Three Matches
“Linda mulher! Pretty lady!”
She turned to look at the boy, squatting in front of a white bungalow, his wares spread out before him on a colorful blanket.
“Pretty lady, buy penny magic.”
Her husband tugged at her arm, pulling her away from the boy, but she turned her head, seeing something in his confident sales pitch.
“Buy penny magic, linda mulher. Candomble very strong here in Bahia. Penny magic for a moça bonita.”
The way he said it made her blush. Maybe this boy was 12, but he looked at her like a wolf, his ebony eyes locked on to hers as he pantomimed holding her and thrusting.
Her first two days in Brazil had taught her how lasciviously the men would stare. The heat had her wearing white cotton dresses that hugged her curves and fluttered in the sea breeze, and she was like a magnet, all heads turning to follow her as she passed. Young and old, the men looked right at her, undressing her from her long legs up to her bust and then fixing on her face. Every man on the street propositioning her with their eyes. Still pale from the northern winter, blond and beautiful, she was used to a lot of attention, but here in Brazil it was so much more aggressive. At home in Tennessee, she enjoyed the power and exhilaration of being everyone’s fantasy, but in this busy foreign place it was scarier. Unless she had her husband on her arm, they would come right up to her, oily with cologne and heat, and touch her hand, propositioning her in Portuguese. When they saw her, they wanted to fuck.
This boy, selling “penny magic”, shouldn’t be old enough to be that obscene. He was holding a trinket aloft, a small lump of something on a ratty black string. It drew her eye, somehow compelling her interest. But her husband kept her moving her forward, past the boy, past his penny magic. Don’t stop for the street urchins, he had said. Just move past and ignore them.
Her husband was here for the Copa, the world cup of soccer, following the American team. On Monday, they had been in Natal for the first US match. Tomorrow, they would fly deep into the rainforest to see the match in Manaus, and the third match was in nearby Recife, but today they were in Salvador, the ancient Afro-Brazilian capital.
She shook off her husbands arm and turned back to the boy. He stared at her body. “Quanto é?", she asked the boy, pointing at the charm. “Único centavo”, he said, standing. She turned to her husband. He fished a coin from his pocket and flipped it at the boy, who caught it and in the same motion stepped forward to the woman, surprising her. Almost hugging her, the boy put the string over her head and let the charm drop around her neck, then let his hands slide down her arms as he backed away. “Hey!", her husband growled, but she just stepped back, blushing. “Muiraquitã”, the boy said, pointing to the amulet, and then sat back down behind his mat of trinkets, grinning at her.
She looked down at the amulet, now nestled in the valley between her breasts. It was a little green frog, carved out of stone. “Obrigado”, she said, and waved as her husband pulled her away, down the street.
A few blocks later, they reached the square, and found a table in a bar that was showing the Argentina match. Uninterested in the game, she took her husband’s iPhone and did some research. “Honey, that boy said this is a muiraquitã... it says here that they prevent disease”. He ignored her, watching the TV. “Oh, and it’s for fertility, too”, she smiled, touching his arm, but her husband brushed her off. “It might be really valuable, it says”, she tried, hoping to get his attention off the game. “Baby”, he snapped, “he charged us one centavo for it. Do you know how much that is? It’s like nothing, less than a penny. I’m sure it’s just a piece of junk.”
I like it, she thought, turning it in her fingers. She thought it might be real jade. It was heavy, for its tiny size, and very smooth. A little green frog. She felt a little tug. Confused, she looked at the frog. Had it pulled her, or was it her imagination. She looked up, in the direction of the tug. Through the cafe windows, the central market continued down a side street. “Honey, I’m going out to look at the market, ok?”
He wanted her to stay. Only ten minutes left in the game, and he could come with her, keep her safe. But she felt the little tug again, somehow, though the frog now dangled around her neck. “Don’t worry”, she said, and stood, heading out the door.
She walked through the market, sparing only glances at the colorful merchandise all around her. When the street ended at a tee, she turned right on instinct. Then left, then left again. The market fell away behind her, the streets grew smaller, and she found herself alone on a narrow walk between two rows of tall white houses. Halfway down the street she turned into a small dimly lit courtyard, crossed it, and stopped at an arched opening cut into a wall.
She peered into the dark alcove. It was so dark, she couldn’t quite see how deep it was. She took one step inside, trying to adjust her eyes to the darkness. Suddenly, a flare of light appeared, and she could see a face, a man’s face. His eyes shone white against his black skin, eyes that almost glowed in the flickering yellow light of the match he held up in his hand. She gasped. He had appeared only two arms lengths from her, and the extended match was closer to her face than it was to his.
“Do you like your muiraquitã? Your little bit of penny magic?", the man murmured. “It has brought you to me. I called for it, and you came, on a little string.” As he spoke, he waved the match gently back in forth, bringing it closer to her eyes. She stood, staring.
The man began to draw the match back into the alcove. She saw he was bare chested, his taut, powerful muscles shining with oil, but her eyes were pulled to the match, burning not a foot from her face. It’s flame was brilliant against the darkness in the opening, and it fixated her. As the man withdrew, she leaned forward, following the match, and then began to stumble after him.
“Come, come, my curious beauty, come into the passage”, the man hissed, his voice thick with accent. “Come see what the darkness of Bahia has to show you. Come and feel the power of the old magic.” His backwards steps quickened, and he began to sway rhythmically, almost dancing. She adopted a mindless shuffle, following the match as it burned down. The flame reached the man’s fingers, and he held it as it burned out against his flesh.
The match out, the trance interrupted, her head began to clear. Still dazed, she began to realize how deep she had come, and the danger and panic began to rise. She turned, looking for the entrance, but the blackness was absolute.
Then, to her left, a brilliant spark and the flame of a second match turned her head. The man eased it gently from side to side. It seemed huge, encompassing all her vision, the only point of light in a vast expanse of blackness. As the match swayed, her eyes followed, and soon her small burst of fear began to fade as her breathing slowed to the same rhythm as the moving fire.
Slowly, the match began to ease away, and this time she followed smoothly, taking slow steps forward. The sinuous figure whispered as he drew her further into darkness. “Come deeper. You wish to learn the secrets of this place. Follow. Follow the light. Breathe in the magic. Come deeper.” When the match burned out on the man’s fingers, she was calm in the blackness.
“You are in darkness now, bonita”, the man whispered. He was invisible. She stood still, arms at her sides, breathing. Her senses straining for something, a light, a sound. Her trance began to lift, a nagging worry that something was not right, that she should not be in this place. And then a flash, a third match lit, the flame immediately before her blue eyes. Her her pupils dilated from the darkness, the tiny match was like the sun, a vortex of fire that pulled her in. Blinded and stunned, she could not see the rest of the man, his face inches away, his ebon body so close that the fabric of her clothing brushed his chest.
He moved beside her, keeping the match still. She did not turn, her attention fixed forward. He whispered, his breath tickling her ear. “Come deeper still. I will take you down further. Let the fire into your mind, beautiful one.” And then he led her onward, guiding her this time with his hand on her back, the flame held out for her eyes. He began chanting now, low and quiet, a rhythmic thrum barely loud enough for her to hear, in time with the motion of the match. All her senses controlled, she feel deep into a trance, moving forward, following the match.
Eventually, the match began to burn dim. She sensed that they were in a room now, enclosed, somehow out of the great vast darkness through which they had been moving. But only for a moment, as the match burned out and darkness came again.
“I am Oga, pai-de-santo, and I have called you. You, ripe and young, will be Ekeji, and I will take you as iyawó. You will join me in the darkness, and join me in the fire.”
He pressed a box into her had. She felt it, a little box of matches, rough on one side for striking.
“You must light the next match, bonita. As I have lit three to bring you here, you must light three to be free.”
She slid open the box and felt inside. Three little sticks of wood were there, and she took one, finding its sulphurus head and sliding the box closed.
“The first match, it will free your body”, hissed the man.
Still in trance, she struck the match against the box and held it up. They were in a domed chamber, windowless, with an earthen floor and a raised stone dais, circular in the center of the room. The man stood opposite her, the dais between them. Then she looked down, and saw a blue fire at her ankles. It was burning her dress, growing upward from the hem. It gave no heat, and she felt no fear as it consumed the white fabric. As it rose, it spread and enveloped her body in flame. She could see the man, across from her. He too, was encased in a whirl of fire, standing still and strong. She stared into his eyes, and felt no fear.
Her clothing began to dissolve in the fire, and as the match burned down, the blue flames grew quiet and went out. She was bare, naked except for the little frog on it’s string, her breasts making a soft white valley for it to nestle.
Even her shoes had burned away, and she could feel the cool dirt floor of the chamber under her bare feet. Her pale skin glowed in the flickering match light. She could see the man, naked as well, gleaming black. His hard cock was extended, pointing at her. She stared at it, holding the image in her mind, and then felt the pain in her fingers as the match burned itself out, blacking out all sight.
“You must light another”, the man said. “This fire will burn in your mind, freeing it.”
She knew she must. Naked in the dark, she could only obey his command. She opened the box, and lit the second match. It burned brightly, and it burned inside her, a sexual fire. She looked at the match in her own fingers, and felt it’s heat between her legs. Her breathing deepened, her face and neck flushed visibly in the yellow glow. She looked at the man, his body gleaming, and felt, for the first time, desire.
He gestured at the raised stone in the center of the room. She understood, and moved to lie on it. The stone dais was slightly smaller than her, and when she lay back, her feet hung off to rest on the earthen floor. The stone itself was warm and smooth. Not flat, but slightly contoured to her shape. She let her arms spread wide, the burning match in one, the box in the other.
From somewhere, the man produced a gourd. He held it over her, and poured. Oil, warm and scented, ran down her body. The oil glinted in the firelight as the man began to touch her. He gathered the oil and smoothed it on her body. His strong hands massaged it into her shoulders, and coated her arms.
The match burned lower, as her sexual lust built uncontrollably. His black hands cupped her impossibly white breasts, and she could see them shining in the match light, the fingers rising from below like corruption. When the oiled fingers reached her nipples, already hard from arousal, she cried out and arched upwards. It was all she could do to hold the match off of the stone. He spun the red buds in his fingers, pulling and playing, and she could only mewl with pleasure.
She spread her legs open, slowly, then wider, inviting him in. He poured more from the gourd, running both hands on her thighs, oiling her legs. She shone in the weak light of the dying match, soft, pale, and open, presented to him, wet and ready. He poured more oil, directly onto her already slick pussy, and began to rub. First the lips of it, as she gasped and panted. He began to probe inside lightly with his fingers. She strained to meet him, thrusting upwards, but he rode her, keeping just a fingertip inside, teasing. Then his thumb was on her clit, making slow circles, and she collapsed back, limp and twitching.
The match went out, plunging her into darkness and silence. The man released her clit, withdrew his fingers. She lay staring into space, her vision filled with swirling visions as her eyes played tricks in the darkness. The man was silent, and for a minute there was nothing but her ragged breathing and the pounding of her heart in her own ears.
Then she could feel it, his cock, the head pressing at the folds of her cunt. Completely willing, she lay limp and still as he slowly ran the head of it up and down, just pressing into her cleft. There was so much oil, the rubbing was almost frictionless, but each time up and down, he went in just a bit deeper, until the whole head of it was inside her. He paused, and her body tensed in anticipation.
“Are you ready?", he asked, his voice coming from the darkness, everywhere and nowhere at once.
“Yes”, she whispered.
“You wear the muiraquitã still”, he said.
“Yes”
“It makes you willing, it makes you fertile”, he said, “and I am potent.”
“Yes”. She understood, and then he was inside her, with one powerful thrust. His hips forced her legs wider, and then his hands took her waist and pulled, driving himself deeper, all of his cock pressed into her, filling her and stretching her. He held himself inside, his abdomen straining against her mons. All was dark, and her entire being was focused on the fullness. Her mind, her world, became her cunt, and the man began to fuck it. Deep solid thrusts, slowly gaining speed. He was completely in control, manipulating her pelvis with his strong arms on her waist, slamming into her with every thrust, pounding her clit and sending sparks to her brain.
And then he was behind her, flipping her over onto all fours in the dark. Her legs splayed, her ass lifted upwards to meet his thrusts, her pussy wide and wet around his cock. The man was pulling her nipples, milking and twisting them as her pendulous breasts hung down. Panting and gasping, she reached one hand back to rub and pull her clit, but the rubbing only made her more desperate. Somehow, she was unable to come. His cock was impossibly hard, impossibly large, and it was pounding into her core. Her pussy began to clench. She could feel the blood rushing to her head, flushing, heating her. Her orgasm was so close, and she rubbed her clit furiously willing the pleasure to crash over her, but she could not crest.
She lost track of time and place, floating in the inky black dark, her mind awash in animal pleasure. At some point, she changed places with the man and straddled him as he lay back on the stone dais. She rode him fiercely, grunting as she impaled herself on his stiff cock. She leaned back, supporting her hands on his thighs, forcing his cock into the front wall of her pussy, and then bent further and further until her straining shoulders forced her breasts upwards, nipples erect and vertical. As his hard shaft hit again and again into her G-spot, she began to moan. Throaty and low, the sound raising and lowering with each bounce, she moaned on and on, fucking forward with all her strength.
She fucked on him until the strength in her arms gave out and she fell backwards, still thrusting weakly forward onto his shaft. The man rose to his knees, found her legs, and lifted her ankles to his shoulders.
“I tip you back so you can hold my seed inside you”, the man said, raising her hips off the stone. “And now you must light the match to free your soul.”
Still moaning deliriously, she realized the little box was still clenched in her hand. Weak and shuddering, she fumbled to open it as the man continued to pound her aching cunt. His strokes were measured and long now, and he had begun to chant in time with her moans. She barely had the strength to bring her arms up, match in one hand, box in the other. She could think of nothing but coming, nothing but the hard cock pounding into her, her mind overridden with lust and sex. Her hands came together, the match head touching the striker, as the man thrust deep, deep inside her clenching pussy, and she lit the third match.