Reia’s Ritual

Raiders have been spotted creeping up the slopes to Reia. Our village is mostly-hidden and entirely self-sufficient in an ancient crater lakebed atop a misty mountain, and we bother no others. Indeed, it is the Reian creed to Let All Be. Sometimes, however, outsiders do not extend us the same allowances.

I am standing with the villagers that will be staying behind while our strongest warriors prepare to obstruct and repel the invaders. Kourt stands directly before me, glorious in his size and beauty. Looming, large and muscular, he has sun-caressed skin and shoulder-length hair of milk chocolate and crimson. Even more magnetic is his intensity, as his flashing amber eyes are spearing me through, simultaneously freezing me in place and making my knees shake.

I am fully aware of the yearning looks the other villagers are sending our way, men and women alike. I have seen them sneaking long desirous gazes at this beautiful creature of mine. I cannot blame them. He is spectacular. But I am not concerned with their thoughts as Kourt reaches down and palms the back of my head, leaning in for a deep kiss, joining our mouths with such completion and passion that I melt into him with closed eyes, and it begins.

I feel a fluttery sensation, and open my eyes to find us alone in a foggy clearing. I am standing naked, my back against a smooth-barked tree. Kourt is also bare, and still has his hand behind my head. His other hand moves behind my back to press our bodies together tightly as he continues the intense kisses. At length, we break away gasping, and he reaches both hands down to lift me, cupping my thighs and settling me effortlessly onto his ready length.

The delicious ease with which he maneuvers my body multiplies the ferocity of the pleasure he pushes into me, and it only takes a few thrusts before I find myself cresting. Feeling my ardor, he takes a firmer grasp and flips us, so that his back is supported against the flat bark. His legs are planted wide as he holds me in place with nothing but his powerful arms. Slowly, he rocks me back and forth, and sometimes side to side, and gravity allows for no gap between any part of our joined bodies. Each movement adds to our fervor; new sensations pile up with no dimming of the last.

Finally I break. I cry out, shuddering and swaying a bit as my juices flow between and over his strong thighs.

“Tana!” He bellows my name with a breaking voice and pulses into me, seizing my wavering body more securely as we attempt to catch our breath. One or two more thrusts threaten to tear me apart as Kourt watches me with a wicked gleam in his eyes, his irises now a haunting mix of gold and black.

Those eyes take on a questioning glimmer, and I understand. It is time.

The fluttering returns and we are clothed again, surrounded by villagers. With a self-satisfied smirk, Kourt places me gently on the ground, directly into a sitting position, as I am now effectively boneless.

There is no embarrassment. We know that the villagers only saw a brief glimmer and nothing else. But it is obvious what transpired, as Kourt’s cheeks and collarbones have spots of high color. He is coated in a sheen of sweat and his chest is heaving as he puts on his shirt of maille.

I know I too have these telltale spots of color, but it doesn’t matter. In fact, the villagers have realized that this shimmering occurrence directly correlates to victory against intruders every time, so they have taken to their own Bacchanalian celebrations if allowed the time before a guard foray. They do not hold the power I possess, but there is always something to be said for positive thinking. The gods only know if these extra joinings aid in our safety.

The angelic Torh and his mighty woman Kassit are standing very close in the guard party, holding hands tightly and breathing just a touch harder than would normally be accounted for. They must have stolen away for a moment of their own, I think and smile. Good for them. Good for us.

Kourt’s beautiful mane is now dark with sweat, creating a striking contrast to the scarlet ends. He ties it back, his eyes locked with mine in wolfish sagacity. We will all be safe. The Ritual is complete.

Finger Daggers

Too high. Wish I could play tape in the sober moments, so I could grab up those really good ideas that come to mind when I am laying down in a semi-coma. Become a real writer. For a living. Inevitably, though, I would watch myself in playback from the day before and see bad habits, ugly facial expressions, fat dumb me, etc. My self-loathing would skyrocket. Or worse, I could become a narcissist and no longer be able to enjoy laughing at all of the LookAtMe nuts running around on reality TV. Bad road either way. 

About TV. Let’s talk about those pointy scary knife nails women on TV are sporting. I say TV as I am fairly certain I only actually know two gals who wear nails like this in normal life. But I see them on both fiction and reality TV, so obviously some people bit the bait hook and live this way. This new feminine ideal I keep seeing is turning true tools of magic and mechanical genius into semi-useless flippers on the end of women’s arms. Nothing can get picked up or used without flattening the fingers into a duck head hand puppet. It’s difficult to easily picture a woman creating something, doctoring, or, hell, even writing or typing when you see these weapons of questionable reason. I mostly imagine flapping of hands and adjusting of hair extensions,  immediately followed by one flipper waving skyward in counterbalance to the giant expensive handbag in the crook of that arm, thus wholly eliminating use of an entire upper limb as she totters along in stilettos. 

Not to say I don’t love me some nails. I live in a constant battle, attempting to grow something feminine on the ends of my man-hands. Whoops, see there…what I just did. I equivocated femininity with excess keratin (or fiberglass or gel or what have you) pointed precariously into thin air, yet groomed and painted and celebrated and budgeted for like precious children.

Girls are weird.

I also love high heels. I just can’t wear them anymore. So perhaps this entire rant is simple jealousy.