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
