by Jean M. Auel
“You are,” she said, softly.
“Then you are not too big, are you? And you are not ugly, Ayla.” He smiled, but she only knew it because his eyes showed it. “It’s funny, the most beautiful woman I have ever seen thinks she’s ugly.”
Her ears heard, but she was too lost in the eyes that held her, too moved by her body’s response, to notice his words. She saw him bend closer, then put his mouth on hers, and she felt him put his arms around her and draw her close.
“Jondalar,” she breathed. “I like that … mouth on mouth.”
“Kiss,” he said. “I think it’s time, Ayla.” He took her hand and led her toward the sleeping furs.
“Time?”
“First Rites,” he said.
They sat down on the furs. “What kind of ceremony is it?”
“It is the ceremony that makes a woman. I can’t tell you all about it. The older women tell a girl what to expect and that it may hurt, but that it is necessary to open the passage for her to become a woman. They choose the man for it. Men want to be chosen, but some are afraid.”
“Why are they afraid?”
“They’re afraid they will hurt a woman, afraid they will be clumsy, afraid they won’t be able, that their woman-maker won’t rise.”
“That means a man’s organ? It has so many names.”
He thought of all the names, many vulgar or humorous. “Yes, it has many names.”
“What is the real name?”
“Manhood, I guess,” he said after a moment’s thought, “the same as for a man, but ‘woman-maker’ is another.”
“What happens if the manhood won’t rise?”
“Another man has to be brought in—it’s very embarrassing. But most men want to be chosen for a woman’s first time.”
“Do you like being chosen?”
“Yes.”
“Are you chosen often?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Jondalar smiled and wondered if all her questions were the result of curiosity or nervousness. “I think because I like it. A woman’s first time is special to me.”
“Jondalar, how can we have a ceremony of First Rites? I am past my first time, I am already open.”
“I know, but there is more to First Rites than just opening.”
“I don’t understand. What more can there be?”
He smiled again, then leaned closer and put his mouth on hers. She leaned toward him, but was startled when his mouth opened and she felt his tongue try to reach inside her mouth. She backed off.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Don’t you like it?” His forehead creased with consternation.
“I don’t know.”
“Do you want to try again and see?” Slow down, he said to himself. Don’t rush this. “Why don’t you lie back and relax?”
He pushed her with gentle pressure, then stretched out beside her, resting on one elbow. He looked down at her, then put his mouth on hers again. He waited until her tension was gone, then lightly flicked his tongue along her lips. He lifted up and saw her mouth smiling and her eyes closed. When she opened them, he bent to kiss her again. She strained to reach him. He kissed with more pressure, and an open mouth. When his tongue sought entrance, she opened her mouth to receive it.
“Yes,” she said. “I think I like it.”
Jondalar grinned. She was questioning, tasting, testing, and he was pleased she had not found him wanting.
“What now?” she asked.
“More of the same?”
“All right.”
He kissed her again, gently exploring her lips, and the roof of her mouth, and under her tongue. Then his lips traced her jaw. He found her ear, breathed his warm breath in it, nibbled her lobe, and then covered her throat with kisses and his questing tongue. Then he returned to her mouth again.
“Why does that make me feel like a fever, and shivers?” she said. “Not like a sickness, nice shivers.”
“You don’t have to be a medicine woman now, it’s not a sickness,” he said. Then after a moment, “If you’re warm, why don’t you open your wrap, Ayla?”
“That’s all right. I’m not that warm.”
“Would you mind if I open your wrap?”
“Why?”
“Because I want to.” He kissed her again, trying to undo the knot in the thong that held her wrap closed. He was not successful and expected more discussion from her about it.
“I’ll open it,” she whispered, when he lifted his mouth from hers. Deftly, she untied the knot, then arched up to unwind the thong. The leather wrap fell away, and Jondalar caught his breath.
“Oh, woman!” His voice was husky with need, and his loins tightened. “Ayla, O Doni, what a woman!” He kissed her open mouth fiercely, then buried his face in her neck and sucked warmth to the surface. Breathing hard, he backed off and saw the red mark he had made. He took a deep breath, reaching for control.
“Is anything wrong?” Ayla asked, with a worried frown.
“Only that I want you too much. I want to make it right for you, but I don’t know if I can. You are … so beautiful, so much woman.”
Her frown smoothed to a smile. “Whatever you do will be right, Jondalar.”
He kissed her again, more gently, wanting more than ever to give her Pleasure. He caressed the side of her body, feeling the fullness of her breast, the dip of her waist, the smooth curve of her hip, the taut muscle of her thigh. She quivered under his touch. His hand brushed the golden curls of her mound, and across her stomach to the turgid swelling of her breast, and felt her nipple harden in his palm. He kissed the tiny scar at the base of her throat; then he sought the other breast and sucked her nipple into his mouth.
“It doesn’t feel the same as a baby,” she said.
It broke the tension. Jondalar sat up, laughing. “You are not supposed to be analyzing this, Ayla.”
“Well, it doesn’t feel the same as when a baby sucks and I don’t know why. I don’t know why a man wants to suckle like a baby at all,” she said, feeling a bit defensive.
“Don’t you want me to? I won’t if you don’t like it.”
“I didn’t say I don’t like it. It feels good when a baby sucks. It doesn’t feel the same when you do it, but it feels good. I feel it all the way down inside me. A baby doesn’t make you feel that way inside.”
“That’s why a man does it, to make a woman feel that way, and to make himself feel that way. That’s why I want to touch you, to give you Pleasure, and me too. It is the Mother’s Gift of Pleasure to Her children. She created us to know this Pleasure, and we honor Her when we accept Her Gift. Will you let me give you Pleasure, Ayla?”
He was looking at her. Her golden hair, tousled on the fur, framed her face. Her dilated eyes, deep and soft, glowed with hidden fire, and seemed full, as though they might spill over. Her mouth trembled when she opened it to answer; she nodded instead.
He kissed one eye closed, and then the other, and saw a tear. He tasted the salty drop with the tip of his tongue. She opened her eyes and smiled. He kissed the tip of her nose, then her mouth, then each nipple. Then he got up.
She watched him walk to the hearth and move the spitted roast away from the fire and push the leaf-wrapped roots away from the coals. She waited, beyond thinking, only anticipating she did not know what. He had made her feel more than she ever imagined her body was capable of feeling, yet had awakened an inexpressible yearning.
He filled a cup with water and brought it back. “I don’t want anything to interrupt us,” he said, “and I thought you might want a drink of water.”
She shook her head. He took a sip and put the cup down, then untied the cord of his breechclout and stood looking at her with his prodigious manhood extended. Her eyes held only trust and desire, none of the fear that his size often inspired in younger women, and some not so young, when they first saw him.
He lay down beside her, filling his eyes with the sight of her. Her hair, s
oft, rich, luxuriant; her eyes, brimming and expectant; her magnificent body; all of this beautiful woman, waiting for his touch, waiting for him to awaken in her those feelings he knew were there. He wanted it to last, this first awareness for her. He felt more excited than he ever had at the First Rites for a newly fledged woman. Ayla did not know what to expect; no one had described it in vivid, expanded detail. She had only been abused.
O Doni, help me do it right, he thought, feeling for the moment that he was undertaking some awesome responsibility, rather than a joyful Pleasure.
Ayla lay still, not moving a muscle yet quivering. She felt as though she had been waiting forever for something she could not name, but which he could give. His eyes alone could touch inside her; she could not explain the pulsing, throbbing delirious effects of his hands, his mouth, his tongue, but she ached for more. She felt unfinished, incomplete. Until he gave her the taste, she hadn’t known her hunger, but once aroused, it had to be satisfied.
When his eyes had had their fill, he closed them and kissed her once more. Her mouth was parted, waiting. She drew his seeking tongue in, and tentatively experimented with her own. He pulled up and smiled encouragement. He brought a rich lustrous strand of her hair to his lips, then rubbed his face in a thick, soft pile of her golden crown. He kissed her forehead, her eyes, her cheeks, wanting to know all of her.
He found her ear, and his warm breath sent shivers of delight through her once more. He nibbled her earlobe, then suckled it. He found the tender nerves of her neck and throat that excited chills in internal places never touched. His large, expressive, sensitive hands explored her, felt the silky texture of her hair, cupped her cheek and jaw, traced the contours of her shoulder and arm. When he reached her hand, he brought it to his mouth, kissed her palm, stroked each finger, then followed the inside curve of her arm.
Her eyes were closed, giving in to the sensation with rhythmic surges. His warm mouth found the scar in the hollow of her throat, then followed the path between her breasts and curved underneath one. He described decreasing circles with his tongue and felt the texture of her skin change when he reached the areola. She gasped when he drew her nipple into his mouth, and he felt a flush of heat throbbing in his loins.
His hand matched his tongue’s movement with her other breast, and his fingers found her nipple hardened and erect. He suckled gently at first, but when she pushed herself up to him, he increased the suction. She breathed hard, moaned softly. His breath matched her wanting; he wasn’t sure he could wait. He stopped then, to look at her again. Her eyes were closed, her mouth open.
He wanted all of her, all at once. He took her mouth, drew her tongue into his. When he released it, she drew in his, following his example, and felt the warm inside of his. He found her throat again, and drew wet circles around her other full breast until he reached the nipple. She pushed herself up to him, wanting, and shuddered when he answered with a deep pull.
His hand caressed her stomach, her hip, her leg, then reached for her inner thigh. Her firm muscles rippled as she tensed a moment, then she separated her legs. He cupped his hand over her mound of dark gold curls and felt a sudden damp warmth. The answering jolt in his groin caught him by surprise. He stayed as he was, fighting for control, and almost lost it when he felt another surge of wetness in his hand.
His mouth left her nipple and circled her stomach and her navel. When he reached her mound, he looked up at her. She was breathing in mewing gasps, her back arched and tensed with anticipation. She was ready. He kissed the top of her mound, felt crinkly hair, and inched lower. She was quivering, and when his tongue found the top of her narrow slot, she sprang up with a cry, then lay back moaning.
His manhood was throbbing eagerly, impatiently, as he shifted position to slide down between her legs. Then he spread open her folds and took a long, loving taste. She could not hear her own sounds as she lost herself to the flood of exquisite sensations coursing through her as his tongue explored every fold, every ridge.
He concentrated on her to keep his own demanding need in check, found the nodule that was her small but erect center of delight, and moved it firmly and rapidly. He feared he had reached the limit of his self-control when she writhed and sobbed with an ecstasy unknown before. With two long fingers, he entered her moist passage and applied pressure up, from inside.
Suddenly she arched her back and cried out, and he tasted a new wetness. Her hands clenched and unclenched convulsively in unconscious beckoning motions that matched her spasmodic breaths.
“Jondalar,” she cried out to him. “Oh, Jondalar, I need … need you … need something …”
He was on his knees, gritting his teeth in an effort to hold back, trying to enter her carefully. “I’m trying … to be easy,” he said, almost painfully.
“It … won’t hurt me, Jondalar …”
It was true! It wasn’t really her first time. As she arched up to receive him, he let himself enter. There was no blockage. He pressed farther, expecting to find her barrier, but he felt himself drawn in, felt her warm, moist depths opening and enfolding him until, to his wonder, she embraced him fully. He drew back and plunged deeply into her again. She wrapped legs around him to pull him into her. He withdrew again, and, as he penetrated once more, he felt her wondrous throbbing passage caress his full length. It was more than he could bear. He drove in again, and again, with unrestrained abandon, for once giving in entirely to his own need.
“Ayla! … Ayla! … Ayla!” he cried out.
The tension was reaching its peak. He could feel it gathering in his loins. He drew back once more. Ayla raised up to him with every nerve and muscle taut. He surged into her, reveling in the sheer sensual pleasure of burying his full proud manhood completely in her eager warmth. They strained together, Ayla cried his name, and, giving her his final fraction, Jondalar filled her.
For an eternal instant, his deeper, throatier cries rose in harmony with her breathless sobs repeating his name as paroxysms of inexpressible pleasure shuddered through them. Then, with exquisite release, he collapsed on top of her.
For a long moment, only their breathing could be heard. They could not move. They had given all to each other, every fiber to their shared experience. After a time, they didn’t want to move, didn’t want it to end, though they knew it was over. It had been Ayla’s awakening; she had never known the pleasures a man could give her. Jondalar knew his pleasure would be to awaken her, but she had given him an unexpected surprise, adding immeasurably to his excitement.
Only few women had depth enough to take in all of him; he had learned to control his penetration to suit and did it with sensitivity and skill. It would never be quite the same again—but to enjoy the excitement of First Rites, and the rare and glorious release of full penetration at the same time, was unbelievable.
He always did put forth greater efforts for First Rites; there was something about the ceremony that brought out the best in him. His care and concern were genuine, his efforts were to please the woman, and his satisfaction came from her enjoyment as much as his own. But Ayla had pleased him, satisfied him beyond his wildest fantasy. Not ever had he felt so profoundly fulfilled. For a moment, it seemed, they had become one.
“I must be getting heavy,” he said, pulling himself up to partially support his weight on an elbow.
“No,” she said in a soft voice. “You’re not heavy at all. I don’t think I ever want you to get up.”
He bent down to nuzzle an ear and kiss her neck. “I don’t want to get up either, but I think I should.” He disengaged himself slowly, then lay down beside her, fitting an arm under her so that her head rested in the hollow beneath his shoulder.
Ayla was dreamily content, completely relaxed, and acutely aware of Jondalar. She felt his arm around her, his fingers caressing her lightly, the play of pectoral muscles under her cheek; she could hear his heartbeat, or perhaps her own, in her ear; she smelled the warm musky scent of his skin, and their Pleasures. And she had never felt so
cared for or so coddled.
“Jondalar,” she said after a while, “how do you know what to do? I didn’t know those feelings were in me. How did you?”
“Someone showed me, taught me, helped me to know what a woman needs.”
“Who?”
She felt his muscles tense, detected a change in the tone of his voice.
“It’s customary for older, more experienced women to teach young men.”
“You mean like First Rites?”
“Not quite. It’s more informal. When young men start coming into their heat, the women always know. One, or more, who understands he is nervous and unsure of himself will be there for him, and will help him over it. But it’s not a ceremony.”
“In the Clan, when a boy makes his first kill—on a real hunt, not just little animals—then he is a man and has a manhood ceremony. Coming into his heat doesn’t matter. It’s hunting that makes him a man. That’s when he must assume adult responsibilities.”
“Hunting is important, but some men never hunt. They have other skills. I suppose I wouldn’t have to hunt if I didn’t want to. I could make tools and trade them for meat or skins, or whatever I wanted. Most men hunt, though, and a boy’s first kill is very special.”
Jondalar’s voice took on the warm tones of memory. “There is no real ceremony, but his kill is distributed to everyone in the Cave—he doesn’t eat any of it. When he walks by, they remark to each other so he can hear, how big and wonderful his kill is, and how tender and delicious. The men invite him to join them for gaming or talking. The women treat him like a man instead of a boy, and make friendly jokes with him. Almost any woman will make herself available to him, if he’s old enough and that’s what he wants. A first kill makes him feel very much a man.”
“But no manhood ceremony?”
“Each time a man makes a woman, opens her, lets the life force flow into her, he reaffirms his manhood. That’s why his tool, his manhood, is called woman-maker.”
“It might do more than make a woman. It might start a baby.”
