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RELUCTANT GODDESS
By
Mardi Ballou
© copyright by Mardi Ballou, Oct. 2007
Cover Art by Alex DeShanks, Oct. 2007
ISBN 978-1-60394-096-2
New Concepts Publishing
Lake Park, GA 31636
www.newconceptspublishing.com
This is a work of fiction. All characters, events and places are of the authors' imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.
Chapter One
A Barren Planetoid, 3157 C.E.
Appollonia Amarosiana, Princess Designate of Korsawor, brushed her long, curly blonde locks with vigor. On Korsawor, her home planet, in the palace where she'd spent her formative years, ladies-in-waiting competed for the honor of brushing her hair. Now, marooned on a godforsaken globe of stone in some obscure corner of the universe, she had to fend for herself in matters large and small. And she didn't like it one little bit.
After a last swipe with her brush, Appollonia abandoned her coiffure. Nothing on this barren planetoid even approached adequacy. Not the food nor the drink, not the sights nor the sounds. Worst of all, when it came to her royal sexual hunger, she felt condemned to eternal frustration. On Korsawor, knights and warriors-from the leading champions to the greenest aspirants-all competed for her favor. She'd had her pick.
Back home, resorting to a sex toy had been one option among many. She'd had the finest implements at her beck and call-vibrators and dildos from every corner of the known solar system. Back then she could use a toy once and discard it. For that matter, she'd been able to use two or three toys in a single session and then just toss them into the trash. Replacements would appear like magic.
When she remembered the home she'd so foolishly left, a tear welled up in the corner of her eye. She swiped it away with an angry sniffle. If she started to weep, she'd probably never stop. She had to adjust to the disappointing reality around her. Now instead of having a multitude of toys, all she had was a solitary hunk of cheap plastic and a single faltering battery. After a long day spent in futile search for her lover and now facing a bleak night, Appollonia surrendered to the call of horniness. She stretched out in her cold, lonely bed and held her vibrator up to the weak light from a bedside lamp. "Do your magic. Transport me from this misery, even if for just a moment."
Desperate to come, she twisted the base 'til the desired buzz whimpered forth. With a sigh, she drew up her plain night garment, opened her legs, placed the vibrator where it was most needed, and arched her hips to open herself up. She sighed as she felt the first stirring of excitement caress her moist pink folds.
It was all his fault. XXXX, who'd promised her the world. "Follow me, my lady, and the glories of the universe will be yours." Dazzled by this soldier of fortune, so different from all the men she'd known in the royal court, she'd sneaked away from Korsawor. After a rocket ride of ecstasy, he'd dumped her on this barren hunk of rock. Oh, he'd pledged fervently to return, to deliver on all his promises. Which was how long ago? After the failure of all means of communication, she'd begun to lose track of time. Now she couldn't send out appeals for rescue. And she'd lost total contact with XXXX.
All that was hers these days was the worn-out vibrator, the few rags left of her imperial wardrobe, and many cans of chicken noodle soup from a bygone era. Thank the Benevolent Goddess, she had discovered a can opener in the ancient pantry.
The vibrator shuddered, choked, sighed, and died. What was this? Appollonia's royal pussy clenched in frustration. No, no! It couldn't be. Nothing. The vibrator now lay in her hand, an inert hunk of plastic. Shit. She needed to come, and this vibrator wasn't about to help her meet that fundamental goal. Not without more batteries.
Gritting her teeth, the princess tossed the worthless gadget across the room and sincerely wished that XXXX would miraculously return and enter their quarters at that precise moment. She'd love to hit him over the head with the proof of her overwhelming frustration.
But XXXX remained as elusive that day as any appeasement for her mammoth frustration….
Marin County, California, 2006 C.E.
Frustration dogged K.C. Berrigan's heels. Heck, Frustration had become her middle name these days. Reading over the last bit of her current work in progress, cranked out three days before, she bit her lip. Talk about writer's block. More like granite boulders damming up her creative juices. Here she was, poised to write the follow-up to her first bestseller and thus carve her name onto the marquee of Successful Authors-except she couldn't get her futuristic time-traveling heroine into the same century as her hero. Princess Appollonia, her so-called heroine, had been stationary so long she was beginning to grow moss. And the still unnamed alpha hero behaved more like an omega.
Maybe K.C., who adored anagrams, would change the name Korsawor to Strufnoirat, an anagram of frustration. And Korsawor could become the hero's name. Did Korsawor sound like a hero's name? The whole thing depressed K.C. so badly, she couldn't get out of bed. Not even having stashed her favorite chocolate nuts beyond arm's length moved her.
The phone rang. With a sigh and an unerotic groan, she put down the manuscript, dragged herself out from under her covers and raced to pick up the receiver … well, stumbled. Hopefully, she was going to hear good enough news to justify getting out of bed.
Not. Shit. Some bozo selling another phone service. Didn't they have laws against that? K.C. slammed the phone down, stretched, yawned, and looked at the clock. Eleven. Missed breakfast. No wonder she felt starved and weak.
She went to the kitchen and grabbed a loaf of some lovely cinnamon raisin challah bread, eggs, milk, vanilla, and a touch of sherry-what the hell, it was getting on to lunch time. It was a French toast morning, and she was going to make herself her very best recipe-one she usually saved for company. If she was up to making French toast for herself, she couldn't be as totally catatonic as she'd been feeling since writer's block had descended-was it only three days ago? Or three weeks? Three months?
K.C.'s tummy rumbled, as well it should. She'd make herself four good slices of the delectable toast. And fry up some bacon for a protein boost. She got everything going, then put her special blend hazelnut coffee on to brew-full octane this morning, to rev up her creative engine. Soon, the kitchen smelled amazing and K.C.'s spirits, if not her block, began to lift. She sliced fresh strawberries from a neighborhood fruit stand-the first of this spring. Maybe she'd plant some strawberries in the garden that had come with the cottage … the great cottage in beautiful Marin that she'd lose if she went bankrupt.
K.C. sipped coffee as she put the finishing touches on her breakfast. She artistically arranged the French toast, bacon, and berries on her prettiest plate. After sprinkling powdered sugar on the toast, she poured on pure maple syrup direct from Vermont. Then she carried everything over to the table, put her plate on a blue and yellow quilted place mat, and sat down. Though she'd resolved to stop reading when she ate alone, today wasn't the day to begin. So she grabbed a magazine and began her feast.
By the time she took her last bite, K.C. was starting to feel better about the world and her life. The phone rang again. Determined to preserve her growing optimism, she picked up.
"Magda here," a heavily accented voice said. A large and in-charge Hungarian, Magda Marki was one of K.C.'s favorite people. Stylish and well-groomed, with a manner the French would label formidable, Magda could have been anywhere from forty and seventy. Few people had the cojones to ask for the exact particulars.
"Good morning, Magda."
The other woman made a clucking sound with her tongue. "'Tis afternoon, Karlotta Carolina." Her friend insisted on calling K.C. by her full name. Magda and K.C.'s sister, Cassandra, were the only people permitted that liberty.
K.C. looked at her clock and nodded. "You're right as always, Magda. How are you? It's good to hear your voice."
"All you would need to do to hear my voice is pick up the telephone. I have not heard from you in a very long time and have grown concerned," Magda scolded in her careful English.
"Sorry." K.C. sincerely meant her apology.
"I thank you for that, but I cannot spend too much more time before I tell you the purpose of my call. Karlotta Carolina, you must come down to my shop immediately."
K.C.'s heart sank. Much as she loved Magda and her herb shop, there was no way she could unchain herself from her computer long enough to go into San Francisco.
"That is exactly why you should come," Magda insisted. "Whatever you must accomplish or rearrange in order to come here, do so. I demand this, in the name of friendship." She grew still for a moment then added the killer words, "Have I ever before given you incorrect advice?"
K.C. could hear the agitation, almost excitement, in her friend's voice. Magda usually kept all emotion out of her voice-which made this appeal all the more powerful. "Can you tell me what this is about?"
"Tsk. This is not a matter suitable for the telephone," she hissed. "Your immediate presence is demanded."
K.C. raised her eyebrows. Everything Magda had ever done or said since they'd met in the Rubenesque dress department at Starr's of San Francisco had been right on the money. She owed Magda for all her support and help in the past.
A thought struck K.C.. Maybe, hard as it would be to believe, her self-reliant friend required some help only K.C. could provide? She knew she should absolutely park her butt in her chair and work on her book. But she couldn't ignore Magda's summons. Okay. She would justify a temporary separation from her computer because it was Magda asking. "I'll shower and dress. Be there as fast as possible."
It sounded like Magda exhaled a breath she'd been holding. "I promise, you will never regret this." The word promise triggered K.C. to remember the last she'd written of Appollonia Amarosiana and XXXX's traitorous promises. She shook that thought away. K.C. was about to hang up when she heard Magda add a last thought. "Oh, Karlotta Carolina, wear something spectacular. No velour track suit today."
K.C. stared at the phone after she hung up. She had to wonder why her friend wanted her to dress up for an ordinary trip to the city. K.C. remembered a previous invitation to Magda's shop-when Magda had tried to fix K.C. up with her cousin, Zoltan. She shivered, thinking back to that disaster. That one time Magda had steered her wrong. Well, she couldn't hold that lapse in judgment against her friend forever. She'd take her at her word.
Intrigued, energized, and just the slightest bit wary, she put on a gorgeous red silk dress that swirled around her substantial butt, dammit, shapely legs like a soft cloud. Her one pair of black designer heels actually looked quite reasonable with the dress. K.C. carefully applied makeup and put her long blond hair into a good imitation of a French braid. By the time she felt satisfied with her looks, it was nearly two. She flew to her ancient car and drove across the Golden Gate Bridge, into the city.
* * * *
Hungarian Rhapsody, Magda's shop, in the North Beach section, was a Mecca for herbalists, cooks, and anyone who valued buying the freshest herbs and spices from an expert.
When K.C. opened the door of the shop, setting off a series of bell chimes, an aroma of fine herbs mingled with mysterious spices assailed her-the signature scent of the place. K.C. had to resist an impulse to open the jars and sacks to give them the sniff test. Her friend, so proprietary as to the handling of her goods, would have a fit.
Magda, who was just finishing up with some customers, asked her assistant to wrap up their order, then turned to K.C. "At last you have arrived." She looked her up and down, told her to turn around. "You are looking fine, though perhaps a bit more blush and a darker lipstick would be better with that dress." Magda frowned.
"You're looking good, too," K.C. said, relieved to have passed inspection with what was from Magda a minimum of suggested corrections. She, on the other hand, admired the other woman's flowing multi-colored silk caftan and smart new haircut and had no hints to offer. "Is that more red I'm seeing in your hair?"
Magda winked. "Some new henna that just came in. I couldn't resist trying it out. Do you approve?" She moved her head around so K.C. could see her hair from various angles.
K.C. nodded. She especially liked how Magda's hair picked up highlights when she turned her head.
Magda accepted the compliment and grinned mysteriously. "Your work is going well?"
K.C., who hated putting negative vibes into the atmosphere, shrugged.
Magda shook her head. "You are probably wondering why I have torn you away from the possibility of your work and insisted that you come here today."
"I'm sure you'll tell me."
Magda reached out her beautifully manicured hand in which she held a small wooden box. "This will help you with your writer's blocked," Magda whispered. "Take it."
"My writer's block?" K.C. asked, subtly correcting the error in English as Magda had once requested her to. But how did Magda know about her writer's block? K.C. couldn't remember telling her about it. On the other hand, Magda had a way of knowing things… "What is this, Magda?" A thought crossed K.C.'s mind. Her friend hadn't begun dabbling in drugs or…? K.C. put her question into words and instantly regretted the impulse.
Magda's eyes flashed with the spark of her Gypsy ancestors. "Karlotta Carolina Berrigan, you know better than to suspect such things!"
"Of course. Today seems to be my day to apologize to you."
Magda waved her hands dismissively. "I cannot blame you for being careful, even where you need not be. But no, I am not offering you drugs."
"It's just that writer's block is such a difficult condition to deal with. I'm beginning to feel like I'm going to need magic or a blast of dynamite."
Magda tapped a meticulously red-lacquered talon on the box. "What I have here is better than dynamite-a magical plant."
K.C. raised an eyebrow. "What miracle resides in that plain, brown box?"
Magda's smile lit up her coffee brown eyes. "Merely a powder made from the root of the otvingadoria plant. With no taste and little fragrance, no harmful effects and only benefits to you, this powder will solve your problems. You will be inspired to write a magnificent chef d'oeuvre, a masterpiece."
K.C. desperately wanted to believe that something legal could relieve her writer's block. And she wanted to stay in her friend's good graces. She took the proffered box. "Should I open it now?"
Magda gasped. "No, no, Karlotta Carolina. The powder of the otvingadoria is very fragile, very volatile. Once exposed to the air, it will lose its potency and must be consumed immediately. And I advise that you not consume it until you are back home, near your computer, ready to create."
"Alright." K.C. would, with difficulty, resist looking inside.
"You must take it home and use it immediately-and consume all the powder in a drink at one time. Then, later, you will tell me the results."
"Can you tell me a little about this plant? What did you call it?" Used as she was to her friend being cryptic, K.C. needed more information.
"The otvingadoria."
K.C. tried to repeat the name, which took two or three tries. "The otvingadoria. Is that a Hungarian name? I've never heard of it."
Magda smiled enigmatically. "No, this is the universal name of the plant. Salvia otvingadoria to the scholars. Simply otvingadoria to the rest of us. But I must admit I am not surprised to learn of your ignorance. The otvingadoria is one of the rarest plants on Earth. It blooms only once every seven years for but one night. To capture its potency, an herbalist must wait until the proper moment for harvest or the efficacy is doomed."
"Just once every seven years? Must be very expensive. I don't know how I can afford it." Actually, she was sure she couldn't.
Magda scowled and sniffed dismissively. "We do not speak of such things. I am pledged that the otvingadoria powder will go only to worthy recipients. And Karlotta Carolina, you are most worthy."
K.C. blushed. "I'm honored, Magda, and don't know what to say."
"Just follow my instructions for using the powder. Later, you will tell me I was right."
K.C. inwardly chuckled at Magda's confident prediction. "Of course. Magda, where does the otvingadoria grow?" She once again tripped over the name of the plant.
"I forget sometimes how much information a writer craves." Magda pursed her lips. "This plant grows only in the high mountainous desert areas. The powder I am giving you came from a plant growing in Sedona in Arizona."
"Oh, so that's why you went there recently."
Magda bowed her head slightly. "Yes. I am pleased now to have witnessed the blooming of the otvingadoria. This was the first time I ever had this privilege. And now to have a small amount in my shop. You are receiving the first powder I have distilled from the plant. There are only three full doses."
"Thank you, Magda." She bowed her head, though she considered going into a full curtsy.
Magda waved off her thanks. "Go home, Karlotta Carolina. Put on some more makeup, as I suggested. Then take the powder according to the directions. And voilà! You will proceed to write that story of yours-which I will have the first chance to read."
"Of course. I'll give you a copy of the very first draft, as soon as I complete it. Now I'm on my way. But just one more question. Magda, why did you insist that I dress up to come down here if you were going to send me right back home?"
Magda looked smug. "I wanted to see how you look all dolled up. What you're wearing is perfect. Stay dressed just as you are when you take the powder. Don't forget the makeup, though."
"Why?"
"Trust me."
Feeling a bit like Alice about to fall down the rabbit hole, a sensation she often had when she was with Magda, K.C. agreed. She took the box and made the trip back to Marin.
By the time K.C. got home, it was after four. Another day shot to hell as far as her writing went. She'd gotten her heroine, Princess Appollonia, trapped in the thirty-second century. And then she'd lost the thread of what to do with her. According to Magda, the powder she held in her hand was going to solve all that. Though Magda had never yet been incorrect about any of her herb lore, K.C. couldn't quite suspend her disbelief on this one. Though she wanted to. If only it could be so easy to get past her writer's block .…
She also wanted to get out of her dress, heels, and hose and into her usual sweats. But she'd promised Magda to stay in the same outfit and apply more makeup before trying the powder. Magda had instructed her to brew some tea to dissolve the powder in. Not tea from a bag, but loose tea. She might as well do it now, then change.
K.C. opened her ceramic tea canister, took a generous spoonful of the custom rose hips and cinnamon brew Magda had given her for her birthday, and prepared her drink. When the tea had properly steeped, she poured all the powder in, watched it dissolve, and drank it down. Then she waited to feel something huge, like a big block rising up and hurtling away from her into outer space. Nothing. For a moment, she imagined herself turning into the female equivalent of Mr. Hyde. She looked at her hands to see if she was sprouting claws, then giggled at the thought. Her fingers and palms remained unchanged. Her nails remained short and unpolished with a hanging cuticle that needed attention. She watched the clock tick by ten minutes. Still nothing. K.C. didn't know what Magda had expected to happen., but obviously this time her herbal expertise and steering mechanism had malfunctioned. Perhaps there had been something off about the process of harvesting the otvingadoria, or maybe K.C. hadn't followed the directions precisely? Disappointed and unsure how she'd break the bad news of the failure to Magda, K.C. went to her bedroom to change into her sweats.
No magic. And no more excuses to justify time away from her computer. Too bad about the ineffective herb. She really could have used the magic today.
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