Libido: Fiction: The Remover of Obstacles
FICTION
Friday Night Bedtime Story, November 10. Print me out... take me to bed!
The Remover of Obstacles
(From The Ecstatic Moment)

By Frieda Madland

It was the last time she would play around with elephant-headed deities. Calling upon the Remover of Obstacles had been a rather bad idea -- at least from the standpoint of invoking gods. But it really had been the fault of the anthropologist. He was the one who had told her of Ganesh, son of Siva and Parvati--"the one formed from the rubbings of his mother’s body."

She and the visiting anthropologist from Delhi, had sat next to one another at a dinner given by a mutual friend -- a lover she now claimed to "only fuck by phone."

"It keeps us from totally destroying each other," she explained. She could tell he was titillated by the way his ear-lobes flamed. Clearly, she had provided an oasis from his symposium on Ethnographic Dialectics.

"A vestigial act of your more larval days I presume?" he said, confidently. "Or is this what you Americans call safe sex?"

She ignored the question. "Quick, tell me how to say, ‘I love you’ in Hindi," she whispered, eyeing another across the table from them. For the moment, it chilled her immeasurably to imagine the man with the ponytail across from her, naked and on all fours. He was an arrogant art dealer known to pounce on anything post-adolescent. Anyone like that deserved to be tested--or at least hogtied, she decided.

"That depends on what you want," said the anthropologist clearing his throat. "Are you concerned about obstacles?"

"You could say that," she said, looking across the table. "It’s always something--blackmailing girlfriends, incontinent dogs, kids who need braces."

"Then you must, quite simply, make a wish and invoke Ganesh. The danger of course, is in getting carried away and losing your head," he said in mock concern. She watched as he then slipped his card in the side pocket of her blazer.

Indeed, it had been quite a while since she’d visited the dark gods, gone supine, fucked herself into a stupor. It had been a millennium since the last carnal embrace. Almost six months. She stared at the art dealer, closed her eyes, and silently called on the Remover of Obstacles.

When she opened them again, she was met with a wicked smile from across the table.

She got a taste of him all right.

In the elevator, the dark haired man with the ponytail told her to stay away if she expected "the usual."

"I don’t fuck the usual," she said sweetly.

"Who said anything about fucking?"

He was right about that. Back in his loft, it was she who eventually ended up on all fours.

"So, O.K., it won’t kill me to be a love slave for a night," she said when he told her to remove her clothes. He flung some harness at her to wear --a symphony of leather straps lined with mink. She refused. "I can’t deal with furs, O.K.?"

What she hadn’t expected was having to watch him fuck art girls all night. His endurance, she had to admit, was remarkable. Every half-hour or so, a new one appeared, wearing the same black leather dress slit down the back for easy access. One, in particular, had gravity-defying tits, legs to her neck, and chewed gum while her priapic prince pumped away. The rest, it seemed, had neglected to wear any underwear which, in retrospect, she considered a nice touch. He did, after all, collect minimalist art.

But what drove her to distraction, more than the capricious use of his cock, his fingers and variously, a candle and a nozzle from a bottle of Dom Perignon -- all liberally smeared with butter -- was the blindfold she’d eventually been made to wear. A man or a woman had then bound her to a chair and stroked the insides of her thighs with a miniature feather duster. Only later, after she’d been made to present herself to him, kneeling and on all fours, did she notice that her inner thighs were wet to her knees.

She was getting rather used to this bondage business, but at dawn, he dangled her underwear in front of her and announced he was calling her a cab. "I don’t know about you but I have to go to work in a few hours," he said.

That had killed things, all right. The liar hadn’t remembered it was Saturday. Still, the smell of sex tingled in her nostrils -- that unmistakable odor of raw dough she had always linked to the smell of men.

"So, do you suppose that was a gift from the Remover of Obstacles?" she wondered aloud in the shower, gently soaping all those tender buttons that had been forced to salute all night long -- to no avail. She practically felt ready to straddle fence posts. "This is probably what I get for invoking what’s-his-name," she thought, burying an undulating finger inside herself.

Unfortunately, she had forgotten about the piano lesson. She had slept only a few hours when he arrived, punctually at eleven, bearing the two things she detested most –j elly-filled bismarcks and carnations. It made her wish he’d been forced into early retirement, preferably back to Cologne and numismatics. Still, he knew his Kurt Weill and that alone was worth enduring the way he said liebchen.

But she should have known things would be different this time when he began with Chopin. She should have guessed because he had once said that Chopin lowered his resistance to women with "smooth, calescent thighs." Hers, she knew, were at the point of grasping and incinerating tree trunks.

And then it happened. Somewhere halfway through a prelude, he crawled beneath the piano and nuzzled his large furry head under her skirt. With his teeth, he tore off her lace panties, and slithered a warm and probing tongue between the soft, persimmon lips of her pudenda, moving with the precision of a metronome.

"This probably means we’ll be skipping the Weill pieces," she thought, her cheeks on fire. She continued until she could no longer endure the sound of her fingers on the keyboard.

When he resurfaced and took his place beside her again, his wet lips were the color of fuchsia and his gray and black-flecked beard glistened like the matted muzzle of a damp schnauzer. Even his glasses, she noted, had steamed.

"Ich habe keine ahnung, liebchen... What can I say?" he shrugged. "The old boy brings me to my knees every time."

"Some piano lesson that was," she said, talking to herself and crawling into bed after he left. "My God, it’s as if I have no resistance -- no taste. What would happen if someone were to say, ‘Have a nice day?’ I’m liable to embarrass myself on the bus in front of..." and she thought of leather boys with nose-rings and civic-minded socialites on their way to volunteer jobs. She thought of calling the anthropologist to discuss the problem. A nap, however, seemed more pressing.

But her sleep left her little peace. No sooner had she drifted off than she found herself in a monastery surrounded by an entire order of chanting monks. With appropriate instructions from an androgynous movie producer -- she couldn’t tell if the person behind the dark sunglasses reminded her more of Wertmüller or DeSica--the monks rushed towards her taking great delight in disrobing her.

She had to admit she rather liked the sensation of all those callused hands suddenly kneading her limbs with olive oil. But tying her down on a cold stone sarcophagus with their knotted rope belts was another matter, especially when they began penetrating every orifice with the curiosity of the uninitiated. She felt on gross display, helplessly restrained for the pleasure of a few rabid celibates who wanted nothing more than an earth-moving fuck but hadn’t the slightest clue how to do it. An older monk took it upon himself to lick her nipples as methodically as a cat cleaning itself while another crouched over her, his tongue on a crusade to parts usually forgotten. One by one, they climbed on top of her, merely for the sensation it seemed of being inside of her.

They were oblivious to her protests and turned her over to pour more olive oil on her buttocks. Fingers and phalluses probed everywhere, stopping now and again for instructions from the producer who stood high up on a balcony barking orders in Italian. She feared it was something like, "Again! And this time with feeling!"

The phone rang and the monks evaporated. Rather than answer it, she lay on her bed and with cool fingers stroked her pulsating nether lips.

"What am I going to do! I can’t go anywhere," she lamented, fearing that Monday would find her beneath the desks of all her male co-workers.

It was clear she needed help, and who else but the anthropologist would know how to undo the powers she’d incurred. She stood up to look through her jacket, remembering the long, delicate fingers that had slipped the card into her pocket. It made her suddenly wonder whether his toes were prehensile. She located the card and dialed the hotel.

"Well," she said when she’d finally reached him, "you’ve got some talking to do. This business of invoking elephant-headed deities merits further discussion."

"How about dinner? I’m in room 1302."

"Look, honey, wipe the testosterone off your chin for a minute and enlighten me. Things have been a little problematic around here. For one, I’ve lost my head and become runaway train," she said, mixing her metaphors for greater impact.

"Erotomania is curable over time," he said calmly, as if he already knew the symptoms. "Before long, you’ll be back to your--what did you call it--telephone fucking? This American form of techno-lust."

"But when? I’m a little nervous at this point about public appearances."

"Enjoy it while it lasts. Ganesha is probably a bit vexed you choose him for purposes of lust. That’s generally not his department. No doubt, he prefers to remove obstacles on a grander scale."

"Look, can’t I take back what I said -- do some reverse chant or something, burn a little incense? It’s not as if I’m exactly in control here." She decided to leave out the details. "Know what I mean?"

"We will discuss the antidote. Perhaps there is a way you can pacify.... Room 1302." He hung up.

She had to hand it to him. The man was a cocky son-of-a-bitch but he knew how to get a date.

His arrogance, she admitted, had stepped up her percolating lust even more, and she had been overcome with delicious thoughts of poetic retribution. Alone, in the mirrored elevator on the way to his room, she had lifted her dress to her waist and adjusted her stockings. She hated garter belts but she knew how well all that imprisoned flesh could accelerate desire. She smiled and moved her hand inside her panties, bringing out a glistening finger. The more impediments to surrender--the better, she decided and dabbed a little wetness behind each ear.

When he opened the door, she was hit by waves of cologne and clichés. "You are more beautiful than I remember," he said after she’d finished sneezing. "You are a vision. It’s no wonder Ganesha takes delight in tormenting you."

She noticed he was only wearing a bathrobe. "The nerve," she thought and blew her nose. "It’s not going to be that easy."

But it was. When he joked and reminded her that her "febrile state" could be reversed by first straddling his face, she accused him of contradicting himself. Hadn’t he been the one to invite her to dinner? And what about this Ganesh business?

"Why can’t I put the brakes on my desires or more accurately, why don’t I have any taste? And what am I doing here?"

He shrugged. "You invoked the wrong god--who knows?" He looked pleased with himself and poured them each a glass of champagne. "To determine your personal love co-ordinates is difficult since I don’t really know you. Perhaps you are simply--how do you say it?--a bitch in heat?"

Suddenly, she felt imbued with a strange sensation, a kind of bi-polar tingling that seemed to be phoning in from both her brain and from between her legs. She refused his glass of champagne and instead, opened the top of his bathrobe.

"In that case I don’t want you to forget me," she said as he continued to hold both glasses. She circled his nipples with her tongue and bit them lightly until they had darkened into little erect buttons.

When she’d removed the belt to his bathrobe, she noticed his bronze periscope emerging from between the plaid folds, a glistening bead crowning its tip. She knelt and moved his cock like a lipstick around her lips. "Weren’t we going to have dinner someplace?"

For the first time he had been at a loss for words, so she finished for him. "I guess I can wait," she sighed, rising before him. She took the half-spilled glasses of champagne from him and tied his belt around his head, covering his eyes.

"You don’t mind, do you? I never fuck on a bed. It’s too prosaic." She guided his hands up her dress and along the elastic and lace straps guarding her thighs.

"Why does this Ganesha have an elephant head? You never explained." She moved his hand inside her panties and forced his fingers to read her pouting lips.

"His father cut it off, not knowing it was his own son. Ganesha was guarding the door while his mother, Parvati, bathed. Is this important to you now?"

"Go on or I’ll stop and call room service."

His breathing had become almost labored but he persevered. "To console Ganesha’s mother, Siva promised to cut off the head of the first living creature that he came across."

"I think I can figure out the rest. But I’m a bit confused. If I’m to assume I’ve temporarily lost my head, doesn’t this mean we have to cut yours off to fix me?"

His fingers ceased their spelunking and he moved his hand out to peek between the folds of his belt. "You are a curious woman. How you entertain me with your conversation."

She slid the blindfold back in place. "I’m also polyphasic -- just you watch. I can do several things at the same time. Now before you fuck me," she whispered sliding his bathrobe from his shoulders, "think of me as some kind of Rosetta Stone. Try to imagine what secrets you’re capable of unlocking."

She led him naked to the bathroom, grabbing her purse along the way. "I like to see myself fucking in a mirror. I like to see my face grow flushed and my eyes distant and unfocused. I want to see my back arched and my ass coming to meet you. I want to feel those long fingers of yours tighten around my waist as you grasp and enter me from behind."

She had become, she decided, a regular Sheherazade.

His anticipation was palpable. "Your clothes, don’t you remove your clothes?"

"I prefer you see me without my clothes afterwards -- when we can sa-vor the pleasure of lingering in our juices," she said, quietly removing the handcuffs from her purse and hooking one side to the doorknob.

"As you fuck me, I want you to imagine what I look like. Pretend what it might have been like to touch, to feel, to smell the Dead Sea Scrolls before you were ever privy to their mysteries."

She brought his hand between her humid thighs again and raised a moistened finger to his lips. "A little taste before we start?"

"I must have you," he said, licking his mouth. She could feel his breathing accelerate and his chest expand. All systems were "go."

"And I must have you." She brought his hand down and snapped the handcuff around his wrist. "Foreplay," she murmured, placing a finger over his lips before he could react. "I want you to go mad wanting me." She kissed him lightly and slipped out of the bathroom.

Before she closed the door, she hung out the Do Not Disturb sign and reminded him once again to invoke the Remover of Obstacles.

Outside, the evening sky was as clear and blue as a Turk’s Evil Eye. With a smile, she glimpsed the Pleiades and hailed a cab.

Like this story? It’s from The Ecstatic Moment, a collection of stories from LIBIDO. To order it, CLICK HERE.