Mating Rituals Ch 02 1

Trigger Warnings:

Polyamory, group sex, marital complexity. Trolling / triggered-bellyache comments will be deleted, constructive crit is welcome. Thank you!

...he was finally yours.

After decades of hardship marked by the tragic passing of loved ones, of a prior relationship with a woman who'd nearly stripped all your financial and material security away, of soul-gripping numbness of heart and constant tension in your muscles, quite suddenly he was there. Like Apollo cresting the horizon upon a golden chariot, the sun had risen in your life the moment you began talking to him; for though your heart had hoped and wished sincerely for his love and companionship, you never believed he'd truly be

your man

...but he fought. Oh how he'd made war against the odds, just to have you.

Your life had been guided by a personal code of

juchae

- self-sufficiency against a hostile world. You'd never depended on others after you became an adult, insistent on carving your own way and even pulling the weight of those you loved; they fought you, as was the custom of people in your ancient land of jungles and mountain ranges. You'd almost given in to despair. Sinking into the muck of your misfortune, even then you'd fought onward, but at the end of the tunnel he was standing there with his radiant smile. Waving at you, beaming, shouting and making a racket like he does when he wants, and then he was running down that tunnel toward you to sweep you off your feet and carry you into a life bathed in vernal, eternal sunlight.

Once, you'd felt like a terribly dull, quiet thing; but through his incredible desire for you, you'd come to see your mystique and charm.

Once, you'd seen a tired, tense-shouldered girl; but with years of his easygoing love and care, the burdens had slid away into insubstance.

Once, you'd wondered if you were just...sexually numb; but with his mere

words

he'd stoked the flame of your lust higher than anyone ever had. He didn't even have to touch you or be in the same room.

Though your land was ancient and his was young, his people were many millennia old and he'd inherited a respect for certain ritual behaviors that worked to reinforce and temper the passionate romance between you. He insisted on smiling every time he looked your way, and you'd followed his lead in developing this reflex. Loving him has been the easiest thing you've ever done in a life of trial and challenge, and for these past years the hardship just seemed to have...dissipated.

Finally there was someone with broad, powerful shoulders to carry you and give your aching body and heart some respite, and in turn you poured the overflowing cup of your adoration over him...and he

basked

in its glow.

Finally. A partner who matched the passion that you'd once dialed back for others, who responded to your affection and dedication with honest joy and heartmelting reciprocation...and good

lord

did he fuck like a rockstar. Supremely attentive and fascinated by the lithe curves of your body, you in turn were quite addicted to his physique; those big, gentle dark eyes whose umber and evergreen gaze melted your heart every morning, whose shape suggested his mother's Heilongjiang origins...his long torso and broad shoulders, the V-shape of his body and tigerish definition at odds with the whip-thin men and caffeine-hardened girls you'd dallied with.

The long, curved, perfect girth of his circumcised manhood, the way he knew how to use every inch of his lance to please you from the ridge of his glans to the swell of his frenum...he always stirred you to thunderstorm climax and banished your ever-present chill by filling you with his fertile heat.

Encouraged by his fever-pitch attraction to you, you'd started to dress and behave with far greater confidence than before; he'd told you so many times how incredibly sexy you are to him, you'd finally begun to believe it...and besides, he was really good at letting others know. No man in your life had ever done anything like that before - they were territorial, possessive creatures who often grew insecure against the passions of other men, but after you'd encircled his finger with gold and crushed a glass underfoot, he never wavered in his belief that you loved him above any and all. So assured in fact, you can easily recall his words during these...particularly thrilling events:

"She has lovely, sleek legs doesn't she...I caught the way you were looking at them - nah it's okay, I'm looking too. Wonderfully long and strong...see the way her sinews slither under that caramel-dark skin, the lines that travel upward between her thighs?" He'd remarked casually to an almost androgynously pretty Danish boy he'd caught eyeing you one night in your (terribly short) dark green shorts - he did, in actuality, talk like that, gifted with all manner of language and expression as he was.

...and of course, he wasn't the only one playing that game; oh the things you had to say about him...

"He is cute, I agree...and he does have a really nice chest, but...I saw you eyeing his bulge. And yes. He is indeed gifted down there - how do I know? Well...funny story that..." That was down on the beach in Campinas last year; your cousin's pretty, teak skinned friend with her shaven head had blushed, unable to keep her eyes off him. Later she'd been unable to keep her hands or tongue off either of you.

You can't blame her, or any of the men and women you'd taken to bed. Your fingers brush over your lower belly, sheened lightly with sweat after the passionate intensity of your pre-club love making...and you'd done it mostly clothed, one of the benefits of this scandalously short leather skirt. Leaning back on the bed, you watch him dress, unable to tear your eyes away.

Your man has an impressive presence. You're gazing at his back, running your eyes from the freshly cut, nearly buzzed hair on the back of his head to the shape of his neck. His shoulders are strong like you'd imagine a knight's or some hero from one of your fantasy novels, trapezius muscles standing out like the buttresses of a cathedral; the lines of his deltoids slide like tensed cords of steel underneath his tanned, gold-tinted exterior and you love the way they move and shift beneath your fingers. He is somewhat zealous about exercise and nutrition; as he buckles an elegant black leather belt to hold up those attention-grabbing package-flattering dark gray, pinstripe slacks, half a protein bar is clenched between his teeth.

Breaking it off and chewing through its clay-thickness, you watch the ligaments and sinews of his jaw work beneath the black shadow of his stubble; you'd once described him as a much cuter version of Johnny Nguyen, retaining a boyish charm amidst the undeniable sex appeal.

"Jasmyn and Harsha are flaking out of course, so it's just us tonight," he remarked with a quirk of his lips, checking his cellphone as the glinting bloodstone pendant you'd gifted him dangled between the cut of his pectorals; your mouth was practically watering again, this man kept you on a near-constant spectrum of arousal.

"That's because Harsha takes forever getting ready, he's worse than me," you state pertly and rise with a click of your high heels to pick through shirts. "Have you seen the amount of makeup that boy wears? He's like a cake."

Your husband chuckles around his protein bar and turns to face you patiently as you hold a sleeveless gray shirt against his body, taking an excuse to rake your nails softly through his chest hair.

In many ways, he is a collection of all the best attributes of your former boyfriends - in others he was completely different, and it always felt like you were discovering new things he just

happened to know all about

. You'd always been attracted to your own countrymen, with their alluring dark eyes and hard-cut smiles, their tall, straight physiques and that sultry quality Mestizo men could affect so uniquely. They'd all been intellectual or artistic in some way, men defined by their higher thoughts and who were even a little geeky...and of course they'd all just happened to be varying degrees of well-hung.

Your man has these attributes and more; the come-hither eyes and dancer's grace; the height and up-down verticality; a smile that reminded you of a snowy, soft winter day drinking hot cocoa - and yes, of course, he'd been blessed by nature with a shockingly perfect, sizable penis whose upward curve hit all the right spots. More than all of that though, well...your husband treats you gently, like a best friend

and

the love of his life. You'd never experienced his anger, even you'd seen it targeted at those who'd earned it, and the way he expressed his love for you through impromptu song, sappy poetry, endless illustrations and paintings that were allegories to your wild romance...that was unlike any other.

Oh - and of course, he pleasures you like no other man or woman before. Your loins still ache with satisfaction and the thought of his thick cum still hot inside you makes you rub your thighs together.

He makes you happier than you've ever known.

You finally land on an old classic...a sleeveless, vanta black shirt that dips at the neck. Your man looks amazing in it, the lines of his collarbones brought into mouth-watering focus by the slender silver chain around his neck; you'd bought him the bloodstone medallion, shaped like an upside-down obelisk years ago, before you'd tied the knot in your hometown, and he hadn't taken it off since. They went well with his slacks, pressed and fitted to his hips. The bulge of his manhood invites your attention, and you have to make an active effort not to unzip his fly and stroke him to hardness again.

"You think I should put on some eyeliner baby? Maybe a little blush?" he teases, holding your coat out for you to slide your arms into; rational feminist you are, the way he takes care of you and makes you feel

safe

in a town like Chicago is another facet of the caring, powerful way he perceives masculinity. "I know how you love a...gentler sort of man."

The cupid's bow curve of your mouth stretches into a laugh as your delicate, long fingers alight on either side of his face. "My man is already gentle, and strong, and doesn't need any mascara to look sexy." Your lips meet - his are so soft, and he embraces you.

"I love you baby," he whispers as you run your fingers up and down his chest, down to his hips.

You love him too, and you always will.

It's cold outside, but his gregarious, torch-bright presence and his seed warming you from your groin outward drive back that bone-deep Midwestern chill. You've always been an incredibly energetic duo, especially once you took control of your health, so you brave the New Year's cold with him, bundled against winter gales and sprays of snow. Your bare, glass-smooth legs are textured with goose-flesh, but his coalfire-warm palm is always radiating against your waist, or at times your curved glutes underneath your skirt.

Chicago is a beautiful town...his father came from here, apparently from Lakeshore Drive, and he's parading you down State Street for all to see.

Picture this: your long-legged strides take you down paneled, solid sidewalks that bear the handprint and insignia of famous Chicagoans - poets and songwriters, politicians and athletes. On either side is a gallery of architectural greatness - the weight of this nation's short but dense history is told in its neoclassical archways and towers, but the sheer impact it has on the world of

NOW

illuminates the night in flashing alabasters and violets, emeralds and neon orange. Despite the cold, the streets are alive with honking, chaotic traffic and the sidewalks dense with humanity. You are as two obsidian stones in the river of man, cast against its tide and impossible to ignore.

See the 'old' money? Passed down three generations in this young land, that was all it took to be considered venerable and the quartet of well-to-do in their Dolce & Gabbana cashmeres, their Canali suit-coats stared you both down with peevish envy; for you'd gained through equal parts struggle and luck what wealth could never buy.

Smell the weed wafting like smoke from a dragon's lair in the back of a rusted old F-150...the girl with the ragged blonde hair and layers of winter-knits passes a blunt to her friend with his dreads and tattoos. Your passing breaks them from their cyclical haze, and for a moment neither says anything as they watch you, your arm looped through his.

Hear the 'ooo baby,' a low utterance from the stout, greasy man leaned up against a wall; your keen eyes pick up on the way he leans forward to grope a handful of your thigh beneath your coat but your husband fixes him a wordless stare; the tension is thick enough to chew and lasts for only a second, but you see the other man back down and return to his cellphone. Such aggressive masculinity in the New World...

Somehow you were always able to get into Scarlett's without paying a cover charge - normally it was a cool twenty greenbacks on a weeknight, thirty on a Saturday but you got the sense your man knew the owner, though he played mum about it; he always insisted it was because you were "the kind of hottie that people hoped to see when they go out". He's always looking for an excuse to exhort your good looks and burnish your confidence, which had never shone this brightly until you met him.

Scarlett's gives you these post-90s SynthPunk vibes; neon pink piping along the walls illuminates rows of sofas and tables where dozens of beautiful Chicagoans get stubbornly drunk and throw themselves at one another. A stainless steel bar made of some thirty jukeboxes welded and acryliced together buzzes with activity beneath moody black-lighting that casts the entire place in a surreal glow. Massive flatscreen TVs play a combination of campy horror movies, episodes from that old

Elfquest

cartoon, and an erotic Belgian art film you happen to recognize.

The two of you are snuggled against one another on a couch in front of a small table...you always take spots like that if you can get them, recalling the very first time you'd taken him to your favorite nightclub.

You clink your glasses - he shamelessly drinks some rainbow-bright froo-froo creation, you keep it classy with two fingers of Merlot - sip, and lean close to peck each other softly on the lips...a silly ritual of your own that you'd insisted upon; a kiss after the first drink of the night. "Y'know," he begins, his eyes like moss-covered oakbark on a rainy day linked with your own coffee-brown gaze, "I don't think I tell you enough, but you're incredibly sexy." Your man's eyes crawl iniquitously over your curvaceous dancer's body, and you can't help but preen at the attention.

"Mmm, actually, I'm not sure if you've ever told me," you chirp, sliding your ankle gently against his calf - playing footsie like you were high schoolers. "Why do you think that, baby?" The truth was, of course, he told you everyday but it never got old.

"Shall I paint thee in broad strokes, thou who art like snow in May, or...is it the sordid details you so crave?" Air rushes into your lungs and you sigh, love-struck at the way he talks to you. He's staring at you with dreamy hot eyes, tracking down the curve of your chest covetously...when you rub your thighs together you can feel his hot cum squish pleasantly within you.

"You know what I want," you purr at him in a low, suggestive voice, taking his hand and cupping it against your defined jawline, closing your eyes and nuzzling into his touch. You loved the sordid details, especially the way he delivered them. There it is, that constant state of arousal growing more intense with every word, and often it was just his silver tongue - combined with the sheer skill by which he'd mapped your body's erogenous zones, your life with him had been

deliciously

sensual.

"It's actually the little things that get me the most, my beauty of the Andes." His fingers stroke gently across your cheek, down the side of your neck. "The soft taper of your chin...the way your eyes become like crescent moons when you smile...and of course..." they catch gently in your collarbone with a rasp of his nails. "The flush hardness of your nipple against the tip of my tongue, singularly perfect..."

Sure enough! You can feel them, poking against your bra and your shirt.

You slide your fingers over the back of his palm...his hands are, surprisingly, only a little larger than yours, palms soft but for burrs of callus from holding dumbbells and the carpentry hobby he occasionally indulged in. "You've always paid such divine attention to them," and you surreptitiously pull his fingers down to cross over your nipples on their journey down your body, finding your bared, flat belly.

"It is but one of my favorite parts of your perfect body," he answers; you breathe in and release the same deep, happy sigh you've been giving almost every day for years. This man really knew how to make you feel sexy like none other before. "Don't forget though...there's so much more for me to love baby, like..."

So long doth run the list of his desire for you; under the curved eaves of his bicep, you lean in close and let your deep, dark eyes hood shut as he recites the poetry of your body. He whispers into your ear, punctuating his sentences with ethereal kisses.

"...your arms, lithe and smooth like elm branches, how I love the way they hold tightly to my shoulders when you ride me..."

"...your hair, like waves of night through my fingertips my love, falling coyly over your face when you lick and kiss my cock..."

"...the plush, impossibly round perfection of your ass, of the way it yields to my grasp when we make love. You know I love to hold on to it when I thrust into your sex..."

Like a doom metal singer, he's able to take the lewdest speech and make it poetic; by his speech alone does he cause your hips to squirm, your clitoris swollen and hard between your labia.

"No man...no woman...has ever made me want sex as much as you. I don't know how you've done it my love, but I've been consistently aroused in your presence basically everyday...and I thought I was low libido once." You surreptitiously drag his hand up your thigh, pressing his fingers between them to touch your node - you moan in quiet need. "That's not just you flowing out of

meee...

" You melt when his thumb moves in little circles up against your hard nubbin before drawing out and licking it with a wink.

"Wanna dance, baby?" He invites you. Temporarily at a loss for words, you pull him close and kiss him passionately before you migrate to the dance floor.

Before you met him, your habit was to only show off to your partner; your husband is still the one you flaunt yourself before, but when the both of you are out in public it's terribly entertaining to perform, as you'd discovered.

The two of you sweat together as you dance, and it's the kind of mixing of perspiration you adore. The low, thudding, grungy music is a bass beat you can feel in your lower belly as you move artfully against him.

You turn teasingly to grind your round posterior against his groin and ring your arm around his neck - he nips your throat in turn and this public display of passion only makes you want him all the more. Dancing together is always such a surreal sensory trip, and you remember it in flashes of delicious lucidity:

He dips you by the waist - a daring move that you've both perfected - and trails fingers down your neck, over your chest as you smile and drape over his arm like velvet finery...

A gorgeous, golden haired man behind you, moving his hips against your ass; your handsome, dark eyed husband against your groin; you moan beneath the music as they both kiss your neck and shoulders...