Four writers for the price of one blog
My dear and esteemed Monseigneur Lamot,
I write to you having witnessed the most peculiar episode. I will describe it. Some three days prior to writing this letter we reached one of the larger villages that was, perhaps, half a days journey, by foot, from my present location. After acquiring a room at the only Inn available, having partaken in the typical meal of fish, greens, fruits and spirits, I released the guides and translators. The guides, as per their usual habit, wasted no time in finding where the local fare might be sampled. They have an unerring nose in all matters navigation. As I’ve written before, there is nothing here that we might call a brothel, but don’t be fooled into assuming that men don’t enjoy the purchase or women the profit. I shall not be surprised but that the descendants of my guides shall bless the string of villages, from start to finish, wherein we have slumbered.
I leave to them their coarse affairs.
But you ask as to the women here. I can tell you that they are, without exception, thinner than our own and for this reason less appealing. They may be said to be fitter, bolder and stronger. I ascribe this unfortunate condition to a more primitive culture. The girls and women are not afforded the same benefits of leisure that we bestow upon our own. Men and women must work alike in house and field. But neither are they unattractive—for God made no woman unattractive to men. Their hair is long and, to a woman, an auburn black. Their eyes are just as dark and bewitching. There is an undeniable appeal in the firmness of their physiques such that even a mother of many years may possess the allurements of a girl. I confess I have seen girls come in rich with the scent of soil, their dark hair wet and wild with rain, the linen of their colorful clothes clinging to their breasts and thighs, and have utterly forgotten that women might exist in any other quarter of the earth.
But this reminds of the most peculiar event with which I began this letter.
As is my habit, I took my evening’s pererration shortly after spirits. There was an astonishing temple-like structure which I had only partially glimpsed upon first arriving. I wished to more closely examine it, assuming it belonged to, perhaps, the local warlord, nobility or official. Night had already settled into the narrow passages and alleyways. They were feebly lit by firelight cast from windows and doorways. I eventually found my way to an ornate wooden wall which prevented me from seeing anything other than the florid and picturesque rooftop beyond. The wall was astonishing and impractical for any defensive purpose. It was, as I say, constructed of a polished wood—rich and red; and the top was crenelated, though not like the turrets of our own fastholds. The crenelations were each aslant and stylized. More curiously, in each section of the wall there was an elaborately carved intaglios—a flower. Petals radiated outward from a most curious construction. Though I am not intimately acquainted with a woman’s anatomy, I should think the flower’s center was designed with a striking resemblance. Where the clitoris might be, or a flower’s stigma, was a rounded bulb that stood a finger’s length, and a little more, from the surface. Beneath it, such as might resemble a woman’s vulva, was an exquisitely carved semi-circular peep-hole. And at the tip of each petal was a little brass ring.
Now as if this alone were not puzzling enough, what thoroughly baffled me was that above each flower was a single larg ring and below, at ground level, two more. The rings were placed like the points of a triangle with the flower in the middle.
I did not grasp the purpose until I had walked some dozens of yards along and around the enclosed grounds. I stumbled upon a young woman only recently come to maturity. She was wiry and strong. Her olive skin glistened with sweat, made limpid by the appearance of the moon. She was growling, like a tied animal, and clearly attempting to free herself. Her arms had obviously been tied at the small of her back then lifted behind her and tied to the ring above the flower. They were straight; and in this manner she was forced to bend over. Her legs were also straight. Her ankles were fastened and held widely apart by the two rings at ground level. Her long dark hair was flung over her slender features, her lips were parted in the shadow of her hair, and her youthful eyes gleamed in the moonlight.
She spoke, almost like a grunt or snarl, but was still unaware of me.
Her face was turned to the stones beneath and all her effort seemed directed at freeing her wrists. Her fingers struggled ineffectually at the rope. She breathed as though she had already struggled for some hours. Most peculiar of all: Leather straps at her hips, tied to the small rings at the tip of each petal, fastened her opened thighs tightly against the flower behind behind her. I at once remembered the bulb at each flower’s center, the design, and surmised that one just like it must penetrate her bowels and that the strips secured her thereon. I also surmised that her sex must be open to the peep-hole immediately beneath.
A placard or sign hung from the ring to which her wrists were fastened, but I couldn’t read it.
She chanced to look up. Her eyes widened at once and she inhaled sharply. She hadn’t been expecting to see anyone, least of all a complete stranger. She immediately spoke to me. Her speech was quick and breathless but I could understand none of it. She spoke again, louder, in that way when we think that greater force and volume will convey our meaning.
Then she gasped sharply, her body seeming to react as if she had been touched, but unable to move. She froze. She looked at me, looked into my eyes, and began to pant, eyes wide and wild. Her mouth was opening gradually as if something were distressing her, and it then occurred to me that there must be someone concealed by the wall, someone behind her. The girl suddenly emitted a guttural groan and her eyes lost focus. Had something given way? She was not a large girl, but slender. Had something forcefully opened and entered her? Her guttural growl gave way to a clipped cry and I saw her eyes roll under their lids.
When her pupils became visible again, the struggle seemed to have gone out of her. Her gaze, still meeting mine, struck me as possessing the air of defeat or perhaps acceptance. They were no longer wide with what could only be construed as fear or desperation. She was still frozen. She emitted a long, gravelly moan as if whatever had invaded her, as of yet utterly concealed by the wall, were slowly withdrawing, then came another short, clipped cry and her pupils half rolled under her eyelids, this time remaining there as this was repeated again and again.
Do not think me an utter fool.
I understood what was happening to her. I surmised by the way she tried to widen her fastened ankles, by the way her mouth opened and her lips thrust forward, that the girth and size of the thing that filled her from behind had driven out any other thought—any thought that did not, first and foremost, acquiesce to the ownership of the thing inside her. Her grunts and cries came rhythmically. I saw her own moisture slip down both her thighs—clear beads that collected, then rolled over her ankles and beneath the arches of her feet.
The devil himself, Satan, I confess and tell you in the strictest confidence, whispered in my ear. He urged me then and there, to press my advantage into her mouth. I shall, even upon my deathbed, be comforted that I did not—and also regret that I did not. Such an occasion would have sufficed for a lifetime of lust. I might have been surfeited.
The rhythm of the young woman’s cries hastened in time with her persecutor’s hastening She was helpless and could prevent none of it—could not move one iota and so avoid the denouement. She no longer looked at me but seemed to gaze inward—lost, or forced to submit, to an inward reverie. Her cries had changed in pitch. Her fingers no longer struggled. The were spread like little wings behind her. Her toes dug into the stones and her heels were lifted from the ground. She could not move, or only insofar as she could lift her head and arch her back as though to finally submit to and receive the content of her persecutor’s desires.
She finally stiffened and shook in a paroxysm of cries, contorted muscle, agony and rapture. Her release and her tormentor’s spattered the earth between her immobile ankles. Her thighs and ankles ran and I was astonished to see milk run from her small breasts. When at last it had ended, and she hung listlessly from the ring which bound her wrists, head hung and hair gently swaying with her breath, she dripped from both her thighs and breasts.
Condemn me that I did not sooner attempt to rescue her.
Condemn me that I knowingly watched and took a shameful pleasure in her deflowering—but when I returned with a guide and translator, the girl was gone. The bulb was still damp and rich with the tang of her smell. The earth that had been between her thighs glistened. The placard was gone.
And so I admit that though I am not a fool, I also am not a libertine. My experience is of a limited and theoretical kind. And so my dear Monseigneur Lamot I ask if you, in your travels, have ever beheld such a ritual. It is a tale I cannot fathom or finish. I grasp neither its purpose nor meaning.
Padre Guilliame Elizondo
Copyright 2015 William Crimson | October 22nd 2015