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I awoke to strangeness: warm bodies, girlish whispers, giggles and
very dim gray light. The warmth touching me and the sounds seemed only a
continuation of what had lulled me to sleep, but the light surprised me:
clearly it derived from no candle. It originated beyond the bed cave
aperture, whose curtain had been pulled back.
Naked girls were all around me. A spicy-smelling head lay relaxed on
each of my shoulders. I realized that their owners' touches on chest and
arms was the agency that awakened me. Other owners of long hair were
crawling toward me from the corridor opening. Girls from their voices, or
perhaps young boys -- but no, the silhouette against the light between an
approaching pair of legs lacked the fleshy parts that would certainly have
dangled from any boy.
The heads on my shoulders rose higher and kissed me on either cheek,
then drew back hastily, issuing grunts of displeasure. Small hands came
to my cheeks and rubbed the morning bristles in a way that showed real
curiosity. Piping voices commented on the results.
I wondered what they were saying and called for Rejik. Sudden silence
greeted my words, so I raised up on my elbows to find him. What I found,
peering between the watching girls, was empty cushions where he and --
Tuanti? -- had lain entangled when I fell asleep.
"Where is Rejik?" I asked my attentive audience.
Several of them spoke at once, a soprano trilling, causing me to study
them closely. At least six were in the room on the bedding, plus two more
heads visible in the opening. The two at my sides, also risen, were
illuminated clearly. I couldn't see a pubic hair anywhere except between
my own legs. These were very young girls!
Naked as newborns were we all, aside from my wristwatch. I raised
higher, looking for a sheet to cover myself from these innocent youths,
but the blankets of last night were weighted down by girls.
"Where is Melki?" I asked next.
Again the chirps rose in response. As they spoke a ceramic basin came
through the opening and reached me by relay of the girls in between.
Hands at my back and voices in my ears urged me to rise to a replay of
last night's preliminary.
I was given a hand bath. Apparently I needed a lot more cleansing in
the genital area. Many pairs of hands laved me there, but when my dick
was half hard they stopped and raised the basin before me unmistakably.
It had been several hours and my bladder was full. All the heads bent
close to observe the male method while two or three hands guided the flow.
I wondered if they would know to shake out the last drops. I still
wonder. Just as I was finishing, the girl on the right, who had provided
most of the guidance, lifted it, bent her head and nearly swallowed it
whole!
"Ah, dear --" But it was too late, of course. My last involuntary
squirt went down her throat. She was a game kid, even if she wasn't
twelve years old. She consumed what I gave her without faltering. Her
lips and tongue massaged me. It was a unique experience: pissing in a
kid's mouth. I must be a perverted bastard indeed; I've never known
anything more arousing. My dick was hard as a rock in five seconds and
getting ready to offer her a thicker drink.
So of course she released me. I caught her by the upper arms and fell
backward, drawing her on top of me. She seemed light as a feather. I
could smell my urine on her breath as I kissed her, sucking her tongue
into my mouth. My hands slid down her body, meaning to lift cunt over
dick, but ran into her ass much too soon. Indeed this was a mere child!
But she returned my kisses, her long hair falling around our faces.
Another mouth had swallowed my other head by this time and many soft
bodies had descended gently upon me, hands stroking me firmly enough not
to tickle. Other faces pushed close. A hot tongue probed my ear. But I
didn't want to lose the one who'd swallowed my piss.
There was enough light to see her black eyes, which had opened upon
mine. "What's your name?" I asked.
Of course she didn't answer. I brought my hand up between us and laid
it on her chest. "Who are you?" I said, making my voice intense.
She mumbled something but the other girls, those with free tongues,
were chattering. I raised my head a bit and turned an ear nearly into her
mouth. "Who are you?"
"Estri," she said distinctly.
"Estri? You are Estri?"
"Estri." She added something else incomprehensible.
To prove my perversion -- I think I've always wanted to do this -- my
hands forced her to a sitting position on my chest, bringing her legs up
to enclose my ears, heedless of other girls who must scramble aside. Her
vagina had a slight odor of urine. I'd have bet any amount her menses had
never flowed. I licked her clit a few times. Already a lump, it
immediately hardened perceptibly. Then I verified what I had expected.
Indeed she was yet a virgin! I wondered why: certainly not from lack of
interest!
I know the younger the clit the more sensitive. I barely let my
tongue flutter against it, returning often to probe hymen and anus. She
shivered when I first touched the latter, so I put in a finger, then
another. When her sphincter relaxed, the third went in. By this time the
entire small body was a-quiver.
I concentrated so completely on Estri's pleasure that my own orgasm
came as a surprise. It was hardly complete before the girl's hands came
between her legs, cupped my chin and forced my terrible tongue to release
her. Then she slid back, bent over me, cupped my cheeks in both hands,
tender as only a grateful woman can be, and kissed me lingeringly, her
soft mouth open and receptive.
Something strange then: a significantly heavier weight departed from
my hips and legs. Reluctantly I disengaged from Estri and rose up on an
elbow. Young girls pressed in from both sides, but sitting at my feet
with her back to the light was an adult with very long black hair, wearing
a gray robe that spread out on the bedding around her. The face was
turned toward me, away from the light, and thus fully shadowed.
Presumably this was the big mother.
I said hesitantly, "Moreti?"
The voice that answered was the alto of a mature woman. Surprisingly
it said, "I am one of her assistants, Mr. Stone."
I'm afraid my mouth fell open. The girls had fallen silent. The
woman chuckled at my expression.
With a gulp I said, "You, ah, have me at a disadvantage, madam."
She nodded gravely. "That is true, more than you know."
Her hand moved out from the shadow of her lap. I saw the glint of a
.45, pointed off to my left. She added, "I have your pistol in my hand
and your seed in my womb."
"My seed --" I drew a breath and tried to straighten my shoulders.
"Did you think one of these children had caught it? In her mouth,
perhaps? We don't allow that, Mr. Stone."
And how do you enforce it? I wondered. What I said was, "What <do>
you allow?"
"Anything and everything up to the moment the seed is spilled."
"And then?"
"Then it must be caught in a nubile vagina."
She had a distinctly British accent, what there was of it. "May I ask
your name, ma'am?"
"Does that matter to you, sir?"
"Yes, it does. Circumstances to the contrary notwithstanding, I
insist on knowing the owners of vaginas I inseminate."
"As you say, circumstances suggest otherwise."
"On the contrary: as <you> say, I failed to realize that it was a
vagina."
She cocked her head. "An interesting point, Mr. Stone. But how could
you fail so?"
"I was concentrating upon Estri's pleasure."
"I know that." She looked at the girl, still clinging to my shoulder.
"And I'll confess my astonishment. You have even learned her name! But
are you aware that Estri is but eleven years of age and has never known a
man?"
"I suspected the age and knew she was virgin, but I cannot believe
she's never known a man -- or at least a boy."
"You knew she was virgin? How, may I ask?"
"The tongue is a sensitive instrument, ma'am."
"Yes, it is, but that is not the cause of my astonishment. I'm given
to understand that your society is very like the British. Do you not
enforce an insurmountable taboo against sexual knowledge of unripe
children?"
"A taboo, yes; insurmountable, no. At least not in exotic
circumstances such as these." I waved at the rapt if uncomprehending
audience. "What man could resist?"
"That is their purpose." She smiled at the girls but only for a
moment. She turned back to me and said, "My name best translates into
English as Constance. You may call me Constance McKinney."
"Thank you, Miss McKinney. Are you Scottish, then?"
"No, Mr. Stone, although my late husband was."
"I'm sorry."
"So am I. He was a rare breed of man in any nationality." She
sighed. "Enough. We are now introduced, you better than I, but that is
the way of a man with a maid, as the English say. If you will descend
from this bed chamber, I shall bring you to breakfast and the talk that
you requested with our dominatrix. Wouldn't you like that, Mr. Stone?"
"Yes, indeed, Miss -- Mrs. McKinney. But, ah, shouldn't I dress
first?"
She studied me. "Why don't you have a holster for this pistol?"
"I seldom carry one."
"Is that wise in this country?"
"This is my first trip off the base. By the way, what happened to my
boy, Rejik?"
"He's eating with Tuanti and Melki just now. Very well. Put on your
britches. You'll need its belt to hold your weapon, won't you?"
"You'll return it?"
She grunted. "We are women here, sir. Women do not kill. But I
understand that you'll feel much more comfortable with it near to hand."
I took a small gamble and said, "I feel much more comfortable, as you
put it, when no weapon is required. The boy persuaded me to bring it. I
think now he meant, in the way of boys, to impress you with its power. Do
you have another robe, ma'am?"
Mutely she extended the pistol. I released the safety and let the
hammer down to the .45's half cock position. Then I saw her hand
re-extended, containing my wallet. I took it, commenting dryly, "I had
wondered how you learned my surname."
"You should count the money," she advised blandly. I did quickly
verify that the ID cards were still present before returning wallet and
pistol to my britches.
She had cocked her head. "Would you truly be comfortable among
strange women in only a robe, Mr. Stone?"
"You speak of comfort. With my seed in your womb, as you said, I'd be
more comfortable with my given name in your mouth."
She grunted. "How precious!"
"In other words, Constance, call me 'Harry.'"
"Copulation creates familiarity." She raised an eyebrow. "Is that
your thesis?"
"Cart before the horse, eh?" I shook my head. "Either we're friends,
Constance, or you're guilty of rape by misdirection."
"Surely not! I merely caught your seed, which you were willing to
cast away most profligately. Are you complaining, Harry?"
I had already opened my mouth to argue further but grinned instead.
"No. Not a word."
She smiled and took up the end of a blanket. "Here. Wrap in this and
let's go meet the mistress of this place."
The light was stronger when we let ourselves down into the corridor.
Her deft hands helped me position the blanket, tucking its corners into
the folds. It made a respectable robe.
I looked back at the several girls' faces regarding us solemnly from
the aperture. "Will they fool with my equipment?"
She grinned. "The only equipment of yours that interests them is
coming with us."
In the better light I saw a mature native woman who resembled Moreti
except for smoother skin around the dark eyes. Her plain gray robe,
probably only another blanket, was pulled tight about her face. Beyond
that I could see only the hand holding it closed and bare feet beneath it.
I asked, "What is the meaning of your word, <vorsh>?"
Her eyebrows rose. "How was it used?"
"Rejik wanted to have it when he met your girls last night."
"I see." She smiled. "It could be translated as strength or
prestige."
"As I thought. Constance, it occurs to me that I have seen much less
of you than any other bearer of my seed."
"Of course," she agreed. Her eyes twinkled. "Is that in the nature
of a request?"
I stopped and glanced around. We had passed a bend in the corridor.
No one else was visible. I spread my arms toward her. "Will you kiss me
at least?"
She studied me curiously. "Harry, a kiss means a great deal to the
Meshir."
I nodded. "So I learned last night."
"What did you learn?"
"That kisses on the backs of the hands are exchanged only between
husband and wife."
"Rejik told you that?"
"Yes, and Melki reacted appropriately."
"You kissed the back of her hand? Oh, yes; I recall, it's a Western
custom -- though surely not for mere girls!"
"I did it teasingly, of course. But this is interesting! Touching
the lips is very important, you say, but not the sexual organs?"
"The lips express love, Harry."
"But not the sexual organs?"
"Mere lust. Anyone may experience lust, implying no commitment."
"I see. I think."
"A woman can experience it even without acquiescence. Did Melki kiss
your hand in return?"
I thought about it. "If she had done so, what then?"
She chuckled. "I see that she did. I may have trouble with that
one."
I of course said nothing about Estri's tender kiss. If a kiss on the
hand implies marriage, how much more serious is one upon the lips? Two!
She had kissed <me> after her orgasm.
The direction of our travel was away from the bright light. Soon we
emerged into the same large cavern that I had crossed on my arrival. The
sheet of flame still hissed above the rise in its center. A berobed
Moreti sat cross-legged, I assumed, on a carpet spread to one side. A
large silver tray lay before her, containing cups, a coffee pot, and
platters of sliced bread. Two other women, one with gray hair peeking
from her cowl, sat on either side. Eight pubescent girls, quite naked,
stood further to each side, hands crossed behind their backs, clearly
awaiting orders.
My guide waited beside me, watching me survey the entire cavern. I
asked, "Where are your men, Constance?"
Her mobile eyebrow arched higher. "In paraphrase: if you were the
only man in these caverns, in fact the only one in these mountains, what
then?"
"You mean, would I run amok?"
"And leave your seed in all of us?"
"You put it as a question. Why is it I think <that's> what you truly
want?"
Her eyes twinkled. "Perhaps because it is."
I shook my head. "Do you understand the expression, 'pulling his
leg?'"
She laughed. "Come. Our mistress is anxious to interrogate you."
"Constance, that doesn't sound friendly."
"Harry, I mean this most sincerely: if you can find a way for us to
exhibit greater friendship, please advise me immediately."
"I already have."
She stared, then nodded. "Your invitation to kiss. I am trying to
protect you. Wait until you understand what it means."
"Very well." I extended my hand toward the group waiting on the
carpet. "After you."
We advanced upon the three women and settled cross-legged before them.
I said politely to Moreti, "Good morning."
Constance barked a short phrase, doubtlessly the translation of my
greeting, and Moreti replied with a question. Constance spoke to me.
"Moreti asks if our hospitality has been adequate."
I had to smile. "Tell her that until last night I had only <heard> of
such hospitality!"
After an exchange with Moreti, Constance snapped, "Where did you hear
of it?" -- clearly concerned that I might've heard about the Meshir.
I shrugged. "You may not be familiar with the American expression,
'Southern hospitality.' Long ago the southern part of my country
practiced slavery. When a northern trader visited a southern slave
holder, the trader was furnished a female slave to warm his bed."
Moreti responded that the custom was far older in her land. I
retorted that it had largely died out in mine, in fact was still practiced
only among the very rich and powerful. This led to a discussion of the
American civil war. It turned out that Moreti, or she and Constance
together, knew more about it than I did. I wonder how!
None of the other women and girls was introduced.
Constance broke a piece of bread, smeared it with a meaty sauce and
placed it in my hand. She poured me a cup of steaming greenish liquid,
which I sipped out of thirst and politeness. It certainly wasn't coffee.
Some kind of tea, I guess. With a heavy load of sugar it might've been
half way palatable.
Only Moreti and I spoke, Constance interpreting. When I had eaten a
clutch of the bread and burped ostentatiously as the others, Moreti's
black eyes stared into mine and she said, "Tell us why you have chosen to
visit us."
I was confident she already had the story from Rejik but launched into
the tale of the sudden rainstorm. She promptly interrupted, "Why were you
driving on the 'Tweenrivers Road?" -- which is exactly how Constance named
it.
"I was returning to my quarters in the American compound at Fellavi."
"That is a military compound, is it not?"
"It is."
"But your clothing is not a military uniform."
All four women and eight children regarded me curiously. I felt a
chill despite the warm air and the warm cup in my hand. Captain Smith had
warned us how quickly and permanently we might be snatched over the Soviet
border, only fifty miles away, if the Russians learned we were here.
Constance broke the silence. "Do you sometimes leave your camp in
mufti?"
I grinned with feigned embarrassment. "We aren't supposed to."
She translated and Moreti grinned in return. "How long will it be
before you return to America?"
"Not very long. A few weeks."
Moreti's eyebrows rose. She exchanged glances with her two advisors
then made a short speech to Constance.
Who said to me, "Your joining us for breakfast, Mr. Stone, has been a
pleasure, but we must leave you now. Please remain and eat your fill.
Mrs. McKinney will serve you as you wish and answer all your questions
about us."
While Constance was translating, the three older women got smoothly to
their feet, not at all discomfited by long-crossed legs, and walked out of
the cavern, deeper into the mountain. When I attempted to rise as
courtesy demanded, Constance motioned for me to keep my seat. Seven of
the eight girls followed the women. One remained, standing at parade
rest, watching me.
I stared at Constance. She smiled slightly. "Well?"
"Well what?"
"What's your first question?"
I knew what she expected, of course. What I asked was, "What do you
have under that robe?"
Her eyebrows rose. "Only my body."
"Prove it."
"Harry, surely you have more important questions than <that>!"
"More important? I have lots of questions, yes, but the genetic
quality of my descendants is quite important to me."
Her lip curled but her eyes twinkled, an interesting combination.
Exasperation plus titillation? She rose up, slipping free of her robe in
the process, and stood solemnly before me: a shapely brown woman of
medium height and weight, with large dark nipples. Her breasts and belly
were decorated with the stretch marks of motherhood. Her pubic triangle
was lushly black, covering most of her lower belly. Her arms and legs
were adorned with thin curly hair. She raised hands to head, perhaps
consciously exhibiting thick tufts in her armpits, and spun slowly through
360 degrees.
I got to my feet, discarded the blanket and took her into my arms.
She submitted readily when she understood that I would press cheek to
cheek, not lip to lip. Her arms came down to hold me but I restrained one
of them in the elevated position long enough to duck my face into the
hairy armpit. She had no detectable odor until then. The armpit was
musky, not at all unpleasant, but not the meaty odor I remembered from
Florrie and a few other women. I recognized a subset of the common
vaginal aroma. Of course I had to put my tongue into this fragrant nest.
She twitched. "That tickles, Harry." Simultaneously with the protest
her hand fell to my burgeoning erection.
"Does it?" I asked, licking her again.
"Are all men alike?" she mused, sighing oddly, still twitching.
I desisted long enough to answer, "No more than all women."
"My husband discovered this, too."
Interesting. Having a hairy armpit licked is stimulating? Certainly
the licking is!
She could have easily broken away. Instead she kissed the side of my
neck. We sank upon the rumpled carpets and took each other in the
time-honored way, which I stubbornly maintain is still the most enjoyable.
It had hardly been an hour since I inseminated this same vagina, which
perhaps improved my stamina for this second trial. In any case I lasted
till her orgasm fetched mine -- and beyond, until her characteristic stiff
jerks eased. Women are as delightfully different in the way orgasm
affects them as they are in all other attributes.
We totally ignored the watching girl.
The carpets were poor padding. Though she never complained, I rolled
off her soon as I recovered my senses and propped head on elbow to study
her. As her breathing eased, she smiled at me. "Did that answer your
first question, Harry?"
"Eloquently."
"Then let's have the second."
"Very well, madam. If a kiss to the hand pertains to marriage, what
does one on the neck signify?"
"Oh, Harry! I apologize for that. My late husband loved to lick me
just that way. I forgot myself."
"No apology is required. Whatever it means to you, to me it means
only that you are pleased with me, which I'm very glad to know and hope to
learn again."
She smiled. "It's true. I <am> pleased with you! ... Except for
your stubborn refusal to play the game Moreti expects."
I had to grin. "Isn't it always a major mistake to play as the
opponent expects?"
"I suppose it is. But Moreti and I are not your opponents."
"What is it you want me to ask, Constance?"
She chuckled. "You can be <most> exasperating, can't you?"
"Can I? I'm sorry. All right, let's play. What are you doing here?"
"Here? You mean, besides recovering from a most thorough poking?"
"Let me put it more precisely. What is the economy of this place?
How can a relatively primitive organization of women exist inside a
mountain without men?"
"'Relatively primitive,'" she repeated as if tasting the words. She
nodded. "With your background I suppose that's fair."
She rose to a squat, looking askance at me. "Excuse me while I wet my
throat. This may take a while. Will you have more <haoma>, Harry?"
"<Haoma> is the tea? Do you have any sugar for it?"
"We have sugar." While pouring a cup she snapped an order to the
waiting girl, who left the cavern at a trot. She added with a grin,
"Though adulterating <haoma> endangers your soul."
"A sacred drink?"
"Yes. And that tells me how to answer you, Harry."
I studied her. "All this has to do with religion, I take it -- but
not Islam."
She grunted. "Indeed not Islam! -- though we owe our continued
existence in large part to Islam's treatment of women."
"Then what is the name of your religion?"
She stared at me. "The name of our religion has been lost -- hidden,
actually -- for more than two thousand years. It is now forbidden to be
spoken. But I can tell you the name of our god: Ahriman. Have you heard
it?"
"I don't think so."
She nodded. "I suppose not. Well, then, have you heard the name,
Zoroaster? You may know it as 'Zarathustra.'"
I shrugged. "I was required to read <Thus Spake Zarathustra>, but as
to who he was, Nietzsche only left an impression of wisdom."
She shook her head. "You Westerners! You believe that nothing
important happened east of Jerusalem."
I had to nod. "That's what we're taught. But I'm willing to listen."
"Then let me tell you of one of the great ironies of religious
history." She took a sip of her tea and began to speak at some length. A
man named Zoroaster, circa 600 BC, affected the existing Persian religion
as drastically as Muhammad later affected Zoroastrianism: that is,
Zoroaster supplanted the old polytheistic religion with a duotheism.
Constance's "great irony" was that Zoroaster made Ahriman, the most fun
loving of the existing pantheon, incidentally the patron god of whores,
into the great devil of his new creed, while elevating one Ahura Mazda, a
boring fellow noted mainly for righteousness, into the "Wise Lord,"
representing all that was good. Presumably he chose Ahriman as devil in
order to impact daily life least. Transforming into sinners all unchaste
women and into sin all sexual adventure outside priest-blessed marriage
may have been unanticipated side-effects, but they proved to be compelling
ideas, going on after Zoroaster to permeate all civilization west of
China.
The serving girl returned with a bowl of granulated sugar and spooned
it liberally into my teacup: a definite improvement.
I've long concluded that religious discussions in general are a
monumental waste of time but have to admit that they can shed light on how
and why our culture adopted its rules. This "duotheism" struck a chord.
I cocked an eyebrow at her. "I understand the Christian religion has
the same idea of a good god and his evil opponent. Presumably so does
Judaism, where it came from."
She hastened to correct me. Oh, no, polarized duotheism was not
independently invented! The Jews believed originally in a single benign
god, actually not such a bad fellow; he was given credit for disasters
only after the fact. They cribbed their idea of <the> devil, God's great
opponent, from Zoroaster via the Babylonians. Evidence: the word <Satan>
and the concept do not appear in the Christian bible until the book of
Chronicles, written after the Jews studied Zoroastrianism during the
Babylonian exile. <Devil> in the singular does not appear at all in the
prechristian testament.
According to Constance, both the West and the Mideast owe most of
their sexual hangups, not to speak of the oppression of women, to the
coincidence that Ahriman was only the god of celebrities and other whores,
and to the appearance 2600 years ago of a single asshole with a sonorous
name, a persuasive tongue and for the problems of life a new explanation
that elevated him to fame and fortune. "The devil made me do it." What a
wonderful idea!
The point is that the Meshir, though admittedly reduced almost to a
monotheistic cult, are the last remaining adherents of the original
Persian creed. Their religion, plus a certain convenience they represent,
accounts for their failure to integrate into the surrounding society.
Thus they can conveniently offer a place of refuge for unwanted daughters,
a common product of the Moslem society, and perhaps more conveniently an
array of semen catchers for ungratified males. The surrounding society
pays for its convenience with food and other consumables. The male
children resulting from these exchanges must be handed over to the nearest
ayatollah at age five. Female children of course don't exist unless the
inquirer has a hard dick. And no man may reside in the Meshir caves
longer than two days at a time.
"What about Rejik?"
A loyal opportunist, that one! After four years with the ayatollah he
ran away to verify the rumored wonders of the American camp, but he never
forgot his early youth.
"Surely you're more than a handful of females here, Constance."
She regarded me warily. "Much more than a handful."
"Implying a significant traffic in food. Do you still maintain that I
am the only man here?"
Her eyes narrowed. "Harry, think back. I never said you were the
only man."
Indeed she had said <if> and changed the subject cutely! "I'm told
the locals have little affection for Americans. <Should> I have brought
my pistol?"
"This place is a warren, Harry. The locals, as you call them, never
enter here by the route you used. The doors for them are closer to their
homes."
"Huh! I'm surprised the local women tolerate you."
"The local women have nothing to say about it. The Moslems have
applied the full implications of Zoroaster's doctrine."
I looked around. "How long has that flame burned?"
"It was sacred to Ahriman before Zoroaster was born."
"Incredible that an earthquake hasn't snuffed it."
She grinned. "It's a <sacred> flame, Harry!"
"Do <you> believe that, Constance?"
She shrugged silently.
I studied her. "Let me put it another way. What is a bright woman,
fluent in English, obviously educated, doing in this ..."
"You were about to say, 'god-forsaken place?'"
"In this place with a long past but no future?"
She poured herself more tea. At last she looked up at me. "Our women
can offer a man more devotion than he finds at home, even among the
locals. It's especially true for outsiders. Over the centuries many have
departed here as brides. I was one such. My husband, Ahriman bless him,
chose me when I was thirteen years old, took me to his home and educated
me in his culture. Unfortunately, because of my dark skin his family
never accepted me. When he died, they took away my inheritance, including
my two children. I had offers and could have stayed there, but without my
husband I remembered happiness only here. So I returned."
She took a deep breath. Her dark eyes gleamed in the firelight.
"Harry, we need help."
I nodded. "That I don't doubt. What kind of help do you need?"
She sighed. "What we <don't> need is the shorter list!"
I studied her, thinking what this might entail. "How many mouths do
you feed here?"
She shrugged. "We have enough basic food: wheat, rice, beans,
mutton. What we need is vitamins, medicines, books --"
"Books! Is your language written?"
She smiled. "Yes, though the scratches would remind you of cuneiform.
What it is not is <published>! Books in Farsi, even in English, would
have to do. We also need a wireless and a wind-powered electrical
generator; I'm told you have such things for your remote receivers."
"'Remote receivers!' What do you know about them?"
"That you use them to listen to the wireless communications of your
enemies, probably to triangulate their signal sources."
"My god, you're technically trained, too?"
"No, but I lived fifteen years in England, Harry, and my husband was
enthusiastic about technology."
"Remarkable! I'd be surprised if one per-cent of Western women know
about triangulation of sources."
"<They> have men who know such things. <We> don't!"
"I guess not."
"Harry, what we need most is a conduit."
I shook my head. "If I understand you, it's incredible you don't have
one."
She nodded. "You're quite right; it <is> incredible! -- except the
reason is only too obvious. Until I returned here, none of us realized
what we were missing. When I understood how barren life is here, how
quickly our girls succumb to disease and complications of child birth, how
defenseless we are against the occasional abuser, I was horrified. But it
was always thus. No one had noticed.
"I was not the first to return, but I was the first from a deep
immersion in Western civilization. I began to explain what I had seen and
done. I made several journeys across these mountains myself. I taught
Rejik's mother to understand English. Together we have read and
translated much of the Encyclopedia Britannica for our elders,
particularly the history and customs of major Western nations."
"I was told Rejik's mother is dead."
"She is to him. That's how the ayatollah insists we treat our lads:
another cause of horror."
My wristwatch indicated 08:50. Constance saw the direction of my
gaze. "When must you leave?"
I grunted. "Fellavi expected me last night. They'll accept the rain
as an excuse if I don't dally here too long... Constance, it would be
very risky for an American to become your conduit, especially for any
significant volume of goods. You need an established merchant, one with
an import-export business and a light truck. Have you kept up with your
boys at all over the years? Isn't there one with some of Rejik's loyalty
in private business?"
She regarded me thoughtfully. "The mothers do ask their visitors.
I'll check around."
I spread my hands. "Though of course I'll help you." I grinned. "My
two candy bars are poor compensation for your hospitality."
"You owe us nothing, Harry."
"I <want> to help! I can order a few things for you, such as vitamins
or tools, especially books, but few medicines beyond aspirin. Or I can
deliver local messages, though I'd be very surprised if you can't find a
customer who feels some sympathy for you. Ask among the younger ones."
Her eyes flashed. "Then you'll return soon?"
"Would I be welcome?"
"Very welcome, Harry." She said something to the serving girl, who
trotted off again. Turning back to me, she explained. "I've sent her for
your clothing."
We lounged facing each other. She smiled. "Surely you have other
questions."
I asked if she meant me to understand that this series of caves had
been occupied for 2500 years. Who built them?
No one -- Ahriman, if you will. The caves are a natural formation
that men and women, mostly the latter, have modified extensively for three
millennia. According to the records, a nursery for priestesses of
Meshiru, the sister of Ahriman, had been sited here for the isolation, so
that girls delivered to the temples might be certifiable virgins, a bloody
maidenhead being Ahriman's preferred sacrifice. Until Zoroaster's success
the nursery enjoyed state support. Afterwards it literally went
underground while adherents to the old religion continued to maintain it.
The real disaster was the arrival of Islam, whose soldiers failed to
distinguish between Zoroastrians and Meshir. Their numbers had shrunk to
a few dozen when an ayatollah with some sympathy for the plight of women
was assigned locally. Learning that the surviving Meshir were at least as
opposed to Zoroaster as himself, he recognized an opportunity to relieve
certain pressures among his congregation and negotiated a <modus vivendi>.
It is still in effect after nearly a thousand years.
A small procession arrived from the interior caverns, bearing my
clothes, boots, pistol and flashlight. Rejik was in the lead, followed by
three girls, the last rather short. The boy was fully clothed, including
his coat. The three girls were naked. I thought I recognized Melki and
Tuanti, but the shorty ... She was probably Estri. I'd have to taste her
cunt to be sure; I'd hardly seen her face! Though it was a pretty one,
heart shaped with large flashing eyes that lowered demurely before mine.
As they neared, Constance spoke harshly to them. The three tallest
stopped short, two expressions changing to convey innocence. Melki
responded with a short speech. The shorty came around them straight to
me. She had the pistol and flashlight, born loosely on two hands held
level before her. She regarded the woman with an air of determination and
assurance and spoke in her high piping voice.
Constance chuckled wryly and said to me, "Do you remember this one?"
"Estri?"
When I said her name, the girl smiled blissfully, fell to her knees
and lowered her burden directly before my crossed legs. She immediately
leaned forward and kissed my bare knee before rocking back onto haunches
and crossed legs to sit quietly facing me, eyes downcast.
"I told you I'd have trouble with Melki," said Constance with a
sigh, "but this one bodes worse."
"A charming one," I remarked, smiling when the girl's eyes flashed up
to mine. She smiled in response before lowering her eyes again.
"Yes, charming." The sarcasm was evident. "<She> is not supposed to
be here! Incidentally, both she and Melki now claim to be your wives."
"Do they! Is bigamy legal in Iran?"
"I don't know if the shah permits it, though it's certainly practiced.
Harry, you can sit there in male smugness, flattered by the attention, but
I assure you these girls are quite serious. Estri has as strong a claim,
if you admit to kissing her mouth as she says, but your exchange of kisses
with Melki was witnessed."
"What is a husband's responsibility among the Meshir?"
She grunted. "There is no husband among the Meshir!"
"No rules at all?"
"Oh, the rules! He becomes wholly responsible for his wives -- and
wholly in control of them. Their continued existence is totally dependent
upon his good will and support. In effect they are his abject slaves.
Yet so strong is a Meshir girl's faith in men --" she smiled crookedly
"-- especially a blue-eyed one, that she will devote herself heart and
soul to the one who favors her with a kiss."
I shook my head. "You're right, it's flattering, but of course I'm in
no position to assume such responsibility. Will you explain it to them,
since we can't talk to each other?"
"It will crush their spirits, Harry. I can't believe you want that!"
"Well, I don't! But, Constance, you know the reality here."
"Yes," she admitted.
"Still, Melki has been very kind to me and Estri is a beautiful child.
I have no wish to hurt their feelings. Would gifts help?"
"They are both children. Of course gifts would help, particularly
ostentatious ones."
"Well, then, tell them I'll bring them gifts in a few days." I got to
my feet, taking my underclothes from Melki. "And warn me before I try to
kiss another one of you."
"That's what I've been doing," she retorted.
* * * *
The good Sergeant Downs was sympathetic to my difficulties with the
"drowned carburetor," a malady I'd fortunately heard about only last week,
and he promised to fix the heater. He'd been debating whether to notify
the colonel that I was overdue. Glad I won that debate!
A doubly married man, eh? There's a little PX here but a better one
in Tehran. Guess I'll soon ride the supply flight. A man has to take
care of his wives.
Keys: porn xxx sex
The Queen of Tease (2)
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said.
Clutching his trousers with h
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