Vision of Love Read online

  He laughs. His chuckle rumbles through his chest, pressed to mine.

  He pushes harder and I want it all.

  I mumble encouragement, barely aware of asking to know. Give it to me. I want it. To know more.

  He slides in and there’s just a bit of pain. Then he moves in more.

  Oh, gods. It feels so good.

  Like a stretch when tired, like twirling around and around, like laughing and joy and good things filling up inside me until I can’t contain it all.

  He pushes all the way in with a grunt, and I gasp.

  So big.

  So full.

  He stops for a second, and breathes, just breathes, as do I.

  He looks at me and I see fear in his eyes, of what we have done. But also joy, and lust, and so many other things.

  I nod slightly and he slides out a bit, as though reluctant to leave now that he is buried in the warmth. Then he pushes back in, my tight passage spreading, stretching for him.

  For me.

  My eyes close as the warmth fills me. I gasp and want more, to know more.

  It’s so good, like when I touch myself but a thousand times better. He rubs against my tight ring of flesh, but with a pleasurable tickle, an almost pain that fades as he slides in and out as easily as a fish into water. There is a sensation there, almost lost in the feel of motion and rocking, and that feeling builds, better and better, higher and higher.

  It’s growing, I can’t take much more as he thrusts, no longer gentle, as lost to sensation as I am. Words tumble from his lips, like water down a waterfall, as our bodies rock together. Praises of me, sweet, sweet begging for so many things.

  He is trembling, or I am. So full, like a sun setting inside me…searing, warm, ah! With my eyes closed, I see starbursts and explode. The building of tension, the explosion, the relaxing, deep and quivering. I see—

  Pale people, but death at their touch—like a cloud, I see a sickness waft from them. Far away in the future. Somehow I pull my mind closer, to the here and to what was and what is soon to be. I see a deer falling. I see I am a high priestess, and the entire town is bowing before me. The deer are running, leaping, past the falls of high cliffs. A beautiful herd of meat—does and bucks.

  I see.

  Oh, gods, how I see. The sacrifice has been made, my maidenhood for that glimpse I couldn’t make out earlier. It was like seeing an entire dream in one eye-blink. I saw it, but it was so fast, so little remains.

  I gasp as the sensation hits again, whispering silent prayers of thanks that I am feeling it. This time there is no vision, just the orgasm clenching and clenching, repeatedly, each grasp so sweet.

  He finishes quivering inside me. Redbush gasps for air on top of me, and I let him. I am too content to move.

  He rolls off. Groans. “Oh, what have I done?”

  I sit up and see a little bit of blood down there, not much.

  “Made a woman of me.”

  “Yeah,” is all he says, as he jumps up.

  Everything is different, but the same.

  The dirt is invigorating beneath me. The air is so clear, the sky the blue it has always been.

  I stretch like a cat and smile. I saw the future. I have the power.

  He checks his bow as though he doesn’t know what to do.

  “When can I see you again?” I ask.

  I don’t hear his answer as he runs off. Let him. I know how to get hold of him. For now, my body is full of strange things. My mind has seen the future.

  * * * *

  For the next few days, I worry about getting pregnant. I shouldn’t have done that, says a voice.

  The same voice also says, That vision. Again, in my mind, I see the deer leaping, poised forever in my head. Grandpa died a few winters ago, so I can’t tell him about my new powers, but I tell Father about the deer.

  He leaves with the hunters. Mother worries, I know, about my future and the past and many things, and if her husband will come home. I worry about whether there will be meat this winter. Redbush went with the hunters, but like my father, I know he is strong and capable—I am not worried about them. They will survive. But meat? I don’t know. What if the vision wasn’t real, or I misread the signs? How accurate is this? Is the future already done or can it be changed? I don’t know.

  * * * *

  In a few nights the hunters return. They are pulling a travois of meat. So much of it. My mouths waters. Venison. New dresses. Winter boots. We sing praises to the gods for giving us such a bounty. The entire village works to prepare the food quickly.

  The outer parts are cut off for the dogs, since they are already turning. The rest will be sliced thin and smoked, although some of it—a handsome young buck—will be tonight’s feast. My father picked it out.

  “This is for my lovely daughter. May the gods bless her as she has blessed me and her mother. Let us thank her for suggesting where to hunt.”

  It is glorious. The deer is hoisted onto shoulders and as it passes by I glimpse its eyes. So deep. Dark. Dead. I feel sorrow. Its eyes are the same colour as Redbush’s. But I love meat. It had to be done.

  The deer is spitted and roasted, the smell flowing through the village. I spend half the day standing downwind, inhaling. It is so good.

  I see Redbush laughing with Dancing Dawn. They’re friends. I don’t care—we have something special together now, him and me. The smell of meat is heady. I lick my lips and realise I am gazing at him as I do so, as though he too is to be devoured.

  The look on his face is full of surprise and lust, and something I can’t name.

  How odd.

  The deer is delicious, and I eat plenty. The meat is juicy, bursting between my teeth, filling my mouth with its savoury taste. I suck the marrow from the bone and think of Redbush, his manhood like a stalk rising, and wonder what it would feel like in my mouth.

  We have one skin now, almost enough for a dress. And I want that dress—I want it to make me look beautiful for Redbush, because now I know how much he has come to mean to me. Before, he was just a handsome male I admired from afar. Now, he is the man who has made me a woman. We have shared something, and I am glad to the depths of my soul that, of all the males I could have shared with, it was with Redbush. Maybe this is still lust, or maybe something stronger. I only know I long for him, desire him, can’t wait to sink my tongue into his mouth as he sinks into me.

  * * * *

  There is venison in the morning, cold and fatty, then stew for supper, thick with chunks of deer. Too soon it is gone, the last of it dried or salted for winter.

  I want more. The meaty, satisfying chunks, the long, hard bones, the soft skins.

  I want Redbush. I long to feel him between my thighs again, to have him touch my breasts in the way only he knows. I have a bead woven into my pubic hair just for him, and I can feel it when I walk, sometimes, and it brings me to an edge of need and hunger. For Redbush.

  Speaking of which… There he goes now.

  To the lake. All right.

  I follow slowly, casually. What if I meet someone else? I will have to pretend to be just strolling along, going in this direction, and—oh, is Redbush or anyone here?

  I reach the lake, and no—no one is there. It’s flat and empty. The mosquitoes whine over its surface. That’s about it. No fish are even jumping at this time of day.

  I turn to head back when someone grabs me from behind. Hot breath in my ear, firm hands on me.

  “Little maiden. What if I had been an enemy?” Redbush. I recognise his voice, his smell, the feel of his touch upon my hot, sweaty skin.

  I wiggle around to face him. “Then I would be captured. What would you do to me, oh mighty hunter?” I ask him.

  The words are meant to be sarcastic, but there is something in them, a deeper longing for I know not what.

  Even the air is still between us. I hear him breathe, so loudly. Or is it me?

  I creep my arms up around him, holding him, loving the feel of his neck and hair. I l
et it run through my fingers. His skin is hot beneath my hands, the muscles so firm.

  He leans back slightly, shivering from the intensity of my touch. Soon he will make me shiver too, I know it. I look forward to it.

  Instead, he looks out at the lake casually, leaning against the tree.

  “Is anything the matter?”

  He barks a short laugh. “No. Why should it be? A woman, a girl I barely even know, chases after me and looks adoringly at my body, not at me.”

  He may barely know me, but I know him. I have been watching him for a long time, sighing over his body, hot and lean, thinking of him when I wonder about my future. I say nothing, playing with the fringe on my dress. It scratches, but not in a good way. Mother has promised me a new dress, and together we will sew it, but it won’t be ready for days yet.

  “I’ve seen you watching me over the last few days,” he says. “I knew if I came out you would follow, and I didn't know if I wanted that.”

  “Don’t you want to have sex?” I ask him softly.

  “Want? I’m a male.” He takes a deep breath. “I don’t know what I want.” Despite his words, his loincloth is projecting out like a lone pine tree on a cliff.

  “I watch you sometimes,” I admit. “All the women do.”

  “You’re the first one to offer herself like that,” he says in reply, looking down at himself.

  I smile and lie down here, where the moss softens the ground and I can see the lake, yet the bushes grow on either side. They are taller than us and I sit in their shade. It is a good spot. It is a wonderful day, warm, but cooling.

  “Why are you doing this?” he asks, as though tormented.

  His voice makes me shiver but not in a good way.

  “Because I thought… You, me. Sex. Fun,” I stammer out. I don’t tell him how much I think I love him already. I want his hands on me. I long for it. I yearn. I want his touch, so breathless and hot, cascading down me.

  The top of my dress is in my lap. I touch my own nipples, already burning with need for him. He watches me from the tree’s side, not moving. I wish we were sitting together in sunlight. It feels so warm when it touches me. My breasts are bare because I like the feel of the wind on them.

  Today I couldn’t find any flowers I wanted to braid into my hair, so I rubbed strawberries, tiny and tart, on my breasts. They have made the brown around the nipples so red. I don't know if I like the colour, I muse. He moves closer to see, kneeling down next to me.

  He touches my bare flesh.

  “Don’t you think”—I lean back—“it would be nice to go without clothes?” I stare at the sky, imagining all the warriors naked. Hmm, wonderful. He unties his loincloth.

  “That’s what you think about?” He mumbles something about me being worse than his brothers.

  He leans over me, naked.

  “No. I don’t think it would be good to forgo clothing. Did you forget how many elders we have? And Round Bear?”

  I laugh as he stops kneeling to sit next to me. “You’re so mean! Just because he’s not as pretty or handsome as you, you don’t want to see him naked?”

  Redbush considers the question thoughtfully. “I don’t want to see any men naked, no—not really.”

  He reaches out slowly, touches my chest, fingers brushing as lightly as the sun when it kisses them. I barely breathe, wondering how to encourage this.

  It's not just the visions I want, I realise. It’s the rushing orgasms, the feeling that shakes me, trembles my limbs and robs me of my breath, makes me a helpless victim, and the release, so sweet at the end, when I just lie there, complete.

  A woman.

  “I think if the women were naked, very little work would get done,” Redbush continues to muse thoughtfully.

  “Am I keeping you from hunting, mighty warrior?” I ask him teasingly.

  He touches my nipple, his gaze intent on the round bud under his fingers. He is mesmerised by it.

  “Yes, you are,” he says, then lies down by me.

  I smile delightedly and shuck out of the rest of my dress. I toss it casually to the side.

  He watches.

  I toe my moccasins off, then his, knowing my toenails are scratching his shins, but I am so happy.

  Sex, sex, sex, sex, chants a bit of my brain.

  He watches. Finally, his penis so stiff with need that it’s like wood, he sighs deeply and stares at my breasts.

  Stare away. They’re for you.

  He tastes one, and it’s exquisite pleasure. I suck my breath in at the sensation.

  “Hmm. Strawberries,” he says, as though confirming a suspicion.

  I make an ah sound, my mouth open. He kisses harder, almost biting, but I want it, so badly.

  I bury my fingers in his hair, encouraging him, touching him as his mouth works on first one taut nipple, then the other.

  He licks a long trail to my stomach.

  I almost flinch at the feeling. So strong. Nothing else is like this. Not water from the lake when it runs in drops down me, not even an ember could feel like this—hot and cold and sweet, his tongue dancing as he seeks more strawberry taste. Then he comes back up, bypasses both breasts and goes right for my neck.

  He buries his hand between my legs and exclaims in surprise at how wet I am.

  It’s his mouth on my neck—I had no idea it was so sensitive until he bit so gently.

  He laughs, his chuckle like thunder deep in the hollow of my shoulder.

  “I want to make you feel just this good,” I whisper.

  “Your pussy does that,” he says. “I don’t need anything else right at this moment. Just you. Your sighs. Your wetness.”

  He pulls his hand back and I can see it glisten.

  I want to look at his need. I told him I wanted to make him happy, and I do. It’s not just for my little game of sacrifice for shamanic powers—it’s for him, too.

  I stare at his engorged manhood, then wrap my fingers around it.

  He too is wet, just a drop of pearl at the end. I lean in close to him and smell—pine and male and earth. I lick, tentatively at first, then more enthusiastically as I realise I like his taste.

  Salty.

  He groans.

  Wonderful.

  I lick some more, until my tongue is sore. His pants fill my ears, his smell fills my senses. I hesitate at his manhood, the stalk so thick and strong, like an upright tree, the head flaring like a mushroom. I lean up over him and lower my mouth around his hard manhood, my tongue touching it wonderingly, finding it as sweet a feeling as when it is down below. Then I wrap my mouth around it, remembering what his lips felt like around my nipple. I hear him groan again and want to laugh, dance, weep.

  I like the feel of him sliding into my mouth, over my lips. I love the way he gasps for air when I do it. I sit back.

  I straddle him, with that magnificent organ pressing into my stomach.

  I could ride him all day.

  He guides me up with his hands on my hips, biting his lip in anticipation. I sink down onto him. Instantly, his penis nestles between my thighs, deep, deeper, arrowing in as if it’s on the hunt. It fills my womanhood, nestled deep within, feeling so large, and I want the moment to last forever and to quickly be over with so I can experience the next moment.

  So much wanting. So much friction.

  I lower myself fully.

  The look on his face… He tilts his head back slightly, and now his eyes are like liquid night, staring into mine. His lips are parted, wet, glistening, as though struck apart by what he feels.

  I grip him with my thighs, feel muscles deep within me grip him. I rock back and forth until he growls impatiently and rolls me over.

  Now this, I like. So manly!

  His weight presses me down, down into the earth as he grunts and drives into me.

  I wrap my legs around him, my knees bucking up, down, the feel of each position so different.

  He groans more. “Stop that. Just hold still, while I…uh…”

&nb
sp; I grasp him with my legs. “Not yet,” I beg.

  “Yes,” he demands. “If I want it, warrior maiden. I can’t fight you—you feel too good. I want you too much.”

  He sucks hard on my nipple, lips clamped on tight, knowing how much it pleases me.

  Not content with that, he lets his fingers play with my breasts, working the nipples . He watches me, entranced by how he makes me squirm for him, the touch of his fingers bringing feelings flooding over me.

  He bites. Tastes my breasts, works up to my neck and back. Lower.

  Too soon, he leans back, leaving my skin still yearning for the feel of him. He stares for a moment, clearly enjoying the view, then he kisses my stomach, then licks my breasts and their hard nipples.

  He sinks in to the hilt, all of him deep within me. I cry out in pure, ecstatic joy.

  This is a gift from the gods, this rutting like deer.

  He moves fast, growling, one hand on my breast, the other on my back.

  I clutch at him, helpless, as he rides me. My breath is a loud sob, gasped out as he moves, my body tingling all over and subject to his whim. I ride a wave of delight, surrendering to this need. Each time he sinks in fully, each time his testicles touch me, I want to weep with joy. He moves so quickly, as lost to sensation as I am, each thrust blending into the next one to make one long, overwhelming moment.

  The orgasms hits. For a moment I had forgotten it was a goal, so swept away was I.

  The feeling makes me hum like a bowstring, every muscle clenching tight, then the slam of the orgasm, and the deep deep relaxing, letting go, spaces in my mind opening.

  I see deer and fire and pain and joy and birth and death. Grab something of this vision, and hold. I see the village burning. I see the storm chasing life before it, thunder crashing like—

  It’s gone. I can breathe again.

  Redbush looks at me, wondering, and I wipe fresh tear tracks off my face. That sense of loss, of so many dying. I must do anything to prevent it.

  He looks concerned, though—too concerned to let me concentrate. “Are you all right?” he asks worriedly.