She thought of how large Cazuela's cunt was as compared to her own diminutive one. But this thought remained for only a moment. She had no time to think. Feelings, emotions, crowded her consciousness until they threatened to overflow in one vast, heaving surge of passionate floodtide.
Thus the pair of them worked together, each trying to titillate the other into a blessed orgy of spending their essences for each other.
Closer and closer La Tarantula felt her own orgasm approaching as her maid's tongue darted faster and faster in the overheated box that was her cunt. And under her own fingers she felt the little soldier of Cazuela's clitoris stiffen to attention. Soon she was panting as though she were winded, as she panted after an unusually exhausting fandango. And she began to throw her loins around as though the prick of a man were ramming itself into her. She heard the same laboured breathing of her maid. And she felt the severe thrusts of the woman's buttocks, jerking nervously in a Saint Vitus's dance of passion.
Faster and faster each tickled the other. Closer and closer came their orgasms. Louder and louder grew the sound of their panting.
Suddenly, La Tarantula heard her maid moan as though she had lost the most precious of things. And over her hand she felt the gushing warmth of a sticky liquid spurting out in hot viscid jets. The moment she felt the wetness she felt the maid's body exert itself mightily in one grand upheaval. La Tarantula could hold herself no longer. She felt the overflowing in the region of her loins, in the small of her back. Her breath came faster. Her hips vibrated madly. Her tongue clove to the top of her parched mouth. Not knowing what she was doing, she seized hold of Cazuela's cunt and squeezed it so that the poor maid shrieked out in pain. With her other free hand, she dug her fingers into the chaiselounge so that the lone fingernails ripped jagged tears in the cloth.
Then she came!
Pouring, spurting out of her abnormally heated cunny came the pearly fluid full into the face of the maid who was still working on the pokerstiffened clitoris. For a while both of them continued to work their bodies jerkily as the intense feeling that swarmed over them remained.
But when it started its decline, each fell away from the other, La Tarantula on her back to the chaiselounge, Cazuela to the floor, each gasping from their exhaustion. Completely tired, they remained in those positions, their eyes closed, their arms outspread, a lush feeling of tired warmth creeping over their limbs.
They were suddenly startled by the sound of clapped palms. La Tarantula opened her eyes wildly to see that the clapping was coming from the doorway. And, in the doorway, she saw the immense portly figure of Don Jose Caloro'a, the South American tenor who was costarring with her that week. She became speechless. Shame crept over her. Her cheeks reddened like an over-bloomed rose.
'Pretty! pretty! very pretty!' the tenor said, still clapping his palms together daintily, in derision.
'What do you want here?' La Tarantula demanded.
'I heard the sound of your ardent lovemaking in my rooms,' the tenor continued with a shrug. 'The walls are so thin. I thought it my duty to see what I could do in the way of helping you ladies!'
La Tarantula looked from the tenor to her maid who was reclining on the floor, hatred shooting from her eyes, hatred for the man who had interrupted her orgy of lesbianism.
'Don't be afraid, my dear!' the tenor continued, advancing slowly to the pair near the window. And as he advanced, he threw his widebrimmed sombrero aside and started to take off the velvet pea jacket that he was wearing.
Still neither La Tarantula nor her maid spoke. Instead they watched the man disrobe, as they were completely hypnotized by his actions.
They saw him undo the sash around his great belly and then slip off his shoes and draw his bellbottomed trousers off. La Tarantula gasped when she saw his enormous prick shoot out from its confining quarters.
But the maid sneered and her lips curled in disdain.
When the tenor had disrobed himself completely, he towered over the two shrinking women like an enormous man-mountain, his girth quivering like jelly, his cock sticking out from its bed of dark brown hair like a jousting pole in the arm of a medieval knight.
'Really, ladies!' he said, advancing still closer to them, 'you are wasting the charms of two beautiful women when you attempt to draw pleasure from yourself by yourselves. Woman was made for man's pleasure. And, likewise man was made for the woman's pleasure.
Neither can derive pleasure from themselves. You are women. I am a man. Quite a man,' he continued, stroking his swollen piece as emphasis.
But La Tarantula scarcely heard a word he was saying. Her eyes were for nothing but the projecting prick as big as life, swollen beyond the size of any other penis.
'You like it, eh?' the tenor asked.
La Tarantula nodded her head. The maid Cazuela began to lose some of her disrespect for the man. After all, this was no ordinary man, she reasoned. Any man with a cock like that stood apart from the world in general and man in particular. And she too could look at nothing but that great big bravo toro, that could have done service even for a stud bull.
'Hah!' the tenor laughed, 'you are wondering at the size of my tool, eh?
Well, where I come from, from Lima in Peru in South America, we have what is known as the llama. The cowboys on the vast prairies with no woman to soothe their desires, they fall in love with the female llamas whose little cunny is as delicious a quim as any woman's that I have yet experienced. Once, twice, three times we can fuck those llama in half an hour. And the more we fucked them, the more they liked it. It is no wonder that my thing here grew to such a great size!' He caught himself suddenly. 'But why do I speak, why do I waste my precious time in useless gabble? I have come here to act! I call my thing Caesar, because Caesar is so great, Caesar is so marvellous. And so, like Anthony, I come to bury Caesar!'
With a huge roaring laugh, he eased himself directly over the body of La Tarantula as she lay back on the chaiselounge wondering what was going to be the outcome of this strange affair with this strange man.
'Spread your legs!' the tenor commanded imperiously. But he could not see to insert his stiffened prick into her cunt, although she spread her legs as wide as she could. It was his hanging belly. Like all tenors, he ate well and had built up a large-sized physique so that he would have great lungs for a powerful voice. And so his belly, hanging over his prick, prevented him from directing it into its proper channel.
Once, twice, he shot the thing into the cleft of her legs but each time he was unable to hit the mark.
Suddenly he turned to where Cazuela was lying on the floor staring wide-eyed at the proceedings. 'Help me in with the thing, woman!'
Slowly, she arose to a kneeling position and took hold of the rampaging prick. Beneath its skin she felt a pregnancy of power that seemed to be striving mightily to burst the bonds that were holding it.
Life coursed through its entire length with the vivacity of a dozen men.
The steady throb of blood pumping through it made it seem like a living thing, an entity in itself, as though it were apart from the rest of the body. Tenderly she wrapped her ten fingers around its heft. All hatred for the male sex was driven out of her.
With her right hand she spread apart the lips of La Tarantula's vagina as wide as she could possibly force them. Then, directing the pulsating phenomenon, she guided it slowly, surely between the parted ruby lips of the quivering quim of La Tarantula, stroking its entire length as the whole of it slid into the awaiting aperture with a succulent sound of suction.
Immediately there arose from La Tarantula a moan such as of a woman going through the travail of childbirth. In her she felt the parting of her body as though a giant crowbar were prying her in two. But it was such sweet pain. What was Chato Doble? What was Don Juan? This was a man! Her breath almost left her when she felt the size of the thing pushing its way insistently into her, spreading her apart, touching the very quick of her existence.
'Oh! oh! oh!' was all she could say as she tried to keep herself from working her hips so as to lessen the pain of entry. But, fortunately, the inner part of her cunt was well-lubricated with the juice of her spurting brought on by Cazuela's titillating of her clitoris. Otherwise, the tenor's cock would have ripped her insides to pieces, into raw gaping wounds. But, as it was now, oiled by the pearly fluids, the same cock was sinking deeply into her like a machine piston, being moved up and back. But each time it was moved forward it was shoved in a little deeper. And each time it was shoved in a little deeper, the girl would cry out, not knowing that she was crying out, knowing only that in her was the greatest thing in the world.
