The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica. Volume 3

La Déesse Terre by Madeleine Oh

Why on earth was she doing this?

Other women, when their husbands walked out on them, got drunk with their best friends or gorged on Swiss chocolate until they saw double. Dea Sullivant ran away from the US and fled to France.

It seemed a good idea at the time but, as she peered though the twilight and the driving rain, Dea began to realise why they offered cheap flights in March. Her decision to leave the autoroute because of blinding rain had been a mistake. As the country road stretched through the night, the dark seemed filled with echoes of Rob muttering about her uselessness, her stupidity, her abysmal map-reading skills, and her general inadequacy.

“Fuck you, Rob Sullivant!” she yelled. “Your idea of a big trip is driving to Blackburgh for a ball game. I’m in Europe!” And lost. But what the hell. No one here knew she’d been declared obsolete, and replaced by a skinny speech therapist with acrylic fingernails.

No one cared. She wouldn’t either.

The road forked. Dea took the wider one into a deserted village square. A few chinks of light showed from shuttered windows, but the only other sign of life was a stray dog lurking by the darkened church. So much for her dream of a charming country inn with soft beds, quaint rooms and fabulous food.

As the windshield wipers dragged back and forth, the prospect of a soft bed grew from want to lust. Dea turned down a narrow lane between shuttered houses and a row of darkened shops. Surely, somewhere – yes! There was an inn, on the right, beyond the last cottage. Dea turned into the parking lot and almost crashed her rental car into an immense standing stone. After swerving around it, she parked and killed the engine. The rain had eased to a steady and miserable drizzle but the lights of the inn spread a welcoming warmth. On her way to the front door, Dea paused by the menhir. There was just enough light from the inn to see it was a rudely carved, female stone figure. She looked ancient and weather-worn, much the way Dea felt, but Dea had the advantage of not having to sit out in the rain. Hefting her bag on her shoulder, Dea glanced at the painted sign over the door and entered La Déesse Terre.

She stepped straight into a large room with a beamed ceiling and a wide stone fireplace with a crackling fire. Three men clustered round the warmth turned to stare. Across the room, a woman sorted knives and forks at a side table. She gave Dea a cautious nod.

Dea walked up to her. “I’m looking for a room for the night.”

“Of course.” The woman put down the pile of gleaming forks and gestured Dea to follow. She led her up the side oak stairs to a large room with an immense, carved bed. The air smelled of lavender and old dust but the sheets looked crisp and clean. There was no bathroom adjoining but Dea decided not to get picky. She had antique furniture, a stone fireplace and shutters painted with the moon and stars. The room overlooked the parking lot and the stone woman, which seemed larger than ever in the moonlight.

“What is that statue?” Dea asked.

The woman crossed herself. “La Déesse Terre. The Goddess Earth? No, Earth Goddess, the Earth Mother. Made sense, given the name of the inn. Dea reached to open the window.

The woman stopped her, and swept into a long torrent of French. Dea caught something about the evening and some sort of presence outside.

A sudden squall threw rain hard against the glass, slashing into the window panes and drumming on the roof overhead. Thank heavens she was out of the weather. All Dea wanted now was a hot shower and something to eat, preferably with a couple of glasses of good wine. The woman apologized, saying that the restaurant was closed but offered ham and cheese and the possibility of soup.

The bathroom was across the landing. Dea gathered up towels and soap and took herself off. The water was hot, the towels large, and the soap deliciously scented with herbs. She stood under the warm water and washed away the worries of the last few weeks. Relaxed by the warm spray, she lathered up her hands, spread the soft bubbles over her breasts and belly and turned full face to the shower jet. Her breasts tingled under the fine points of water. She shifted to let it flow over her belly and her pussy and turned to let the soap run off her back and flow down her thighs to pool at her feet. The vast towels smelled of sunshine and fresh air and Dea slathered her body with scented lotion. This might be the back of beyond but they understood comforts for travellers.

Pulling on jeans and a sweatshirt over her still-damp skin, Dea made a turban of one of the smaller towels and padded barefoot back to her room. From downstairs came the sound of singing – not exactly singing, more a melding of plainsong and humming. Male voices blended together in a strange, almost sensual cadence. The sound enticed and fascinated. Dea was halfway decided to descend and listen closer, when she realized she was barely dressed.

No way was she bopping into that bunch of yokels barefoot and wet-headed. Better get back to her room, dry her hair and wait for Madame to bring the promised sandwich.

Dea’s door was ajar and she’d darn well closed it. Squaring her shoulders, Dea pushed it open wide and stepped in. “Hello!”

“Madame.” The woman was on her knees, laying a fire in the grate. As Dea watched, she arranged the last couple of logs from a stack in the hearth and struck three or four matches, dropping each one in the bed of pine cones and crumpled paper. Satisfied the fire had caught, she stood up and launched into fast French.

Dea understood about a tenth of it.

She did catch her apologies, that they were honoured to have her stop by, and her arrival had caught them by surprise. As she spoke, rain slashed against the panes. The woman looked over her shoulder at the open shutters and turned to cross the room and close them.

“No,” Dea said, “leave them open.”

That seemed to bother her, but Dea wasn’t budging. Rob had always insisted on sleeping with drapes tight shut. She’d celebrate her singleness by leaving the shutters open to the night and, OK, the torrential rain.

Accepting Dea’s wish, the woman nodded and asked if there was anything Dea required.

“A bottle of good wine.”

Having assured her she’d pick one out herself, she closed the door, shutting off the chanting. The only sounds now were the logs crackling as the fire caught and the intermittent slash of rain against the window. She was utterly alone in a foreign land and she’d left all worries and heartache an ocean away.

Minutes later, Madame reappeared with a laden tray.

For a last-minute, unexpected, scratch supper, she hadn’t done too shabbily. A small tureen held a thick meaty soup that wafted herbs and garlic as Dea lifted the lid. The promised ham came with thick slices of crusty bread, and, for good measure, Madame had added a dish of poached pears and a wedge of crumbly blue cheese. Best of all was the freshly opened bottle of wine, neatly wrapped in a linen napkin.

Dea had a crackling fire, hot soup and wine. She had no complaints, even if the chanting was getting louder. Or did she hear it more now the wind had dropped? No matter, it wasn’t an unpleasant noise, just monotonous, and they could hardly keep it up all night.

Two glasses of wine and a good supper later, Dea stretched out by the fire, wineglass in hand, and watched the flames play over the sweet-smelling logs. Were they fruit trees of some sort that they gave off such an aroma? Magical, mythical trees that scented the air and her dreams? Slowly Dea sipped on her wine and contemplated her flight.

She’d run away. Plain and simple, she’d retreated. Why not? She’d been supplanted by a younger woman with skinny hips and a flat chest. Dea glanced down at her ample breasts. OK, they weren’t up to the endowment of La Déesse outside in the parking lot, but boyish shed never be. Seemed Rob wanted young and androgynous these days. Tough shit, Rob, Dea muttered to the twisting flames. See if I care. Surprisingly, she didnt any more. Was it distance easing the rejection and the hurt? Or plain common sense coming to the fore? Common sense hadnt sent her buying the first cheap ticket to Europe. More like craziness or primal urge. Here, in the warmth of the fire, she did did feel primal. Why not? Hadnt she found her way to the abode of the Earth Goddess?

Dea watched until the fire died down. Then she pulled on flannel pyjamas, fished her book out of her bag and took herself and the rest of the wine to bed. She’d just drained the last glass when the storm strengthened with renewed force, smashing rain hard against the windows as great gusts of wind tore at the outside walls. A clap of thunder vibrated off the windows, followed fast by a flash of lightning, and the lights went out.

Great! She’d hold her breath and her wineglass and count to ten for the lights to come on again. They didn’t. Not even for fifty. There was just enough light from the fire to see and she had a flashlight. Damn, it was in the car. That wasn’t stopping her. The house had gone quiet. With no one about, she’d slip out and back without any trouble. Dea stepped into her shoes, and pulled on her raincoat over her pyjamas.

She made it almost to the bottom of the stairs when Madame stepped forward carrying a lamp. Over the woman’s shoulder, Dea saw the group still seated round the fire. So much for slipping out unobserved. Dea jabbered about looking for something, pulled open the heavy door and stepped out.

Big mistake. Water bucketed down from the sky. The path from the inn resembled a small stream and she could barely see her car. Dea splashed down the path and squelched over the gravel. As she opened the passenger door, the rain came down even heavier, beating a wild tattoo on the roof.

She shoved the flashlight in her pocket and stepped back out. The rain came horizontally now, slashing into her face, running down her neck and stinging her legs. She should have stayed dry and warm and lumped the dark. She pulled her raincoat over her head and ran. Losing a shoe, she turned back trying to find it, but gave up and raced the rest of the way, half blinded and totally drenched. A misstep on loose gravel pitched her forward. Reaching out to save herself, Dea fell slap into the granite bulk of La Déesse.

Wrong direction entirely.

Or was it?

The bulk of the Goddess protected Dea from the wind and the worst of the rain. Nice to find a woman broader and even better endowed than she was. Dea raised her hands to cup the splendid stone breasts, the weather-worn stone smooth and cool under her fingers. Another loud clap of thunder and almost simultaneous lightning had Dea pressing closer for the shelter the Goddess offered. Dea stayed, breasts flattened against the Goddess’s granite torso, unwilling to step away and face the relentless storm.

She had no idea how long she clung to the Goddess. Dea’s hands began to tingle as if drawing power from the stone – rekindling life and passion not yet dead. Dea moved her hands. Her fingers itched. Her body throbbed with the cadence of the storm. She cupped her own breasts. Her nipples were hard with cold and her flesh was soaking with desire. Desire to feel the power once again. She closed her eyes, reached out her arms and stepped into the Goddess’s embrace.

Dea’s entire body shot with sweet darts of fire, meeting the cold and damp with an inner warmth that swelled like a spring tide. A small, far part of Dea’s mind insisted she was nuts, plastering her body to a standing stone in the middle of a parking lot in rural France. That part was soon silenced by the peace and warmth that flowed though every pore and pulsed with each heartbeat.

The rain stopped. The wind calmed. Dea looked up at the weather-worn face of La Déesse Terre and smiled. In the moonlight the Goddess smiled back.

Gathering her useless raincoat around her, Dea paddled back to the inn. She was minus both shoes now but scarcely noticed. The life force of the goddess afforded more warmth than a pair of sneakers. A wild heat flowed in Dea’s veins, her hands still tingled, her nipples throbbed hard under the damp flannel, and wetness ran between her legs. She looked back at the Goddess, half expecting the stone to turn and nod encouragingly. The Goddess never moved. She couldn’t. She’d handed over her power to Dea.

The door stood half open. The inn waited. Dea slipped inside and let her clothes drip for a few seconds. A row of small lamps and night lights lit a path up the wide staircase. She’d better sneak back up to her room and take her aroused body with her.

“Ah, Madame Déesse! The woman stepped forward, clasped Deas hand and led her towards the fireplace.

The men waiting stood and bowed, the firelight casting shadows on the ceiling and their faces. The same sweet wood burned in this fireplace, and an ancient oil lamp glowed on the low table.

Dea was doubly, triply, aware of the wet flannel plastered against her breasts and legs and the sodden raincoat flapping round her ankles. They didn’t notice, or rather they saw but regarded her with admiration.

“Déesse, the oldest man began. As if unsure of her response, he spoke slowly. She followed each word, understanding without needing to translate. He was asking her to choose. One of them.

Her body rippled in reply.

The dim light flattered them all but the flickering illumination showed beyond their exteriors. In the old man, Dea saw wisdom, a mind shaped by long years fighting the elements but never conceding failure. The youth possessed a vigour and an energy Dea envied, but he lacked the substance and depth of the older man. It was the third she looked at longest, the one nearest her own age. He stood tall and broad-shouldered. His dark eyes glimmered in the firelight, and in their depths burned a raging desire – for her.

Without a word, Dea smiled and held out her hand.

The other two stepped back, as if ceding the field to the victor, as he took her hand and knelt at her feet. His dark hair fell forward, exposing the tanned nape of his neck.

“Madame, la Déesse, he said, his voice thick with promise, Lucien Valpert, à votre service.

Was it the close warmth of the room, or the heat from his bowed body that spiked her own need? “OK, Lucien,” Dea said, squeezing his hand and raising him to standing. He was so close, a half-step would bring their bodies into close contact. “Let’s go.”

Dea turned and climbed the candlelit staircase, Lucien’s footsteps heavy on the broad steps behind her. Her bedroom door stood open. Someone had built the fire up to a roaring blaze. A row of candles burned on the mantelpiece and four more flickered, one on each post of the bed. And Lucien waited just inside her open doorway.

“Come in, shut the door.” Had she spoken English? French? It hardly mattered as he closed the door with a soft thud and crossed the floor and prepared to kneel. “No.” She stopped him with her hand. His eyes met hers, questioning. “I want you upright for now. You can get on your knees later.” She rested the flat of her hand on his chest. Feeling warm muscle under the soft-washed shirt, Dea looked him in the eye and parted her lips.

He lowered his mouth.

Slowly.

His lips were warm and male and opened hers with a promise of sweet fire. Wet heat roared between her legs as his tongue swept hers. His arms closed round her shoulders in a fierce grasp. Her breasts flattened against his chest, his thigh eased between hers, his erection pressing against her belly. He was more than ready. She wasn’t. Not yet.

“Wait,” she said, pulling back. He obeyed. The twitch in his jaw showed his effort to serve no matter how she willed. “Soon,” Dea promised, relishing the wild light in his eyes as she slowly opened his shirt. Each button gave at her touch until she parted the faded cotton and ran her hands over warm flesh and soft hair, his heart racing under her hand. His breath caught as her fingers rubbed his nipples to stiff points. She ran her tongue over his left nipple, sensing his need and relishing her power. She moved back as he gave a little gasp.

He was watching her with glinting eyes, his broad chest rising and falling with each slow breath. “Strip,” Dea said. He stared, not understanding. She brushed his shirt off his shoulders and watched it settle on the floor by his feet. “You take off the rest.”

Lucien got her meaning. With controlled but efficient movements, he unbuckled his belt and stepped out of his pants and underwear. Dea walked behind him as he bent to undo his shoes. Nice butt. Nice back. Splendid body. Firm muscles shaped by years of physical labour, not workouts on chrome-plated gym machines. She walked back in front as he stood up, and she smiled. Lucien might have been surprised at being chosen, but he was more than ready for the office. His cock was magnificent, jutting at her from its nest of dark hair and hers for the having.

She skimmed her fingertips over the erect flesh and circled him with her hand. He gasped as she moved it up and down, easing back his foreskin to reveal the dark head of his cock. She squeezed.

“Madame!” Lucien gasped. A glistening bead of moisture gathered on his cock. He’d have stepped back, she was certain, but she had him hard in her hand. She stroked the head of his cock with her thumb, spreading his moisture, fascinated by the tender end of his erect cock and how his foreskin moved at her touch.

“OK,” she said, letting go of him. “Now you undress me.”

He stepped behind her and removed her raincoat, crossing the room to hang it on the wall. Her pyjama top he unbuttoned and tossed on the chair. His eyes widened with admiration at her breasts. He reached out but paused, looking at her for consent. Unable to hold back a smile, Dea nodded. “You may.”

His fingers were rough but gentle and certainly not untutored. He caressed the full undersides of her breasts with cupped hands, slowly eased his thumbs over the swell of her breasts until he caught her nipples between thumbs and index fingers and tugged. He rubbed her areolae until little nubs around them stiffened and she shuddered with desire.

His hands eased down her belly and he paused, waiting for her approval. She smiled. Heck, she grinned, and with a nod of understanding Lucien eased his hands into the elastic at her waist and lowered the last of her clothes. He knelt at her feet as she stepped away from the damp cotton. Dea looked down at his dark head and tanned shoulders and the hand around her ankle, his eyes gazing at her pussy as if she were the wonder of creation. He looked up, his eyes dark with need. “Madame, vous permettez?”

Aware of her awesome power, Dea watched him for a few seconds. “Oh, yes.”

Warm air brushed across her pussy, ruffling her curls like a quickening breeze. His fingers opened her. Wide. His breath came closer as the flat of his tongue lapped her. She whimpered as his arms closed around her thighs and a gust of rain hit the windowpanes. If the glass had caved in, she’d never have noticed. Lucien was devouring her with slow perfection. He covered her with his lips as his tongue narrowed and played her clit, flicking and teasing until she moaned with need. He paused and she grabbed his head to hold it to her. He could not stop. Not now. She would not permit it.

But he’d paused only to slide one hand from her thigh. The other held her as firmly as ever. His mouth continued its slow caress as he pressed one finger, then two, inside her cunt. He played her, his fingers pulsing a beat that matched the thrust of his tongue.

She was lost. She was found. She was all and everything she’d ever longed for as a lover knelt in homage at her pussy. His fingers, slick with her arousal, smoothed her ass as his tongue drew her towards climax. Need blazed deep in her belly. She cried aloud as his fingers curved deep and his mouth worked her faster. He was merciless. He was magnificent. He was all. She clutched his head, thrusting her hips into his face, reaching for her coming climax. Her shouts increased as her need climbed. Until she came in a wild crescendo of joy and release that had her screaming aloud as her legs buckled.

Lucien held her firm. Steadying her as his mouth fluttered little kisses up her belly. It was almost too much. She would never have enough.

He gathered her up in his arms as easily as if she were a lightweight. His mouth, wet and warm with her juices, met hers. A slow kiss, gentle as a whisper, that sent her body wild. Nothing could satisfy her but his magnificent cock deep inside.

He grinned with knowing pride and male arrogance as he sat her on the bed and turned her on to all fours.

He stroked her ass, smoothing up her back as he dropped soft kisses up her spine to her neck. The mattress shifted under his weight as the power of his erection pushed between her legs. He grasped her shoulders. He was hard against her, pressing to meet her need. His hips rocked. His cock slid though her wetness. Dea cried out as he thrust. She was tighter than she’d expected and Lucien filled her, stretched her, and possessed her. Driving with grunts and animal need, pressing into her soul with his male heat. Pumping her, taking her, possessing her, giving all a man could. He was Primal Man, potent and firm. She was Goddess, power and life. They melded in one life rhythm that took them both higher and harder through his grunts and her cries until, with a relentless thrust, he drove deep as she screamed aloud her triumph and he poured his jism into her heat.

She collapsed, his weight pressing her into the mattress, his cock embedded in her cunt, her mind drunk with joy and life, and her heart racing at one with the storm outside.

Through a haze of grogginess, Dea felt his weight ease off her. Lucien shifted her so her head rested on the pillow. Lips pressed on her forehead, arms held her close and she passed from frenzy to satiated rest.

She woke to electric light blazing overhead. Damn! The power outage. She’d left the lights on. Padding across the room to flick out the switch, she realized she was naked. Her night clothes lay in a crumpled heap in front of the last dying embers and she was wet halfway down her thighs.

She had just fucked a total stranger!

So what? It had been stupendous and her body still vibrated with the memory of Lucien’s tongue on her skin and his cock planted deep.

But fucking a completely unknown man! She made herself stop. No longer was she thinking like Rob Sullivant’s wife. She was Dea. Goddess. She curled up between sheets that smelled of sex and life.

Bright morning sunshine woke her later. Time to be on her way. She may have to face Lucien over coffee, but so what? He’d fucked a total stranger too. Her shoes waited, cleaned and polished outside her door, and breakfast was set at a lone table by a window.

As Dea sat down, Madame appeared with croissants and fresh bread, and a slab of firm cheese and little curls of butter. “Did you sleep well?”

Was she being facetious? A look at the woman’s face and Dea decided it was a routine enquiry asked of any guest. “Yes, very well. Apart from the storm.” No need to specify which storm.

Madame nodded. Fierce storms were to be expected. It was the time of year, the point vernal.

The vernal equinox: the season of wild tides and gales that marked the beginning of spring. A time of new life and renewal. Of course. Dea was alive, well satisfied, and drinking aromatic coffee several thousand miles from her humiliation. She cut off a corner of cheese, chewed it slowly and decided to stop and pay homage to the Goddess in the parking lot, on her way forward.