An Idol Hour

When my client called to say she'd be late, I went wandering. When I have to kill an hour or two, I go to antique stores and browse. A new shop had just opened a mere two blocks from my office.

ANTIQUITIES, read the sign over the door. Very original, I sneered. Why not just call it OLD JUNQUE AND ASSORTED CRAPPE?

I knew the place was new; three weeks ago, I'd bought a pizza there. When I pulled open the door, a sense of timeless age rushed over me. The smell of dusty libraries and neglected museum displays assaulted my nose. As I entered, I expected the carpet to crackle with the brittleness of ancient papyrus under my tread. The heavy layer of dust on the merchandise had to have been put there purposely; I wrote my initials in the grime atop a bookcase.

A centuries-old silver tea service sat on the glass top of a display case holding old watches and cast coins of uncertain mintage. A large marble bust of Mozart looked benignly at some scrolls of player-piano music, no doubt the top forty hits of 1895.

"Are you looking for something special?"

The speaker was an old woman. Though the room was adequately lit, she seemed cloaked in the shadow of vast age and knowledge. Darkness seemed to radiate from her like an aura. The top of her head wasn't quite as high as the bookcase I'd written my initials on, well under five feet tall. Her thin grayish hair was just long enough to sweep her shoulders clean of dust. She might have weighed as much as the bust of Mozart; her complexion was like old porcelain. Her eyes were deep and dark as death and as knowing. I feared her as I would a viper.

"No, thanks," I said, "I'm just wandering, killing some time."

She smiled with the unreal perfection of some denture maker's artistry. She smoothed her dress over her flat chest and belly. If she'd been fifty years younger, I might have taken it as an invitation. Instead, I simply noticed the coarse cloth of the dress. I started to turn to leave. She cleared her throat. I froze in place.

She looked at me expectantly, almost as if sifting through my thoughts, my memories, my feelings, approving some, frowning at others, and laughing at the remainder. I wanted to run, but my feet refused to move. I forced my tongue to function.

"What should I be looking for?" Those were NOT the words I'd intended to say, but they seemed to be the correct ones. Her smile broadened.

"You should seek that which will make you happy," she said.

"What would you suggest?" I asked.

"Come," she said, beckoning with her fingers. She strode to a curtain that partitioned off the back of the store. She held it aside as I stepped around her into the sparsely furnished back room. She motioned me to sit in a dilapidated over-stuffed armchair.

Another curtain created an insubstantial wall a few feet to my left, unknown vastnesses hiding behind it. A small mahogany coffee table was in front of my chair, a mat of black velvet centered on it. A huge pillow sat on the floor opposite the chair. A candle flame was keeping a pan of liquid warm on a shelf against a wooden wall to my right. The crone folded into herself and sat primly on the cushion.

"You are not happy," she said. "You search for happiness without success." These were not questions, but she waited for me to nod confirmation.

"You have enough money." This she stated flatly as if it was self-evident. She was right. I nodded again.

"Your health is mostly good," she said, "but, there is a blackness eating at your soul."

I was horrified that she could read my mind. I hoped she wouldn't identify my problem, my secret shame. If she didn't say it aloud, maybe it wouldn't exist. Reluctantly, I nodded.

"You are without love," she proclaimed. She waited for my nod; I wouldn't give her the satisfaction.

"You lust," she continued mercilessly, "but, you cannot consummate."

"Am I carrying a sign?" I asked, bitterly. How the hell did she know I couldn't get it up anymore? What business of hers was it if I was no longer a man?

"It's true, isn't it?" she insisted.

"Yes, God damn it, it's true. How did you know?" I demanded.

"I have lived a very long time, young man. I have seen many things and many people. Sometimes, I just know things," she said. "I see in your eyes that you don't believe me. Would you like it better if I said a little bird had told me?"

"Yes," I said, "I'd like that much better. I'd find that damned little bird and shoot it!" The hopeless rage of humiliation gripped me.

She sat back on her cushion, silently watching me. As minutes passed, I regained some of my composure.

"Sometimes...." she began and trailed off. I looked up.

"Sometimes, what?" I prompted.

"Sometimes, these things aren't physical. Sometimes the problem is boredom, tension, or lack of a suitable partner. Sometimes, the cause is fear. Fear of another failure; fear that grows and causes failure itself. Do you understand?" she asked.

I nodded. These were the same things my doctor had told me, along with the fact that little blue, tan, or beige pills couldn't help me.

"And sometimes, there are other causes," she said.

After vainly waiting for her to continue, I had to ask.

"What other causes?" I feared the answer.

"Evil," she whispered. "Curses and spells."

I shuddered with a sudden chill. I felt as if I'd been suddenly transported to the Middle Ages. Now, I knew why I'd feared her: she was a witch. Not an innocent nudist weekend Wiccan, but a foul-breathed, devil-kissing, soulless weaver of sorcery.

"You don't have to fear me, young man," she said, reading my thoughts, increasing my fear even more. "Spells can make right what spells have made wrong," she incanted calmly.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Perhaps I can sell you a charm to overcome this curse."

"You're joking. And it isn't funny."

"Not at all," she replied.

"Why? What do you get out of it?" I demanded.

"Money, of course," she said. "I charge you my professional rate. You get cured, I get cash. It is simplicity itself."

"What if the cure doesn't work?" I asked suspiciously. "Do I get my money back?"

"No," she said, "but it won't be an issue. It'll work." She rose and went behind the back curtain. The hanging cloth moved a little, rippling like a wave across a lake, echoing her passage going to the other end, and seconds later, her return.

She carried a bundle the size of a basketball wrapped in dark cloth. It didn't seem very heavy, but she placed it carefully on the velvet pad before me. She went to the candle-heated pan and poured something. I heard it splash.

I stared at the bundle. I wanted it to be true. If this old bat could cure my impotence, I'd give her my money. Hell, I might give her my soul.

"These are two idols," she said. "I'll explain them while you drink this." She handed me a chipped cup filled with a slightly oily liquid that looked and smelled like urine. It was warmer than body temperature. I hadn't seen her carry it, it just seemed to appear when she wanted it.

"What's this?" I asked like a child questioning asparagus.

"A herb tea to calm you," she said. "Drink."

I sipped. It tasted bland and needed sugar.

"I don't know how old these idols are, centuries at least, but they could be much older. I've had them for more than 50 years. They will cure your problem." She unwrapped the bundle. Wrapped separately inside were two shapes, one long and slender, one sort of cone-shaped like a cut away section of a soccer ball. The old woman continued unwrapping until they were both exposed. There on the velvet sat what looked like a phallus and a good representation of a vulva. They appeared to be flesh, though that wasn't possible. For an instant I wondered if they might be plastic, then decided they looked more like a very finely polished marble. Streaks of blue sketched veins along the sides of the penis, dark curlicues resembling hair were on the vulva's mons.

Without conscious thought or effort, I picked up the vulva and studied it. It was warm to my touch. Tentatively, I pressed a finger into the vagina; it felt warm and moist. It clung to my finger with a faint squeezing throb. A sharp spicy scent emitted from it. I raised it and sniffed. It smelled exactly like a woman aroused for sex.

"What is it?" I asked.

"It's exactly what it looks like," she said, amused. "In the East, it would be called a yoni. It is the female essence. It will make you resilient and imaginative. The other is called a yang. That one is the male essence. It will give you strength and resolution."

"What do I do with them?" I asked.

"Anything you would enjoy," she replied, smiling.

"Have you ever used them?" I asked.

"Certainly, many times," she said. "When I was a young woman, I was fearful and frigid. These saved my marriage, and therefore my life." She paused. "I haven't used them in many years."

I replaced the female part on the velvet and picked up the phallus. It was about six and a half or seven inches long and at the thickest part near the crown of the head, just a little under two inches across. It felt like living flesh, turgid with power or lust, and ready to squirm away of its own volition. Idly I wondered what it would feel like, what it would....

I held the yang in my right hand and picked up the yoni in my left. I felt the hairs on my forearms and head stand up as if I'd suddenly picked up a major charge of static electricity. I felt supercharged as a rush of adrenaline surged, racing downward through me. I started to bring my hands together.

"NO!" the old woman commanded. "You must never do that!"

"Why not?" I asked. I replaced the two idols side by side on the velvet. "What happens if I fit them together?"

"I'm not sure," she admitted, "but their power comes partly from the spells of their making and partly from the fact that they were cut literally one from the other from the same piece of white marble. Think of their energy as being electricity. When they came to me, I was told the energy would discharge through the holder as they returned to being a single piece of marble. I never tried. I enjoyed the idols too much to risk destroying them, though it might be an interesting way to die. You must use them wisely. I will teach you—after you pay me."

"How much?"

"Two hundred fifty thousand dollars."

"WHAT! You crazy old bitch, I haven't got two hundred fifty grand! I didn't pay half that for my house!"

"Your house, or even two of them, could not return your manhood," she pointed out calmly. "This can and will."

My throat felt like it was closing; my mouth felt filled with cotton. I was mouth-breathing in a desert. I took another sip of her tea. It didn't help. If I closed my retirement account, after paying the taxes and penalties, there would be just about enough. What if it didn't work? But, if it did....

"I want a demonstration," I said. "A trial run."

For the first time, she looked shaken.

"I'm sorry," she said. "There's no one here but me."

"I'm not going to pay that kind of money for something that's probably a con game. No demonstration, no sale," I said. "Even if it works, I may not like it. What if it turns me into a rapist or a child molester?"

Her richly booming laughter sounded like she'd stolen it from a much younger woman.

"Since you insist," she gasped between bursts of laughter, "you shall have your demonstration." She guffawed for a while, then caught her breath.

"This is how you must use them," she said, once again all business. "You must have a willing partner. If you wish to be the aggressor, you must hold the yang and give the yoni to the partner. If you wish to be the pursued, hold the yoni and give your partner the yang. It will make no difference to your ability to respond. Each of you will see and feel something you'd enjoy as long as you continue holding your idol."

"How does it work," I asked.

"Sympathetic magic," she answered. "You must keep the charm touching your skin at all times. If you don't, the illusion ends."

"But, how does it work? I mean how do I use it?"

"There is a powerful attraction between yang and yoni. If someone holds a charm and the other isn't held, there is no effect at all. If one person holds both, there is a slight effect. But, if both charms are held by different people, the forces of the idols will overwhelm their minds and hearts as long as they continue to hold them."

"You mean this works on anybody? That sounds like a rapist's dream to me."

"Not really," she replied. "If an unwilling or chaste person was to hold the idol when desire arose, wouldn't they simply let it fall from their hand? But, yes, there are weak people. So, you must always have a willing partner. Such as the one you'll see in a few moments."

She picked up the yoni by the cloth it had been wrapped in. She passed behind the curtain, her shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.

I picked up the yang. It looked noble, like the prick of a king. I wondered again at its realistic feel. There was a tingling in my crotch as feelings long dormant stirred. I stroked the phallus against my forearm. Its smoothness felt odd. I felt a rush of blood into my penis as a flood of desire overwhelmed me like an incoming tide. She would send me a partner....

I was ecstatic with erection. I felt I could do pushups without using my hands. Surely no prick had been this hard since the beginning of time. It was stiff enough to poke through walls.

It occurred to me that if the charm was already working, then my partner must be holding the yoni and feeling the same desires I felt. Which meant the partner was surely on her way. I watched the curtain impatiently.

The rippling of the cloth alerted me to her arrival. She walked in, looking around uncertainly until her eyes met mine. It was like a candle put to a cup of gasoline.

She wore a white silken cape over her naked olive skin. It swayed as she walked, teasing me with flashes of thigh and hidden places, roundness of breasts with long, pointedly erect nipples, complimented by the brilliance of the sexy smile on her face. She was no older than 22. She held the yoni in her left hand.

Before I could speak in greeting, she raised her right hand and covered my mouth. She wanted no speeches. Her eyes glittered as she began unbuttoning my shirt one-handed; losing patience, she ripped the shirt open, sending buttons clattering on the floor. I didn't care. To hell with the buttons, to hell with the shirt. I tore off what remained and threw it away. I was going to get laid.

Between us, we managed to get my shoes, pants and shorts off. She lay back against the cushion with her legs slightly spread, knees raised, looking like Eve must've looked in the Garden. I looked at her, drinking in the sight. Her eyes focused on my stiffness as she reached between her legs and began fingering herself and licking her lips in anticipation. One finger, then two, entered her, opening the way for the rock-hard pole I was about to fuck her with. The thin, dark hairs around her pussy glistened with juice as her fingers snaked in and out. She was a woman possessed by a lusting demon.

I flipped her cape over one shoulder so I could enjoy her nakedness. Her breasts were full, swollen, their nipples sensitively erect, almost to the point of pain. I knelt before her, kissing them one after the other, tonguing each ripe pink-brown berry, tasting her skin, her sweat.

She lifted the yoni to her face and began giving it quick little licks. I eased my weight onto her thighs and pressed my prick against her. The bulbous head had barely entered her pussy when she began to orgasm. I slowly worked it into her, like sweating a two-inch pipe joint. It felt like I was putting my dick into a hot velvet mouth. She contracted with each new spasm, then shuddered throughout her body, squeezing my tool in waves from its head to its root. I could feel her wetness against my balls as I rode her bucking body toward the finish line.

She held the yoni up to my face. I began to lick it as she had. I could feel the twitching of her pussy around my cock with each stroke of my tongue. I held the yang to her lips. She sucked it like a prick. I could feel her tongue laving the head of the idol on my own dick, even while I fucked her. It was indescribable to be sucked and fucked at the same time.

I heard a wild moaning as I felt my climax approach. At first, I thought it was her, then realized it was my own noise of joyful release from the bondage of my failure. I exploded in orgasm. The yang seemed to throb in my hand each time I throbbed inside her.

She began to lick my idol again. I was startled to find I was still hard and still in her. I raised up on my elbows. She pushed me away.

I lifted off her and she twisted around to fuck doggie-style. I saw the beauty of her hips and began fingering her there, lifting her juices from her cunt, smearing them around and into her asshole. Soon, I had a thumb working in and out of her back door. She groaned with each stroke. I slid my cock back into her cunt. Then we were fucking furiously, my balls bouncing off her clit with each forward rush.

I took her hand with its idol, put the yoni on her shoulder, and resumed licking it. In seconds, she began to climax. I felt like a god to be able to control her so and give her pleasure.

The power of her orgasm triggered my own and I flooded her again with my seed. Again, she elbowed me to move. She rolled me on my back. This time, she sat on me, engulfing my still incredible hardness. She dangled her tits in front of my mouth as she pumped me. I licked them one after the other, then pushed them together and tongued both nipples at the same time. She put her hands over mine, leaned back, and moaned as she came again. I held my dick as far inside her as I could to feel each spasm with her.

With a burst of wild laughter, she left me holding the yoni while she grabbed away the yang. I wondered what new treat she'd think up for us.

She switched into a 69 position, pushing her cum-dripping twat against my mouth. I licked it, then tongue fucked it. She was sucking my prick, then licking my balls, something I'd never enjoyed before. She kneaded my hips with her strong, probing fingers.

I began licking her with long, flat strokes of my tongue. No crack or crevice escaped my pleasuring.

She slithered her arm between us to rub the yang against her yearning hole. I began to lick it as well as her pussy. It was like we were both worshiping the totem of my erection with our mouths, hers wet and clinging, mine dry and ghostly.

I came suddenly. In spite of the buildup and knowing what was happening, I wasn't prepared for the surprise or the force of it. One second, I was moaning with pleasure, the next, I was reeling on a cloud. I felt the yang do its own throbbing matching mine, and then it was over.

My eyes closed, I lay there resting, licking her in a disinterested way. I'd had my limit. I must've relaxed my hand because I felt the yoni slip from my fingers and heard it roll to the floor with a soft thud. The girl tried to struggle away, but I held her hips in place over my mouth as I continued to lick her clean of our juices. She wriggled and twisted, but even as my cock shriveled back to its normal flaccidity, I wasn't going to let her get away.

"You must pick up the yoni," I heard the old woman say.

Though muffled by the young girl's body, I managed to say: "I don't think I need it. All I need is this girl."

"Then open your eyes and see," she laughed.

I didn't want to do it, but there was an edge to her voice that made me look. As soon as my eyes opened, I knew something was wrong. The young, firm olive hips had been replaced by old saggy white ones. I pushed them forward. The sparse dark brown curly hairs had been replaced with kinky dirty grey. I realized why she was laughing. I pushed her off my belly and sat up. I spat on the floor.