Chapter 4. Lusty Lesbian Love

Dag has no chance to see us because of the invisibility cloak. Still, she is preoccupied sniffing the air. I would say quite distressed, afraid of something… floating in the air, that is. My feeling is that Dag knows about our presence. To this, I decide. “Don, please cancel our concealment. Actually, take all the shields down. We have nothing to worry about.”

“Really?” He picks at me defensively. “Look at her!” He stopped the plate ten meters ahead of her nose at an altitude of thirty meters from the ground. “We’re like a raven to her, if she sees us. But I’d rather not. Ain’t your ass tired and flat enough of sticking to this iron rectangle? Don’t you wish to move your legs for a change?”

“Exactly, silly man!” I can be assertive too, mostly when I know what I’m saying. “Sooner or later, we have to stand up and walk around. This shield protecting us from high pressures, radiation and the stares of others, depends on the plate. If we want to move and communicate, which I assume is the purpose of all this twelve-hours-long torturous trip, then we gotta make us heard, and viewed. Don’t you get it?”

“I do. I do. Although I may just reprogram the tablet to shield our bodies independently of the steel plate. If you wish me to…” Noting his evasive submission to my winning rhetoric, I push for more. “No need to waste our time. I don’t need you to hump more over this tablet, like an inept gadget worshiper. I need you to lead the situation. Be a man. Be my man! Be in control, Don!”

All it takes is stirring his manhood a way or another. He moves us ten meters backwards, so now we find ourselves at twenty meters away from Dag’s nose. “Just in case she wants to slap us when we’re gonna get in her visibility field.” Good point. Her hand, shorter than twenty meters, can’t slap us out of the blue. If she would try to do this, she’ll have to move her body before reaching us. Enough milliseconds to confront her potentially violent intent with an evasion maneuver. “And… shields are down in three seconds. You speak, Doris. Say hello to your old lover girl!” What a dream can do to a man’s mind, to his rampant imagination about his wife having lesbian sex and a lesbian best friend. Is this coming from the polygynous trait in mostly all men?

The shields went down and my “dear” ole giant Dag is facing us. Her dark blue eyes widen and widen as she tries hard to understand what she sees: two kitten-sized human bodies embraced in the lotus position, sitting on a plate in the air, right in front of her nose (well, twenty meters from her nose, would rant Don). She moves her head a few degrees to the right. Automatically, our plate moves in order to remain perpendicular on her nose. Shields or no shields, I knew that my overly cautious man will put some other safety measures in place. Bit astonished, she moves her head to the left. We follow accordingly. Her left eye has its crystalline lens dilated to such a degree that I barely can see the iris. I try a bit harder and dang, my Terminator-like brain defaults get activated. Dag’s eyes are fifty-seven centimeters wide, their irises present a solid color defined by the hex code #0066CC (this is also known as Bright Navy Blue) and have a diameter of twenty-eight centimeters, the pupil in her left eye is now twenty-seven centimeters and pulsating. My curiosity drives me further into her eye, down to the retina. Everything matches human anatomy and proportions. Size makes the only difference, I conclude and relax. Immediately, the grids and listings vanish out of my sight. Aha! This should be the switch off button for those defaults: stress brings them on, relaxation turns them off. Blaming adrenaline, I memorize the pattern and return to studying Dag’s face. The grimace of fear and surprise melts towards an easy smile. Her lips suppress the contraction with a lightly waved whisper. I can hear her. I focus and the darn defaults return to show me the precise frequency chart of her breath. She was sighing.

Tired of this little game, I raise my right hand to hail her and I say. “Shlama.” This means “Peace” in Aramaic. She smiles further at me, opening her mouth and showing us a perfect set of teeth, giant crunching devices for certain. Then she responds in all sweetness resonance. “Khayah.” As she starts laughing, Don’s head comes out from behind my hairs. “What she says?” Noticing him, Dag inclines her head sideways, both pupils enlarged to the maximum. Recognizing him, she shouts louder and louder. “Khayah! Khayah!”

I’m pinched at to interrupt this prolonged moment of joy. “She said that we are revived. Seems that at first she only noticed me. When you entered her visual field, from behind my skirts, err, hairs, then she rejoiced even more as she repeated: Khayah! Khayah! – as in: Revived! Revived!”

Aha… Exclaims my little monster-frightened man. Let me program the translating interface on the tablet. This way what she speaks in her Aramaic we’ll hear in our readers’ English and what we speak in our readers’ English she’ll understand in her own Aramaic. See? Look at this…” He shows me a wheel and a line on his gadget but I don’t even bother looking down. Almost.”…It’s all fixed now. The proper conversation may begin!” Well, according to me, it already has. Dag raises her right hand, showing me her tremendous, but gentle and welcoming, palm. “Honey, she’s like a moving monument.” Exclaims the more and more courageous husband of mine. “I’ll get us closer to her, all right with you?”

“Sure. Go ahead!”

As we approach her, Dag quits her fragile exuberance and, doubting, her laughter ends in skepticism.

“Little you. Revived. Little… You… Why?” She pronounces in a small but vibrant voice. Even a whisper of the giant lady sounds vibrant to a poor kitten. Dag looks so disappointed. Yes, her right eye couldn’t solve the conflict between her mind representation of us, from whenever that may be, and the distance to our location. Initially, she thought that we should be much farther away from her. This illusion will wash out with our landing.

Oh, another unexpected matter: the grass on this side of the star goes above our heads. We feel like swimming in a corn field. Looking after us, Dag squats so that her palms will reach better at surrounding us. She manages to have me step up. I pull Don after me. Dag wants to rise. Hell and horror: Don screams like mad. “My iron plate. She parts us from the iron plate. Back! Back! Hey!…” These men and their stuff.

“Will you?… Please!…” I try to save the ridiculous of the situation.

“Yes. I will.” Dag sounds sweet and acts softly. The boyish Don comes back to his senses after he threw the plate on top of Dag’s phalanges. Then he climbs back all by himself. I ask him as he approaches. “How do you feel after making a fool of yourself?” He stares in my eyes then turns his eyes down, so I can follow where he wants me to look. Oh my, he has an erection. “Aroused!” Did I expect such an answer? No. Should I? Yes. Dag takes us up like a suave crane, close to her lips where we experience the rhythmic chill and warmth of her breathing breeze.

“Love you. Dor. Don. Missing you. Happy me you back.” She then kisses our heads, one by one.

Don takes over the dialog. “Well, Dag, I’m happy that you are happy. And that you love us. Think that I love you too. Nevertheless, to make sure, can you please take us to your place? We have a long journey behind us and would largely appreciate some rest.”

“Not yet. My place. Danger. There Day.” Her worrying voice has no effect on Don’s compulsive insensitivity. “Then you may take us to a hotel or something. Do they have hotels around here?”

“Me no follow. You. No hotel. What hotel?” Bit puzzled, she scrutinizes the blurry horizons, tracing the fragrances in the air like a deer doe.

“We need a shelter, Dag.” I intervene.

“Shelter. Yes. There. Tree. Shelter.” Dag points at her twelve o’clock. “Thousand sixty-four leaps here there. We under tree. Shelter. Rest. Talk. Love. Go.” As she prepares to jump with us wrapped like little puppies in her hands, Don breaks the romance, as always. “Hey! Hey! Wait a sec. Don’t want to jolt my brains. How about you allow us to fly near your shoulder?” Surprised, she stops for a long breath, or two. Very sympathetic, she makes her palms flat, giving us the requested take off platform. My Don (and hers, it seems now) wastes no moment. I join him with my bottom on the plate, same position that I took in the garage this morning, and on we fly with our tablet at hand. Out of companionship, Don established a twenty-eight meters altitude where he placed our iron on hold, waiting for Dag to leap so we can adjust an average speed accordingly in order to travel together. Grandiose came to be our bewilderment when seeing her first leap, and the second, the third, farther and ever faster.

“She can beat the road runner. Let me see: what she calls a leap measures roughly a hundred meters. The tree where the shelter is should be at a thousand kilometers in that direction. Doris, do you allow me to take us there in a little jump?” I know this glance of his. It’s nothing like showing off, rather like begging for the obvious. “Yes, Don, do that jump and let’s welcome her to the shelter then.” I ended my phrase near a superb colossal apricot tree. Don makes us rotate with a hundred and eighty degrees so that we’re about to face the runner. Ten minutes later, a nuanced spot of white and strawberry stains breaks the green and the dripping blue. It is her snow white blueish shadowed skin, her athletic body and her blonde to light reddish hair pulsing in the wind at the cadence of her incredible upswings. “Look at her,” says Don in total amazement (and arousal), “she’s running like a Formula 1 racing car, there’s no cheetah born to catch her…” Let’s hope so, I beg for a prayer. Yes! So much travel stress upon my head that I forgot to pray. Fast, this one: “Oh Lord, Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy of your servant Dag, the sinner.” I keep repeating this in my head, every ten milliseconds, until she reaches us, a minute later.

“May I taste a drop of your sweat?” The gal had no time to gather her breath before the pervert of my man wants to taste her liquids out loud.

“Sweat? No. Cum? Yes. Later. Now rest. Talk. Connection. Love. Together.” Hm, I think that my civilized standards have been taken a little aback. I keep praying for her, for us. It’s like the spiritual equivalent of adrenaline: when you can’t control, or understand, a situation, or a person, then you open a channel and call your superior to advise, to help you out. As usual, my prayers are answered beyond my expectations. Dag invites us under the magnanimous shadow of the apricot tree. She literally carries us in her palms, not to brush our naked and sensitive skin through the high vegetation. Asking Don to handle her the iron plate (it looks like a sharp razor blade between her hefty fingers), she defines a perimeter around the grayish trunk where she mows the grass for us to walk comfortably. Then she gives the plate back to him and says. “Sit. Wait. Me food bringer.” Off she vanished into the fluffy crown of the tree. No less than ten yellow balls fall on the high grass, out of our perimeter. “Huge apricots, yummy!” I look at him. “You’re hopeless, Don.” He grins back. “Or just hungry?” Before I can finish my moralizing minute, Dag jumps in front of us to sit in lotus, face to face, open pussy to open pussy… and to an erect, ready to explode, dick of my Don… and hers, I have to assume, even if I reserve my right to be, well… reserved. “Take. Eat.” Dag handles us each a watermelon-sized yellow apricot. I place my fruit in my lap and begin to wipe the peel. Don follows suit. Dag smiles. “No bugs. No taint. No blemish. All clean. Eat. Trust.” Embarrassed, we nod and bite. Oh my God, are we in paradise here? Of course not. You will answer.

“Though this oversized apricot takes me that close to Heavens.” I spoke it out, unconsciously taking my dialog with the Creator into our circle of three.

“We are somewhere across the Third level of Heavens, my dear. If my speculation has any representation in reality.” Answers Don in his well-known casual way of mouthful talking.

“But we’re not dead, dear. How can we be in Heaven?”

“Neil Armstrong was well alive when he had put his feet on a rock circling the abysses of the second heavens. When one is not on Earth then he’s gotta be in some level of the lower heavens. Simple, eh?” He stops only to bite more and delves further in his improvised dissertation. “Now go figure, if the fruits of the third heavens are so delicious, can we imagine the tasty goodies of the sixth or seventh?”

“Not sure we have the mental apparatus to imagine that far, Don. We can hardly make sense of what you call the third heavens. Oh wait, how about letting Dag introduce us to her world. Dag?”

“You. Dor. No change. He. Don. No change. We family. But you died. All died. But few. Here. Take my tear. See through and remember.” Stretching her eyelid with the left hand, she easily scratches under the blueish corner of the sclera to gather a drop under her finger nail. The right hand has already severed a blade of grass where she drops her teardrop and handles it to me. “Study. See through!” At her generous command, Don forgets about eating heavenly fruits. His impertinent nose intrudes my visual defaults. I can’t see Dag’s tear so I push him back a tad. Excusing himself, he moves the blade closer to my little nose, but conveniently enough for his eyes to explore it. “What shall we see in your teardrop, Dag?” he asks intently.

“You see what I had seen. You see you and Dor through my eyes. When you still alive. Past. Not present. You no memory? Past?”

I haste in. “No, Dag. No memory at all.” Was afraid of his big mouth. Didn’t want him to chatter about our morning dreams.

My defaults initiate an analysis of the oils and the water holding Dag’s teardrop together. I stumble on a bunch of hormones, all matching my own physiology, and then the listing on my retina gives me this: “# Persian Blue salt – 85.8% NaCl, 0.097% Ca, 0.028% Mg, 13.0% potassium, <0.005% iodine” – hm, this I did not find in my own tears. Interesting enough to focus on the white-blueish microscopic crystals. I begin playing the Rubik’s cube with them. 8265 milliseconds later, I finally come to assemble a meaningful signal out of my matching game. It is an image of me and Don staring at a corn leaf, seen from a helicopter. Oh no! Yes, I got it. This is the key allowing me to see what Dag sees. Astonished, I stare at her. She smiles back in a gesture of gratitude. Suddenly, my defaults wash away of my mental screen. Accepting my thanks, Dag nods and silently indicates me to focus back on her teardrop. I must initiate the process from the very beginning: defaults, oil film, water, Persian Blue salt, playing the Rubik’s crystals, acquiring access to her optical nerve then to her inner synapses. Now I have to be very careful. If I’d look right or left, the reboot sequence awaits me and I really don’t want that again. “Don?” I say without moving my eyes. “Yes…” He responds without moving his eyes. “Do you see what Dag sees?” To my carefully formulated question, the crazy man of mine has one thing to answer. “Lesbian sex. Lots of.”

Very well then. I’m on my own. Can’t move the eyes sideways and should not wait for intelligent help from my partner. Good that Dag proves an adorable hostess to me. Perhaps she’s trying to spare me from unpleasant or just private images stored in her memory. Perhaps she wants to drive me to a particular event. I don’t know. All I can notice is a fluid progression of blue and green ending in a golden landscape. There I stop like a little girl reaching the ocean, feeling her tiny hand freed from her mother’s grip, looking around where to run, in which direction to enjoy her unexpected liberation. No idea, really! Oh! There’s an actual ocean boiling in front of me. I turn around to see two athletic silhouettes behind me. The male is Don, I can recognize him from my dream, and the female should be… but wait a minute… she looks like… like me… I’m looking at me and Don, how’s that possible? Ah, stupid Doris, don’t forget that you, being a guest in Dag’s mind, are given to see the world (whatever world) through her eyes. I see now. It’s not just that I explore with my eyes or my mind, I can also resent the anger of Dor and the grief of Don. Together, they break my heart. I cannot stand the chest pain anymore and I wish to remove myself from existence. But do I know how to do that? The atrocious rumble distracts my mind from the sufferance and my stare from Dor and Don. Turning, I see a vast yellow desolation rising like a block of granite, like a mountain, out of the ground. The ground? Where has the ground gone? All I see is endless black and indigo waters. The boiling ocean. Then I slip because the plain precipitates to verticality. Desperate, I look at my loved ones, Dor and Don. Engulfed by the tumult of this ocean, they try to swim, to keep their heads above water, but, sadly, the effervescence won’t give them a slight chance. They drown. Crying and screaming madly, I refuse to climb the steep and yellow rock. I wish to go after them, to drown if that should be my fate. Yet a hand, invisible, flips my body out of this scenario. I’m back to the green and blue gaseous monotony.

I shiver. This time, I – me, Doris. I used “me” for Dag’s vantage point in the paragraph above, to describe how she saw me, myself, and my man dying together, out of a prior life of ours. A life that we knew nothing about. A life where too many things went totally different. A life that we lived in a world that had been anything but “as we know it.”

Hesitant, I return to the mental exploration of my past. This time I’ll talk from my own perspective, interpreting the video-like succession of events made available to me by the generosity of this giant gal named Dag.

To sum it up, we had been living as a family on a planet called Earth. Along with numerous other families. The normal family used to have three females per male. No children. No breeding. Just love and plenty of sex. Or what I call sex with the mindset of my current life. Needless to say that everyone walked around naked. There were no clothes and not even the notion of such things. Further rummaging Dag’s memories, I cannot trace the equivalents of today’s sickness, degeneration (that’s obvious, if there were no generations), injury or death. It was a perfect ecosystem for a perfect population. Physically perfect, maybe?

Let me call this epoch the Prior Age. Although we had golden hues descending on our faces from the luminous skies, even if we never aged (malady being unknown to us), even if we experienced God in our daily dialogs (you don’t need faith when you can see and hear), even if we were told to be His children, even so there was still grief and sorrow, anger and fury, craving and longing, envy and prejudice. Or was it just me? Hm, what an interesting thought, almost like whispered to my ear…

Our men were all thirty-six meters high and we, their females, we were all thirty-two meters high. They had hair on the head, a subtle beard, stray on the chest and more on the groin and the armpits. We kept it long and longer on the head, just like Dag still does, and never trimmed our pubis or armpits. Silky blonde or snow white hair, golden or silvery, auburn or chestnut hair used to crown women of the Prior Age. We adorned our bodies with the splendor of this hair, sometimes long enough to cover the knee but most commonly left to end over the midst of our thighs. We had no shame when it moved aside, revealing the moist core of our intimacy. Interesting that we cherished nudity without knowing of such notions as shame, guilt or stigma. Strange indeed, how the simple can make it perfect.

Dag’s memories fly me over to other families living upon the face of the Prior Earth. Fly? Or jump? Well, it rather looks like jumping, so tall and so long. How could that be? And dang the defaults coming up on my screen… Thought that I forgot about them.

# 1 leap = 300 m length & 100 m height;

# gravitational acceleration g= 5.50 m/s^2;

What I can make out of these new digits is either that the Prior Earth was about half the size of the one where my little garden awaits for me (I hope) or that it was all empty by the inside, or that something is terribly different with the geometry (geology?) of this ancient planet. For the sake of my sanity, in another life I was a thirty-two meters tall grasshopper, my silvery hair had been long enough to cover my bottom, which I used to walk (or jump) naked everywhere I moved it and, seemingly, I had a very good time under that golden sky, across that easy going earth…

Further exploring, I arrived to count no less than thirty-eight thousand trees that I visited in Dag’s lovely company. Each tree served as the shelter for a family. All families welcomed us in great joy, served us colorful fruits and blueish green leaves. Water we drank not from no one of our cheerful guests. They didn’t share water those times, it seems. Many men used to sing and we danced, together with their wives, on the metrical and the melodies. Some of the wives had a gift to “yodel” in heavenly voices and trills.

This Prior Age looks to me like a perpetual vacation for fellow earthlings. We ate and drank, we sang and danced, we never slept but always rested, at least when not grass-hopping over the never ending green meadows. A truly enjoyable existence we all had. All? How do I know that? Had I visited all the folks during my life in the Prior Age? I can’t affirm that. With a slight effort of thought, my mind brings up the computer-like grids and listings. Yes, visited 38002 trees, the same number of men with their dwelling families, met with 114006 wives, other than Dag and Day, but there is no indication about the upper limit of trees, men and wives. My left brain computing machine, with all the enhancements of late, can’t make a digit out of this “all” word. Therefore, my curiosity receives no satisfaction. Not good, not to know. Well, defeated in my stubbornness for numbers (dunno how did I acquire this annoying feature), I look after the stirring trail that Don creates throughout Dag’s mind. Yes! I can track him wherever he goes, with his feet or with his heeds. Let me see…

Why am I not surprised? All his little earthly life, this latter and degenerated one, he browsed for porn. Lucky him, he’s now staring at giant lesbian porn. Just lesbian? Not exactly, because the wives go for it with their husbands too, but this looks like being done on a side note. The great thrill and excitement comes when gals go down on gals. A strange society indeed. Curious, I delve into the dialogs.

“Oh, Ye Dor and Dag! Be welcome to the realm of the tree of Rad where his loving wives, Rut, Ram and Riv, salute your arrival. Come halt your leaping journey to join our family for a while of bliss.” This is a sample from the numerous welcoming sayings that we heard. Once we had accepted an invitation, we were offered a spot to sit under the tree. This spot was never close to the hosting family, but some fifty meters to the left or to the right. And I hear myself speaking, through Dag’s ears.

“Beloved fellow wives of Rad! Our sisters! My sister Dag and myself, we thank ye for the warm welcoming, for sharing with us the tasteful cherries of Rad’s tree, for accepting us as momentary guests of your blessed family. We also appreciate your kindness in letting us assist at your intimate feeding sessions. We consequently had the chance to watch how truly endowed your man, Rad, is in all aspects indispensable for a master male to provide for his dear wives. He gave ye, one after the other, profound and resounding orgasms to keep up your attitudes, then he served you richly with his seed to energize your bodies. Your man is, indeed, a wonderful husband and caretaker. Blessed be his name, Rad!” To my brief speech, Rut, Ram and Riv applauded and encouraged me to go on, which I did. “You may call this love and so it is. Love your man because he is your patriarch and your provider…” More applause and cheering ovations. “But!” I subtly try to cut their ardor just a tiny bit. “But true love has to come and go without any condition. True love is unconditional love! My dear sisters, it is awesome that you love your man, keep doing this! Still, loving him for what he is to you could be, and it is, shadowed by the necessary condition of loving him for what he does to you, for what he brings to you. This, my dears, taints the perfection of love with a material interest. Do you understand me?” Blank looks and gapes in all silence. “I see that you don’t. No problem about that. Let me speak it out directly: love yourself and love your sister wife as you love yourself. Spiritually and physically. Have you touched yourselves?”

“No.” They answered in one voice. “How that comes to be?” They asked. Instead of answering them, I turn to Rad, their man, always present at our sharing of ideas. I ask him. “Rad, have you touched yourself?” He says that he didn’t, similarly startled as all his three wives sitting in front of Dag and me. So I continue my discourse. “I understand. You haven’t heard of masturbation, nor of a wife giving her sister wife an orgasm. Did you?” All four heads shaking in denial. “We have always been content and fulfilled with our old ways,” dared Ram to speak.

“This is good and the way it has to be, oh, Ram, master of your tree. But there’s more to know about love than a man feeding his wives up and down, regulating their hormones and serving their protein meals every day. Love herself goes beyond our common necessities, beyond the ordinary. Love, my dears, is a message from above our realm, ruling beyond our understanding and breathing, in each of us, more life than we could ever handle. Love goes beyond creation. Like an overwhelming ocean!”

“What’s that an ocean?” Asked Dag with childish interest.

She took me by surprise. “An ocean is… Wait, what is that an ocean? I don’t know. Really! How did this word came up on my tongue?” I wonder in a short pause, then charge back. “See?, my dear hosts, love had me speak words that I never heard and that I can’t explain. Like the word ‘ocean’ about which I have no idea what it is. Could this be a synonym for love? It could, but I can’t tell. It goes beyond my capacity of understanding.”

Rad looks at me, bit amazed, bit intrigued, and asks. “Tell us then what do you know about love and we don’t?” This is the point of my speech, and of my coming, and of my wandering, after all. This is the moment that I always wait for when visiting random trees around the globe. I smile, nod in complicity towards Dag, and raise to stand up on my feet. Dag follows me. “My dear family of Rad, please consider and behold the love between me and my sister wife Dag!”

I approach Dag and, caressing her strawberry blond hair in gentle moves over her shoulders, I exposed her firm breasts. Instantly, her nipples turned hard and pointy. I didn’t have to touch her in order to produce this reaction of excitement. But I felt the irresistible urge to kiss and suck on them. The more I kissed her, the higher my desire to suck and bite her skin. Can’t tell what Dag sensed back then, yet I can read her feelings now, through her teardrop. And what a stunning effect my lips have had all over her mind! With her eyes, I see my buttocks protruding at times amongst my long silvery hair as I lean forward for my mouth to reach the delicate navel of hers. Delicate? I think with the mind of my second life. Well, according to the given proportions, yes!, delicate! But what my sight, in Dag’s eyes of foregone memories, won’t reveal much of the late Dor, my prior avatar. Instead, I avidly collect all the sensual touches produced by my lips, and tongue, or teeth, over her skin. The untold mildness coming into her brain from a hair root of her pubic zone. The tickling peaks of pleasure on her labia. The warmth flourishing around her tummy, running to grip her diaphragm and wiring her spine up to flood her brains, over and over, slow or fast, brutal or gentle, in harmony or dissonance, in comfort or pain, with every clitoral signal that my sucking lips and slapping tongue has applied on my darling Dag eons before our epoch.

Raptured by Dag’s ordeal of memories, I forget myself out of control, to a streaming tumult, to a surging sea in tempest (although Dag had no idea then what a sea, or an ocean, is). I dive and can’t stop myself from diving… Until I see the core spring of her fabulous fountain, the erupting volcano of sweet female juices. The ejaculate of Dag’s! Not remembering from my Dor’s perspective, but seeing me at work through my lovers’ eyes, and perceiving the geyser flaring out of me, err – Dag, I faint.


Reset and reboot. 11589 milliseconds later, I am back online, inside Dag’s head, witnessing the moments succeeding the orgasm that I provided her in the shadow of the tree of Rad, in front of Rad and his wives: Rut, Ram and Riv. Have told you that little Doris has fainted at the scene, but big Dag had been knocked out by big Dor. And so I lost several precious minutes of Dor’s dialog with the Rad family. I could count the milliseconds of Dag’s blackout alright, like staring at a dark and mute screen. Suddenly I hear myself, well, I hear Dor saying. “…for my beloved sister Dag. This, our dear hosts, is what I think I know about love that you don’t: it is the love of a wife for her sister wife, the giving with no expectation of getting back!”

“Pardon me for intervening, my dear Dor guest,” proposes Rad for an expected speech, like the master of his own realm of the tree that he is, “this is indeed unseen and unknown, to me and mine at least, for a woman to think like a man. Because, Dor, what you did in front of us, what you gave out wholeheartedly is what I do and what I give all the time. You presented to us a man’s love in her purest female expression. Therefore, on one hand, let me say that I knew of this love, because it is my own way of loving, and I’ll make no mistake speaking for my neighboring tree masters in respect to the love we all manifest for our women; but on the other hand, it is indeed a novel love to me, unheard and unseen, because you are a woman loving your sister like a man would do. I really don’t know what to make out of your love. It is contradictory to me. Puzzling and, allow me, quite scary for me. A woman loving with a man’s love! Never saw that coming, I must admit. Please excuse me the daring question: how does your man, Don, cope with your expression of this love?”

“My man Don loves his wives, Dag and Day, like any other man, like you, Rad. But he loves me with a braided love: of a man and of a woman, simultaneously. My man provides for me and for my sisters. We can’t complain of him in any way. We do not miss a meal, nor a reinvigorating orgasm. We are all grateful to him for his constant support. He is the man of our lives. Still…”

“Still?” I could hear this word on four voices.

“Still, I asked him once to let me provide for him.”

“Can a woman provide seed?” Wondered Rad out loud.

“No, seed she cannot contribute. But the solace of liberating him of the regular duties towards his other wives. Besides, I wished him to tell me how it feels for a man to take a break, to think of nothing, to do nothing, to lay down and dream, to stand up and leap, with no other purpose than the deed in itself. Like any woman on this planet does. To this, my Don was game!”

“He was game to become a woman?!” All four at unison again.

“Yes!, he laughed at my optimism, at first. Then he wanted to watch me providing orgasms to my sisters. That, said he, was the most tempting part of my proposal. And I comforted and provided, as you have just noticed.”

Rad turned suspicious. “Let me ask our Maker about this never heard situation, will you?”

“Sure, ask Him.” In Dag’s eyes, my image (or Dor’s, for that matter) grew more imposing, maybe a tad arrogant, but well dissimulated under a mask of indifference. No one else seemed to figure this trait of superiority, only Dag who is well accustomed with the business that I mean when smiling and pointing my little nose up in the air.

Rad sent his question to the Maker, in private, and, the next millisecond, we hear His answer, in public. “As expected. This is your game. Take care playing.” Then followed a silence of thanking, or wondering, or doubting? Can’t describe what Dag felt precisely. No idea what the Rad family understood. Just heard Dor breaking this silence with her elegant voice.

“You, Rad, should play by your rules. My man, Don, has chosen to play by his, which of late included me as the auxiliary provider in his family. As you heard: this is our game that we ought play with much care. These being demonstrated, I am taking my sister Dag and say farewell to you, our dear and most welcoming hosts, to the realm of your tree. May I ask where would you recommend us to head our leaps for the closest neighboring tree?”