I saw him watching me sometimes when I went to bring my offerings, and although he thrilled me, he frightened me too.
"What do you bring the goddess this day?" he would ask every time, and the deep richness of his voice made me quiver.
"I bring her young rice shoots from my father's paddies, and incense from the market," I whispered. He would look at me as if I were a tender piece of meat and he was a starving man, and then he would intone the blessings of the fertility goddess and send me on his way.
Now, my village was a small one, nestled against the curve of the mountains. He was the new priest at our very old fertility temple, where every farmer went to pray for a healthy harvest. My father sneered at his light features, because he was from the flatlands, but I thought about his blue eyes every single night.
I had started touching myself every night after he came to our village in his simple robes. I found that I could bring myself pleasure from touching the little bud nestled at the top of my folds, and I struggled to keep quiet as I ground my hips into my bamboo pallet and whimpered into my pillow. Waves of lust crashed down on me as the arousal coiled in my stomach. I was dripping wet, panting in the sultry summer heat as I imagined his strong hands all over me, squeezing my generous breasts as I straddled him.
To whoever is reading this account, I want to say that I was a good girl. I certainly tried to be. My name is Catelya, like the delicate orchids of the spring, and everyone in my small village certainly thought I was virtuous. I scarcely knew about sex when the priest began to make me his, and it all happened on a day when I was more aroused than usual, so I shall tell you abou that fateful day before I tell you too much more.
My father was a rice farmer like any other, but he made extra coin on the side by going down to the valley and harvesting cinnamon among the lowlanders. He brought back a friend of his to stay for a few days because of a looming storm on the horizon.
"This is Adel," Father told me curtly, "Fetch him some dinner, will you?"
"Yes, Father. I've made enough for all of us, and for Priest Levon too."
"Ah, let that flatlander starve for all I care," Father muttered, and Mother chastised him as I set about tending the lamb stew that simmered on our hearth. After a time, my parents left to go tend their paddies, and I was left alone with Adel, the stranger.
He didn't speak to me when he came to stand next to me at the hearth. I just felt the animal warmth of his body, and I was frightened. I always grew frightened when I felt the eyes of men upon me, and my very fear excited me. I smelled the cinnamon of his hands and I saw the broad set of his muscular shoulders.
He didn't speak to me when he walked behind me and slid his rough hands under my blouse, laying his palms flat against my soft stomach before he reached up and touched my breasts, rolling my nipples between his calloused fingers as I held back a squeal.
"I've heard things about mountain girls," he whispered, and his husky voice sent a thrill down my spine, "I've heard that there's no one to fuck up here but your brothers and your goats, so you'll lift your skirts for anyone."
I should have pulled away. I should have slapped him and screamed and flung the stew at him. But maybe, because I was as docile as the lamb bubbling in my stew, I stood still. Maybe because I was as sluttish as the lowland prostitutes, I stood still. Because I was growing wet, slick with the horrible lust that consumed me every day, and I feared that Adel knew it was dripping down my thighs.
"I've brought some wine for our guest!" Father called out as he opened the door, and I jumped away from Adel, yelping like a little kitten.
"I could use some wine, thank you," Adel said with a wide smile as he stepped away from me.
