Free Vision of Love by Xssa Annella Page A

what I wanted, for him to look intensely at me. To touch me. What maiden doesn’t long to be touched, especially by one such as he?
    His lips brush my face, just grazing the apple of my cheek, and I shiver, gasp softly. I want more. So much more. I want to drown in this feeling. I want his lips all over me. Like a heartbeat, I want, I want, I want—
    Even in the bright light of day I see his pupils are full, as though he is standing in a dark teepee, but I don’t think his eyes have lost their focus on my breasts once. Then he raises his gaze to mine. I can’t read his expression. It’s as hidden as the inner depths of a cave—dark, alive.
    This, I will offer. My innocence, my sweet cheeks, untouched by men. He stands up and greatly daring, I lean forward and touch my face to his. The touch is searing. Enlightening. The tightening of my body—I feel it in my stomach, my thighs, my breasts. The inrush of breath—I feel it filling me, spreading warmth and life. Our lips touching—I feel as though I am caressing the sun.
    I sit back. A vision flashes before my eyes, too quick to see.
    This is strong medicine.
    He laughs and runs off. The air is so empty in front of me.
    My breasts ache and down below, by my stomach, is a wanting. I can’t describe it.
    I must have more.
    No other male could have pulled that piece of sinew and made it feel as if it was so close to my heart. Redbush has always been my favourite among the young males, ever since I have been old enough to start noticing men. Only he could have gifted me with that maelstrom of emotion.
    I hold my dress together and walk back home. Mother sighs at the destruction and I claim a tree attacked, the branches catching and ripping the shoulder as I had pulled away. Now I only have one dress.
    Later I catch him in the woods with friends, and we walk back to the village together. I can’t get enough of his voice, of his strange sayings. He touches me in odd ways, makes me wonder. I make him laugh once, and am triumphant to have given him something. I want to spend more time with him—just him and me.
     
    * * * *
     
    It’s a few days later before I see him slip off on his hunt. I have sacrificed something—an innocence, perhaps—certainly my dress, which is now tied at the shoulder, barely staying on. Dancing Dawn has been teasing me all morning about it, that bitch. She is friends with Redbush and has the nicest dresses. Her mother and the chief’s wife grew up together, old friends, and Dancing Dawn is friends with Redbush. For his sake, I try to be nice, even though what I really want to do is claw my nails into her face for having the right to touch him. Who knew that getting a man’s attention was as easy as losing part of a dress?
    I wish he had ripped it off me completely. It’s a thought that keeps me awake at night. Only now can I admit how much I have wanted him.
    I dream of his touch, a fiery ache in my sleep. I wake and want to touch myself. I am different, and often I catch myself with my fingers on my lips, unaware they’re there until I feel the tingle, remember his heat on mine. The gods seem to favour the offer of my maidenhood. Did I not feel something, see a possible glimpse?
    And really, I want to feel them again—those dizzying sweet sensations, those drops in time that feel as though they last forever, yet pass too quickly. I want to see things, to know. I want more than a vision, too quick to glimpse.
    I want him. To hear him laugh. To listen as he talks. For us to just be together.
    After watching Redbush go, I quickly grab my things and follow. The trail winds away through the prairie and to the woods. He has taken the fork that doesn’t go past the river. This one goes to the base of the mountains, and probably up into them. I see his moccasin prints for a while before the trail fades away, lost in grass and rocks.
    Only hunters leave the grasslands. The woods can harbour bears and mountain cats, and most women never leave the