Ella’s Awakening
By: Angell Lynn Salver
Winner of the Titanic Publishing Book Award*
©2015 Titanic Publishing, VA. All Rights Wholly Owned and Reserved by Titanic Publishing (http://TitanicPublishing.com). *Titanic Publishing Book Award is ® Titanic Publishing.
ISBN: 978-1-63275-025-9 (E-Book)
Book Details:
13,000+ Words
Ella’s Awakening
Ella reached over the ledge, her fingertips brushing the Eagle’s eggs. “Just a penny more,” she murmured under her breath, bracing her other hand against the leaning tree. She strained to reach the eggs, despite the obvious danger. A mudslide dislodged the roots of the large Stone Pine, causing it to lean horizontally over the bluff, so low that even the Eagle’s nest was almost within reach. She felt the grass beneath her feet begin to shift slightly as the tree slowly lowered its bulk a few inches at a time, requiring Ella to extend her frame beyond any reasonable measure until her grassy foothold slipped over the edge, and she was left dangling from a limb above the precipice.
Ella was raised on Al Amara, a small detachment in the Mediterranean, where she spent the first seventeen years of her life. She had a strange upbringing, raised by her grandmother, Betty, all of her life. Ella’s biological parents were killed shortly after she was born, and Betty took baby Ella to Al Amara.
To an outsider, island life might seem cliché, some kind of tropical paradise, but it was anything but easy. Almost every morning was spent fishing—afternoons were consumed by weaving and sewing. Nearly everything seemed like a chore, and gathering eggs was simply part of a day’s work, but Ella would have to admit, hanging from a tree limb was not exactly what she had in mind.
Several long minutes passed while she dangled there, one hand firmly gripping a solid limb, the other grasping a sinewy branch. Ella was increasingly nervous about her position, swaying like a naked blond worm on a hook, her dirty feet wriggling in the wind as the tree continued its slow progression, leaning further and further until it seemed clear that eventually it would be hanging upside-down (if it didn’t simply plummet). Even in her predicament, she couldn’t help but feel defeated when the eggs rolled out of the nest. She watched them fall, the ocean winds pressing their trajectory toward the jagged rocks below.
With a loud tearing-crack, one of the large roots broke free from the embankment, causing the tree to lose all stability. It dropped four feet and hung fully inverted, rolling from side to side as Ella struggled to keep her grip. Her feet were finally able to get a foothold in the branches, and she desperately scrambled up the limbs. She climbed the trunk easily, as she had so many coconut trees, managing to cover the distance in just a few moments, leaping back into the safety of the grass with a resounding… crunch? She looked down and saw that she landed squarely on an egg. “Seriously?”
~~~OOO~~~
Betty was busy peeling oysters from the rocks. She waded in the lagoon, carrying a woven basket with several dozen oysters inside. “Lazy little bitch,” she muttered, amused with her tone, “probably sleeping somewhere while she dreams about men.” The oysters were plentiful at low tide. They hung from the rocks in thick clusters that broke off easily in her hands. Betty was accustomed to tasking her granddaughter to do all of the chores. The only reason Betty decided to personally collect the oysters was because Ella would be 18 tomorrow, and her love of oysters meant no celebration would be complete without the salty treat.
The best oysters were found on the rocks near the breakwater where the grassy shoreline succumbed to a thick black marsh with the foul odor of rotting crabs and sulfur. She collected several more clusters, unaware that her feet were sinking deeply into the mud. When she tried to move, her legs were deeply embedded up to her knees. Betty knew how to free her legs but that didn’t stop her from being mad at herself for allowing it to happen.
She let the basket float, knowing the tide was on its way in, and the basket would be waiting for her on the shore. Betty leaned over and submerged herself in the water. She wedged her hands on either side of her right leg and thrust them downward to release the suction from the mud. Once that leg was free, she worked on the other leg. Each time she managed to take a step, the leg which bore her weight would sink again. The progress was slow and laborious. After about ten minutes, she managed to get both feet free and swam to the beach. As she stepped out of the water, she felt a tightness in her neck and back, the pain seemed to crush her chest slightly, and then it receded. “I’m too old to be so stupid,” she remarked, “and I’m not getting any younger.”
The basket was exactly where she expected it to be, on the beach, rocking in the surf. After a quick inspection, she realized the oysters were still there. Even with this good fortune, something was nagging at her; she hadn’t given Ella much direction. Betty was preoccupied with structuring Ella’s days. She decided everything—when they woke up, used the bathroom, washed their bodies, where they went, what activities they did together, what they ate—the minutia of every day's simplest need.
Deep down, Betty knew the impact of this kind of life was profound. Ella never learned to think for herself. She had never been lied to. She had never seen a man, or interacted with anyone else socially. She simply wasn't prepared to be thrust into the busy world, and deep down Betty understood that she had not prepared Ella for any kind of life other than the one she was living. Even though she worried about Ella, Betty found comfort knowing someone was completely reliant on her. She had conflicting feelings about it, worrying for Ella’s future, but also terrified to teach her anything that reduced her dependence.
~~~OOO~~~
Betty returned home a minute behind Ella. When she walked in, Ella was standing in front of the mirror surveying a small cut on her ankle.
“You cut yourself? How did you manage that?”
“I almost died again today!” Ella said anxiously.
Betty dismissed her completely, “OK, well just remember what I told you. Someday you will want that precious body to make a living, and it will be all scarred up. Nobody will want to pay a penny more for a wreck like you.”
“Yes, I know. I know! I remember, a penny more! But listen, you know that old tree by the bluff with the Eagle’s ne…”
“Stop!” Betty interrupted, I can’t hear any more of your stories today. I’m sick of your adventures and I have to get supplies tonight.”
Ella’s eyes opened wide. “Supplies! Tonight? What are we getting,” she said eagerly, “something for my birthday?”
“We’ll see. It might depend on how well you manage to stay in bed while I’m gone.”
“I will. I’ll stay in bed this time! I won’t even look out the window.”
Betty always told Ella to stay in bed while she went for supplies. She would leave for hours, and where she went was a mystery to Ella. Even so, the whole event was exciting because Betty always brought back things Ella had never seen before—candy, rare flowers, fishing lures, exotic foods like cans of beans, just about anything they needed seemed to show up when Betty returned.
“Betty, do you remember what you told me about my birthday and the supplies?” Ella asked cautiously, worried she might get Betty’s ire up.
“Of course I remember. You think I’m too old to remember?”
“No! I just want to know what happens when you leave to get supplies. It’s only one more day. Maybe you can tell me now? Maybe I can come with you this time?”
“I said when you turn 18. Are you 18? No! Stop nagging me. I swear I wish I had never said I’d tell you. I will! I’ll tell you just to shut you up! Damn, you have some nerve. You ask again and again and you don’t give a devil’s shit that you’re driving me batty. One more day, OK, and I’
ll tell you. I’m certainly not rewarding your bratty ass for asking again.”
Ella couldn’t understand it yet, but Betty’s outings were not particularly mysterious. Shortly after WWII, Betty worked as a prostitute servicing Italian men who worked to rebuild the ports. During those years she aged rapidly. The working men got married and started families—fewer and fewer men knocked on her door. Eventually the ports were repaired and the transient workers moved on. The local men sought out younger prostitutes, but one of Betty's clients, a wealthy banker, kept coming to see her. Each time he would bring supplies with him, and their relationship became what Italians call “perfetta beatitudine,” (the "perfect bliss")—a sort of idealized relationship, romanticized as an unspoken love without marital squabbles or worldly complications. Theirs was a special type of relationship that always resulted in the salty-release of fleshly passions.
Betty stared at her aging face in the mirror, like she was preparing a strategy of attack. Her short stature made her look squatty. She didn’t have Ella’s long lines, or the blue eyes. Betty was Italian, with dark hair and a temper to match. The image in the mirror seemed more displeasing to her every time she prepared to get supplies. Ella had never spent time with anyone else, so she had no concept of the ravages of age. To Ella, Betty was beautiful. The way she walked appeared effortless, and the makeup was amazing. The way Betty seemed to know everything was unnatural, like an angel or something.
Betty’s makeup was laid out with great precision, and Ella had no doubt that if Betty were blindfolded, she could apply the makeup with the same speed and grace she did every time supplies came. Betty made the routine look like a dance. Her arms would sweep across her face in a gentle but precise motion, like she had practiced the move for a lifetime. She would pooch out her lips, swiftly color them a bright crimson, and place the lipstick exactly where it was before, all in one beautiful fluid-motion. Her eyes would transform into something more like a bird's eyes, with dark outlines and bright flashing colors. Ella was always amazed by the way Betty’s face looked with makeup.
After the makeup came the hair. Betty and Ella always wore their hair down. Both had long hair that Betty said only needed to be trimmed enough to keep it from “bein’ where the sun don’t shine.” Betty stood naked in front of the mirror, gathering her hair into strands. She drew the dark strands upward and quickly swirled them into an elegant towering ball of intricate design, which was fastened by a slender metal pin. Ella knew that pulling that pin would let all the hair fall in one big wave. It was something she loved to do on the rare occasions when Betty would permit it.
After putting her hair up, Betty returned to the same disapproving gaze. She looked at herself fully in the mirror, turned to the side, lifted her ass with her hands and let it fall. Then she turned to look at herself full-on. Her breasts hung like large Italian jugs of wine—Betty always felt they were comical and imperfect. They were big, yes, but always in the way, and who needs big breasts on an island? She reached under and pressed them together. The volume of her breasts seemed to explode into a voluptuous mass with big dark nipples. “There we go,” she said, “maybe this old Chevy has a few rides left in her.” She always said little things like that, things Ella didn’t fully understand, but they seemed like some kind of wisdom Ella hoped she would grasp someday.
Betty shimmied into a girdle that pulled her waist in and showed off her wide hips. She put on a bra that shoved her breasts up into two overflowing mounds, forming a deep valley of cleavage that any woman of any age would be proud of. Finally, she slipped on the dress, a red satin tube of curve-hugging shimmer. The woman in the mirror still had grey hair, but on a moonlit night, she would be hard for any man to turn down.
Ella was somewhat mesmerized by the show. She knelt on the edge of the bed where she was able to see herself in the mirror. She mimicked Betty, pressing her breasts together until her light-pink nipples jutted forward and she created a large valley of cleavage. Betty saw Ella out of the corner of her eye. She turned and watched her granddaughter for a minute, amused at how much Ella reminded her of being a teenager. Then Betty walked over and kissed Ella on top of her head. “Stay in bed while I’m gone. I’ll be back later with supplies.” Ella was still on the bed playing with her breasts when Betty exited.
~~~OOO~~~
A small, nearly overgrown trail extended from Betty’s cottage down to a cove, the only place on the island where a boat could be docked. Here, the island’s beach was protected by a detached breakwater, which obscured it from view. It was truly the best kept secret in the Mediterranean. Along the breakwater were signs that read, “No Docking” and “Quarantined! Diseases!” For decades, these signs served as an effective defense against unwanted visitors.
Betty opened a small white footlocker, which protruded from the sand at the water’s edge. Inside were a lantern and some matches. She opened the lantern and drew the wick up to light it. Then she waited, sitting on the locker. She did her best to appear elegant, posed like a model in a magazine. Each time her pose grew tiresome, she changed to a new position. She crossed her legs, arching her back until her breasts were as exaggerated as possible. After some time, she put her hands behind her neck, tilting her frame to the side. Then she pulled her dress up, exposing her knees, leaning over as if she were tying her shoe, her breasts nearly falling out of her bra. She felt a little foolish, but she put on a show anyway.
After some time, her audience appeared. From the darkness, a skiff sailed around the breakwater and into view. A small man sat aft, his hand on the wooden rudder. His name was Lucio Bartolacchini, the owner of the largest bank in Italy. Every trip to the island was a little harder for the aging banker who usually took a helicopter everywhere he traveled, but he had visited Betty in a skiff for the last 20 years. Neither of them would have it any other way.
Even from the water, Lucio could make out Betty’s cleavage. Her hips spread widely across the white footlocker like a large Gangliano cello. When Lucio saw Betty, he began to sing loudly, his voice crossing the water in broken English, lines from La Traviata, an Italian opera which became a running joke between Betty and Lucio because the title translated to, “The Fallen One,” which is what Lucio’s mother disapprovingly called Betty all those years ago. He sang, “The medicine which cures all my complaints. Yes, enjoyment lengthens life.” Betty felt her heart beat more quickly as he sang for her, and her anticipation grew as he traversed the distance between them.
Lucio locked the rudder into place and ran his skiff onto the beach. He teetered a little trying to get out of it. At one moment, he looked genuinely concerned. Falling at his age could be serious, and at the very least, it would be embarrassing. It was everything he could do to keep up appearances for Betty’s sake. After a few brief moments, he felt Betty’s hand reach out to steady him, something she had never done before. Her help was well intentioned but Lucio blushed in shame. “I’m too old to get out of a boat. Will it be perfetta beatitudine, or are we fools Betty?” The words were exactly what they both worried about. Someday, Lucio’s trip would be his last one. They both knew it, but never said it aloud. Betty looked into the dark depths of his familiar eyes, she smiled, and with that smile, a visible comfort overtook Lucio. The tension flowed from his body, and then Betty folded into his chest the way Russian nesting dolls seem to fit impossibly into one another.
Several minutes passed before Lucio began rubbing Betty’s back, feeling for the clasps of her girdle. “No, kid! What did you bring me first?” This was the way they spoke each time they role-played this game. Lucio straightened up, happy to have been called, “kid.” A childish glint appeared in his eyes and a mischievous looking smile parted his lips. It was Lucio’s turn to play his part, and he relished the performance each time they were together. “I brought you silver and gold!” he said, turning to the skiff. From under a tarp, Lucio produced two luminous bolts of fabric, one silver, and one gold. Then he pulled out an envelope, “and this, but not until I have had my
way with you la traviata!” Betty and Lucio started laughing like teenagers, and it was clear that the time they spent apart had no impact on the closeness of their relationship.
They sat down on the beach and Betty reached for Lucio’s hand. Their sandy fingers entwined, and she sighed gently, as she often did, knowing fully that nothing she ever held felt more natural to her. She looked down at their hands, exposing the nape of her neck where the moonlight danced over fine hairs that followed the ocean breeze. She felt the touch of Lucio’s lips finding a tiny mole on the tender skin just below her left ear. As he kissed her gently, Betty couldn’t help but smile softly, knowing he had kissed her there a thousand times before.
Lucio’s free hand gently pulled the pin in her hair, releasing her suspended locks. He slowly unfurled the stands that didn’t fully unravel. He loved the way her hair caught the breeze, the way she smelled of vanilla. Lucio slipped his hand over the curvature of her shoulder, over the plump recesses of her ample breasts, fondling her softly. Even through her bra, the obvious protrusions of her pressing nipples were unmistakable. Betty’s body always reacted to Lucio, and she was perpetually grateful that he could raise her desires. She felt her cotton panties begin to moisten and turned her eyes to the drawstring of Lucio’s pants. “It’s time to see what else you brought me,” she cooed, while turning her body toward him. She put her right palm on his chest, nimbly opening his pants with her left hand. She gently pressed him back with her right arm while she lowered her mouth to his manhood. She kissed him gently under the ridge of his cockhead, tasting the mild saltiness of his velvety shaft. Betty felt Lucio succumb to her intentions, rocking back on his elbows, tilting his hips slightly forward while struggling to watch her servicing lips. She knew his eyes would be fixed on her mouth, watching every nuance of her slurping blowjob. Betty drew her hair to the side, making sure he could watch everything. She knew Lucio liked to watch, that he was very visual, and this had always gotten Lucio hard, but this time was different.
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