by Vonna Harper
“Just show our tenants in their best light. No squatting-and-taking-a-dump shots.”
“Got it.” Leaving Rose to concentrate on the narrow path, she stretched out her legs so the sun would reach them. They were no longer near the big cat compound so she shouldn’t still feel as if the jaguar—or something—was watching her, should she? But there was no denying her body’s awareness of its various parts, particularly between her legs. She tried to tell herself she was simply picking up vibes from animals in heat compounded by her lengthy celibacy, but couldn’t quite buy that. Damn, but that jaguar was magnificent!
And of all the animals she could have come face to face with, it had been a jaguar.
“What’s on your mind?” Rose asked abruptly. “I can hear the gears turning.”
“Can you? Ah, is it breeding season for all of the animals? What about the big cats? That jaguar—”
“Ah yes, him. We call him Aztec because a jaguar subspecies comes from Mexico, but mostly because it sounds exotic. Unfortunately, there’ll be no mating for him until, or if, we locate a female. In fact, take all the pictures you can of him because we’re going to be highlighting the jaguar breeding program, or current lack of, in the booklet. Jaguar breeding is a prime concern because of their endangered status, but it’s going to take money and a number of things all coming together at the right time, but mostly contributions or grants or, here’s a novel idea, getting our government behind preserving the breed. Hell of a situation for the big boy with all that fucking going on. It’s got to be hard on him.”
“What do you mean, locate a female?” she asked around a sudden and insane jealousy. Aztec was her predator, not some four-legged bimbo's.
“We’re hoping to arrange to have one brought here rather than sending him elsewhere—an expensive proposition, since not many places allow for the freedom of movement and privacy Aztec enjoys here, but—”
Just then Rose’s cell phone chirped. She glanced at the screen, then frowned. “Hold on. I’ve got to take this.”
Rose didn’t waste time in small talk, but cut right to the chase about what Dana surmised was a problem with a water line in the rainforest area. “I was afraid of this,” Rose grumbled after hanging up. “That system’s on borrowed time, but until we get some new funds coming in, we have to rely on tape and glue. Look, where do you want me to drop you off?”
Thinking about the nearly full memory card in her digital camera, Dana said she should upload it into her laptop which was in her cabin and then hopefully connect with Rose again later.
“Sounds good to me. We really haven’t had time to sit down and talk so we’re on the same page. Say, there’s a bar in Paxton that serves halfway decent hot sandwiches and really cold beer. It’s only about a half hour away.”
After agreeing to a time to meet there, Dana again fell silent. As the cabin that had been assigned to her during her time here came into view, she reached back for her camera. After getting out, she watched until Rose was out of sight, then, although she had to force herself to do so, she unlocked the door and stepped inside.
The cabin consisted of a living/kitchen area and a separate bedroom and miniscule bath, but she didn’t feel too claustrophobic in it because she’d taken down the curtains. She’d moved the small kitchen table near the front window and turned it into her work area. After kicking off her shoes, she powered up her laptop.
Transferring the images to her hard drive took only a couple of minutes, but although the need to see the jaguar pictures was almost painful, she deliberately studied the images in the order she’d taken them. The shots of the young gazelle were excellent, and it would be hard to choose among them. The ground squirrel added a note of whimsy that contrasted nicely with some earlier pictures she’d taken of a ponderous, potent, albeit sleeping crocodile.
Returning to the table with a glass of water, she leaned forward and clicked on the first image of Aztec. Any thought she had that her reaction would be less intense now that she was no longer seeing the jaguar in the flesh died the moment she stared into those probing and intelligent-looking eyes. Aztec’s eyesight was keen as witnessed by the intensity of his gaze. He looked, not surprised to see her and her camera, but as if he was determined to learn all he could about her. His body language was alert, but not alarmed—as if a creature with teeth and claws like that feared anything. Everything about him appeared focused on her as if she’d become not just the most important thing in his world, but the only thing.
It had felt like that for her then. It still did.
Mouth dry despite the liquid she’d just poured down her throat, she moved to the next image. Because she’d run off so many shots in a short period of time, there was almost no difference between this and the first one. On impulse, she switched to slideshow mode and sat with her fingers gripping the table top as shot after shot rolled past. The nuances of change built one upon another until it was as if she was looking at a movie. Bit by bit, Aztec lifted his head, brought his ears forward, opened his mouth wide, planted one paw and then another ahead of him as he slowly approached, not the camera, but her.
Shivering, Dana tried to tell herself that this powerful killing machine wasn’t stalking her, but her spine and between her shoulder blades weren’t listening. And when his nostrils flared as Aztec exposed his teeth, she swore she heard him scream. The sound was long and both low and high-pitched, guaranteed to rob anyone of sleep.
Unnerved, she stood and placed her chair between herself and the monitor, but didn’t stop the slideshow.
Try to dismiss me, everything about him challenged. I dare you.
Of course she couldn’t.
So slowly she swore she was looking at each muscle movement, Aztec began crouching. Those incredible muscles along the top of his shoulders tightened, his gaze becoming even more focused and intense. Oh god yes, she was looking at a predator about to attack!
Was there a man like that somewhere, primitive and powerful? Filled with instinct and self-confidence, unconcerned with society's petty issues, earthy and real? This jaguar’s human counterpart?
Then, just as the muscle tension became so great she didn’t know how Aztec could stand it, he whipped his body to the side and leaped—not toward her, but out of the camera’s view. His edges blurred, giving her undeniable proof of how swift the movement had been.
Gone!
As soon as he disappeared, the slideshow looped back to her first shots, but they didn’t interest her. Leaving the table, she pressed her nose against the front window and looked out. Her cabin was one of four; the other three occupied by staff members. Although they’d been positioned in a crude circle so the doors opened onto a common area, the spacing and vegetation sheltered each structure, and from here she couldn’t see the others. Even with her car parked to the side of her cabin, it wasn’t hard to imagine herself alone in an ageless wilderness. This might not be Tarzan’s remote and isolated tree-house, but certain comparisons could be made.
Like her, Aztec was alone. Like her, Aztec was at home in the wilderness. Like her, Aztec was searching for something.
Although she kept her eyes open, her surroundings slowly blurred until she was looking at a haze of green vegetation, brown trunks, and rich blue sky. Because the bottom half of the window was open, she could hear the song the wind was singing this afternoon and breathe in its wild, clean scent.
Her tattoo began to tingle again. There was no uncomfortable heat this time, just steadily increasing awareness of the one artificial mark she’d put on her body. Rubbing it through her clothes, she thought back to the afternoon she’d walked into the only tattoo parlor in town and shown the artist what she wanted and where she wanted it placed. The artist had been in his late fifties or early sixties, a man with long, slender fingers, thick glasses and a clean white shirt, hardly what she thought she’d find. He’d asked her age and she’d lied and said she was eighteen, but because he’d taken her money, complimented her artwork and done what she needed d
one, she hadn’t cared whether he believed her or whether he was breaking any laws. She hadn’t been nervous and, although the needles had stung, she hadn’t so much as clenched her fists.
This is right, she’d kept thinking. What has to be done.
The past faded a little, and she unzipped her shorts and pulled them and her panties down in preparation for bringing the here and now back into focus. She should have stepped back from the window in case someone came by, but touching this permanent proof of her imagination, her obsession, was more important. Even upside down, the details stood out. Tracing the dark outline with her forefinger, she easily conjured up memories of the hours she’d spent sketching and sketching and sketching while in a hypnotic fog until she had everything right.
She’d been a junior in high school, fresh off turning down three invitations to be someone’s prom date. It wasn’t that she’d been waiting for the campus jock or couldn’t dance or afford the requisite dress. She simply hadn’t wanted to go.
On a day when every girl she knew was in town gown-shopping, she’d gone to the park with a stack of paper and a pencil and let everything flow. She hadn’t known what she was aiming for until lines and angles and curves began to take shape, until the proud-eyed jaguar of her imagination and dreams revealed himself. At first she’d thought she was drawing just the head because the realism of muscles wasn’t something she’d learned in the only art class she’d taken, but whoever had guided her fingers that day hadn’t been content with just part of the predator. He, or she, or it, had demanded the whole image.
Propping her foot on the windowsill, Dana angled herself so no shadow touched the tattoo. The image was longer than her outstretched hand and wrapped around her hipbone, and the tail and hindquarters always showed above her bikini panties. The men she’d had sex with had told her that those particular body parts peeking up from the top of a flimsy piece of clothing were a hell of a turn on. They hadn’t had much to say once they’d gotten a look at the rest of the tattoo.
Smiling a little, she watched her finger creep toward the jaguar’s head. Because she’d drawn him with his muzzle outstretched, the teeth were only inches from her pelvis and lined up perfectly with her cunt. No, she’d said when men asked or insisted that the jaguar was pointing at ground zero. That wasn’t why she’d had it done the way she had. What she hadn’t told them was that she’d wanted the jaguar standing guard over her womb.
Chapter Three
When Dana returned to her laptop, the jaguar again stood looking at her. Instead of covering up her tattoo, she’d not-so-impulsively left her shorts and briefs on the floor in front of the window. As a result, the seat pressed against her naked buttocks, but she had no regrets. There was something deliciously earthy about the union of skin and wood. Besides, doing what she intended—what she needed to do—was easier this way.
Leaning back, she trained her eyes on the slowly changing images. After watching the sensual creature for several minutes, she leaned back and slid her hand between her legs. Breathing long and slow, she flicked first one nail and then another over her labia, testing herself. Ah! Talk about sensitive! Her cunt was sopping wet, but whether this was residue from what she’d experienced back when she was looking at the living predator or new moisture in anticipation of what she intended to do, she couldn’t say. Didn’t care.
“Are you watching me, Aztec?” Half expecting a reply, she waited a beat before continuing. “Did some part of the real you slip into these pictures so you could learn more about me? Am I important to you?” Her needy tone startled her. “What do you think of when you’re seeing, smelling?”
Still no answer. Loneliness settled around her as she listened to the faint wind sounds seeping in through the open window. Taken off guard by the sudden damp heat in her eyes, she forced back tears for the second time today. No! No feeling sorry for herself! Not when she’d deliberately chosen a single life.
Widening her stance, she rested her fore and fourth finger over her outer lips while her middle finger hovered over her leaking hole as if she was cradling and sheltering herself. The images on the monitor blurred as her concentration shifted from the mystical and unattainable creature to self-satisfaction.
Thank goodness her mother had always spoken openly and honestly about sexuality, including the whys and wherefores of achieving a climax on one’s own. Masturbation, her mother had told her and she believed, was as natural and normal as bathing and eating. And the pursuit of said climax or climaxes provided both physical and mental exercise.
With no thought as to whether she simply wanted to play with herself for awhile or rush to the end, she let her middle finger make contact with her clitoral ridge and hungry bud. At the first electrified touch, she sighed and slid even lower in her chair, resting her head on the back. No doubt about it. The feedback she was getting said she was long overdue for letting off some steam.
The second contact lasted a little longer, but she was so damn sensitive that she couldn’t take more than a feathery touch. Taking a steadying breath, she slid her free hand first under her top and then her bra. Although the bra’s elastic pressed against the back of her wrist, she dismissed the issue of whether she should remove the rest of her clothes before moving on; now wasn’t the time for interruptions. Besides, her hand felt right trapped between strong fabric and warm flesh, her palm cupping the heavy mound.
Head rolling to the side, she went back to accustoming her clit to being touched. Despite the awkward position and the need to keep her feet planted on the floor so she wouldn’t slide off the chair, she felt unbelievably relaxed. Usually getting into the mood called for a deliberate suspension of reality, a little fantasizing about powerful men and secret places, but she’d already stepped into her “cocoon”. This was her body. She knew its messages and needs and how to isolate it from the world and worldly demands.
Suddenly contemplative, she acknowledged that these days she was her cunt’s best friend. Oh yes, she’d had a few lovers who’d taken her needs into consideration and had proven themselves when it came to manipulating the female body. But they hadn’t spent a lifetime inside her mind and skin, so how could they possibly know her secrets? Of course she’d been born without a penis so she couldn’t possibly understand the hows and whys of that fascinating organ’s inner workings.
Interest in cocks faded. Brushing her lips aside, she settled her middle finger into her opening up to the middle knuckle. Her pussy muscles clenched, and her whole body tingled. No matter that she’d prefer a more detailed description of what she was feeling; tingled pretty much said everything. And yet the sensation was more one of quiet acceptance than impatient anticipation. In other words, she was on first base.
After resting inside herself until the affected muscles stopped clenching and fully welcomed the warm invasion, she began the long, slow strokes she’d perfected over the years. By extending her arm, she managed to house her whole finger in her cave. Eyes resolutely closed and awareness narrowing down until only her pussy mattered, she held her breath. Then—yes!—then—an experienced fingertip finding her G spot. A slow and wonderful shudder rolled through her.
Easy. Just a gentle kiss. Otherwise, you’ll come right here and now.
Floating between the delicious sensation of existing in the moment and giving in to the magnetic pull of a climax, she made repeated feather-light attacks on what was even more sensitive than her clit. According to psychologists or who the hell knew what, extensive research had revealed that each woman’s G spot was different. In addition, there were women who’d either been robbed of this spot or had never tapped into its possibilities. Fortunately, she wasn’t like them.
Fortunately, or maybe unfortunately depending on what she wanted from a self-satisfaction session, hers was like the red button in the Oval Office. One good push and she’d explode.
Not yet.
Determined to slow things down, she opened her eyes a slit. At first she couldn’t focus on what was on the screen, bu
t then the fuzzy edges began morphing into well-defined outlines. And as they did, she started to shake.
Aztec was no longer there. Neither had the slide show moved onto what else she’d photographed.
Instead, she was looking at a man. A man naked from the waist up, which was where the frame ended. A man with long, ink-black hair trailing over his cheeks and bunched on his collarbone. His eyes, oh shit, his eyes reminded her of obsidian, of a cave’s depths. This was like being not just in a cave at midnight, but inside the cave’s inner sanctum where secrets were kept and past, present and future had no meaning.
This man who couldn’t possibly be had skin so deeply tanned that maybe more than the sun was responsible for its rich color. Almost chocolate in hue, his flesh appeared both silk-smooth and life-hard. Because she could only guess at what existed from the waist down, she didn’t know whether she’d find a tan line, but something about his unselfconscious expression told her he wasn’t accustomed to wearing clothes.
Where had he come from and what was he doing on her computer screen? Or did he exist only inside her mind?
Impatient pussy muscles tightened around her finger, threatening to distract her. But although her core wept at the loss, she slid out and rested her damp and now burning hand on her belly. Soon, oh yes, soon, she’d go back to what she’d been doing.
But first—first and foremost she had to look at him. To make some kind of sense out of this.
Although his midnight eyes continued to fascinate and unnerve her, she ordered herself not to go on looking into them because she risked losing herself in the depths. His face was lean and angular, chin and high cheekbones standing out beneath the skin. Judging by the way his nostrils flared, he’d just taken a deep breath.
Why? Because he was looking at her?
Broad, straight shoulders, powerful arms, skin stretched over his chest and defining yet more muscles there. This man, she knew, had never seen the inside of a gym, had never lifted weights or taken steroids, and yet he could hold his own against men who did those things. Whether his body was a product of a physical life or genetics or a combination didn’t matter, yet.