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Kachina 1/2 (mf)
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
KACHINA part 1 of 2
by Sue
Shimmering bloated masses of yellow, red, and brown sandstone surrounded me
as I reclined in the blazing sun. The afternoon sky was as dark blue as I
have ever seen it. And far below me, the crystal clear water filling the
canyon reflected the color of the sky, barely revealing the shadowy depths
beneath the surface. Hot bone-dry air wafted lazily over my sweaty skin,
fluttering through my long blond hair.
This place is an improbable witch's brew of landscaping: one part stark
moonscape, one part tropical beach, and one part Sahara Desert. It was
originally Glen Canyon, until the government built a towering dam and filled
the valley with a lake that swallows up over more than 200 miles of the
Colorado River, just above the Grand Canyon. My friend Ellen in Albuquerque
had to convince me to come to the Lake, since I was predisposed to think
unkindly toward a place that had been transformed by man's hands from a
canyon to an inland sea.
But when I came to visit Ellen, she insisted that this was a place not to be
missed, despite the regrettable heritage of its creation. She lent me her
backpacking equipment and car, and convinced a friend to let me use his
little Boston Whaler that he kept anchored at one of the three marinas on the
Lake. Ellen practically pushed me out the door and sent me on my way to Page,
Arizona, where I packed my supplies and equipment into the boat and rode off
into the choppy waters. In the summer, it is one of the most popular National
Recreation Areas in the country, and the waters near the marinas are plied by
hundreds of houseboats and highspeed water-skiers. But this being late
September, there was hardly anyone else out on the Lake. The water was still
quite warm from the summer, and within fifteen minutes, I was able to motor
into a cliff-lined little bay and go skinny-dipping. Navaho Mountain
dominated the skyline; it is an incredible flat-topped butte that reminded me
of Devil's Tower (made famous in the movie "Close Encounters of the Third
Kind"). Once I got naked and wet, the Mountain also resembled my hardened
nipples which jutted out through the surface of the water as I floated on my
back.
Ellen had warned me that there were very few places to pull the boat out of
the water, since the steep canyon walls normally slope right into the lake.
She suggested that I had better get as far up the Lake as I could the first
day, so that I could search for a beach that was secluded and unoccupied. So
I pulled myself out from the gentle embrace of the tepid waters, and resumed
my journey. The surreal scenery slid past me, putting me in a languid state
of mind. I headed up several of the many side canyons, and eventually found a
teeny little sandy spot where I could beach the boat. But there was no level
sight to set up my tent. So I hoisted the loaded pack onto my back and
started up a little foot-trail that meandered around the huge boulders, up
and into a narrow crevice in the cliffs. It was still early afternoon, so I
had enough time to explore this possibility, and if it didn't work out, I
could always go back to the boat and try for another spot. The climbing was
hard and the canyon walls were claustrophobic, reaching hundreds of feet over
my head. But when I climbed up on top of one of the rocks, I could see a
brighter, wider area ahead. Onward I trudged.
When I reached the open area at the head of the ravine, the contrast was
dizzying. A huge bowl-shaped amphitheater rose up from where I stood, maybe
half a mile across. It was like being an ant crawling around the drain of a
bathtub. The buttery-yellow stone surfaces were smooth and soft looking, but
the upper rim of the bowl was ragged with the mountainous serrations. A few
scraggly pale-green cottonwood trees were clumped off to one side of me,
their roots searching for some unreliable underground spring in this
otherwise barren landscape.
In an attempt to get out of the shadows of the cliff, I climbed further up
into the bowl, scrambling along the top of a finger-like ridge. With no
boulders impeding my progress, I quickly gained altitude until I found myself
on a (more-or-less) flat shelf halfway up to the summit, and beyond this
spot, the slope became even more steep and smooth. I could climb no further,
and I had found the perfect place to set up camp. Over to one side there was
even a little overhanging fold in the stone skin. It hardly ever rains here,
but the idea of sleeping in this shallow cave seemed reassuring. I dropped my
heavy pack at the entrance to the grotto, and then walked back out to the
edge of the shelf. That is when I encountered the view that I described at
the beginning of this story. I had climbed high enough to see back over the
narrow crevice that had led me to the bowl, and stretched out across the
horizon was the dark blue expanse of the main body of the Lake. Beyond that,
the far shore was a sheer wall of dark red rock streaked with wildly twisted
bands of black. Way off in the distance, a ridge of mountains was dappled
with a splattering of the first snowfall of the year. Yet where I stood, it
was quite warm, and the perspiration from my arduous climb was slicked over
my body and soaking my white singlet shirt. Being as alone as I knew that I
was, I took the opportunity to strip off all of my clothes and wipe myself
clean with a little water from my canteen.
Then I turned back to the incredible tableau surrounding me. It was so
enlivening, so exhilarating. I stretched my arms high into the air, threw my
head back and impetuously hollered at the blazing sun with a high-pitched
shriek. Many seconds later, I was shocked to hear someone else scream back at
me from across the wide amphitheater. I instinctively covered my breasts and
groin with my hands, before I caught myself for being so silly. What I had
heard was a perfect echo of my own voice, reflecting back at me off the far
wall. The incredible strength and clarity of the reverberation was due to the
focusing curvature of the cliff face. I laughed at my unfounded fears, and my
laugh bounced right back at me. I found that I could sing a meandering duet,
accompanied by myself, of course.
As I sang I performed a liquid, improvised dance, solely for the enjoyment of
my echo-self observer. I don't normally consider myself to be much of a
dancer. In fact, I sort of dropped out of ballet class in Junior High School,
out of embarrassment for my clumsiness. But today, I was like Martha Graham
performing the world premier of "Appalachian Spring".... I was like a
full-fledged member of Pilobous Dance Theater.... I was the famous feather in
"Forrest Gump," floating effortlessly, barely touching the ground. All of my
body succumbed to the sensuous feeling of the moment.
And when things get this sensuous for me, I am always teased by the
temptation to masturbate. I had only my echo-self as the voyeuristic observer
to my increasingly erotic dance. I felt free to touch myself, rubbing the
flats of my palms up my torso and onto my swaying breasts, rubbing my hard
nipples into the resilient flesh. Then, in a coordinated motion, my head
tipped back so that my hair flailed onto my shoulders, and one of my hands
slid down to my crotch as I let my knees bend so that I was squatting on the
smooth stone of the ledge. My knees splayed outward, and my fingers found
their way into the wet and sleek canyon splitting the bulging mesa of my
vulva. In the bottom of that chasm, where the waters churned down the rapids,
my clitoris stuck up like a boulder through the chaotic white-water. My
fingers were like kayaks, bumping up against the hard rock, again and again,
keeping up the rhythm that I had established with my dancing. I bobbed up and
down on the balls of my feet, and my breasts and head rolled around wildly.
The pinching on my nipples and prodding of my clitoris brought forth hoarse
and primitive grunts from my throat that reverberated back at me from across
the bowl. Incredibly, the echoes seemed louder than my original sounds.
I have no idea whether I took minutes or hours to reach the climax of my
masturbation. I was lost in the primal immediacy of the moment, transported
from self-absorbed gratification into a feeling of being connected with
nature. Clouds, skin, cliffs, sweat, tumbleweed, hair, pebbles, nipples,
sunshine, labia, echoes,.... orgasm. It started as gentle breeze, and built
up to a howling, spectacular storm within my loins, lightening striking out
into all the interdependent elements of my taut body. I shrieked in the total
ecstasy of the experience.
And then suddenly, my calf cramped up from the stress of squatting for so
long. Perhaps it took a few seconds for the sharp pain to open the door to my
distracted consciousness, for before I knew it, I was falling off my birdlike
perch and off to one side. Just in time, I pulled my wet hand out of the
twitching folds of my cunt, and used it to absorb much of the momentum of my
tumble. But that in turn caused me to spin forwards, and I felt the course
surface of the sandstone scrape across the tender skin of my forehead. I lay
there flat on the rock, stretching my leg to work out the cramp. At the same
time, I traded my sweat and leaking vaginal juices for the heat that radiated
from the sun-heated rock. Some of that perspiration dripped down my face into
my eyes, and the saltiness stung me into clenching my eyelids shut. I was in
such a daze that when I reopened them, I thought I was seeing the world
through rose-colored glasses. Then I realized that it was blood from my
forehead, and that startled me back into awareness.
I forced some discipline into my mind and my muscles, and pulled myself up
into a sitting position. I fought off the dizziness, and scrambled on
all-fours back toward the cave, where I pulled the first-aid kit out of my
pack. Using a little compact mirror that I had thrown in at the last minute,
I cleaned the scrape, applied some ointment, and covered it with a bandage. I
was surprised at what else the mirror revealed: the face of a wild woman,
hair tangled and snarled, warpaint of dirt and blood smudged on my cheeks. My
eyes blazed with the lust and exhilaration of my masturbation. I again
swabbed the sweat off my body, and washed my cunt, but I left on my warpaint.
It signified that I was free and alive and confidently alone -- a brave
Indian warrior, linked in some unimaginable way with the ancient Anasazi
Indians that last roamed these lands a thousand years ago.
As all this happened, so was the sun starting to go down, and I used the last
hour of natural light to set up my campsite and make some dinner for myself.
A meal of dehydrated stew is not usually my favorite thing, but that evening,
it was made perfect by the accompaniment of the spellbindingly splendid
sunset. With only my little candle-lantern for illumination, I put away my
cook set, and crawled into my snugly sleeping bag, still as naked as I had
been all afternoon. Before I extinguished the candle, I studied the smooth
walls of the cave, and was surprised to see faint drawings, which I
immediately realized were Anasazi cave paintings. They were hard to make out
in the faint light, but I could see the images of stick figures holding up
round shields and short spears or clubs. The one closest to me even had a
stick-figure cock drooping down between the stick legs. Something to dream
about, I thought, as I blew out the flame, and within minutes, I was asleep,
exhausted by my first day on Lake Powell.
Continued in part 2 (which is much longer than part 1)
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