| The Offering
There is a festive atmosphere in the town. There is an expectant silence in the
wood. The people are coming to the wood, bringing the Summer Offering.
Bedecked in garlands, the Offering is brought to the same place as always: the
stump of an ancient apple, which grew to great age before it died. Now the top
of the stump is smooth and gently indented from generations of Offerings.
They lay the Offering gently on the altar, and remove the white linens
covering. Under the cloths, the Offering is white and smooth of skin. She is
perfect, chosen for her perfection. She is beautiful, without blemish. The pale
rose nipples of her become erect as they are anointed with the sacred
oil. The palms of her hands, the soles of her feet, the lids of her eyes, her lips,
her thighs, all are anointed by reverent hands. And with ropes of flowers they
bind her, opened, to the tree altar. They leave, without looking back.
She is naked, but not cold. They gave her a cup of something fragrant,
and now she feels neither fear nor pain. The woods are still, waiting.
She begins to feel warm, the places on her where the oil is warmed by her
skin. The smell of the oil on her lips tickles her nose, and she licks her lips.
The oil is earthy, with a bitter aftertaste, not unpleasant. The anointed places
begin to get hot. Between her legs, her thighs bloom with heat. Low in her
belly, fire is gathering. She moves as much as the flower-bonds let her, but
still she is bound and it makes her still hotter. She feels as though all her
skin must be glowing with heat, sending the scent of the oil through all the
wood. There is sweat on her body, and wetness between her thighs.
There is a rustle in the brush, and a cloven hoof steps into the clearing.
Slowly, tentatively, others follow. Up from the cloven hooves, up past the furry
legs, somewhere reality blurs, and above that are the torsos of men. Quietly,
the satyrs are gathering.
Yes. The Offering is here. Hands reach to touch the rosy skin, and she
moans as she moves. Horned heads nod to one another. Quickly, hands run
down the length of her body, stroking and kneading. Yes. She is perfect.
A voice rings out: Let the Offering be prepared! With giggles, the satyrs set
to their work. Lips hid in beards touch her, tongues slip out to press and lick.
All over her body, thrilling sensations; the palms of her hands, the soles of her
feet, the lids of her eyes. Her cries get louder, and she strains against the
flowers. Her belly is on fire, her burning for touch.
And now a warm mouth is there! And all over her, hands and lips and
tongues and teeth are on her. The mouth on her clit licks and nibbles, sucks
her clit in like a tiny phallus. Gentle fingers probe her cunt, getting slick and
sliding in, first one, then another, slowly and sweetly stretching her open, for
He is powerful this year; He is large.
The heat is like a sauna; she is sobbing with pleasure. A flower rope snaps
from the strength of her writhing, and immediately hands take her wrist and
hold it firm. She feels all on fire, like the sun-beaten earth.
The Offering is prepared! At once the hands leave her, still dying with
desire. She screams and sobs. Drums begin to beat to the rhythm of her
panting. Drums and deep voices circling around her. She opens her eyes.
The Lord has come to her. His body is lean, and muscled like a statue.
His legs are human legs, but still furred. And each time she blinks when she
looks at His head, it changes: now a manÕs, now a stagÕs, now a manÕs with
antlers, now a manÕs with horns, now a with the spiral horns of the
ram. The Lord is full of power this year; He is large indeed. The drumming
quickens, and he bends over her; she sees him nod and smile at the satyrs who
hold her spread before him. You have done well. You will be rewarded.
And now he looks at her, his eyes caress her and his hands follow. The
touch of his hand is like the touch of sun-heated stone. She arches her body
toward him; his eyes are twin flames as he nods to her. Yes. You, too, will
have your desire. I am the Lord who fulfills all desire.
She feels the head of His phallus her, sweetly as the fingers before,
and further, as it widens out. He slides his hands under her hips and lifts her
to Him. Like a sword sheathing, His member slips deep within.
And now the drums quicken, the chant grows to shouting. The hair of his
belly brushes hers into flame. The head of his cock pushes her cervix; in pain
so sweet as pleasure, her senses expand. Pressed into the trunk, she becomes
the trunk, becomes the earth with the sun heating her, rays of light probing
her dark places. She is the mare, and he the stallion; she is the doe and he
the stag. She senses the satyrsÕ dance on her skin Ñ some now dance inside
each other. Beards brush balls, and satyrs open themselves to their brothers.
The Lord shouts, wordless, and she-satyrs burst from the forest. The drums
are pounding, all openings filled. And all the while, the Lord is moving, his
buttocks clenching with every thrust. They grunt together like rutting deer,
breathing and moving to the beat of the drum. She is a drum and he is the
beater, and each stroke makes her throb like a drum. Who is drumming now?
All the satyrs are on the soft earth, moving in each other. What is the drum?
What is the rhythm? The pounding of hearts, the soft slap of skin against
skin, the deep huff of hard breathing.
Her arms and legs are long since free, and she wraps herself around him,
drawing him in, pressing herself to his fever-hot skin. Louder and faster,
harder and deeper, she feels as if his cock has grown and filled her; she feels it
in her belly, in her chest; his tongue is in her, his cock is in her, and she is
wrapped all around him, and as the drumming drowns all sound and thought,
he drowns in her and she melts around him, and they become one being, then
all being and so no being.
People return in the morning, and find seedlings new-grown overnight
around the tree. They dig them up carefully and reverently; the Offering has
been accepted. The women who wish to be Offered in time to come, kneel to
the grass when backs are turned, and take up the dew to rub on their eyelids
and hands and mouths. They sit in the dew, and walk away from the clearing
on bare feet. When the Offering returns from her time in the wood, bearing the
power that will sustain the people through winter, they hope after that to be
chosen and Offered.