For what feels like the thousandth time today, you're forced to retreat. Your friend was grabbed and manhandled, surrounded, cuffed, and tossed into a transport vehicle. You would have been next, but the enforcers were occupied with her, and another friend dragged you away. The line can't lose more key defenders, he said. So your back is against a storefront, with protesters trying to keep a visible distance between the line and the men with riot control weapons.
The videos and livestreams will show that your line is not engaging. All of the provocation is from the enforcers. It's hard to stand firm, when they're lobbing tear gas. Then the line breaks up and protesters stagger blindly, pushed by the crowd until they can be seen as a threat and taken in the resulting scuffle. You know you shouldn't have been involved in the last one, but your friend... it's a hard life for a girl in a center. You've seen women emerge broken. You've chosen to accept the risk.
There's a disturbance close to the end of the line, away from the armed men. You push your way toward it. As an organizer, you can't afford for your own people to fight, or, worse, provide an excuse for escalation. You find two of your comrades shouting at a man wearing a mask and sunglasses, holding a brick. He's clearly intending to lob it through a store window, while the people around him are following the directive of avoiding violence. They haven't mobbed him, but they're trying to block his aim.
That will only hold him back for moments, especially when a similarly dressed man hefting a pair of bricks approaches. You dart in, attempting to wrest the brick from the first man. Small violence to prevent greater violence, which would cause yet more violence when the enforcement troops respond to looting. Brick dude is most likely hoping for that reaction.
You're a girl of average height, and he's a big guy, but his surprise lets you take a solid hold on the brick, though it doesn't leave his hands. His compatriot drops his bricks and leaps for you, wrapping his arms around your chest to haul you off. As he lifts you, the one holding the brick releases it to let your assailant drag you away, but with the force of your grip on the brick, and the other's grip on you, the brick flips upward in your hold, hitting the man's jaw with a crunch that can be heard over the yelling.
As he drops to the ground, you let the brick fall. Your captor is screaming that you killed him, but now the crowd is rushing to your defense, and he tosses you to the floor beside his stationary companion. Every drone, phone and bodycam in the vicinity has video of you smashing in someone's face with a brick. Though you wonder if that will even matter as you curl up, protecting your head with your arms. You may not live to stand again.
Troops have taken notice of the swirling fight. Tear gas lands near by, and riot shields form a line, pushing protestors and agitators away. In the gap that forms, tears streaming from the smoke, you drag yourself to a storefront, while the action moves away, leaving brick dude sprawled alone.
No one's paying attention to you. You need to get away from here, to rest, if nothing else. You can't do anything about video that's already been captured and probably broadcast, but you're no use to anyone if you abandon yourself to fate. You stagger away from the melee.
Rounding the next corner you almost collide with an apparition. You hadn't expected anyone to be standing there. You look up, dreading the sight of a mask and sunglasses.
Instead, the tall woman who returns your gaze has ghostly blue eyes and long, jet black hair. She wears a fringed denim shirt, short denim skirt and calf boots. She doesn't seem surprised to see you. She beckons for you to follow, then jogs in the direction you were traveling. It's an effort to keep up with her, but you do.
Behind a dumpster, she pauses before a sleek black motorbike. She unclips a full-face helmet, tossing it to you, then pointing to your pocket for your phone. You hand it over, entering its code when she holds it out to you. You don't know why you did that, except she's clearly not on the side of the aggressors. She lets you see what she's doing when she shuts down its GPS, then the phone itself. She takes a small metallic bag from her bike, wraps the phone in it, then hands it back to you. Bemused, you stuff it back into your pocket.
You take pillion after she starts the bike. Without warning, she lets the clutch out, taking off smoothly but quickly, skimming effortlessly past traffic as you leave the city. Her black hair flies out behind her, sometimes drifting over your visor. She corners fast and low, but you're in no position to complain about being nervous about her speed.
An hour passes. Maybe more. She slows as she turns onto an unmaintained road. The black bike growls in sadness. The road curves down into a shallow valley. The woman coasts to a halt beside a large cabin. She waits for you to dismount before ending the bike's misery.
There are rows of different vegetable plantings in the field. Not farming monoculture. A large propane tank lurks just off the road. The woman leads you to the cabin, her long, lean legs distracting.
Every window is screened for insects, but they are all open, including those in the bathroom, where she leads you. It's small, with a shower and tub, but she immediately turns on the tub. After leaving for a moment, she returns with a long plain cotton shirt and underwear, setting them beside the washbasin. Handing you a glass jar of bath salts, she says, "Use this. And anything else you like."
You realize those were the first words you've heard her say, and you're surprised at how deep and musical is her voice. She leaves the bathroom, closing the door behind her, and you gaze confoundedly at the door. Then you check the water temperature and begin to undress.
The woman was right about the bath salts. Soaking has relieved most of your pain. Your left breast is tender where your assailant wrapped his arms around you. You were more concerned with getting away from him than the precise location of the assault. The scrapes on your hips and legs where you were kicked or stepped on will bruise, but don't sting like they did on the ride to this place.
Why do you trust the woman who brought you here? Because you had no alternative? It seems deeper than that, but you don't know why. Or how. Was she waiting for you? Did she catch a broadcast? You felt you needed to rest when you left the fighting. Is she some kind of wish fulfillment angel? What kind of angel lives in a cabin and rides a Ducati?
Why do you have the feeling that she will answer none of these questions?
After towelling off, you look through the small selection of products, choosing a shampoo and conditioner, then wash your ginger curls in the washbasin. You don't feel your red hair and green eyes put you in the same league as the woman's gorgeous raven hair and pale eyes, but at least you can try not to look like your head wasn't dragged along a filthy sidewalk.
You rub the towel over your hair, then slip on the shirt and panties she left. Barefoot, you leave the bathroom. The main room is empty, and you don't want to open doors. You call, "Hello?" but there is no answer. There's a warm scent of roasting vegetables, so you're sure she isn't far away.
The back door is latched open, with its screen. You step outside onto soft grass. She's no more than fifty feet away, walking toward the house carrying what looks to be a lettuce and something small and red. As she gets closer, you see they are radishes. She's wearing sandals and a dark blue dress, with a deep neckline and pleated knee-length skirt, tight over her hips. The fabric has that slight sheen that makes you think it's raw silk.
She gives you a smile that is both friendly and knowing, and maybe slightly challenging. "Sit," she says, as she steps into the shade of the cabin. She carries her game indoors, then returns in a few minutes with plates of salad and two cups of an unusual, slightly bitter, tea. You're sipping the tea, deciding whether you like it, when she emerges again with roasted green and yellow squash on couscous and yogurt sauce for the salad.
She doesn't speak while she eats, and you feel that you shouldn't, but you do glance at her occasionally. Her skin is a dark gold. There are the beginnings of laugh lines around her eyes. You guess her age at five years over yours. You're fairly sure she's no more than ten years your senior.
You look up when you've finished the food. "Who are you?" you ask.
"Does it matter?" she replies.
There's the faintest trace of an accent when she speaks. You've heard her say around ten words total, but you don't think you could place her speech even if you'd heard it for hours.
"The food was great, and I needed it, and the bath was perfect," you say, "but who do I thank for the hospitality? What should I call you?"
"What would you like to call me?" she asks.
"Your name?" you suggest.
"Hmmm," she says, thoughtfully. "I'll give you a name." She frowns in thought for several seconds longer. "Call me Bastet."
"Are you Egyptian?" you ask.
"Does it matter?" she says again.
You shrug. This woman has probably saved your life. If she doesn't wish to give you details, who are you to press?
You gather up the dishes and carry them into the cabin. The woman - can you think of her as Bastet, when it isn't her name? follows you to show you how the system works, then dries the dishes after you wash them.
She stirs water, coffee grounds and sugar in a long-handled copper pot, lighting the gas stove beneath the pot. The two small mugs she takes from a cupboard have no handles. When the coffee foams she carefully pours just the foam into both mugs, repeating the process several times before turning off the range, then carrying the mugs outside.
She brings out a mosquito coil, and an ash tray, closing the screen door behind her. Moving the coil over the ash tray, she lights it with the same lighter she used for the stove.
"Does that help?" you ask.
She shrugs. Pointing to the planters beside the door, she says, "The plants help more." The planters each have a compact bundle of green leaves. "And this, perhaps?" she adds, tapping out a cigarette from a gold soft pack. She offers one to you, but you shake your head, so she lights her own.
"When will I leave?" you ask.
She lets out a low chuckle. Raising her cigarette, she says, "Is my filthy habit driving you away?"
You hasten to reassure her that it isn't troubling you. "I don't know how long I'm here, because I don't know why I'm here," you say.
"When you are ready to leave, you will leave," the woman says, as if the answer is obvious. "Until then, relax. Build your strength. Do you have pain?"
You consider the question and shake your head. The woman nods in acknowledgement, then reverts to silence.
The coffee is like nothing you've tasted, which could be your motto for this whole day. It's strong and sweet, and awakes the back of your nose like smooth brandy. You sip it slowly. Even when you taste a few grounds in the bottom of the small mug you try to leave none of the dark nectar behind. You wonder whether the woman would taste as good as her coffee, and as soon as the thought comes to mind you wonder where it came from. You look up to see pale blue eyes studying you, as she stubs out her cigarette in the ash tray, and suffer a moment's panic - can she tell what you're thinking? Did she put that thought there?
As irrational as both fears are, it takes you a while to calm your mind down. You push back your wooden chair and wander over to the first row of vegetables. Beans and squash hang from a low trellis. You don't really think she's manipulating your thoughts. But another thought has now rippled to the top. You turn and march back to the table.
"Where will I sleep?" you demand.
"The bed is enough for two," she says, her cool eyes on you.
You sit on the seat you just left, shuffling it forward. "Do you sleep naked?"
"Do you want me to sleep naked?" she asks, with only the slightest hint of amusement.
Yes. God, yes. You're already feeling a vibration in your pussy. "No," you say.
She nods. "Then I will not." She doesn't seem to be pleased or saddened by your choice.
The silence is strange. It's extreme. There's no sound of civilization here. There are no lights. You hear nighttime insects. Or maybe they're frogs, or both. You have no phone to distract yourself, and your companion isn't interested in small talk. You have no books. Yet the tranquility outweighs the boredom, and although your companion is not a conversationalist, you appreciate not having to analyze your life for her.
She stands, then collects the mugs and moves inside. You follow to see her emptying the dregs of the mugs into the recycle bag, then tipping the coffee pot into the same bag before washing all three. She brings in her cigarettes, ash tray and the doused mosquito incense.
There is a light fitting by the door. You look for a switch beside the doorframe, but there isn't one. The woman approaches, hips swaying, then turns a knob beneath the light fixture before holding up her lighter. There's a brief blue flash, then the gas mantle is glowing, becoming brighter until the room is full of its pale yellow light. The slight hiss of the gas is the loudest sound in the room.
She steps into the bathroom. You see a glow against the door as she repeats the lamp lighting within, then the sound of water in the shower. After a moment, you hear the shape of the sound change, and imagine her beneath the shower head.
She emerges from the bathroom in a cotton nightgown, combing out damp hair. Light reflecting from the bathroom door is visible through the nightgown, outlining the lines of her body - the outward curve of her hips, the joining of her thighs. The garment ends well above her knees.
"Uh, should I sleep in this?" you ask, smoothing your shirt over your hips. It would be fine, it's comfortable, you just don't know if she gave it to you with the intention of it being sleepwear.
She vanishes into her bedroom. You hear the small pop as she lights its mantle, then observe the glow forming around the door. She returns with a nightie that looks to be the same style as the one she's wearing. Handing it to you, she gestures toward the bathroom.
Inside, you find your own sealed toothbrush. You strip off your shirt, relieve yourself, then wash your hands and face before brushing your teeth. You examine your reflection after slipping on the nightdress she gave you. The clothing feels like it's barely there, and the cotton is as thin as what she was wearing, but it seems opaque in the mirror.
She takes your shirt from you, then ushers you into the bedroom while she turns off the gas lights in the bathroom and main room.
The bed is centered, with a nightstand on either side. On each nightstand is a candle, with a box of matches and lighter. You figure a candle is more convenient in the dark than the gas fitting. Supporting your point, she lights the candle on the right side of the bed, then extinguishes the gas flame. You move to sit on the left side of the bed, your legs under the sheets, pillow behind your back. She climbs into the right side, mirroring your pose.
Though the candle is behind her, there is enough like to see her face, her eyes pale within it. Turning to face you, she reaches out with her right hand, running a finger down your arm. It feels as though the line was created with a live electric cable. Your skin still sparks as she moves her hand back.
"Bastet..." you groan. "I..."
"You wish to lie with me?" she asks in that deeply musical voice. It carries a trace of amusement, but also, you think, a trace of lust.
Breath you didn't know you were holding explodes out of you. You replace it with another lungful of air. You don't answer her question. Taking that step feels like it shouldn't include words, especially with this woman who uses so few. You reach out with your left hand to cup her cheek as you slide your face toward her.
She tastes of desire. There's a touch of mint from the toothpaste and ash from the cigarette, but it's not distracting, and she doesn't have the breath of a heavy smoker. She probes your tongue, but lets the passion of the kiss rise naturally. Her lips are soft against yours as both hands sneak around the back of your head. You wriggle your body closer to hers, stretching an arm around her to caress her shoulder blades, then run it down to her butt. There are no panties beneath the thin cotton.
Your breath catches when you realize that. She seems to sense your reaction, pushing herself closer to you, the kiss becoming deeper, before she draws back, moving her hands from you. "Do you like what you feel?" she asks.
You can only nod, and try to move closer to recover the kiss, but she sits upright. You hear a rustle of cloth, then the nightdress is sliding over her head, and your heart skips a beat as you take in her high, firm breasts and the trimmed but not shaved dark fur between her thighs.
You pull your own nightdress over your head. Never have you worn a garment for such a short time.
The woman pushes you down to the bed, then rolls the sheets back, exposing your legs, and pulls your panties down. You wriggle to let her get them off. Then she's on you, kissing you fiercely as your bodies make contact. A rush of want floods your sex. You feel yourself damp against her belly. Knowing this woman intimately has suddenly become your goal in life.
She seems reluctant to break the kiss, but she does, as she slides down your body to suckle your left breast. You can't help groaning at the new levels of desire you're feeling. Wherever she touches feels charged, but especially your breast, where her tongue is terrorizing your defenseless nipple into sensitivity, and your pussy lips, where her fingers are drawing patterns in the wetness. You cry out when one slides easily into you. You don't have a scale for this level of arousal.
The finger withdraws and two take its place. Her body lifts from yours and you feel her left hand pushing its way over your belly. Fingers press against your mons as she lowers herself and thrusts into you. You groan as she pushes you higher.
Before the deed is done, she rolls off you. You pant harshly, your hips still rising, unable to react to no longer having anything to push against. Then she's over you on her knees and elbows, her breasts suspended, lightly caressing yours. There's a feline glint in her eye as she looks into you, a predator now.
Crawling backward, she stops to suckle both breasts. You're so turned on at this point that she could get a reaction wherever she touched you, but your breasts and nipples are especially sensitive targets. You close your eyes, letting the sensation take you, not opening them again until you feel her body drift lower.
She's between your legs now, her tongue sliding down your belly, then skipping down to your thighs, tracing up your inner thighs as she lightly draws a finger around your labia. You feel your pulse echoing in your sex.
She growls and swipes her tongue over your clit, making you yell, then settles into planting small kisses around your pussy lips, drawing her tongue around them. Fingers slowly slide into you, stretching you in delicious spikes of pain before settling against the wall of your sex.
The fingers begin to thrust, and her tongue explores further, brushing your clit. Her left hand slides up your body, fingers moving to pinch your right breast. Your wince of pain drives your sex against the woman's jaw. She responds with more gentle caresses of your clit, where you need more.
She's toying with you, and you're losing your will to resist. She will take you in her time, at her pace.
The hand on your breast squeezes firmly. You feel your swollen clit being engulfed by her mouth. The sensation filling it is suddenly intense and unstoppable. Your hips rise from the bed.
The spasm that hits you seems to be focused in from every part of your body. You feel yourself engulfed in wetness. More spasms slam into you, each one overwhelming your senses. You try to breathe as your body writhes beneath her tongue. Each jolt of pleasure fills your soul.
You have never felt so alive. Each mighty pulse of your orgasm pushes the darkness you've been under for months now, for years, back a little.
The woman between your legs expertly draws out your climax until you sink back to the bed. Then she rolls away before moving up the bed to lie beside you, pulling the sheets up to cover both of you. Her pale eyes hold yours for long moments before she presses her lips to yours, your own taste flooding your tongue.
"Should I leave today?" you ask.
You're both sitting at the outdoor table, both naked. She didn't even dress to pick up the tomatoes you're now eating, chopped and tossed into scrambled eggs with mushrooms.
"When you are ready to leave, you will leave," she says, just as she did the day before.
You turned your phone back on, under her guidance, this morning. Her wifi is secure, she says. You figure from the address you're assigned that your VPN connection terminates somewhere in India. Without location tracking and with no cell towers in the vicinity, your phone is unlikely to give your location away. You've watched the news. No mention of a man taking a brick to the face. Either he survived, or he was a plant, or both. More of your friends were arrested after you left. You have a responsibility to them.
Away from the city as you are, the silence is deafening. It is not a place you can live for long. But you also have a responsibility to yourself and to them to be revitalized. When you return to the fray you're going to make a difference. Your time with this woman - with "Bastet" - will give you that.
"It won't be today," you say. "Before I leave, I want to turn you inside out the way you did to me."
That predatory glint appears in her eyes again for a moment. You don't know if it means, "Good luck with that," or "I'm looking forward to it."
You know sometime you're bound to leave her, but for now you're gonna stay...