AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story is a work of fiction, and is not intended to portray individuals of any faith in an unfavorable light. The author was actually married several years ago to a Wiccan High Priestess, and attended one Samhain ceremony, but any factual errors or artistic licenses are his own. Thank you.
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It is exactly one year since the death of my wife, and all I want is to be alone. It was Halloween night when she died, or Samhain, depending on what you believe. She believed in Samhain, and Samhain was what killed her, although somewhat indirectly.
I don't even know why I'm telling you this, since to talk is to indicate a desire for company, and I don't want company, I want to be alone. But I also want something to drink, and since I don't have anything at home, I guess I have to pay the price. My glass is empty, by the way. Thank you.
What's Samhain, you ask? See, you're actually paying attention, and I guess I'm flattered, in a way. Funny, it's the same question I asked my wife, the first time she brought it up. We weren't married at the time, we were in our courtship, which is an old phrase I guess, but it seemed right for us to use it. Anyway, Lyra, that was my wife's name, Lyra - Lyra said one morning that Samhain was coming up, and she showed me a flyer for a meeting of her coven. No, no, I saw the flyer first, it was on the table, and I asked her about it.
- What's sam-hain?
- It's pronounced SOW-en, dear heart, and it's one of the most important holidays ever.
- I notice that this, um, SOW-en meeting is being held on Halloween night. Is it like a costume party?
Lyra laughed her tinkling laugh, the one that told me I was _such_ a silly boy and had _so_ much still to learn.
She explained that Samhain was bastardized by the Catholic church when the first Popes realized that the people were still celebrating the pagan holidays as well as the Christian ones. So they changed Samhain to "All Hallow's Eve" and created a new holiday on November first. Lyra said they did the same thing to Winter Solstice, turning it into Christmas, and Beltane, changing it to Easter.
All of this went straight over my head. I was raised a Lutheran, and Lutherans didn't learn things like that. I am not a Lutheran anymore, and wasn't at the time Lyra was explaining it to me, but I still had quite a bit of Judeo-Christian simmering inside of me.
But I digress. Again, here I am, wanting to be left alone, and talking my head off because you actually seem to be interested in what I have to say. But you will be rewarded for listening, because my tale has sex in it, and who doesn't like a sexy story? My glass is empty. Thank you.
So we went to the Samhain celebration, at which my Lyra was High Priestess, and there was this great bonfire, and quite a bit of dancing, and not a little abandon, and even some nudity. My Lyra - and remember, we weren't married yet, this wasn't the Samhain celebration that killed her - looked glorious, dancing around the bonfire and chanting words that I'd never heard before and couldn't repeat if I tried, her long, black, wavy hair flying all around her face. There was an animalism all around me - a hearkening back to the primitive nature in those who joined in the celebration. And, I must admit, in myself as well, who merely sat on the side and watched. For me, the animalism roused a deep, feral lust in me, so much so that any woman who found herself close at hand might not be safe. I can't say for certain what it did to the others, but I'm willing to guess it was a pretty similar reaction.
Drums were beating, Lyra was dancing around the fire, arms and legs flailing. She hiked up her long skirt so that she could dance with more abandon. Her long, curvy legs gleamed in the firelight, and during one turn she made I noticed that she had gone regimental.
Excuse me? Sorry, I mean she'd either come to the celebration without panties, or she'd taken them off at some time during it. Every few moments her circuit would take her past me, and she'd catch my attention, flashing some message to me with her dark eyes and her white teeth, and then she'd kick one of her legs up high enough to show me her neatly trimmed bush.
My glass is empty. Thank you. It was doing something to me, the drumming, the dancing, the crackling flames, my Lyra's exhibitionism. I sat there squirming with lust, my erection straining against my jeans there in the semi-darkness. It was a chilly October night, but I had to take off the sweatshirt I'd put on before I left home. It was soaked with sweat.
Suddenly, more people, men and women, started dancing with Lyra, around and around and around the fire. The drumming increased in tempo, got louder, more sensual, more animal. My eyes feasted on my Lyra, or tried to, through the growing circle around the fire, frantically trying to glimpse her for the few seconds she'd appear to me before she began her next circuit. Clothes suddenly became redundant to the dancers, and as the garments fell away, so did the final remaining inhibitions.
Suddenly, in the firelight, there was my Lyra, my lovely, exciting Lyra, all of her clothes shed, "sky-clad", as I'd heard her call it. She must have disrobed on the other side of the bonfire, and picked up a sword of some kind at the same time.
Naturally, I had never seen anything like this before in my life. It's not the sort of thing you see on a Sunday in the good old Lutheran church! And while my parents, and my grandparents, and a good amount of other ancestors would have been utterly scandalized, I, on the other hand, was rapt. The message was getting through to me on a very basic level: this was the harvest festival, and the gods were pleased. The gods would be more pleased if there was some additional planting after the fire died down.
Lyra's dancing sped up, if such a thing was possible, and the blade of the sword she now wielded flashed and flickered as it caught the firelight. It soon became too difficult to discern where Lyra left off and the sword began.
Sorry? Oh, the sword - well, it wasn't your standard pirate's cutlass like you see in the movies. More like a long dagger it was, the blade about ten inches, not very ornate from what I could see. Later on, Lyra told me the name of it, but I never could get my tongue around many of the words she would use for things like that - I nicknamed it "Sting", after the Hobbit's blade in _Lord of the Rings_, and for my benefit, sharing the joke you might say, my Lyra would call it that as well, but only in private.
Where was I? Yes. So there she was, dancing with this great abandon, wantonly, the drums keeping up their frenetic thumping, and she'd stop briefly and wave Sting in a specific pattern, sometimes facing the fire, sometimes with her back to the flames. And each time, before she would continue her circuit, her final move with the blade would be a sort of mock-thrust with the point of it towards her vagina. My glass is empty. Thank you.
I have to tell you, I was worried about her and this blade, and the thrusting, considering she was being followed so closely - and led, too, in a way - by all the other dancers. And all of them were in the same heightened state as she was. The same frenzy, the same animalistic, lustful abandon. But she seemed to know what she was doing, so I put my worry aside and continued to enjoy the spectacle.
The dancers began pairing off, and running from the fire into the darkness. Well, I say pairing off, but there were a few groups of three and four who ran away, too. Finally there was no one left but my Lyra and a tall male figure wearing what appeared to be the head and horns of a goat.
The drums stopped, and the silence was deafening. Lyra and the goat-man stopped their circuit of the fire and faced each other, not six feet from where I sat. Their bodies were covered with slick sweat, and their chests were heaving, but they both stood straight. Lyra's back was to me at this moment, facing the goat-man, so I could see that he had a broad, muscular chest, massive arms and legs, and a tremendous erection. Really, it was one of the biggest dicks I'd seen outside a porno movie.
What was going to happen next? I didn't know for sure, but I had a suspicion that this was one of the final rites of the ceremony. The high priestess and the goat-man were going to do...something to appease their gods. I should have been jealous, or angry, I suppose. Any other red-blooded American male who had been raised in the Lutheran Church would have been, would have jumped up from his bench there by the fire and closed the distance between himself and the two dancers and made a big stink of some kind. But I stayed put, knowing that something exciting and wonderful was about to take place.
And, of course, I was right. Cutting to the chase, after some additional ritualistic thrusting with Sting, Lyra hoisted it over her head and threw it downward toward the goat-man, and the point of the blade buried itself about half-way into the dirt between the goat-man's bare feet. She then turned very slowly away from him and, legs spread wide apart, bent from the waist and braced her palms on her knees. She didn't look at me, didn't look at anyone or anything - her eyes were unfocused, rolled up slightly into her head. Her breathing was still ragged, and her beautiful, sweat-covered body glistened in the firelight. She waited for the goat-man's approach.
She didn't have to wait long. Taking three long strides, the goat-man came up behind her, bent slightly at the knees and completely impaled her vagina on his massive cock. One thrust! And without using his hands! Some part of me said this was an impressive feat.
Once the goat-man was inside my Lyra, he cupped her perfect cupcake breasts and lifted her as if she weighed no more than an ounce. Lyra, her eyes still rolled up, wrapped her legs backwards around the goat-man's thighs. Cords stood out on her neck as she writhed on his erection. The goat-man walked a slow, torturous circuit of the now-dying fire. I could hear him grunting, but I know it was not from the exertion of carrying my Lyra. Lyra herself was grunting, then she put out a high-pitched keening as her orgasm neared. The muscles in her thighs were rolling under her skin as I watched her push herself forward and back on the goat-man's cock. Suddenly the goat-man stopped, moved his hands from Lyra's breasts and gripped her under the shoulders. I could see both of them in profile now, and he pulled her ass tight against his pelvis. His buttocks clenched and relaxed, clenched and relaxed, and I knew he must be coming, must be filling my Lyra's tight pussy with his hot, sticky seed. Indeed, Lyra's orgasm arrived at the same time as, or a few moments after, the goat-man's, because her shriek of pleasure joined his low-pitched, raspy moan. At this point I came myself, shooting my own seed in great jets down the inside of my left pants leg. I don't remember if I was embarrassed by this, because I think I passed out.
I awoke and the sky was gone. I blinked my eyes a few times and realized that I was naked on my back in a large canvas tent. Feeling certain parts of my body being rubbed, I lifted my head and saw a beautiful young woman washing my bare chest with a soft cloth, a second gently coating my thighs and calves with some kind of strong- scented oil, and a third vigorously massaging my already fully-awake cock with her own soft cloth.
- What's going on? I asked. Where am I? Leave it to me to say something memorable at a time like this.
The girl washing my chest whispered: Blessed be, Traveler. Lie quietly, we are preparing you for Mistress Lyra.
- Thanks, but from the looks of things, I'm already prepared. When will she be here?
