What are we willing to do when we can be someone else? Who are we able to be when no one knows who you are? Being in a strange place with no attachments can be very freeing. A limited time to be someone else, to explore the person you never were and always wanted to be. The only problem is, what if you fall in love while you're there?
*****
A pile of clothes lay on the floor of the hallway, just inside the room past the black pair of dress shoes, one toe atop the other, in the doorway. Beyond, a wool coat was carelessly tossed over a message table and laying next to the car and house keys, was the elegant new purse from Taylor Shands bought in the sea of rainbows. Past the pile of clothes were the smaller accessories; the hematite and amethyst earrings with sharp platinum settings, the mineral agate bracelet with scrimshaw whalebone inlays she bought from Tipper Ellesse´e Diamond sellers, Near Pico and the satiny necklace of spun crystal from Ari Stysonton Contemporary crafts in Lake of sorrows.
By the time she had reached the couch, she had discarded her thin black panties and hose. She had no use of a bra here. Here she only weighed twenty pounds. Her breasts weighed practically nothing. There was nothing like a season spent on the moon to keep the important body parts young and full of bounce.
Cyrrel had just returned from a date with herself. It had been fabulously romantic and ultimately sexy. She had taken herself shopping in all of those expensive stores she had heard so much about back on Earth. Had a delightful time trying on sexy clothes and fancy things. Giving her reflection admiring compliments and letting herself touch her in suggestive places while in very present danger of being caught by customer service personnel. She had smacked her own hand teasingly and grinned at her naughty reflection before taking herself to the cinemas.
She and herself had seated in the less favored section behind the central action of the circular stage and used the relative privacy to engage in heavy petting. The dimenfilm was riveting and kept the rest of the moviegoers attention fixed on the blaze of lights and panoramic vistas in the center of the theater rather than her and herself who were openly fondling parts usually kept hidden.
Dinner was also quite fine, offering the very best the fine chefs of the moon could bestow on a vacationing Earther. For dessert, she had a finely wrought chocolate structure that would have collapsed under it's own weight if it had been attempted back home. It was as good as orgasm and got her fired up for ravenous uninhibited sex. She couldn't wait to get herself home and fuck her.
She had not made it to the bedroom, no further than the couch in fact. She lay with her behind on the edge of the cushions, her feet up high on an easy chair arm and her legs splayed wide. She had both hands pressed firmly to either side of her vulva and was massaging the spongy tissues beneath. Her thumbs twiddled rapidly, one after the other, over her clit, her index fingers moving slick fluids about the lips. Her head tossed back, her mouth working soundlessly. Teeth catching lips like cat playing with mouse.
She began to moan as the growing wetness gathered on her fingertips and her hands began to slide over one another and her mound like octopus tentacles. Frictionless, she dipped fingers inside from one hand than the other, one from each, two from each. Drawing her liquid out, spreading it around. Covering every surface.
She slipped three fingers in from one hand, two more on top from the other. Ah, bliss. Ah, heavenly viscosity. A fourth finger from the first hand, the second hand wetting the back of the first. In she curled the thumb then push, gently, harder. The stretch, Oh god the stretch. Breath stopped, all the world stopped. Anticipation. Pleasurable ache. Good pain. The good pain of stretching and with a slow exhale she is greedily devoured. Her whole hand inside, the muscles tightening around her wrist. Fingertips brushing her cervix.
As she did this she imagined herself a holy woman, a planetary tribal witch on a small and distant world. She lay upon a great stone dais built for this purpose, raised to the level of her adoring parishioners eyes. She was teaching them to know enlightenment through pleasure. Teaching them the dream sense than comes over one with the Isam du haiib, the stretch. The holy intensity. The throng or worshipers were all women for this meeting, all hear to learn her revered arts. They crowded close to touch her legs and inhale her smell.
At the moment of orgasm she would remove her hand and flick her fingertips, spreading droplets of her holy water of life over the upturned faces of her devout. She would do this several times, pushing her hand back inside and then drawing the water out and flicking it, until she had no more to give for a time. Then she would lay without making a word while her people sung hymns of vision making. And, she would have her visions, deep in the hynogogic state blessed by her extreme exhaustion and the riggers of Isam du haiib, she would dream quest for her new apprentice.
As the women in her congregation sung, they became one voice, soft and low. Soon words were lost and the cavern was filled with a low sexually charged hum of many voices. In the period during the wait for their priestess to awaken from her trance, they would make religious signs with one hand above their heads while their other hand aroused their second souls, the ones that slept inside the tiny tent at the crevasses peak. Many more experienced women would squat slightly and perform Juduset Du Haiib, standing holy stretch. All the while, the deep glassy hum.
Priestess Cyrrel at once would snap her eyes open, her vision complete and raise her Besttat dil nimar, Paw of religious exploration, to point into audience. She would quicken her breath in the ancient way and intone the texts of Gissib Senraquin causing her grand opening to once again begin the flood.
