There had been blood—a lot of blood, animal and human. Some of it was mixed with semen—a virgin's first experience... Power had been raised here, again and again, from that ancient triad of sex, death, and sacrifice, sometimes unwilling and at other times freely given, the magic woven of that power now lost in the turning winds of time.
But its residue remained.
-Barbara Hambly, The Magicians of Night
The rite went on, the fuck-lust orgy of fecundity and fertility, potency and pregnancy. It went on all that long spring night, fraught and teeming with the rich, rutting abundance of the Great Goat-Mother.
Dripping with seed and blood and milk and honey.
-Christine Morgen, With Honey Dripping
o0o
"Yeh'll be ridin' th' Horse at the Lettin', aye?" Young Albert asked me lecherously, as we lay side by side in the meadow.
I strangled an impatient sigh before it could emerge. We had been making love- no, fucking, fucking like animals in fact- for nigh on three hours now, and I was sore all through. I had climaxed three times that afternoon and he twice, and he was still capable of thinking about sex. Not that it was necessarily a bad thing, mind you. There was a reason I like younger men. The brains aren't much to speak of- all the space in their skull that would one day house good common sense being crowded out by piss, vinegar, and simmering male hormones- but the sex is amazing once you have them trained up a bit. Having the brains of stunned oxen is less of a barrier to a satisfying relationship when they have muscles, stamina, and prick to match.
Pillow talk isn't much to write home about, though. Grunts, mostly.
Young Albert's creamy seed was dripping from the depths of my well-stretched cleft to cool on my inner thighs, his spent prick was lying sleepily on his thigh like a girthy adder sunning itself on the warm rocks, we were both glistening with sweat from the effort of our lovemaking and the heat of the late summer sun and scratched by the rough grasses of the meadow. I idly ran a hand through the thick thatch of hair on his chest, and over his work-hardened muscles. Quite a man, he was. Arms like tree trunks, legs like stone pillars, arse like a Greek statue... prick like a horse. Just about everything you would want in a man.
"'twill be a foin thing t' see these foin things a bouncin' in th' torchlight." So saying, he fondled my breasts with surprising gentleness for a man I had once seen twist the neck of a grown ram a full ninety degrees (he'd lost his knife during the last Autumn slaughtering, and had to improvise- suffice it to say no one ever started fist fights with him in my pub again after that) with those self-same giant work-roughened hands that now cradled my soft breasts. They had covered me with bruises from rough handling and the occasional slap to my arse, but it had all been at my request and the aches they left were pleasant aches, akin to aching muscles after a day of good honest labor. Which, to be fair, good sex was. The good folk of Wickham Dolving apply the same good, honest work effort to sex that we apply to farming, cider-brewing, and pipe-smoking. There's no point in doing a thing unless you put your heart and soul into it, after all.
