FICTION
Quaternità

By Marla K. Chisum

I don’t remember how I got here, in the rusted bed of a pickup truck that runs, I think, on its driver’s will alone—on the need of a tired old man with a dark and leathery face to keep these grinding axles turning until he is too weak to work this fertile land. The details of how I came to sit amidst the straw, the scattered grain, and the feathers of chickens gone to market have faded in the blur of intoxication—not from the wine these Tuscan hills yield, but from the mad heat that rises in an invisible mist between the bodies of future lovers, is breathed in deeply, and clouds the mind—the inebriation of desire.

Who are these men, this beautiful trio some fifteen years from their days together at university, where they came as strangers to discover the roots of western civilization and left as brothers. How did I happen upon their reunion and what had possessed me to abandon the solace of my own journey to join them in their hedonistic revelry? I had left the beaten path days before, leaving the tourist magnets and textbook treasures in favor of the quiet countryside—the countryside that now rolls past me in the late afternoon sun, the olive groves and vineyards sprawling out on either side of the dusty road.
The four of us sit quietly now, staring at each other and at the passing landscape with palpable anticipation. I study them each in turn, memorizing their features and imagining their stories. Immediately to my left is the Frenchman, Jean-Luc. He is of slight frame, his features soft and delicate, almost feminine. He is fair-haired and light in complexion, his tight blond curls cropped close to his head. I imagine that he is a poet, a writer, perhaps a philosopher—a man of thought and creativity. He has his right arm protectively around my shoulders, to steady me as the worn treads of the truck’s tires find every hollow and hill in the road.

The Spaniard, Felipe, leans with his back against the squeaking tailgate, his knees drawn up to his chest and his arms resting on them. I keep imagining, with every jolt we sustain, that the gate will fly open and he will topple backward out of the truck and onto the dirt road behind us. He looks younger than his friends. His good looks are boyish, but he is most certainly a man, a strength hidden behind the mischievous grin he keeps flashing me from an unshaven face, an irrepressible impish charm that belies the hot-blooded passion just beneath. I don’t imagine him in any occupation; a wanderer who enjoys women, drink, and dance and has a particular affinity for anything he can finesse without cost or obligation—a man who will promise you nothing, pay no debt, yet still leave you grateful for his passing through your life.

Directly across from me is the Italian, Paolo. His dark eyes have not left me since we climbed into the truck’s open bed. His eyes are dangerous, his stare mesmerizing. Somehow he does not move even as the truck’s rear wheels leave the ground and slam back to earth with every pothole or stone in its way. He is expressionless, but that dangerous gaze burns through me. He has the chiseled Mediterranean features of an art book god, the body that nature meant man to have in its perfection. I knew when I first saw him, before I noticed his companions in the noise and activity of the plaza square, that I would have him—that he would share my body and leave me with a beautiful memory and a lengthy journal entry. I cannot assign a story to him, cannot imagine his life outside of this moment, this mysterious man around whom I cannot breathe, cannot think.

I am certain that they all three speak English, but they will not speak it to me. As each speaks in his own native tongue, I know that the others understand him, but I do not. The romance of their languages, though, had surrounded me and seduced me into the back of an old man’s pickup truck and deep into a vast foreign countryside.

Paolo reaches his arm over the side of the truck and pounds with the flat of his hand against the driver’s door, those dark eyes fixed upon me as the truck slows to a stop in the middle of the road. In a swift, single movement Felipe pulls himself up on the tailgate and swings his lower body over, landing on his feet on the warm Italian soil. Paolo is more slow and deliberate in his movements, straddling the rounded body of the truck as if mounting a lover, then moving his left leg to join the right and sliding down the side of the pickup. Jean-Luc rises and extends his hand to me, pulling me to my feet. With surprising strength, he lifts me under my arms and lowers me over the side of the truck, where the Spaniard stands waiting to take me by the waist and guide me safely to the ground. As my feet touch down, the Frenchman clears the truck and comes to rest beside me. On the other side of the truck, Paolo once more strikes the diver’s door with his open hand and nods in thanks for the ride. The old farmer nods back and pulls away, leaving nothing between the four of us but a cloud of dust.

The men exchange a few words that I do not understand and we begin to walk, Jean-Luc’s hand pressed gently into the small of my back, guiding me off the road and into a thickness of trees that seems to have no end. I see no visible landmarks, no distinguishing features that would serve as a compass. Yet these three men obviously know where they are, where they are going, and I follow willingly, having long since surrendered to the adventure ahead. I am not afraid of these unfamiliar men, or of this unfamiliar place with no other visible signs of human life. I know why I have been brought here. They are leading for the same reason I am following. We will be lovers, these strangers and I. I have been studying their scents, their looks, the sounds of their voices. Before the night is through, I will know the taste and touch of each—the sensations of drawing them each inside of me in turn. It is an agonizing hunger that drives us deeper and deeper into these woods.

I don’t know how long we’ve been walking. A sheer layer of sweat glistens off my skin and dampens my clothes, the Mediterranean sun finding its way through the cracks in the ceiling of branches above us. My legs are weary from the stress of walking on this uneven terrain on sandal-clad feet.

Suddenly we are there, on the edge of a small clearing, a man-made oasis adorned with both natural and manufactured beauty. There is a small pool, just large enough for swimming, irregular in shape, designed by man to look like a creation of Earth’s own hand. Rough-hewn stones make up its sides, and a stream of water flows down a fixed mound of similar stones on the pool’s far edge, a waterfall arranged deliberately to appear a random act of nature. Around the pool are reproductions of ancient Roman art and architecture distressed to look authentic, like the ruins of some miniature city of the fallen Roman Empire. There are columns, some toppled, some upright, all weathered and broken in places, and sculptures of mythological gods in similar condition. There are two high benches, long and narrow slabs of polished marble that rise to an impractical waist height, probably ideal for warming and tanning a nude body after a cool swim but not comfortable for sitting.

I know that this must be part of some nearby estate, the property of the owner of an old, profitable winery, part of a great span of land with acres of private vineyards. I know that we are not supposed to be here, these men and I. We are trespassing, undetected and uninvited guests. My escorts have trespassed here before, countless times, hosting countless women. Perhaps the native Italian Paolo discovered this secluded spot in his youth, skinny-dipping with boyhood friends in constant fear of getting caught. With the appetites of a man, he has returned again and again to make new sensual discoveries and sexual conquests. He does not own this place, but it is his nonetheless.

He stands staring at me now, taking in my reaction to his secret lovers’ hiding place, and I return his fixed gaze for a few moments, my heart pounding beneath my breast. I feel something at work here, in this place-- some unseen force of magic that transforms every living thing that enters. I am no longer a woman. I am a goddess emerging, one of these statues coming to life to preside over an orgy of uninhibited sexual pleasure, the central figure in an epic of lust and unchecked passion. I feel the blood surging through my veins, my heart pumping, and I know why he comes here. There is rebirth in that water, life in this rock, that bans caution from this place and demands abandon. It is not about making love. It is about being fucked. It is not about human reason. It is about animal instinct. It is not about man’s laws of romantic seduction. It is about nature’s laws of physical pleasure and fulfillment, taking what you desire and devouring it completely, the cum on your body, the blood on your face. I am no longer a reticent woman raised in a society of etiquette and propriety, the wounded bird who fled her own world to nurse a broken heart. I am of this world now, at one with it. He watches my metamorphosis closely, intently, pleased with its totality.

In my peripheral vision, Felipe undresses without ceremony, peeling his sweat soaked shirt from his torso and casually discarding his pants. I turn now to watch his naked body angle clumsily into the water, and with the same breath he stays beneath the surface until he reaches the opposite side. He raises his head above the water line and shakes it like a wet dog, water flying out from his wild hair in all directions before he grins up at me and winks. I smile at him, trying to make out the details of his body through the distortions of the water.

Jean-Luc’s hands are on my shoulders, my exposed skin red and tender with too much time in the afternoon sun. He is behind me, with the thin straps of my yellow sundress between the forefinger and thumb of each hand, fondling the loops of the tied bows that hold the dress in place before moving his hands up to run his long fingers through my hair. Slowly kissing the right side of my neck, then the left, he lightly caresses my bare back and shoulders before returning to the ties of my dress. Kissing and lightly sucking the right side of my neck, he moves my soft hair aside as he pulls loose the strings on my left shoulder, the strap falling away. He moves his soft lips back to the left as he reaches for the right strap and releases the knot. Kissing his way from the nape of my neck, down between my shoulder blades to the middle of my back, his gentle hands ease the soft fabric of my dress down to my waist and then over my hips. He lets the dress fall to the ground, around my ankles and moves his hands slowly back up my hips and waist, across my stomach, and up to my breasts, the nipples hard with anticipation, and lightly massages the erect tits.

Paolo stands and observes this, his eyes still upon me as he begins to unbutton his shirt and remove his shoes. As I watch him make these first overtures of undressing, I feel myself getting wet, a dull ache forming deep within me that only his invading cock can alleviate.

I step on the heel strap of my left sandal with the toe of my right, pushing it down and pulling my foot from the shoe. I repeat the process with my other foot, standing now only in thin white cotton panties that do not fully conceal the mound of dark, coarse hair beneath.

Jean-Luc’s kisses and caresses have stopped, and I realize now that he is nude, slipping with quiet grace into the pool, barely causing a ripple in the water’s surface as he lowers himself to stand on the bottom, the water level reaching his lower chest.

Paolo and I stand facing each other, and despite the two completely naked men moving through the water below us, I feel self-conscious in my partial nudity before this clothed man. I take a few steps toward him, and he steps forward to meet me. His shirt is open in the front and I put my hands against his bare chest, pushing his shirt up and over his shoulders, down his arms and finally freeing him of it entirely. I lower my head to kiss his perfect chest, but he pulls my chin up and lowers his mouth to mine. It is not a hesitant or gentle kiss. It is hard, wet, and demanding. His tongue forces its way past my teeth to find my own tongue, and his lips push and pull at mine, contorting the shape of my mouth with his. He is consuming me, and I want to be consumed as I now hungrily return the force and urgency of his kiss. I feel his strong hands groping at the elastic waistband of my underwear, pushing it down until it falls to the ground and bunches around my bare feet. I step out of it as I reach for the button on his pants. I fumble with it, disoriented and drunk from the taste of him, and he pulls his mouth away from mine just long enough to help me undo the plastic fastener. I pull down on his zipper and slide my hand between the material of his open pants and his flesh, finding his still flaccid cock and releasing it from the fabric that binds it. He rids himself of his pants completely and pulls me hard against him, our naked bodies pressed tightly together so that I can feel his now semi-hard penis probing between my thighs. I want him now. I wrap one leg around his leg like a coiling snake, and then move it up so that my knee is at his waist. I want him to take me. I want him to guide his erect cock into me and fuck me, standing right here in this very spot. He does not move to penetrate me, though, and so I reach a motivating hand toward his dick.

Suddenly, I recoil and cry out from the shock of cold water raining down on my hot flesh, and it takes me a moment to remember the other half of this foursome—the two men watching us from the pool, splashing waves of water to cool the heat of two would-be lovers. At first I am furious, drawing in a deep breath that when exhaled will carry with it a stream of American profanities. I look at Paolo, though, and for the first time that I can remember, he smiles at me. My anger melts away and he nods toward the pool as if encouraging me to try the waters. The mood broken, I acquiesce and sit at the edge, timidly testing the water with the toes of one foot. Jean-Luc and Felipe have no patience for my hesitance, and each takes one of my hands in his and together they gently pull me from the safety of the side and into the water. I’m surprised at how good it feels, the cold against my hot skin—not like it did before, when I was involuntarily showered. It is re-energizing, invigorating, and strangely comforting, this water lapping gently at my breasts, rinsing away the sweat and slow burn from the sun on my skin and I almost don’t mind that my imminent coupling with the art book god had abruptly ended. Of course, it only seemed imminent at the time. I realize now that the Italian had no intention of taking me there in the heat of that moment, and that his friends had acted almost on cue as his collaborators to delay the gratification I crave.

Felipe takes both of my hands in his and pushes off from the bottom of the pool, propelling himself backwards and pulling me along through the water with him, the way an adult would pull a child through the water to help her become accustomed to the sensation of gliding weightlessly. As he pulls me closer to him, I raise my head so that my mouth will meet his when I reach him, but as I draw within inches of the prize of his lips, he pushes off again, jettisoning himself backward until I am at arm’s length once more and he is again pulling my body through the water toward him. We play this game of water tag again and again. Each time I try to bring my mouth to his, and each time he allows me to draw close enough that I believe I might, only to then push away and drag me in his wake. We cross the length of the pool several times in this fashion, finally coming to rest at the opposite end from which we started.

As his back comes to rest against the side of the pool, he releases my hands and takes me by the waist, pulling me in close to him and at last I think that I have earned his elusive kiss. Reading my mind, he places his extended index finger against my lips, his devilish eyes telling me that I must wait still longer. Without looking, he reaches behind him over the pool’s edge and his searching hand finds a shallow terra cotta dish. In it are a few small clusters of grapes, deep red in color, the size and perfectly round shape of gumballs. I don’t remember seeing them before just now. Have they been here all along? Who placed them here? We hadn’t passed through any vineyards on our walk to this spot. Is the person who brought them here nearby? Will he or she be returning soon to claim them? The mystery that shrouds the fruit weaves through my mind, but Felipe seems unconcerned with its origins. He lifts a small, tight bunch from the dish and dunks it quickly in the pool between us. He raises it again, the grapes dripping with the clear water, and holds it just above my head. I tilt my head back to see them dangling there begging to be taken and I open my mouth wide. My Spanish lover lowers them slowly and pauses just above my waiting mouth to taunt me. I make a sound of frustration. I am tired of playing this game. He relents mercifully and lowers the grapes to my tongue. I position my teeth around three or four pieces of the fruit and as he pulls the bunch away these few grapes snap from their stems and fall loosely into my mouth. I eagerly bite though the skins, releasing the pulp, juice and seeds. I am taken aback, disconcerted by the unfamiliar taste of such a familiar food. These are not the sweet, clean, chemically treated and processed delights from the grocery stores at home. These foreign grapes have a dark, sharp, musky flavor and gritty texture. They are hot from the sun, despite their brief dip in the cool water. I am trying to decide whether or not I like them, but before I have the chance to register an opinion or even swallow the crushed fruit, Felipe is there, poised at my lips with another grape. He presses gently on my closed mouth with the single grape, beckoning my lips to part and accept its smooth rounded form. I open my lips just enough so that he can push it in. He does not remove his finger then, but holds it on my tongue along with his sacrificial offering. Unable to bite down, I first suck the lone grape and the tip of his finger simultaneously, rolling them between my tongue and the roof of my mouth. I close my lips tightly in an "o" shape around the base of his invasive finger and pull my head back slowly, watching the length of his digit emerge before pushing my mouth back down its length. I repeat the motion again and again, closing my eyes and increasing the speed, rolling my tongue beneath the finger and delicate grape. I open my eyes again and stare into his eyes, his expression more intense than I’ve seen it up until now, his breathing heavier and more rhythmic. As I continue stroking his appendage in my mouth, I slowly press the grape between the back of my tongue and soft palate until it bursts in my mouth, its hot juice exploding down the back of my throat. I like this strange new fruit. I like it very much. As he frees his finger, Felipe leans in to smother my mouth in the deep kiss I have been pursuing, but this time it is I who pull away just out of his reach. I am in control now. I am the goddess. Worship me.

I disappear beneath the surface of the water and swim in smooth long strokes across its length. I let it take me, wash over me, caress my naked body and envelope me. As I reach my arms up and forward in a butterfly stroke, strong male arms catch me under each arm and pull my upper body up above the waterline. It is Paola, plucking me in mid stroke as if pulling a weightless butterfly from the air in mid flight. My eyes meet his in a challenge of wills. He waits to see if I will fall passively into his arms, bending to his every movement and begging for fulfillment from him. I do not. I am the goddess. Worship me.

He carries me now in reverence, not in domination, through the water and to the pool’s edge. There he lifts me up and sets me softly on the stones that mark the pool’s perimeter, my feet and lower legs still submerged in the water below. He knows he must make an offering to me, the goddess, the impresaria of this unfolding orgy. He places his palms flat on the rock on either side of my hips and hoists himself straight up so that his arms are straight, his body suspended long and linear before me, his face at the level of mine. He leans forward to kiss me, and I allow it because he comes before me now in subservience. This time his lips are soft and gentle, his tongue still probing but with less force. I pull his tongue deep into my mouth and suck at it. It is I who demand now, and he works to satisfy me. I am the goddess. Worship me.

Pulling away with my consent, he lowers himself onto his forearms, his arms straddling my legs, and rests his weight on his elbows. His mouth is in perfect alignment with my ample breasts and he takes each nipple in turn into his skilled mouth and forms a tight seal with his lips around my areola, tugging at it with a sucking motion as the tip of his pointed tongue strokes the hardened nipple at its center. He looks up at me from my breast to see if I am pleased. I am. I am the goddess. Worship me.

He lowers himself to stand once more on the pool’s bottom. His head is at my knees. Carefully he pushes my legs apart, moving his head in closer to my now exposed cunt, and, before he even touches me, I feel sexual current surging through me. I lean back on my hands and let this mortal prove himself. He is biting lightly on my inner thigh, working his way up one and then the other. With taut lips he nuzzles his face into the soft wet folds of my sharply aching cunt, burrowing through the thick dark hair until his mouth completely and tightly surrounds my hard clitoris. He licks first, up and down, side to side, and then in a circular motion and with every change in stroke my throbbing bulb stretches to reach the fullness of his mouth. He pulls me deeper into his mouth and sucks, first lightly and teasingly and then harder and faster until my back begins to arch and my head falls back. He stops then, and I snap my head forward and glare down at him to express my displeasure at his unfinished prayer. I see them then, the grapes in his hand that once again have mysteriously appeared to appease me. He pulls one from the cluster and places it carefully in his mouth, on the end of his tongue. He again lowers his head to my open cunt and positions the grape just below my clitoris, balancing it with his tongue. Slowly he uses his limber tongue to roll the rounded fruit up and then down, over the sensitive bud again and again. He repositions his mouth, this time around the opening that has hungered for his presence since our eyes first met in a busy town square. Slowly he pushes the grape inside of me, using his tongue to guide it on its journey into the dark wetness of this sensual canal. He pulls his tongue out and places another grape in his mouth, repeating the process again and again until I have lost count of the grapes that have danced across my hard clit and then disappeared deep within me. He reaches for my round buttocks, lifting my hips and pulling them toward him slightly so that the opening of my fruit basket is more accessible. He now secures his mouth around the hole and gently begins to suck. One by one, I feel each grape pulled from my soaked pussy and watch Paola take them back into his mouth, where he consumes them, swallowing with deliberate slowness as I watch his soft dark hair move between my legs. He looks up occasionally to meet my stare as he swallows so that I can see the partially chewed fruit move down his throat. Finally he extends two fingers and slides them into me, burying them in an upward bent position and stroking the inside walls of my alert cunt until he is certain that the feast is exhausted. He pushes himself up on his hands once more and brings his mouth to mine, kissing me deeply so that I can taste my own juices mingled with juice of the grapes. He lowers himself again and places his head on my knees face down as if bowing before me. I am the goddess. Worship me.

They stand before me now, all three of my reverent holy men, gazing up at me from water that is cooling with the onset of dusk. Fevered and flushed, I rise to my feet, towering above them now and turn toward one of the long narrow slabs of marble that is my temple. I look over my shoulder and beckon them with a subtle movement of my head. Come. I am the goddess. Worship me.

As I wait for them to emerge from the water, I stare at the altar before me and mull the possibilities of inevitable discovery. When will the rightful occupants of this land return to find the cum stains on this marble, as they have undoubtedly done so many times before? Will it anger them or excite them? I had been mistaken in my earlier assessment of this bench’s impracticality. It was never intended for sitting at leisure. It was designed specifically for the mechanics of fucking, the logistics of human intercourse. Will someone happen upon us while we are still joined in the ecstasy of animal pleasure? Maybe it will be two young lovers, fellow trespassers come to do as we have come to do. Will they join us, melting into the pile of heaving bodies we have become? Or will they lay themselves upon the opposing vacant slab and make their own particular brand of love along side us? Perhaps they will remain just on the edge of the surrounding woods, pleasuring themselves and each other in silence as they watch our lustful ritual. Whomever they may be, however and whenever they arrive here, they will answer to me. They will bow down before me and offer themselves up to me. I am the goddess. Worship me.

Three pairs of hands are on my body now, three pairs of lips. They surround me, feed off of me. I reach for the fair Jean-Luc, raising his head from my breast and looking deep into his eyes with silent instruction, his deity speaking to him without words and he pulls away obediently. I watch him lay himself down on the flat marble, on his back, his hips at the far edge of the bench. His legs extend beyond it, bent at the knee, his feet flat on the ground. He extends his hand to me, this sacrifice laid upon my altar, and I go to him. I turn my back to his face and straddle his hips and the underlying marble so that I stand with legs apart on either side of him. He reaches up and inserts three straight fingers from one hand into my wet vagina. When he removes them, they are covered in the lubricant of an aroused woman, dripping with the thick smooth moisture of desire. He rubs the substance gently on his erect penis, up and down the shaft and across the head in an exercise both practical and erotic. He repeats this action, plumbing my depths in search of the precious ooze and then slathering it generously on his own organ. Finally, he takes the head of his engorged cock and positions it carefully at the opening of my ass just above. Slowly I lower myself onto it as he places his hands on my hips and helps guide me down on his phallus, the swollen member pressing between my buttocks and slowly filling my tight ass until my cheeks come to rest on his pelvis, his penis fully inserted into my anus. I issue forth a small cry of delight with this newfound pleasure, this opening of my body instinctively contracting and pulling him in. Jean-Luc puts his hands against my shoulders and I lean back against them. I begin to recline as he draws them back slowly until finally I come to rest with my back against his torso, my head against his shoulder, my temple against his lower jaw, my wet hair splayed across his chest. I draw my legs up at the knees, his cock tugging at my asshole, and place my heels just inside of his inner thighs. He spreads his legs wide apart, and I rest my heels on the opposing corners of the marble bench. My legs are wide open, my jealous pussy inviting an invader to rival the one below. Jean-Luc reaches up from beneath me to stroke my stomach and massage my breasts.

I turn my head just enough to silently call forth the next offering, and Paolo steps forward. He stands facing me at the end of the marble slab, between my bent knees, caressing my calves and thighs. He takes hold of my hips and pulls them slightly closer to him, increasing the tension of Jean-Luc’s penis inside of me. Paolo stares down at me as he strokes himself in his right hand. He moves the head of his hard cock over my clitoris, teasing it, and then runs the underside of his upper shaft between those fleshy lips and up and down over the same sweet, pulsating spot. He now places the tip of his penis just at the entrance of my longing cunt, then reaches down and takes my ankles in his hands, pulling my legs up straight so that my ankles come to rest on his shoulders. He leans forward and pushes his hips down and inward, and he is inside me, buried to the hilt of his blunt dagger. The breadth of his cock startles me. Perhaps it seems larger because of the space already occupied by Jean-Luc. I lie there a moment and close my eyes as they roll back in my head, adjusting to the sensation of having two fully erect cocks in my body simultaneously. Paolo and Jean-Luc hold perfectly still inside me, waiting for my command. Jean-Luc’s hands have left my body and I open my eyes.

Felipe is there beside us and I reach up to stroke his arm in invitation to complete this mystical transformation of four people into one. He swings one leg over my stomach so that he is straddling me, facing me, and he gets on his knees. He leans forward and places his hands on the marble bench, just above Jean-Luc’s and my heads. He crawls forward on all fours and then crouches back on his haunches until his penis angles perfectly toward my waiting mouth. I reach up and take it gently in my hand, guiding it closer until my lips encompass the tip and my hand slides down the shaft to stroke his balls. As I continue kneading the soft, descended sac in one hand, I use the other to pull his rigid member further into my open mouth, deep into my receiving throat. He utters a low sound of grateful surprise that I am able to take in almost his entire length, and as I massage the exposed base of his penis, I roll my tongue against the ridge on the under side of his shaft and begin moving my mouth up and down on him.

Paolo begins to move slowly at first, moving his hips back and forth so that his glorious cock slides in and out of my cunt. As he increases the speed and force of each thrust, holding my hips, he sets the rhythm for all of us— pulling my body toward him as he thrusts into me, pushing it back as he retreats, my ass moving up and down over Jean-Luc’s hard cock without effort on our part, the movement of my body dictating the stroke of my mouth on Felipe.

Jean-Luc reaches up from under me once again, his hands finding my throbbing mound, his middle finger sliding easily between the folds of skin and finding my needy clitoris. The pleasure pulse grows hard and responsive with his massage, his hand moving in harmony with the rhythms of our bodies—a rising symphony of motion.

As our movements become natural, in perfect automatic synchronization, we cease to be four distinct human forms. We are a strange animal, this heaving, grunting, sweating beast that rises and falls—this single flesh that lives and breathes and writhes. These other bodies with protruding sex organs are mere extensions of myself, all entering me and fusing into one, then extending back out from me like my own arms and legs. There is no separation, no beginning or end. We are a river, a convergence of tributaries into one flowing body. It is beautiful. I am beautiful. I am the goddess, and this is worship in its purest form.

The first waves of orgasm are upon me, and suddenly I fear that I will not be able to handle this metamorphosis at its ultimate climax. I have taken in too much. Surely my heart will explode. I will not survive. I will be consumed in flames and left in ashes in the wake of this raging fire of purification.

Paolo is pounding his member into me with tremendous force, his balls slamming between my thighs and slapping my lower buttocks over and over as he digs his fingers into my flesh and looks towards the heavens for salvation. Jean-Luc’s body is undulating beneath me, rolling like the swells of a stormy sea as he moans under the pressure of my clenched ass. His experienced fingers never leave my clitoris, manipulating it to its ultimate purpose. Felipe’s swollen cock is dripping with my saliva and purple from its surplus of blood. He thrusts his hips now, pushing himself further down my accepting throat as the sweat from his body covers my face, neck and breasts. We are making the deep guttural sounds of animals-- the primal, universal language of fucking and coming.

It hits me now and my back arches sharply in a seizure of pure and exquisite pleasure, my body convulsing repeatedly in the involuntary spasms of sexual release. A loud cry escapes me, an ancient and eternal scream emanating from the center of my being where three cocks meet and echoing through the universe—my universe. In that instant the goddess is released, her ethereal spirit floating up out of this mortal form and evaporating into the heavens.

As each man comes in quick succession, spewing thick white semen into my three cock-filled orifices, I am cleansed—anointed in the flowing cum and redeemed by its life-giving heat. I hear them, their collective voice raised in rapture. I feel them slowing in their movements, easing their depleted organs from my fatigued body.

Felipe dismounts and lays his sated body on the coolness of the ground. Paolo gently lowers my legs to rest on the marble beneath before backing away and turning for the cleansing waters of the pool. Jean-Luc raises himself and me with him, then rolls me slightly to the side so that he can slip quietly out from beneath me, leaving me lying on my side, covered in the cum and sweat that soothe me. I am at peace, no longer a goddess but still more than a mere woman.

Dusk is giving way to darkness, and I know that the night is just beginning. We will recover, and rediscover one another under a voyeur moon many more times before the sun sees us go our separate ways. I am left permanently changed by the knowledge of these bodies. I have no desire to go back. I am not the goddess but the temple itself, and all who enter here may worship.