Four writers for the price of one blog
Serial Erotica by Redbud
Tamora looked over the city’s silhouetted buildings, her first evening in Pashtan.
A hover-balloon barely seemed to move in the distance, carrying passengers through the lazy evening air. Beyond it, heat lightning flickered in clouds so distant they looked more like the mountains. Earth had changed, her own earth, but different – an alien Earth.
An overheating planet had thrown a world into panic. Science discovered a solution, but nothing that anyone expected – another earth, a parallel earth. Scientists first, then adventurers, then merchants learned how to travel between the two worlds. But they weren’t really two worlds. They weren’t worlds in different places. They were the same earth, and once the gateway between the two had been opened, two earths became one. Two peoples, civilizations, and landscapes became one.
Two realities saved each other, but also met with different cultures and goals.
Tamora’s Uncle, a scientist, had brought her with him to a country that had once been known as Iran. He hadn’t wanted to. He was cold and diffident; but Tamora had overheard his stories. Iran had become Pashtan, ruled by hard-line Maji, powerful men able to use the physics bending forces of alien earth. Rapid changes were transforming the world. Tamora wanted to see them. She turned her gaze to the darkening street. Maj Rafjan. one of Pashtan’s few moderate Majim, was already arriving at her Uncle’s diplomatic house.
Maj Rafjan was a low level Pashtanian cleric, but rumored to be among the most skilled. He was old, bearded, and white haired. He wore spectacles and a black long-tailed suit with a top hat. Sometimes he would wear the wine-red robes that were the garments of the Maji. The Maji loved American food and her Uncle had prepared hamburger and French fries. The dining room, an alcove of the balcony on which Tamora had watched the Maji’s arrival, was beautiful, an upper room of an elegant house. The skyline had grown dark and Zanjan, lit by gas lamps and glow lights, glittered quietly. A warm and ark breeze lifted Tamora’s black hair, carryingthe smell of dust and yellowing wheat. The Maj liked her. Her hair reminded her of Pashtanian girls, but her eyes were the delicate greenish grey of her father.
“Can anyone learn the magic?” she blurted.
The Maj turned to her slowly, smiling. “You have an interest, my girl?
“Tamora.” Her Uncle frowned. “Not tonight, and not any other night, for that matter.”
Tamora pressed her lips together. The Maj, like a kindly old grandfather, continued to gaze at her. “We have a test,” he said. “All children who display talent are invited to be tested. I say all children but it is sadly forbidden, in our country, for girls or women to study the Himaj, or the magic as you call it.”
“But I’m not from this country and I’m not even from alien earth!”
“Tamora!” her uncle warned.
The Maj lifted a hand and smilingly silenced her Uncle. “There is no treasure so great,” he said, “as the curiosity of youth.”
Tamora’s Uncle, a broad shouldered man with large hands, sighed impatiently. “Your holiness, we have discussed all the matters I had hoped to. You are most gracious. If I momentarily leave you with Tamora, I’m sure she would delighted.”
“By all means, Mr. Flewelyn.”
Tamora’s Uncle stood and politely nodded. He glanced at Tamora, as if in warning, then left the dining room. One of the two servants, still in the room, quickly approached the table and cleared her Uncle’s place.
“Now, my girl,” said the Maji, “the test. Would you like to try?”
“If it won’t get you in trouble?”
“Because I’m a girl.”
The Maji smiled broadly. “You are not a Pashtanian girl.”
“How does it work?”
“Like this,” said the Maji. He took a stick from his pocket and began to trace on the white linen tablecloth between them. Where it traced, a glowing blue line appeared, transparent and seemingly hovering just above the table-cloth. He drew concentric circles, until their were twenty-one of them, and the colors changed, each circle larger than the other, like the colors of the rainbow.
“Beautiful,” she said.
“You may think of it as a game.” He touched the smallest circle with the tip of his stick and doorways opened from one circle to the next, along with dead-ends. She looked at a puzzle, and it looked very simple to her. “And now, my girl,” he said, “you need only touch the innermost circle with the tip of your finger, and find your way out.”
Tamora glanced at the Maji, then at the remaining servant, a young man her own age. Was it really that simple, she thought to herself. Was this a trick? Was he trying to humiliate her? She lifted her finger over the center-most circle and touched. The table seemed to spin out from under her. The Maji and the young man blurred as though they had been painted and splashed with color. The walls of the room unfolded, revealing a sky and the greenish-blue surface of an ocean beneath her. She wanted to scream, to cry out for help, but she immediately stopped herself. She didn’t fall. She floated, or she thought she did. She saw a green door and a red one, attached to nothing.
Her mind cleared. She saw with clarity. She let herself fall into the waves and found herself in the next circle. When she fell through the surface of the water, she rose upward into a grassy field in a broad valley. A warm wind blew across evergreens. A laundry line with three dresses and a shirt snapped in the sunny wind. Each of the skirt was as different pattern and color. Yes, I understand this puzzle too, she thought to herself, and took the muslin skirt from the line and wrapped it around her waist. Snow gathered around her feet, and she traveled through this strange world of puzzles until she opened the final door and sat, once again, before the Maji.
He peered at her with barely concealed astonishment.
“My dear,” he said, sitting straight and turning his head just a little to one side, “my dear.”
“Did I pass?”
“My dear,” his eyes hardened, “You must tell no one. You will speak to no one. You will only say that I have agreed, because you’re Uncle is a guest in our country, to teach some few small tricks. But I will teach you far more. Do you understand?’
The Maji leaned back in his seat. The wood of the chair creaked. “Only one other student, in my lifetime, has also accomplished the feat of solving the 21 puzzles. One need only solve half so many. He is only a little older than you. He is already powerful, but still has much to learn. I will treat your gift like a priceless possession, but you must understand your place in my country. I will treat you as my society would expect me to treat you.”
“Why, like a girl, my dear – a young woman – of age and ready to bear a man’s seed.”
Tamora blushed furiously. She wondered about the servant who had surely seen and heard their conversation, but she assumed this must have occurred to the Maji. The door opened and Tamora’s Uncle stepped in, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt and jacket. “Thank you, your holiness. And I thank you for indulging my niece. I hope her forwardness has not offended you.”
The Maji graciously smiled. “She has a little talent. I will teach the girl some small tricks for as long as she remains in our country.”
“As you wish, your holiness.”
“Hold out your hand, my dear girl,” said the Maji. “I will teach you your first little trick.”
Tamora glanced at her Uncle, afraid to show any kind of satisfaction, and held out her hand. The Maji took his stick, touched the palm and drew something like a tattoo. quickly absorbed into her skin. It tingled sharply and she jumped, staring at it. The tingle moved up her arm. The feeling in her muscles was pleasurable. She opened her mouth in surprise and heartbeat quickened. The two men watched her, her Uncle the more curious and uncertain.
The tingling moved into her chest. She inhaled and arched. Her head fell back as the sensation moved to her nipples. She grabbed the side of the chair and the edge of the table with the other hand. Her breathing quickened. Her nipples felt as though they stretched, as though something were pulling and sucking them. The tingling moved downward into her abdomen. Her clit began to harden, tighten and burn as though something tugged and sucked there too.
“It is a most beautiful sight, is it not?” said the Maji.
“Quite beautiful,” said her Uncle with barely veiled satisfaction.
She fought to hide the confusion. She knew the men were staring at her. Her eyes were wide with surprise, then her eyebrows lifted and she helplessly parted her legs when something pushed for the first time in her life, slowly parted divide hidden there, and slid upward into her with a thickness and length that didn’t stop until she groaned and panted.
Her Uncle lifted a teacup to his lips. He sipped as he watched his niece orgasm, mouth open, staring blankly ahead, legs lifted and spread wide. She threw her head back and the chair scraped the floor with each sharp spasm.
“A girl is never so beautiful,” said the Maji.
“She is quite beautiful,” said Tamora’s Uncle, as they listened to her high-pitched gasps. “and so was her mother, though she is even more so.”
“I never tire of witnessing a girl in orgasm.”
She exhaled. She let go of the chair and table and lowered her legs. Her nipples showed plainly through her blouse.
“What is this trick?” her Uncle asked.
“Ah,” answered the Maji, “it is one of the oldest. It was a tradition, and still is in some parts of our country, that when a man proposes to a girl and young woman, that her fitness to receive his seed and readiness to please and bear for him be ascertained. This spell reveals all these things. You niece is ready to receive a man’s seed. Her thighs and breasts will serve her husband well. You see how she sits. She still feels the spell inside her as though it were a man’s length.”
“Now, maybe, you understand your place,” said her Uncle.
Tamora was hot with shame. Her Uncle! “May I be excused.” Her voice was unsteady.
“No,” her Uncle answered, vindictively. “Now that you’re finally behaving yourself, the Maji might enjoy the site of your tits.”
At first Tamora hid from her Uncle. She swore she would never speak to the Maji. The boy, the young man, the servant, had seen her orgasm. Now when he visited her room, bringing new sheets for her bed, new towels for her bedroom, and freshly washed clothes, his presence felt different. She felt embarrassed, shy and even submissive, and that infuriated her most of all. She was to be taken, her nipples claimed, and her slim belly filled by the liquor of men as they enjoyed and shaped the world around her. She refused. When her Uncle came to her room a week later, telling her that he was visiting the Maji and that she had been invited, she surprised him by defiantly accepting the invitation.