Sun Daughter

by Rahyne

She stood near her bedroom window, draped in the cool clingy cloth of linen, white and stark against her sun baked shoulders. The sun kissed her long legs, the nape of her swan neck, the tips of her rose bud breasts. She was made to be worshiped by the suns rays, and she worshiped the sun each morning, offering her naked body to the sky. The starlings sang their sad tunes in the trees, and she covered her form, retreating from her vulnerable and unexplored nakedness. She dressed simply, for her extravagant beauty would only be dimmed by rich colors. She wore a peach colored dress that skimmed the tops of her knees and hung loosely at the chest, for her breasts had barely formed to anything more than a delicate handful. She brushed her hair with an ivory comb, and pinned it simply with a flowered clip. She glimpsed at her figure in the mirror, barely noticing her own powerful beauty. She was not a woman, and her sex was covered in pale wispy hairs, an unopened shell kept tightly between protective legs. She was not yet thirteen, and puberty had not curved her body.

Her beauty was only rivaled by her innocence. She was naive and beautiful, a dangerous combination for those around her. She was frightened by men, and had heard stories that the lewd stable girls told of sloppy kisses and rough lovemaking in dirty alleyways. She had felt the hard and calloused hands of her father on her shoulder and her face, and the sharp grip of her dance instructor as he guided her hips. She was often kept away from men, for her father sensed their hunger for the sweet honey in her veins. To her, men were a foreign and forbidden species, and she had no desire to explore their dangerous and rough world.

Because the caged beauty spent so much time alone, she often dreamt of being a woman. She ran her hands over her skin, imagining soft padding and sinuous curves, worthy of desire. She would red her lips and blush her cheeks and practice batting her long lashes. Who she did this for, she didn't know. She did know that she would never let a man steal the pearl of her body, or rob her of her innocence. Some nights, as she slept, she imagined smooth hands gripping her arms, full lips pressing into hers. She dreamt of her mother's milk, and of the creamy scent between her own legs. She often woke, panties soaked and mind buzzing with curious images of fairies and pagan orgies in a pit of fire. The thoughts excited and worried her, and the anxiety prolonged her time without experiencing a menses. She was kept a child, while only wanting to be a woman. She refused to eat or to leave her room. She became so worried that she would never menstruate, that she fell ill, sallow and pale, the sun no longer able to kiss her fragile shoulders.

The child slept fitfully at night, and had to be heavily sedated to keep her asleep. She dreamt of the fire between her legs, red and violent, the sun seducing her and raping her with hot fingers. Women, naked from head to toe save necklaces of bone held her down, offering her to the gods. They sang the saddest songs, like the starlings in the trees, and sweat poured from the girl's face. To anyone, she was feverish, but in fact, she was being tortured by Mensa, the goddess of female puberty. Mensa had watched the girl grow, and she craved her honeysuckle sweetness. But this girl was so innocent by nature that Mensa waited, and her passion grew stronger. Mensa burned hot, her insides barely able to stand the temptation. She demanded sacrifices, burning lovers and tying their bones around her neck as a symbol of her power. Her hands were caked with the dry blood of young girls made women, and her caramel lips were stained red, for Mensa kissed the sweetness of each girl as they bled. Her body was strong and a rich earth color, her head shaved to the scalp, and her eyes burned crimson. Mensa had no sex of her own, and stole the innocence of girls with her long, nimble hands. They bled, for the first time, under her touch, and that night, Mensa planned to visit the girl, to take her pearl and make her a woman. Mensa cut deep gashes in the place where her sex would be, in preparation for her task, and licked the metallic liquid from her fingers. Mensa washed her wounds and hands and lips in lavender water, then rubbed honey on her teeth and gums. She would be pure for this night, as she was when she made the first woman bleed on dusty earth.

The girl slept, naked, wrapped in white linen, her shades drawn up tightly. Mensa appeared from the shadows in her room and stalked to where the girl lay, shivering with nightmare and cold sweat. Mensa trembled as she pushed the covers aside, exposing the girl, legs parted slightly. The warm smell drifted into Mensa's nose, and her eyes brightened as she brought her lips to the stomach of the dreaming nymph. She kissed her delicately below her navel, and the girl dreamt that a snake had bitten her. Mensa slid her hand along the young smooth thighs, to the tight opening where a precious pearl lay waiting. She touched the softness of her shell, and dipped her finger into its hidden tunnels. At her touch, the girl gasped, as the sun fucked her, and women screamed, bones clacking together, singing, singing, until the world was red and she could taste her mother's milk once more.

A slow trickle ran between Mensa's fingers, and she kissed the womanhood of the sleeping beauty. Her lips gleamed with sweat and blood, a brilliant red against her dark skin. She brought her fingers to her mouth and relished in the innocence lost, a taste so strong her hips shook with violent orgasm. The gashes between her legs wept thick blood at her contracting pleasure, and her eyes rolled in her head, and there Mensa stood, trance-like and possessed by the power of the transition between child and woman. The girl, now a young woman, turned in her sleep, and a tear dripped unto her pillow. Behind her eyes, the sun faded, leaving her tired and torn apart, and the naked women no longer sang, and she wept for own loss. The blood that trickled from her body left a tiny spot on the linen sheets wrapped around her body. Evidence to the world, to men, that she was no longer a sun-worshiped child, but a woman for the taking. Mensa left her there, returning to the fading shadows and to her throne, yet she asked for no sacrifices. The sun rose slowly, first blue, then pink, then blood red, until the sun crested above the earth, but the curtains were drawn up tightly. She slept, and when she awoke, her lover sun still fresh in her mind, she found that she was wet between her legs. The delicate shell had become a cunt, her small breasts became tits, and her temple, once bronze and new, became nothing more than a body. The sun peaked between her shades, casting a beam of light to the spot where she lay, and wept at the loss of his favorite child.