Anthropologist in Paradise
The breeze is rustling through the palm trees outside when I hear the knock at the door of my spacious grass-roofed hut. I switch off my computer and rise, wearing my ceremonial red silk robe that the women of the village slaved over for two months. It is sleeveless and emphasizes my full breasts and hips.
Opening the door, I greet Ailani in her native Polynesian, and the tall, coffee-skinned girl of nineteen responds with a shy smile. Mahina, Ailani’s buxom mother, stands next to her, and after kneeling to kiss the hem of my robe with reverence, she takes Ailani’s hand and extends it toward me. This is the ritual. “Go with the Matuatele now, Ailani,” Mahina says. “Learn from her, and do all that she bids you. Experience her blessings, as I have.”
I smile at Mahina, gazing deep into her eyes, transfixing her once again with my power, like the waves crashing on the shore just out of eyeshot. At last I nod that she may go, and Mahina obediently turns to follow the road that leads past the sandy beach and coral reefs back to the village.
Next, I gently run my hand down Ailani’s back, as she nestles instinctively close to my body. Yes, Ailani is mine now, from her long, shiny black mane, dark eyes, and full lips to those splendidly ripe young breasts and buttocks beneath her floral dress.
I lead her inside and close the door, acutely aware of her hibiscus-scented perfume. She has much to learn from me. And she will. I am the Matuatele.
It is a role that came to me both surprisingly and naturally. Thanks to a three-year, $100,000 grant from the University of Washington, I am here on the small tropical island of Vahinaki, 150 miles northeast of Tahiti. I am completing my Ph.D in anthropology with a specialization in Polynesian studies. My purpose in traveling here is to gather first-hand material for my thesis documenting the basis for what is believed to be the only remaining active matriarchal society in the South Pacific.
Previously, little has been written about Vahinaki. A Norwegian adventurer, Mats Holtet, sailed to the neighbouring island of Nukunga in 1957 and published a two-page article in the Sunday travel supplement of an Oslo newspaper. Apart from that, we have only a few scattered accounts from English and Spanish sea captains, and nothing at all compiled by female researchers.
The full-time population of Vahinaki is just over 2,500, and consists entirely of native women. Their menfolk live on Nukunga, and are only permitted quarterly visits for connubial purposes, except for certain special occasions and emergencies. The men support the 12-woman governing council by harvesting copra, the dried meat of the coconut, and handing over the earnings from their sales in Tahiti to the council.
The Vahinaki women, known for their height and beauty, dedicate themselves to cultural pursuits when they are not administrating the economy and cultivating the community garden. Song, dance, pottery, weaving, even architecture…these fill the days of the women, whose diet of fruit and fish contributes to their remarkable average longevity of 93 years.
Vahinaki has remained aloof from the modern world in most ways. There is no TV and no cell phone service, and my dial-up Internet connection and satellite phone became the first of their kind when I arrived in Vahinaki.
What particularly intrigued me about the island, however, was only alluded to in a very euphemistic and passing way in the accounts of Holtet and others. Vahinaki was and remains a centre for pagan, female-centric sex worship, a place where unabashed, orgiastic pleasure-seeking for women is the very foundation of the culture. As a greedy, insatiable bisexual woman myself, I’d be lying if I claimed Vahinaki’s reputation had nothing to do with my choice of a thesis topic.
The welcome that the women extended to me – non-sexual at first – emboldened me to conduct a survey just three weeks after arriving. I discovered that approximately 70 percent of them identify as bisexual, 25 as lesbian, and just 5 percent as strictly heterosexual. These statistics are unparalleled anywhere in the developed or non-developed world.
Mahina is bisexual, as she confided to me after we became lovers. Of her own free will, she had been bringing me dishes of fried fish and plantain stew for dinner each night for the first month, entering my hut and placing a Anadolu Yakası Escort soft, brown hand on my shoulder while I typed away on my computer. It became apparent to me that her interest was far more than platonic.
Our first kiss was on a grassy, flower-laden hillside overlooking the coral reefs. Her body is deliciously soft and fleshy, and we spent hours intertwined in the nude beneath the afternoon sunshine. When we moved into a 69 position, my engorged lips planted firmly on her ecstatically beaming face, I soon discovered that I enjoyed eating her exquisitively sweet, luxuriantly unshaven cunt almost as much as feeling her lapping hungrily at my puffed-out, glistening clitoral hood.
Making it a perfect first time together, we were seen by others…and did not stop. I heard the voices of women coming down the hillside just before sunset, and glanced up from Mahina’s spread thighs. I recognized the two svelte, 20-something women as two of the dancers who would perform at the moon goddess festival that summer. They were both carrying baskets full of firm, juicy red berries. I saw interest flickering in their eyes as they recognized me, and realized they had likely never seen a white woman enjoying lesbian sex before. I had no intention of stopping, and actively desired to be seen. I beckoned with my head for them to come closer, and simultaneously pushed the full, heavy warmth of my buttocks down on Mahina’s face so that she would have no say in the matter.
The women came closer, smiling, and put their baskets down next to us in the grass. “Touch, don’t be shy, ” I urged them. “Let’s enjoy one another like women are meant to do.” Smiling, both began to kiss and stroke my body as if I were a cat. I arched my back upward to reveal Mahina’s face, smeared with my juices. The taller of our visitors, who had mischievious eyes and a birthmark on her left cheek, reached into her basket and fed me berries. I devoured them, juice running down my chin. “Give her some too,” I said, gesturing toward Mahina. “But use me.” The taller girl quickly understood, taking a fistful of berries and inserting them into my soaked cunt. Mahina ate the berries directly out of me, thrusting her tongue deep up my slit to get them out. It felt incredibly fucking good, especially with two strange women watching everything. After I let loose with an enormous orgasm on Mahina’s face, the women took their baskets and departed.
That night, I couldn’t sleep, completely sexually charged up. I wandered through the village, hearing moans, cries, and raw screams of pleasure coming from nearly every hut. The thin grass walls concealed nothing, from the rapid wet rub-rub-rub of a Vahinaki teenage girl enjoying a pre-bedtime frig to the raw, hoarse-throated screams of “Fuck me!” and “Fist me for the moon goddess!” that emanated from the lodge shared by three longtime council members who had magnificently voluptuous figures in their early 50’s. When I was conducting my survey, one of them had casually shown me a huge, earthenware vessel painted with red orchids and brimming with refined coconut oil. Now I knew what it was used for.
I wanted so badly to be inside there, fucking, sucking, and screaming my lust out into the tropical night with those gloriously disinhibited island goddesses. Little did I know that I would soon accede to a stature higher than theirs, and get everything I wanted.
Mahina came to me one day when I was reviewing my notes on my chaise in the garden and handed me a scroll. “It’s from the council,” she explained, trit-trotting away before I could demand a further explanation. I removed the red ribbon and read the message. To make a long story short, they were inviting me to become the Matuatele.
Unique among the many goddesses worshipped on Vahinaki, the Matuatele is considered to be a living deity who resides within the community. Her word is law. There has been a succession of Matuateles extending back nearly 2,000 years, according to the council’s records. According to legend, her name is whispered on the northern breeze into the ears of the council, and she is always a woman of at least 40 years of age who did not grow up on Vahinaki. I was to become the first white woman to become a living goddess, and as Mahina breathlessly told me when I caught up with her a few minutes, this was a first, but had Anadolu Yakası Escort Bayan also been prophesied.
Naturally, I accepted. Tributes of food, flowers, and jewelry began to appear outside my door each morning. As I walked through the market each morning, women would prostrate themselves at my feet, kneel beseechingly before me for a caress from my hand and a word of blessing. And my always rapacious libido went into overdrive.
The primary role of the Matuatele is to complete the sexual education of young women living on Vahinaki before they move into a long-term relationship.
There is a set path toward womanhood here. Up until the age of 15, girls concentrate on their schooling, from arts and languages to astronomy and mathematics. For the next three years, they focus on perfecting their domestic and managerial skills. At 18, they are permitted to choose a husband or long-term lover from the men on Nukunga, and the man is not permitted to refuse when formally approached. However, many forgo men altogether except for procreation, and concentrate on heightening their pleasure with other women, with whom they may also partner. Both monogamy and polygamy are common here. And worshipping the Matuatele, under her decadent, knowledgeable, and sometimes cruel tutelage, is a necessary rite of passage for women between the ages of 18 and 28 here.
Before I tell you more about my little Ailani, I should confess some of the other deliciously bold, wicked, and nasty things I have done since assuming the mantle of the Matualele. And imagine – I still have two years left to go on Vahinaki.
After I became the Matuatele, I established a mistress-slave relationship between myself and Mahina. No longer was she permitted to wear clothes in my presence. She entered my study one day on her hand and knees, eyes toward the ground, and asked if I would see our mutual friend Halia, who had a favour to ask. Halia, who wore dark-rimmed glasses and had studied philosophy in Australia, had helped me translate some obscure passages from a collection of Polynesian legends. I was happy to see her. She entered the room and apologized for not bowing fully due to her big belly. “Since I became pregnant six months ago,” Halia explained, “my desires have been exceptionally strong. I masturbate several times a day. Yet my dear girlfriend no longer seems willing to pleasure me, for reasons I do not understand. Can you please help me, O gracious Matuatele?”
Minutes later, Halia lay back on my spacious bed, her smooth, toned legs spread in a blatant V, with her calves dangling over the edge. I lapped at her engorged inner labia, sucking them into my mouth, as her hips squirmed and she pushed her unshaven crotch into my face. I looked up and could see her arms moving, caressing her swollen tits with shameless pleasure. I knew it wouldn’t take long for her to explode on my face…and then she would be another slave for the Matuatele. Forever.
Afterwards, I lay on the bed behind Halia, caressing her smooth, taut belly and her long legs, listening to the rush of the sea outside.
I sensed someone else in the room, and turned my head to see Mahina. “Who gave you permission to be in here?” I demanded, showing my capricious side. Mahina began to explain. I raised a finger. “Fuck off, slave! Get out of here! When I want you, I’ll send for you. And the next time I send for you will be to tell you your punishment for violating the sanctity of the Matuatele’s chamber.”
After my delightful experience with Halia, I was even more excited about the prospect of publicly demonstrating my complete mastery over Mahina. I was very turned on by the knowledge that she had done nothing wrong, but was about to experience my cruelty in a way that completely satisfied my lust at the same time, and bound us together even more tightly.
The following day at noon, I stepped into the main square of the village, where Mahina was tied nude with her ass facing out to a tall wooden pole depicting the moon goddess. Hundreds had gathered to watch the Matuatele demonstrate her power and superiority, and I enjoyed the eyes fixed on me as I wore my ceremonial robes with pride.
Halia had the honour of handing me the polished balsa wood handle of the flogger, adorned with nine black leather tails. “Thank you, Matuatele, for showing Escort Anadolu Yakası us the way,” she said in a loud, clear voice. The women watching repeated: “Thank you, Matuatele, for showing us the way.”
In response, I reached inside my robe and produced a glistening, green jade butt plug that I had brought with me from Seattle. I handed it to Halia. “Go!” I said. “Fill up the one who sinned against the Matuatele.”
As the watching women, many of them barebreasted and clearly excited, began to clap rhythmically, slowly and quietly at first, Halia went to Mahina, deftly spread her ass cheeks apart, and looked at me for approval before easing the butt plug right up the soon-to-be-punished slave’s ass. Mahina let out a long, raw grunt as it entered her, and the crowd murmured with increasing excitement. That made my cunt clench as I fondled my whip.
“Do you want to see the punishment I give?” I demanded in a loud voice. “Yes!” the women cried out. Mothers, sisters, daughters, wives, aunts…everyone was lusting to see me show my power now.
I stepped forward and lightly ran the leather tails over Mahina’s ass, making her tremble before I brought down the flogger with full force. She screamed with pain and excitement as a clear mark appeared on her soft brown ass. The women cheered and screamed: “Use her! Show her! Make her worship the Matuatele!” The rhythmic clapping picked up as everyone crowded closer to watch me punishing this slave.
Hot, cruel lust surged through me as I flogged Mahina steadily, listening to the chants and incantations. Women were lowering their skirts, masturbating to the sight. At one point, I lifted my own robe, licked the balsa-wood handle while making eye contact with Halia, and thrust the handle into myself so I could fuck myself in front of a crowd of native women, now reaching out eagerly to caress me.
I continued giving it to Mahina, and derived great pleasure from the sight of her pushing hard to expel the butt plug from her asshole. “Push it right out, bitch!” I screamed at her. “Show everybody what a motherfuckin’ slut you are! Let the whole fuckin’ village see!”
With one hand on my clit and the other wielding my whip, I came with a surging intensity that made me scream as Mahina finally expelled the butt plug, obeying my orders. Women clasped me against their bosoms, holding me tight as I lay on the grass in the shadow of the pole.
When I had finally recovered, I ordered Mahina to be untied and brought to my room, where we lay together beneath my cool sheets. I caressed her, stroked her, and told her what a good girl she was as we sipped coconut milk together. Mahina kissed me eagerly and cuddled her face into my breasts. I knew she would never forget how I had flogged her…and would want it again, more and more.
Three days later, Mahina came to me to request another favour. “I’m very busy right now,” I said. “Particularly with the moon goddess festival just a week away. But tell me what it is, little slave.”
And then Mahina told me that Ailani had returned from her year-long work study program in Tahiti. “She’s ready for you, O Matuatele,” Mahina said respectfully.
Ailani and I lie side by side, naked on my bed, touching and kissing. The hut is immaculate. Under my watchful eye, Ailani has cleaned, dusted, and polished everything. She has stood by my side, feeding me freshwater shrimp and a banana-papaya pudding that she prepared herself. And she has given herself freely to me, as my fingers sensually trace over every inch of her long, slender yet curvy body – while still clothed.
I told her to dance for me in the nude before joining me in bed. Her hips move with a rhythm that make me need to know her. Oh, I am going to enjoy educating Mahina’s 19-year-old daughter, who is even better than Mahina herself.
I want to corrupt Ailani so thoroughly.
“Baby?” I say between kisses.
“Yes, O Matuatele?”
“You know those TV shows you saw in Tahiti?”
“With the girls in Los Angeles? Yes.”
“I want you to dress up for me like them sometimes. I’ll order some clothes for you. Stiletto heels, fishnet stockings, those little chemises. You’ll wear them just for me.”
“Of course, Matuatele.”
“And another thing: do you know Halia’s younger sister?”
“Noelani? She’s one of my best friends.”
“And have you ever…?”
“Oh, no, no. I don’t think she likes girls…?”
“You’re wrong, sweetheart. And I heard this morning she’ll be back early, just before the moon goddesss festival. You two girls are going to become even better friends…there’s so much you have to learn…”
We kiss again as the breeze rustles through the palm trees outside.