It is a quiet night, but for the wind. The Santa Ana’s have begun blowing, fanning the inevitable brush fires, leaving the air scented with smoke and desert sage. The last glow of sunlight is fading away and the half moon is already bright in its rising arc. In the broad alley, an elegant Asian woman is enjoying a leisurely evening stroll, her dogs leading the way.
She would normally have continued up the crossing street to the main road, but the walks are littered with fallen debris already, so she is cutting across here. The dogs are enjoying the diversion, snuffing up the new smells, inventorying the byway. Half way down, a squirrel makes a dash, sparking the dogs, who strain the leash, yipping and hoping for the chance of sport. The woman holds firm and commands them with a terse “Tch, Stay!” As she stands in place, letting them settle, she notices the soft glow of fire light coming from the dim, overgrown yard to her left. Curiosity pricks her and she turns to peer between the shrubs and low hanging tree limbs. Family s’more night? A couple savoring a bottle of old syrah as the stars rise?
It is time. Her Goddess is calling. The winds that draw her forth have risen, pouring out of the desert laden with her scent. They have sought her out as she has gone about her normal daily business. They have run tingling up her skin as she dresses for work. They have caught her at the corner, riffling her hair. They have filled her nose in her office, laughing at its climate controlled purified air. They have possessed her and she knows it, as she always does when they call.
The woman moves closer to the low fence lining the alley. Her dogs, still caught in the fantasy of the hunt, protest, but she silences them with a gesture and they drop beside her with unquestioning eyes. She squints in through the leaves, letting her eyes adjust to the light. The yard is not the normal sort of garden tour design she would have expected in this neighborhood. It is instead a crazy quilt of queer plants, large and small, seemingly planted at random. There are large, craggy rocks and totem-like poles spiking up at odd angles. And in the center, there is a clearing of sand, flat and square, with a small circle of rocks at each corner. And in the center there is a woman, lit pale white by the moon. An entirely naked woman. A woman intent on some deep purpose.
She opens her front door and steps through, bumping it closed behind her. She drops her work satchel down and begins to undress, her clothes falling at her now bare istanbul escort feet. She stretches up her long, thin naked body, her hands reaching for the sky and holds herself, eyes closed, letting the air caress and cleanse her. With a deep sigh, she relaxes back down and steps across the room to a low trunk against the far wall and lifts the lid. She takes up an earth-colored blanket and a bulging jute bag from inside. In the kitchen, she opens a bottle of red wine, taps the cork back, and adds it carefully to the bag. She steps out the back door with her bundle and threads her way down the narrow path in the falling light. She enters the square and sets down the bag, then opens the blanket and lays it out on the sand.
The woman watches as the ghostly figure rustles in a bag and moves to one of the circles of rocks. She sees a flame spark and tinder catch. Each corner is lit in turn, casting a dancing orange light on the scene. The figure kneels at the blanket edge, facing out into the garden. She pulls the bag closer and takes out a dark terracotta bowl, placing it to her left. She lifts out a bottle and pours into the bowl.
The woman feels herself being drawn in by the mystery unfolding before her. She wraps the dog’s leads into the fence, knowing they would never betray their master’s trust. She moves quietly along the fence, trying to get a better view. She stops when she sees there is a gate, standing ajar. She passes in, unsure why, but feeling she must. She steps carefully until she finds a spot where she can see clearly, but stay concealed in the darkness.
Her wine poured, she pulls a small knife from the bag and stabs the tip of her middle finger, letting the blood drip into the bowl. From a leather pouch, she adds a fat pinch of powder, then stirs it with the wounded finger, her eyes closed and head tilted back to the heavens. She stops with a groan, as a gust of wind pulses across the square, tousling her hair and rippling the blanket. She lifts the bowl with both hands and takes a drink, then a second. Putting the bowl back, she sits upright between her feet, her knees spread to shoulder width, her hands resting loosely up on her white thighs.
The woman stares at the figure posing close-eyed and statue-like before her. The flickering fire light is strong enough to make out her thin body, her small breasts and narrow hips, the dusting of hair above her sex. Perhaps, she thinks to herself, this is just some personal meditation thing, some new age excuse to slug back some wine in esenyurt escort the nude.
Then the figure speaks in a quiet, warm voice, “I know you are there. She has sent you to me. Come here. Leave your clothes where you are and come.”
The woman starts, a shiver running down her spine, tingling across her hips. ‘What the hell? How. .?’ she thinks, ‘I’m not undressing. . .’ then looks down at the silk blouse puddling at her feet. She feels the warm breezes moving over her skin like a lover’s hands and moans softly when she sees her nipples standing proud from her white breasts. She steps from her sandals. Her slacks and panties join her top on the ground at her feet. ‘What the hell am I doing? Why do I feel . . . Why am I so. . .’ Her mind swims as she steps out, walking slowly forward into the fire light.
When she reaches the edge of the blanket, the kneeling woman rises and comes forward till they are face to face, inches apart.
“I knew you would come,” she murmurs, staring into the woman’s wide eyes. Her hands come up and hold the woman’s head, fingers sliding over her ears into her hair, thumbs gently brushing across her cheeks. She leans in even closer so each can feel the others warm breath.
“Welcome. . .” she whispers, as their lips join. The woman groans as her mouth opens and their tongues meet. Her shaking hands rise of their own accord, covering the hands that hold her, pressing into the kiss, feeling the passion flowing down her body.
Her Goddess conjured into flesh and welcomed, she guides her to the center of the blanket. She eases the woman down, laying her out on her back, her four limbs pointing out to the fires at the corners of the square. She stands and goes to each in turn, adding pine cones that blaze up, their oily smoke adding to the scent already swirling in the wind. She takes a long leather pouch from the bag and the bowl of wine and places them beside the woman. She kneels down between the woman’s quivering legs. She opens the pouch and slowly draws out a long tip of petrified mammoth tusk, its surface glassy and silky smooth, sparkling iridescent in the fire light.
She can hear the woman’s panting breath as she dips the Goddess’ phallus into the wine. She leans over and paints a breast with wine, following its gracious curves and pressing the tip lightly into the nipple’s surrounding color in a slow spiral. The woman jumps at the cold touch, then moans as a tongue licks away the wet with slow, broad strokes. She takes etiler escort the fat nipple in, flicking it with her tongue, drawing it out between her teeth. She dips again and the other breast is bathed and dressed. She pauses, seeing the jewel drops of sweat under the woman’s outstretched arms. She runs the phallus up each joint, gathering the wetness, and takes it into her mouth, savoring the salty brine with a moan of her own.
She dips once more into the wine and holds it above the woman’s smooth cunt, open like an orchid flower. Fat drops of wine coat her clitoris and flow down, blood red on glistening pink. The woman jumps and moans as she feels the tip touch at her opening and draw up the folds like a feather. It circles her clit, sliding up one side and down the other, pressing and rolling side to side. The woman’s legs draw up, her hips rising to meet the caress. Her hands are grasping at the blanket, her head tossing, mouth open, her low groans growing louder against the gusts of wind. The Goddess has flamed the woman’s blood, making it burn with her desire.
She drags the phallus down and presses it slowly in, deeper and deeper until the woman is filled. She pauses for a slow beat, as the wind pulses up, growing in strength. Sensing her moment, she begins to steadily fuck the woman’s gleaming cunt until she feels her body start to tremble as her climax nears. She drives into her a last time and holds, dropping her head and covering the woman’s swollen clit with her mouth, sucking it in, swirling it with her tongue. The woman’s body lurches up under the assault, her hands grabbing, forcing the mouth harder against her. She screams in release, hot wind whipping across her, as waves of ecstasy rippling up and down her body.
She pulls back from the woman and rises up on her knees, her legs open wide. With both hands, she grasps the phallus, glistening with the woman’s release, and thrusts it into her own burning core with a gasp. She wastes no time, she knows she is near and begins to stroke in and out in time to her rasping supplication “we are one, we are one, we. . . are. . .” until her voice shatters into a wailing scream that marries with the howling wind that entwines her arching, rigid body. Her head thrown back to the stars, eyes wide, she stares into the smiling face of her Goddess.
Around them, the wind stills, its fury spent, and the night grows quiet again. They both hold as they are, limp and unmoving, as the last tremors pass from their bodies into the earth. She lets the ancient tusk slide slowly out from her sated sex and lays it down with reverence. She comes forward, snaking up and covering the woman’s body with her own. Fingers intertwine and they stare into each others eyes, needing no words. They are one with the Goddess now, together.