The Mark of Danteshwari

Through it all, we are aware of the presence of Danteshwari, knowing that she smiles upon us. As I surrender to the power of our ultimate orgasm, I manage to whisper, "Thank you -- thank you for your gift."

I am pretty sure as I slide into unconsciousness, wrapped in a blanket of sheer, incestuous love, I hear a divine voice whisper back, "YOU ARE WELCOME, DAUGHTER."

When I awake, it is dawn. Jeff carries me in his strong arms as if I were a child. I am naked as is he. I look up into his eyes and see his love for me. We don't have to say it aloud to each other. We know it for absolute truth. I love my son. He loves me.

Other sons are carrying their mothers home alongside us. Ramita's arms are draped around Bimal's neck, her head against his chest. Her eyes are closed and she has a smile on her face that belongs to an angel. My heart swells with happiness for her. The village folk are emerging from their homes to greet us -- to welcome us back. They sing prayers and praise to Danteshwari for her blessings -- for the continuing fulfillment of her pact with the village.

With head held proud and high, Jeff carries me home. He takes me to his bed and gently lowers me to it. Naked, we cuddle up together and sleep. The dream is gone. In it's place are new dreams showing us our life together. When we wake, my son and I make love again. It is as wonderful as the first time -- perhaps even better. As I writhe under my son's body, his cock making me squirm and moan with incestuous pleasure, I know that each time we make love, it will be more wonderful than the time before.

Five years pass. In everyone's eyes, my son and I are husband and wife, our wedding rites performed by Danteshwari herself. When Joseph came home, I demanded a divorce and he agreed. I think this land had already defeated him and he simply wanted to leave anyway. He left for America and we never saw him again.

My son and I are so happy. He works the land, the gift of farming evident in his touch. I teach to this day. And together, we raise our children. Damika, our daughter is five, conceived the night my son and I were first joined. She is joy personified. Naija thinks that she will someday take her place as the village's holy woman. Our son, Jack is three and is the apple of our eye. My belly is swollen with our third child. My heart tells me it is another daughter. I will name her after Naija, who will never admit it, but is pleased by that.

Each day we give thanks to Danteshwari for the gifts she has showered us with - our love for each other, the blessing of our children and for gifts unlooked for yet given with love. It has only been recently that I realized that I have stopped aging. Naija has explained that all the mothers blessed by the Goddess have stopped aging and that we will not resume aging until our sons have reached our age, so that we might travel the road of our lives together until the end.

We are home, my son and I. I know we will never leave. We will never want to. I am forever a daughter of India and in love with my son, married to my son, happy with a life given to me by the grace and blessing of Danteshwari.

The End