Welcome to this month’s Charity Sunday blog hop. This month I’m supporting another small but influential charity: the Harpswell Foundation.
Harpswell supports and nurtures young Asian women as they strive to educate themselves and acquire the skills they need to succeed in life and contribute to society. The Foundation hosts events that bring together aspiring female leaders throughout the region. Their most visible activity, however, is developing residential communities in Phnom Penh, Cambodia, for women attending university in the city. In this conservative and poverty-stricken country, safe and affordable housing allows female students to take advantage of educational opportunities they would otherwise have to refuse.
As it happens, some close friends of mine are members of the Harpswell board of directors. Since I live in Southeast Asia, I had the chance to visit a Harpswell dorm and meet some of the residents. It was an exciting, inspiring experience that left me feeling tremendously hopeful. As I noted in my last Charity Sunday post, positive change starts with individuals. These women will, I believe, make a difference.
Anyway, until the next Charity Sunday which will be December 28th, I’ll be accepting comments on this post. I will donate two dollars to Harpswell for every comment I receive.
For my excerpt today, I’m sharing a bit from my short story Citadel of Women, which is set in Cambodia. The title comes from the Banteay Srei temple near Angkor Wat, which due to its smaller scale and delicate carvings of goddesses is sometimes called the “citadel of women”.
Blurb
Passion flares among the ruins of an ancient empire
When her lover severs their relationship just before a long-planned trip to Angkor Wat, Doa stubbornly decides to travel alone. The marvelous sights of the ancient Khmer empire do little to heal the rift in her heart. Che, the mercurial young tour guide, senses her loneliness and offers her comfort and passion. Their connection is far more than physical – but how can two people from such different worlds share a future?
Excerpt
The bus parked under an enormous banyan tree. Che led the way up the gravel path. We walked east about a hundred yards, through a gap in a tumbled down wall. The group gave a collective gasp at the scene that was revealed.
The jagged towers of Angkor Wat rose before us, dark against the rose-streaked sky. As the sun climbed above the horizon, the gray stone flushed a pinkish gray. The central peak and the four flanking turrets glowed, jutting above the squat galleries that formed the outer perimeter. They were perfectly mirrored in the moat surrounding the whole enormous complex.
The temple, still a quarter of a mile away, filled our vision. A laterite road led from our current position, straight as a ruler, across a causeway to the central gate of the shrine.
“Angkor Wat,” Che intoned. “The largest and most magnificent monument to Khmer power. It was constructed by Suryavarman II at the beginning of the twelfth century. The square moat is two hundred meters wide and fifteen hundred meters on a side. The temple complex itself covers more than twenty-one hectares.”
The size and scope of the edifice were truly awesome. I heard the pride in Che's voice as he continued to describe the wonders of the temple to his attentive knot of followers. As we traveled the road to the temple, I walked behind him admiring his loose, balanced stride. My clit throbbed against the seam of my jeans as I remembered his passion.
He led us through the galleries, interpreting the famous bas relief carvings. The battle of the devas and asuras, the angels and the demons. The Churning of the Sea of Milk. We climbed the steep stairs to the great, conical towers at the heart of the complex. They loomed over the ritual bathing pools where the king had purified his body before prostrating himself in front of Vishnu. All the while I held back, watching Che as he worked his magic, my heart and my clit aching in equal measure.
We spent three hours in Angkor Wat. The time flew by. Finally, our stomachs reminded us we'd had no breakfast. Che herded us into a local restaurant, where we feasted on pungent pork noodles and fresh mangoes. Then we piled back onto the bus, headed for the shrine of Banteay Srei, twenty miles northeast of Angkor Thom. No one talked much; we were still awed by what we'd seen during the morning.
Che slid into the empty seat next to me. Surreptitiously, he squeezed my hand. “So, what did you think of Angkor Wat?”
“Truly amazing. It made the journey worthwhile, all by itself.”
“I hope that's not the only thing you'll remember from this trip,” he said, lowering his voice. He placed my palm on his crotch so I could feel his swelling cock.
“Behave,” I scolded, snatching my hand away, but secretly pleased he wanted me. “What will the rest of the group think?”
“Do you care?” he asked, quite serious. “After tomorrow, you'll never see them again.” He didn't need to add what we both were thinking. We'd never see each other, either.
“I've got condoms,” he whispered in my ear.
My stomach did a dangerous flip. I laughed, trying to keep things light. “You're outrageous! Go flirt with the Misses Montblanc.”
“I just wanted to warn you,” he said. But he followed my instructions. Soon their high-pitched giggles echoed through the bus.
Angkor Wat was a testament to male power. Banteay Srei, I discovered, was a meditation on female beauty. The temple, nicknamed the “Citadel of Women,” was fashioned of roseate sandstone, far warmer than the gray stone used for most of the Khmer monuments. Banteay Srei was built to a woman's scale, the courtyards a few yards across, the doorways barely tall enough for me to pass without ducking my head. Instead of phallic towers, it offered intricately carved walls and pediments. Graceful, voluptuous devatas served as guardians to the shrine, their smiling faces eloquent and serene.
I stood gazing at one of these figures, admiring her round, naked breasts with their eternally rigid nipples. I thought about Laurel and her refined little tits, so different from this sandstone goddess. My old lover seemed very far away.
Silently, Che came up behind me. “She reminds me of you,” he murmured, bringing his hands up to cradle my breasts. He tweaked the tips, sending currents of electricity racing for my pussy.
“Che! Please! Someone will see.”
“Everyone's out in front, having a cold drink and recovering from the heat.” His hands slipped to my thighs. His thumbs sought the crevice between them.
“Che...” He turned me to face him, silencing my protests with a ferocious kiss. “We shouldn't,” I murmured, my knees already weak.
“Why not?” He cupped my buttocks in his palms and pulled me against the swelling in his groin.
“I'm old enough to be your mother. Or at least your older sister.”
“Nonsense.” He rubbed his cock against my jeans, making me squirm.
“What would your people think? Your family? You getting it on with a big black American woman ten years older than you?”
His face darkened. “I don't have a family. They all died in the killing fields.”
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