by Jean M. Auel
Ayla lay still, not moving a muscle yet quivering. She felt as though she had been waiting forever for something she could not name, but which he could give. His eyes alone could touch inside her; she could not explain the pulsing, throbbing delirious effects of his hands, his mouth, his tongue, but she ached for more. She felt unfinished, incomplete. Until he gave her the taste, she hadn’t known her hunger, but once aroused, it had to be satisfied.
When his eyes had had their fill, he closed them and kissed her once more. Her mouth was parted, waiting. She drew his seeking tongue in, and tentatively experimented with her own. He pulled up and smiled encouragement. He brought a rich lustrous strand of her hair to his lips, then rubbed his face in a thick, soft pile of her golden crown. He kissed her forehead, her eyes, her cheeks, wanting to know all of her.
He found her ear, and his warm breath sent shivers of delight through her once more. He nibbled her earlobe, then suckled it. He found the tender nerves of her neck and throat that excited chills in internal places never touched. His large, expressive, sensitive hands explored her, felt the silky texture of her hair, cupped her cheek and jaw, traced the contours of her shoulder and arm. When he reached her hand, he brought it to his mouth, kissed her palm, stroked each finger, then followed the inside curve of her arm.
Her eyes were closed, giving in to the sensation with rhythmic surges. His warm mouth found the scar in the hollow of her throat, then followed the path between her breasts and curved underneath one. He described decreasing circles with his tongue and felt the texture of her skin change when he reached the areola. She gasped when he drew her nipple into his mouth, and he felt a flush of heat throbbing in his loins.
His hand matched his tongue’s movement with her other breast, and his fingers found her nipple hardened and erect. He suckled gently at first, but when she pushed herself up to him, he increased the suction. She breathed hard, moaned softly. His breath matched her wanting; he wasn’t sure he could wait. He stopped then, to look at her again. Her eyes were closed, her mouth open.
He wanted all of her, all at once. He took her mouth, drew her tongue into his. When he released it, she drew in his, following his example, and felt the warm inside of his. He found her throat again, and drew wet circles around her other full breast until he reached the nipple. She pushed herself up to him, wanting, and shuddered when he answered with a deep pull.
His hand caressed her stomach, her hip, her leg, then reached for her inner thigh. Her firm muscles rippled as she tensed a moment, then she separated her legs. He cupped his hand over her mound of dark gold curls and felt a sudden damp warmth. The answering jolt in his groin caught him by surprise. He stayed as he was, fighting for control, and almost lost it when he felt another surge of wetness in his hand.
His mouth left her nipple and circled her stomach and her navel. When he reached her mound, he looked up at her. She was breathing in mewing gasps, her back arched and tensed with anticipation. She was ready. He kissed the top of her mound, felt crinkly hair, and inched lower. She was quivering, and when his tongue found the top of her narrow slot, she sprang up with a cry, then lay back moaning.
His manhood was throbbing eagerly, impatiently, as he shifted position to slide down between her legs. Then he spread open her folds and took a long, loving taste. She could not hear her own sounds as she lost herself to the flood of exquisite sensations coursing through her as his tongue explored every fold, every ridge.
He concentrated on her to keep his own demanding need in check, found the nodule that was her small but erect center of delight, and moved it firmly and rapidly. He feared he had reached the limit of his self-control when she writhed and sobbed with an ecstasy unknown before. With two long fingers, he entered her moist passage and applied pressure up, from inside.
Suddenly she arched her back and cried out, and he tasted a new wetness. Her hands clenched and unclenched convulsively in unconscious beckoning motions that matched her spasmodic breaths.
“Jondalar,” she cried out to him. “Oh, Jondalar, I need … need you … need something …”
He was on his knees, gritting his teeth in an effort to hold back, trying to enter her carefully. “I’m trying … to be easy,” he said, almost painfully.
“It … won’t hurt me, Jondalar …”
It was true! It wasn’t really her first time. As she arched up to receive him, he let himself enter. There was no blockage. He pressed farther, expecting to find her barrier, but he felt himself drawn in, felt her warm, moist depths opening and enfolding him until, to his wonder, she embraced him fully. He drew back and plunged deeply into her again. She wrapped legs around him to pull him into her. He withdrew again, and, as he penetrated once more, he felt her wondrous throbbing passage caress his full length. It was more than he could bear. He drove in again, and again, with unrestrained abandon, for once giving in entirely to his own need.
“Ayla! … Ayla! … Ayla!” he cried out.
The tension was reaching its peak. He could feel it gathering in his loins. He drew back once more. Ayla raised up to him with every nerve and muscle taut. He surged into her, reveling in the sheer sensual pleasure of burying his full proud manhood completely in her eager warmth. They strained together, Ayla cried his name, and, giving her his final fraction, Jondalar filled her.
For an eternal instant, his deeper, throatier cries rose in harmony with her breathless sobs repeating his name as paroxysms of inexpressible pleasure shuddered through them. Then, with exquisite release, he collapsed on top of her.
For a long moment, only their breathing could be heard. They could not move. They had given all to each other, every fiber to their shared experience. After a time, they didn’t want to move, didn’t want it to end, though they knew it was over. It had been Ayla’s awakening; she had never known the pleasures a man could give her. Jondalar knew his pleasure would be to awaken her, but she had given him an unexpected surprise, adding immeasurably to his excitement.
Only few women had depth enough to take in all of him; he had learned to control his penetration to suit and did it with sensitivity and skill. It would never be quite the same again—but to enjoy the excitement of First Rites, and the rare and glorious release of full penetration at the same time, was unbelievable.
He always did put forth greater efforts for First Rites; there was something about the ceremony that brought out the best in him. His care and concern were genuine, his efforts were to please the woman, and his satisfaction came from her enjoyment as much as his own. But Ayla had pleased him, satisfied him beyond his wildest fantasy. Not ever had he felt so profoundly fulfilled. For a moment, it seemed, they had become one.
“I must be getting heavy,” he said, pulling himself up to partially support his weight on an elbow.
“No,” she said in a soft voice. “You’re not heavy at all. I don’t think I ever want you to get up.”
He bent down to nuzzle an ear and kiss her neck. “I don’t want to get up either, but I think I should.” He disengaged himself slowly, then lay down beside her, fitting an arm under her so that her head rested in the hollow beneath his shoulder.
Ayla was dreamily content, completely relaxed, and acutely aware of Jondalar. She felt his arm around her, his fingers caressing her lightly, the play of pectoral muscles under her cheek; she could hear his heartbeat, or perhaps her own, in her ear; she smelled the warm musky scent of his skin, and their Pleasures. And she had never felt so cared for or so coddled.
“Jondalar,” she said after a while, “how do you know what to do? I didn’t know those feelings were in me. How did you?”
“Someone showed me, taught me, helped me to know what a woman needs.”
“Who?”
She felt his muscles tense, detected a change in the tone of his voice.
“It’s customary for older, more experienced women to teach young men.”
“You mean like First Rites?”
“Not quite. It’s more informal. When young men start
coming into their heat, the women always know. One, or more, who understands he is nervous and unsure of himself will be there for him, and will help him over it. But it’s not a ceremony.”
“In the Clan, when a boy makes his first kill—on a real hunt, not just little animals—then he is a man and has a manhood ceremony. Coming into his heat doesn’t matter. It’s hunting that makes him a man. That’s when he must assume adult responsibilities.”
“Hunting is important, but some men never hunt. They have other skills. I suppose I wouldn’t have to hunt if I didn’t want to. I could make tools and trade them for meat or skins, or whatever I wanted. Most men hunt, though, and a boy’s first kill is very special.”
Jondalar’s voice took on the warm tones of memory. “There is no real ceremony, but his kill is distributed to everyone in the Cave—he doesn’t eat any of it. When he walks by, they remark to each other so he can hear, how big and wonderful his kill is, and how tender and delicious. The men invite him to join them for gaming or talking. The women treat him like a man instead of a boy, and make friendly jokes with him. Almost any woman will make herself available to him, if he’s old enough and that’s what he wants. A first kill makes him feel very much a man.”
“But no manhood ceremony?”
“Each time a man makes a woman, opens her, lets the life force flow into her, he reaffirms his manhood. That’s why his tool, his manhood, is called woman-maker.”
“It might do more than make a woman. It might start a baby.”
“Ayla, the Great Earth Mother blesses a woman with children. She brings them into the world and to a man’s hearth. Doni created men to help her, to provide for her when she is heavy with child, or nursing and caring for an infant. And to make her a woman. I can’t explain it any better. Maybe Zelandoni can.”
Maybe he’s right, Ayla thought, snuggling down beside him. But if he isn’t, a baby could be growing in me now. She smiled. A baby like Durc, to cuddle and nurse, and take care of, a baby that would be part Jondalar.
But who will help me when he’s gone? she thought with a stab of anguish. She recalled her difficult previous pregnancy, her brush with death during delivery. Without Iza, I wouldn’t be alive. And if I did manage to have a baby alone, how could I hunt and take care of a baby? What if I got hurt, or killed? Who would take care of my baby then? He’d die, all alone.
I can’t have another baby now! She bolted up. What if one has been started? What should I do? Iza’s medicine! Tansy or mistletoe, or … not mistletoe. That only grows on oak, and there is no oak here. But there are several plants that will work—I’ll have to think about it. It could be dangerous, but better to lose the baby now, than lose him to some hyena after he’s born.
“Is anything wrong, Ayla?” Jondalar asked, reaching up to cup a full firm breast, because he knew he could and that made him want to.
She leaned into his hand, remembering his touch. “No, nothing is wrong.”
He smiled, recalled his deep satisfaction, and felt renewed stirrings. Soon, he thought. I think she has Haduma’s touch!
She saw warmth and desire in his blue eyes. Maybe he’ll want to make Pleasures with me again, Ayla thought, smiling back. Then her smile faded. If a baby hasn’t started, and we do Pleasures again, one could start. Maybe I should take Iza’s secret medicine, the one she said not to mention to anyone.
She remembered when Iza told her about the plants—golden thread and root of antelope sage—that had such potent magic, they could add strength to a woman’s totem to fight off the man’s impregnating essences, and prevent life from starting. Ayla had just learned she was pregnant. Iza had not told her about the medicine before—no one thought she would ever have a baby, and it hadn’t come up in her training. Strong totem or not, I had a baby, and I might again. I don’t know if it’s spirits or men, but the medicine worked for Iza, and I think I better take it, or I may have to take something else to lose one.
I wish I didn’t have to, I wish I could keep it. I would like to have a baby from Jondalar. Her smile was so tender and inviting that he reached up and pulled her down on him. The amulet, hanging around her neck, banged his nose.
“Oh, Jondalar! Did that hurt?”
“What do you have in that thing? It must be full of rocks!” he said, sitting up and rubbing his nose. “What is it?”
“It is … for my totem spirit, so he can find me. It holds the part of my spirit he recognizes. When he has given me signs, I keep them in there, too. Everyone in the Clan has one. Creb said if I lose it, I will die.”
“It’s a charm, or an amulet,” he said. “Your Clan does understand the mysteries of the spirit world. The more I learn about them, the more like people they seem, though not like any I know.” His eyes filled with contrition. “Ayla, it was my ignorance that made me behave as I did when I first understood who you meant by Clan. It was shameful, and I’m sorry.”
“Yes, it was shameful, but I am not angry or hurt anymore. You have made me feel … I want to make a courtesy, too. For today, for First Rites, I want to say … thank you.”
He grinned. “I don’t think anyone ever thanked me before.” The grin left, but a smile lingered though his eyes were serious. “If anyone should say it, I should. Thank you, Ayla. You don’t know what an experience you gave me. It hasn’t been that gratifying for me since …” He stopped and she saw a frown of pain. “… since Zolena.”
“Who is Zolena?”
“Zolena is no more. She was a woman I knew when I was young.” He lay back down and stared up at the roof of the cave, silent for so long that Ayla did not think he would say any more. Then, to himself more than her, he began speaking.
“She was beautiful then. All the men talked about her, and all the boys thought about her, but none more than I, even before the donii came to me in my sleep. The night my donii came, she came as Zolena, and when I woke, my sleeping furs were full of my essence, and my head full of Zolena.
“I remember following her, or finding a place to wait where I could watch her. I begged the Mother for her. But I couldn’t believe it when she came to me. It could have been any one of the women, but the only one I wanted was Zolena—oh, how I wanted her—and she came to me.
“First, I just took my pleasure in her. Even then, I was big for my age—in many ways. She taught me how to control, how to use it, and she taught me what a woman needed. I learned I could get pleasure from a woman, even if she wasn’t quite deep enough, if I held myself back as long as possible, and made her ready. Then I wouldn’t need as much depth, and she could take more.
“With Zolena, I didn’t have to worry. Yet, she could make men happy who were smaller—she had ways of control, too. There wasn’t a man who didn’t want her—and she chose me. After a while, she chose me all the time, though I was hardly more than a boy.
“But there was one man who kept after her, though he knew she didn’t want him. It made me angry. When he saw us together, he’d tell her to pick a man for a change. He wasn’t as old as Zolena, but older than I. I was bigger, though.”
Jondalar closed his eyes, but kept on. “It was so stupid! I shouldn’t have done it, it only called attention to us, but he wouldn’t let her alone. He made me so furious. One day I hit him, and then I couldn’t stop.
“They say it’s not good for a young man to be with one woman too much. With more women, there’s less chance that he will form an attachment. Young men are supposed to mate young women; older women are only supposed to teach them. They always blame the woman if a young man grows to feel too much for her. But they shouldn’t have blamed her. I didn’t want any of those other women, I wanted only Zolena.
“Those women seemed so crude then, insensitive, teasing, making fun of the men all the time, especially the young men. Perhaps I was insensitive, too, chasing them away from me, calling them names.
“They’re the ones who choose the men for First Rites. All the men want to be chosen—they always talk about it. It’s an honor, and it’
s exciting, but they worry about being too rough, or too hasty, or worse. What good is a man if he can’t even open a woman? Anytime a man passes a group of women, they tease.”
He shifted his voice to a falsetto and mimicked. “ ‘Here’s a handsome one. Would you like me to teach you a thing or two?’ Or, ‘I haven’t been able to teach this one anything, anyone else willing to try?’ ”
Then in his own voice, “Most men learn to give it back and enjoy the banter as much as the women, but it’s hard on young men. Any man passing a group of laughing women wonders if they are laughing at his expense. Zolena wasn’t like that. The other women didn’t like her much, maybe because the men liked her too much. On any of the Mother’s holidays or festivals, she was first choice …
“The man I hit lost several teeth. It’s hard on a man that young to lose teeth. He can’t chew, and women don’t want him. I’ve been sorry ever since. It was so stupid! My mother made compensation for me, and he moved to another Cave. But he comes to Summer Meetings, and I wince every time I see him.
“Zolena had been talking about serving the Mother. I thought I would be a carver and serve Her in that way. That was when Marthona decided I might have an aptitude for stone working and sent word to Dalanar. Not long afterward, Zolena left to take special training, and Willomar took me to live with the Lanzadonii. Marthona was right. It was best. When I returned after three years, Zolena was no more.”
“What happened to her?” Ayla asked, almost afraid to speak.
“Those Who Serve the Mother give up their own identity and take on the identity of the people for whom they intercede. In return, the Mother gives them Gifts unknown to Her ordinary children: Gifts of magic, skill, knowledge—and power. Many who go to Serve never progress beyond acolytes. Of those who receive Her call, only a few are truly talented, but they rise in the ranks of Those Who Serve very quickly.
“Just before I left, Zolena was made High Priestess Zelandoni, First among Those Who Serve the Mother.”