The sky looks like it inhaled a concoction of ground roses and citrus epicarp, tinting the high wisps of cirrus clouds. Pebbles roll off the edge of the mountain wall like cum dribbling off the lusting bow of her lips. They are still further away from her. The possibility of a steep drop hangs like vulture around their necks. The cars skid away from the edge, going upward in cautious spirals, threatening to unwind their inner helices. The drivers eventually stop paying attention to how far low these forlorn granules must be falling in their raspy descent. They say it's the unusual thickness in the air here that brings such recklessness.
A scent of mint and chives permeates the air wisping away any light headedness. Like some invisible hand that leashes you below into some unnatural urge countering all fear. This is when you know she's close. Real even. The drivers' attention churn as if you can feel her thirsty hands reaching all the way from the peak, reaching down and sliding past their hips.
One driver in an orange van tilts sideways and pinches down his volume knob. The voice from a podcast trail off the van speakers, For ten years the priests have not found a new lady in waiting... A couple, in a blue sedan, are probing their bowls of caesar salad they packed in from a dim lit cottage restaurant below, the husband scooping up fork fulls toward his wife as she navigates around the bends. Their thighs start caving in and they can feel their nipples sore up a little like it just bit into the cool air. The woman folk these days come in as many numbers, in hopes of becoming chosen as her lady at the temple. However, the search continues.
A third driver, who looks like he is in his mid thirties, is steering a hatchback. The car trudges upward, seeming more reluctant than him in getting to the top, puffs of struggle coughing out the muffler like an old man who has long found solace in abandoning even simple wants of the skin like a hot flush of a shower. He seems to be not as affected by the heftyness of the atmosphere. A stuffed toy of the spaghetti monster hangs from his rear view mirror over the dashboard sprinkled with hair from his border collie. Amidst the hair, is an old and dusted book, The Varieties of Religious Experience - William James. Dusted, like it was bought out of an impulsive hope at an old bookshop and then never touched. The The pompously ornate like a twirling western mustachio. On the back of his car is a sticker that has annoyed many trailing vehicles, but looking mirthful as if written by a child,
God is dead.
Any person standing away at roughly a 20 miles radius, can see the mountain is shaped like one of her breasts, cars rivering around like the jagged edges of cloth of one of her many ceremonial lingerie, slowly wrapping and unwrapping. The dome of the temple stands like her nipple, tempted by the teeth like clouds hovering past it. The land is sparsely inked in green by Gingko trees. They are not uniformly spread throughout the mountain. Part of the problem is, the shape of groves keeps changing over the seasons. Instead, you see them forming lines like veiny tributaries across her breasts. They are kept this way by fires sparked by oddly purple shaped thunder that strikes during the monsoons. There is a constant argument over which breast of hers this one is. People bicker on online forums over the shape of the lines. There is something mystical about the fires. Some say the mountain is dynamic. One season Perun, the god of the sky, chooses to make it look like her right, by trimming it with his lightning bolts. And another season, the left. His cock has its own whims that no mortal can know.
A photographer has planted a tripod over an adjacent mountain to capture the movements of the vein shaped Gingko groves in time lapse. A secret project, except to a small team in national geographic. Right now, he is adjusting his binoculars by his tripod. Using them, he is sometimes able to see folks undressing by the Gingkos. One right now, is a woman with just a red striped flannel shirt on, crouched on her heels with just shoes and socks, choking on her friend's cock some distance away from their large tired truck parked on the shoulder of their road. The photographer doesn't know they are just friends. It's something about the air around them.
As the vehicles reach closer and closer, they can see the temple. They say the architect who built this observed her in at least 100 ceremonial fuckings. He wanted to capture exactly how her breasts look in such passionate moments. Red pinkish luster of lust. There were accusations he could have a finished it in 50 and the 50 others were just for his leisure. The slut didn't object.
~~~~
We are inside the temple now. All along the walls you can see engravings, paintings and sculptures. One wall shows a woman strung inside a blue bus upside down, two passengers having their way with her, one filling her mouth with pants bunched up at his ankles and another licking her cunt. Another wall shows a woman by a road, gem stones marking the little sky as stars. Another in a park, a long line of men ending at her. These are all myths passed down from the old scriptures to the new, different versions of truth before she became a deity is today. The slut.
The worshipers are scattered throughout the hall, their heads upwards, like kettles pouring murmurs and pointing fingers upward. There is a wooden fence separating the portion of the hall through which the worshipers entered. Four men stand on the other side of the fence. Their expressions are varied. The thick bandholz bearded, most muscular one, looks hungry, chest like hard buttes, a vein running along his hips beating blood, as if he has already decided he will lead the charge to get her cunt. Another of them is a middle aged man, father like in his composition with thin rimmed glasses. He has a gentle smile on his face. Some worshipers have mumbled between each other, alarmed by how large his cock, pointing.
"Do you think she can take it?"
"Please, they say the back of her throat will even choke on a ship, if it sails in labeled, cock."
The third is tattooed all over, a nose ring, wiry and bald. The fourth is our driver from the hatchback. He has a disinterested look on his face. Like he is waiting for a friend to finish their shopping at the convenience store, merely interested in the mirrors and himself. There are murmurs as to why someone with such a small penis was chosen. Like a nut among pine cones. No less, a disbeliever.
A gentle tremor starts rising from nowhere in particular. The attendees turn towards the largest wooden door, it's large bolts and handle jittering against their seats. The tremors start rising in intensity. Drum beats of welcome.
The large door, the size of a two trees, cuts open slowly and with it closing the low chatter of the worshipers into hushed silence. The other side of the door is a pool, turquoise as if they are pulled threads hardened from being separated from her teal blue iris. It seems to extend endlessly in the other direction she wishes her holes did. Some of the scriptures say the pool is as long as her sentences and verses, unwrapped downward from within the mountains towards her private halls. No one knows how the gondola she is stepping out of resists the force of the gravity.
The gondola sways gently as she steps off the hull, her one thigh tipping over the sandstone, and another pushing back the vessel behind gently. The vessel stays close to the shore. It looks alive, like the deeper portions of the water have no meaning without her.
A priestess in overflowing yellow with a steel staff a head taller than her leads the slut through the door. Her face has a serene beauty. By herself, she would be subject many curious gazes. But everyone's eyes are perusing the body of the slut.
Even in its largeness, the door looks humble like an open palm, reverent for the sight of her curving hips. She's wearing a crown of rare golden kale leaves that only grown in the temple garden. The worshipers can smell it as strongly. The coral like hyperbolic golden folds fills the empty gaps between them and presses against them. The weight of it causes a synchronous beat of knees of the worshipers hitting the floor like peas dropping to the bottom of a cooking pot. While most of the heads are facing downwards, one body is writhing and struggling, being carried away by two burly men with hairy chests. He was identified as the source of the voice that echoed over the silence,
"Glory to your cunt, Goddess!"
While she appreciates adorations, there is strict code in the temple. One only addresses her as divine whore, salacious slut, cock craven floozy, or curvy cumdump. And that's what the other worshipers are flinging at her. Not because they cared to read the rules. That's what she is. It is offensive to breach the names of gods and goddesses. Absent figures that have only moralized suffering. She is above them.
Meanwhile the slut is standing at the altar, glowing as bright as a flame, no signs of even the gentlest of flicker. There is a certainty in the hunger in her eyes, like fasting arctic beast that's been paddling for days between ice sheets and finally smelling land. Her shoulders are pulled back, like she can't wait for the worshipers to see the thin robe slip off her skin, from arms, to breasts to nipple, reluctant along her luscious thighs and pile down on the floor. And then it does.
