Honey Flava

Chokyi smiled apologetically. “Only monk’s robes, and we do not keep many spares. But come, let me see what I can find.” He led Pasang to the cabinet where they kept the linens, across from his sleeping quarters.

As he selected a russet-colored shawl from among the textiles, Pasang peered into the darkness of his room, turning back quickly when he handed her the garment. Pasang wrapped the shawl around her shoulders and breasts. Chokyi scolded himself for lingering over the way the deep red of the fabric lay against the milky brown of Pasang’s arms, over which her black hair hung like a fringe.

“Have the others already gone to sleep?” Pasang nodded toward the row of sleeping quarters.

“No, they are away, in Yangpachen.”

“So you are alone?” Mirth played in her eyes. “It must be peaceful to have the monastery all to yourself. How long have you lived here?”

“Seventeen summers, since I reached manhood. And it is peaceful. It’s also dull, but do not tell the Buddha I said that.” He chuckled. “Where did you come from?”

“Ngari, far to the west.” Pasang leaned against the wall and folded her tawny arms across her chest.

“You climbed all the way up to these mountains?”

“It isn’t such a feat,” she teased. “Your oldest monks do it.”

“They do it because they have to. Few others come this way. Either they travel the lowlands, or they climb the mountain. We are too in-between.”

“Soon, only the foolhardy will take the journey on foot at all.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because now the train comes all the way to Lhasa.” As Pasang spoke, Chokyi’s eyes grew wide. “You didn’t know? It goes over the northern mountains. It is so steep that the trains provide oxygen tanks for the passengers, otherwise they get sick.” She pantomined putting an oxygen mask over her nose and mouth.

Chokyi could hardly believe her words. “All the way to Lhasa? But that is not even as far as Yangpachen. So close. Have you ridden it?”

“Not yet. It has not been running long.” Her dark eyes studied him. “But I can see you would like to.”

“Yes.” Chokyi blushed and covered his smile with his hand.

Pasang stifled a yawn, hugging the shawl closer around her tiny shoulders.

Chokyi apologized, “You must be exhausted. Please, choose any of the rooms you like. I do not think this rain will dissipate tonight.” As if to prove his point, thunder rolled across the sky, shaking the beams of the monastery roof.

“Bhikshu, Chokyi,” Pasang said, pressing her hands together and bowing. As she rose, she locked her eyes with his, the dark line of her lashes scooping the air like a bird’s wings. This time she did not smile.

Chokyi let Pasang take the lantern, then shuffled to his bedchamber, which was so familiar that he could pick his way onto his sleeping roll in the darkness. He lay down and closed his eyes, chanting, “Om mani padme hung,” softly as he drifted to sleep.

Pasang lingered at the end of the hall, lowering the lantern’s flame until it guttered and nearly went out. Silently she waited until she heard the soft sound of Chokyi’s snores before tiptoeing down the hall to the doorway of his bedchamber. She hesitated there, savoring his breathing, letting him dream.

Calmly she stripped away her damp stockings and trousers and the red shawl so dark it was nearly black. Then she crept into Chokyi’s room, crawling on hands and knees until she was kneeling at his sleeping side.

She lay a finger on his breast, feeling it rise and fall, and began to sing. Hers was a keening melody, wild and low in the night, waking him like a vision.

With both hands Pasang smoothed the cloth of Chokyi’s robe away from his chest, baring his flesh. She ran her flat palms across it, raising gooseflesh and nipples. Lightning flashed, illuminating her face for the briefest moment with silver-blue light. Her eyes were heavy as her mouth formed the vowels of her wordless song. Chokyi, half-asleep, did not think to stop her.

Still singing, Pasang lifted Chokyi’s hands to her breasts. She made him cup them in his work-worn palms, letting his calluses catch on her smooth skin. She knew he had probably not touched a woman’s breasts since his mother weaned him. Chokyi’s breath grew deeper and louder as he held her. Pasang’s song died away into stillness.

She pressed her mouth to his, seeking his tongue. Pasang was surprised that Chokyi did not resist, did not clench his teeth against her. With one hand she untied the cord that held his robe and pulled the fabric away, exposing the lower half of his body.

Pasang sought his organ and found it firm, the tip still sheathed. In a slow motion she drew back the foreskin, then dipped down to take the head between her lips and suckle it, first gently, then firmly. She smiled as she heard Chokyi’s breathing change again, this time to a broken staccato. His fingertips kissed her cheeks, her hair, her shoulders. Pasang resumed her song, vibrating the jewel of Chokyi’s flesh as she rolled it across her tongue.

Pasang pulled back and raised Chokyi into a lotus position on the mat. She lowered herself slowly onto his organ and folded her legs around his waist, wrapping her arms behind his shoulders. “Hold me,” she said. His arms locked around her like a harness. She sat motionless, working only the muscles of her lotus, rippling up and down the length of Chokyi’s jade stalk. Still he was silent.

“I was no passing traveler tonight, my Chokyi,” Pasang whispered. “I have watched you for many months from my perch in the trees near the monastery. I have spied on you as you swept floors, cooked rice, drunk tea, and laid flowers before the Buddha. I know the flying squirrel who comes to you for nuts each day, and I know how you love to sneak fruits into your mouth when the other monks aren’t looking. I have listened in the nighttime as you whispered your samaya, your secret name. I have longed for you, sung for you, wept for you, dreamed of your body in my body. Like this.” She reached down and stroked the place where his treasure entered hers.

She let herself move against him now, a slow undulation spreading from her hips to her shoulders. Chokyi moved, too, first timidly, then with increasing grace and ardor.