The Ritual 4

I think I am lost.

I took a wrong turn, I must have done, and now the sun is low and his rays in my eyes. Shafts of deepening light slant through the trees about me. I blink, dazzled. There was a path, but I don’t know where I left it.

Stopping, I listen.

Far away, the drone of traffic; an irrational fear subsides. As the sun tumbles slowly downwards in soft, gold light, I hear birdsong on the gathering breeze.

I turn; my boots rustle in the first of the autumn’s leaves. Around me, the air is cooling; goosebumps flutter across my skin. I pull my battered jacket closed and search my pockets.

Keys, wallet, wrapper from a chocolate bar eaten earlier in the day. Mobile ‘phone.

No signal.

I jam the useless ‘phone back out of sight and keep turning.

I am standing at the bottom of a great, wooded bowl. Before me is an ancient Oak, King of the trees that surround him. His canopy is vast, beginning to turn a thousand shades of gold with the season. Under him, nothing grows; the ground crunches with acorn husks and dry leaves.

A twitch-tailed squirrel scatters in a scrabble of claws.

My

frisson

of fear returns… what has made him flee?

Unconsciously, I draw my jacket tighter about my body and continue to look around. I have the oddest feeling I am being watched.

Ranged a distance about this mighty tree, his subjects are beeches and lindens, tall and straight and smooth-trunked, their leaves glowing in the waning sun. One has fallen, tearing down with him his closest neighbour.

Berating my reasonless fears, I jump up on this vantage point.

The ground rises all around me – I cannot see road or path.

But—

Oh, my God.

In the cloak of shadow that the Oak pulls about himself, there stands a figure. I cannot see it clearly – it is half-hidden and the golden sun still dazzles – but it is tall, hair long and dark and wild.

For no explicable reason, the sight goes through my body like a shaft of wildfire. I overbalance and half-scramble, half-slide gracelessly to the forest floor, my boots clumping to the ground and my back flat against the trunk of the fallen beech.

I am shaking, but it is not from the adrenaline of the brief fall. Something rivets me; I stare at this silent shape as though transfixed.

It watches me, amused and curious and, somehow, faintly…

…predatory…

I feel its gaze explore me like the soft tip of a feather; I find myself pulling my jacket tighter across my breasts, trying to shrink into the fallen beech behind me.

Carefully, still watching me, it moves.

It moves in silence. The forest is in silence. I was not aware when the birdsong stopped, when the scrabbling squirrel had fled, but now I am alone and the silence rings in my ears. The figure moves with a delicate grace and a subtle sense of power; slowly, as if attempting not to frighten me further, it takes a pace forwards.

Another.

I am unable to take my eyes from it.

A third silent step brings it from the Oak’s shadow into a dappling of sun. Haloed by the light, he is beautiful, breathtakingly beautiful; wild and alien. His tangled mane of hair is the hue of the tree behind him, his bared chest like deeply polished wood.

But it is not his beauty that has my hands clenching into white-knuckled knots of tension, my throat closing in fear and disbelief…

Stepping delicately over the leaf-litter, he has no feet. No feet! His legs are strong, gracefully muscled under a fine pelt – God, it looks soft – yet they end in elegant, cloven hooves.

Shaking my head at the insanity of it all, I have to sound the thought to myself.

Satyr.

I cannot breathe.

Satyr!

This is crazy.

Mind tottering with incomprehension, I drag my gaze upwards. His hips are beautifully carved - smooth, bare, gloriously human. And from their centre…

My fingers twitch; I have an overwhelming urge to touch him, to run my hands over the flawless beauty of that incredible cock. I want to feel how good he feels. My lips part, I find I can breathe again – now all too swiftly. Colour is rising in my cheeks. Unable to help myself, I am rubbing my palms on the trunk of the toppled beech.

Seeing me look, he has paused. Watching. Waiting to see what I will do.

Anticipation swells within me; there is a powerful, wanton glow building deep in my belly. Beneath my jeans, the first stirrings of a primordial hunger that thunders in time to the blood in my temple..

My God…

A fourth step, picking that small hoof high above the leaf-litter and placing it carefully. His head is tilted to one side, studying me with a whetted sense of impatience. I become aware that my knees are shaking, teetering under a rising wave that will crash into a flood of wordless

wanting.

Adrenaline. I want to run. Towards? Away?

He is fully in the light, now; his beauty mesmerising, more than human. The planes of his face are smooth and sun-darkened like his sleek, polished body. Tiny, horns lend him a faintly Pan-like aspect but his full lips are parted; I find my eyes on them without realising where I’m looking. The thought of them caressing me, his hot breath teasing my skin…

And that wave of

wanting

breaks over me.

I stagger under its onslaught.

Beneath my torn-kneed jeans, I am aching; craving his attention as if he carries lust with him like a weapon. A fifth step and I can see his eyes, green and gold and yellow and glittering; there is a danger in him; the passion of his being burns savage-bright.

I find I am letting go of the front of my leather jacket, dropping it from my shoulders. As I do so, an inane voice in my head is cursing my shapeless, battered garments. Had I

known

when I left my tent this morning…

I find the courage to stand upright. The movement brushes my hungering, swelling lips against the inside seam of my jeans and the contact has me biting my lip. At my reaction, he smiles – sending lightning thrilling through my skin. His eyes travel the length of my body as I drop my jacket to the ground; searing, challenging, appreciative.

I’m entranced, how can I be otherwise? Amid the deafening raging of my body – my nipples bra-less against the rough fabric of my t-shirt, my pussy begging for his attention – I become aware of a new sensation.

I’m

nervous.

This is no dream, no fantasy, no fiction. I am alone in a sunset woodland and I am—

Like a pouncing cat, he is standing before me, trembling with intensity.

Oh, my God.

This close, he carries a powerful musk that fills my head like a drug. Wild-eyed and wild-haired, he’s untamed and primeval; his skin begs to be touched, the tremendous curve of his cock is insanely tempting – and a little scary.

I watch, hypnotised, as I lay my hand flat against his pectoral. The cool evening breeze raises the hairs on my arm.

The contact is a fierce shock; it brings my nipples hard against my t-shirt and makes my hips twitch in longing. He shivers, his pleasure echoing through me. It gives me the confidence to repeat the movement.

Unable to utter a word, I run both hands over his chest, his shoulders. His eyes close. He surrenders himself to my touch and I hear his breath sigh warm between his lips. Overawed, I pull back, the palms of my hands burning with smoothness and heat.

His eyes open.

The light in them is dangerous; I half-expect him to tear my t-shirt from me but he grins like a daemon and runs the back of his hand down the side of my face, pushing aside a stray wisp of my hair.

Lightning shocks though me. Without knowing how I got there, I am on my knees before him, shaking like the great Oak’s leaves.

And in front of me…

I cannot help myself. His hands tangle my hair as my lips part.

That first touch, first taste… incredible, inexpressible; the sensation of having that beautiful, smooth cock pushing between my lips is almost more than I can stand. For a moment, I cannot move – he is still silent – and then I am free of my nervousness and fear; I am hungry, eager, wanton, sliding my hands over the soft fur of his thighs and pulling him into me.

Oh please…

His grip tightens in pleasure; he makes no sound.

But his need, his response, is feedback enough. The rise of his urgency lifts me, too; I feel his cock bucking and twitching, loving how much I want it. I wrap one hand about that velvet-warm shaft and let myself slide forwards, pulling him deeper in to my mouth, my tongue stroking him, coaxing, caressing.

His musk is making my head spin; without realising, I am pushing my hips back against the tree trunk behind me, grinding against something, anything, with no more shame than a bitch in heat. I need to be teased, touched, filled and penetrated – in front and behind; oh

God, every

where…

Slowly, he pushes forwards further, and my throat opens for him; I feel him slide all the way and oh that’s so

good...

His hands knot harder in my hair. Then he slowly, slowly withdraws as if understanding that I am savouring every slipping inch. When just the very tip is resting at my lips, my hand and tongue still stroking him, he gently pulls my head back so he can look at me.

Those

eyes..!

Watching the need in my expression, he takes himself in one hand and begins to slowly stroke his cock, right in my face. I hear myself whimper, I can’t help it; he bares his teeth as he looks down at me relishing every movement.

My hands are finding my belt buckle, fumbling to free my hot, wet skin to the coolness of the evening. I all but tear my button-fly open, scramble to push battered jeans and no-one’s-going-to-see-them panties down over my hips.

With my flushed pussy bared to the air, my jeans gracelessly round my knees, I find I can pick up my own scent. A flickering of his nostrils, a lifting of his jaw, tells me that he has found it too. He inhales, loving it, his lips parting to drink it in like wine.

Oh…

But he denies himself, looks back down at me. Every nerve in my body is still aching to touch, taste, savour…

Playing, he pushes forwards and I grab for his hips to hold him in place, gratefully, greedily taking his cock in my mouth and sliding my lips and tongue and throat down over him as if to never let him go. My exposed cunt is swollen, desperate, but I don’t want to ever stop… I want to stay here, hands and mouth where they have always dreamed of being.

Inanely, I wonder if I’m going mad, but the thought is swamped by washes of ecstasy as his pace increases.

He’s starting to let himself go, fucking my mouth with long, sweet strokes.

And I am sobbing with pleasure, deep in my throat – I have

never

made noises like this. Slowly, abandonment – is it his or is it mine? – overcomes me.

Scruffily half-naked, I forget that I’m rubbing my starving pussy on the heel of one of my Doctor Marten’s. I forget the forest around me, the great Oak, the coolness of the air and even the warmth of the body I kneel before. My focus is one thing: the sexual, sensual sliding of that tremendous curve of cock, thrusting to the hilt into my hot, needy mouth, and withdrawing to thrust again…

Time is lost to me; there is nothing else in my world.

I give myself up to sensation. I do not see the evening light coalesce into smiling, feminine shapes – a handful of maidens as beautiful and as wild as he is. I do not see them close round us, their supple hands brushing his shoulders, their exotic eyes drinking in the scene, their soft lips parted. The sun loses himself lower in the darkening sky and the air cools to a dream; in silence, always in silence, they have come to watch the ritual.

Without warning, the contact is broken. He has withdrawn – I start as though waking, look up, then round me, wide-eyed. My body still

wants

, my arse is bared to the gathering twilight. For a moment, startlement, embarrassment and fear struggle with the still-blazing fire… then he lowers his hand to me and raises me to my feet.

He consumes my attention; his strength and wildness, the touch of his hand on mine. I stand, forgetting how ridiculous I must look, my boots still on and my jeans round my calves…

As though commanded, I stand upright, taller than the maidens round me. I pull my t-shirt over my head, exposing my breasts to the air. My nipples are delicate, pale pink – but they’re as hard as cork and as sensitive as fingertips. He sighs in silence, enjoying my nakedness with an anticipation I

feel

; he raises his hands to touch me and I cry out at the first shock of contact. Around me, it is echoed by soft, musical voices.

His hands become rougher, his thumbs flicking back and forth over my nipples. I quiver; my skin is so

alive!

The voices round me sigh with me; delighted laughter sprinkles the air. He leans forwards and I feel his breath – oh God so

warm!

– against the side of my throat.

He’s inhaling the scent of my skin. The realisation is electrifying and I’m not sure why.

Oh, please…

I am unaware that I’ve said anything aloud.

There are hands on me, like leaves brushing my skin. Soft and insistent, they pull me backwards, down onto the trunk of the fallen beech. Long hair tickles me, laughing voices sparkle in the air. More of them reach for my boots and jeans; I find myself naked, utterly exposed, and laying back like a sacrifice.

Those sweet, feminine hands are parting my thighs, stroking my skin, holding my shoulders, teasing my hair free from its band and letting it free – long and loose. Moth-gentle lips brush against me.

They’re holding me down…

They’re holding me

down?

For a second, fear and anger crystallise and I try to sit up. My mouth opens to demand an explanation. Tinkling with amusement, they’re stronger than me; I am on my back across this fallen tree, my thighs held apart in a grip as strong as silk.

Helpless.

He stands over me, idly stroking himself while he relishes the view, the anticipation. They watch him, too – whispering to each other in a susurration I cannot understand.

His hands rest, dark and strong as tree-roots, upon the soft skin of each inner thigh; he lowers himself to his knees before me. Looking down over my own restrained body, my breasts and belly and trimmed, eager cunt, I see him transfixed at the sight – catching his lower lip between his teeth.

He spends an endless, maddening moment just

looking.

Then he leans forwards and brings his mouth to me.

That first touch is almost too much. My breath explodes out of me; I am writhing, half in pleasure and half in a frantic effort to get away – but the hands are merciless and do not allow me to move. His fingers are gripping me hard now, there is a deep, soft growling coming from him as he bends into another taste.

I buck and flex, crying out. More whispers, more soft kisses teasing my skin. In a half-daze, I wonder: are they mocking my mortality – my inability to withstand this kind of pleasure?

He seems to understand. His tongue begins to caress me in long, smooth strokes; I relax, let the heat and exquisite, excruciating tide of pleasure carry me. My face is burning, my breasts aching; I feel soft, cool fingers stroking my shoulders and belly. I am an instrument being tuned by a master musician, an artwork created by a sculptor without peer. There is no struggle to my pleasure, no tension, no concentration – as the pace of his tongue steadily increases I am circling my hips towards him, wordlessly begging him not to stop.

I hear his rumbling growl increase. Gently, he teases my clit with the tip of his tongue, making me shudder. He leans in closer, parting my lips with his fingers and gently fucking me with his tongue's tip.

My breathing is light, swift, shallow. The discomfort of the tree below me, even the hands that hold me there, have gone. I am lost in the primeval blood-pounding of the pleasure he brings.

He slides two of his fingers into me; I feel myself tighten round him. A long, shaking cry escapes me. Keeping a steady, thrusting pressure, he turns his tongue back to my clit and caresses it with slow, circular movements. I am writhing, thrusting my hips towards him, wanting more - and he increases the pace of his fingers slowly in tune with my movements.

His growling grows deeper, more urgent. His tongue moves faster, now flickering side to side. I am starting to tense, the first hint of the climax that will come; he takes my clit between his lips and sucks on it, gently and my tension becomes an arch-backed, inarticulate plea.

He withdraws his fingers from me and uses them to part my lips further. His tongue teases my cunt, then begins to thrust, gently at first - and then deeper. I can hear my own voice begging him me to fuck me, not to stop.

I’m going to come—

He withdraws, connection broken.

Panting, cheated and flushed, I watch him stand, his mouth glistening. He raises his fingers, breathes in the scent from them then offers them to me. I want to taste myself on him, but the hands don’t let me up and I watch him offer my taste to the nearest of his maidens.

She takes it prettily, her sweetness giving me an ache all of its own.

But his attention is only for what it does to me; wet, open and crazed with the need to feel that cock in me. With his sexual, rumbling growl thrumming somewhere deep in his chest, he takes a half-pace forwards and leans over me, his hands on the beech tree either side of my shoulders.

I can do nothing but stare up at him, wordless, breathless. He wild tangle of hair falls forwards, curtaining us from the world.

Only those eyes – human, and more than human…

The tip of his cock tantalises me. I strive to tilt my hips, bring him to me but he twitches back, staying just out of reach.

Again:

Please!

His mouth twitches at my need.

There is a pause that seems to last forever. Then he throws his head back – how has the sky over me become so dark, I can see the stars! – and with a wordless, merciless cry he thrusts his cock into me.

My cry is almost a scream, rising into the night. He, too – a guttural shout of connection and intensity.

Around us, the whispering has become a soft song, a steady throb that hints at Bacchanalian wildness.

He withdraws. Slowly. I can feel every movement, every slip. My cunt sucks his cock as if I don’t want to let him go.

He thrusts again. Equally slowly. His long, deep stroke has me helpless with shivering pleasure, awash with sensation – I want all of him, strive to push my hips towards him as he penetrates me to the hilt.

Oh my God, yes!

His hair falls over us; his impossible eyes watch me intensely.

He withdraws, he thrusts again – swifter now, even deeper. A sweet, steady pace that has me begging him to fuck me, to

fuck

me; telling him not to stop and oh, how good that feels. The music rises around him; sweet and fluid but with a swelling rhythm that catches at my pulse and breathing.

I am moving my hips, matching him, trying to drive him faster.

He withdraws, thrusts again. Never taking his gaze from mine, he increases his pace with me, swifter still, his hips circling in a motion that finds my hard, bared clit and has me flexing, writhing, needing.

Yes like that… oh, yes…

I tense my muscles around him, gripping his cock in hot, wet walls. His breath hisses between his teeth. He fucks me harder, leaning closer over me; our breath mixes as we sigh.

Around us, music deepens – a tide of life that lifts us, carries us. Like the erotic throb of tribal drumming, it picks up my heart-beat, the shallow swiftness of my breathing, the wordless cries that escape me. It picks up the sharp, fiery shocks that race through my body as my clit sparks with pleasure and I shake with a rising need to come.