Chapter 4 #2
It takes me twenty minutes to find the strength to rise from behind the bushes, long after the soldiers left.
The pull to the temple is greater than it has ever been.
I need to be free from this fabric. I pluck the veil from my face, untrap my curls.
Allow the night to breathe life into my lungs.
The smokiness from earlier explosions is carried inward on the breeze, the faint smell of metal tickles my nostrils.
I unclasp my cape, draping it over my arm with my veil.
Then, I peel away one black glove at a time.
Terra cotta fingers flex in the moonlight, revealing my sacred mark.
The swirls remind me of snail shells. It’s a reminder that I am claimed, bought by God’s sacrifice.
I take my time touching every leaf, every flower, each bark of trees.
They call me. No one would believe it, call me crazy, a Fallen One, a disgrace, but I know the land speaks my name.
The closer I come to the hidden temple, the greater my chest swells.
Endorphins flood my brain, and I see the little azizas weave through the trees, dancing in the night, swirls of golden light engulfing me.
There is a wall of grass taller than the cedars. A year ago, when I followed azizas off the path of my village, I had done so because I swore someone had called my name.
“Thessia,” it sang with a tiny, bubbly laugh. Its golden light led me over the broken stone bridge through the forest until it joined thousands of azizas, funneling around me, chanting, “Thessia.”
I would have stopped at the grass wall because it appeared to be a dead end, but then the azizas squeezed through like magic, and I couldn’t help but follow.
I realized the grass wall wasn't grass at all, but a shield.
Now, on the other side, the temple spreads before me. Flora swallows it whole. Yet, it is still painstakingly beautiful. Vines snake up the cracked stone pillars. Moss covers the exterior walls like a winter coat. Wildflowers and dandelions sprawl over lush grass that leads to golden doors.
This is the only place on the island that wasn’t barren. Trees bore fruit. I’ve never seen them rot through the seasons or drop to the ground. When biting into them, their juices are sweet, crisp, and refreshing. I fill my belly before entering.
If I had stayed in the sanctuary, I would have had to sleep on an empty stomach. According to Sacred Mother, when we are starving, God hears us the most. I open the temple’s golden doors. They close heavy behind me.
Inside is peace. Azizas flicker across the walls, bouncing light off stone. I chase them, laughing softly, as they guide me to the central hall … where she stands.
The statue. A woman carved in gold.
Her proud gaze cast down upon me as if waiting for me to take my position at her feet. Her features are sharp, yet soft. The curve of her body is voluptuous, her locs cascading down her back in intricate coils. She takes up space without apology.
I admire that.
I’m sorry has become my safe word. I’m less likely to be beaten if I grovel.
I strip out of my tunic to my silk gown. Slip my panties to my ankles, kick them aside. Kneel before her, worship her. Apologize for keeping her waiting for so long.
I want to know my Goddess’s name, so I can call upon her. Pray to her. Repent of my sins. Confess that I have betrayed the very covenant that I’m supposed to serve just to gaze on her glory.
What’s wrong with women being Gods? What’s so wrong with my fingers finding my folds, spreading them open, and running a soft finger over my hardened bud?
Will this Goddess let me touch her? Praise her name, climax to her lips? I need to know. My fingers plunge into the depths of my womanhood.
“What’s your name?” I moan.
“Oh, goddess. I need to know who you are.”
I slip three fingers deep inside, unable to squeeze more. I wish I could fit my entire fist. I want to be stuffed. I’ve tried many times, but three are okay for now. I ride them until the base of my fingers prevents me from pushing more. I call out to the goddess. My skin burns with heat.
This is the fix I need—screaming loudly, half naked in front of golden breasts, buzzing whimsical lights of the azizas circle me.
“Thessia,” they chant. “Thessia,” they urge me on.
Every time I come here, something in me explodes, breaks, reshapes. I don’t have the words to explain how my body feels, except magic. Witchcraft, sorcery. The devil has a hold on me. And I whisper, “Crush me harder.”
But if I dare to say that aloud, I would damn myself as a Fallen One. Magic is of beasts and demons and women who speak too loudly and roam naked in the streets shouting words of madness.
I feel my orgasm on the tip.
The power rips through my soul like the sun at daybreak.
“Touch me, touch me, touch me,” I scream as I cum. My greedy little pussy clenches tight. Waves of sensations wrack me. My body jerks, shudders. I pull my fingers free and lick the wetness from their tips, teasing my hardened nipples with the other hand.
“Oh, Goddess.” My gaze climbs to the golden breasts above me. “If only you were flesh. I would sell my soul for you.”
A bang shatters the moment. I collapse onto my back, scrambling toward the statue for cover as the golden doors slam shut. Stumbling in, swirled with glowing stars of gold on the richest night-skinned woman I’ve ever seen, holding a dagger toward me.