What could she do? What could she do?
And so she allowed her hands to roam to the spot under his balls where she felt the wrinkled bag and a few thin hairs. And she felt the thick veins and she knew that there was in them those essences for which she thirsted. Out of desperation, she again seized hold of his lips with her own and once more went through all of the motions of a French kiss.
Round and round she whirled her ass. Up and back she threw her hips in rhythm with his pulls and pokes.
Then, of a sudden, she felt the same insistent boiling in her loins. She was going to come again. And again she prepared herself for it, wrapping her arms around his back, locking her legs around his loins and tonguing his mouth for all she was worth.
Again she came, the hot passion suffusing her entire innards, a wave of hot, spasmodic jerks going through her, a series of disconcerting sobs catching at her throat and restricting her breathing. Out of sheer pleasure, tears came to her eyes and she wept on his shoulders.
But, insistently again, despite the fact that she had come the second time, she felt his stiff prick still poking about inside of her, still exploring its myriad crevasses for a resting place. Was the man inhuman, she thought. Could he continue to give her such pleasures throughout the night?
As if in answer to her question, Don Juan smiled down at her and whispered, 'More?'
'But you?' she asked pitifully.
'Don't worry!' he panted as he sank his head down to the pillow so that it could absorb the heavy drops of perspiration that dripped from his forehead. 'I shall come with you next time!' And, without another word, he set again to his job, throwing himself into it with an ardour such as he had not demonstrated before.
This time the girl felt that she could never rouse herself again to make the effort to come with him. A lassitude crept over her that seemed to envelop her limbs, her all with a lackadaisical feeling of ennui. For the moment, she took objection to the man bumping so agilely on her belly. What did he want of her? Did he want her to spurt out the very life-blood in her veins? But that feeling of revulsion was only momentary. For, immediately afterward, it was supplanted by an overweening enormity of emotion that drove all objectionable thoughts away from her mind. She did not care what happened to her now. She knew only that man's prick was in her, that it had already brought her twice to the peak of passion, that in her there was already stirring the faint signs of another orgasm.
She thought back to the time when she had first come. His face had been calm and composed. Hers, she knew, had been writhed in the throes of an exquisite passion that must have distorted her features like gargoyles. And, again, during the second time she came, she recalled that he had looked down at her with a sort of leering smile on his face, as though the thoughts behind his eyes were to the effect that
he was her master because he was able to control himself while she was slave to every zephyr of passion that swept mercilessly through her.
She would make him come, spurting his hot semen into her, she decided. She would watch his features contort with passion the way hers must have appeared to him smiling calmly over her. And she would stare calmly up at him and watch him suffer the same agonies of tortured pleasure as she had.
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.
