I feel my face burn with shame and with anger. Naija leaned in so close, I can feel her warm breath. "Is your marriage dead, Christine Matthews?"
I feel tears running down my face, leaving searing tracks on my skin. "Yes," I whisper. "It's been dead for a long time." I begin to cry and am surprised to feel the arms of the old woman close around me. Her arms are strong and she pulls me against her and lets me cry myself out.
When I am done, she looks down at me, her eyes blazing with a holy light. She turns to Ramita and nods. "She has the Mark of Danteshwari. The holy mother has decreed it."
"What does that mean," I ask, still sniffling. "What do these dreams mean? Are they going to stop? How can we all be sharing the same fucking dream?" I stop suddenly. I am shouting and I did not mean to curse in front of this old woman.
Naija smiles and pats my cheek. "Stop asking questions. Simply accept what is to come. In a fortnight, all answers that you seek will be yours. There is a...rite that must be observed and that you must participate in. Once it is completed, your dreams will end. At dusk the first night of the full moon, Ramita will come for you and you will have your answers."
The old woman turns and hobbles towards the door. "Walk me home, Ramita. I am old and tired and there is so much to do." I try and say more, but she turns and puts an old gnarled finger to her lips. "Shhhhh, Christine. Be patient. For now, it must suffice for you to know that you are not insane." She gives me a big, mostly toothless smile and says, "Have joy, daughter. You are blessed of Danteshwari. It is a most wondrous thing!"
BEHOLD -- YOU ARE THE CHOSEN OF DANTESHWARI. EMBRACE THE BLESSINGS AND THE REBIRTH SHE OFFERS YOU NOW. OPEN YOUR HEART AND NOW LOVE FOR ALL ETERNITY. ACCEPT THE SACRED GIFTS OF LOVE AND FAMILY AND BE AS ONE. YOU ARE THE BLESSED OF DANTESHWARI!
My need is so great it hurts as I hear those words. There is carnality now in the voice. Each syllable ratchets up my desire as I writhe on my back, the strands of material that make up my robe, parting to reveal my feverish, aching, needing sex. My dream lover approaches. He is naked, his cock swollen and long. His beautifully sculpted body is entrancing. I need him. I cannot move except to spread my legs wide and fling my pelvis upwards, offering myself, begging for relief in body language.
My dream lover climbs between my legs, his head still shrouded -- first in mist and then in shadow. My blood engorged nerves can sense his cock almost touching my wet, hot flesh. My labia can almost clasp him. I ache to draw him inside me. He is almost there, sooo close. I look up. I can see his eyes -- they are a reflection of my own blue eyes. I know that there is less than the length of a hair's distance between his hard cock and my wet pussy. Its time -- it's finally time...
And I am upright and awake, tangled in my sheets, sobbing and whimpering, "Nooo! I need it," as my fingers are buried deep in my pussy. I have practically my whole right hand fucking my burning cunt as I try and seek relief. I arch my back as I make myself cum, knowing that it isn't enough -- that I need more -- I need the cock of my dream lover. I sob aloud as my orgasm washes over me. The relief I seek isn't there, even though I am overwhelmed with pleasure.
The only thing I am glad about is that Joseph isn't here. He has journeyed far, to New Delhi for a missionary conference. He left three days ago and will not be back for at least a week. I have masturbated at every free moment since he left, aching for the release that will not come. I am glad he is gone. I have begged him for sex many times since Naija talked to me and he has spurned me at every turn. Now with him away, I can't humiliate myself again by begging for his love.
"Mother? Are you okay?" Jeff is at the door. "I heard you cry out. Did you have another bad dream?" He opens it a little, and I pull the sheets around my nakedness. I cannot see him in the darkness. There is the rumble of thunder in the distance. We have had storms for two days.
I find my voice and rasp hoarsely, "Yes, another bad dream, Jeff. I'm sorry, darling. I didn't mean to wake you. Go back to bed, son."
"I was dreaming too, Mother." There is a long pause. "Are you sure there is nothing I can do for you?"
"You're sweet, honey, but no. I'm alright now. Go back to bed, darling."
"Yes, Mother," my son replies and I hear footsteps as he retreats. Then there is a flash of lighting and for a second, I can see my son's silhouette against the wall. I gasp. I see the shadow of his cock, hard and long and extending from the shadow of his body silhouetted against the wall. I know my son tends to sleep naked in hot weather, but I had no idea he had been at my door naked and hard.
Again for the countless time, my images of my dream lover become mixed up with images of my eighteen year old son. I know I'm going mad, despite what Ramita and Naija say. I cling to one hope. It's been a fortnight since I spoke to Naija. Tonight this must all end. I know that things cannot continue as they are. If the dreams do not end, I know I must leave. Return home to America and have myself committed.
I cannot continue this existence. I will leave my son and find some way to cleanse my mind of this mad, erotic desire. Find a way to erase that beautiful, hard cock from my mind. Even as I speak, again I discover my fingers have ventured forth on their own and are buried in my pussy, again attempting to scratch an itch I cannot seem to reach.
I fear what my state of mind is doing to my son as well. I have walked around in a constant state of arousal like a cat in heat. I can smell my desire constantly and I am changing panties several times a day as they become sodden with my juices. I've lost count of the times in the last several days that Jeff has been in the same room with me and has sniffed the air, brow furrowing in confusion and curiosity as he smells his mother's wet cunt advertising its need.
I've pitied my poor son as I watched him develop erections as he catches my scent, not realizing his body is simply responding to basic carnal instincts. And it has been a struggle not to touch myself in front of him. Like itches I cannot scratch, my hands are constantly moving of their own volition, touching the burning spot between my thighs or caressing a hard nipple through my blouse. I know he has caught me touching myself and I want to hang my head in shame, not wanting to think what he must think of his crazy mother.
The day crawls by, but at least I can suffer alone. Jeff and Bimal leave at noon for a weekend camping trip. Although the jungle is not tame, both boys are eighteen and competent. They have gone camping by themselves many times and I am not worried.
I shower and dress in the late afternoon. I wear a white blouse and khaki shorts. I sit on the porch, waiting for Ramita to arrive. I watch the sun travel slowly downward and try not to ignore the carnal fantasies running through my mind. I have to change my panties once, and then, oh thank God, and then Ramita comes down the street. It is almost sunset and she walks swiftly down the street, dressed in an orange and blue sari, her dark hair pulled back into a bun.
I meet her in the yard and see that she looks as tense and as tired as I do. It suddenly dawns on me that she too must be suffering from the desires that these dreams bring and I feel ashamed that I have not been more supportive of my friend.
"So, are you ready, my friend," she asks in a breathy voice. We look into each others eyes and I see the weariness and the yearning in her dark brown eyes that I see every time I look into a mirror. I nod slowly and then as one, we move together and embrace, hugging each other tightly. "It will all be over soon, Christine. Be strong a little longer, my dear," Ramita whispers in my ear.
"Yes," I whisper and we join hands and I let myself be led back up the street. We quickly make our way towards the edge of the village. As we walk I realize there are others walking with us as well. Ramita seems to be following a woman a hundred yards ahead. I soon sense someone behind us as well. I turn to see the widow Mamata following us, a look of weary anticipation on her face. Further behind her, comes Nilaya, hand in hand with another woman. I do not know her name, but I recognize her face. Her husband passed away a few years ago, a victim of lung cancer -- Joseph and I had called on them to pray over the poor dying man. Other than we women walking, the village seems deserted. No one is out and about. There is an almost eerie silence.
We walk and we walk as the sun begins to set. We reach the edge of the village and with some alarm, I realize we are stepping into the thick growth of the jungle as the sky slowly darkens. We follow others onto a narrow path and soon are deep in the gloom of the dark jungle, although it is not as dark as I would have thought. Moss hangs from tree branches and clings to trunks and as night comes on becomes luminescent, giving off a silvery glow that provides us plenty of light to follow the path.
As we make our way, the noises of the jungle seem muted as if the animals and insects have paused out of respect to our passage. We walk deep into the jungle. At one point, I sense movement at the edge of my vision and almost unable to believe my eyes, I see a Bengal Tiger's head emerge from the thick undergrowth. It watches us with avid interest, but I do not feel fear. It is aware of us and we are aware of it -- there is almost a sense of communion. I suddenly comprehend that it is a female and there is jolt of understanding, of oneness with the creature. As I pass it, the tiger nuzzles my hand as if to offer encouragement. I am filled with a sense of wonder and for the first time in weeks I believe that perhaps there is a resolution waiting for me at the end of our path.
I feel tears running down my face, leaving searing tracks on my skin. "Yes," I whisper. "It's been dead for a long time." I begin to cry and am surprised to feel the arms of the old woman close around me. Her arms are strong and she pulls me against her and lets me cry myself out.
When I am done, she looks down at me, her eyes blazing with a holy light. She turns to Ramita and nods. "She has the Mark of Danteshwari. The holy mother has decreed it."
"What does that mean," I ask, still sniffling. "What do these dreams mean? Are they going to stop? How can we all be sharing the same fucking dream?" I stop suddenly. I am shouting and I did not mean to curse in front of this old woman.
Naija smiles and pats my cheek. "Stop asking questions. Simply accept what is to come. In a fortnight, all answers that you seek will be yours. There is a...rite that must be observed and that you must participate in. Once it is completed, your dreams will end. At dusk the first night of the full moon, Ramita will come for you and you will have your answers."
The old woman turns and hobbles towards the door. "Walk me home, Ramita. I am old and tired and there is so much to do." I try and say more, but she turns and puts an old gnarled finger to her lips. "Shhhhh, Christine. Be patient. For now, it must suffice for you to know that you are not insane." She gives me a big, mostly toothless smile and says, "Have joy, daughter. You are blessed of Danteshwari. It is a most wondrous thing!"
BEHOLD -- YOU ARE THE CHOSEN OF DANTESHWARI. EMBRACE THE BLESSINGS AND THE REBIRTH SHE OFFERS YOU NOW. OPEN YOUR HEART AND NOW LOVE FOR ALL ETERNITY. ACCEPT THE SACRED GIFTS OF LOVE AND FAMILY AND BE AS ONE. YOU ARE THE BLESSED OF DANTESHWARI!
My need is so great it hurts as I hear those words. There is carnality now in the voice. Each syllable ratchets up my desire as I writhe on my back, the strands of material that make up my robe, parting to reveal my feverish, aching, needing sex. My dream lover approaches. He is naked, his cock swollen and long. His beautifully sculpted body is entrancing. I need him. I cannot move except to spread my legs wide and fling my pelvis upwards, offering myself, begging for relief in body language.
My dream lover climbs between my legs, his head still shrouded -- first in mist and then in shadow. My blood engorged nerves can sense his cock almost touching my wet, hot flesh. My labia can almost clasp him. I ache to draw him inside me. He is almost there, sooo close. I look up. I can see his eyes -- they are a reflection of my own blue eyes. I know that there is less than the length of a hair's distance between his hard cock and my wet pussy. Its time -- it's finally time...
And I am upright and awake, tangled in my sheets, sobbing and whimpering, "Nooo! I need it," as my fingers are buried deep in my pussy. I have practically my whole right hand fucking my burning cunt as I try and seek relief. I arch my back as I make myself cum, knowing that it isn't enough -- that I need more -- I need the cock of my dream lover. I sob aloud as my orgasm washes over me. The relief I seek isn't there, even though I am overwhelmed with pleasure.
The only thing I am glad about is that Joseph isn't here. He has journeyed far, to New Delhi for a missionary conference. He left three days ago and will not be back for at least a week. I have masturbated at every free moment since he left, aching for the release that will not come. I am glad he is gone. I have begged him for sex many times since Naija talked to me and he has spurned me at every turn. Now with him away, I can't humiliate myself again by begging for his love.
"Mother? Are you okay?" Jeff is at the door. "I heard you cry out. Did you have another bad dream?" He opens it a little, and I pull the sheets around my nakedness. I cannot see him in the darkness. There is the rumble of thunder in the distance. We have had storms for two days.
I find my voice and rasp hoarsely, "Yes, another bad dream, Jeff. I'm sorry, darling. I didn't mean to wake you. Go back to bed, son."
"I was dreaming too, Mother." There is a long pause. "Are you sure there is nothing I can do for you?"
"You're sweet, honey, but no. I'm alright now. Go back to bed, darling."
"Yes, Mother," my son replies and I hear footsteps as he retreats. Then there is a flash of lighting and for a second, I can see my son's silhouette against the wall. I gasp. I see the shadow of his cock, hard and long and extending from the shadow of his body silhouetted against the wall. I know my son tends to sleep naked in hot weather, but I had no idea he had been at my door naked and hard.
Again for the countless time, my images of my dream lover become mixed up with images of my eighteen year old son. I know I'm going mad, despite what Ramita and Naija say. I cling to one hope. It's been a fortnight since I spoke to Naija. Tonight this must all end. I know that things cannot continue as they are. If the dreams do not end, I know I must leave. Return home to America and have myself committed.
I cannot continue this existence. I will leave my son and find some way to cleanse my mind of this mad, erotic desire. Find a way to erase that beautiful, hard cock from my mind. Even as I speak, again I discover my fingers have ventured forth on their own and are buried in my pussy, again attempting to scratch an itch I cannot seem to reach.
I fear what my state of mind is doing to my son as well. I have walked around in a constant state of arousal like a cat in heat. I can smell my desire constantly and I am changing panties several times a day as they become sodden with my juices. I've lost count of the times in the last several days that Jeff has been in the same room with me and has sniffed the air, brow furrowing in confusion and curiosity as he smells his mother's wet cunt advertising its need.
I've pitied my poor son as I watched him develop erections as he catches my scent, not realizing his body is simply responding to basic carnal instincts. And it has been a struggle not to touch myself in front of him. Like itches I cannot scratch, my hands are constantly moving of their own volition, touching the burning spot between my thighs or caressing a hard nipple through my blouse. I know he has caught me touching myself and I want to hang my head in shame, not wanting to think what he must think of his crazy mother.
The day crawls by, but at least I can suffer alone. Jeff and Bimal leave at noon for a weekend camping trip. Although the jungle is not tame, both boys are eighteen and competent. They have gone camping by themselves many times and I am not worried.
I shower and dress in the late afternoon. I wear a white blouse and khaki shorts. I sit on the porch, waiting for Ramita to arrive. I watch the sun travel slowly downward and try not to ignore the carnal fantasies running through my mind. I have to change my panties once, and then, oh thank God, and then Ramita comes down the street. It is almost sunset and she walks swiftly down the street, dressed in an orange and blue sari, her dark hair pulled back into a bun.
I meet her in the yard and see that she looks as tense and as tired as I do. It suddenly dawns on me that she too must be suffering from the desires that these dreams bring and I feel ashamed that I have not been more supportive of my friend.
"So, are you ready, my friend," she asks in a breathy voice. We look into each others eyes and I see the weariness and the yearning in her dark brown eyes that I see every time I look into a mirror. I nod slowly and then as one, we move together and embrace, hugging each other tightly. "It will all be over soon, Christine. Be strong a little longer, my dear," Ramita whispers in my ear.
"Yes," I whisper and we join hands and I let myself be led back up the street. We quickly make our way towards the edge of the village. As we walk I realize there are others walking with us as well. Ramita seems to be following a woman a hundred yards ahead. I soon sense someone behind us as well. I turn to see the widow Mamata following us, a look of weary anticipation on her face. Further behind her, comes Nilaya, hand in hand with another woman. I do not know her name, but I recognize her face. Her husband passed away a few years ago, a victim of lung cancer -- Joseph and I had called on them to pray over the poor dying man. Other than we women walking, the village seems deserted. No one is out and about. There is an almost eerie silence.
We walk and we walk as the sun begins to set. We reach the edge of the village and with some alarm, I realize we are stepping into the thick growth of the jungle as the sky slowly darkens. We follow others onto a narrow path and soon are deep in the gloom of the dark jungle, although it is not as dark as I would have thought. Moss hangs from tree branches and clings to trunks and as night comes on becomes luminescent, giving off a silvery glow that provides us plenty of light to follow the path.
As we make our way, the noises of the jungle seem muted as if the animals and insects have paused out of respect to our passage. We walk deep into the jungle. At one point, I sense movement at the edge of my vision and almost unable to believe my eyes, I see a Bengal Tiger's head emerge from the thick undergrowth. It watches us with avid interest, but I do not feel fear. It is aware of us and we are aware of it -- there is almost a sense of communion. I suddenly comprehend that it is a female and there is jolt of understanding, of oneness with the creature. As I pass it, the tiger nuzzles my hand as if to offer encouragement. I am filled with a sense of wonder and for the first time in weeks I believe that perhaps there is a resolution waiting for me at the end of our path.