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kiss of the goddess
kiss of the goddess
i'm a poet. been writing since i was about 13. lately, though, i've found myself going through dry spells. lot of stuff went down last year. i'm trying to get back on track. but when the poems don't come, i started writing erotica/horror. had a few pieces published... hope you enjoy. please feel free to post a comment. i see some of these entries getting a lot of looks, but no one comments. my purpose for starting this blog is to communicate with other interested members. i won't bite (unless you want me to, ladies. ) and believe me, as someone who's been writing for over thirty years, i can deal with criticsm and /or rejection. it comes with the territory...
Kiss of the Goddess
The temple was in immaculate condition. Chambers had been sealed with great care. Although some of the rooms had been broken into over the centuries by thieves and robbers, the treasured artifacts within considered priceless on the black market, the majority of the site was untouched.
Ray sat in the chamber that for all intents and purposes, was going to put his name in the textbooks. He had read the ancient codexes found inside, spending every waking moment since their discovery interpreting them, not once, but three times. He was determined that there be no errors to be found when he reported his findings. His rivals in the academic community would be licking their chops, looking for the slightest oversight or misrepresentation of the facts.
In the center of the chamber was the prize. The burial tomb of a woman sacrificed to Xochiquetzal, Goddess Precious Flower, deity of sexual pleasure and all that it entails. But this was not just any woman, a commoner. No, Ray’s special find had been royalty, daughter of an Aztec king. Her skeletal remains were adorned with gold bracelets and beads of precious stones. The turquoise and silver crown was designed to represent a wreath of delicate butterflies resting on her head. Around her waist was a chain of gold, and hanging from the chain were strings of flat, small golden feathers. Ray estimated the small gold feathers to be over several thousand, at least. The realistic detail of each feather was uncanny, and the time and effort used in their making would never be truly estimated. He imagined how she looked as she walked, her hips moving from side to side, the golden skirt reflecting the light of the sun, or the moon. She also had adornments for her breasts. Small, oval, cloudshaped pieces of silver, small enough to perhaps cover each nipple. And along the bottom of each nipple cloud were swaying beads of blue and green crystals, attached with gold chains, obviously representing rain. Her sandals were decorated with tiny bells and colorful feathers. Ray could only imagine what the coiled whip at her side represented. And the jeweled instrument with the phallic handle, thick and bulbous left little to the imagination. It was the seven strips of leather attached, entwined with thorns and the razor sharp teeth of... fish? piranhas? that worried him.
But if Ray had his way, tonight he would find out. The codex had rituals, prayers, and songs all dedicated to the worship of Xochiquetzal. Upon reading it for the first time, he noticed that at the end, the style of writing had changed. As if after reading a letter written by one person, someone else inserted a quick note, the handwriting different in appearance. The last passage gave implicit directions what to do upon finding the remains of the sacrificed princess.
Ray had copal burning in the sacred clay bowls, one for each direction of the wind, and placed them at each end and on both sides of the tomb. He had directed one of the workers who was from the local village to locate the herbs listed in the codex, never telling him the purpose they would serve. Kneeling before the princess, he ground the roots and leaves in the mocajete, stone bowl and rock, found among the many sacred items in the room. He picked up a sharp edged rock shaped to fit naturally in the palm of his hand, a tool used for cutting, and proceeded to cut his tongue, letting the blood drip into the mocajete. Then, he unzipped his pants, took his penis into his hand, making a small cut on the side. He let the blood drip again into the mixture of herbs. Bloodletting was common ritual among the ancient peoples of Meso-America, and Ray cut himself willingly.
Then, he took the mixture of his own blood and herbs, held them up over his head, and began reciting a long prayer. He closed his eyes, saw himself transported to a time long ago. He swayed as he chanted, thought he felt the presence of others, fellow priests and worshipers, all eyes on him.
Upon completing the prayer, Ray took a chunk of smoking copal from each bowl and placed it in the sacred mocajete. The herbs caught fire, the smoke of his blood mixed with the aroma of the plants, creating a thick, sweet cloud. He moved the smoking bowl up and down the length of the skeletal remains. He held the bowl under his face, taking five deep breaths, one for each 5,000 year period on the ancient calendar, including the current one drawing to a close.
He leaned over the skelton, placed his mouth over the teeth of the small, delicate skull, and proceeded to breathe five deep breaths into the ghastly, wicked smile.
Ray immediately felt something was wrong. By the fifth breath, he had lost control over his own breathing. Something was sucking the air out his lungs! He could not break loose from the kiss he was sharing with the skelton’s mouth. The last thing he felt before he passed out was a tongue, darting between his teeth, small and forceful, licking and probing...
Ray opened his eyes. He was face down on the stone floor. He tasted his blood and realized he had chipped a tooth. He did not realize where he was as he waited for the clouds in his head to clear. He turned his head to the side, and started to raise up. He felt a sharp jerk pull his head to one side. Looking up, he saw her, standing over him. The jerk was from the collar around his neck, attached to a leash of leopard skin.
Ray’s princess was a sight to behold. Golden brown skin, smooth and unblemished. About five feet tall, she would have been in her early or mid-teens, a mature woman of age in her culture. Her hair was raven black, long to her waist, not straight, but with a natural wave. The crown of silver and turquoise butterflies kept her dark mane from hiding her face. Her facial features were delicate, childlike. But the look on her face was intense, her full lips in a pout, one eyebrow raised and a fire burning in her stare. Her nose was slightly turned up, her chin was small but solid. Her cheeks were blushed. Her shapely breasts were fully exposed except for the pieces of jeweled clouds barely covering her nipples. They moved, as if floating in the air, everytime her beautiful tits raised up and then gently dropped with her long, steady breath.
She shifted her stance, Ray’s eyes dropping down to her small waist and full hips. He had guessed right, the skirt of golden feathers accentuated every move, every curve and shape, almost as if clinging to her skin. As if she could read his thoughts, she violently pulled on the leash again, and Ray had to catch himself from falling back on his face.
She pulled up on the leash, and Ray figured she wanted him to stand. He got to his knees, then, as he started to stand he felt a sting on his arm. He heard the sound of the whip after it had snapped against his skin. He stayed on his knees. He tried to talk, but she only yanked hard on the leash, so he remained silent, trying to figure out what she wanted him to do. She dropped the cutting tool at his knees, then she made a motion with her arm across her body. Ray did not have a clue until she grabbed his shirt, then his pants, then pointed to the cutting tool. Ray started to unbutton his shirt, but she pulled the leash, pointed to the sharp rock. He picked it up, and proceeded to cut away at the fabric of his clothes. She tilted her head, giving Ray the wickedest smile he had ever seen.
Once Ray had removed his shirt and pants, and then his shoes, the princess began walking him around the chamber. He was on all fours, the cold stone floor not to his liking. But as much as he wanted to turn on her, stand up and say "Enough!" he felt powerless. He had surrendered himself to his mistress when he carried out the ritual to completion. She would gently tug left or right when she wanted him to change direction. She would pull back when she wanted him to stop. She was working him, putting him through her paces, letting him know how to do what she wanted him to do.
After what seemed like an hour of "training", Ray found himself at her side. He was sweating, and for the first time she reached down and patted him on his head. She cooed softly, as if to give him praise. She put her foot out in front of him, and instinctively Ray lowered his head to kiss it, dainty and soft. He peppered it with kisses from heel to toes. He licked each toe separately, with slow, loving strokes. He felt her stroking his head with her small hand. Ray had an erection.
(excerpt from Kiss of the Goddess, copyright Prometheus Unhinged 2005)