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.
