*****
Hello! As a pretext, Beltane is a story that crosses into many different fetishes and dynamics. Two staples you can expect pretty much throughout are gentle femdom and cumplay, but also included are cuckqueaning, piss, maledom, f on m cnc, breeding, and a smattering of more mild things like anal, deepthroating, facesitting, and fishnets. There are also some themes of occultism, ritual, and magic that are less overt and more true to life than fantasy. Beltane has been, and is, an exercise in incorporating and moving between these things rather than leaning on just one. If you're looking for any of these things individually in abundance, this may not be your favorite story. But if you're on board for some twists, turns, bodily fluids, and a pagan fucktacular bacchanal across a variety of kinks, well...
Enjoy!
-TheDaggerAndTheCup
*****
This happened my senior year of college. You'll have to pardon me with the exposition, but I was living with a girl, Ann, who I had been seeing for a few years and it was steadily spiraling. And that is important. For later.
I would come home late. I was working sixteen hour days a lot during that time. I had class from 7 AM until three or four, then I would study or work in a lab where I had a job on campus. Then I would ride my bike down the hill from the university to the Copper Mule, a bar and pool hall where I also worked as a bartender. I'd tend bar until 11, sometimes midnight. I'd come home, Ann would be asleep. And I would be as stiff as a fucking rail with no outlet.
Ann, who was never Anna, nor Annalise, was attractive enough. She was 5'6, had brown hair, and was somewhat buxom. Her tits sagged from having been overweight earlier in life. She had a little extra cushion for the pushin', which I didn't mind, but she wore it oddly. She wore sandals and blocky visitor center T-shirts from places she had been. She dressed like a woman in menopause trying to rediscover herself through marijuana and crystals. Outwardly, she had no interest whatsoever in appearing sexy, even when it was just the two of us. I was attracted to her laugh, her sense of humor, and I was convinced she could turn it on when she needed to. Or maybe I just told myself so.
The sex had been decent, if vanilla, in the past. I had on one occasion tied her up and made her come. She liked doing it to me as well, but in a pretty mellow way. She would handcuff me to the bed, blindfold me, and suck my cock. I think she liked watching me writhe. If things had gone differently, she may have developed a femdom streak. Sex was about getting to the orgasm for her though, not the process, the acquisition of it. For her it was simple. She would lie on her back completely still and I would rub her clit. Gently. Slowly. Barely even making contact. The light touch did it every time for her. Then we would fuck. She knew my buttons too. She would whisper in my ear.
"Come inside me. Give it to me. Good, yeah I want you to come inside me."
And I would. I would pump it deep inside her, feeling her legs lock around me as if she knew I was caught in her web. But almost always sooner than I would have liked, and with no real hurrah. But that didn't matter to her, we had both gotten to the objective, the "finish line". That was our ritual.
I wanted more. I would try to initiate, and she would often deny me. She would get high and lounge around in her frumpy pajamas watching Friends. Being frumpy. Being boring. If my hands started to venture over her body she would say she just wanted to cuddle. And then I would be stuck in the monotony of her world, perfectly sufficient for her, but absolutely maddening to me. This would carry on for days, weeks at a time until she knew that I couldn't take it, and then she would ask me to make her come. Going through the motions. Orgasm. Completing the ritual of satisfaction. And slowly, the frustration was building in me. I felt trapped. I had so much energy, despite the long hours. I wanted to fuck. To pull hair, to beg and be begged for. And I knew that if it wasn't her, there was someone who would gladly sign up. Look, I'm not a supermodel but I've always done fairly well for myself with sexual partners. I'm tall- 6'4, lean and toned, brown hair, green eyes, with a hairy chest and stomach. My cock isn't the biggest but it's never let me down, at just a shade under 8" long (and cut, for the sake of the visual). And it was aching for more.
I admit I didn't always act right. I would pick fights and blow things out of proportion. Maybe I was looking for a way out. But I was just so pent up. Coming home, 11 o' clock and dreaming that on the other side of my front door she'd be waiting for me, presenting her pussy for me to taste and fuck. Just once. But no. It was always a dark house and my erection pressing through my pants. Knowing if I tried to roll her over she would be offended, then mad. And then she would deny me even longer. This was the cycle of it. Her allowing me to blow off just enough steam to be able to say she was taking care of my needs. And me festering.
So I said fuck it. I sat on the couch, plugged my headphones into my phone, and dove into the old spank bank. This was a tiny apartment, but I was confident that she was out cold and regardless it was the only time I had to myself. I had to try. So I pulled up some porn and got my prick out and started stroking. I was watching things that I could only fantasize about doing in my real relationship. Women being tied up, fucked in the ass, and begging to cum. Begging. I was masturbating to the freedom of BDSM. Coveting with my whole heart. And throbbing. Rubbing myself with my own precum, the slightest lubrication almost sending me over the edge, and holding on for just another minute. Knowing that I would cover myself in hot ropes of cum the moment I let go, knowing I would have to clean it up, knowing I would have to sneak into bed and pretend I was content to hold what was rapidly becoming a hollow relationship together. And then I saw something move out of the corner of my eye.
She was standing at the end of the hallway looking into the living room at me. I startled and ripped my headphones out of my ears.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"I, uh, I'm..."
"Oh my god, I didn't realize-" she began to realize what was happening as I lowered my phone, to illuminate my member. She hurried back down the hall to the bedroom. I could hear her crying. And just like that it was over. I was soft and I felt guilty. I'm not even sure why. In that moment it was over for me. I couldn't even masturbate in my own home. But I had to act as a cleanup crew and pull this person back together. To tell her that there was nothing wrong. Because somehow that was the only answer she would take. As if in trying to have an orgasm for myself I was hurting her. This was part of the cycle too. The guilt. To keep it going. And so I went to comfort and reassure her.
Several weeks went by and it ended, I won't trouble you with how exactly but let's say it was similar to the masturbation event. Lots of crying. The semester was coming to an end, this being the spring. It ended on Easter, which seemed like a good sign. She started staying at a friend's, coming back occasionally to feed her cat or pick up things she needed. She was an emotional wreck. The screaming and crying, my god. But mostly the guilt. She ladled it on thickly. How she had tried and tried to do everything she could and I was a selfish piece of shit, blah blah blah. I was over it. Completely disconnected. After six months strong of neglect I just didn't have any feelings left to offer. I had been exhausted to the point that caring about it was too much work. I downloaded tinder and got ready to put my cock to work after a winter in hibernation.
I was closing up the back bar at the Copper Mule after work one night whistling a tune while sweeping around the pool tables and thinking about what I would do with a nice slut. Oh, I mused, if only I had a nice slut. Someone eager to please. I hung my dry mop up and locked the door to the back bar, my prick at a quarter mast as I ambled up to the front bar for my nightly shift beer. I spied a pretty bleached blonde girl at the end of the bar on her own and decided to sit a few stools down, where I could maybe sneak a peek at her cleavage. I wasn't confident I would be able to go home with her or even start a conversation, but in my state I just couldn't resist being close to a pretty thing like her. She was small, maybe 5'4, about a full foot shorter than me, but had nice round B or C cup tits and as I walked past to sit at the bar I noticed her ass and thighs were deliciously thick. Her lip was pierced, she had some visible tattoos peering out from under her sleeves, and black nail polish. Her shirt was low cut and I immediately got the cleavage I had been after. It was clear that she was not wearing a bra and her nipples showed through her shirt somewhat. They were pierced too. She had the immediate air of familiarity about her, but I couldn't place it. She was looking at her phone and hadn't noticed me sit down. I ordered a beer and sat back, watching whatever was on TV. My hand gravitated to my phone and I reflexively checked Tinder for the eighth time that day. There were a few new matches after my last bombardment of right swipes, but as I flipped through I noticed one in particular that stood out. It was the girl sitting at the bar next to me. Matched 6 minutes ago. She had swiped on me after I had sat down.
Needless to say my cock nearly broke my zipper. I tried to stay casual, viewing her profile. Her name was Gemma. There were a few pictures, the last of which featured her in fishnet stockings, which I loved, but Ann would never grant me the pleasure of seeing her in. Her bio read:
"Be a
Darling and
Send me a
Message, won't you?
Horror movies and chill. I'll let you make me breakfast in the morning. "
It was thinly veiled and even a little cliche but the thought that I had a shot with an actual kinky girl had me completely erect under the bar. I leaned forward to hide it. Before I had a chance to decide my next move I got a notification. It was a message from her.
"You come here often?"
I smiled. So she was funny and forward. The jig was up. My cover was blown. I was going to have a conversation with this person whether I was ready or not. I looked up to find her already looking at me. She had dark brown eyes with little flecks of yellow in them. I chuckled and took a drink, bracing myself.
"I work here actually, and I was about to ask you the same thing."
"Is that so? You weren't just going to ogle my profile and then go home?"
"Well, I wasn't planning on it. I didn't have a plan really, just sort of hoping for the best. Should I have hit you with a pickup line? You don't look receptive to that kind of thing."
She smiled coyly. "No, I think that would have been game over for you. I'm kinda picky. It was just too perfect, you sitting down right as I was admiring your profile."
Oh shit. Oh shit oh shit. You can close this
, I thought.
She's throwing you total 'do me' vibes. Just keep it together
.
