Vision Of The Spirit Ch 01

"Hey, Chief, what's your hurry?" Lisa blocked the front door with spread arms and bedroom eyes, naked.

Tom grinned. His resolve to leave diminished while another part of him expanded. "I have to get an early start, if I'm going to make the hike in two days." Suddenly, torn by indecision, he thumbed her nipples, weighed her proposition in the palm of each hand, and added, "You said Jack was coming home this morning. I don't want to make more trouble for you."

"His flight doesn't arrive until 10:00," she said, placing one hand on his shoulder and the other on his inseam. "Jack's probably banging one of his tramps right now. Why shouldn't I have my fun? We still have time to… How did you put it last night?"

"I can't remember. We were drunk."

With lips nestled against his throat, she whispered, "Oh, come on. You said you'd bang me like a barn door in a tornado." As her fingers pulled down his zipper, she added, "And you did, Tom-Tom. You blew my mind. You blew me a way. And then I blew you. Do you remember now, Tom-Tom?" Lisa had him by the balls, literally.

"Don't call me Tom-Tom," he said, while thinking, 'This won't take long.'

"What's the matter, Tom-Tom? Is the white squaw being disrespectful to the big, bad Brave? What are you going to do about it, Tom-Tom?" she goaded, while stroking him to full erection. "My, my, maybe I'll call you, Hung Bear. It suits you better."

They'd flirted for months and, now that Jack had fired him, Tom felt no guilt for fucking the neglected housewife. He growled at Lisa and threw her over his shoulder. "That's it! You asked for it." The trip to the living room couch was five quick steps of wiggling laughter. He slapped Lisa's ivory bottom a few times, flopped her down, threw off his clothes and fell between her legs.

Lisa gripped his sides, and said, "C'mon, you savage, poke me with that spear!"

With a little adjustment he slipped between her warm folds.

"Oooo, that's so nice," she said, as he slowly pistoned in and out. Her hands rubbed up his chest. Her cunt squeezed with a rhythmic pulse.

At 38, Lisa was the oldest woman he'd ever fucked, and one of the best. The energy transcended the age difference.

A vase crashed when she kicked the coffee table. "I've always hated Jack's Ming shit."

The couch squeaked in time with their motion.

The vandalism continued as she reached up behind her head and purposely knocked over a Tiffany lamp. "Suck my nipples… That's it… oh my…"

Between slurps, Tom declared, "Areola is the breakfast of Warriors."

Lisa let him feast awhile, and then hinted, "I've never fucked in the dining room before."

Without withdrawal, they managed to sit up. Still connected, he carried her to the table and sat her on the edge. After sweeping the flowery centerpiece out of the way, Lisa leaned back on her arms. The walnut top made a sturdy platform and the chandelier looked like a brass trapeze, so Lisa grabbed it and Tom suspended her by the waist. They performed an erotic high wire act until the ceiling gave out. Crystal teardrops tinkled everywhere.

He twirled her around and banged her from behind, playing a nipple between each thumb and index finger. One hand slipped down to pressure her clitoris into a swollen nub of ecstasy. Her breaths became ragged gasps; each thrust punctuated by a grunt.

Lisa pushed away from the table, and said with a flurry, "I fucked Jack in his chair once."

Taking the cue, Tom pulled her to the red leather wing-back and sat down. Lisa straddled his thighs, impaled herself, and bounced with both hands on the creaky chair for leverage. His fingers applied the finishing touches necessary to coerce her body into surrender. She climaxed with a shuddering scream, and clamped his head to her tit. The pussy spasms were enough to trigger his coming. Waves of pleasure pumped semen inside of her.

After a quiet moment of recovery, she moaned into his ear, "Oh, God, that was so good."

With forced enthusiasm, he said, "Thanks Lisa, you're the best."

These zipless fucks, although physically satisfying, often left Tom sullen when the thrill was gone. And this was one of those times. There must be more to life. The thousands of miles he traveled to make this pilgrimage into the mountains should redirect his life. At least he hoped it would.

Lifting free from the shrinking cock, Lisa stated in a matter of fact tone, "I'm going to miss you, Tom. If you're ever in Helena, look me up. I'll email you my sister's phone number." She pecked his lips like a period, end of sex. "Thanks for helping me pack the truck."

"No problem. Glad to help. I hope you find a better life. Jack is an ass and a fool."

"Yeah, well, he'll get what's coming to him from my lawyer." Lisa opened a buffet drawer and lifted out a silver box tied with a red ribbon. "I have a present for you."

After pulling on his jeans, Tom accepted the gift. "What's this for?"

Naked Lisa lit a cigarette, took a long drag and then said in a puff of acrid smoke, "It's a little something for the lonely nights. Maybe it will help you find your Spirit Guide."

The bottle of Jack Daniel's inside seemed a strange gift for a Vision Quest. People just don't get it.

"If you won't drink it, then maybe it'll come in handy as an antiseptic or anesthetic, in case you have to cut off an arm or something," she explained and then laughed.

So much for emotional Good-byes.

The clear weather made the four-hour drive into Glacier National Park serene. Wednesday was not a busy tourist day. In the light traffic, Tom relaxed, unwound, and prepared himself.

Legally, he was not an Indian. Great, great, great Grandma Sunbeam made him only one-eighth Blackfoot, but his blood simmered with ancient memories and genetic restlessness. That's how it felt, anyway. So, over the last five years, he'd worked his way back along the Lewis and Clark trail until finally arriving at the spot where the French guide DuBois had met Grandma. The story, passed from generation to generation, told how DuBois saved a dying Blackfoot Warrior. Grateful to be alive, the Indian gave his youngest daughter away as a 'thank you'. DuBois returned with his bride to Philadelphia, and then abandoned her, with child. He was never heard from again.

Tom decided to explore his heritage, and backtracked through space and time. After speaking with the old Blackfoot Medicine Man, Tom felt as though he had traveled back in time.

The rusted out pickup truck was left in one of the long-term parking lots while Tom headed northwest on foot. Even in great physical shape, after two hours of the unrelenting climb, his legs felt leaden. The mountain breeze chilled his sweaty skin.

The first night was spent under a star rich sky. Miles from earth light, the smallest dots blended into a faint, celestial cloud. He lay awake with gnawing hunger, trying to remember constellations and trying to connect with this ancient tradition. Fasting was part of the spiritual journey. Did starvation induce hallucinations?

The next day, Tom continued to plod up the mountain. Thick clouds darkened the sky as a cold front swept in. The heavens opened and drenched the earth. Still, he marched in a northerly direction, occasionally marking the trail for the return trip. His mind sought the mystical signs promised by the Shaman. There were hawks and eagles overhead, bear and cougar tracks on the earth. The untrodden route wound along towering cliffs. Danger was important in a Vision Quest. If there were no fears to overcome the heart would not be tested.

The trees whispered secrets he couldn't yet understand. Oneness with nature essential, Tom unbraided his black hair to flow in the wind and pick up signals, currents, and vibrations from the spirit world. Now soaked, it lay plastered and dripping down the middle of his back.

An oak, recently split by lightening, blocked the path. Thinking it a good omen, Tom severed a branch with his hatchet to use as a walking stick. If nothing else was accomplished by this trek, he felt a wonderful freedom from mankind and a kinship with Mother Earth. How much was real and how much imagined only time would tell. And time meant nothing to him now.

Reaching a craggy ledge, Tom leaned into the wind and rain, scanned the angry sky, spread his arms like Moses and shouted, "I'm ready, Spirit Guide. Give me a sign."

All sounds became entwined -- distant thunder, wind, and rain. The thunder rolled closer, and grew louder, until it was right overhead. Tom gazed toward heaven and envisioned brother thunder had transformed into a huge bird of prey. In reality, it was a seaplane, descending through the clouds and heading for Hungry Beaver Lake, which lapped the mountain's root.

"Damn!" A wind gust sent a chill through his wet clothes and he suddenly felt disillusioned. "This is stupid." What's important now is shelter from the storm.

Sure footed as a Big Horned ram, Tom bounced down the rock precipice, skittering loose stones over the edge. A game trail branched off into a stand of stunted pines, and he ran up it for several yards until an unfriendly tree root tripped him. The fall was so abrupt Tom had to let go of his walking stick to soften the landing. The oak rod flew into a bramble thicket and disappeared.

After brushing the dirt from his scratched palms, Tom hunted for his stick. The thorny bushes discouraged the recovery effort, but the oak branch had become a symbol or at least a souvenir, so he gingerly worked his way through the prickles. About six feet in, completely hidden from the path, he found the oak staff, leaning against a barricaded entrance to an abandoned mine. Prospectors worked these mountains for gold a hundred years ago. Blinking the rain from his eyes, he pried at the moss-covered barrier. The oak limb proved stronger than the rotted pine logs and the cave mouth was quickly reopened for visitors. Tom grabbed the hatchet and flashlight from his pack, cleared a path, and warily scanned the interior, half expecting a flurry of bats or slither of snakes. But it appeared vacant and dry. Once inside the four foot opening, the roof became higher and he was able to stand upright. He panned the light along the walls and found simple paintings covered the surface from floor to ceiling. Little stick men with bows and arrows hunted fat, stick-legged buffalo. Another scene depicted teepees and fire dancers. In another, a Brave stood in the middle of a pack of wolves. Others showed bears chest deep in streams, and panthers in trees. Eagles and hawks flew across the ceiling.

"This isn't a gold mine. It's an Indian cave." Tom didn't know the correct term, but the granite niche was obviously a place for spiritual rites. He shivered, not from the cold but from the miraculous discovery. Just when he'd doubted the journey's purpose the Great Spirit slapped him.

A pile of charcoal at the mouth of the cave left evidence of a small fire. He found dry wood and tinder under ledges and built one, making a mental note to restock the supply later. As the fire warmed the rock and the flickering light made the Paleolithic murals dance Tom found reason to celebrate with his friend Jack Daniels.

***

Hundreds of feet below, the seaplane splashed down to a rough landing on the choppy surface and cruised into a protected bay.

"Ooo-wee, what a rush! Wasn't it little darlin'."

Cheyenne smiled sweetly. Two years ago, alone and desperate for money, she succumbed to failure and learned to live off the fat of the land. It was clear that the most generous fat hung over the belts of lonely middle aged men. Cheyenne lived to ease their isolation.

Today's companion, Tobias Wentworth, was no different, except he liked the fast and dangerous life of a drug smuggler. She swallowed a lump of fear, and said, "Yeah, Toby. That was some ride." Cheyenne glanced longingly at the shoreline and asked, "Now what?"

"We wait."

After twenty minutes of small talk and scanning with binoculars, Toby became restless. "God, I'm so wired!" he said, and clapped his hands once. The plane seemed restless too, and bobbed in the light chop. The rain began to lessen. Toby leaned over and rubbed her leg. "Let me see those delicious ta-ta's of yours again."

Cheyenne leaned against the door and faced him. "Do we have time?"

"I always got time for a sexy woman, Honey." The pink tongue pinched between nonexistent lips, a flat nose, and bulging eyes, gave Toby the sex appeal of a bulldog. But he had redeeming qualities, a generous attitude and a big, fat wallet.

With a wink and a smile, she said, "I've never done it in a plane before."

"Hey, I'm an experienced flyer," he promised, while lifting the black tee-shirt over her head. The stubby, nail-bitten fingers squeezed her nipples. "Damn, you sure are one fine lookin' Injun. What tribe you from?"

If they weren't in the middle of nowhere she might have overreacted to his question. Her native blood, just a minor splash in the gene pool, had risen to the surface, and she hated it. It was a constant source of irritation. Blondes had more fun. Blondes had more business. The black hair, dark eyes, and high cheekbones, gave her an exotic sexiness certain men craved. And those certain men seemed to always want a rough encounter. Apparently, Indian blood meant 'I like it rough'. Once, she made the mistake of telling a client that her Great, Great Grandfather was from the Seminole tribe. When he jokingly called her a Semen Hole Indian he suffered a surprise attack and barely escaped with his scalp.

This time, with significant money in the balance, she moaned with feigned excitement, closed her eyes and lied. "I'm Cheyenne, silly."

Clumsy fingers worked loose the button of her jeans. "Are you a wild Injun?"

Scarred fists tugged down the pants and panties. She lifted her ass and said, "Just for you, Toby."

As a chubby finger probed between the folds of her cunt, Cheyenne slipped off her shoes and pushed the bunched fabric from her ankles. Naked and ready for the not-so-big event, she moaned and groaned at every mechanical poke and prod. "Oh yes, Baby," she encouraged, while reminding herself to make a dentist appointment and check her Mutual Funds. "That feels good." Time to reciprocate. She pushed him away, using enough force to be in the game, and then leaned down to unzip his fly. The window behind her head exploded.

"Holy shit!" yelled Toby, turning quickly to start the engine. "Stay down!"

Cheyenne crawled behind the seats and curled up on the floor. "What's happening!"

Another explosion left a hole in the passenger door. The engine fired. Toby applied full throttle and they bounced out into the lake. "It's a fucking double cross. They're trying to get the money…"

More shots fired in rapid succession as they skimmed away. Rain slanted in the broken window. Cheyenne stayed low. Toby pulled back on the stick. The ride smoothed out as the plane lifted from the choppy surface and climbed. She stayed in the back where it was relatively dry and watched their progress from between the seats. The view through the windshield was a streaky, green blur. The mountain loomed ahead. "Toby, shouldn't you turn?"

No response. Thrusting her head forward, she saw a crimson stain on Toby's right side. His head sagged. He'd lost consciousness. The plane continued to climb but not enough. The treetops were seconds away. All she had time for was duck and cover.