Five deaths had already been laid at the door of La Tarantula. Yet the men of Spain before whom she danced her wild gypsy dances still fawned at her feet and cast glances of lust at her wherever she went.
Perhaps it was the danger that attracted them all the more. For there are some men who cannot derive pleasure from life unless they live within the shadow of a volcano, unless they are continuously teetering at the edge of a dangerous precipice or abyss. And that was the emotion which those felt who desired to be loved by La Tarantula- there was always danger of not waking up in the morning after a night of fornication.
But La Tarantula refrained from taking another lover to her bed for some time. For one thing, there was always the spectre of death hovering over her. When she thought of the five who had found death under the evil shadow of her baleful influence, she would shudder and all thoughts of sexual gratification would be driven from her mind. But not completely, mind you, for she was a woman, a Spanish gypsy woman, than whom there are no more passionate women in the world.
And so, during that second period of celibacy, she managed to divert the piled-up sexual energies that smouldered and simmered within her, to dancing. And it was in that period that she made the name of La Tarantula ring throughout the land as the greatest exponent of the Spanish gypsy dance. It was said of her dancing that no normal man could look at her wild gyrations for any length of time without succumbing to the sinuous rhythms, without losing all sense of morals, reason and rationality.
It was during the performance of her dance in a cafe on the Street of Serpents in Seville that La Tarantula met El Gallo, the most proficient bullfighter in Spain, a gypsy, and the most sought-after lover in all of the Hispanic countries. His real fame had been as a matador. When one spoke of bullfighting, one thought of El Gallo immediately, together with the names of the great Belmonte and Joselito. But his name and his name only, the name of El Gallo, was the only name mentioned when the talk turned to fornication, that oft-practiced art of which so few men are masters. There are many women who have attained proficiency in the art of fucking that has gained for them historical homage. But few men there are who have reached this pinnacle. Don Juan Tenorio of Seville, the immortal hero of Byron's poem, is one of these. Casanova, the Italian rake, is another. The third should be El Gallo.
El Gallo was a man with three testicles. There are many who doubted this claimed duplication of those necessary glands of reproduction. In fact, during his lifetime, except to those women who experienced the pleasure derived from his excessive ballocks, and their name was legion, his three balls were more myth than fact. But when El Gallo was finally brought low by a bull, when he was lying on his deathbed in the Plaza de los Toros infirmary, then it was that the medical men and El Gallo's retinue of picadors and hangers-on were convinced that the myth was, in reality, fact. For they saw, dangling between his legs, an enormous sac, a pouch that might have been mistaken as being diseased but which was really filled with three full-healthed testicles that still gave indication of their owner's sexual powers, although he lay on his hospital pallet in death. But I get too far ahead of the story.
Let us go back to the time when La Tarantula first met this man of fucking prodigalities, this paragon of cocksmen.
It was a strange fact, but neither had ever seen each other until the time of their first meeting. While El Gallo was performing in Barcelona, La Tarantula was dancing at the cafe in Madrid. Or if she was performing in Seville, El Gallo was proving his mettle in Zaragosa.
So it went during the earlier part of their mutual success in their particular arts. Until they met in the cafe on the famous Calle de la Serpiente in Seville.
It was Saturday night. The day had been a muggy moist one. Few of the regular cafe hounds were about. They were resting in some shaded nook secluded from the rays of the burning sun, sleeping in siesta. The waiters took their orders for wine listlessly, and just as listlessly returned, shuffling and yawning and wondering when the night would come so that they, too, could go home to sleep. High up in the wooden rafters of the smoked ceiling bluebottle flies droned. The guitarists strummed their instruments listlessly, almost automatically, the fire of the music lost in the lethargic, languid drowsiness of the atmosphere.
The singers came out onto the stage at one end of the great room, mopped their brows, and sang their ballads and songs. None was interested enough to applaud them. Only Beppo, the clown, got a rise out of the few who comprised the audience, when he drew his handkerchief across his forehead and then wrung almost a pint of water from the sponge concealed in his kerchief. Even the fiery matadors on the posters that emblazoned the walls seemed to have lost their customary vivacity, for their bright swords did not gleam as of old and their lances drooped like spent penises.
Suddenly a change came over the place. It dropped its listless drowsiness and became alive. For into the cafe had come none other than El Gallo himself, the great matador who was scheduled to appear tomorrow afternoon at the Plaza de los Toros. With him appeared a dozen other men, his picadors and banderilleros together with the usual hangers-on who dog the footsteps of every important personage, especially those who are as free with their money as was El Gallo.
Immediately, the waiters became galvanized into action. The bluebottle flies came down from the rafters to the tables where they glittered among the gold ornaments of the matador's habiliments. The guitarists' hands moved more quickly and their music took a spurt into the strains of the gay, intoxicating bars that usually introduced the entrance of La Tarantula. And Don Balthazar, the proprietor of the cafe, walked back to the dressing room of his star attraction, for whom he was paying dearly, and pleaded with her to put her best into her next dance. "He is there!" he puffed, "he is there!"
"He?" La Tarantula asked, "who is he?"
"He!" Don Balthazar puffed again, "you do not know who HE is? why! you only have to say HE is here and all know that HE is none other than EL GALLO, himself!"
"But what has he to do with me?" La Tarantula insisted, shrugging her shapely shoulders and adjusting a stray curl of black hair under her mantilla.
"It has to do with me!" the little fat man yowled. "When El Gallo is here, that means that business is here! Come! you are on next! They are playing your entrance song!" And, without another word, he flounced out again, bound for the kitchen and the cellar for more orders in regard to the entrance of El Gallo.
In her dressing room, La Tarantula smiled to herself as her maid touched her up for the last time. "How do I look?" she asked of the maid as she stared absent-mindedly into the mirror, her mind straying elsewhere.
The maid stood back and clasped her hands together in an attitude of adoration. All she could say was "Adorable!" Then changing suddenly,
"but there is the repeat for your entrance, senora!"
"They can wait!" her mistress said, her mind still afield.
In the cafe, the newcomers were banging on their tables, demanding the entrance of the dancer. The waiters had already brought their cargoes of wine bottles, which had been unceremoniously tipped into the throats of the company. El Gallo was seated a bit apart from the rest of the group. He was toying idly with a thin-shelled glass of pure white liquid, aguardiente. He drank nothing else. He liked the absinthe-like odour. But, better still, he liked the jolt that went through his system after every drink. For physical jolts to him now were few and far between. Life had paled. The zest was diminishing.
The killing of bulls, once so physically vivifying, had lost its savour.
Even women had become flat and uninviting. Liquor, fiery liquor like aguardiente was all that was left for him. On the morrow, there would be thousands to cry his name, there would be bulls to kill. But something would be missing. And, as he mused so, separated from his companions, El Gallo twirled his glass and stared into its depths for a hint of some future interest in life. He did not hear the orchestra take a sudden spurt. He did not hear the applause that came with it. But, in the rotund belly of his drinking glass, he saw the reflection of a divine figure enter on the stage. For the moment he thought that it was only a mirage, that it was only a figure conjured up out of the depths of his imagination, that he was seeing only that which he wanted to see. But no! the figure in the glass remained. It looked alive. Then he became conscious of the sudden reactivation of his surroundings. He heard the applause. He heard the cries of "Ohe La Tarantula nina ohe!" He heard the quick rhythm of the twanging strings under the nimble flying fingers of the musicians. Convinced now that there was something for him to see, El Gallo half turned in his chair. In his line of vision on the stage he saw something that made a catch settle in his throat. His eyes widened. A feeling came to him that he hadn't experienced for twenty years. Twenty years ago, when he had first seen a woman's naked body, the body of his mother's maid, he had throbbed in the first stirrings of an adolescent's passion. And now, after twenty years, after twenty years of constant fucking, he found himself reacting like a young lad viewing his first nude woman.
The glass in his hand slipped from his fingers and crashed to the floor.
All turned to El Gallo. They saw him staring with a frank unmistakable gaze at the dancer on the stage. Zurito, the favourite picador of the matador, edged over to his master. "She is bad medicine, El Gallo!" he whispered to him.
"Who is she?" El Gallo demanded hoarsely.
"La Tarantula!" the picador replied. "She is not for us, master. 'Tis said she kills those she loves. Men shy away from her!"
"Not El Gallo!" the matador replied grimly. Already the thrill of women was beginning to evidence itself in him. The jaded flagging fatigue seemed to be dissipating. A feeling of the expectancy of joy replaced it. He recalled the first time he had sensed that emotion. His first professional bullfight. His first after his schooling at the novilladas. The short wait for the first bull. The cries of the crowd who knew that it was his first bull. The overpowering happiness of expectancy. That was what he felt recreated in him again. Madre de Dios! What a woman this was going to be! Already he had but to look at her and his senses reeled in a fever. And, what was more, there was her name and her reputation. La Tarantula. The killer of men. Was life going to hold something for him once again? He settled himself deeply into his chair, his eyes glued to the dancing woman on the stage, his heart beating time with the barbaric music.
On the stage La Tarantula began her dance. The guitarist first gave a startling introduction of pizzicati on his strings. Then she stamped with her little feet. But it became more a dance of the body than the feet.
And, more to the rhythm of the castanets, La Tarantula moved heir body languidly like a lily in a pool, her arms shifting sinuously like live snakes. Her whole body shook in the ecstasy of her dance as wave after wave of emotion, of pure feeling swept over her limbs, her hips all tremulous with a subdued fire. Her head lay cocked on her shoulder.
Slowly, she opened her eyes. Slowly, she extended her arms for the unseen lover, her half-opened lips shaping themselves for his kiss. And, without moving her feet or her knees, she turned her body at the hips as though she were following her lover's action, every line in her a confession of her love for him. It seemed as though she were trying to work her body from the mortal sheath that imprisoned it so that she could give herself unencumbered to the man whom she adored.
Breathing deeply, her body almost succumbed to the voluptuous strains of the music and the rhythm of the castanets. Life possessed her.
She cried out as though in passion. And, as she reached the peak of emotion, when her hips and limbs and breasts were all shaking madly, crazily, her body stiffened as though she were already experiencing the orgasm. The guitars pounded on. The castanets clattered like clucking hens. The stamps and handclaps of the audience resounded again and again. But, slowly, her body came out of the stiffness. Her arms stopped their weaving. Her hips undulated less and less. Her breasts became quiescent. Her pang like breathing became less forced.
She subsided within herself. The music took on a sad, tragic note. The castanets became quieter and less pronounced in rhythm. The audience became hushed. Soon her body was entirely still. Her head sank down to her chest. Her arms drooped to her sides. Her knees crooked in the attitude of despair. And the guitars gave one last wrenching sob. Then, all was quiet for a moment.
Immediately afterwards, the audience started clapping and whistling for the return of La Tarantula, who had slipped back into the wings.
She did not return. Instead, she hurried back to her dressing room and freshened herself up with powder and perfume. Her curved nostrils still quivered from the exertions of the dance. Her breasts rose and fell with her heavy breathing. Her eyes glistened. Her maid hurried to help her with her toilette but she dismissed her instantly. And, alone in her room, she gazed into her mirror and touched the lobes of her ears with her favourite perfume.
A sound came from the direction of the door. La Tarantula did not turn to look. For in her looking-glass she saw the reflection of El Gallo stepping into the room. A curl of derision shaped itself around her lips.
Rather, it was a curl of triumph. For, during the entire time of her dance, she had sedulously kept herself from looking at him, yet knowing that she was dancing solely for him.
"Cani!" she heard the matador call out in dikran, her own language.
She turned slowly in her chair. Her features were calm and composed.
She did not care to show her eagerness for the man. Gypsies are not as demonstrative as that. Though they love colour and display, they reserve their emotions. But, when all reason for reserve is unnecessary, their hauteur wilts and they become primitive women. La Tarantula knew that her reserve and hauteur would wilt, and that she, too, would become predatory. But she would not let this bullfighter realize it too soon. She would…
But before she could finish the thought, she found herself swept into the arms of the man. He simply bowled her over with his impetuousness. She felt his arms tighten around her. She felt his hot breath blowing on her cheek. She felt a tightening in the region of his velvet pantaloons, affected by matadors.
"You are not a woman, La Tarantula!" he said to her, his voice ablaze with desire, "you are a witch!"
She allowed her hand to drop to his penis where the great rising bump of flesh was almost bursting the buttons. With amazement she felt the scrotum, the sac that housed the mythical three balls. "You are not a man, El Gallo!" she said archly, "but you are two men!"
"Let me prove it!" El Gallo pleaded, snatching at the shoulders of her gown and wrenching one of them off so that her plump breast fell out in pretty confusion. Immediately, his head sank to it. His mouth fell around the raised surface of the nipple. He sucked deliriously at it, rimming its contours meanwhile with his tongue, gently tweaking its stiffness at times with his teeth. With his free hand, he lifted up the front of her gown and inserted his fingers into the aperture of her cunt.
He felt a moistness there as his finger sank deeply into its folds. Then his finger found what it was searching for, the clitoris. Tenderly he nursed it up and back until he felt it stiffen. Then he looked down at La Tarantula.
"Why do you use your finger?" she asked of him, "when you have so excellent a tool for the same purpose. Or is it just a padding in the region of your cock that appears to be so formidable?"
In answer to her question, he unbuttoned the front flap of his trousers.
Like an arrow from a bow, like the floodwaters over a dam, his great big cock shot out of his trousers straight and true. And hanging from beneath it there dangled that far-famed ball-sac, the El Gallo triple testicles.
La Tarantula stared at the thing. Then she threw her arms around El Gallo's neck and seized hold of his lips with her own eager lips. Her tongue roamed at will in his mouth and nipped his lips coyly.
Meanwhile he had lifted her up in his arms, his lips still glued to hers, and had carried her over to the bed that stood in the corner close by the open window.
Without undressing her, he laid her gently down on the silk coverlet of the bed. Then he feasted his eyes momentarily on the vision that lay outspread before him. He could see her long black silk opera stockings all the way up to almost the cleft of her legs. Red high-heeled sandals were on her feet. Her bosom still dangled from the neck of her gown.
She smiled at him as gypsies only can smile, with that soft languorous promise of good things in it. Her teeth gleamed an invitation. Her green eyes glowed in their eyelashes like hidden dusky emeralds.
Then she stretched out her arms for him, beckoning with her fingers, like a child reaching for the moon.
El Gallo could do nothing but sink down to her on the bed. He realized that he was in no condition to be fucking around at that time. He had a strenuous afternoon ahead of him for the morrow. He should have been asleep at this time, resting for the killing of the bulls. He realized that it would go hard with him then. For he would lose his touch with the bulls. His grace at performing veronicas would suffer for it. But why should he worry about tomorrow? Today, there was a woman in bed for him who stirred him strangely. Live then for today. Tomorrow and its bulls would take care of themselves.
And so, adjusting his prick so that it lay between her legs, he eased himself down over her body and began to free the other breast from the dress.
"My baby!" La Tarantula smiled at him.
The breast popped out of its place. The brown nipple in its centre winked up saucily to him. As is the case with most Spanish women, the area around the nipple was slightly raised from the rest of the breast.
El Gallo tongued this section first, avoiding the nipple itself. When he felt a series of throbs under his tongue, he allowed it to touch the nipple ever so slightly. The response was a distinct movement upwards.
"Oh! do not tease me!" La Tarantula cried. For, as he was working on her breasts, she in turn had inserted her hand between the juncture of their bodies and was stroking his rapidly hardening prick. Out of curiosity, she allowed her fingers to brush up against the bag that housed his balls. It was all balls, she discovered. Once she had seen the ball-sac of a bull. El Gallo's was as prominent as the bull's. She hoped it was as efficacious.
By this time, she felt that she was on the verge of what they both desired. Already, the little sentinel in her cunny was standing at attention under the ministrations of El Gallo's free hand. With his other hand he was doing a curious thing. He had inserted it directly into her anus where he was massaging the walls. The effect on La Tarantula was odd, in that never before had she felt anything but her own shit in that part of her anatomy.
"In me! in me!" she cried suddenly when she felt that she could do without the risen prick no longer. And she seized hold of the stiffened member without waiting for him to help her and guided it into her own throbbing hole. At first she could not describe the variance that existed between the fuck of El Gallo and that of the other men who had had her. But it suddenly occurred to her that the difference lay in the surge of power behind the thrusts and, later on, in the force of the spurted stream of juice from his balls, together with the amazing number of ejaculations he could have. However, during the first time she was agreeably surprised to discover that, almost at the exact moment that she, herself, experienced her own ejaculation, she would feel the hot splash of his semen in her. He seemed to have perfect control of his comings and goings. And, by watching her and judging almost minutely the second of her orgasm, he was able to make their pleasure all the more heightened because of their mutual simultaneous spending.
Puffing under the exertions of her first spendings, La Tarantula was able to notice that, unlike the other men, he allowed his member to remain in her hot agitated cunt. Then he tongued her all over instead of confining himself to her breasts and nipples, licking her navel, her armpits and every inch of her body that he could reach. Finally, when she could stand it no longer, when she felt the old ominous boiling inside of her, almost at will his prick inside of her stiffened. In and out he thrust it. And as he did so, it seemed to her that besides having the power to lengthen, El Gallo's prick had the marvellous ability to expand its breadth so that, as he drew it out or put it in, the friction was increased a hundredfold.
It was no wonder that La Tarantula was unable to hold the second coming. Almost immediately, before she was aware of the fact that she was to experience the second orgasm, the plasm within her burst its floodgates. But, marvel of marvels, she found that, despite her inability to hold herself, he too had come in her. So it didn't matter when she came. He could control himself to come with her. And that was the beauty of it all. To come together, to feel the fluxing of the life fluids, to sense the slow melting together of bodies-all of that was present with them.
Later, the novelty of his wonders having worn off, she discovered that she was better able to control herself. But, no matter how long she held her spending, he was ever at her heels spending when she spent, sighing when she sighed, breathing in the fire of her nostrils, joining them together like no man or woman had ever been joined before.
"Where have you been all my life?" she breathed into his ear, playfully biting the lobe.
"I have been seeking for you," he replied, "but from now on, you shall find me only in one place!"
"And that is…?" she asked shyly, although she knew.
"In the confines of your hot, palpitating, quivering, trepidating, effervescing, pulsating, beating cunt!" he replied. And, to emphasize his statement all the more, he willed his prick right before her eyes to become hard, without physical manipulation. The sight of this feat sent a delicious shiver through her. She felt herself stirred again, the fourth time by him in one hour. She spread her legs wide for his entrance. He gazed in and saw the swelling of the lips, the steady rising of the clitoris, the quivering, quaking, convulsive rhythm of the flesh anxiously awaiting the contact of his own fluctuating tool. He held off a while, tormenting her. But, out of desperation, and not knowing what she was doing, La Tarantula assed her way closer to him, until she felt the touch of the head of his prick. She could control herself no longer, woman that she was, and she burst out into a severe fit of weeping.
Something in the man went weak on him. With a fervour such as he had not shown the whole night, he edged his cock up into the mouth of her cunt, rubbing up against the hardened clitoris on purpose before effecting an entire entree. She still wept. In and out he sent the thing rampaging, sinking it as far in as he could possibly place it and, as he had done previously, expanding the width so that every thrust was delicious torment to her. Before she knew what she was doing, the last tear had been wept. Weeping was forgotten. There was fucking to do.
That was more important.
This time, she was determined that she would hold her spending as long as he could. And so, resolutely, she tried to keep herself calm and collected, not even co-operating with him by wagging her hips and working his cock deeper into her cunt with contortions. Even when his fingers searched every part of her body, caressing them under their nervous tips, she managed to hold herself although she realized that there was nothing that she wanted to do more at that particular time than to let herself go. But she was determined that she would give him as much pleasure as he was giving her. And so she held herself, clenching her fists tightly so that her fingernails sank into the flesh of her palms and moaning in actual pain. Faster and faster his motions became. He thought that he was not doing enough to bring her around.
And so he worked all the harder, sweating under the added exertion that he was putting into his work, kissing her all over the face and on the breasts and in her hair, doing everything possible and in exaggerated degree in order to sense those reactions in her which told him that she had reached her passion's peak and she was just about ready to blow. But still no sign came. He looked down anxiously into her face. Just at the same time, La Tarantula opened her eyes and saw him look down anxiously. She read the unspoken question in his eyes and despite her suffering, she smiled up at him.
Then it was that he realized that she was holding herself in for him. She was trying to repay him in his own coin. And, throwing his arms around her in a great bear hug, he sank his face into her hair and wept, wept because he had finally discovered the woman with whom he would be able to live the rest of his life.
His tears affected her. Never before had she seen a strong man weep.
But the wonder of it was that he was weeping because of a little thing that she was doing for him.
But she could hold herself no longer.
The piston-like prick burned the sides of her cunt. The bubbling of her vital essences in her loins became an effervescent cauldron. A furore of passion came over her, seeping into every nook and cranny of her receptive body. Paroxysms of emotion swept through her in devastating waves, each of which left her weak yet raring to go again.
A rampant, clamorous, tempestuous, irrepressible volcano, simmering in its incipient deluge of lava fire, shook her.
Then the bottom dropped away from her.
And she came beautifully.
He came beautifully in her.
The pearly fluids met and flowed together. And in the amalgamation of their physical fluxing, there grew the more lasting conjointure of their spiritual joining. Each knew that they were meant for each other.
That the river had found its final harbour.
As they sank back exhausted, El Gallo took hold of La Tarantula's hand and reverently kissed her fingers.
That night they fucked fifteen times.
La Tarantula discovered that the three testicles of El Gallo were more than a myth. They were more than fact. They were all of truth bound up into the compass of one ball-sac.
They were her world.