of his dong into her twat-hole.
Suddenly he turned to where Cazuela was lying on the floor staring wide-eyed at the proceedings. "Help me in with the thing, woman!" he ordered.
Slowly, she arose to a kneeling position and took hold of the rampaging prick. Beneath its foreskin she felt a pregnancy of power that seemed to be striving mightily to burst the bonds that were holding it in that thick shaft. Life coursed through its entire length with the vivacity as of a dozen men. The steady throb of blood engorging 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 by the splendid cock pulsing in her hand.
Taking her right hand, she spread apart the hps of La Tarantula's vagina as wide as she could possibly force them. Then directing the pulsating head, 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 most succulent sound of suction.
Immediately there came from La Tarantula a moan such as a woman going through the travail of childbirth. In her she felt the parting of her body as though a giant pile-driver 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 organ 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 the cock-head's entry. But fortunately, the inner part of her cunt was well lubricated with the juice of her drenching brought on by Cazuela's titillating of her clitoris. Otherwise, the tenor's cock would have scorched her delicate vaginal walls. But, as it was now, oiled by the pearly fluids, the same cock was sinking deeply into her like a steam 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 ramming into her was the greatest thrill 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 super-size of his dick that was the reason for it. And so she threw her arms around his enormous belly and clutched his ass-cheeks 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 jetting of scalding semen within her such as she had never before experienced. There must have been a whole pint in his bulky balls, for she felt it streaming in hot gushes right up her cunt and, in a short while, she felt the excess sperm trickling down her inner thighs.
Instead of withdrawing his penis, the tenor allowed it to remain right in her twat. "It takes so long for it to come back to its normal size, you may as well get as much pleasure out of my hardon as you can," he explained to her. Tired completely, La Tarantula allowed her head to loll over to the side. She saw the excited Cazuela frantically fingering her own clitoris, pitifully trying 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 very thorough fucking she had received, the tenor puffing from the mere physical exertion of manipulating his big prick and the maid, Cazuela, outstretched on the floor, her own come-juice issuing from her stretched cunt and onto the floor.
For the while, none spoke a word. The only sounds to be heard were the labored 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 marvelous penis 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 shrinking completely. But she continued to rest back, her eyes closed, a delicious sense of well being enveloping her as the after fuck 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 rhythmic melody of the string orchestra in the cafe, below. Outside, on the street, she heard the cry of a boy lottery ticket seller calling, "the winning number! remember it! buy now or weep tomorrow!" Gradually, his shrill 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 cunt-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 this hulk of a man who was still kneeling in front of her spreadeagled legs. Hesitantly, her fingers touched the immense belly jutting out over her own soft skin. 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 and spots seemed to have appeared all over his bloated face. His eyes seemed to have popped out of their sockets. Small flakes of foamy sputum drooled out of the corners of his mouth. But, worst of all were his white eyeballs protruding from their sockets like a frog's pop-eyes.
La Tarantula shrieked in horror.
Then she realized that her fears had been correct. On top of her, astride of her in the attitude of fuck was the bulky body of a dead man. Already, she felt what had been a warm cock only minutes ago, rapidly turning cold. Like one gone suddenly berserk mad, she tried to wriggle herself free from the dead weight of the three hundred pound corpse that was imprisoning her. But, with her weakened strength, considerably lessened by the two orgasms she had just undergone, she was unable to get herself away from under the gruesome cadaver. The most frightening thing of all was that enormous cock turning as cold as an icicle, still in her cunt. 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, the penis slipped out of her vagina with an indescribable slurping sound and the body toppled over to a side, its horrible face upward, already stiffening 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 gave out when he went through the terrific exertions of that last fuck with La Tarantula -after all, she was not a llama . . ..
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 deaths head had shown its ugly power 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. But there was no doubt that what she had seen and gone through during La Tarantula's hump with the unlucky tenor had driven her quite mad.
The coroner called it accidental poisoning.
But the old graybeards whispered: "The Tarantula has struck again."
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 teetering at the edge of a dangerous abyss. And that was the emotion which those felt who desired to fuck 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 specter of death or misfortune hovering over the men who screwed her. When she thought of the five prick-pushers 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. There are no more passionate women than these in the whole world.
And so, during the second period of celibacy, she managed to divert the piled-up sexual energies that smouldered and simmered within her cunt 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 and getting a terrific hard-on. He would also lose 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 courageous bullfighter in Spain. He was also a gypsy, and the most sought after hump-artist in all of the Hispanic countries. His real fame had been as a matador. When one spoke of bullfighting, one thought of El
Gallo immediately, together with the names of the great Belmonte and Joselito. But his name and his name only, the name of El Gallo, was the only name mentioned when the talk turned to expert fornication, that oft practiced art of which so few men are masters. There are many women who have attained such proficiency in the art of fucking that has gained for them historical renown. 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 whoremaster is another. The third should be El Gallo.
El Gallo was a man born with three testicles. There are many who doubted this claimed duplication of those necessary glands of reproduction. In fact, during his life time, except to those women who experienced the pleasure derived from his excess balls, 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 death bed in the Plaza de 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-sized testicles that still gave indication of their owner's sexual powers, although he lay on his hospital pallet in death.
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 Street of the Serpents in Seville.
It was Saturday night. The day had been a muggy moist one. Few of the regular cafe loiterers 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 listlesly, and just as listlessly returned, shuffling and yawning and wondering when the night would come so that they, too, could go home to sleep. It was much too hot to even think of fucking. 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 rung 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 a spent penis.
Suddenly, a change came over the place. Gradually, 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 del Toro. With him appeared a dozen other men, his picadors and banderilleroes together with the usual hangers on who dog the footsteps of every important personage. Especially those who were 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 sexy best into her next dance. "He is there!" he puffed, "he is there!"
"He?" La Tarantula asked, "who is he?"
"He!" Don Balthazar puffed again, "you do not know who HE is? why! you only have to say HE is here and all know that HE is none other than EL
GALLO, himself!"
"But what has he to do with me?" La Tarantula insisted, shrugging her shapely ass 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 he brings plenty of business 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 because of the visit 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 "Most beautiful, Senorita!" Then changing suddenly, "but there is the repeat for your entrance, senorita!"
"They can wait!" her mistress said,her mind still daydreaming. 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 odor. 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, become boring. The zest was diminishing. The killing of bulls, once so physically stimulating, had lost its savor. Even women, and he was one man who could have his pick of pussy, had become flat and uninviting. Liquor, fiery liquor like aguardiente, was all that was left for him. On the morrow, there would be thousands to cry his name, there would be bulls to kill. But something would be missing. And, as he mused so, separated from his companions, El Gallo twirled his glass and stared into its depths for a hint of some future interest in life. He did not hear the orchestra take a sudden spurt. He did not hear the applause that came with it. But, in the rotund belly of his drinking glass, he saw the reflection of a divine figure enter on the stage. For a moment he thought that it was only a mirage, that it was only a woman's body 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 reactivity of his surroundings. He heard the applause. He heard the cries of "La Tarantula! La Tarantula!" 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 tits and cunt of his mother's maid, he had gotten an unforgettable hard-on in the first stirrings of an adolescent's passion. And now, after twenty years, after twenty years of constant fucking, he found his dick reacting like a young lad's 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 unmistakably lustful gaze at the shapely dancer on the stage. Zurito, the favorite 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 who have the misfortune to put their pricks in her cunt. Men shy away from her !"
"Not El Gallo!" the matador replied grimly. Already the thrill of new pussy was beginning to evidence itself in him. The jaded flagging fatigue seemed to be dissipating. A feeling of the expectancy of happiness 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 piece of ass this was going to be! already, he had but to look at her and his triple-balled cock began to run a fever. And, what was more, there was her name and her reputation. La Tarantula. The killer of men. Was life going to hold a challenge for him once again in the shape of this attractive cunt, with the strange legend of death? He settled himself deeply into his chair, his eyes glued to the 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 pizzcati on his strings. Then she stamped with her delicate feet. But it became more a dance of the body than the feet. And, more to the rhythm of the castanets, La Tarantula, she moved her body languidly like a lily in a pool, her arms shifting sinuously. Her whole body shook in the ecstasy of her dance as wave after wave of emotion of pure feeling swept over her limbs, her ass 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 hps 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 thrusts, 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 fucking 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 clacking 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 ass undulated less and less. Her breasts became quiescent. Her panglike 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 wildly 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 her exertions of the dance. Her full tits 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 favorite 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 virile 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 carefully kept herself from looking at him, yet knowing that she was using an especially seduc tive swirl of her ass solely for him.
"You are a beautiful piece of woman!" she heard the matador call out in her own gypsy tongue. She turned slowly in her chair. Her features were calm and composed. She did not care to show her own sex eagerness for this man. Gypsy women know how to be very clever with the men they desire. Though they love color and display, they reserve their emotions. But, when all reason for reserve is unnecessary, their hauteur wilts and they become primitive women. La Tarantula knew that her reserve and hauteur would wilt, and that she, too, would become predatory. But she would not let this big-balled 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 the shameless bulge of his hard-on and balls right through 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 sex witch!"
She allowed her hand to drop to his penis where the great rising bump of his throbbing dick was almost bursting the buttons. With amazement she felt under his cock the sac that housed the mythical three balls. "You are not a man! El Gallo!" she said archly, "but you are two men!" La Tarantula's experienced fingers had indeed felt three big balls nestling in El Gallo's tight pants. This unbelievable thing, coupled with his club-like cock, made her pussy hot with her female desire for the boldest cock in all Spain.
"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 her pink nipple. He sucked deliciously at it, rimming its contours meanwhile with his tongue, gently tweaking its stiffness between his teeth. With his free hand, he lifted up the front of her gown and inserted two of his fingers right into the hot hole of her cunt. He felt a moistness there as his fingers found what they were searching for, her 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 fingers?" she asked him, her dark gypsy eyes flashing an invitation, "when you have so famous a tool for the same purpose. The cock and triple balls of El Gallo are known in all Spain. Or is it just a padding in the region of your cock that makes it appear to be so formidable?" she taunted.
In answer to her mockery, he unbuttoned the front flap of his trousers. Like an arrow from a bow, like the floodwaters over a dam, his great big cock shot out of his trousers straight and true. And hanging from beneath it there dangled that farfamed ball-sac, rolling with El Gallo's triple testicles.
La Tarantula stared at the phenomenal display. This was surely the biggest prick in the entire world. Hercules himself could not have had a cock of this size! It was fearsome to a woman! 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 hps 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 to the silk coverlet on 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 gypsy women only can smile with that soft langorous 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, she wanted this gypsy man, El Gallo.
El Gallo could do nothing but sink down to her on the bed. He realized that he was in no condition to be fucking and dissipating his strength 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 in the ring if he drained his strength, for he would lose his touch with the bulls. His grace at performing with the cape and sword would suffer for it. But why should he worry about tomorrow? Today, there was a beautiful gypsy woman of his own Romany tribe in bed for him who stirred his long dormant penis strangely. Live then for today. Tomorrow and its bulls would take care of themselves.
And so, adjusting his huge, stiff prick so that it lay between her legs, he eased himself down over her body and began to free her other breast from the dress.
"My Romany love!" La Tarantula smiled at him.
Her lush breast popped out of its place. Her maroon nipple in its center winked up saucily to him. As is the case with most Spanish women, the skin around the nipple was slightly raised from the rest of the breast. El Gallo tongued this extra sensitive portion 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 of her nipple like a living thing. Both her nipples jutted up like dark red champagne corks from her breasts.
"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 the foreskin of his fabulous shaft. 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 and each of his three balls seemed just as big as the bull's. She hoped it was as efficacious.
by this time, she felt that her overheated body was on the verge of what they both desired. Already, the clitoris 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 his index finger up to his knuckle 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 mem ber without waiting for him to help her and guide its big head into her own throbbing hole. His head was so large that she felt as if a large umbrella had suddenly opened in her hot cunt. At first she could not describe the variance that existed between the fuck of El Gallo and that of the other men's pricks which had been in her. But, it suddenly occurred to her that the difference lay in the surge of power of the spurted stream of juice from his balls, together with the amazing number of ejaculations his extra ball enabled him to have. However, during the first hump, she was agreeably surprised to discover that, almost at the exact moment that she, herself, experienced her own ejaculation, she felt the hot splash of his semen far up her cunt. He seemed to have perfect control of his comings and cock. And, by watching her and judging almost minutely the second her first orgasm twitch began, he was able to make their pleasure all the more heightened because of their mutual simultaneous spending. This thrilled La Tarantula to the very depths of her vagina, no man had ever before given her such superb twat satisfaction. This Romany matador could make her his love slave with the flick of his little finger!
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. At this her black-bushed cunt began to really go wild with convulsive, twitching sensation.
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 come-juice 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 wonderfully manipulated prick 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, "I am a gypsy like you-you are my destined lover! I believe in fate!"
"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, gushing, effervescing, pulsating, beating cunt!" he replied. And, to emphasize his statement all the more, he willed his remarkable 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, she was ready to be fucked the fourth time by his daring dong in one hour. She spread her legs wide for his entrance. He gazed in and saw the swelling of her pussy-lips, the steady rising of the clitoris, the quivering, quaking, convulsive rhythm of the pink, moist 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 torrid 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 El Gallo weakened as she wept. With a fervor 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 a complete entree. She still wept. In and out he sent his dick rampaging, sinking it as far in as he could possibly thrust it and, as he had dene previously, expanding thel width so that every thrust was delicious ecstasy tol her. Before she knew what she was doing, the last tear had been wept. Weeping was forgotten. There! was real fucking to do-the best screwing she had! ever gotten in her life .... That was more impor-j tant.
This time, she was determined that she would hold her spending as long as she could. And soj resolutely, she tried to keep herself calm and collected, not even cooperating with him by wiggling her ass and working his cock deeper into her cunt with contortions. Even his fingers, when they searched every part of her body caressing them under their nervous tips, she managed to hold herself in check although she realized that there was nothing that she wanted to do more at that particular time than to let herself go. When he put his index finger in and out of her ass-hole, it felt as if another thrilling prick was giving it to her too. 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 cockthrusts 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 humping, 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.
His scorching prick burned the sides of her cunt. The bubbling of her vital essences in her cunt and uterus became an effervescent cauldron. A furor 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 whole world exploded in her.
And she came beautifully.
He came beautifully in her.
The hot pearly fluids met and flowed together. And in the amalgamation of their physical fluxing, there grew the more lasting conjointure of their spiritual union. Each knew with the sex instinct of the Romany gypsy that they were meant for each other. That the river had found its final harbor.
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 her man's fabulous ballsac.
They were her world.
CHAPTER FOUR
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 cunt 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 pulling on a flimsy covering on her flamboyant nudity. "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 and really fuck every moment of 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 gayly 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 whiskey from the tables and waving them in their hands and lurching drunkenly out into the Street of Serpents, their arms around their pieces of ass.
The night had been quiet before they came out into it. But they bruised the silence with their shrieks and cries and obscene songs. Down the entire length of the street they went, on past the barracks, past the brewery, past the jailhouse, until they came to the river. There, in a number of boats, they were ferried across the river to the Triana section, La Tarantula's slum birthplace, in which the Plaza del 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 readied. 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 at.
Most of the others were drunk. But El Gallo and La Tarantula, who had imbibed only in sex, were still sober. For the while they busied themselves at the pens where the bulls were kept. Occasionally, some would shout 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 talking away, the women giggling from their drinks, he held on to the arm of La Tarantula and was glum and silent. She, how ever, being a gypsy, fell into the gay spirit of the evening. Seizing a bottle of cognac 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 brandy, 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 untrammeled carefree happiness. And the more she tried to ply El Gallo with drinks, the more glum he became and refused the offers. Yet, each offer that he refused, she, in turn, tippled another brandy.
And the rest of the company were doing the same thing. Their stock of wine and brandy had been refurbished at the little cafe that stood at the corner of the pens where there were tables and chairs for any who cared to sit. And when they grew tired of roistering about the pens, goading the bulls until they charged the wooden fences and sometimes splintered the barriers, they finally retired to the little cafe where they seated themselves at the table and were soon opening new bottles of wine.
Off to a corner, Zaralito had worked his cigarette-girl onto the floor. There, he was babbling to her that she didn't have the nerve to suck his cock. She, with just about enough liquor in her to take the dare, suddenly said 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 when he saw she was drunk enough to go through with it. 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 deal.
Somebody helped him up to one of the tables as he was too drunk to negotiate the step himself. A guitarist in the rear struck up a fast bolero. The men stamped in rhythm while the women clapped, heightening the excitement all the more.
Then, amidst a general clamor 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 his limp prick hanging in front of his open pants. The company howled at the sight of his flabby dick. 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 his penis, there were a number of folds in it which indicated that, distended, it could reach a sizeable length. And so, after cocking her head quizzically at it, she went to work on his lifeless-looking prong. First she inserted her right hand into his trousers again where she encircled his ballsac with her fingers caressing the rough surface with nervous sensitive fingers that sent electric shocks through the staggering picador. Still no rise came from his 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 between her wet, sensuous lips. At the same time she wrapped her tongue around the head 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 a full erection to the drunken picador. But, she was a real professional. And, in no time, what with her tickling of his balls and inserting her fingers into his ass-hole where she massaged his prostate gland, she brought the once limp 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 his penis 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 plopping noises of the girl's lips, mouth filled with saliva as it negotiated the entire length of the picador's rapidly hardening prick. She still kept her finger working in and out of his ass-hole. Slowly, under her tongue, the girl felt the foreskin gradually drawing away from the tip of the prick. Soon, she felt the knobby ridge of the head in her mouth. And a hardness firmed 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 like a ramrod. 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 seven-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 cock-rousing feat drunkenly.
From his vantage point atop the table, Zaralito suddenly called out petulantly, "What shall I do with this hard-on 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, waving in the air.
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, completely naked, 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 of her head crowned with a high comb. Below that there was nothing on her torso only two splendid olive colored breasts with pink nipples winking their eyes in the flickering lamplight of the room. Lower down the drunk saw a beautiful bushy triangle, a dark forest of silky hairs, he was scarcely able to see the cleft of her cunt. 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 aroused 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 of his cock-head into her cunt. But, with some expert wiggling and facile contortions she finally managed to wangle his prick into the hole of her pussy so that, with little exertion on his part, he could rapidly move his stiffened member in and out of her now torrid hole, slippery with dewy cunt-juice.
The guitarist took his cue again from this frenzied fuck beginning and struck up a wild bolero dance. The feet of the men stamped heavily to the primitive 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 male instincts came to the fore. In and out he began to shove his prick into the beck oning suction of the moist cleft of cunt between her legs. Rapidly the music took on a more barbaric tone, the beat coming with every thrust of nis 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 her 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 dry 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 breath started to come in labored gasps. Their limbs twitched. Occasionally, one of them would have an involuntary moan 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 shoved his dong in between the woman's legs so that it seemed as though, with every violent thrust up her twat, he would push her over the edge of the table. But, they kept their balance on the table and continued the rhythm of. their motions, each twirling their hips, each swinging their buttocks in mad wide circles, receiving when the other thrust and thrusting when the other received. The man's forehead glistened. The woman's breasts shook. The eyes of the drunken mob below them followed every detailed motion lasciviously, the drool from some of their mouths dripping from their chins.
Suddenly, a tenseness seemed to seize the fucking couple. Their furious thrusts seemed to take on an added violence. The man's fingers clutched tighter to the girl's flesh so that she was forced to cry out in pain and in passion. Faster and faster they worked themselves up to a pitch. And those in the audience sensed the imminence of the oncoming orgasm. They saw it in the tensed bodies of the pair on the table locked furiously in each other's embrace. They saw it in the bulging eyes of the man. They saw it in the twitching 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 come-juice was 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 belly. The man clasped her tighter. Her arms flopped ineffectually about like puppets. His legs propelled more powerful thrusts of his penis into her vagina. 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 his gaze, and his stiff prick which he had already freed from his pants and on which he had been surreptitiously jerking off 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 rigid prick, she thrust it into its stall, her avid quivering quim between her legs, wrapping her legs around his ass and squeezing as hard as she could the while the man atop of her thrust the entire shaft of his cunt-hungry 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 varicolored petticoats flying about them, a dozen pair of black stockinged legs fanning the air, each with a hot, impassioned man astride of them, pumping stiff, horny pricks into a dozen different cunt-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 fuck-length, so she would have that shaft once again up her cunny. And as she looked about her and saw the orgy of fucks taking place, the abundance 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 his prong back to its former hardness.
Moans, sighs, cries, curses; all sorts of animal-like 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 fuck her like 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 frig me!" 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 hump orgy with hatred, her nostrils distending like a stallion's, her eyes flaming with anger.
Soon, a number of couples, having blown off their climaxes already, arose from the floor and went at the wine and brandy bottles again with a renewed vigor. 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 her 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 positions, 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 maneuvered itself in and out of her pussy-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 mouth and tongue into her cunt. And again, others grouped themselves around this performing couple and laughed and cheered as they sweated themselves into another orgasm. The guitarist came down from his dais and started a fast moving malaguena. 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 black Miura bulls for the greatest fuck of the evening. Come! follow me!" And, with these words, he exited followed by the rest of the company. Caught in the movement of the rest, both
El Gallo and La Tarantula were pushed forward with the crowd into the barn behind the tavern. There they saw a most peculiar sight. Strapped up in a number of braces and leather saddles was an enormous black Miura bull. His black coat glistened under the torch-lights like a satin sheen. His maddened, 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 hoisted. 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 bull-fuck!" 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 fists were clenched. 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 voluptuous ass and curving tits like fireflies. All the men looked at her and envied the man who could fuck a cunt as luscious as hers and the bull who was going to have his prick in 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 bush nestling between their own thighs. They noted the stark outflare of her perfectly paired buttocks shaping down to the finely chiseled shapeliness of her thighs. They saw the mount of Venus abundantly vege tated with fine-spun dark hair barely shadowing the tight cunny settled deeply into its musky thickets. But, worst of all, they saw her lower herself to the pallet and spread her legs triumphantly opening her cunt wide 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 drunk as he purported to be. Perhaps he was determined to separate his master, El Gallo, from the toils of tliis gypsy witch, 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. The matador's expression 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 girl-friend, "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 cock, a virgin prick that had never felt the inside of a cow's cunt. Bulls for the bullfights are not allowed to fuck with cows. This piled-up bull sperm in their balls 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 bush, , spread out wide open in front of him awaiting the entrance of the bull cock. For the moment, he felt ,a pang of displeasure go through him. Why waste that marvelous 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 dilated 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. The cock-stimulating Spanish Fly was beginning to work.
Suddenly, from the tuft of hairs there emerged a pinkishly white prick, thick but almost unbelievable 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 and tickle the enormous ballsac that dangled between the legs.
Meanwhile, La Tarantula lay back quiescently on her ass, waiting for the entree of the beast's cock. 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 tortured face gleaming down at her alive with the venom of hatred in his eyes coupled with an insidious gleam of jealousy of the bull who was about to fuck her. 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 rattled down to the floor time and again. Finally, Zurito called out, "Ready!"
La Tarantula braced her twat for the bull.
Zurito seized hold of the long, throbbing prick and inserted it slowly into the woman's cunny, small in comparison with the hulding cock of the bull. Slowly, Zurito pulled 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 made his cock vibrate. 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 her cunt only a bit.
"More! more!" La Tarantula demanded. The onlookers applauded. Zurito carefully pushed the pallet a half inch 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 thrust deeper into her than any man's prick had ever been. She felt an enormous fullness 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 fill her cunt with solid hell-fire. 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! El Toro, the bull, can fuck me better!"
Then she knew no more. She only felt. She felt a stupendous rising within her mountain-high. She felt an overwhelming surging within her oceans deep. She felt a vast 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 hosing within her of hot, creamy fluid jets in the furthest reaches of her vagina. 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 such 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 with remorse, even as the bull's prick was still in her pussy.
CHAPTER FIVE
La Tarantula remembered little after that. She was floating 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, 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 the Spanish sing the malaguena. It is a prolonged lament, a melancholy, poignant wailing that comes welling up as though from the very vitals of the singer. And it ends with a series of ins 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 Maria Louise Park she was melancholy. A forest of trees and shrubs surrounded them giving off sweet fragrant scents. Orange trees, camelias and rosebushes. The ground was moist with early morning dew that gave out a woodsy odor. And in the trees, nightingales sang melodiously.
But the heart of La Tarantula was heavy with grief.
They crossed the slow-moving, moon-glittering river from the gypsy slums of Triana to the regular part of the city. None seemed to be aware of the fact that their leader, El Gallo, was not in their midst. Not even Zurito, El Gallo's favorite 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 keenly missed the virile presence of the matador. For, as she stared into the silvery waters of the river gliding by, she imagined that she could see the dear drowned face of El Gallo in their murky 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 clamor 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 man whom she had loved, and whom she had so tauntingly hurt by her mad fuck escapade with the black bull.
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 fucker once again in the splendor of his accomplishments, in all the strength and vigor of his fabulous male endowments. 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 del 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 del Toros where the bullfights were going to be held. She got into the stream. Past the various clubs she went where loafers, the "ladykillers," 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 by letting the black bull's cock into her cunt.
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 goosepimples of expectation crawling up her arm. And the short hairs on the nape of her neck stood up like little penises. For she was feeling horny. She was as horny for a cock 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, but only by the prick of 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 bullfight fans. Vendors coursed through the aisles selling beer and soda-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 humor prevailed, for it was an ideal day for a bullfight.
La Tarantula looked around for some sight of El Gallo. In 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 patent leather hats, several plainclothes men 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 charms from men scattered around the ring. But she gave them no heed. Her thoughts were only of one man, El Gallo. She knew that he would be in the patio 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 of the horses two mounted men dressed in an 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 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 of disappointment came up from the audience. They had come to see El Gallo, the great triple-balled one, the only El Gallo. But El Gallo was not in the parade.
Tears came to La Tarantula's eyes. Her chin fell to her lap. Suddenly, a roar arose from the crowd. From all sides she heard the name of "El Gallo! El Gallo! It is the three-balled one at last!" A loud period of handclapping and whistling resulted. La Tarantula looked up. Far in the distance, coming out of the horse yard, she saw the strangely lonesome figure of a matador dragging his cape on the ground, slumping tiredly across the sand. It was El Gallo. But this was a whipped El Gallo. His eyes were dead. His body was listless, his very balls and cock seemed to sag in his tight matador's pants, 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 barrier that separated the seats from the ring proper, she was seized by one of the plainclothesmen 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, stil' 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 body. And when she threw herself stumbling, weeping hysterically into his arms, he knew that once more life was going to be worthwhile living. And he, too, wept for the only thing which thrilled him, her cunt, was his again to enjoy. And there, in front of fourteen thousand fans 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 and wanted to fuck her as soon as possible.
"We were mad last night!" she moaned.
"That was last night!" he cried.
"Oh! fuck me! fuck 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 bull killings. Let the other toreadors kill first. You shall have the last bulls. I must have your cock in me first to know that you forgive me for last night!" she implored him.
El Gallo hesitated momentarily. But when he looked down into her tearful face, when he saw the bulge of her bosom at her bodice promising him her 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 into the infirmary. And all the while, the thousands, sensing his object laughed and cheered and whistled and called bits of hump advice for him.
Zurito, the master's picador came rushing over to him. "You cannot screw away your strength before the fight, master!" he protested.
"Go fuck yourself!" El Gallo called out gayly.
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 fucked-out, 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 beautiful gypsy pussy 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 interns and nurses had all left for their seats in the ring to view the fights. Not until someone got a wound from a bull would they be interrupted in their humping. Both of them hoped fervently that none would be gored by the bulls that afternoon so that they could fuck away to their heart's 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 lowhung operating table covered with a white sheet. Almost tearing the hooks away, he seized her dress and lifted it tenderly as though he were drawing away the holy veil from the temple of
Isis. Underneath he discovered only pure clean nakedness, the delicious nakedness of La Tarantula's warm luscious body. He took a sharp intake of breath at the sight that confronted him. Entirely unashamed, La Tarantula now stood in front of him, displaying all of her voluptuous charms. Her long black silk stockings drawn almost to the cleft of her pink cunt-lips accentuated the lighter shades of her olive skin. Her breasts rose and fell in the rhythm of horny desire for El Gallo's magnificent cock that had seized her in its toils and was tightening in her with an iron viselike 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 each curve, each line, each intimate detail of the full, rosy lips with her clitoris just peeking through the very top of her twat.
"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 fantastic 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 dick 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 his already hardened organ. Immediately it took a sudden spurt like a runner receiving his second wind. His big dong shot out like a racehorse from the barrier. And as she drew the flap aside, it sprang from its resting place and against her naked skin where it pulsed like a live club. Again La Tarantula put her hand to his cock. But, this time her busy fingers wrapped themselves around that amazing ballsac that harbored his 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 naked femaleness.
All this while, El Gallo himself was not idle. He had taken hold of her big nipples in his mouth and with tender lippings was nuzzling them to a stiffness that indicated the enormity of the passion that was flooding through her. At times, he would bite playfully at the lobe of her ear for he had discovered this little action was very exciting for her. And when he felt her fingers tenderly stroking his balls and prick, he went at his task with an added virility, wondering what else he could do in order to demonstrate his love for her.
by this time they had worked each other up to such hot desire, that they were certain to give themselves a good fuck. La Tarantula was murmuring, "Give it to me now! Screw me torero!" El Gallo was demanding of her the reason for her lewd actions of 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 touches of her sensitive fingers. They could excite themselves to no greater pitch. Already, both were panting from their exertions. La Tarantula was working her hips and ass in the familiar sexual circle as she felt the enormous thick bulk of El Gallo's prick press against her and nestle in her bush hair.
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 nakedly outstretched on the white expanse of sheet. There, she spread her cunt wide for him. For the moment he smiled as 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 goring from a bull, he is brought here and he is laid out on this bed where his gaping wounds are treated by the doctors."
"And I?" she asked.
"You too have a gaping red wound," he said with a grin, inserting his finger into the pink gash that glowed between her legs. His fingers sank into the moist twat pulsing under his finger's touch. He raised the digit to come in contact with her clitoris -a stiff little imitation of his own elongated penis.
"What does the doctor do when the matador with the gaping red gash of a bull's horn 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 tool with which to close up your wound!" 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 the tip of the foreskin 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 en trance 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 his king-sized pecker sinking its entire shaft in to the hilt and wrenching from the lips of the joyanguished La Tarantula as she was being rammed, the deepest moan of combined pleasure and pain. Back and forth his body went each time drawing the prodigious prick in and out. And, as he drew the penis out, La Tarantula began to practice one of her artful gypsy twat 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-head like iron bands. The result was an intense pleasure as though he was being milked.
"There!" he said as he continued to pump the king of all cocks into her, and between grunts, "Is that . . . ugh! . . . not better than . . . ugh! . . . the dong of that foul. . . ugh! . . . beast?"
La Tarantula was unable to make answer. Instead, she took hold of his face between her hands and drew his head down to hers. Then, opening her mouth as wide as she could, she made as though to swallow his whole mouth in hers, nipping his hps 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 body exploring for sensitive spots, eagerly trying to ferret out some place that had not been lovingly caressed. El Gallo's ass worked with a spurt of new fervor as she drove her forefinger right into his ass-hole as he fucked.
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 the 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 her 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 the cock of 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 preludes 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 her old fuck-passion and yet something more magnified a hundredfold.
This was love!
At last she was experiencing that most elusive of sensations-the ideal combination of cock, cunt and heartfelt emotion that is the dream of all women. 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 that made the world go round.
This was love!
Those supposed passions of the past, they had not been love. They had been mere fuck-imitations of love. This was love. Behind the physical pleasures there peeped a spiritual awakening, the birth of a regard for her hump-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 when she indulged herself lustfully with the bull's cock. 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 climaxing. And as she felt his long, thick cock traveling 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 every inch of her body like a cloud of hot, enveloping steam.
"I'm coming!" she whispered, "I'm coming!"
"Me too!" he answered, shoving his cock up her cunny with even greater force.
Then she came, her ass plowing up and back in an attempt to match El Gallo's fierce thrusts. Her cunt-juice 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 creamy semen gushing into her. Together they lay and she wrapped her legs around his buttocks, reaming at his ass-hole with the scruirming heel of one foot.
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. Her gypsy sense of mysticism told her that this was the one man for her, the only cock which she would ever let pierce her cunt, now and forever.
Their orgasms over, neither said a word. Both were puffing mightily. As if to heighten his emotion, La Tarantula nipped the flesh of his cheek playfully. It sent an electric current through him so that he gave his limp prick in her moist cunny a muscle jerk. She reciprocated in turn with the muscles in her cutn, contracting them, so that they felt like a ring of fire around his cock. She kept milking the last drops of sperm out of the head of his prick this way. They continued to do this playfully for some time, the while their labored gasps became normal. But, by the time they had managed to breathe right, they discovered that, in their playfulness, she had worked his resting, flaccid prick up to a hard-on again so that it bulked big in her quim once more. And, to boot, she had worked her pussy up to another pitch where she itched for his dick[s violent fuct thrusts once again. There was nothing that could be done about it except fuck. And so, having rested from the terrific ardors of the first orgasm, El Gallo set to work once more thrusting his tireless prick into his woman's awaiting vagina, sensing the lovingness with which she followed his every motion, his every action, his every thrust of penis.
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 whores and twats of the streets and the stage, they, compared to his reactions now, had merely been the masturbation of a boy. Their simulated attempts at passion were as child's play compared with this flaming volcanic eruption of loving cunt under him, that 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 cunt, they sealed their marriage, as it were, with a pure lip kiss that was devoid of the customary passion and sexy tricks that they practiced.
Again La Tarantula became aware of the oncoming closeness of another orgasm. Again she whispered to El Gallo that she was going to come. Again he prepared himself so that he could shoot his come into her the moment he felt her body stiffen under him with her legs wrapped around his legs, her hands clutching his torso, her tongue amorously searching for contact with his tongue.
Again they flooded each other with bliss and mingling hot semen and cunt-juice. 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 labored in panted breaths. And then they receded into the delicious after-fuck 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 frenzied humping.
For a while, El Gallo allowed his resting cock to remain in her cunt and wallow in the warm, balmy 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 sideroom carrying her clothes. When she returned calm and composed, but her cheeks flushed, she saw Zurito and a number of others of El Gallo's group of aides, pleading 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 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 lancelike 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 of the sheerest screw-pleasure they had just spent together. Never had she been thrilled by fucks as those just given her by the giant cock of El Gallo.
Then she saw him place himself behind a flat plank shelter jutting out of the barrier. One of the officials 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 hoofprints of the horse. El Gallo stood behind his shelter. 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 whitebearded man unlocked the door of the corral where the champing bull was penned, pulling heavily on it.
The bull came bellowing out of the corral. La Tarantula gasped. It was the black miura bull of last night! It was the bull that she had allowed to fuck her. A deep sense of shame crept over her as she realized that this beast's cock had spent within her vagina. But this was changed immediately when she saw that El Gallo, too, had recognized the muira. For he looked up to where she was seated and waved to her. He would avenge this insult to the cunt of his beloved gypsy 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 led him from the front, standing still as the bull charged, and with his arms moving the cape slowly just ahead of the bull's horns, passing the bull's horns close by his body with a slow movement of the cape, seeming to keep him controlled in the folds of the cape, bringing him past his body each time as he turned and recharged. He did this five times and then finished off with a swirl of the cape that turned his back on the bull thus cutting the bull's charge brusquely and fixing him to the spot.
La Tarantula thrilled when she saw her man, puny compared to the huge hulking beast, playing tricks with the animal, it being completely at his mercy. And when she asw the dangling sac of the bull's balls, she thrilled in the knowledge that her man, too, was endowed with almost as large a ballsac, 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 felt her twat get horny again 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 strings of bloody ribbon. Soon they were covered by canvasses and the ring made ready for the second act, that of banderilleros, 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 banderilleros who held them. They, too, were designed to slow up the bull and regulate his charges at the matador. Four pairs of banderilleros were stuck into the bull.
Then El Gallo came out of his little shelter. 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 traveled through the ring of the news. But the bull was yet 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 single sword thrust high up between the bull's shoulder blades.
El Gallo went through the whole routine 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 darling, marvelling at the grace he displayed in avoiding the mad rushes of the bull, imploring him at times not to take such risks in allowing the bull's horns to brush so closely to his vitals. 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 toreador's skill 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, 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 death-spot atop of the bull's neck.
Suddenly, a flicker of wind swept the cloth of the muleta upward. Instantly the bull's head followed the windraised cloth. Squarely into El Gallo's guts, the cruel, jagged horns of the black 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 goring the prostrate figure with his bloodied horn so that El Gallo's guts streamed from his torn belly in a pool of blood.
The audience groaned. The bull bellowed once and then fell over on its back, dead, the toreador's sword having finally done its work.
But across the breadth of the ring there sounded the strange eerie wail of a woman in pain. The curse of 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.
The most magnificent prick and balls in Spain, the lusty love possessions of La Tarantula, were now to become like the dust in the bull-ring. Around the gypsy campfires, wherever the Romany people gather, the saddest song that echoes on the plains is always the one that tells of the cursed loves of La Tarantula.
