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.
CHAPTER THREE
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 was 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, who was the best singer in all Spain, were required, La Tarantula was called in.
And as her fame grew, La Tarantula became all the more reserved, insofar as men were 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 bu'ne, the ordinary gentiles 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 rhythm, 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 human blood. The memory of that wild tumultuous 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 cafetin to cafetin she danced her way up the pathway of success. And in each place, she attracted another string of admirers who sought her favours. Like the 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 cool body. It seemed as though the glorious fuckfest she had experienced that last night with Don Juan had served to tide her over a drought of men.