Vows

I saw him first.

Our boat had just rounded the tip of the peninsula that divides the Nam Khan from the Mekong. The driver cut the noisy motor and let us drift with the current through the golden haze of late afternoon. Peace. Birdsong and the mother river lapping against our hull were the only sounds. The highland breeze danced cool and sweet in my nostrils. I took a deep breath and let my tension ripple out and away like the river before us.

Lush jungle vegetation climbed up the right bank, into the hills. The left bank, on the city side (but who would have imagined that we were in a city, the ancient capital of a potent empire?) was carpeted with the same tangled greenery, but less steep. All at once the slanting sun struck a gleam of gold ahead. As we drew closer, I saw a temple pier jutting into the water, a carved and gilded pavilion with traditional eaves sweeping toward the ground.

A Buddha image nestled in an alcove near the peak of the roof. The man stood on the platform below, as motionless as a statue himself, and yet there was a kind of movement in his stillness. He was one with the river and the forest, breathing in slow unison with them as he gazed at us.

Orange robes draped his lithe, slender body. The honey-colored skin of his naked shoulder glowed in the waning sun. His shaven head highlighted a broad forehead, fine cheekbones, and full lips. He looked young, no more than eighteen. Then our eyes locked and I saw wisdom in his, grace, perhaps humor, but definitely not innocence.

His beauty made me ache. Tears congealed into a knot in my throat. Then Danielle noticed him.

"I'd like to fuck him," she commented softly. I whipped around, embarrassed and concerned that the driver had heard, but he had his palms together, offering the ritual nop gesture of respect as we passed the pavilion.

"Dani! Really! You should be ashamed of yourself! I'm sure you know that it's strictly forbidden for a Buddhist monk to touch a woman."

"So? Vows were made to be broken. Besides," she said slyly, sneaking a hand into my lap, "you can't pretend that you don't want him as well."

I hadn't realized that I was half hard. I had thought that my appreciation of him was wholly aesthetic. Under Dani's skillful fingers, I swelled to a full erection in seconds. Grinning, she grasped the tab of my zipper and started to pull.

"Stop it!" I whispered urgently, grabbing for her invading hand. "Have a little respect!"

"Oh, but baby, I do respect you," she cooed. "I just want to make sure that you get what you want. Sometimes you're too shy to go after it yourself."

She'll never let me live it down. The fact that I'm attracted to men as well as women, but even more, the uncomfortable truth that I might never have realized it if she hadn't bullied me into my first homosexual encounter. Not that I regret it. I'll never forget that incandescent night with the audacious young punk she bought for me in Amsterdam.

There have been others since. Only when we're traveling, though. Travel brings out a strange recklessness in my wife, a hunger for extremes that I don't see when we are in New York. At home, Danielle is energetic and competent, affectionate and attentive, seemingly content with our life. It feels as though we are connected, in bed and out of it. When we're on the road, though (and our mutual love of travel was part of what brought us together), she becomes somehow sharper, prickly and less accessible. She seeks out risks. She sometimes reveals a cat-like streak of cheerful cruelty.

In Vientiane, for instance, she had insisted on tracking down rumors of still-flourishing opium dens somewhere in the city. Reluctantly, I had accompanied her, concerned for her safety. I had romantic images of dim chambers fragrant with incense, brocade-upholstered couches of carved ebony, an ancient crone with bound feet preparing and offering the pipes with a toothless grin. Instead, we found ourselves in a thatched hut on the river bank a few kilometers west of the city center, in the care of a strapping Lao youth with lurid tattoos on his chest and a Led Zeppelin tee shirt.

Watching Danielle's immobile form lying on the woven mat, her eyes wide and empty, I wondered for the hundredth time what drives her to such places. The sickly sweet odor of the drug tickled my nostrils. The proprietor tried once again to interest me in a pipe. I shook my head, but I couldn't help wondering whether the narcotic would have dulled my loneliness.

Dani was still stroking my penis surreptitiously as the boat pulled up to the public dock. "Why don't we go back to the hotel? We can - talk - about our new friend." She paid the boatman, and handed me my straw hat, which I used to hide my raging erection as we strolled the few blocks back to our guest house. I barely had time to close the door and slip out of my sandals before Dani was down on her knees in front of me, undoing my fly.

Here in the privacy of our room, I didn't object. I was painfully hard; it seemed as though the taut skin sheathing my organ would burst at the slightest touch. Danielle squeezed; I could scarcely bear it. She gazed up at me, mischief in her hazel eyes. "Pretend that it's him, sucking you," she murmured, and then she swallowed me whole.

Her mouth was a steaming tropical jungle, her muscular tongue a snake twining around me. I closed my eyes and allowed myself to sink into pure sensation.

After five years with me, she knew how I liked it: langourous strokes from base to tip alternating with energetic sucking that must have left her jaw sore, but which brought me to the edge again and again. I filled my mind with images of her: the ginger thatch of her pubis matching the fringe on her head; the slick folds hidden among those curls; her palm-sized breasts with their extravagant nipples; her lively, intelligent, sometimes mocking face. I imagined that she was stroking herself as she worked on me. That might well be true. I remembered her wild, almost inhuman expression when she came.

But as she brought me inexorably closer to orgasm, these images slipped away, though I tried to hold them. Instead, I saw a pair of ripe lips curved in a half-smile, brown eyes sparkling with gentle challenge, smooth curves of golden flesh that cried out to be kissed. I imagined bare feet, muscular buttocks, a slim cock rearing like a rod of ivory, hairless and pure. She was broadcasting these images to me, I knew it, but that didn't help me to resist. I moaned, guiltily and overwhelmingly aroused. I saw a cloud of saffron-hued fabric drifting down, covering twined limbs, white and honey-colored, and I spilled myself into Danielle's greedy mouth.

We were sitting on the hotel veranda around eleven the next morning, taking a late breakfast of café au lait and croissants, when we saw him again. He had draped the end of his robe across his chest and raised a parasol against the sun, but neither Dani nor I had any doubt that this was the same monk. The grace that I had sensed in his immobility was fully realized in his fluid walk. Each step was sure, balanced, controlled and yet free. I was reminded of the classical dancers we had seen in Thailand, whose bodies morph from one pose to another without seeming to move.

We were hidden in the cool shade of the porch. The starched white linen of our tablecloth might have drawn his eyes, but he did not turn in our direction. I noticed a circular item tucked under his arm.

I pointed it out to Dani. "His begging bowl. The monks leave their temples at dawn to collect food from the people. They only eat what is donated to them. Meanwhile, the people gain merit from their offerings to the Sangha. They hope that the accumulated merit will help liberate them from the cycles of rebirth."

Dani laughed. "You've done your research, haven't you?" She leaned closer to me, placing her hand on my thigh under the table. Her skin was feverishly hot. "How would you like to get up at dawn tomorrow and make some merit?" Her fingers inched upward, toying with the edge of my shorts.

"Danielle, you are truly incorrigible!" I said. Still, I understood what she had in mind. I burned with shame, but I knew that I wouldn't be able to resist her.

We spent the afternoon in the Dala Market, marveling at the intricate, vivid textiles and the tribal silver jewelry. The evening we spent in bed, Danielle teasing me until I was agonizingly close to climax, but never allowing me to finish. "Save it," she whispered to me as she squatted over my face and gave my eager tongue access to her sex. I hardly minded. Watching her orgasm was nearly as arousing as coming myself.

The next morning, in the wan six o'clock light, we waited uncertainly on the guest house steps. Dawn was misty, cool and silent. Even the birds were abed. The stucco buildings across Thanon Photisalat were shuttered. The dirt surface of the road was damp with dew.

I shivered in my cotton shirt and pants, more from nervousness than cold. I could hear my own heartbeat. With both hands, I clutched the circular tray of artfully-carved fresh fruit that we had bought in the market. We had to be crazy, didn't we? I glanced over at Danielle. She was absolutely motionless, save for her breathing. Her lips were parted and her eyes sparked with fierce excitement. I thought of a tiger, crouched and ready to pounce on its prey, and shivered again.

Fifteen, twenty minutes passed in this peculiar state. At last a sound reached me, the soft crunch of leather soles on gravel. I looked down the street to my right and saw a splash of orange coming toward us. Even at a distance of fifty meters, I recognized him by his grace.

Vague panic surged through me. At the same time, my cock stirred in my pants. What were we supposed to do? How could we avoid offending him? Despite the ache in my groin, I wanted more than anything to please him, to honor him and his vows.

Danielle whispered to me urgently. "It's him!" I nodded, finding nothing to reply. I could tell that for her, it was his supposed inviolability that was the turn-on. His purity and grace did not arouse her; rather, it was the prospect of sullying that purity. At some level, I found this horrible, and yet, I know that her perversity is part of what draws me to my Danielle.

I remained frozen, rooted to the spot as one is in dreams. I felt helpless, unable to escape whatever fate was approaching on sandal-shod feet. All at once there was motion across the way. A slatted wooded gate swung open silently, and a barefoot woman in a sarong stepped into the lane. The monk stopped in front of her. She sank to her knees and placed a blue ceramic bowl on the ground at his feet. Then she bowed her head, palms pressed together, fingers grazing her forehead, as the monk bent to pick up the bowl.

He murmured something to her, and she raised her eyes, a hint of a smile on her lips. For a brief, poignant moment, his hand hovered over her brow in an obvious gesture of blessing, before he turned and continued his progress toward us.

His eyes were straight ahead, though surely he knew we were there. He had almost passed us, when desperately, I stepped forward, crouched down, and placed the fruit on the dirt surface of the road. "Honored one," I croaked, barely able to get the words out. "Please accept this humble offering."

He turned to me, his smile like the dawning sun. "Thank you," he said softly, with only a trace of an accent. "It is rare that a guest considers the needs of our poor monks. May your reward be fitting to your generosity."

"Sir." It was Danielle's silkiest voice. I realized that she was at my side, on one knee in front the monk. "We are pleased to serve a holy one like you." She was laying it on so thick, I felt slightly disgusted. The monk, however, gave her a look of gentle welcome.

Encouraged, she continued. "We are surprised, though, that you speak English, and so well."

"When I was still a samnera, a novice, an American man came to our temple, seeking the Dhamma. He taught me many things." There was a faraway look in our monk's eyes. I wondered what he was remembering. "It was from him, from Sam, that I learned to speak your language. That was many years ago, though, not long after the war. These days, I do not get much opportunity to practice."

Could he mean the Vietnam war? I was astonished. Surely this youthful-looking man could not be in his forties?

He seemed to read my thoughts. "Living in the light of Dhamma keeps one young," he said simply. "I have spent most of my life trying to walk the true path."

He picked up our offering and slipped it into his alms bowl. I held my breath at the grace with which he endowed this ordinary act. "My name is Souvannaphone. I live at Wat Xieng Thong, near the river. Let me invite you to come visit us. I would be very pleased to show you the temple, and to talk to you further."

"We would be honored," murmured Danielle. "Would this afternoon be convenient? We are leaving Luang Prabang tomorrow."

"This afternoon would be ideal. I will look forward to seeing you then."

Souvannaphone raised his hand in benediction over our heads. I closed my eyes, flooded by diverse emotions. I could identify shame, relief, joy, and lust. I was painfully aware of my cock, throbbing inside my drawstring pants.

I don't know what was going through Dani's mind. When I dared to look again, the monk was already fifty meters further down Thanon Photisalat, receiving alms from an elderly woman who looked too frail to walk. Dani was watching his progress, her eyes glittering.

"This afternoon ..." she purred. "I suspect that it's going to be a long morning."

"I’m not going anywhere this afternoon." I was determined to follow my higher instincts for once. I was not going to let Dani drag me down.

"Oh, really? Should I go by myself, then?"

"Do what you want, but I’m not going to participate. This is a good man, a holy man. I don’t want to watch you ruin him by subverting his vows."

"Ruin? How dramatic! We’re only talking about sex, baby. Between consenting adults! It’s hardly a crime."

"For Souvannaphone it might be. What do you know of his beliefs, his commitments? He has been a monk for twenty years, maybe more. You might destroy the very foundations of his life."

She smiled to herself. "Well, if he hasn’t been laid in twenty years, he’s probably the horniest guy I’m ever likely to meet…"

I turned my back on her in disgust.

"Where are you going?"

"Back to bed. It’s ridiculously early."

"Wait, I’ll come with you." She caught up with me and grabbed my hand, accompanying me into the cool inner depths of the slumbering hotel. I knew that she had something other than sleep in mind. "Even if we don’t visit him," she murmured in my ear, "there’s no harm in fantasizing."

I tried to pretend that I wasn’t interested. I wanted to punish her for her selfish lust. Yet I couldn’t deny the aching hardness in my groin, or the exquisite sensitivity of my skin.

Dani was gentler than usual, seeming more open, more submissive. I hoped that I had convinced her to drop the notion of seducing the charismatic Souvannaphone. Yet as I poured my release into her welcoming pussy, I couldn’t shut out an image of the beautiful monk, unabashedly naked, an ambiguous smile on his ripe lips. I prayed earnestly that it was a sight I would never see in the real world.

We slept a while, the breeze from the ceiling fan drying the sweat on our bodies. Mid-morning brightness filtering through the gaps of the curtains finally woke us. I was ravenously hungry. We found an airy stall in the next lane and ordered big bowls of foe. Dani seemed very gay, slurping up her noodles while making arch comments about passers-by. I hoped against hope that she had given up on our assignation with Souvannaphone. Certainly we didn’t speak of it.

We changed some money, hauling the huge bundle of kip back to our hotel in a plastic bag, and then went out shopping for gifts: a carved teak figurine for my editor, richly embroidered tablecloth for my mother, hammered silver bangles for Dani’s best friend. We wandered through the bustling mid-day streets, examining the wares of the hawkers and dodging bicycles.

As it got later, my body hummed with anticipation, vibrating with the muted roar of some engine hidden in my gut. My cock remained semi-hard, even though Dani had drained me dry earlier. I tried to ignore all that and concentrate on the lively and exotic scenes around me.

Finally, around 2 PM, Dani turned to me. "Don’t you think we should go back to the hotel and get ready for our visit?" she asked sweetly.

"I told you, I don’t want to go." I wished fervently that I had an excuse that would save me from her scorn. "Anyway, I have a headache," I ventured, and sure enough even as I voiced this thought, the throbbing of my pulse in my temples turned to pain.

"Poor baby," she crooned. "Let’s go and get you some aspirin." She led the way back to the guesthouse. I followed, in both physical and mental misery.

I lay on the bed with a cool cloth over my eyes, breathing deeply, trying not to think. Dani was in the shower. I felt rather than heard her approach me. She closed a damp hand around my half-erect penis and began to stroke me slowly.

"It wouldn’t be polite to ignore his invitation, Michael," she said. "Anyway, if he’s as righteous as you seem to think, I’m sure that even with our best efforts, we won’t be able to seduce him."

"I don’t want to try," I replied irritably. But my cock told another story. With a sigh, I got up and went to stand in the shower, wishing that the cool water could cleanse me of my impure desire.

When I emerged from the bathroom, I donned a loose shirt of unbleached linen, and a fresh pair of drawstring trousers. That was all.

Dani grinned but said nothing. She put on a deceptively modest ankle-length dress she had bought in Thailand, a gorgeous batik in greens and golds that made her hair flame. I say "deceptively modest" because of the long row of buttons up the front. No underwear for her, either.

I was embarrassed by our lascivious scheming, yet I couldn't deny that I was excited. Never had I felt so conflicted. Resentment surged in me as I looked at Dani, so devious and so delectable. Why didn’t I have more spine, to stand up to her when she got like this? Why was I perenially unable to refuse her?

We strolled northeast toward the far end of the peninsula, where Wat Xieng Thong was situated. The jewel of Luang Prabang, according to our guidebook. We had visited several of the other famous temples in the city; I had been saving this one for last.

Dani took my hand as we made our way through the quiet streets, in the lengthening shadow of Phu Si hill. "Relax," she said. "Don't worry. I'll handle things. Just leave everything to me."

That was exactly what I was worried about.

The vegetation thickened around us as we left the city center behind. We passed rough wooden houses on stilts, chickens scrabbling in the shade underneath, laundry swaying in the gentle breeze. Occasionally, we heard the muted babble of a television or radio, but we saw no one. It felt as though the whole of the city-village was dozing in the afternoon. I took a deep breath, and then another, trying to release the awful tension that gripped me, but it was no use. I was consumed by desire and dread.

Finally we reached the arched gateway to Wat Xieng Thong. Souvannaphone's home. Gilded nagas, the serpent-dragons that sheltered the Buddha while he meditated, guarded the entry, their scales a riot of multi-colored mirrors. As we stepped over the sill and into the sacred compound, I felt something shift inside me. The choice was made, the effects would follow. Let karma do its worst.

At first, the place seemed deserted. Directly in front of us was the magnificent sim, or ordination chapel, with its five-layered, flame-tipped roof swept into dramatic earthward curves. Smaller but equally ornate buildings were scattered around it. Blue tile and gold leaf were everywhere.

An enormous, fantastically-twisted tree shaded the entire courtyard. At the same moment (I could tell from the way her hand tightened in mine), Dani and I noticed the figure seated, full lotus, on the turf at the foot of its main trunk.

It was, of course, Souvannaphone. His eyes were closed; his chest was bare. The golden, hairless flesh fascinated me. His nipples, more bronze than gold, drew my eyes and made my balls contract and ache.

It was his expression, though, that once again brought up my tears. It gave me a glimpse of total peace. Bliss. Perfect stillness and unearthly beauty. My craving to know his exquisite body faded and transformed into exquisite longing to know what he knew, to experience this state of completion.

And Dani? Had she abandoned her perverse plans for this man, this saint (for so he seemed to me at that moment)? I ventured a glance in her direction and saw that she too was transfixed by the vision of him. Her cheeks were flushed and her breathing was ragged. Her eyes were fever-bright. Her mind was closed to me.

A huge sigh shuddered through my chest. At that sound, or perhaps just from the sense of our presence, Souvannaphone opened his eyes. He smiled at us, a smile at once simple and wise.

"My friends!" he exclaimed, untangling his limbs and rising fluidly to meet us. "I am delighted that you came. I had begun to wonder if you were simply being polite this morning."

His English was truly amazingly good. It disarmed me. As he approached, I wondered about protocol. Should I bow or try a nop? Should I offer to shake hands? He seemed so informal, and in some sense, so Westernized.

He overrode all my concerns by grasping my hand in both of his. His skin was silk against mine, cool and luxurious. "But you never told me your names!"

"This is Danielle," I replied, amazed at how steady my voice was, given my inner trembling. "And I'm Michael."

The monk inclined his head in a little bow to Dani, but of course he made no move to touch her. A nasty little twinge of vengeful satisfaction swept through me as I noted his reticence. This was followed almost immediately by guilt. We were husband and wife, after all. We were supposed to desire each other's happiness. And to share.

"Welcome to Wat Xieng Thong, Danielle and Michael. Normally, the temple is a good deal busier, but at this time of day, most of the monks are in their rooms, meditating. That is just as well, though, as we won't disturb anyone. Come with me, and I'll give you a bit of a tour."

He glided off toward the sim on bare feet. We followed, dazed by his grace, overwhelmed by his enthusiasm.

The temple was, as promised by the travel writer, full of wonders. The solid gold Buddha images ranged in the cloister gleamed benevolently, but not so brightly as Souvannaphone's smile. The Tree of Life mosaic in the main sanctuary, fashioned of mirrors and precious stones, by all rights should have astounded me. But I was already stupefied by the incredible beauty of our human guide.

Finally, he showed us a scattered collection of stucco-walled, palm-thatched huts, shaded by a canopy of gnarled tree limbs and flowering vines. "These are the monks' quarters," he said. He led us to the furthest building and pulled aside the saffron and red cloth covering the door. "This is my room. Please, come in and be comfortable."

Making our way past him, we found ourselves in a simple cell, with white-washed walls and a cement floor. There were no windows, but fresh air and light entered through louvered vents under the eaves. The overall effect was a cool, delicious dimness.

A rough bamboo platform covered with a mat of woven reeds, a chair, and a three-legged table: these were the room's only furnishings. In the corner, near the roof, I noticed a teak shelf holding a bronze figure of the Buddha. Unlike most of such shrines I had seen in Laos, this one did not include flowers, incense or other offerings. Souvannaphone noted my interest. He shrugged, a Western gesture made peculiarly charming by his smooth, bare shoulders. "The Lord Buddha does not need food or drink or even prayer. All He asks is pure simplicity and honesty when we look within ourselves."

I winced inwardly, thinking of Dani's and my impure motives.

"Sit down, please. I will go and get some refreshment." Before we could protest, he was gone, leaving the door-cloth swaying in the breeze of his passage.

Dani and I sat down next to each other on what must have been the monk's bed. I looked at her, silently pleading for release from this sordid enterprise. She gazed back at me, almost defiant.

I shut my eyes and breathed deeply, willing my racing heart to slow. We must be close to the river; I could smell the sharp, rusty scent I had noticed during our boat ride, along with a hint of fishiness. The temple compound was so silent, I could hardly believe that it housed the three dozen souls that Souvannaphone claimed. A low humming hovered just above the threshold of my hearing. Chanting, perhaps.

My body hummed, too, taut and ready. Despite my shame, I was unquestionably, unrelentingly hard. As I shifted position on the stiff bamboo, my trousers grazed the head of my penis. I gritted my teeth, swallowing my moan of pleasure, but Dani saw, and smiled knowingly. She took my hand and gave it a squeeze that reverberated in my groin.

"Relax, baby," she whispered. "Everything is under control."

The door-cloth swayed, and Souvannaphone entered, carrying a teak tray which he set upon the table. It held three glasses of water, and a plate of coconut-milk sweets like those we had seen in the market.

"Please," said our host, seating himself on the chair opposite us. "Help yourselves."

"After you, honored Souvannaphone" said Dani, that mock humility back in her voice.

"Buddhist monks are not allowed to eat after midday," I told her, annoyed by what seemed to me to be her willful ignorance and insensitivity.

Souvannaphone laughed, a liquid sound that bubbled like champagne. "True, Michael, but the living obligations of hospitality override the dusty strictures of traditional discipline." He picked up a khanom and bit into it delicately. His pink tongue flicked out to lick bit of the coconut from his ripe lips. My cock surged at the sight of this simple and sensual gesture.

Dani took one of the little sweets and ate it in a single bite. "Delicious," she said. "Thank you."

"My pleasure," replied our host, and indeed he seemed to be enjoying himself. "After all, the Lord Buddha preached against extreme asceticism. He taught that ruthless self-denial was as empty a path as mindless self-indulgence. That is the essence of the Middle Way."

The room fell uncomfortably silent. My cheeks burned with shame. I feared that the beautiful man before us could read my lascivious thoughts. Clearly, he was modern and enlightened, rather than a rigid creature of tradition, but I felt certain that he would not sanction my immediate and overwhelming urge to strip the saffron robes away from his hips and devour his nakedness.

I could hear Dani's breathing, fast and shallow. I did not dare look at her. The monk gazed at us calmly, kindly, apparently not the least disturbed by our lack of conversation.

Finally he spoke again.

"The Lord Buddha told us that desire is the cause of suffering. If one can release the desire, one can know peace."

I couldn’t stand it anymore. "Excuse me," I blurted out, stumbling to my feet. I pushed my way past our host, my body brushing against his robes, and ran out the door in a kind of panic.

The stillness of the afternoon rose around me, thick as mist. The chanting was barely audible, rising and falling like the hum of a distant beehive.

I didn’t know where I was going. I just needed to get away from Souvannaphone’s luminous, compassionate gaze, and Dani’s lustful one. My feet found a path through the tangled jungle; a glint of sun on water told me I was approaching the river. Sure enough, in a moment I found myself at the peak-roofed pier where I had first caught sight of the monk.

I leaned against the railing, panting from my crazy flight. The waters of the Mekong slid serenely past, seeming to mock my inner turmoil. I remembered with a pang of mixed fear and jealousy that I had left Dani alone with the monk. Well, she was not my responsibility. I could only control myself and my own desires. I had acted rightly, removing myself from a situation so fraught with moral danger.

Yet now that I had escaped, I desperately wanted to be back in the welcome dimness of that hut. There was something that I needed, that I ached for, something far more significant than physical satisfaction. I closed my eyes against the brightness of the sun on the river, refracted through my tears.

There was a stirring in the vegetation behind me. I kept my eyes shut, holding my breath, wanting, not wanting, waiting for whatever would come next.

"Michael." It was him. I turned to face his beauty.

"Are you unwell?"

I wanted to embrace him, to kneel before him. I blushed deeply. "Uh - no, I just suddenly felt the need for some air."

"I understand," he said with a half-smile, and I believed him.

"Where is Dani - my wife?"

"She is still in my room. Waiting for you. Come, Michael." He took my hand and led back me along the shady trail. His skin was cool against my feverish flesh. I caught a hint of sandalwood in the air that moved around him.

Dani was half-reclining on the bamboo bed but sat up hastily as we entered. I could see that her dress was unbuttoned to the waist. Her pale skin shone through the gap.

The monk seemed not to notice. He handed me a glass of water and I drank it down, more thirsty than I had ever been. Souvannaphone looked from me to my wife and back.

"I was speaking of the desire and the nature of suffering. When you surrender all attachments and let the world wash over you like water, your suffering will fade to nothingness."

"Sometimes, however, it is not possible to simply will desire away. The more you try to let go of the desire, the more attached you become. Sometimes, you must satisfy the desire. Then, when you are sated, the desire evaporates like the morning dew, and you are free."

Souvannaphone stood up, with the conscious grace that marked all his movement. With a simple gesture, he untucked the fabric wrapped around his waist and let it fall to the ground. Through sudden tears, I had a confused impression of tawny skin, rounded limbs, a center of darkness, and a spear of ivory gleaming like the moon.

"Surrender, Michael," he murmured, and I let go, finally, of my resistance, kneeling at his bare feet to worship him.

He was smooth and hard as polished river stone. I bathed him with my tongue, reverent, grateful, sucking him deep into my throat, but always gently, always with respect. In response, he reared and bucked in my mouth, slamming his slim but relentless cock against my palette, asking me for the roughness that seethed inside me, but which I hadn't dared to release.

I gave him what he wanted. What I wanted. I sucked him, gnawed him, devoured him as I had dreamed. On and on, for hours, for eternity, his cock ramming me again and again, till my jaws ached, till I was dizzy and delirious with lust.

My own penis was a rod of granite, threatening constantly to spill over. In this endless sucking, I would sometimes feel a tremor run through him, and think, triumphant and joyful, yes, now he will bless me with his flood, and I will be saved. He did not come, though. I had the sense that he was totally in control of his reactions, even as his erection grew constantly fuller and stronger.

Finally, I raised my eyes to his, gasping, saliva dripping down my face. "Please," I begged him, holding his slicked hardness between my palms in an attitude of prayer. "I can't bear it, Souvannaphone. Please, please fuck me."

"No!" Dani growled from the bed behind me. "No, that's not fair! It was my idea! Fuck me, damn it, fuck me now!"

With deep guilt, I realized that I had totally forgotten her. She was sprawled on the bed, her dress hanging open, her knees pulled up, one hand pinching her nipple, the other probing frantically in her cunt.

Her usually creamy skin was mottled with arousal. Her hair was plastered in auburn ringlets on her sweat-beaded forehead. The curls around her sex were equally soaked. Now that I was paying attention, I noted that the small room was thick with her musk. When I looked at her, the anger in her eyes flickered out, leaving only desperate need. My lust for the holy man melted away, replaced by ravaging desire for her.

"Please," she whispered. "Souvannaphone. Someone. Fuck me."

In one stride, the monk was by her side. His hands hovered in the air over her bare flesh. I held my breath, suppressed my jealousy. She deserved him as much as I did. She needed him, too. Possibly more than I. I waited for the moment when he would caress her, knowing he would not be able to resist her wanton beauty.

That moment did not arrive, though. His hands shaped in the air the ritual gesture of benediction that we had seen that morning. His rigid cock waved, only inches from her mouth. Then he stepped away.

His eyes, ageless and pure, met mine. "Make love to your wife, Michael." I needed no second invitation. In an instant, I threw off my clothes and joined her on the bed.

I slipped into her like I was going home. Her lushness, her heat, her complex and familiar scent, welcomed me. There was no struggle, no challenge, no games, only a silent and sublime connection as we rose together toward ecstasy. I could feel her need, and I answered it, simply and completely, in a way that was new but somehow not surprising.

We forgot about Souvannaphone. We forgot about the world. There was Danielle and Michael, Michael and Danielle, and then finally, only One, nameless.

When we came back to ourselves, the hut was full of shadows. There was no sign of our host. "I'll bet he was watching the whole time," whispered Dani, tickling my ear with her tongue. "I'll bet that he really got his rocks off." I was about to chide her for profaning such a holy moment. Then she kissed me deeply, and I understood that she was not in the least bit serious.

We did not see him again. As we made our way through the quiet dusk, holding hands, the wat seemed deserted, a glittering relic abandoned by some long-disappeared empire. I could sense his spirit though, hovering, flowing through me as a new peace.

We flew out, headed back to Vientiane, the next morning. The propeller-driven, Soviet-era plane smelled of mold, and rattled ominously when the mountain updrafts seized it. It had gotten us to Luang Prabang safely, though. We just had to trust that it would survive the return trip.

The hills were emerald, stitched with the silver of cascading streams. We took off to the north, then circled the city once before climbing into the clouds. The twin rivers cradling the ancient capital of Lang Xang gleamed with reflected sunlight. Then I caught a brighter glint, obviously the spire gracing the roof of some temple. The image of Souvannaphone at the river's edge flashed again in my mind. Beauty simultaneously sacred and earthly. Wisdom of both the soul and the body.

Dani squeezed my hand. I turned to smile at my gorgeous, perverse, and blessed wife.

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