Chapter 3
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.