“Beltane” By Erin O'Riordan
Originally Featured at The Erotic Woman. Featured in Main Street Magazine, October 2009
It was five-thirty on a Friday afternoon, and I was having trouble concentrating on the sales figures on my computer
screen. My eyes scanned the same page of the report three times before I decided that my brain just wasn’t getting
it, and gave up. I let my mind wander where it wanted to: namely, the gorgeous spring weather outside my office
window. The sun was high, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky, and according to the voice on the radio, it was warmer
today than it had been in weeks.
I was lost in a daydream, thinking about what the weather would be like when I got back to the farm, when Dolores
stuck her head in the door.
“Allegra, Megan wants to see you in her office,” she said. Just as quickly, my boss’s secretary disappeared.
My boss, Megan Danby, was having an early supper at her desk when I walked in. “Sit down,” she said, setting aside
the turkey and roast beef sub she must have ordered from the place on the corner. “Excuse my mess. I’d offer you
some, but I know you’re a vegetarian.”
“Thanks anyway,” I said, taking a seat across from Megan. Her phone rang, but she ignored it.
“Allegra, you’ve been working for me for about five years now, haven’t you?” she said.
I did the math in my head. “Yes,” I said. “Almost five.”
“And in all that time, have I ever had you over to my house for the weekend?”
I heard a rumble in my ears; I soon realized it was the rapid pounding of my heart. Megan Danby never had anyone
over to her house for the weekend! And now, here I was, about to get my big opportunity. Maybe she was getting
ready to pull me out of sales and move me up to the job I really wanted: marketing executive. My head was spinning
so fast, it took me a moment to realize that I should probably answer her.
“No,” I said. “I don’t believe I’ve ever had the pleasure.”
Megan waived her hand dismissively. “I don’t know about pleasure,” she said. “It’s just that I’m going away to Amish
country for the weekend, and I need somebody to walk my Pekinese.”
My hopes crashed with a sickening thud. I exhaled loudly, hoping that Megan wouldn’t register the look of
disappointment on my face. In her typical self-centered fashion, she didn’t.
“Her name is Avery,” she said, sneaking a bite of sandwich. “She’s ten months old, and she’s so cute. I hate asking
for such a personal favor, Allegra, but I don’t want to leave Avery with just anybody. She’s like my child.”
Megan droned on and on about how cute her puppy was, but I wasn’t listening. I was remembering that I had plans
for the weekend, plans that were far more important than some Pekinese bitch. In fact, my plans were more important
than any promotion. This was a spiritual matter.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, interrupting her just as she was about to tell me where Avery liked to piddle. “I won’t be able to
make it this weekend. It’s a religious holiday.”
“Oh,” she said, sounding a little offended. Megan, like everyone else in my office, was aware that when I’m not
working as a sales consultant, I’m a practicing pagan priestess. Like most of my co-workers, Megan was curious
about my unusual religious calling. “Interesting. May I ask which holiday it is?”
“Beltane,” I said. “It occurs in the middle of each May. It’s the first of three important harvest festivals on the pagan
calendar.”
“Really?” she said. She seemed to have forgotten that my plans interfered with her plans for me, and sounded
genuinely interested. “And how do you celebrate Beltane?”
“I have some friends who live on a farm,” I said. “We get together, set up a maypole and dance around it, light a
bonfire, and eat a big feast. We thank the Goddess for the crops so that she’ll continue to make the farmland fertile.”
“Really?” she repeated. “I’ve never heard of it.”
“Well,” I shrugged, “not everybody’s familiar with pagan culture.”
She nodded, then took another big bite of that sandwich. “You’ll have to come out to the house some other time,
then,” Megan said. “On your way out, could you send Dolores in?”
I woke up early Saturday and prepared for the three-hour drive from Indianapolis to the gently rolling hills of Michigan
farm country. After a simple breakfast of bread, fruit and tea, I got in the car and headed north.
I had been on the road for about an hour when my cell phone rang. There happened to be a rest stop nearby, so I
pulled into the parking lot and answered the phone. “Hello?”
“Allegra? This is Auntie Kameko.”
I smiled. Kameko Kitatani wasn’t really my aunt. She was the last in a series of foster moms who raised me. She
owned the farm, the place where I’d spent my teenage years. “Wow, it’s good to hear from you, Kameko.”
“You, too,” she said. “How long will it be until you get here?”
“Another two hours or so,” I said.
“Don’t rush, but do get here as soon as you can,” she said. “I have a surprise for you!”
I said goodbye shortly after that, and got back to driving. As I drove past the flat cornfields of Indiana, I thought about
what kind of surprise Auntie Kameko could have in store for me. I had an idea that she might have invited my twin
sister, Zenobia. Zenobia lives in Milwaukee, and I hadn’t seen her in almost a year. Unlike Kameko and me, Zen isn’t
a priestess. She does, however, earn a living as a witch.
“Witch” isn’t a word I like to call myself, but Zen has no problem with it. In fact, she relies on her “spooky” reputation
to sell herself as a fortune teller, tarot card reader and potion maker. Now, I’m not saying that she’s a fraud or
anything. Zen has some real Goddess-given talent. But her way of life has never been my kind of thing. I’m more
business school than wizard school. The physical distance between us, and our different lives, keep Zen and I apart a
lot of the time.
It was probably Auntie Kameko and life on the farm that kept our lives from falling totally apart when we were teens.
Kameko also introduced us both to the old religion, the way of the Goddess. It’s just about the only thing my sister
and I have in common these days.
The farm was located a few miles from Lake Michigan, not far from the tourist destination of New Buffalo. It was
nestled in between a vast cherry orchard and a vineyard in a county known for its fruit and its wine. As I came up the
farm’s long driveway, I rolled down the window to breathe in the fresh scent of the lake air.
I saw Kameko on the front porch as I got near the farm house. She looked good for a seventy-two-year-old whose life
on the farm kept her very busy. I parked in front of the barn and ran to the porch to greet her. We squeezed each
other in a tight hug. I kissed her cheeks, and we said how happy we were to be back together.
“I haven’t seen you since Brigit’s Day,” I said. “Way back in the dead of winter.”
“I remember,” Kameko said. “And I hope you remembered that I said I had a surprise for you.”
On cue, the farm house’s front door swung open. Onto the porch came my sister Zenobia.
I threw my arms enthusiastically around my sister. We’re identical twins, but it was easy to tell us apart, since Zen had
bleached her hair white-blonde. (I like our natural color, a deep chocolate brown.) It made her blue eyes stand out
almost eerily.
“Allegra,” she said, “I missed you so much.”
“What are you doing here?” I asked her.
“I came to celebrate Beltane, just like you,” she said. “Auntie Kameko called me, and I thought I should come. I feel
called here by the Goddess.”
She sounded sincere, but I was usually skeptical of my sister’s motives. I love Zenobia to death, but I learned early in
life that I can’t always trust her. She can be flaky and unreliable at best, and self-centered at her worst. I’ve never
been convinced that her relationship with the Goddess is as sincere and devout as she’d like to have me think. But I
always hope I’m wrong.
Then Zenobia added, “Orlando is here, too.” She looked over her shoulder at the house.
I looked, too, as if I expected to see him standing there. Orlando Parisi used to be Zenobia’s boyfriend. Well, sort of.
He first came to here in her professional capacity, as a fortune teller. Orlando suspected that his wife, Catherine, had
cheated on him years ago and that Catherine’s son Armin might not be Orlando’s. Zen didn’t give Orlando a direct
answer, but she did begin an affair with him. When Catherine found out about Zen, she got mad at Orlando and
screamed at him that he wasn’t Armin’s father anyway. And a DNA test confirmed it. So I suppose you could say that
Zenobia’s services helped, in a way. Her relationship with Orlando didn’t survive his divorce, but they were,
incredibly, still good friends.
“Let’s go inside,” Kameko said. “It’s getting hot, and I made some iced tea. Let’s have some, quickly. There’s much
work to be done before evening.”
I followed Kameko and my sister into the house. Stretched out on Kameko’s white living room sofa was Orlando. He’d
turned on the small, black-and-white TV that sat, covered in dust, in one corner of the sunny, spacious room and was
watching the highlights of yesterday’s baseball games on the sports channels. When he saw us, Orlando stood. He
was so tall, I thought for a moment that his head would touch the ceiling.
“Allegra,” Orlando said, reaching out to shake my hand. “It’s been a long time.”
I nodded. I’d met Orlando once before, three years ago, just after he and Catherine had separated. He’d taken me
and Zen to a fancy restaurant in Chicago. I wasn’t sure I liked him then, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to be friends with
him now. He was thirty-seven, twelve years older than Zen and me. It broke my sister’s heart when their romantic
relationship ended. I wasn’t sure it was good for her to hang out with him like this.
I shook Orlando’s hand, just to be polite. As our hands touched, I felt a little spark. I could see why Zen liked him; he
was cute. He had beautiful amber eyes, and I liked the way his dark hair had started to turn silver, just around the
temples.
“Iced tea?” Kameko said insistently, ushering the three of us into the kitchen. I saw that she’d been preparing lunch
as well, and my mouth began to water. Kameko was making one of her specialities, hand-rolled maki. The nori and
rice were still laid out on a bamboo mat beside bowls of julienne vegetables. But the real treats were off to the side:
Kameko’s homemade wasabi and the ginger that she’d candied and preserved herself.
“Are we having sushi for lunch?” Orlando asked thickly, pulling a kitchen chair up to the butcher-block table where
Kameko had been working.
“We’re having maki,” Kameko said. There was a kind edge to her voice. Auntie Kameko was a very patient woman.
“Please sit over there with the ladies, Orlando.”
I had just taken a seat at the kitchen table. Orlando scooted his chair back to the table and sat on the other side of
Zen. Kameko brought out four glasses and poured iced tea for everyone.
“So,” I asked as Kameko settled at the head of the table, “what needs to be done?”
“I’ve already done most of the cooking,” Kameko said. “Zenobia and Orlando can set up the bonfire; you help me
with what’s left of the cooking, and keeping an eye on the meat.”
“Meat?” Orlando said. “I thought you were all vegetarians.”
“Everyone eats meat on Beltane,” Zenobia said. “It’s an ancient tradition.”
Kameko went to finish making lunch. I jumped up to help her.
But Orlando was full of questions. I wondered what he and Zen had talked about on the way down here from
Milwaukee. “Do a lot of people come to this?” he said.
“Oh, yeah,” I answered. “About two hundred. They’re mostly local pagans, but Auntie Kameko’s been hosting the
Beltane feast since the late ‘70s, so word has gotten around. A few people come from different parts of the country.”
“We had some Druids here last year,” Kameko reminded me. “They came all the way from England. Brought us
some sacred mistletoe and everything.”
“Hmm,” Orlando said. “I didn’t even know that Druids were allowed to leave Stonehenge.”
“You laugh,” Zen said, “but these are deep spiritual matters.”
“Actually,” Kameko said, “pagans laugh all the time in our rituals. We don’t tend to take ourselves as seriously as
some of the other religions do.”
Her eyes focused on the little golden cross that Orlando wore on a chain around his neck. The stainless steel
wedding ring that Orlando still wore also had a small cross on it, in tiny red stones. Despite his reliance on Zenobia’s
fortune-telling abilities, Orlando Parisi was nominally Catholic.
“When do all these people get here?” Orlando asked.
“Not until dark,” I said.
We ate lunch, and then got to work. As Kameko showed Zenobia and Orlando how she wanted the wood stacked for
the bonfire, I went out behind the barn and admired Kameko’s fire pit. The roasting venison smelled delicious, even
though the smell of meat usually makes me more sick than hungry.
Then I saw the maypole. Kameko must have had some help from the neighbors with it, because it was a huge
wooden thing, sunk deep in the ground. It reminded me of the other Beltanes I’d celebrated at the farm, dancing
around the pole when I was still an innocent teenager.
I was in college before Auntie Kameko explained the maypole’s significance as a phallic symbol. The maypole
represents the Horned One, the god who loves the Great Goddess. In some ancient stories, he is called Cernunnos.
In art, he wears a crown of antlers, like those of the deer on the spit. The pink and red ribbons we weave around the
maypole represent Her.
Later, Kameko took me into the farm house. Other people had started to arrive; Kameko put them to work setting up
benches and tables, and filling huge bowls with salad and fresh fruits. I wanted to help, but Kameko told me to go
upstairs.
“Why?” I asked her.
She took me up to the guest bedroom. There, laid out on the bed, was a beautiful green dress. Lying on top of it
was a headdress, a sort of wooden crown that had been decorated with fresh oak leaves. I recognized it
immediately. Every year, a woman was chosen to be “queen” of the Beltane festival. There was a “king,” too (usually
her boyfriend or husband). It was a great honor to be chosen. Pagans said that the queen and king were chosen by
the Goddess herself. They would be sent out into the wheat field to procure a special fertility blessing for the farm by
making love.
“Allegra,” Kameko said, “it’s your turn to be queen.”
“There must be some mistake,” I said. “You must mean Zenobia. She should be queen, and Orlando should be king,
right?” Because the alternative was me, alone in the field with some stranger, and expected to perform the fertility rite
with him. The thought was a little exciting, I’ll admit. But scary, too. It could be life-changing. Women got pregnant
out in that field; Kameko herself had, giving birth to twin daughters who were grown by the time Zen and I came
along. Beltane babies are considered gifts from the Goddess, signs that a priestess has been specially blessed. “I
can’t,” I said.
“You don’t have to,” Kameko said. “But most women wait years and years to be honored with this crown. It’s not
something to be passed up lightly.”
I knew she was right.
When night fell, the farm was packed with people, mostly dressed in shorts, t-shirts and sandals on the warm spring
night. Most of them were pagans and Wiccans. Others were spiritual tourists, curious to see what all the fuss was
about. The atmosphere was one of fun, almost like a carnival. The bonfire was lit, and groups held hands, dancing
and singing around it. Others sat at Kameko’s long tables and helped themselves to the venison, salad and fruit, laid
out buffet-style. Kameko’s wine, a local spiced variety, was flowing freely. Almost everyone here was over eighteen.
Which was good, because by the end of the night, many of us would be running around naked.
As a priestess, I normally don’t drink alcohol. Beltane was the exception to that rule, too. Kameko gave me a nice
glass goblet and filled it to the lip with a dark, strong-smelling wine. I took a sip.
“Drink,” she said. To prove that it was safe, she lifted the glass to her own lips and emptied half of it. “I promise it
won’t hurt you.”
I watched Kameko go around, pouring the same wine for herself, for the strangers who were our guests tonight, and
for Zenobia and Orlando. All of them were drinking it, and none of them seemed to have any ill effects from it.
I watched Zenobia and the other young women dancing around the maypole, acting out that ancient dance between
male and female. As they wrapped their ribbon around the pole, gracefully intertwining, Zenobia moved her hips
suggestively. She was aware of the symbolism, as I was. I imagined the beautiful Great Goddess drawing near to her
lover, the Horned One. The woven red and pink ribbons covered the top of the pole; the Goddess let the Horned
One inside her, just a bit, just to tease the head of his cock with the lips of her pussy. Zenobia and the other women
twisted and spun. Ribbon covered more and more of the maypole; the Goddess drove the Horned One deeper inside
her. He reeled from the touch of the smooth walls of the Great Mother’s pussy. I imagined the beautiful Goddess
sighing with pleasure, hips held still, content just to feel the solid length of him inside her. The dance concluded.
Ribbons covered the pole; the Horned One was inside the Goddess up to the hilt now. Now their union was complete
and their mating could begin.
I looked at Orlando as he watched Zenobia. He knew, without knowing. I could see the bulge of his ready cock
straining against his blue slacks. I wondered again if there wasn’t some mistake; surely the Goddess meant for them
to make love tonight.
Without realizing it, I’d emptied my glass. Kameko appeared to refill it for me. “You’re trying to get me drunk,” I said,
half-facetiously.
Kameko laughed. “No, I’m not,” she said. “As queen, you’re the living embodiment of the Goddess. The Goddess
doesn’t get drunk.”
I had another glass of wine, and then another. The more I drank, the more I felt like a queen. It was wonderful to be
there, to eat the meat and drink the wine, to watch the people dancing and breath the night air. I even cherished the
lovely sensations that the maypole dance had caused in me, the wetness of my cunt it had provoked.
A moment later, Zenobia was at my side, whispering in my ear. I looked over at her empty place at the table; Orlando
was gone. “Allegra,” she said, “whatever happens tonight, just let it happen. Remember my words. Let it happen. It’
s all right.”
Before I could say anything more to my sister, I felt hands on my shoulders, lifting me up out of my chair. I saw Auntie
Kameko in the group of pink-robed women that had a hold of me; I didn’t know the names of the others. They helped
me up onto the table and climbed on the table with me. Zenobia and Orlando had both disappeared now.
“What’s going on?” I asked as Kameko lifted my green gown over my head. Maybe it was the wine, but I wasn’t at all
embarrassed that they were stripping me in front of a crowd of strangers. The women helped me out of my bra, my
sandals, and my panties. I was naked, but I didn’t care.
I laughed loudly. I looked around for my king, but I didn’t see a naked man anywhere. In fact, without me realizing it,
the group had separated according to sex. The people around me now were all women, perhaps a hundred of them.
Kameko brought a silver bowl, and even in the low light of the moon and the bonfire, I could see that it was filled with
dark blood. It was the blood of an animal, probably the same deer we’d all eaten. When the women touched the
blood to my skin, it felt cold and smelled slightly musty. They were painting me with the blood, painting stripes on my
face. They drew spirals of cold blood around my breasts, making my nipples harden, and painted sacred design on
my belly and thighs. When the women were finished, they helped me off the table.
“Behold,” Kameko roared, theatrically. “The queen of the Beltane feast!” The women cheered and applauded loudly.
As she spoke, I was suddenly aware of the sound of drums. Wherever a group of pagans gathered, there were
usually drummers among them. But I hadn’t heard the music before this moment. I was suddenly unsteady on my
feet. I’d eaten too much meat and drunk too much wine. Kameko and Zenobia took my arms and spun me around,
so that I was facing the wheat field out beyond the bonfire. The heat from the fire made the sweat drip off my body.
“Now go,” Zen said in my ear.
“Where?” I said. “What about the king?”
Kameko was at my other ear. “As queen, you represent the Goddess now,” she said. “Let her footsteps guide you.
Into the field. You’ll meet the Horned One there.”
Thrilled, excited and scared, I took off into the field, traveling far out into the plants. There were other people hidden
among the wheat stalks, locked in acts of passion. I could hear them all around me, just as I had in the past. The
sounds of passion were always part of the ritual. This time, I knew that I would soon be joining them, although my
partner was still a mystery. My heart beat fast, faster than the rhythm of the now-distant drummers.
He found me before I found him. I felt his hand, reaching out for mine. I looked up, and in the dim light from the
moon, I saw the crown of antlers
“My queen,” the Horned One whispered. His arm wrapped around me. I let my body fall against his, let him hold me
up. He was hard, strong. Naked except for his crown. When he touched me, I felt a sense of peace. I couldn’t think
of him as a mortal man, a stranger. He was Cernunnos to me. The god. My consort.
“My king,” I said, closing my eyes.
He kissed me, gently, not daring to part his lips. I took his chaste kisses and turned them into something wilder.
Bodies pressed together, smelling of sweat and farm soil and the exotic perfume of deer’s blood, we joined in the
rhythm of the natural world around us, kissing fiercely.
I let my hands go where they wanted to, traveling all over his body. He had big, beautiful shoulders, a strong back,
and a firm ass. I scraped my nails across his back as his fingers played across my breasts, teased my nipples, and
found my clit.
I let him pull me to the ground and press me into the sweet-smelling earth among the stalks of wheat. I thought about
what Zenobia told me: let it happen. I wasn’t just letting this happen, though. I wanted this, wanted it more than
anything else I’d ever known. It meant everything to me to feel the pulse of life in the earth, in myself and in the
Horned One, to be part of it. I wanted to pull him closer until there was no more space left between us. He seemed to
read my thoughts, pressing in on top of me.
“This is magic, isn’t it?” I whispered.
“Yes,” he said, bringing his mouth to my ear.
He kissed me again, his tongue slipping past my lips now. He hadn’t shaved, and his rough chin scratched my skin
slightly.
As we kissed, I remembered that the Horned One was a fertility god. The fact that I hadn’t been using any birth
control since I broke up with my last boyfriend didn’t alarm me. It excited me. It felt wonderful to be a full part of the
circle of life, giving myself over fully to the Horned One as he gave himself to me. I didn’t want to get pregnant; it was
just that I didn’t want him to hold anything back from me. For the first time in my life, I wanted a man’s semen inside of
me. It wasn’t just something inconvenient I had to deal with. I knew that whatever happened afterward was meant to
happen.
He ran a hand down my side, then slid it underneath me, lifting my butt off the ground slightly, holding my hips at an
angle. Ordinarily I prefer to be on top, but this arrangement seemed to come naturally.
Although I was far from being a virgin, and was definitely wet with anticipation, there was a little bit of pain when he
entered me. He had a nice big cock, but then again, I wouldn’t expect anything less from the Goddess’s consort. The
pain was brief, though. Soon we were moving together, our bodies sliding against each other in a quick rhythm.
My face was pressed into his chest, and I couldn’t see anything. Not that I cared. The farm seemed like a distance
dream as I focused all my attention on the big cock pounding away insistently at my wet cunt. I heard myself making
an unearthly noise, almost a howl of pleasure. My lover’s deep voice seemed to answer mine as he moaned in time to
the rhythm he was creating. Our noises joined the others’ in the wheat field.
We were one body, with no separation between us. And he was insatiable. I was entranced by the way he made me
feel, feverish pleasure and just a little bit of pain; love, excitement and just a little fear with each powerful thrust. I dug
my fingernails into his back, too stunned to even let myself come.
After thirty, maybe forty minutes of the most intense pounding I’d ever taken, I finally felt my toes curl and my cunt
contract. I bucked ferociously underneath him. I felt the rapid beating of his heart as he pushed himself into me
harder. I felt his cock spasm inside me, felt the release of his semen. It was beautiful. We lay together for a moment
before we separated. Then I needed to breathe.
As we lay, back to back, I was happy. But my feelings ran deeper than mere contentment. I had done my duty as a
priestess and participated in something sacred. It was the most beautiful, solemn feeling I had ever known.
“Are you okay?” he asked in a whisper. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
“You’re so sweet,” I said, closing my eyes. “No. It was my pleasure.”
“Mine, too,” he said. Even his voice sounded beautiful and mystical. This truly was magic. We’d become the
Goddess and her consort.
I fell asleep just a moment after I laid my head on his warm, sweaty, deer-blood-smeared chest. He was asleep just
as quickly.
When the dawn came, the air was a bit cold. I found that my lover and I had huddled together for warmth. My consort’
s arm, streaked with animal blood, was draped over me. As I stirred, he awoke. His hand found my breasts.
My pussy was a little sore, and definitely dirty, from the night before. We both smelled like an appalling mix of blood,
sweat, dirt and sex. But I was ready for more.
We weren’t completely alone. I heard other people waking up in the field. Some of them were greeting the morning
the way they’d celebrated the night before. I heard their moans of pleasure, their whispered words. And it seemed
that my new friend was hoping to be among them. I felt his cock stiffening against the back of my thigh.
He kissed me. He started between my shoulder blades and worked his way up the back of my neck. It felt good, so I
didn’t stop him. I took his hand in mine, holding it against my belly. Then I felt it, something cold and hard against my
skin. Something metal.
A wedding ring.
I looked. It was a stainless steel ring, with a small cross made out of red stones.
“Orlando,” I said.
His answer was a contented moan, as he continued kissing the back of my neck, biting me lightly.
“Orlando, I’m not Zenobia,” I said firmly. “Look, it’s me, Allegra.”
He stopped. “I know, Allegra,” he said. “I always knew. Didn’t you know it was me?”
I sat up and turned to face him. “It wasn’t you,” I said. “In the moment, I was so caught up in the sacred ritual, you
were a god to me.” And I really meant it.
He smiled. Orlando’s smile was charming, framed by those amber eyes and that pretty brown-and-silver hair. “And
you were the Goddess to me,” he said. “Zenobia told me it would happen like that. I didn’t believe her until I got out
here in the field. But this was real. It was really . . .”
“Sacred,” I said, completing his thought.
The hand with the wedding ring on it rested on my hip. He touched me gently, playfully. “So what do we do now?”
I thought about Zenobia’s words: Let it happen. “Our sacred duty as queen and king,” I said. He closed his eyes as I
leaned in and kissed him hard. He lay back, pressing himself into the soft black earth.
I got on top of Orlando, letting the head of his cock find the lips of my pussy. I let him inside me, just a little bit, just to
tease him.
“What are you doing?” he said.
That was my cue to drive him deeper inside me. I was still slick from the night before,a nd he slid inside me easily. I
held my hips still, content just to feel the solid length of him inside me and to watch his face. I could see that he was
turned on. But he was almost in pain from wanting to feel the friction of me moving on top of him. When he couldn’t
stand the tension any longer, Orlando began to buck underneath me.
I took the last inch of his cock inside of me, burying it up to the hilt. Now our union was complete, and I could give
Orlando what he’d been wanting so desperately. I moved my hips in long, slow strokes, feeling the head of his cock
rub up against my cervix. His beautiful amber eyes were filled with tears.
I closed my eyes and listened. I heard the pleasured sighs of the other men and women in the fields. Orlando’s
hands found my breasts. His thumbs rubbed against my nipples in a steady rhythm. The pressure sent a shiver
through my cunt. My first orgasm was short, but intense.
I knew then that Orlando wasn’t going to last as long as he had the night before. I sped up my strokes. The short,
quick strokes didn’t seem to get Orlando as excited as the long, slow strokes, so I figured I was buying myself some
time. It didn’t take long for my body to tense up again. My release came quickly, an orgasm longer and even more
intense than the first.
My pussy was still rippling with the aftershocks when Orlando began bucking underneath me, ferociously this time. I
stopped thrusting and let him do the work. He liked that; I watched the satisfaction on his face. He pumped me hard
for a moment, then climaxed with a loud cry.
I eased my body off of him slowly. Then, just to give him one last thrill, I lowered my head and licked our juices off
the head of his cock.
When we got back to the farm house, naked and filthy, Auntie Kameko was serving some guests breakfast. She sent
me back upstairs to shower in the guest bedroom. Luckily my clothes were still up there. Orlando had to shower in
the master bath, and his clothes were nowhere to be found. He had to wear an old pair of boxer shorts that Kameko
sometimes slept in.
I got out of the shower to find Zenobia sitting on the bed. “I slept with Orlando,” I said.
“No, you didn’t,” she said. “You were the Goddess, and he was the Horned One. That’s the way it’s been all through
time, and always will be.”
“You’re not upset?”
“I brought him here for a reason,” she said.
“How was your pagan holiday?” Dolores asked me as I sat down at my desk Monday morning.
“Great,” I said. “How was Megan’s Pekinese?”
She frowned. “Next time I’m coming with you.”
Originally Featured at The Erotic Woman. Featured in Main Street Magazine, October 2009
It was five-thirty on a Friday afternoon, and I was having trouble concentrating on the sales figures on my computer
screen. My eyes scanned the same page of the report three times before I decided that my brain just wasn’t getting
it, and gave up. I let my mind wander where it wanted to: namely, the gorgeous spring weather outside my office
window. The sun was high, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky, and according to the voice on the radio, it was warmer
today than it had been in weeks.
I was lost in a daydream, thinking about what the weather would be like when I got back to the farm, when Dolores
stuck her head in the door.
“Allegra, Megan wants to see you in her office,” she said. Just as quickly, my boss’s secretary disappeared.
My boss, Megan Danby, was having an early supper at her desk when I walked in. “Sit down,” she said, setting aside
the turkey and roast beef sub she must have ordered from the place on the corner. “Excuse my mess. I’d offer you
some, but I know you’re a vegetarian.”
“Thanks anyway,” I said, taking a seat across from Megan. Her phone rang, but she ignored it.
“Allegra, you’ve been working for me for about five years now, haven’t you?” she said.
I did the math in my head. “Yes,” I said. “Almost five.”
“And in all that time, have I ever had you over to my house for the weekend?”
I heard a rumble in my ears; I soon realized it was the rapid pounding of my heart. Megan Danby never had anyone
over to her house for the weekend! And now, here I was, about to get my big opportunity. Maybe she was getting
ready to pull me out of sales and move me up to the job I really wanted: marketing executive. My head was spinning
so fast, it took me a moment to realize that I should probably answer her.
“No,” I said. “I don’t believe I’ve ever had the pleasure.”
Megan waived her hand dismissively. “I don’t know about pleasure,” she said. “It’s just that I’m going away to Amish
country for the weekend, and I need somebody to walk my Pekinese.”
My hopes crashed with a sickening thud. I exhaled loudly, hoping that Megan wouldn’t register the look of
disappointment on my face. In her typical self-centered fashion, she didn’t.
“Her name is Avery,” she said, sneaking a bite of sandwich. “She’s ten months old, and she’s so cute. I hate asking
for such a personal favor, Allegra, but I don’t want to leave Avery with just anybody. She’s like my child.”
Megan droned on and on about how cute her puppy was, but I wasn’t listening. I was remembering that I had plans
for the weekend, plans that were far more important than some Pekinese bitch. In fact, my plans were more important
than any promotion. This was a spiritual matter.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, interrupting her just as she was about to tell me where Avery liked to piddle. “I won’t be able to
make it this weekend. It’s a religious holiday.”
“Oh,” she said, sounding a little offended. Megan, like everyone else in my office, was aware that when I’m not
working as a sales consultant, I’m a practicing pagan priestess. Like most of my co-workers, Megan was curious
about my unusual religious calling. “Interesting. May I ask which holiday it is?”
“Beltane,” I said. “It occurs in the middle of each May. It’s the first of three important harvest festivals on the pagan
calendar.”
“Really?” she said. She seemed to have forgotten that my plans interfered with her plans for me, and sounded
genuinely interested. “And how do you celebrate Beltane?”
“I have some friends who live on a farm,” I said. “We get together, set up a maypole and dance around it, light a
bonfire, and eat a big feast. We thank the Goddess for the crops so that she’ll continue to make the farmland fertile.”
“Really?” she repeated. “I’ve never heard of it.”
“Well,” I shrugged, “not everybody’s familiar with pagan culture.”
She nodded, then took another big bite of that sandwich. “You’ll have to come out to the house some other time,
then,” Megan said. “On your way out, could you send Dolores in?”
I woke up early Saturday and prepared for the three-hour drive from Indianapolis to the gently rolling hills of Michigan
farm country. After a simple breakfast of bread, fruit and tea, I got in the car and headed north.
I had been on the road for about an hour when my cell phone rang. There happened to be a rest stop nearby, so I
pulled into the parking lot and answered the phone. “Hello?”
“Allegra? This is Auntie Kameko.”
I smiled. Kameko Kitatani wasn’t really my aunt. She was the last in a series of foster moms who raised me. She
owned the farm, the place where I’d spent my teenage years. “Wow, it’s good to hear from you, Kameko.”
“You, too,” she said. “How long will it be until you get here?”
“Another two hours or so,” I said.
“Don’t rush, but do get here as soon as you can,” she said. “I have a surprise for you!”
I said goodbye shortly after that, and got back to driving. As I drove past the flat cornfields of Indiana, I thought about
what kind of surprise Auntie Kameko could have in store for me. I had an idea that she might have invited my twin
sister, Zenobia. Zenobia lives in Milwaukee, and I hadn’t seen her in almost a year. Unlike Kameko and me, Zen isn’t
a priestess. She does, however, earn a living as a witch.
“Witch” isn’t a word I like to call myself, but Zen has no problem with it. In fact, she relies on her “spooky” reputation
to sell herself as a fortune teller, tarot card reader and potion maker. Now, I’m not saying that she’s a fraud or
anything. Zen has some real Goddess-given talent. But her way of life has never been my kind of thing. I’m more
business school than wizard school. The physical distance between us, and our different lives, keep Zen and I apart a
lot of the time.
It was probably Auntie Kameko and life on the farm that kept our lives from falling totally apart when we were teens.
Kameko also introduced us both to the old religion, the way of the Goddess. It’s just about the only thing my sister
and I have in common these days.
The farm was located a few miles from Lake Michigan, not far from the tourist destination of New Buffalo. It was
nestled in between a vast cherry orchard and a vineyard in a county known for its fruit and its wine. As I came up the
farm’s long driveway, I rolled down the window to breathe in the fresh scent of the lake air.
I saw Kameko on the front porch as I got near the farm house. She looked good for a seventy-two-year-old whose life
on the farm kept her very busy. I parked in front of the barn and ran to the porch to greet her. We squeezed each
other in a tight hug. I kissed her cheeks, and we said how happy we were to be back together.
“I haven’t seen you since Brigit’s Day,” I said. “Way back in the dead of winter.”
“I remember,” Kameko said. “And I hope you remembered that I said I had a surprise for you.”
On cue, the farm house’s front door swung open. Onto the porch came my sister Zenobia.
I threw my arms enthusiastically around my sister. We’re identical twins, but it was easy to tell us apart, since Zen had
bleached her hair white-blonde. (I like our natural color, a deep chocolate brown.) It made her blue eyes stand out
almost eerily.
“Allegra,” she said, “I missed you so much.”
“What are you doing here?” I asked her.
“I came to celebrate Beltane, just like you,” she said. “Auntie Kameko called me, and I thought I should come. I feel
called here by the Goddess.”
She sounded sincere, but I was usually skeptical of my sister’s motives. I love Zenobia to death, but I learned early in
life that I can’t always trust her. She can be flaky and unreliable at best, and self-centered at her worst. I’ve never
been convinced that her relationship with the Goddess is as sincere and devout as she’d like to have me think. But I
always hope I’m wrong.
Then Zenobia added, “Orlando is here, too.” She looked over her shoulder at the house.
I looked, too, as if I expected to see him standing there. Orlando Parisi used to be Zenobia’s boyfriend. Well, sort of.
He first came to here in her professional capacity, as a fortune teller. Orlando suspected that his wife, Catherine, had
cheated on him years ago and that Catherine’s son Armin might not be Orlando’s. Zen didn’t give Orlando a direct
answer, but she did begin an affair with him. When Catherine found out about Zen, she got mad at Orlando and
screamed at him that he wasn’t Armin’s father anyway. And a DNA test confirmed it. So I suppose you could say that
Zenobia’s services helped, in a way. Her relationship with Orlando didn’t survive his divorce, but they were,
incredibly, still good friends.
“Let’s go inside,” Kameko said. “It’s getting hot, and I made some iced tea. Let’s have some, quickly. There’s much
work to be done before evening.”
I followed Kameko and my sister into the house. Stretched out on Kameko’s white living room sofa was Orlando. He’d
turned on the small, black-and-white TV that sat, covered in dust, in one corner of the sunny, spacious room and was
watching the highlights of yesterday’s baseball games on the sports channels. When he saw us, Orlando stood. He
was so tall, I thought for a moment that his head would touch the ceiling.
“Allegra,” Orlando said, reaching out to shake my hand. “It’s been a long time.”
I nodded. I’d met Orlando once before, three years ago, just after he and Catherine had separated. He’d taken me
and Zen to a fancy restaurant in Chicago. I wasn’t sure I liked him then, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to be friends with
him now. He was thirty-seven, twelve years older than Zen and me. It broke my sister’s heart when their romantic
relationship ended. I wasn’t sure it was good for her to hang out with him like this.
I shook Orlando’s hand, just to be polite. As our hands touched, I felt a little spark. I could see why Zen liked him; he
was cute. He had beautiful amber eyes, and I liked the way his dark hair had started to turn silver, just around the
temples.
“Iced tea?” Kameko said insistently, ushering the three of us into the kitchen. I saw that she’d been preparing lunch
as well, and my mouth began to water. Kameko was making one of her specialities, hand-rolled maki. The nori and
rice were still laid out on a bamboo mat beside bowls of julienne vegetables. But the real treats were off to the side:
Kameko’s homemade wasabi and the ginger that she’d candied and preserved herself.
“Are we having sushi for lunch?” Orlando asked thickly, pulling a kitchen chair up to the butcher-block table where
Kameko had been working.
“We’re having maki,” Kameko said. There was a kind edge to her voice. Auntie Kameko was a very patient woman.
“Please sit over there with the ladies, Orlando.”
I had just taken a seat at the kitchen table. Orlando scooted his chair back to the table and sat on the other side of
Zen. Kameko brought out four glasses and poured iced tea for everyone.
“So,” I asked as Kameko settled at the head of the table, “what needs to be done?”
“I’ve already done most of the cooking,” Kameko said. “Zenobia and Orlando can set up the bonfire; you help me
with what’s left of the cooking, and keeping an eye on the meat.”
“Meat?” Orlando said. “I thought you were all vegetarians.”
“Everyone eats meat on Beltane,” Zenobia said. “It’s an ancient tradition.”
Kameko went to finish making lunch. I jumped up to help her.
But Orlando was full of questions. I wondered what he and Zen had talked about on the way down here from
Milwaukee. “Do a lot of people come to this?” he said.
“Oh, yeah,” I answered. “About two hundred. They’re mostly local pagans, but Auntie Kameko’s been hosting the
Beltane feast since the late ‘70s, so word has gotten around. A few people come from different parts of the country.”
“We had some Druids here last year,” Kameko reminded me. “They came all the way from England. Brought us
some sacred mistletoe and everything.”
“Hmm,” Orlando said. “I didn’t even know that Druids were allowed to leave Stonehenge.”
“You laugh,” Zen said, “but these are deep spiritual matters.”
“Actually,” Kameko said, “pagans laugh all the time in our rituals. We don’t tend to take ourselves as seriously as
some of the other religions do.”
Her eyes focused on the little golden cross that Orlando wore on a chain around his neck. The stainless steel
wedding ring that Orlando still wore also had a small cross on it, in tiny red stones. Despite his reliance on Zenobia’s
fortune-telling abilities, Orlando Parisi was nominally Catholic.
“When do all these people get here?” Orlando asked.
“Not until dark,” I said.
We ate lunch, and then got to work. As Kameko showed Zenobia and Orlando how she wanted the wood stacked for
the bonfire, I went out behind the barn and admired Kameko’s fire pit. The roasting venison smelled delicious, even
though the smell of meat usually makes me more sick than hungry.
Then I saw the maypole. Kameko must have had some help from the neighbors with it, because it was a huge
wooden thing, sunk deep in the ground. It reminded me of the other Beltanes I’d celebrated at the farm, dancing
around the pole when I was still an innocent teenager.
I was in college before Auntie Kameko explained the maypole’s significance as a phallic symbol. The maypole
represents the Horned One, the god who loves the Great Goddess. In some ancient stories, he is called Cernunnos.
In art, he wears a crown of antlers, like those of the deer on the spit. The pink and red ribbons we weave around the
maypole represent Her.
Later, Kameko took me into the farm house. Other people had started to arrive; Kameko put them to work setting up
benches and tables, and filling huge bowls with salad and fresh fruits. I wanted to help, but Kameko told me to go
upstairs.
“Why?” I asked her.
She took me up to the guest bedroom. There, laid out on the bed, was a beautiful green dress. Lying on top of it
was a headdress, a sort of wooden crown that had been decorated with fresh oak leaves. I recognized it
immediately. Every year, a woman was chosen to be “queen” of the Beltane festival. There was a “king,” too (usually
her boyfriend or husband). It was a great honor to be chosen. Pagans said that the queen and king were chosen by
the Goddess herself. They would be sent out into the wheat field to procure a special fertility blessing for the farm by
making love.
“Allegra,” Kameko said, “it’s your turn to be queen.”
“There must be some mistake,” I said. “You must mean Zenobia. She should be queen, and Orlando should be king,
right?” Because the alternative was me, alone in the field with some stranger, and expected to perform the fertility rite
with him. The thought was a little exciting, I’ll admit. But scary, too. It could be life-changing. Women got pregnant
out in that field; Kameko herself had, giving birth to twin daughters who were grown by the time Zen and I came
along. Beltane babies are considered gifts from the Goddess, signs that a priestess has been specially blessed. “I
can’t,” I said.
“You don’t have to,” Kameko said. “But most women wait years and years to be honored with this crown. It’s not
something to be passed up lightly.”
I knew she was right.
When night fell, the farm was packed with people, mostly dressed in shorts, t-shirts and sandals on the warm spring
night. Most of them were pagans and Wiccans. Others were spiritual tourists, curious to see what all the fuss was
about. The atmosphere was one of fun, almost like a carnival. The bonfire was lit, and groups held hands, dancing
and singing around it. Others sat at Kameko’s long tables and helped themselves to the venison, salad and fruit, laid
out buffet-style. Kameko’s wine, a local spiced variety, was flowing freely. Almost everyone here was over eighteen.
Which was good, because by the end of the night, many of us would be running around naked.
As a priestess, I normally don’t drink alcohol. Beltane was the exception to that rule, too. Kameko gave me a nice
glass goblet and filled it to the lip with a dark, strong-smelling wine. I took a sip.
“Drink,” she said. To prove that it was safe, she lifted the glass to her own lips and emptied half of it. “I promise it
won’t hurt you.”
I watched Kameko go around, pouring the same wine for herself, for the strangers who were our guests tonight, and
for Zenobia and Orlando. All of them were drinking it, and none of them seemed to have any ill effects from it.
I watched Zenobia and the other young women dancing around the maypole, acting out that ancient dance between
male and female. As they wrapped their ribbon around the pole, gracefully intertwining, Zenobia moved her hips
suggestively. She was aware of the symbolism, as I was. I imagined the beautiful Great Goddess drawing near to her
lover, the Horned One. The woven red and pink ribbons covered the top of the pole; the Goddess let the Horned
One inside her, just a bit, just to tease the head of his cock with the lips of her pussy. Zenobia and the other women
twisted and spun. Ribbon covered more and more of the maypole; the Goddess drove the Horned One deeper inside
her. He reeled from the touch of the smooth walls of the Great Mother’s pussy. I imagined the beautiful Goddess
sighing with pleasure, hips held still, content just to feel the solid length of him inside her. The dance concluded.
Ribbons covered the pole; the Horned One was inside the Goddess up to the hilt now. Now their union was complete
and their mating could begin.
I looked at Orlando as he watched Zenobia. He knew, without knowing. I could see the bulge of his ready cock
straining against his blue slacks. I wondered again if there wasn’t some mistake; surely the Goddess meant for them
to make love tonight.
Without realizing it, I’d emptied my glass. Kameko appeared to refill it for me. “You’re trying to get me drunk,” I said,
half-facetiously.
Kameko laughed. “No, I’m not,” she said. “As queen, you’re the living embodiment of the Goddess. The Goddess
doesn’t get drunk.”
I had another glass of wine, and then another. The more I drank, the more I felt like a queen. It was wonderful to be
there, to eat the meat and drink the wine, to watch the people dancing and breath the night air. I even cherished the
lovely sensations that the maypole dance had caused in me, the wetness of my cunt it had provoked.
A moment later, Zenobia was at my side, whispering in my ear. I looked over at her empty place at the table; Orlando
was gone. “Allegra,” she said, “whatever happens tonight, just let it happen. Remember my words. Let it happen. It’
s all right.”
Before I could say anything more to my sister, I felt hands on my shoulders, lifting me up out of my chair. I saw Auntie
Kameko in the group of pink-robed women that had a hold of me; I didn’t know the names of the others. They helped
me up onto the table and climbed on the table with me. Zenobia and Orlando had both disappeared now.
“What’s going on?” I asked as Kameko lifted my green gown over my head. Maybe it was the wine, but I wasn’t at all
embarrassed that they were stripping me in front of a crowd of strangers. The women helped me out of my bra, my
sandals, and my panties. I was naked, but I didn’t care.
I laughed loudly. I looked around for my king, but I didn’t see a naked man anywhere. In fact, without me realizing it,
the group had separated according to sex. The people around me now were all women, perhaps a hundred of them.
Kameko brought a silver bowl, and even in the low light of the moon and the bonfire, I could see that it was filled with
dark blood. It was the blood of an animal, probably the same deer we’d all eaten. When the women touched the
blood to my skin, it felt cold and smelled slightly musty. They were painting me with the blood, painting stripes on my
face. They drew spirals of cold blood around my breasts, making my nipples harden, and painted sacred design on
my belly and thighs. When the women were finished, they helped me off the table.
“Behold,” Kameko roared, theatrically. “The queen of the Beltane feast!” The women cheered and applauded loudly.
As she spoke, I was suddenly aware of the sound of drums. Wherever a group of pagans gathered, there were
usually drummers among them. But I hadn’t heard the music before this moment. I was suddenly unsteady on my
feet. I’d eaten too much meat and drunk too much wine. Kameko and Zenobia took my arms and spun me around,
so that I was facing the wheat field out beyond the bonfire. The heat from the fire made the sweat drip off my body.
“Now go,” Zen said in my ear.
“Where?” I said. “What about the king?”
Kameko was at my other ear. “As queen, you represent the Goddess now,” she said. “Let her footsteps guide you.
Into the field. You’ll meet the Horned One there.”
Thrilled, excited and scared, I took off into the field, traveling far out into the plants. There were other people hidden
among the wheat stalks, locked in acts of passion. I could hear them all around me, just as I had in the past. The
sounds of passion were always part of the ritual. This time, I knew that I would soon be joining them, although my
partner was still a mystery. My heart beat fast, faster than the rhythm of the now-distant drummers.
He found me before I found him. I felt his hand, reaching out for mine. I looked up, and in the dim light from the
moon, I saw the crown of antlers
“My queen,” the Horned One whispered. His arm wrapped around me. I let my body fall against his, let him hold me
up. He was hard, strong. Naked except for his crown. When he touched me, I felt a sense of peace. I couldn’t think
of him as a mortal man, a stranger. He was Cernunnos to me. The god. My consort.
“My king,” I said, closing my eyes.
He kissed me, gently, not daring to part his lips. I took his chaste kisses and turned them into something wilder.
Bodies pressed together, smelling of sweat and farm soil and the exotic perfume of deer’s blood, we joined in the
rhythm of the natural world around us, kissing fiercely.
I let my hands go where they wanted to, traveling all over his body. He had big, beautiful shoulders, a strong back,
and a firm ass. I scraped my nails across his back as his fingers played across my breasts, teased my nipples, and
found my clit.
I let him pull me to the ground and press me into the sweet-smelling earth among the stalks of wheat. I thought about
what Zenobia told me: let it happen. I wasn’t just letting this happen, though. I wanted this, wanted it more than
anything else I’d ever known. It meant everything to me to feel the pulse of life in the earth, in myself and in the
Horned One, to be part of it. I wanted to pull him closer until there was no more space left between us. He seemed to
read my thoughts, pressing in on top of me.
“This is magic, isn’t it?” I whispered.
“Yes,” he said, bringing his mouth to my ear.
He kissed me again, his tongue slipping past my lips now. He hadn’t shaved, and his rough chin scratched my skin
slightly.
As we kissed, I remembered that the Horned One was a fertility god. The fact that I hadn’t been using any birth
control since I broke up with my last boyfriend didn’t alarm me. It excited me. It felt wonderful to be a full part of the
circle of life, giving myself over fully to the Horned One as he gave himself to me. I didn’t want to get pregnant; it was
just that I didn’t want him to hold anything back from me. For the first time in my life, I wanted a man’s semen inside of
me. It wasn’t just something inconvenient I had to deal with. I knew that whatever happened afterward was meant to
happen.
He ran a hand down my side, then slid it underneath me, lifting my butt off the ground slightly, holding my hips at an
angle. Ordinarily I prefer to be on top, but this arrangement seemed to come naturally.
Although I was far from being a virgin, and was definitely wet with anticipation, there was a little bit of pain when he
entered me. He had a nice big cock, but then again, I wouldn’t expect anything less from the Goddess’s consort. The
pain was brief, though. Soon we were moving together, our bodies sliding against each other in a quick rhythm.
My face was pressed into his chest, and I couldn’t see anything. Not that I cared. The farm seemed like a distance
dream as I focused all my attention on the big cock pounding away insistently at my wet cunt. I heard myself making
an unearthly noise, almost a howl of pleasure. My lover’s deep voice seemed to answer mine as he moaned in time to
the rhythm he was creating. Our noises joined the others’ in the wheat field.
We were one body, with no separation between us. And he was insatiable. I was entranced by the way he made me
feel, feverish pleasure and just a little bit of pain; love, excitement and just a little fear with each powerful thrust. I dug
my fingernails into his back, too stunned to even let myself come.
After thirty, maybe forty minutes of the most intense pounding I’d ever taken, I finally felt my toes curl and my cunt
contract. I bucked ferociously underneath him. I felt the rapid beating of his heart as he pushed himself into me
harder. I felt his cock spasm inside me, felt the release of his semen. It was beautiful. We lay together for a moment
before we separated. Then I needed to breathe.
As we lay, back to back, I was happy. But my feelings ran deeper than mere contentment. I had done my duty as a
priestess and participated in something sacred. It was the most beautiful, solemn feeling I had ever known.
“Are you okay?” he asked in a whisper. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
“You’re so sweet,” I said, closing my eyes. “No. It was my pleasure.”
“Mine, too,” he said. Even his voice sounded beautiful and mystical. This truly was magic. We’d become the
Goddess and her consort.
I fell asleep just a moment after I laid my head on his warm, sweaty, deer-blood-smeared chest. He was asleep just
as quickly.
When the dawn came, the air was a bit cold. I found that my lover and I had huddled together for warmth. My consort’
s arm, streaked with animal blood, was draped over me. As I stirred, he awoke. His hand found my breasts.
My pussy was a little sore, and definitely dirty, from the night before. We both smelled like an appalling mix of blood,
sweat, dirt and sex. But I was ready for more.
We weren’t completely alone. I heard other people waking up in the field. Some of them were greeting the morning
the way they’d celebrated the night before. I heard their moans of pleasure, their whispered words. And it seemed
that my new friend was hoping to be among them. I felt his cock stiffening against the back of my thigh.
He kissed me. He started between my shoulder blades and worked his way up the back of my neck. It felt good, so I
didn’t stop him. I took his hand in mine, holding it against my belly. Then I felt it, something cold and hard against my
skin. Something metal.
A wedding ring.
I looked. It was a stainless steel ring, with a small cross made out of red stones.
“Orlando,” I said.
His answer was a contented moan, as he continued kissing the back of my neck, biting me lightly.
“Orlando, I’m not Zenobia,” I said firmly. “Look, it’s me, Allegra.”
He stopped. “I know, Allegra,” he said. “I always knew. Didn’t you know it was me?”
I sat up and turned to face him. “It wasn’t you,” I said. “In the moment, I was so caught up in the sacred ritual, you
were a god to me.” And I really meant it.
He smiled. Orlando’s smile was charming, framed by those amber eyes and that pretty brown-and-silver hair. “And
you were the Goddess to me,” he said. “Zenobia told me it would happen like that. I didn’t believe her until I got out
here in the field. But this was real. It was really . . .”
“Sacred,” I said, completing his thought.
The hand with the wedding ring on it rested on my hip. He touched me gently, playfully. “So what do we do now?”
I thought about Zenobia’s words: Let it happen. “Our sacred duty as queen and king,” I said. He closed his eyes as I
leaned in and kissed him hard. He lay back, pressing himself into the soft black earth.
I got on top of Orlando, letting the head of his cock find the lips of my pussy. I let him inside me, just a little bit, just to
tease him.
“What are you doing?” he said.
That was my cue to drive him deeper inside me. I was still slick from the night before,a nd he slid inside me easily. I
held my hips still, content just to feel the solid length of him inside me and to watch his face. I could see that he was
turned on. But he was almost in pain from wanting to feel the friction of me moving on top of him. When he couldn’t
stand the tension any longer, Orlando began to buck underneath me.
I took the last inch of his cock inside of me, burying it up to the hilt. Now our union was complete, and I could give
Orlando what he’d been wanting so desperately. I moved my hips in long, slow strokes, feeling the head of his cock
rub up against my cervix. His beautiful amber eyes were filled with tears.
I closed my eyes and listened. I heard the pleasured sighs of the other men and women in the fields. Orlando’s
hands found my breasts. His thumbs rubbed against my nipples in a steady rhythm. The pressure sent a shiver
through my cunt. My first orgasm was short, but intense.
I knew then that Orlando wasn’t going to last as long as he had the night before. I sped up my strokes. The short,
quick strokes didn’t seem to get Orlando as excited as the long, slow strokes, so I figured I was buying myself some
time. It didn’t take long for my body to tense up again. My release came quickly, an orgasm longer and even more
intense than the first.
My pussy was still rippling with the aftershocks when Orlando began bucking underneath me, ferociously this time. I
stopped thrusting and let him do the work. He liked that; I watched the satisfaction on his face. He pumped me hard
for a moment, then climaxed with a loud cry.
I eased my body off of him slowly. Then, just to give him one last thrill, I lowered my head and licked our juices off
the head of his cock.
When we got back to the farm house, naked and filthy, Auntie Kameko was serving some guests breakfast. She sent
me back upstairs to shower in the guest bedroom. Luckily my clothes were still up there. Orlando had to shower in
the master bath, and his clothes were nowhere to be found. He had to wear an old pair of boxer shorts that Kameko
sometimes slept in.
I got out of the shower to find Zenobia sitting on the bed. “I slept with Orlando,” I said.
“No, you didn’t,” she said. “You were the Goddess, and he was the Horned One. That’s the way it’s been all through
time, and always will be.”
“You’re not upset?”
“I brought him here for a reason,” she said.
“How was your pagan holiday?” Dolores asked me as I sat down at my desk Monday morning.
“Great,” I said. “How was Megan’s Pekinese?”
She frowned. “Next time I’m coming with you.”
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| Look for Beltane, the full-length erotic novel, available now from Eternal Press! Buy Midsummer Night (Book 2) in print and e-book |
Pagan Spirits Book 2: Midsummer Night Buy Midsummer Night in print and e-book The continuing story of Allie, Orlando, Zen and Kameko... |
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