The Last Lagharis

Ayani Laghari did not like being alone. She had not realized it until her sister Misha ran off on her quest. She had always assumed she would like being free of Misha's restlessness, bluster and mood swings. But now, without her, the constant silence that loomed over the house felt like a living death.

Still, Ayani generally preferred to be inside the house rather than work outdoors. Cooking and cleaning and weaving, she liked, but she had always despised the open air. Misha had always taken care of outdoor chores, and that was another thing Ayani missed.

Yet today was an exception. Today Ayani was grateful to be outside, toiling in the mud, helping her neighbor Rachita pick up the pieces of her fallen compost bin that had been scattered by the mudslide. Partly, it was because bracing work distracted her from the dread of existence. It made Ayani understand what the priestesses said about rising above pain by letting go of desires. Ayani didn't believe that she was capable of enlightenment--no true descendant of the warlike Lagharis could ever come that close to heaven--but outdoor work made a good start.

But there was another reason why Ayani was grateful to be here, and that reason was Rachita's son, Shanta. He worked beside them, tireless, good-natured and useful as a man should be. He was six years her junior, but she didn't mind that. And she definitely didn't mind his fine, sweet features or the breezy, carefree way he carried himself. Hard labor had failed to bend his back or roll his shoulders the way it did with other men, and it hadn't soured his temper either. He had preserved his poise and attitude so some lucky woman could someday marry him and enjoy those things unhindered.

Ayani knew that lucky woman would probably not be her. Misha being as unreliable as she was, the gods only knew when or if she would be back. In the meantime, one of the wealthier peasants would probably make an offer for Shanta that Rachita would accept, or maybe a wealthy merchant or an idle high-born girl would stop by, be charmed by him and carry him away. Ayani could hardly compete with that. But that did not mean she could not look at him and enjoy the pleasant sound of his voice.

Finally, the bin came together. Shanta tied the last knot with a flourish and then brusquely dusted his hands off. Rachita judged their craftsmanship and finally gestured her approval. "Ayani," she said, "you've been very generous to help me. Would you like to join us for dinner?"

"I would be honored," Ayani replied. But that was not what she was thinking. Behind her eyes, she imagined a different conversation.

* * *

"Ayani," said Rachita, "You've been very generous to help me. Shanta! Come over here."

Her son walked up and stood beside her.

Rachita put a hand on his shoulder, which was level with her chin. "My son is of a ripe age, and I will be old soon, and I need granddaughters. Ayani, I wish to marry him to you."

Shanta squared his shoulders and straightened his back, a gesture that was less striking from him only because his shoulders were always square and his back always straight. He tried to look staid and dutiful, but his smile betrayed him. He betrayed himself further when he purred, "It would be my pleasure."

"But first," said Rachita, "I must ensure that he is able to please you as a husband should. My husband, bless his memory, died before he could teach him the art of pleasure."

Shanta stepped forward. "But I am not ignorant. Come with me, Ayani, and I will show you." He held out an arm, and Ayani did not hesitate. She took it, wrapped herself around it, pulled herself tight with him. Even with the many layers of cloth and fur between her and him, she felt his reassuring solidness, his firm muscles and strong frame resisting her, supporting her. And they walked together back into Rachita's house.

* * *

"As it happens," said Ayani, "I have peppers with me. If you have the makings and wish it so, we can make samosas."

Rachita gave a knowing smile. She had made a habit of inviting Ayani over for dinner, and Ayani had made her own habit of bringing something of value to eat. But a lady did not admit to such a crudely transactional arrangement, so for the sake of decorum, Ayani pretended that, each time, it was merely a happy coincidence. They set to mincing and chopping and measuring the ingredients while Shanta built a cooking fire and rolled out the dining rug.

Ayani stole glances at him as he worked. Because she was so much more staid than her sister, a rectifying, steadying influence, others assumed she was an ethereal creature of no carnal needs. But she was a woman too. She felt longing and love and lust, and she felt the pain of those feelings denied. She was still too much a lady to gawp at Shanta, but in her mind's eye, it was different.

* * *

In her mind's eye, Shanta knew exactly what she was thinking, and when Rachita ducked out of the room to check on something outside, he beckoned to Ayani. He stepped close to her. "Ayani," he said, in a sultry, manly whisper, "You have always been good to us. You've been charitable, even when life offers you so little to hope for."

Ayani gave a guarded smile. "It will all be rewarded in my next life."

"No." His denial was soft but definite. "Your patience deserves a reward, here and now." He put a hand on the knot of his belt, and it gave a little under his grip. He looked down at the knot, then up at her, and he gave a smile that made excitement ripple through her. "Would you care to?"

For once, Ayani did not say the proper thing. She did not lie that she was above such worldly desires and would patiently wait until the time was right. This time, she grabbed the knot of his belt and said, "Give me that!" She untied it, and his clothes began to fall away.

The outer layer came first. Under his outermost robe, he wore a bulky fur vest that bound his inner wrappings. It didn't reveal any more of his figure, but simply watching cloth fall from him was exciting. Ayani licked her lips, and she didn't care who saw her do it. "Go on. Finish what I've started, so I can watch."

With a thin, playful smile, he untied his vest, one immaculate knot at a time, and the front of it slowly came open. Finally, he shrugged out of the furs, and what had been a thick, bulky figure shed some of its size, leaving behind a tall, shapely man smiling back at her.

"Just watching this is making you blush," he said. "Perhaps I should keep the rest of my clothes on so you don't melt a hole in the mountain."

He was teasing. She knew it. He probably knew she knew it--as stoked with passion as she was, even a man could not fail to read her thoughts. But still she did not let it slide. "If you don't keep stripping," she hissed, "I'm going to do it to you, and then I'll melt a hole in you, not the mountain."

He did not push her any further. His wrappings came unclasped, and he showed her the first peek of his skin, a stretch of his chest between his pectoral mounds. Then he exposed his left nipple, the one just below his heart, tempting her to press her face to it and hear how fast that heart was beating. Instead, she watched as more of him became exposed; his flank, his armpit, and then, as he turned around, his back. All of it was pure, healthy, young flesh. His wraps came away around his lower body, and she saw his rear, firm and pale and unblemished and practically begging to be grabbed.

So she did. She stepped up behind him, clutched him in her arms and growled like a hungry mountain lioness. "Your mother promised me a taste of what you can offer," she purred into his ear. "Look around. We're alone. It's time for you to show me."

* * *

Rachita had not, in fact left the house. Shanta had not offered her a view of his ripe, strong young body. Instead, they finished preparing the meal and took a seat. Their conversation began with the weather, for lack of anything more interesting to talk about, but then Ayani brought up something she had not mentioned during their chatter earlier in the day. "I heard news from down the mountain," she said.

Rachita paid attention purely to be polite. The outside world interested her little.

But Ayani was not deterred. Although she was careful not to show it, she coveted foreign news like lost gold. Even if it was bad news. "The sherpas have hit on the idea of crossing the Butcher's River instead of climbing up through our pass. I hope they're wrong." The last thing their village needed was to get even fewer visitors than it already did.

"Of course they're wrong," said Rachita warmly. "They sought alternate routes when my grandmother was a girl, they sought them again when I was young, and they're seeking them again now."

"Who knows?" chimed in Shanta. "This time, they might succeed."

Rachita faced him with a sour look. "That is an interesting opinion, son." Her words were polite, but her tense, overly calm tone was as clear as day; her son had spoken out of turn, and she did not appreciate it.

Ayani didn't mind. And she especially wouldn't mind correcting that behavior personally.

* * *

With slow, shaking hands, Ayani kneaded the flesh of Shanta's flanks, of his rear. Always, the skin and muscle resisted her hands, kept its shape even as she pushed against it.

"Shanta," said Ayani, "you have spoken out of turn. Clearly, you need discipline."

His confidence was tempered when he saw she was serious. "I am sorry, miss."

"Turn around."

Chords of muscled shifted from his feet all the way up to his middle as he turned himself. His thighs looked strong enough to lift him--and her too, if she were on him somehow, a pleasant thought. When he turned his cock to face her, it did not stand straight out, but it was full and rising. Just as her aunt had once said, there was only one part of a man that could not lie, and now it was telling her that he wanted it.

But first, discipline had to be dispensed. "Turn around again," she ordered. "Put your hands on the wall." She drew a coiled whip from a pouch on her side. "And take these lashes and be grateful that I'm giving you the discipline you need."

He glanced back at her, shocked.

"You must have thought I was a prude, incapable of such an intimate punishment. That's what you thought, isn't it?" Ayani brought the coiled whip up to her lips, licked the leather and found it warm from being kept under the layers of her clothing. Soon, the leather would cut into the flesh of Shanta's pert rear--no, his ass--and she envied it. So she decided to stop waiting. She uncoiled the rope, sent a ripple down the length and lashed the tip at Shanta. A dull red stripe appeared on his bottom, and in a moment, it grew livid. He gave a rough grunt, trying not to show pain and failing.

Ayani giggled. "I am the black sheep of my family. I am not a lady of war. I do not covet treasure, or beautiful horses or chieftain's sons." She gave him a lash between his shoulders, then another, and little drops of red appeared where the leather cut deepest. "But I do resemble my ancestresses in one way." She made her voice deep and sinister. "I have a thirst for blood." And stepped closer to him, put her hands on her shoulders and leaned down to his cuts. She ran her tongue along his skin, licking up the blood she had drawn from his flesh.

* * *

Shanta took his mother's message and did not speak for the rest of the meal, but his eyes followed the women as they bantered back and forth. Although he did not have to, Ayani was sure he was listening, and that he understood everything they were saying.

For her part, Ayani divided her attention. Half the time, she listened to Rachita's old-womanish pronouncements about the way the world was, always had been and always would be. The other half of the time, she watched Shanta's face. She watched his mouth. Whenever he opened his lips to receive another morsel of food, he paused there, his tongue visible, and after a while, Ayani could no longer fend off the suspicion that he was teasing her.

* * *

Shanta leaned against the wall, striped and exhausted. The pain of Ayani's lashes, and then the pleasure of her healing him with her tongue, had left him frayed, incoherent.

"You endured pain," said Ayani. "But you could take it, couldn't you, boy? For me?"

"Yes, miss," he said between gasps. And he had the audacity to look over his shoulder with his jaw hanging open, displaying his tongue.

"You tease me." Ayani stepped close, and this time she did not lick him, but grabbed his chin. "You are offering your mouth. But you forget that you are being punished, and as such, I have all authority over you. It's not wise to tempt a leopardess." She brought her mouth to his, kissed him, sampled those lips. Then she made her decision. "Now, we will put that mouth to good use. Turn to face me, boy. And kneel before me."

"Yes, miss." He obeyed, and his beautifully red-streaked skin flexed as he turned and lowered himself slowly, painfully to his knees.

Ayani had no patience for slowness. She dropped her clothes, stepped out of them and put a hand on the top of Shanta's head. The felt his hair for a moment, a tender little intimacy that she enjoyed more than she expected to. Then she tightened her fingers around his scalp. "Now, please my cunt."

And he closed his eyes like a good boy and obeyed.

* * *

"Good day, Ayani. Be well, and good luck!"

Ayani bade her hosts farewell as she made the short, difficult walk back to her house. Inside, she reclined in her furs and relaxed. The images in her mind of Shanta whipped into submission had not left her. Within minutes, her hands found their way to her chest. Then her stomach. Then her pussy.

Often, she had heard it said that the gods were cruel to give women lust, when they also made it so hard for them to find men to satisfy it. But Ayani knew the other side of that coin. The gods had gifted her imagination, and until the day came when she could marry, that would be her consolation.