Pagan Dreams

by Lizbeth Dusseau

  I realize as the words came out with Miriam, that the breach between Peach and me has nothing to do with the two of us anymore; it likely never did. I think for Peach, perhaps, it’s always had everything to do with Miriam and Tasia—for me it’s always Elizabeth. Haunted by specters from the past, we’re assured that they’ll not go away until we’ve stared these beasts in the face.

  There are preparations going on. The music remains lively and unceasing, nearly day and night. There are circles of women on the beach, chanting their shaman rites and dancing to the gods of summer. I watch them revel, bodies moving in erotic heat, one against the other, and in curious unisons where it looks as if two women have found a way to join flesh as one being. There’s not a woman at the house, or on the grounds who doesn’t bare their chest proudly now. Beads and necklaces with feathers and private talismans hang between the pendulous mounds, and across the slighter more boyish ones. Protruding nipples fly in the face of conventions that would keep this part of the female anatomy covered as if it were something vile. This is a celebration of female freedom from the dead society that lives beside us, in the world outside this place. I can see why these days are so precious. I wish I could feel them that way too.

  As it is, I allow myself some pleasure being in the midst of these emancipated women and their erotic sea of undulating flesh. This is as close to the fantasies in my stories as anything I’ve experienced in real life.

  Some bolder women wear no covering on their loins, their sexual realities, their centers proudly bedecked with jewelry, in religious and carnal forms, that turn them into exotic seductive creatures. If I weren’t so wholly obsessed by this the world of my own, I’d find myself joining them in their revelry and in their garb. In this of all places, I think that I could be sexually free, the way I’ve always dreamed of being.

  My own simple cotton shifts are mundane looking next to these well dressed celebrants. I had planned for no such activity, and brought nothing with me that would even begin to look appropriate for the celebrations going on around me. I envision what I might have brought. I even think of the shop at the beach where Peach had me pierced. There were many things there that would be perfect for this occasion.

  I don’t suppose I have to dress for these days, but I really want to. In a moment of sheer genius, inspiration suddenly crashes in on me. The trunk!

  As if I’m in a trance induced by the pagan medicine now practiced here, I make my way up the stairs to the attic, to find the costume that rightfully belongs to me.

  I find the place strange now without Analise, though her scent is everywhere present. This arouses me at first, and then nauseates me. I recall the betrayal at her hands. It shouldn’t surprise me, because Analise has only the capacity to please herself. Any commitment to something virtuous is beyond her comprehension, and perhaps her years. Perhaps she’s too young to find value in a real relationship. Perhaps she’s never had the satisfaction of real intimate commitment. It’s certainly her loss.

  I try avoiding the memories that flood me, and go straight to the trunk. I find it exactly where it was when I opened it last, though I discover that there are costumes missing. I wonder who’s taken them, but the answer should be obvious, Tasia.

  I’m not sure exactly what’s been taken, but there is certainly enough left to please me. Removing my shift, I stand naked in front of the mirror and try on what remains to see what fits me best. There are two sarong skirts, one too small and one that fits my hips snugly. My breasts seem more erotic to me half clothed in this sarong skirt, than when I’m fully naked. I like the way the skirt parts when I strut in front of the mirror. With it adjusted just right, the slit in front opens just enough so that someone looking might even get a decent peek at the bottom of my cleanly shaved cunt.

  I try on a dozen necklaces that change my look as the color changes, as the textures against my pale skin change from beads, to feathers, to woven pieces. They’re all made to glide against the skin as I move. The way they tickle me, I see it’s arousing just to wear them. The way my breasts become a focal point of my body delights me. This feels almost naughty, so much so I want to giggle.

  It seems a spectacular find, this discovery.

  I know these are Tasia’s pieces, the justice of wearing one seems altogether perfect, though I can’t yet fathom why… just as I can’t figure out why I feel so moved to make myself fit in with the other women and their celebration. Perhaps it’s just the day and the impending tomorrow, being swept up in something beyond myself.

  Nonetheless, I can’t keep myself from pilfering Tasia’s treasure chest for my own identity.

  I decide the sarong and a beaded necklace make me look nearly as earthbound as Miriam looks to me. There are a pair of Peach’s Greek wrap sandals still in the closet in our room. With straps that crisscross to the knee, they’ll look perfect with the costume. Perhaps I’ll go get them when I’m finished here, or maybe I’ll just go barefoot, like many of the other women.

  I pull a pair of Analise’s earrings from her dresser. These hang long, all the way to my shoulders, with glistening beads that move like my hair moves next to my neck.

  The spilled paint on the floor is drying, a regular Rorschach of blue, green and browns. I stoop down and set the small round paint pots right, thinking of my cold fury at Analise. I wonder if she still lies tied in the stone chapel? I wonder how her treasured bondage feels now after four hours of loneliness. I wonder with a fiendish fascination, if there are bugs tickling her ribs or a rat crawling over her ankles. Were it me there, I’d be terrified, but this is Analise’s dream, not mine.

  There’s paint on my fingers from the sticky pots. I stare at my hands as if it’s more than just paint that stains them; I think of Peach’s blood on her bare bottom. Is it healing yet? I recall seeing the red smeared across her ass in a vile carnal painting.

  I see my reflection in the low dormer window as I ponder this paint and Peach’s blood. I see my face so clearly as I, without reason, feel compelled to smear the wet colors on my face. War paint. Stripes of blue, brown and a muted green, like Analise’s half completed painting. I watch my face become something completely different than I’m used to seeing. Turning to the canvas, I notice the similarity between myself and what’s there. She’s painting a portrait of five women, with Picasso-like abstraction. I see Tasia in the picture, I see Peach, and I see myself as well; the careful juxtaposition of faces is a curious metaphor for the players in our artful game.

  When I rise to look at my reflection in the full length mirror, I’m hypnotized by the woman I see. I scurry back to grab the pots of paint, intending to tattoo my shoulders, neck, and arms, with color that changes my white skin to something less bleached. I wish for long black hair and dark skin like Peach’s and that Third World aspect that would declare a mystery behind the white skinned woman that I am; but I can’t accomplish that result with these colors. This will pale in comparison to a real change.

  Still, I’m satisfied with my results. I look as if I’ve gone crazy, which is a perfect reflection of how I feel.

  As I leave the attic, I take the paints with me, just the blue, green and brown that I’ve used to color myself. Walking through the third floor hallway, there are appreciative smiles in my direction, and no assaults or surprised faces. I feel more one of them than I was before, even if I am disappearing more completely into this exotic other world of my making where no one belongs but me. I know what I’m going to do as I descend the cellar stairs again.

  Analise lies where I left her, the simple grace of her body makes me shrink back for a moment just to stare at her. The awful grey white light cast against her flanks makes her appear even more ghostly. Igniting the torch, the warmer glow penetrates the heavy darkness. I feel almost burdened with what needs to be done now.

  When I look at her face, her blank eyes stare at me. They appear hollow.

  “I won’t continue if you tell me to stop,” I tell her. I analyze my leniency without a clue why
I’ve offered her a way out of this.

  “Take me again, please,” she says. And I know we’re on an unalterable course.

  “I will,” I tell her.

  I draw on her body with the paint, liking the color on her thighs and cunt. The sweat of her body smears it. Her flowing female nectar makes it easy to spread it everywhere. It feels like child’s play, finger paints, except that Analise shudders erotically as my hands tease her. I mark her face, her breasts, her neck, and paint a bull’s-eye around her belly button. She reminds me of a sacrificial lamb being readied for the sacrifice.

  When she looks exactly as I want her, I wipe the paint away with a cloth until my hands are clean. Then I lubricate my left hand until it shines, fairly glistening with the lavish liquid. Time to begin the real work. Time to take her cunt.

  She gasps as my fingers begin their entry. How hard it is getting just two fingers inside her; but she’ll expand. We have all the time in the world, I think. I pause after the first penetration, to let her get used to it, then I begin to work her more as I can see her sexual need is beginning to rise. I give thanks for small hands, because her cunt will take all of my left one, if I have my way.

  I can feel the dildo in her ass as my hand fights for a place within her belly. It’s tight, so very tight, and painful. I see the anxious expression on her face; I’m delighted with the hint of fear in her eyes. She must see my look too, the determination, the cold wrath, the total lack of compassion. I’d be fearful too.

  I imagine that my plan will fail when I realize that I can’t fit my whole fist in her cunt—but it will be glorious trying. She opens to me, the more I push inside. Her arousal makes her cunt expand, though the more I push, the more I feel the hard dildo and the more I feel her strong muscles clamp down happily on my penetrating fingers. She bucks against me and I push harder. Too bad her petiteness gets in the way of her pleasure. She probably wouldn’t stop me even if I hurt her, she’s that far gone. This is what she wanted, I can see now. This vile abandon.

  I think about stopping her, withdrawing everything, untying her so that she’s left with nothing. That would be truly vile. The best revenge.

  I do decide to stop, but not altogether. Making choices on the spot, I’ll play this out my way, not hers.

  I untie her hands so I can bind them together and secure them to the end of the table. Undoing the ankle straps, I slap her thigh. “Turn over,” I order.

  It’s awkward for her; no doubt her body isn’t prepared to move after having stayed so long in one place. But she obeys, so that I have her on her knees, her hands reaching overhead, her face pressed against the cold stone…no soft comforters or pillows this time. I release the prick from her ass, seeing her once virgin opening now stretched so beautifully wide, it will accommodate anything I give her. I don a glove to cover my hand, then lubricate it thoroughly, seeing it glisten in the soft glowing torch light.

  She responds well as I begin the assault. My how time and persistence work! Three weeks ago she’d never have believed she could endure an ass rape. How compliant now, compliant to a fault. The more lube I apply, the easier it becomes as my hand, even the widest part, slips deep inside, past the sphincter and beyond.

  She screams with joy and pain taking turns. I fuck her as rudely as I dare, though not as rudely as my imagination would take me. I feel sharp spasms jerk her small form in wild gyrations. I think she’s going to cum forever. How right I was, the slut she is, the fear she’s overcome! She won’t forget this, ever.

  It’s night when I’m done with her.

  I leave her tied face down on the stone, prostrate and humbled. She gives me no protest because she’s so grateful for this abuse. Even if she doesn’t tell me so in words, I know by the expression on her face. With her breasts and cunt pressed against the hard surface, it will be the hard sleep she desires.

  I’ve taken Analise as far as I can. There’s nothing more that I will do for her ever—except release her from her bonds in the morning. Her limp body seems so tenuous, as if it barely holds on to its gossamer form. I think it just might disappear as I douse the torch, as if all this never really happened except in the trail of scrawled on paper that exists in my mind.

  I’ll check in the morning.

  The women dance on the beach, falling erotically into willing arms. The sounds of drums and flutes, and pounding surf float on the air and beckon me to join them.

  I wander to the shoreline with the crime of my passions written in the mess of paint that covers my face and hands and naked torso. The dancing women take little notice of me as I make my way through their throng to the water’s edge. I see two women making love in the shallows, with the surf rocking back and forth around their clenched bodies. I pass them on my journey as I let the cold water hit me. The shock of it will bring me back to life again. I shiver when, waist deep in water, I dive inside the moving surf so that it covers every inch of me, tossing Tasia’s beads around my shoulders and making the sarong float around me like a jelly fish. The ocean washes away all traces of my vulgar evening. As clean as I become, there’s no way to cleanse my mind, or purify my soul from tonight. Though from my ocean vista, looking back on the women on the beach, I’m satisfied not to be so pure anymore. The darkness of these deeds touches me in ways I won’t be able to deny ever again.

  I rise from the water and walk back across the beach where one woman tries to pull me into their fine foray. She takes my dripping body into her large arms, surrounding me with more than just her flesh.

  “Dry by the fire,” she whispers to me, as she reaches around me from behind and takes my breasts into her hands. I feel her long brown hair tickle my back. Her fire warmed thighs press against my cold clammy bottom, still clad in this wet sarong. The massage of her hands reminds me of passions dormant in me. I realize how much repressed need rises to the surface when she pinches my nipples with her fingers. I lean back against her and allow her to caress me. Another woman with spiked black hair and the lines of a jungle cat painted on her face assaults me from the front. Her mouth covers mine so quickly I can’t resist. I’m pressed against the two of them as they fondle me at will, with hands that rove to every corner of my body. I’m crying happily in response.

  “You wear Anastasia’s beads so beautifully, as if she had them made for you herself,” the black haired woman in front of me says. I’m surprised that she would recognize them. Has she seen Tasia wear them? Is there some charm in the intricate bead work that distinguishes them?

  I smile seductively with the thought that I would like to bring her and her friend to bed with me tonight. We could have magnificent sex until morning that would wash away the dreary thoughts of Analise. The way the woman kisses me, the way the hot breath on my neck behind me makes me feel, the way their hands have claimed their territory, I know I won’t stop. I suggest in a faded whisper that we retire to the house and the privacy of my room. “Come with me, please,” I entreat them.

  “Not tonight,” the brown haired woman purrs in my ear. She licks it until it’s wet.

  The woman in front drops down to my cunt, and with long nailed fingers opens my labia wide so she can plant her face against my throbbing clit and hole. I stare out to the women surrounding us by the fire as they begin similar entanglements. These intimate moments become a shared orgy. I sweat from the heat and arousal, looking down to see my breasts glistening beautifully. The woman behind me provides an ample bed to rest on as I’m taken by the mouth below.

  The tambourines play, the drums pound long and slow. There’s a pounding in my head now, as things blur around me. I’m aware of another woman at my feet, as the black haired woman moves off to grab someone else to fondle in the sand. I remain the center of this orgy, with one mouth after another taking turns at my cunt. The nurturing one behind me continues to make me feel safe against her hefty body as I’m made into some sexual icon around which the lusty women gather.

  Somewhere in the erotic reverie, I feel a rod pressed against my as
s. I think of Analise when I realize how large this thing is, but I accommodate it well. If this be my penance for the horrors I’ve committed to Tasia’s slut, then let it be. I think there’s nothing I wouldn’t consent to.

  How long it takes to thoroughly violate me, I couldn’t guess. How many mouths and tongues press their way about my cunt, I lose count after the first three.

  When the mood changes and I become the servant rather than being served, I’m pushed to the sand with a cunt pressed to my face. I feel like a whore forced into sexual slavery, but it seems so natural. I lie back, doing as I’m required, while things happen to my cunt that I can’t comprehend because I’m too busy satisfying demanding lesbians and their hot juicy cunts. They use me until I’m depleted, until there’s nothing more for me to give, not to any of them or to myself.

  Then, I’m aware of the women disappearing and being left by myself to recoup alone. I fall asleep with absolutely nothing on my mind.

  When I wake, the night is nearly over. It might have been just an hour, or maybe more, that I’ve been abandoned on the sand. But looking toward the house, I see the sunlight approaching from the east, as if it’s sneaking up on me.

  I feel chilled in the cold sand. The fire that kept me warm and the lovers that inhabited this place have for the most part dwindled away. There are still a few smoldering coals, and an occasional snap and crackle from the once roaring bonfire. A few coupled women remain, groaning at inconsistent intervals, half in sleep, half in lovemaking—though none of them are coupled with me.

  Someone, sometime, threw a blanket at my feet, but so haphazardly done, it did little to keep me from the ocean air. Pulling it around my shoulders now, I sit looking out at the water, seeing an occasional glimpse of morning reflect off the soft surface. The tide is out and the sea feels much more tranquil now, though the pounding will not cease, no matter how much I wish it would. I’m desperate for just one moment of complete silence.