felt the tip of his prick go gently into her, rubbing against the little projection that had already stiffened like a rod. And she found a delicious warmth glowing up all around her midsection. But there was pain there. The further in she felt the thing going the more pain there was. She tried to scream in terror and pain. But no cry came. Only a deep sigh and a moan. She clutched her uncle's buttocks in a frenzy and sank her teeth into his cheek. But he continued to sink his prick down deeper into her.
Suddenly, she felt something deep within her break down. An excruciating spasm of pain tore through her like a jagged spear ripping through her innards. And she did cry out, like a wounded thing, moaning, weeping and wailing.
Chato Doble immediately withdrew his penis. It was still swollen and enlarged like an enormous cudgel. The tip of it was splattered with blood. He looked down at his niece's gaping cunny and saw a thin trickle of blood issuing from between the pulsing crevasse. No wonder she was so wild. She was a real virgin. He looked down tenderly at her, tears almost coming to his eyes, a sob catching his throat when he saw her weeping into her hands.
'A thousand pardons, darling! I'm so sorry!' he said, and he stroked her loins gently and kissed her forehead and eyes, tasting the bitter tears between his lips.
But the girl was a true gypsy. She had seven and one half ribs under her flanks, as all real sons and daughters of Egypt should have. Stifling her tears, withholding her sobs, she reached up and took her uncle's head between her little hands and drew his face down to hers. Then, almost instinctively, she seized hold of his lips with her own untutored lips and glued them together, forking her tongue lasciviously into his mouth, entwining it around his tongue and, with nervous fingers, reaching downward between the soft fuzz of his bush and seizing hold of his stiffened prick.
'Give it to me! give it to me, uncle!' she cried.
And he gave it to her. Now that he had already broken her maidenhead, there was no bar guarding the way of his rampaging cock. Inserting the tip of it into her hole, he first skirmished around its narrow entrance, touching her clitoris from time to time, each contact sending delicious thrills coursing up her spine, like lightning thrusts.
'In! in!' she insisted, her voice scarcely able to speak the words, so intense was her passion, so ardent were her emotions.
In he went.
Up and back he pumped his gun, first sending its entire length to the hilt into her cunt and then withdrawing it until only the tip rested on the ledge of her vagina. And then, when she could not stand its absence any longer, he would send it ramming into her. And with each cruel thrust she would give a cry. And with each cry she would catch herself from sobbing. She seized hold of his flesh and dug her fingernails into his flesh as she felt his prick course into her, the pain almost overpowering her sometimes. But she held on to him, helping sometimes as best she knew how, with a sure instinct for cooperation, taking each violent thrust with a valour that was worthy of any soldier on the battlefield, because, in her virgin state, the fucking that she was getting from her experienced uncle was simply tearing the insides of her tender vagina apart. But she held on grimly, sometimes biting her lips to keep herself from shrieking, sometimes biting her uncle out of sheer passion, seizing hold of his lips at times and biting his lips and tongue and feeling him bite her.
Before she knew it, she came.
She felt a curious overloading in the vicinity of her loins. She felt a strange whirling, bubbling inside of her. She felt a choking hot wind come up to her mouth and nostrils and seize her in an iron vice. Madly she rotated her hips not knowing what she was doing. Wildly she rolled her eyes. Panting, her breath came to her like the heavy breathing of one dying for air.
And she came.
Bubbling over inside of her she felt something in her overflow itself and fill herself with its boiling essences. And then she went weak. She fell back onto her pillow sobbing pitifully because it was all over, because her climactic emotions were slowly ebbing away and away until it seemed that she had never experienced them at all.
Then she felt a great splashing within her. She felt a series of great spurts. And the emotions of herself returned partially. And she seized hold of her uncle and wrapped her limbs around his back and glued her lips onto his lips.
They lay that way together for ten minutes, neither saying a word, both resting in their own thoughts, each wondering what the other was thinking of.
It was in that position that Chato Doble's brother found them. He himself, returning home from his paramour's rooms, was sadly ruminating on the fate that forced him to leave the warm comforts of his love's bed. Hearing noises in his daughter's room, he stepped into it to see the enormous back of a man lying over his daughter's naked body. A red film came over his eyes. He saw nothing-only the hateful back of the man who was deflowering his virgin daughter. His hot Spanish blood seethed in him. His gypsy sense of justice came to the fore. Hastily looking around for a weapon, his eyes fell on the wine bottles his brother had dumped onto the floor. Taking one of them he smashed its neck against the edge of the wall. The red wine came spurting out like blood from a severed artery. The top of the bottle neck flew off, leaving a jagged series of knifelike edges around the bottle's neck.
Raising it high above his head, he sank his improvised dagger deep into the back of the rapist. Blood gushed forth from the gaping wound and mingled with the red of the wine seeping out of the bottle. The rapist gave one cry of terror and then sank limply onto the girl's body, the blood streaming over her white nakedness like spilt wine.
When her father turned the body over in order to extricate his daughter from the filthy mess, in the shaft of eerie moonlight he saw the face of his own brother Chato Doble grinning up at him, as though the whole affair was a huge joke.
'Chato Doble!' he cried out.
But the girl who was to be La Tarantula, she gave vent to a loud shriek.
The Tarantula had made its first strike.
CHAPTER TWO
When La Tarantula was twelve years old, her father took her to the dancing school of the great Don Jaime Otero, than whom there is no greater dancing teacher of the great Spanish and gypsy dances.
Everyone had told him that his daughter was wasting her time dancing in the low class cafetins and gypsy gatherings. She should be perfecting herself in the technique of the dance with the great Don Jaime Otero.
That was why he had taken her into the bu'ne section of Madrid and was leading her down the dark corridor that led into the patio where he had been told that Otero was teaching his class. The daughter, following her father dutifully, eyed her surroundings fearfully. Never before had she been away from home. And when she saw the rich surroundings, the vast patio with its plashing fountain, the green creepers on one wall, a great woven carpet on the opposite wall, she could not help but shrink within herself, for fear.
From the extreme end of the patio she heard the sound of music, guitar music. This made her less uneasy. Music always did that to her. It was as vital to her being as-the air she breathed. She felt the sinuous strain course into her bones. And her green eyes glittered. She smiled.
Don Jaime advanced to them when he saw them approaching. A class of young girls fell to the flagstones and rested. The two musicians stopped playing.
The father told the great man who he was and why he had come. Otero looked down at the young girl in tow. He saw a slim, slender slip of a girl. A wild mop of raven black hair topped her head. Green depthless eyes smouldered up at him. He looked down at her ankles. They were thinner than a man's wrist and as supple. He dropped to his knees and took the right one in his hands. It flexed like a sword of the best Toledo steel. He looked up at the girl.
'Will you dance for me?' he asked.
The girl looked up at her father. He nodded his head. 'What shall my musicians play for you?' Otero
