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