The breeze is rustling through the palm trees outside when I hear the knock at the door of my spacious grass-roofed hut. I switch off my computer and rise, wearing my ceremonial red silk robe that the women of the village slaved over for two months. It is sleeveless and emphasizes my full breasts and hips.
Opening the door, I greet Ailani in her native Polynesian, and the tall, coffee-skinned girl of nineteen responds with a shy smile. Mahina, Ailani's buxom mother, stands next to her, and after kneeling to kiss the hem of my robe with reverence, she takes Ailani's hand and extends it toward me. This is the ritual. "Go with the Matuatele now, Ailani," Mahina says. "Learn from her, and do all that she bids you. Experience her blessings, as I have."
I smile at Mahina, gazing deep into her eyes, transfixing her once again with my power, like the waves crashing on the shore just out of eyeshot. At last I nod that she may go, and Mahina obediently turns to follow the road that leads past the sandy beach and coral reefs back to the village.
Next, I gently run my hand down Ailani's back, as she nestles instinctively close to my body. Yes, Ailani is mine now, from her long, shiny black mane, dark eyes, and full lips to those splendidly ripe young breasts and buttocks beneath her floral dress.
I lead her inside and close the door, acutely aware of her hibiscus-scented perfume. She has much to learn from me. And she will. I am the Matuatele.
It is a role that came to me both surprisingly and naturally. Thanks to a three-year, $100,000 grant from the University of Washington, I am here on the small tropical island of Vahinaki, 150 miles northeast of Tahiti. I am completing my Ph.D in anthropology with a specialization in Polynesian studies. My purpose in traveling here is to gather first-hand material for my thesis documenting the basis for what is believed to be the only remaining active matriarchal society in the South Pacific.
Previously, little has been written about Vahinaki. A Norwegian adventurer, Mats Holtet, sailed to the neighbouring island of Nukunga in 1957 and published a two-page article in the Sunday travel supplement of an Oslo newspaper. Apart from that, we have only a few scattered accounts from English and Spanish sea captains, and nothing at all compiled by female researchers.
The full-time population of Vahinaki is just over 2,500, and consists entirely of native women. Their menfolk live on Nukunga, and are only permitted quarterly visits for connubial purposes, except for certain special occasions and emergencies. The men support the 12-woman governing council by harvesting copra, the dried meat of the coconut, and handing over the earnings from their sales in Tahiti to the council.
The Vahinaki women, known for their height and beauty, dedicate themselves to cultural pursuits when they are not administrating the economy and cultivating the community garden. Song, dance, pottery, weaving, even architecture...these fill the days of the women, whose diet of fruit and fish contributes to their remarkable average longevity of 93 years.
Vahinaki has remained aloof from the modern world in most ways. There is no TV and no cell phone service, and my dial-up Internet connection and satellite phone became the first of their kind when I arrived in Vahinaki.
What particularly intrigued me about the island, however, was only alluded to in a very euphemistic and passing way in the accounts of Holtet and others. Vahinaki was and remains a centre for pagan, female-centric sex worship, a place where unabashed, orgiastic pleasure-seeking for women is the very foundation of the culture. As a greedy, insatiable bisexual woman myself, I'd be lying if I claimed Vahinaki's reputation had nothing to do with my choice of a thesis topic.
The welcome that the women extended to me – non-sexual at first – emboldened me to conduct a survey just three weeks after arriving. I discovered that approximately 70 percent of them identify as bisexual, 25 as lesbian, and just 5 percent as strictly heterosexual. These statistics are unparalleled anywhere in the developed or non-developed world.
Mahina is bisexual, as she confided to me after we became lovers. Of her own free will, she had been bringing me dishes of fried fish and plantain stew for dinner each night for the first month, entering my hut and placing a soft, brown hand on my shoulder while I typed away on my computer. It became apparent to me that her interest was far more than platonic.
Our first kiss was on a grassy, flower-laden hillside overlooking the coral reefs. Her body is deliciously soft and fleshy, and we spent hours intertwined in the nude beneath the afternoon sunshine. When we moved into a 69 position, my engorged lips planted firmly on her ecstatically beaming face, I soon discovered that I enjoyed eating her exquisitively sweet, luxuriantly unshaven cunt almost as much as feeling her lapping hungrily at my puffed-out, glistening clitoral hood.
Making it a perfect first time together, we were seen by others...and did not stop. I heard the voices of women coming down the hillside just before sunset, and glanced up from Mahina's spread thighs. I recognized the two svelte, 20-something women as two of the dancers who would perform at the moon goddess festival that summer. They were both carrying baskets full of firm, juicy red berries. I saw interest flickering in their eyes as they recognized me, and realized they had likely never seen a white woman enjoying lesbian sex before. I had no intention of stopping, and actively desired to be seen. I beckoned with my head for them to come closer, and simultaneously pushed the full, heavy warmth of my buttocks down on Mahina's face so that she would have no say in the matter.
The women came closer, smiling, and put their baskets down next to us in the grass. "Touch, don't be shy, " I urged them. "Let's enjoy one another like women are meant to do." Smiling, both began to kiss and stroke my body as if I were a cat. I arched my back upward to reveal Mahina's face, smeared with my juices. The taller of our visitors, who had mischievious eyes and a birthmark on her left cheek, reached into her basket and fed me berries. I devoured them, juice running down my chin. "Give her some too," I said, gesturing toward Mahina. "But use me." The taller girl quickly understood, taking a fistful of berries and inserting them into my soaked cunt. Mahina ate the berries directly out of me, thrusting her tongue deep up my slit to get them out. It felt incredibly fucking good, especially with two strange women watching everything. After I let loose with an enormous orgasm on Mahina's face, the women took their baskets and departed.
That night, I couldn't sleep, completely sexually charged up. I wandered through the village, hearing moans, cries, and raw screams of pleasure coming from nearly every hut. The thin grass walls concealed nothing, from the rapid wet rub-rub-rub of a Vahinaki teenage girl enjoying a pre-bedtime frig to the raw, hoarse-throated screams of "Fuck me!" and "Fist me for the moon goddess!" that emanated from the lodge shared by three longtime council members who had magnificently voluptuous figures in their early 50's. When I was conducting my survey, one of them had casually shown me a huge, earthenware vessel painted with red orchids and brimming with refined coconut oil. Now I knew what it was used for.
I wanted so badly to be inside there, fucking, sucking, and screaming my lust out into the tropical night with those gloriously disinhibited island goddesses. Little did I know that I would soon accede to a stature higher than theirs, and get everything I wanted.
