It took a long time for La Tarantula to recover from her experiences in Tangier. Returned to Seville, she hovered between life and death in the throes of an undulant fever that sapped all her strength from her.
Forever, she was envisioning the bodies of those that had died in sexual service to her. Her uncle Chato Doble, Otero, the dancing master, Don Juan Gandulla, the guitarist, Cazuela, her maid, Don Jose Caloro'a, the tenor, El Gallo, the matador, Vibora, the Miura bull, the Arabian and La Niobe, her young dancing protegee, all of them fled across the miasma of her mind. Like disembodied spirits, their wraiths hung about her, taunting her with the death's head that overshadowed her lovers.
For a whole year she malingered, wasted almost to a shadow of what once had been the notoriously beautiful La Tarantula, the gypsy dancer. After a year she began to take on weight. Desire to live returned. The shadows of the dead past died down so that they became scarcely perceptible. But they still remained. For that is the tragedy of life. The dead do not die. For they live on in memory in the minds of those who are alive. They cling tenaciously to life although their bodies have rotted away into dirt and their skulls have become nests for scorpions.
But lying in the beneficences of the Spanish sun, she gradually became healthier until soon she had regained her once-resplendent figure and virility. In no time she was being booked throughout the city for appearances in her famous dances. But men avoided her as though she were the plague. No matter how they thrilled at her dancing, no matter how they desired to get the provocative gypsy into bed, there to fuck the life out of her, they never approached her. They avoided her, for the death's head glowed evilly above her like a dead star.
But she continued to dance all the while. Apparently, the fire, the zest was still with her. But, she herself knew that she was only a consummate actress, that the passion she simulated was only a cheap tawdry imitation of what had once been genuine feeling and emotion.
Being a woman and being even more than a woman, for she was La Tarantula, she felt the urge of sexual pleasure demanding some sort of consideration. She could not see a pair of flies on the windowpane but she was forced to think of herself in a similar position with a man on top of her jousting away merrily to a pleasurable orgasm. In her mind's eye, she roved backward to all of the fucks of the past, going over the details of each one, retracing her actions and emotions at each fuck, working herself up to pitch until she could control herself no longer.
It was when she dreamed of El Gallo that she awoke from her sleep one night, her forehead bathed in sweat, a tremendous itching in the vicinity of her cunt distracting her. A bowl of bananas lay on the night table close by. Without thinking, without knowing what she was doing, she seized hold of one of the bananas and pressed it slowly between the lips of her itching hole. She squirmed in pain as the rough edges bit at the tender flesh. But it was a pleasant pain for it made her think of El Gallo's prick. And all the while, as she pushed the dildo up and back inside of her, she imagined that the matador was lying on her and that it was his prick that was stirring her and not an ordinary banana.
Soon, stimulated by the action of the implement, she began to feel a suggestion of her former emotions returning. Her breath came faster.
Her nostrils quivered. Her ass worked itself impetuously about on her bed sheets. Up and back she thrust her hips, attempting to sink the shaft of the banana in as deeply as she could get it. Suddenly, as she made a violent thrust, her fingers slipped off the end of the banana and the thing shot into her cunt, stopping at the end of her cervix.
Immediately the contact sent an electrical thrill through her. Puffing madly now, she separated the lips of her outer cunt with her left hand and, with her right hand, inserted her forefinger into the throbbing surfaces of the inner cunt and there she seized hold of the alreadystiffening clitoris. Then, bending her chin down onto her breast as far as she could, she tried to seize hold of the nipple of her breast with her mouth. With the aid of her right hand, she lifted the nipple up to her lips and she seized hold of it avidly, sucking at it and mouthing noises like a babe at its mother's breast. Thus, diddling her clitoris with her right hand, stiffening the nipple of her left breast with her left hand and sucking the nipple of her right breast with her lips, the shaft of the banana sunk deeply into her hole and touching her innards, she managed to work herself up to a supreme orgasm. Up and down her body worked itself spasmodically. The bedsprings creaked. The bed shook. Her breath steamed from her nostrils. Moans issued from her lips as she tongued her nipple.
Then she came in a grand overrushing spasm, the fluid spurting over her fingers and dripping from the lips of her cunt. Tiredly, she dropped the tit from her mouth. Her busy fingers fell away from her lips. But the fingers of her other hand remained in her cunt, feeling the passionate vibrations of the muscles therein and the hot fluid of her orgasm moistening the entire hole.
But as she lay back against the cushions, she saw a black hooded figure emerge from the window that opened up into a balcony that ran around the patio.
In the chill morning gloom she saw the figure put her finger to her mouth as though commanding her to silence. When her eyes became accustomed to the dark, La Tarantula saw that her visitor was a nun from the nearby convent. Still wordless, the nun helped her on with her clothes, although La Tarantula noticed that the nun was not overly fast in helping her do that but allowed her hands to linger on her buxom breasts and curvetted flanks.
"What do you want?" La Tarantula asked.
The nun said only, "Come!"
They went. The nun led her down the steps and out onto the street.
Through the dark streets of the night they went, La Tarantula following faithfully after the nun, not daring to speak a word in objection because, after all, it was a nun who was leading her. Besides, the situation smacked of something different, something to change the awful deadly monotony of life as it had existed for La Tarantula in the past year.
Out of the gloom, La Tarantula saw a great hulk of a figure bulking like a fortress. At first she did not recognize it. But when they got closer she saw that it was the old nunnery of La Novedad. Wild conjectures flew about in her head. What did the nuns want with her? Why were they bringing her there? What had she done? Was she to repent for the death of her lovers?
The nun pulled a knob. A bell tinkled faintly in the bowels of the inside. The heavy door slid open a few inches. The nun, leading her charge, slithered into the slim aperture. La Tarantula saw that they were in a moonlit patio. About fifty other black-robed nuns were grouped around an inner circle. Two of them had guitars which they were strumming occasionally. She found herself being led up to the centre of the ring. An elderly nun beckoned to her. She was the Mother Superior, La Tarantula knew. Breathlessly, she advanced to the nun.
"You are she who is known as La Tarantula?" the nun asked her in a low voice.
La Tarantula nodded her head.
"Good!" the other said, "we are here to witness your notorious dance!" and with a wave of her finger she indicated something to the nuns who were at her side. Immediately, with an avidity that was alarming, they set upon the frightened girl and began to strip her clothing from her.
Lasciviously, their eyes followed every bared spot on her. Lewdly, their fingers lingered on her breasts, her hair, her thighs. She felt their hot breath breathing on her flesh. And, as each new feminine delight was displayed, she could hear definite sighs coming from the group of nuns circled about her.
In a few moments, she stood there in front of them stark naked. In the silver moonlight that streamed over her olive-skinned body she appeared to be an alabaster statue carved from the purest of stone. The hollows and the shadows in her glowed dully. Her breasts, their contours accentuated by the shadows which they cast, stood out like twin beauties. Her pubic section with its triangle of hair and its jewel of a cunt nestled in it like a dark ruby in a case, brought a chorus of sighs and moans from her audience.
"Dance!" the nun commanded.
The two guitarists set up a strumming on their instruments. For the moment, La Tarantula stood where she had been placed, her body quivering from the cold. But when she felt the power of the music insisting itself into her body, she began to dance as she had never danced before. Something told her it was going to be the last time she was going to dance. The music rose to an ecstatic pitch. Faster and faster the fingers of the players twanged their strings. Faster and faster La Tarantula moved every muscle in her anatomy to the rhythms of the music. Her breasts swayed as her torso shook. The moonlight's shadows fluttered about her body like black moths. Sinuously she whirled her hips, shaking her whole body from side to side as though she were involved in a great orgasm. She saw many of the nuns lave their lips with their tongues. Others' fingers clutched at their habits.
One, in particular, she saw insert her hand between the folds of her gown and there push it up and back excitedly.
Suddenly, in the midst of a particularly fast and furious caper, one of the nuns could control herself no longer. Opening her black habit wide, she displayed that she was stark naked beneath it.
Unhesitatingly, she leaped to the circle and seized hold of La Tarantula. There, she kissed her madly and inserted her finger into the dancer's cunt. She withdrew her finger in a short time and began to rub cunts with her, kissing her lips and her breasts and her nipples, seizing her in long fingers that gripped the dancer's flesh with deep scratches.
Almost as suddenly, another of the nuns doffed the single garment that covered her and leaped into the circle naked. She seized La Tarantula from the grasp of the first nun and began to do with her as the first one had done, moaning loudly and weeping. Others in the circle threw off their habits. Some took great big dildoes from their pockets and inserted them into either their own throbbing cunts or their neighbours'. A mad period of kissing and rubbing of cunts ensued. The air was filled with the concert of their cries and moans. Soon, the circle was a circle no more but a milling mob of naked women fucking each other with artificial pricks, fingerfucking themselves, kissing other women's tits, and doing all those things that women take pleasure out of when they haven't a man for the job. The guitarists played on. The orgy continued.
But La Tarantula was not there when it ended. For, suddenly, in the midst of the sexual tumult, she felt a hand thrown over her mouth and an arm drawn about her waist. Somebody was dragging her along in the darkness. She saw the trees of the patio disappear. Then she felt herself being carried down, down into damp subterranean tunnels. In the gloom, she saw water dripping from the ceiling of the labyrinth through which she was being carried. Finally, she heard a heavy grinding of a gate on rusty hinges. Then she felt herself being eased onto a soft bed. When her eyes became accustomed to the darkness, she saw an immense black-cowled figure of a monk towering over her.
His eyes, fanatic in their intensity, glowered down at her like fireflies in the dark. He was panting from the exertion of having carried her.
La Tarantula looked around her. She saw that she was in a monk's cell, bare and stark. The only furniture in it were some odd-looking instruments with chains and a number of whips lying scattered about.
"You are La Tarantula!" the monk growled.
La Tarantula nodded her head.
Without saying another word, the monk strode over to the table on which a heavy bullwhip lay. Taking it up in his hand, he tested it, snapping the thing with a loud report. La Tarantula stared at him wild-eyed. And when she saw him approach her again with the tail of the black whip trailing the floor she saw from the monk's mad eyes that he meant to do her harm. Without another word, he raised the whip high over his head and brought it brutally down on the bare back of the cringing dancer. She let out a wail that re-echoed through the cell. A red welt appeared on her flesh. Drops of blood oozed from a dozen places. Tears came to the girl's eyes. Again and again the whip rang through the air and came down on the poor girl's back. Blood spattered all over the bed on which she had been thrown. Her groans and wails filled the room.
The monk spoke. "I am the direct descendent of the Holy Torquemada.
You have been sinful with man. You have been sinful with woman.
You have been the death of almost a dozen. For you the whip, the rack and the thumbscrews!" And with these words, he brought the whip down again on her already lacerated body.
Then, taking up her already limp body, he carried her over to an instrument of torture, the rack. It was an oblong frame of wood slightly raised from the ground, having at one end a fixed bar to which he fastened La Tarantula's legs. At the other end was a movable bar to which he tied her arms. By a series of pulleys and levers, he began to stretch her arms and legs so that she looked like an X. Tighter and tighter he drew it. The girl had screamed and cried so much by this time that she could only moan pitifully. When he had drawn her as tightly as he could, he began to lash her again with the heavy bull whip. By this time, the blood was streaming down her back in rivulets.
When he untied her from the instrument, La Tarantula was unable to stand on her feet. Limply she sank to the floor, a beaten, broken heap of flesh. Lying there so helpless, something about her position caught the eye of the fanatic. With his whip upraised, the tail of the whip dangling like a murderous snake, he stared at her figure on the floor.
The whip-hand sank slowly to his side. He looked down intently at her body. He saw the proud highflung breasts dangling provocatively from her. He saw the nipples delicately tinged with brown. Rubbing the back of his hand over his eyes as though to wipe the sight away, he raised the whip again as if to strike her. Again his eyes turned to her body. This time he saw the gentle curving slopes of her ass quivering like live flesh, a woman's live flesh, a beautiful woman's live flesh. He stepped closer to her inert figure. Extending his hand, he touched the flesh with his fingers. It was warm to his touch.
After all, he was a man.
With a cry, he threw the whip away from him. Then, bending over her, he tenderly lifted her up and carried her to his bed. There he laid her down gently and stared down at her lovely body. The fanatic look softened. Now there was a look of adoration, of mute desire. Now, there was no more hatred but love, love of a man for a woman.
Tenderly again, he stroked the line of her flanks, wondering why he had been such a fool to harm such a beautiful thing. His fingers went up to her breasts. They were delicious. They were a woman's breasts.
They were to be fondled by a man. And he was a man although he had taken the vow. For even then, as he stood over her, wasn't there a stirring in him, a desire to fuck this woman? Wasn't his cock under his habit taking on a hardness and a rigidity that indicated to him quite amply that he was a man?
His curiosity aroused, he turned La Tarantula over on her back. He saw the region of hair with the puckered quim barely visible. Parting the hair aside, he saw the pouting lips better now. Desire seized him in iron talons. He spread her legs wide apart and sank his head between so as to see her delicious cunt all the more. With his fingers he spread the outer lips apart. The touch of the warm moist flesh on his hand made him gasp with pleasure. Gently, he touched his finger to the clitoris of the semi-conscious woman.
As though it were a whiff of a restorative, La Tarantula suddenly came out of her coma. And when her eyes opened, when she saw the man bending over her, when she felt his fingers touching her to the very quick, titillating her dormant passions so that they strove mightily to assert themselves, she wondered whether she was dreaming. But, no! the same man who was tickling her button was the one who had cruelly wielded the whip. But, he was a man. That was enough for her.
And, although her back pained her terribly from the raw welts on it, although her muscles and joints ached from the horrible torture of the rack, still she smiled down at the monk, and she moaned, not in pain but in pleasure.
Immediately, the monk turned to look at her face. He saw a welcoming smile there. He noticed that she was not objecting to his attentions to her cunt. And so he went at his diddling with even greater vigour.
Apparently impatient, he withdrew his finger from her hole and sank his face down directly into the aperture. Then, with his hot tongue, he continued to lap the button, feeling it stiffen with passion as the heated blood flowed into its veins and caused it to blush prettily. All the while that was going on La Tarantula felt the old-time passion stirring within her again.
"Oh! oh!" she cried, unable to control herself, so intense was the rebirth of the fucking pleasure.
The monk lapped all the faster when he heard this and he squeezed her buttocks in both his hands and almost wept for passion. Soon, La Tarantula felt that she could not stand being without a man's prick in her any longer. Fiercely she reached down to his head and seized him by the hair fringe on his head. She lifted his head up and away from her cunt.
"Fuck me before I come!" she breathed, scarcely able to speak because of the sobs of passion that tore at her throat.
The monk needed no second invitation. Already, his cock was extending in a great hump inside of his habit. It took only a second for him to lift the edge of his gown away. An enormous prick stuck out in front of him. La Tarantula gasped at the size of it. But she was glad. She was overwhelmed as she gave thought to the delicious sensations that she was going to experience. Then, reverently, she put her hand forward and took hold of the thing. A strange emotion of happiness stole over her. Once again she was holding a man's cock in her hands.
Once again she was feeling the exultant surge of blood through the distended veins that lined the enormous tool. Once again, she could feel the rough hairy surface of his ball-sac loaded with lovejuice that was soon going to be spurted hotly into her receptive cunny.
She could handle it no longer. Guiding it down between her legs, she inserted the tip of it into her expectant cunt. The touch of the tip was like the acme of happiness, pleasure, joy and bliss all rolled into one.
But when she felt the long length of it slide suckingly into her vagina, she sucked her guts in out of sheer voluptuousness and she wept real tears, so intense was the joy she received from the act. And when she felt the tip nestle against the bottom of her womb, there were no words to describe her emotions then. For she became all body, all feelings, all emotions sizzling electrically, quivering like a tingled bundle of nerves. She could do nothing but moan and weep and clutch the bedclothes in tight grasps.
Back and forth the prick went inside of her like a ramrod into a cannon, like a piston into a cylinder, pumping love friction into her, exciting the delicate walls of her vagina, sliding along her clitoris and bringing her to even greater passion. Her eyeballs popped out. Her lips fell open a trifle as she expectantly awaited the signal in her that would warn her that an orgasm was imminent. Her fingers now clutched his body. Soon, they would be digging into his flesh.
Soon came immediately. Before she knew it, she was in the middle of her orgasm. Through her, in short spasmodic jerks, waves of sensations seethed, pumping exotically in her veins, throbbing in her temples, causing her to breathe labouredly. Her belly began to move like a mass of jelly. Her thighs took on a furious motion. Her ass wound itself around, attempting to throw the bulk of his prick deeper into the chasm of her cunt. And although her loins seethed, although she realized that it was but a matter of moments before she would have to come her pearly fluid, she made an effort to withhold the climax so that she could come simultaneously with the monk.
Thankfully, finally, she felt his body stiffen under her grasp. His rhythmic pumpings became more furious. His hips sank themselves deeply into her cunt with no care for her comfort. His hands went around her back and squeezed her unmercifully so that the stillpainful welts of the whipping cut into her like knife thrusts. But the pleasure of passion superseded the pain which remained in the background, adding zest to the overflow of sensations. His lips sank down to hers. She opened her mouth widely so that his entire mouth sank into it. A suction resulted and their tongues became as one tongue and their saliva became as one fluid.
And then they came, exactly at the same time, the fluid of their organs combining in her overheated quim. Faster and more furious he pumped his prick. But the orgasm was over. Gradually, it grew softer and limper. Finally, it lay in her cunt, quiescent. La Tarantula lay in a state of coma almost. The extreme exertions she had made in the orgasm had left her weak. And that, coupled with her whipping and the tortures of the rack, made her he back on her pillow almost unconscious of her surroundings, merely cognizant of the fact that she was divinely happy once more because she had again been fucked by a man.
But the man was thinking other thoughts. Already, doubts and misgivings began to assail him. Now that the fuck was over, as a monk he began to revile himself for having forgotten his vows. The ascetic came to the fore. His eyes again took on the glare of a fanatic's. Slowly he lifted himself away from La Tarantula's body. He stared down at her twitching hole. There it was where the devil resided. She it was who was responsible for his having given in to the importunings of the devil.
A leer came to his face. Hatred supplanted the features of love. Slowly he stepped away from the bed and onto the floor. He must continue with his vowed purpose. In a dream, he had been told that he must do away with this foul creature, this despicable killer of men's bodies and souls.
He walked over to a corner of the room and took up a small hamper from it. Then he advanced to the white outstretched body on the bed, lying calmly now in the afterglow of bliss that comes after a supremely delightful fuck. For a second, he hesitated in his resolve. But he recalled his vows. And he unhooked the cover of the basket and tipped it over. From its mouth dropped a mass of wriggling, manylegged, hairy insects, some of them almost an inch long. Straight onto the hairy cunt they fell, swarming over her like a horde of soldiers, nipping deeply into her flesh and filling her with the virus of their poison. La Tarantula, deep in her coma, felt their nips like needlethrusts. She felt the burning flame of their poison seeping into her bloodstream. And she knew that she was going to die. But she did nothing. Because now she wanted to die. She had lived. She had loved.
She had fucked. Death was the next adventure. And so she did not rouse herself out of her sleep, but succumbed gradually, until she passed out completely.
She did not know that some of the tarantulas had slipped down to the floor, where they attached themselves to the bare feet of the monk as he stood at her side and watched the awful ravage of the tarantulas.
She did not know that the monk sank down to the floor in pain and anguish the while more of the tarantulas slipped from the bed onto his body.
She did not know that, for the last time, La Tarantula had struck again.