Don De V - La Tarantula an Erotic Tale of Spain

There they lay, the three of them, La Tarantula exhausted from the severe fucking she had received, the tenor puffing from mere physical exertion of manipulating his prick, and the maid, Cazuela, outstretched on the floor, the fluid issuing from her stretched cunt and onto the floor.

For a while, none spoke a word. The only sounds to be heard were the stertorous breathing of the three of them puffing like winded runners.

La Tarantula's eyes were closed. As she felt the gradual decline of the cock within her, she felt a curious feeling of reluctance go through her, reluctance to let go of that marvellous instrument that had afforded her so much pleasure in such a little time. But she felt it grow smaller and smaller in her. In time it stopped completely. But she continued to rest back, her eyes closed, a delicious sense of well-being enveloping her as the afterfuck settled over her limbs and gave her a feeling of complete satisfaction.

Again La Tarantula cocked her ears for familiar sounds. In the distance, faintly, she could hear the concerted twang of the string orchestra in the cafe, below. Outside, on the street, she heard the cry of an itinerant lottery ticket seller calling, "the winning number! remember it! buy now or weep tomorrow!" Gradually, his cry lessened until the street was quiet once again. The rhythmic breathing of her maid came up to her. She had probably fallen asleep after her double spurting of dew. But how about the tenor? Why was he not breathing as heavily as he had done before? Without opening her eyes, she strained her ears to catch a sound of his breathing. But no sound came.

For a while, she made nothing of it. But a small doubt insisted on remaining in her mind. Again she tensed herself and listened for the sound of his breathing. But still no sound came. She was afraid to open her eyes. Instead, she raised her hand hesitantly to the hulk of a man who was still kneeling in front of her spread-eagled legs. Hesitantly, her fingers touched the immense belly jutting out over her own flat stomach. It was quiet. The life that had just been seething in it had died down. Instead of the usual rise and fall there was only a calm stillness.

She tried to laugh her fears away. She tried to will herself to open her eyes so that she could confirm her doubts as to her fears. But something within her refused to allow her to open her eyes. Instead, she lay back, her heart filled with a dread fear, her throat stopped up with an unreleased sob. Then, with all her might, she finally managed to force her eyelids apart. They widened with terror when she gazed at the face of the tenor hovering directly over her. Instead of the jovial countenance that had been there before, there was a horrid purple mask. Tiny red veins seemed to have appeared all over his bloated face. His eyes seemed to have popped out of their sockets. Tiny flakes of slobber drivelled out of the corners of his mouth. But worst of all were the great white eyeballs protruding from their holes like a frog's pop-eyes.

La Tarantula shrieked in horror.

Then she realized-that her doubts had been correct. On top of her, astride of her in the attitude of fuck was the hulking body of a dead man. Already, she felt what had been warm flesh only a short while ago, rapidly turning cold. Like one gone suddenly berserk, mad, she tried to wriggle herself free from the dead weight of the threehundred-pound corpse that was imprisoning her. But with her weakened strength considerably lessened by the two orgasms she had just undergone, she was unable to get herself away from under the gruesome cadaver. Her shrieks awakened Cazuela. She, too, shrieked when she saw the purplish, bloated face of the tenor. Then, when she came to her senses, when she finally realized the predicament her mistress was in, she leaped up, seized hold of La Tarantula's arms, and dragged her slowly from under the triangle of the man's spread knees.

Immediately, when this was done, the body toppled over to one side, its horrible face upward, its body already stiffened in the throes of rigor mortis.

Later on, at the inquest, the coroner called it heart failure. They did not hold La Tarantula, despite the deaths that had occurred in her presence previously. There had been no doubt as to the cause of the death of the tenor. His heart, already overburdened by the enormous weight that he carried around with him, simply buckled under when he went through the terrific exertions of that last fuck with La Tarantula.

The coroner called it heart failure.

But the old men, sunning themselves in the square, they nodded their heads knowingly and cackled when the news of the inquest was brought around. They cackled because they knew that the Tarantula had struck again. They knew that the death's head had shown its ugly face and had brought down another victim.

And when the news of the death of Cazuela, La Tarantula's maid, was delivered, they nodded their heads again. The reports stated that she had mistaken a bottle of poison for a bottle of aguardiente. She had been found lying in the anteroom of La Tarantula's dressing room. Her face was screwed up into a mass of wrinkles. Bitterness, the bitterness of the wormwood and the gall of the poison was etched in those lines.

Her stomach was distended from the virulence of the poison. A stale odour of almonds hung in the air.

The coroner called it accidental poisoning.

But the old greybeards whispered: "The Tarantula has struck again."

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.