In the upper reaches of the mountain Satasringa, Vayu, the wind god, crashed recklessly through its rugged gorges.
His fervour for her was breathy.
He ran wanton air fingers all over her, taking her from a tempestuous wilderness of a million breezes and winds, gales and cyclones to the surprised stillness of a storm quietened.
She took in his ragged whisperings, his buoyant ardour, allowing him to breathe a new life into her.
Kunti, queen of Hastinapur, sought his intervention to carry forward the Kuru dynasty as her king husband was infertile.
She called Vayu’s son Bhima, the powerful one.
From: Friday Flash Fiction