Cucky And The Samhain Ritual

"You wish to spend Samhain with me?" Ms. Morrigan asked me, arching one of her perfectly arched eyebrows.

"Yes!" I replied, enthusiastically. "I would love to!"

"Hmmm. You sound very eager. Just what is it you think happens at a Samhain Sabbat?"

"Well ... I have heard it called The Great Rite."

She chuckled. "You've been doing some reading, I see. Good for you. But if you're expecting a coven of naked women gyrating in the moonlight, you're going to be sorely disappointed."

I shrugged. I actually hadn't even dared to consider one naked woman, but I was enjoying the banter. "So what does happen?"

"How about ... we watch a scary movie and hand out candy ?" she laughed.

I smiled. Actually, that sounded delightful, in a casual mistress-and-pet way. As long as I got to remain in her presence.

"While you answer the door and hand out candy , and the soccer moms watch you from the sidewalk, and you wonder if they can tell that you're locked in chastity..."

Okay, yes, that sounded ... right up my alley.

"Well ... I am missing one ingredient for a potion..." she offered, after a pause.

"Oh? What's that?"

"The bitter seed of a chastened convert."

I felt my eyes getting wide. "Um ... bitter seed?" I rather liked the sound of that.

"Oh, you'd like to help me acquire the ingredient?" she asked, teasingly. "Well, you're certainly chastened. But I don't think you're a convert."

"So convert me," I volunteered.

"No, I think you're a skeptic," she said. "It's okay, you're very polite about your skepticism."

I accepted her critique, not certain whether she was dismissing me or not. Then she mused, "Actually, the phrase is 'síol cráite' -- not bitter seed, but anguished seed. What would make you anguished?"

I felt my pulse quicken.

"Okay, go get naked. And put the cage on."

She didn't have to tell me twice. I scurried off to the bathroom, to wrangle my stirring penis into the device before it woke up completely. By the time I returned -- nude, as required -- Morrigan had changed into a floor-length black robe, and tucked her dark hair up inside a turban-like slouch cap. She had also removed all the chairs from around her dining room table.

And she was carrying a black-handled dagger, which she pointed at the floor as she walked in a circle around the room.

"It's called an Athame," she informed me. "For summoning energy."

I nodded.

"Gluine," she said, in Gaelic, then translated for me. "Kneel."

I complied.

"Cuir do lámha taobh thiar de do dhroim," she continued. "Place your hands behind your back." Again, I followed her instructions.

"Ceangailim thú," she intoned. "I bind thee."

Overwhelmed with the eroticism of the moment, I wasn't about to test it. I stayed on my knees and watched her as she produced a shallow wooden bowl and placed it on the floor between my knees.

"So, the Great Rite on the Samhain Sabbat. Samhain is the end of the Wiccan year and the beginning of a new one. It is commemorated by the communion of the Goddess, the Divine Feminine, which is eternal, and the Divine Masculine, the God that dies with each harvest and is reborn with each spring."

"Ummm."

"Don't worry," she told me. "You're not the God."

That was disappointing, but also somewhat reassuring, considering that she was still holding a dagger. Which she then raised to the ceiling and recited an incantation:

"Tóg go dtí an fhoraois sinn."

Suddenly, we were no longer in Ms. Morrigan's dining room; we were in a clearing in a dark forest. In the branches of the surrounding oak trees, brittle leaves rustled in the wind, but above we had an open view of the silver clouds scudding past the full moon. In the midst of the clearing was a stone altar, with two candles flickering inside hollowed-out gourds. Ms. Morrigan stood in front of it, facing me, wearing her black robe, her dark hair now down around her shoulders.

I was confused, but surprisingly not alarmed. She had obviously done something, my mind was able to assure me, to plant an illusion in my head. I was sure she hadn't physically transported us 3000 years back in time to some primeval Hebridean forest. But as I pondered that, I became aware of another figure approaching us through the woods behind her, and the analytical part of my mind switched off.

A man moved forward, came around the altar and stood behind her, his dark eyes fixed on her form, while she maintained eye contact with me, smiling enigmatically.

He was easily a foot taller than she was, even barefoot. He had shoulder-length dark hair and broad shoulders, and he was wearing a simple ghillie shirt and leather trousers. Pretty much the picture of the divine masculine. I wasn't even sure what was real and what was not, but my familiar pang of jealousy was certainly real.

He placed his hands on her shoulders, and slowly turned her to face him, her head swiveling to continue to look at me as long as she could, before she turned to face him. Only then did he look up and meet my eyes. He gave me a slight, smug smile of acknowledgment, then returned his attention to her.

I watched, mesmerized and with a hint of nausea, as he dropped his hands from her shoulders to her waist, and she reached up and unlaced the leather drawstring of his shirt. Then she reached down to grasp it by the hem and pulled it up, and he followed her prompt, raising his arms above his head to remove it. As he let it fall to the ground, I could see her arms moving, her hands unseen in front of her, obviously loosening his trousers. They, too, fell to the ground and he stepped out of them.

I felt something something like my heart rising in my throat as I knelt, spellbound ... literally, it seemed ... by the sight that seemed to be unfolding in front of me.

I had been Ms. Morrigan's submissive for over a year, but only in the past couple of months had she added cuckolding to her mix of torments. And it never actually happened in front of me. She titillated and taunted me about enjoying other men, allowing them to enjoy her, before and after the fact; even sent me a short audio recording once. But nothing like this.

It appeared that I was going to be celebrating Halloween by actually witnessing my cuckolding -- even if only in a conjured dream. And I was to be cuckolded by a God, no less.

Predictably, my cock was beginning to ache inside its cage.

Meanwhile, the male had returned his hands to Morrigan's shoulders. He must have untied the ribbon at her throat, because now he was pushing the robe down her arms. I gasped as the garment fell to her hips and, for the first time in my life, the flawless pale skin of Morrigan's naked back came into my view. Sculpted shoulder blades, a shadow along her spine, two perfect dimples at the small of her back, just above where the folds of the robe gathered. Then those dimples disappeared behind the fingers of the man as he grasped her at the waist and pulled her naked torso up against his.

Her arms went up and around his neck; she stood on tip-toe, craning her neck upwards, while he bent down to kiss her. From my vantage point I couldn't see their lips touch, but I could tell from the shiver of her spine the moment they did. I knew that, hidden from my sight, her soft lips were parting for his; his tongue, insistent and firm, was invading her sweet, sacred mouth, her own tongue accepting, yielding to it.

Without taking my eyes from the scene, I had a distinct vision that I was also looking down at the bowl between my knees, watching my beating heart slide into it from the wound in my chest.

Meanwhile, the man's hands had moved down Morrigan's legs, fingers working to pull the robe up the sides of her thighs. Just before the hem reached her bottom, his hands disappeared underneath the fabric. I could tell that he was cupping, kneading the supple cheeks of her shapely derriere. And then she gave a little hop, and he was lifting her. Her thighs came up around his waist, encircling him. Hidden beneath the folds of her robe that was now gathered up around her own waist, I knew what was happening, even if I was, as always, denied the actual view.

I didn't even get to hear her plaintive gasp or his satisfied growl of pleasure. At the moment that this embodiment of the Divine Masculine thrust up into the Goddess, the sky was split open with a peel of thunder and a bolt of lightning. The wind whipped through the boughs above us, and a torrential rain began to pound down on the altar and the two figures in front of it. I was barely able to register that somehow the downpour was not reaching me; but mostly I was transfixed at the sight in front of me -- two bodies, intertwined, moving together as water cascaded over them, connected at the lips and, I knew, somewhere more intimate behind the fabric bunched around her waist.

She had teased me once about liking sex in a torrential downpour. Now I understood where that came from. The wind whistled; the candles smoked and sputtered inside their gourds as the fat raindrops splattered against the altar and on their taut skin and the ground around them. I became aware of the peaty aroma as the soil around them absorbed the storm and turned muddy.

Earth. Air. Fire. And Water.

Meanwhile, the man turned ninety degrees so I could see them in profile, their arms clutching at each other, desperate to maintain their grips on each other's rain-slickened bodies, urgent for his manhood to reach the core of Her Being. The ache in my chest was rivalling the ache between my legs.

And then he walked her around the altar, until they were on the other side of it from me. Then he lifted her, presumably slipping out of her, and lowered her until her feet were on the ground and he once again towered over her.

As he turned her to face me, she made eye contact with me again, and I noted that she had crossed her arms over her bountiful breasts. Even at the moment she was allowing me to watch a stranger penetrate her, she was still denying me that view.

Then he placed one hand in the middle of her back and pushed her down, bent her over the altar, once again briefly catching my eye, one side of his mouth curled up in a cruel smirk. I thought my spleen would explode. He was entering my Goddess from behind.

Somehow, though, despite my surreal surroundings, I perceived that this act was performative, for my benefit. I had once admitted to her that of all the tormented images she planted in my head about cuckolding me, the idea that another man would take her from behind was the most shocking to my senses. She knew that I worshipped her, that I craved her dominance over me; and that if allowed, I might worship her in more intimate ways but I would never dominate her. I knew that she would never allow any man to dominate her. But she might play at it, to tease me.

But I also suddenly, intuitively understood something else about the ritual playing out in front of me.

The man, this manifestation of the Divine Masculine, was not dominating the Divine Feminine. She was allowing him to enact the life cycle of the god. Yes, he was planting himself, his seed; and she was yielding, soft and fertile as the earth in May; but it was also Samhain. She was emptying him, harvesting him, receiving his essence before he withered away.

The fact that the visual was gutting me was just icing on the cake.

Through the drumming of the rain and the recurring thunder, I could hear their panting breaths and their moans of pleasure quicken. And with it, I felt my own heart pounding harder, my own breath becoming more ragged. It didn't even occur to me to attempt to move my hands from behind my back. I didn't need to. The root of my cock was pulsing, the cage around it seeming to grip and release it in response, as surely as if my Goddess was seizing it at this moment with a chain-mail glove.

Her eyes, which had been closed, suddenly opened wide; and I heard her make the telltale gasp followed by the long, slow moan of release. I knew without a doubt that it was in response to the fact that deep inside her, the Male behind her was fulfilling his destiny, draining himself into her. And in that moment I felt myself, in spite of my cage, erupt in my own stunted, deeply unsatisfying spasm of something-that-wasn't-relief.

I closed my eyes and concentrated on slowing my breathing. It took a while. When I finally felt like I was no longer at risk of passing out, I opened my eyes again. I was back in Ms. Morrigan's dining room. She was back in her black robe, her hair tucked up -- still, or again -- into her slouch cap, kneeling beside me, stroking my hair.

"My goodness," she said. "That was quite the trance you went into. It looks like you enjoyed it, though."

She glanced down at the bowl between my thighs. A pool of whitish, coagulating semen sat in the middle of it. She reached down and dipped her finger into it, then placed her finger to my lips.

"Bitter?" she asked. I nodded.

"Anguished," I confirmed.

"Slurp it up."

"But ... don't you need it for your ... potion?"

"Oh, that," she laughed. "There's no potion. I just made that up, to set the scene. Now, drink up."

And so I did, raising the shallow bowl to my lips and tilting it until the viscous puddle slowly slid into my mouth. It was bitter indeed, already cooled and thickened. Once my orgasm had taken the edge off of my arousal, I hated the taste and texture of my own semen. Ms. Morrigan knew that, which is why she loved to have me do this. And I always did.

"Good boy," she said, patting my cheek.

"Now, get yourself dressed. Trick-or-treaters should be showing up any minute."

And then she rose, and turned, and padded off to the kitchen. I watched her go. And noticed that she was leaving a set of muddy footprints on the floor ...