The Yoni And The Lingam 1
During the great Covid 19 pandemic, of 2020-2022, I like many others was forced to work from home. As the lockdown of the population began to ease, it became more acceptable to get out and about, but with all basic precautions of course. Wearing a face mask was mandatory in some situations, constant sanitising of the hands, and not mixing with larger groups of people was the order of the day. Working from home also gave me more flexibility in my working hours, and so it came about that I had taken a short break after about 5 hours solid none stop work, and wandered into the city centre.
Not into the fashionable shopping malls and main streets containing the multi-national retail giants, but the older more genteel back streets of the old town. Streets that had grown organically over the centuries with twisting narrow back streets, lanes and alleys containing a myriad of local shops with a far greater diversity of goods for sale than the, ‘High Street,’ giants offered.
I’ve always been one for seeking out the unusual, and as I looked into the somewhat dusty window of what we in the UK call a, ‘Junk Shop,’ or others might more charitably call an antique shop, the owner or shop assistant, I don’t know which opened the door and invited me to enter. I was quite taken aback.
That’s not usually how it works with antique/junk shop sales people. They are usually quite passive, having a ‘here’s my stuff,’ come in and have a look attitude, ‘you might find something you like.’ What made this a bit different was that the owner/shop assistant in this case was a lovely young woman. Well, I’m quite fond of lovely young women, so I accepted her invitation.
We started chatting, as I wandered here and there in the shop. It was much bigger than it appeared from the outside, and in traditional junk shop style the merchandise was stacked and piled here there and everywhere. There was no discernible system that I could see. Gradually, as we chatted I found out that she was also working from home, but not quite like me.
The shop belonged to her grandfather who had been unwell for a few days she explained, and she had just stepped in to help keep the shop open. Things were so quiet here that it was just as easy to work on her computer from this location as it was at home. Anyway, she continued, she loved the shop and had often worked here, when she was younger and at the weekends when she was at school and University, so she knew everything about it and the stock.
‘What’s that?’ I asked pointing to what looked like a large wooden screen with some interesting carvings on it, half hidden behind a Victorian wardrobe. She came over to me, much closer, her perfume was lovely, just like her. We moved some stuff, a small wooden table with bric-a-brac, and then shunted the wardrobe to one side so we could get a better look at it.
‘It looks like part of an old temple screen,’ she surmised at first glance. ‘There was a lot of that sort of stuff on the market a few years back. I think this one must have come from a house clearance. Quite a few British civil servants who had worked in India in the 1930’s and forties when India was still part of the British Empire came home and lived here after Indian Independence in 1947. Of course they have all passed on now, and when they died the families usually contacted the likes of us to clear all the “junk,” that none of the family wanted.’
‘How much do you want for it?’ I asked, and she went over to it and pulled it away from the wall it was leaning against. She looked at the back of it where I could see a large brown label attached by a string. She looked at it and started laughing.
‘Apparently we want fifteen pounds, ten shillings, for it’ and laughed again. ‘It’s been here for a while it seems. That label must date back to before the UK currency was changed to the decimal system in the 1970’s.’
‘Bloody hell,’ I exclaimed, ‘so it’s been sitting here for at least 50 years, maybe longer, waiting for some “mug,” like me to come along. Let me have a closer look at it then,’ and I went over and had a good look at it. I examined it carefully, checking for woodworm holes and rot, but the wood, dusty though it was and blackened by time looked to be in very good condition for its age. ‘It seems okay,’ I said grudgingly, preparing to put on my bargaining hat. ‘So, how much do you want for it now?’ She looked at me and smiled, she knew where I was coming from.
‘Taking inflation, time, and other extenuating factors into account, I reckon you’d be getting a real bargain if I let you have it for seventy five pounds,’ she stated. Game on!
‘What? Seventy five pounds? You’re joking. It’s been sitting here for fifty plus years, gathering dust, taking up valuable shop space. You should be paying me to take it away,’ I protested with a laugh.’ Then a thought struck me, ‘what “extenuating factors” to be precise?’ I asked her. She bursa escort blushed.
‘Well, I quite like you, we’ve had a nice chat and you seem like a nice young man, so I was giving it to you a lot cheaper than I would to anybody else,’ she smiled innocently at me again. ‘Oh, she was bloody good,’ I thought. I couldn’t help but laugh again. She’d turned the tables, letting me have it cheaper indeed! I offered her forty pounds. She pretended to think deeply about it, finally made up her mind and threw in a counter offer.
She held out her right hand, palm upwards in that ancient, ‘let’s make a deal,’ gesture. ‘Give me sixty pounds, and we’ll deliver it as long as it’s comparatively local.’ I brought my hand down on hers with a light slap of acceptance to seal the bargain, and then we shook hands on it. Deal done! I paid her the money, cash of course, and she took my address for the delivery.
‘Now that it’s yours, what are you going to do with it if you don’t mind me asking,’ she asked.
‘Once I get it home the very first thing I’m going to do is clean it. I’ll get a very soft brush, and get all the years of accumulated dust and grime off the surface, making sure I get into all the little nooks and crannies. Once that’s done, I’m going to get a very good natural wax polish, and feed the wood. It’s been neglected for so long I think some tender, loving care would be appropriate, don’t you?’ She agreed with me whole heartedly.
‘I have just the thing,’ she said, disappearing into the back shop and returning within a minute or so, holding up a large round tin of what turned out to be real bee’s wax furniture polish. ‘Recommended by antique furniture specialists everywhere,’ she declared. ‘This is the stuff they use in all the top auction houses and furniture restorers. It’s a trade secret, but we have a carton with about half a dozen tins left. If you promise not to tell anyone, since you’re not in the, “trade,” I can let you have this one for… well… let’s see,’ she said, screwing up her pretty face as if trying to think of a good price. She shoved it into my hand, and sure enough it said all the same crap that she had just been feeding me on the lid. Finally coming to a decision, she said, ‘ let’s call it five pounds and it’s yours.’ She was so funny and so sweet, not to mention pretty that I just couldn’t resist her sales talk.
‘I know you’re ripping me off,’ I said laughing, ‘but honestly, it’s worth every penny of the money just to watch you at work. You’re something else,’ I declared with heartfelt admiration, and we both laughed. I paid her the five pounds, and the tin of supposed wonder wax was mine. I think I probably knew then exactly how a bald man would feel who had just been sold a bottle of hair restorer.
I reluctantly said goodbye, still smiling and true to her word the wooden panel was delivered that evening. I left it in the hallway until I could get it cleaned, and it sat there for a couple of days as life moved on around me. On Saturday morning I was going to the bathroom, still half asleep, and stubbed my toe on it, thereby bringing my attention into sharp focus in the most painful way. After breakfast, I determined to get to grips with it, and armed with some dusters and toothbrush, (an old one) I set to work, trying to remove the dust and accumulated grime of years.
Slowly, bit by bit I began to reveal the secrets of my temple screen, and to someone brought up in the west used to the more conservative customs and attitudes of Christianity, although not Christian or religious myself, they were quite a revelation. The more of the carvings I cleaned and stripped back, the more I began to smile. It was almost an illustrated version of the Kama Sutra. Eroticism carved in wood, slightly primitive to my western eyes, but I knew that Hindu temple carvings could be very explicit as regards things sexual, and they even had a custom of sacred temple courtesans hundreds of years ago who were highly thought of, respected, and prized as companions.
Some of the figures had huge genitalia, figures in various sexual positions, and there were other more abstract representations of male and female genitals. I went online to do a little research and found out that these were called the Yoni for women, and Lingam for males. It was something to do with the Hindu god Shiva, but I didn’t bother looking any further. I only needed a little information to satisfy my curiosity since I had no ambition to be a scholar on sacred Hindu erotic carvings.
A couple of hours later, my work was complete. I had used the toothbrush to get into the little nooks and crannies I mentioned before, removing the dust as carefully as I could. Once it was more or less cleaned, I polished it with the bee’s wax polish, first applying it thickly and leaving it to soak into the neglected wood for an hour or so before removing it and polishing the wood. I can’t say it was gleaming by the time bursa escort I finished, but it did look a hell of a lot better, and quite impressive. Now the question was, where was I going to display it? I had lunch, and gave it some thought looking at various parts of the lounge, but it didn’t or rather wouldn’t match up with anything here, and then it came to me exactly where it should go. The bedroom!
The screen, panel, whatever I wanted to call it, was about five feet high and just over six feet wide. I had a double bed but no headboard because they always seem to bang against the wall when you’re having sex, letting everybody in the place know you’re, ‘on the job,’ as we say in the UK. This wasn’t a headboard, but it was very decorative, and not being attached to the bed, it wouldn’t bang, when I was banging. Plus I thought, with a little internal smile, if I got stuck for inspiration, there were a few positions illustrated there I hadn’t tried yet.
I didn’t do much of anything that evening. Sure it was Saturday night, but we were still just coming out of lockdown very slowly, and being a cautious kind of guy I stayed at home. I have always been comfortable with my own company and have never required lots of friends around me to validate me as a person. Besides, there were spikes where the disease was resurgent, and these were directly attributed to crowds gathering in newly reopened pubs and clubs. So, I stayed home, watched some shit on TV, got fed up after a while and read a new Jack Reacher novel, and then about midnight. I switched off the lights and went to bed.
I admired the new ‘headboard,’ as I got ready for bed, and I thought with a quiet sense of satisfaction that it looked really good as a headboard. It definitely looked a bit special, not to mention unique, and it was most certainly worth the sixty pounds I had paid for it. All I needed now was some attractive young woman beside me to experiment with some of the more esoteric positions, I thought to myself.
I got into bed, and continued to read my novel under the subdued warm glow of the bedside lamp and then, yawning, I closed the book, switched off the light, and turned over and tried to sleep. My thoughts went back to the young woman in the junk shop, she was nice. Smart and beautiful, maybe I should go back and ask her out I told myself. She was probably already ‘taken,’ I realised because girls like her always had plenty of admirers.
I was in semi-darkness, candles and incense, hazy, smoky, some chanting, and then out of the gloom I saw her. Almost as tall as me, and I’m five foot eleven, moving with absolute assurance and grace, gliding towards me. Dark, almost black hair, long and spilling over her shoulders, wonderful big expressive eyes lined with kohl, a sensual mouth, full red lips, and showing beautiful white teeth as she smiled. Some sort of golden jewellery adorned her brow, while her nose was pierced and chained, the chain running up to join her earing. Her skin was a light honey colour, and she smiled at me as if we were lovers. Reaching me, she placed her hands on my biceps, such as they were, and reached up and kissed me very lightly, lips only, no tongues, and taking my hand, led me…where?
Another room, brighter, but still dim, very feminine, silken hangings everywhere, luxurious, her boudoir? She sat on the edge of an upholstered platform or bed, and without any further preliminaries reached down, and somehow parted whatever garment she was wearing to expose her genitals. She was shaven entirely, her pussy lips seemed more prominent, juicier, and swollen than anything I’d ever seen. Her labia were quite dark in colour, which was entirely consistent with her obvious South Asian, Indian ethnicity. She was incredibly wet, literally dripping her wetness on the marble floor. The word, ‘Yoni,’ came to me without thinking. It was just there in my head.
She reached for me, and I looked down to see I was naked from the waist down and to my surprise my cock looked almost twice as big as it should be. Her henna tattooed and elegant bejewelled hands held me gently, stroking me, and yet pulling me to her, opening her legs even wider she pulled me closer, and I went willingly. I wanted this more than anything I’ve ever wanted before, and I sank with ease into her wet and swollen sex, sliding in and out of her sublimely wet pussy hole. As our faces came together, she smile lovingly and finally said in a soft, low voice which seemed to fill my head and inflame me even more, just two words.
‘My love,’ and I woke up, gasping for breath, shuddering, my heart racing, with my cock as hard as could be, pulsing and coming like I’d never come before, helpless to control my emissions, spurting, soaking the boxer shorts I’d fallen asleep wearing.
‘Fucking hell, what the fuck was that?’ I said to myself when I finally calmed down. That had never happened before. I got out of bed, waddled bursa eskort through to the toilet trying not to let my come escape and drip on the floor. I stripped the sodden boxers off, dumped them in the wash basket, and tried to clean myself up as best I could with tissues before quickly washing my cock and balls and the insides of my thighs where my come had dribbled. No way was I going to shower at 3am in the middle of the night, that would have to wait until morning, so I washed myself thoroughly and went back to bed, not that I managed to get much sleep.
I couldn’t get her out of my head. I’d never dreamed of anything like that before. Sure, I’d had erotic dreams before, doesn’t everybody, but this one was in super-realistic HD, full colour, smell-orama, the incense, her perfume, the completely intoxicating, irresistible aroma of her yoni. Fuck, there was that word again, and I remembered I’d read about it earlier. It must have stuck in my head, and cleaning the temple screen must have triggered the dream as well. Okay, that was it, that’s what it was about I decided, it seemed like a reasonable explanation, and eventually I fell asleep again.
Given that I’d spent quite a disturbed night, and hadn’t slept very well, I was a bit listless next day, plus it was Sunday, not my favourite day anyway. I’d been invited by my mother to come over to my parent’s house for Sunday lunch, which was a common occurrence. Although I’d left home in my early twenties and was now thirty two, she still thought of my brother and myself as her ‘children,’ and was forever inviting us to come for Sunday lunch, or the occasional evening meal, especially if she was cooking something we really liked, and she knew what we really liked of course, after all she was our mother.
Anyway, off I went to see my parents, bottle of wine in hand, and some flowers for mum. It was, as usual an excellent lunch, and we sat and chatted afterwards about what we’d been doing, her with gardening and choir practice, and dad golfing. I told them about the ‘naughty’ Hindu temple screen I’d bought and about cleaning it, which they found quite amusing, but it was mostly just general family chat, and so we spent a pleasant Sunday afternoon together. I never gave my dream of the previous night a thought until I was on my way home.
When I got home, I settled down to finish the novel I’d started, but soon the thoughts of my dream from the night before started to intrude into my consciousness. It was no use trying to read now that I’d started thinking of the dream and sex. I put the book down, and tried to recall as much of the dream as possible. I remembered her face above all else despite everything else that had happened. She was strikingly beautiful, let there be no doubt about that. I remembered reading somewhere that women from India had won the ‘Miss World,’ beauty pageant more than any other nationality. My curiosity piqued, I fired up my laptop to check, and there it was six times, which is an amazing record, equalled only by Venezuela who had also won it six times. All the world it seems loves a brunette beauty, and my dream partner of the night before was equal to any of them.
I recalled her jewellery was spectacular and exotic to my western eyes. I wondered if it had any religious significance, so I, ‘googled,’ it too, and was slightly disturbed to find that it had. Bearing in mind what had happened in my dream and her words, ‘My love,’ it all seemed a bit too neat and convenient. How did that get into my subconscious I speculated? I was sure I hadn’t known that level of detail about it before it appeared in my dream. Anyway, here is what Google said about her jewellery, in particular the nose ring connected by a chain to her earing.
“Hindu tradition dictates that on the wedding night, the bride wears a nose chain which is hooked by a chain to either the earring or hair. The nose chain, (or Nath) is worn by women to show respect and devotion to the Goddess Parvati as she is considered the Goddess of marriage.”
A bride? Really? It was getting stranger and stranger, did this mean she was my bride in my dream? I reasoned that she must have been my bride, given that she had led me to her bed, exposed herself, and inserted my cock, which was much bigger in my dream into her delightfully wet pussy? It was difficult to imagine that any newlywed bride would give herself so freely like that to me on her wedding night to someone else. I could still remember how good her pussy felt and the wonderful sexual aroma wafting up from between her legs. It was such a vivid, realistic dream, but it was just a dream all the same, no matter how realistic it seemed looking back.
I eventually got fed up with speculating, and got back to reading my book, which I finished about an hour later. I made myself a late-night cup of tea, but not toast and jam or anything to eat. Nothing that might lie heavily in my stomach and cause freakish dreams. I turned on the TV to catch the late-night news, but it was just the same old, same old, again with the news going round on a perpetual loop. I switched it off, checked my door to make sure it was locked for the night, brushed my teeth, and eventually got into bed.