Monday, June 1, 2015

The Goddess Bites

Sacchi Green

Rory's ass tingled with a vulnerability oddly close to pleasure. She had wondered sometimes, just curious, what her games felt like to all those girls who’d been bound by her ropes. But this was no game. She wanted out!

Her numbed fingers couldn't feel the crystals whose gleam had lured them into an unstable crevice. She could never resist caves, the lure of the unknown; now her wrist was trapped by immovable shards of stone.

With the crunch of steps on gravel came thoughts of bears. Her knees flexed, heavy boots ready to lash out.

"You still okay, Rory?" A beam from Gwen’s flashlight brushed her body.

"Just fine.”

 "I called the ranger station. A rescue team should be here in an hour or two. They’ll cut the band of that macho watch so your hand will slip right out. Which ex gave that to you? Ex-before-last? Ex-cubed, maybe?”

Rory cursed, then groaned.

"You sure you're okay?"

"I may chew my arm off before they get here!" Mind and body had betrayed her. As a sculptor, she was supposed to know stone, its grain, its faults, its balance. Now the hand that could wield a mallet against a chisel with precision, searching out the hidden shapes in stone begging for release, was immobilized. By stone. The hand that could thrust rhythmically into a woman's deep, secret places, making her beg for more, more, harder, was trapped. In the deep, secret places of the earth.

"The earth goddess has teeth!" Gwen had said before going for help.

Now she wriggled her way close to Rory and offered a drink from a straw stuck into her canteen. "You could become famous as a one-handed sculptor. And fucker. Girls could leave damp underwear at the tomb of your legendary fist."

Rory’s jerking body put pressure on her injured wrist. “Damn!”

"What's the matter? I hope you don't have to take a piss!"

 "Oh, God!" The urge was sudden, brutal, inevitable.

 "Sorry I mentioned it." But Gwen wasn’t penitent. "Let’s get your pants down just in case."

 Rory, desperate, raised herself. Her jeans slide past her hips, leaving her legs as immobilized by denim as her hand by stone.

 "Distraction might help," Gwen said coolly; but there was nothing cool about her touch on Rory's exposed flesh. The urgency shifted a few vital centimeters. Cunt and clit, not bladder, begged for relief.

 "Oh shit!" Rory’s glutes tensed.

 "Nope. Piss would be bad enough." Gwen’s hand withdrew.

Rory stifled a whimper. She never begged, she commanded!  But this hardly seemed the time to give orders. After a few indecipherable movements, the hand--or something--returned, nudging at Rory's asshole.

"Hold still!"

No arguing with that. Thought vanished as Gwen stroked from Rory's cunt to her asshole, spreading heat and wetness. She was distracted, all right. The urge to shrink away fought one to press closer.

The snap of a latex glove resounded off the tunnel walls. “Good thing I had emergency provisions in my pack,” Gwen said complacently, "including Big Bad Bear, looking for a den." She held the butt plug in the faint light for Rory to see, then probed her again, twisting the toy, going deeper. Rory braced her knees, lifted her ass higher. The plug filled her, and Gwen's fingers slipped in and out of her cunt, playing against the insistent, maddening  pressure in her asshole.

Rory didn’t notice Gwen's other hand going back and forth past her head until something wet, and pungent, brushed her cheek. In the flashlight’s rays she saw the drinking straw probe between the imprisoning stones, withdraw, disappear, and reappear, coated with thick, glistening moisture. Gwen's musky scent mingled with her own.

     "Come on," Gwen urged. "How slippery you can get?" Her pumping hand went on, slurping in and out, teasing but never quite hitting the spot.

 "Please, damn it!" Rory’s voice was raw. "Please!" Finally, after an agonizing minute, Gwen used both hands, one to steady the butt plug and the fingers of the other to thrust fiercely into Rory's cunt, while the thumb challenged her straining clit. Waves of pressure from front, back, and deep inside met in a roaring tsunami of liquid heat.

At last Rory realized that her trapped hand had slipped free, streaked with thick cunt-juice. Then she saw the tube in Gwen's breast pocket. "You had lube all along!"

"Just in case," Gwen admitted. " Didn't need it, except for Big Bad Bear. We made plenty. Shouldn’t an offering to appease the earth goddess be all-natural?"

Rory's uninjured left hand thrust ruthlessly down into Gwen's pants. "The goddess must be on my side again," she muttered against Gwen's wide grin. “She's just granted me the gift of ambidexterity.” And satisfied some curiosity, too, but she kept that thought to herself.


  1. This is fantastic! The characters really come alive, despite the tale's brevity.

    (Also one of the hottest things you've posted here, I think!)

    1. "Hot" is in the eye (or whatever) of the beholder, but yeah. I don't usually go quite that far for a public blog post. This particular story, in its original incarnation, was in the long-departed "On Our Backs" magazine, and then, with bit about a motorcycle added, in my Hard Road, Easy Riding biker anthology. Now I've pared it back down, and then some, to try to make it fit as flash fiction, but haven't really succeeded.

  2. Ooh! Hot stuff, Sacchi.

    And cave *men* get the bad rep. :>)

    1. Of course, because, just as with "Hu-man," "man" or "men" is the default term for any classification of homo sapiens. I suppose we're lucky the plural of "human" isn't "humen."

    2. Or that 'hymen' isn't a salutation in the plural.

  3. Yeah, here's to the ladies and their ambidexterity!

  4. As others have said, this is awesome. Super-hot (to me, anyway), and at the same time very revealing of character.

  5. I think I read at least one version of this story -- definitely the one in Hard Road, Easy Riding, possibly the one in On Our Backs. The way your characters interact with their natural surroundings (and vice versa) is both hot and uncanny. I don't know of any other writer who includes more magical rocks in their work -- except maybe Diana Gabaldon, who (I think) has the heroine of her Outlander series pass from one era to another by touching a special rock.


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