Coming of the Red Mother Ch. 02

Twilight had slowly shifted into dusk. A few pallid stars had just begun to show and brighten the skies above her. Beyond the low continuous hum of summer insects sounded the evening carol of song birds whose names she did not know. Presently the birds ceased singing and in that pause the quiet was noticeable. When night set in and the place seemed all the more isolated and lonely for that stillness in the air she had a sense of relief.

She couldn't explain why, but this isolation was turning her on. All her life she had been surrounded by others — her mother and father, her husband and gossiping women of the market, her sister and her family, even Hayk — now she was alone and breathed in the night air deeply, feeling a long-familiar stirring in her gut. She wasn't suppose to be here, to be alive, to be able to do the things she had done. She spread her legs, dangling one over the edge of a nearby log and pulled her dress to her knees. In the firelight she drew slow little circles on her naked thighs with her fingertips. Caressing her bare skin, she slid a finger under her rough, 19th century bloomers and could just touch her outlandish panties. Arching a little, she stretched her finger a bit more and could feel the dampening spot. She fingered her clit through her wet cloth and sighed in relief. Time passed. Her hair had begun to stick to her face, beads of sweat marking her upper lip. Her arousal was mixed with night heat and the pleasure was taking her out of her body.

She drew her knees up to her chest and rolled over to one side, urging her desire to come.

Usually, when she masturbated, she fantasize about others. Tonight she did not. It was just her soul and her body's response to pleasure. Closing her eyes, she gloried in the squishy sloot-sloot noise her fingers made, ramming four fingers in as far as they could go. Sweat dampened her temples and stung her eyes but she continued. This was perfect. Arching into pleasure she was gripped by the beginnings of her first climax. She began to pulse. Clenching and unclenching her cunt muscles, she called upon all the ancient gods of her people to hurry to her, to bring her pleasure, bring her revenge. Moaning aloud, her knees almost touched her ears as she writhed and flexed and bucked, her cries increasing in volume, she was close, very close. Her hips thrust into her hand just as she recoiled from her own fury. She couldn't take it anymore and yet she was determined to cum. She thrashed harder, her cries louder and louder.

Her old self would have worried that such noise would have attracted unwanted attention. But the change one day had brought amazed her. All that what Hayk had loved in her — her free, easy, happy spirit — and all that her husband had loved in her — her bold, intelligent, self-assured manner — was gone. Her ragged moans drowned out the sound of the night. It drowned out her ferocious hammering of her heart and the blood pulsing in her ears, her fingers, her cunt. These weren't cries of pleasure, these were battle cries, the sound the lioness makes in the savanna at night before the kill. She would take on the whole Ottoman army if she had to. Let them come.

She was about to cum.

Someone was coming, someone had to because the masculine pride of the Young Turks would never allow a contradiction like her to exist. By Sharia law not only was she a member of the untouchable Dhimmi but she was a soul-less woman as well, fit only to bring male heirs into the world, forever needing to be kept in check due to her dark, illogical emotions.

In one last stab she impaled her fingers painfully deep in her flesh and exploded. Slumping back on the ground like the cut strings on a marionette, her dress around her hips, head lolling to the side and then the other, she whined, jerked, twitched and fell away, sleeping the sleep of the dead. Far to the south, across the endless wastelands that are called Der ez Zor, a presence stirred, awoke and stretched. There had been a noise, a noise not heard under the moon for — uncountable eons. There had been a cry, a barbaric ululation, a blood yawp, the sort of sound that only souls can give while exposed to great pleasure or great pain. The shadow that moved across the sands knew about pain and the guilt that comes from it. Somewhere, out there in the foothills of Anatolia, lay a woman who had uttered those sounds and the shadow moved off, passing over the dunes without leaving so much as a footprint in the sand and not even the wind knew what passed beneath it.