But La Tarantula was unaware of the deception that was taking place in her avaricious cunny. The effects of the drug still had a firm hold of her senses. She still imagined the violin playing was music of the spheres. She still imagined that the cock within her was an oversized behemoth of a veritable Gargantua filling every inch of her cunt with its expansive magnitude and almost bursting her bottom in its monstrous plunges into her.
At times she imagined that she was unable to stand the pressure of the fuck any longer. The insistent cock pushed into her again and again and she felt certain that it was tearing away the delicate tissues that lined her quim. What an immense thing this Arabian had, she thought.
Never before had there been such a prick up inside of her. Never before had her bottom been so distended with live active cock. Back and forth she felt the monster shoot it into her and with each movement her body seemed to fill out with its bulk.
She didn't know how long this went on.
Time became non-existent to her. All she knew was that fucking her, pistoning her, burgeoning inside her, there was a prick, a man's prick, a prick such as the world had never before imagined could have existed.
But the wonderful thing about it all was that that marvellous prick was inside of her at that very minute. And that, in a few seconds, it would bring her to an orgasm.
Sure enough, just as she thought of it, she felt the insistent boiling up in her loins. The small of her back ached with a steady pain. She heaved her guts wildly. Her hips she whirled in insane gyrations. Avidly, her lips sought the bewhiskered lips of the Arabian. Crazily, her hands sought his body, sought the secret parts of his body so that she might enjoy every part of him when the climax evidenced itself.
But he, the Arabian, was suffering damnably. Looking down at her, he saw her face crease in the throes of an engulfing passion. Her lips formed themselves succubus-like over his lips. Her tongue roamed around his mouth. Her teeth bit his lips gently. Her hands sought his private parts with trembling fingers. But he was cold. He was unable to work himself up into the same pitch that she was now undergoing. For, though she imagined and felt the man-sized prick in her and reacted physically to it, he knew that he had in her only a boy's-size piddler that diddled around ineffectively in her boiling cunny. A red rage came over him. He must work himself up into the same passionate fervour. If for this one time only, he was going to bring himself to a man-sized passion even though possessing of only a boy's-size prick.
And so, seizing hold of her delicious body, he began to poke his tiny thing into her. Faster and faster he moved his ass. Once the prick fell out. But he managed to work it in again and continued in his strenuous, zealous caperings above her.
Suddenly, he felt her body stiffen under him. He felt the fingers of her hand dig into his flesh. He felt her teeth nip his lips. He felt the hot breath from her nostrils fanning his cheeks as she panted in the apex of passion that was coursing through her. Already the sweat was dripping from his forehead from his untoward exertions. His own breath was coming in deep laboured gasps, but not from the exertion that comes with passion. Rather, it was the exertion that comes with the travail of manual labour. Tiny black spots danced before his eyes.
He felt his heart pumping alarmingly fast in his breast. His pulse raced like a trip hammer. But, despite this, he made an extra supreme effort to bring himself around. And with many puffs and sighs and groans, he worked his belly and his thighs in an entire abandonment of reason.
And when he felt the severe spasms of her orgasm drenching her inner cunt with its pearly fluid, he spurred himself to another great, overweening heave into her cunt. And with this last desperate shove, he thought he detected the faint signs of an oncoming orgasm. But, at that exact moment, something in his heart wrenched itself with a sharp stab inside his breast.
After that, he knew no more, he felt no more. He fell heavily to La Tarantula's chest, a deadweight.
And then he rolled off her to one side of the bed face-downward, where he remained quiet and motionless.
Meanwhile, La Tarantula, who had already experienced the sweet painful pleasures of her orgasm, lay back on her pillow and rested. A coolness, a delicious languor suffused her arms and legs, stole over her entire body with a lush velvety creeping. And, with her eyes closed, she still retained her consciousness, but her thoughts wandered in an immense reverie. Her body which had just been so vitally alive, so dynamically existent, now ceased to exist. Now she was spirit, pure spirit making giant strides across rivulets that were mountain passes on the earth. At times she felt as though she were riding a horse on pillows of billowing clouds crossing immense vistas of space that were timeless, formless and almost ephemeral.
But gradually, she felt the grandeur reduce itself in size. Her feelings grew less ecstatic. The clouds dropped away. She began to descend to earth. The room began to take on the aspects of a room and not a hall.
The tinkle of the fountain became only a tinkle. The violinist's violin played muted music, mournfully, dismally, as only the Orientals can play their minor-chorded music. Infinity became closer and closer until she began to be aware of time.
The awareness of her surroundings struck her like a dull-edged knife.
She opened her eyes and thought that she was coming out of a dream.
But this dream had been different. She remembered nothing of what had transpired. The seconds, the minutes, the hours that had passed were compassed into a period of lost time. It was as if they had never existed. When she turned her eyes and saw the inert figure of the Arabian at her side she gave a startled gasp and drew back away from it. Something in the still stiffness repelled her. And when she finally got up enough courage to extend her fingers to touch the flesh of the man she felt cold dead flesh under her skin, and she recoiled in horror.
La Tarantula had struck again.
In the throes of his passion, the Arabian had passed away with a severe attack of his heart.
In a dark alley of the native quarters of the city, deep in the murky purlieus of the narrow winding streets, the slim young body of La Niobe lay, a smudge of blood spread over the region of her debauched cunt. Wide, cruel tears extended from the top and bottom of the bloodied lips. A hundred men, it seemed, had shoved enormous rapacious pricks into her until, swooning from pain and finally become insensate to all that was happening, the poor girl sank to the dust of the street, bleeding to death.
La Tarantula had struck again.
CHAPTER EIGHT
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.