Talisman Ch. 7: Patricia Maria Ruiz

He crossed the small room to her, dropping to his knees to pull her into the circle of his arms. His hands twined in her hair as he kissed her, crushing his mouth to hers as if he would consume her. She heard his heartbeat throb and the pulse grew louder and swelled to a vibration she could feel through her whole body. The chanting voices played at the edge of her hearing as she unbuttoned his work shirt and slipped her hand inside to touch his bare skin.

He was pulling a twin shirt from her shoulders at the same time, but she didn’t know it. She was infatuated with his masculine scent, her nostrils flared as she drank in the smell of his sweat and the faint tinge of her own naked and dripping sex. Patricia became creature, her reality narrowed to a voice that echoed across millennia to speak to her and set her free. Jorge’s mouth dropped to her shoulder, her naked breast, her stomach. His hands roamed her freely, more so than they ever had before, kneading and squeezing her flesh, wanting to mark her as his, his, his.
She bared her throat by leaning her head far back as he moved back up her body with his mouth. His hand came up and settled at her throat as he licked and sucked at the sensitive ridge of her collarbone. As his hungry mouth came to her throat, he moved to put a hand on her chin, tilting her head further back; when his fingertip brushed her mouth, she opened it and sucked the loose digit feverishly. He growled and his free hand tangled in her swinging hair, pulling gently at her scalp. Jorge lowered her to the floor as he kissed his way down her beautiful length again, licking and sucking caramel sweat from her delicate skin. He stopped to pay tribute to each breast, drawing the chocolate-tinted erect nipple gently between his teeth; when his bride shivered and thrust her body against his eagerly, his passion pushed him to bite down slightly, teasing her along the edge of exquisite feeling.

Patricia had never wanted anything like she wanted Jorge inside of her. His mouth on her breast was torture of the most delicious kind and the room’s walls disappeared as her vision was filled with red hues and the barely glimpsed faces of chanting worshipers. Their appearance did not frighten or even affect her, she was on the altar and this was a holy act, a consummation of faith. Her body tore away all semblance of thought as Jorge’s questing tongue connected briefly with her aching clit. She thrashed into orgasm, hands reaching down into his hair, pulling his up over her. He didn’t have time to disrobe, only to free his straining cock from the confines of his work clothes.

On its own, Jorge’s body found its way to hers. His cock strained toward her as he brought his face down to kiss her again; the moment they connected, both shuddered in awakening bliss. It felt like orgasm, but did not end, the moment stretched time and made anything possible. Chanting, “vida, amore, vida,” they moved against each other, punctuating their own unheard words with deep kisses. He thrust harder with each passing second, both of them building toward something that remained perpetually just out of reach. She was crazy with the need for completion; her body was certain and there was no need or ability for anything else as she meet his violent passion with her own. They chased each other toward the edge of oblivion and then found it and hung there briefly, testing their will.

Jorge cried “Vida!” as the power of her body’s spasms pulled him into a swelling, pulsing orgasm that seemed to last minutes. He shivered and reflexively thrust deep into her as his seed flooded her body. Patricia could feel it, the moment that she became pregnant, the moment that was brought to them across time. Her arms clutched him to her as she nearly lost consciousness from the overwhelming sensation and the inarticulable knowledge that filled her as they came together, as her power softened his and made it whole, as together they finally found the power to create something new.

This story, to the extent that it is factually accurate in the portrayal of cannery life and workers’ struggles in 1940's California, owes a debt to Vicky L. Ruiz’s Cannery Women, Cannery Lives, which documents the extensive participation of women in cannery labor and unionization activities.

All that is right with this tale is due to outstanding editorial assistance, all that is wrong with it is purely my own fault.