Feast of Sparks

by Sierra Simone

There’s no part of my body that isn’t his right now, there’s no secret place left, no curve or hollow or hole that doesn’t belong to him and his hunger. He sucks on my nipple as he gives me short, grinding thrusts that have my clit plumping and begging for more. He plays with the rosette between my cheeks as he rams into me. He kisses me like I was born to pay him a tribute in kisses. He buries his nose in my hair and breathes me in, he smells along the column of my throat. He sneaks a hand between our slick bellies to toy with my clit, he palms and kneads my breasts with undisguised lust.

  There’s no way to claim him as much as he’s claiming me, not with him fucking me into the ground, but I do my goddamn best. This isn’t club-style submission, this isn’t a scene. This is a rite, this is a feast, and I feast on him as much as I can. I bite at his chest, just enough to feel the firm, barely yielding muscle against my lips. I lick at his throat and suck his fingertips into my mouth until he’s frenzied and half-roaring with pleasure. I nuzzle against his bicep, and when my hands are free, I scratch at his back and clutch at the narrow hips and powerful ass currently surging between my thighs.

  Everything has disappeared now, the rules, the history, even Dominant and submissive. Even Auden and Poe. There’s only god and bride, stag and goddess. King and priestess.

  “I’m—I’m—”

  The words are snatched away by the drums and the shouts of the others, but they’re unnecessary anyway, because the god already knows. My surrender was never in doubt, was always part of the bargain, and I know that he would have wrung it from me by any means necessary if his ferocious fucking hadn’t done it. But it has, and I think ferocious fucking is the only kind of fucking I ever want again, with each driving thrust slamming the breath right out of me, with his hands digging into the flesh of my ass and tilting me up so that my clit gets stroked by muscle and cock with every thrust. With his kisses so wild and hard that we have to breathe together to survive them and sometimes I’m not even sure we’ll survive them because we’d rather kiss than breathe—

  The god fucks me and I come.

  I come with a worshipful wail, with tears, because each pulse and clench of my body, each wave of brutal pleasure, belongs to him. I am his, his own, and it’s inevitable that I would surrender everything to him, even the things that should belong to a lover and not a god. They belong to this god, because he demands everything.

  The wet, holy agony of coming on the wild god’s cock has me writhing, breathless, dying, and then he surges forward a final time, going absolutely still as his organ swells bigger and harder. And then with low, ragged noise, he ruts into me so hard that I scream, riding me through his peak with vicious thrusts that send me over the edge once again. Hot, wet seed erupts inside my climaxing cunt, and I have the distant thought that he’s not wearing a condom, that he’s just come in me bare, and it’s so filthy and so wrong and so fucking raw to feel his release like this, that I think I might come forever just thinking about it.

  “You,” he growls, still spending inside me with heavy, hard throbs, “are mine.”

  I clutch his straining shoulders and look up at him, his eyes hooded and his jaw tight with male pleasure. His hair is back down over his forehead, and the firelight lovingly bathes his long nose, his high cheeks with light. It shows off the small, barely there scar under one eye and the firm, finely chiseled mouth—finely chiseled save for the one hitch in his upper lip. His body is etched in sharp, reddish relief, every muscle clenched as he spills inside me, and all I can think is this is magic. This is love.

  “I love you,” I breathe up at him, making his eyes hood even more. “I love you.”

  His eyes flutter closed as his cock finishes its work and gives a final, gentle throb. “You are love to me,” he says, opening his eyes. I’m given a kiss then, a soft, thorough kiss, and he slides free and kicks his jeans all the way off. Then he moves to his back, pulling me into his arms. “You are love to me.”

  * * *

  ***

  * * *

  My wild god makes a noise of need a few minutes later, though, and I look up at him, still dazed from being fucked into a holy stupor. “Where’s my other one?” the god asks unhappily. “I want my other one too.”

  And like magic, St. Sebastian knows he’s wanted. He leaves the fire, where the other three are still laughing and drinking, and comes to the platform.

  The god reaches for him. “You belong at my side,” says the god, and Saint shivers.

  “Of course,” he whispers and crawls onto the platform with us, tucking himself on the other side of our May King.

  For a handful of minutes, we cuddle this way, content simply to touch and to be together. St. Sebastian and I lace fingers over the god’s chest, and we can feel the god’s heart beating firm and steady along with the drums.

  “We’re a three now,” the god says. “Isn’t that what you wanted, little bride?”

  “Yes,” I say, smiling up at the sky. Stars sparkle everywhere. The forest sighs and rustles in the breeze.

  “I’m glad that it’s here,” Saint says. “Where it started.”

  The god hums his agreement, stroking his hand along my bare shoulder. I’m aware that my dress is still bunched around my middle and my breasts are bare, but I kind of like how it feels to be this exposed. Naked with the Thorn King’s orgasm still wet between my legs.

  “Do you really think we can do this?” the god says after a minute. “I don’t know anyone else who has.”

  “We do a lot of things other people don’t do,” Saint remarks. “And it seems to work out.”

  “We will have to have rules,” the god muses. “You can’t belong to me without rules.”

  “You’ll be our king,” Saint promises.

  “And we’ll be your priest and priestess,” I add, rising up on an elbow so I can kiss the god’s chest. His mouth hooks up in pleasure as I do.

  “My priest and priestess,” he says to the sky. “I like that.”

  “What will the rules be?” Saint asks.

  The god thinks for a moment. “No fucking without my permission,” he says. “I don’t think I can bear it if I have to leave for the city and you two are still together.”

  “Jealous?” I tease, and he turns to look at me with complete and unmitigated honesty.

  “Always,” says the god simply.

  “What else?” Saint asks, after I kiss the god’s chest again to appease him.

  “I’ve been thinking, and I don’t want us to do full-time kink, but I also don’t want not full-time,” he says. “I don’t want twenty-four-seven submissives; I’ve never wanted that. But I also can’t promise I won’t want . . . well, stretches of it. And spontaneous bits of it. Is that too much? I’m worried it’s too much.”

  “It’s not,” Saint says at the same time I laugh a little at my sweet baby Dom.

  “It’s never too much for me,” I volunteer, and the god heaves a pained sigh.

  “I know,” he says. “That’s what worries me.”

  “Anything else?” Saint asks.

  “Yes, one more thing. I want you both at Thornchapel, in my bed. We’ve wasted so much time, and I won’t waste a minute more. You both have your safe words, and if it gets too much or if I get too much—I really mean it, Poe—then you use them. Because until you use them I want you both to be totally mine.”

  Saint also pushes up on one elbow. “You want me to move in?” he says in disbelief.

  “Yes. Tomorrow.”

  Saint laughs like he thinks our May King is joking, but when the king just looks steadily up at Saint, Saint seems to get the picture.

  “Oh,” he says faintly.

  “Do I have to prove once again,” the god asks dangerously, “that you’re mine?”

  “Well, I guess—”

  The god’s kiss seems to stun Saint into silence, and then before I know it, all three of us are kissing. Seeking lips, chasing tongues. St. Sebastian’s lip piercing like a tickling tease through it all.


  The god sits up and rips my dress in half as easily as paper, throwing it into the darkness while Saint wriggles free of his jeans. And then all of us are naked, and ready, and for the first time, all of us join together. Both the priest and the god take turns between my legs, and then the god uses the priest’s mouth to his satisfaction, and then there’s lube from somewhere, but no condoms, and we fuck bare and raw, the god watching Saint ride me until he can’t stand it, and then he enters Saint while Saint is still fucking me. The three of us move and fuck and breathe as one, and that shared heartbeat between us thrums madly, ecstatically, and then I have the thought again, the hope that I thought was dead after we found my mother.

  Everything is possible.

  I don’t even realize the others are around us until I feel Rebecca’s slender fingers on my chin and she tilts my face for a long kiss.

  The god comes, and a mortal man would be spent and sore right now, staggering with the weight of so much pleasure, but he’s not a mortal man, not entirely, and so he pulls free of Saint with his cock still spilling its seed and looks around at the five of us on the platform.

  “More,” he says, panting hard, cock jutting out lewd and dark from his hips. “I want more.”

  The night blurs then, the fire and lust and champagne kicking through our veins, stirring us into something past frenzy, luring us into the sacred, wild magic of Beltane night. Saint climaxes inside me as the god pushes Becket to his stomach and mounts him with a thrust no less savage for how slow it is. Delphine and I kiss and then continue kissing between Rebecca’s legs, pushing up her dress and mingling our kisses with kisses over her pussy until she cries out. There’s more champagne somewhere in there, some old-fashioned making out, and then I remember seeing the god finish with Becket and then flip the reverend over so that Rebecca can climb atop him and use him with long, rolling movements of her hips, keeping him still with a hand over his throat while she uses his cock to make her come.

  I’m so inspired by this that I do the same to Saint, mount him and fuck him while I’m still wet with his and the god’s mingled seed. And next to us, I hear the god murmur to Delphine, something more tender and broken than the moment warrants, as if Auden is creeping into the wild god again.

  He looks over at me, seated fully on St. Sebastian’s cock, and he says quietly to the both of us, “Is this . . . would it hurt you? I won’t do it if it will hurt you.”

  Of course it’ll hurt. I don’t think I could see him have sex with his former fiancée and not be so jealous that my chest aches. In fact, I’ve been jealous this whole night. Jealous of him and Becket and him and Saint and him and Rebecca.

  It would be easy to pretend that what he does as the Thorn King doesn’t matter, that when he’s the wild god, he’s not Auden at all, and so it’s not Auden fucking all of us, it’s merely a strange king from the forest. But it does matter. I want it to matter. I don’t want to pick the human and the divine apart, I want him to be both. He is both. Human and divine, man and god, architect and king.

  He is both, and I am jealous.

  And I also want him and Delphine to have this moment. I think they’ve both earned it.

  “Do it,” I tell the god and Delphine.

  They both smile up at me, and then Delphine lets the god kiss his way down her body. Kiss between her legs as he never was allowed to do when they were engaged.

  The god slides to his belly and arranges his arms under her thighs, keeping her spread for his attentions, and then Rebecca is there, kissing Delphine on the mouth, and Becket is behind me, whispering in my ear, “Please, Poe, please, I can’t stop thinking about your cunt.”

  I lift myself off Saint, and soothe away his wounded look by getting to all fours between his legs and taking him into my mouth. I suck on him while Becket sinks into me from behind, fucking me not like a priest at all, but like a filthy, sinful man.

  I know I come at least twice more, I know I swallow Saint’s climax as he writhes and pants under me, I know Becket comes so hard that he gasps up to the sky, and the sky seems to answer with drums and wind and voices—all of it growing louder as the god replaces Becket and takes his final pleasure inside me. I’m past coming again, but it’s more than physical ecstasy that I feel at his grunting, roaring, holy satisfaction, it’s an ecstasy that bubbles up from the very well of my soul, from the root of my heart.

  The god is satisfied.

  And so am I.

  I think there’s giggling then, lots and lots of exhausted giggling, and sleep starts sucking at me like dark water, pulling me under for micro-seconds and then for full seconds at a time, until the god cruelly nudges me up and makes me drink a bottle of cold water.

  As the fire burns down, there’s some perfunctory cleaning and relieving of basic needs, and then Becket reminds us that we are supposed to have a feast of food and not just a feast of sex, so the fancy picnic Abby made is hauled out, and I eat cheese and grapes while slumped sleepily against Saint’s side.

  I don’t remember much at all after that, except the god making me drink more water and then tucking me into the blankets next to Saint, tucking us both in and then kissing us as if we are his most precious things, as if we are his own heart.

  There are still drums and voices from that other-place, and somehow I know that the air will stay thin all night, that the other-drums will beat until dawn. Just beyond here, just past the veil that separates this Thornchapel from whatever Thornchapel lies beyond, they will celebrate Beltane until the horizon pinkens and the forest stirs.

  It should be unnerving—the drums, the voices, the other-place—but for some reason, it’s not. Maybe I’m too tired to be unnerved. Or maybe you can only hear otherworldly drums so many times in your life and not get used to them.

  I rub my face against Saint’s chest until I find the perfect spot for my cheek, give my sore and over-pleasured body one long, quivering stretch, and then to the feeling of Saint’s fingers sifting through my hair, I fall asleep.

  I’m still tucked against Saint when I open my eyes.

  Chirps come from everywhere, even though the sky has only just begun to lighten, and the drums are still going, but slower and fainter now, as if even in the other-place, the feast has ended and they are drumming the feasters back to their homes.

  I yawn and sit up, wondering why I’m awake. Becket and Delphine and Rebecca are all cuddled together, with Becket’s head on Saint’s stomach, and I feel very snuggly and sleepy still. I’m about to lay back down and get some more snuggles when I turn and see the god sitting on the edge of the platform in linen drawstring pants and no shirt, his head in his hands.

  Except it’s not the wild god, it’s Auden—just my spoiled, handsome Auden—and he lifts his head to give me a small, crooked smile.

  “You’re awake,” he says, and I crawl over the blankets to sit next to him. I find a loose sheet to wrap around my naked body, and then once I’m covered, I rest my head against his shoulder.

  “Sweet bride,” he murmurs, turning his face so he can kiss the top of my head.

  “Wild god,” I say in response, and I can feel him smile again against my hair.

  “Why are you awake?” I ask.

  Auden sighs, turning his head so that he can rest his cheek against my hair as he looks out over the ashy scar where our Beltane fire was. “I didn’t go to sleep,” he admits. “I wanted to make sure the fire died down.”

  “That’s what the water was for.” I yawn. “You should have slept.”

  “You’re right.” He hesitates. “I also—I saw something.”

  I look up at him, making him move his head. “You saw something?” I repeat.

  He takes a deep breath and then nods to the altar. “Behind there. There was a door.”

  He says it like he thinks I’m going to tell him he’s a lunatic, but instead I find his hand and lace my fingers with his. “I know,” I say.

  “You know?”

  “I mean, I’ve seen it before. In my dreams. An
d last night, I thought I caught a glimpse of it, although it was gone before I could be sure.”

  He searches my face. “Poe, if you’ve seen it . . .” He doesn’t finish, but I think I know what he’s going to say, and I nod.

  “Yeah. I think it’s real. Well, not real-real, maybe. But real here in the thorn chapel.”

  “Like the drums,” he murmurs, turning back to stare at the altar.

  “Like the drums.”

  He keeps my hand held tight, but his voice is far away when he asks, “What do you think it means?”

  To that, I have no answer. “I don’t know, Auden.”

  “Do you think the others have seen it?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t—I don’t think so. I think it might just be us. For now.” Except . . . “My dad said something about a door to me, weeks ago. He said something like he believed your dad would know how to close the door. Does that sound familiar at all?”

  Auden shakes his head. “No.”

  Sigh. More questions. More secrets.

  For several long moments, we sit there, holding hands and looking at the altar. Auden still has that distant look on his face, and I’m thinking about how the door is not far from where my mother was buried, and wondering if it’s connected at all and then wondering if I’ll ever know. If the door is like the other-drums, then it feels like it will always be out of reach, like a mirage. Just another glimmer of magic that somehow lingers on here at Thornchapel.

  “I came in you without a condom,” Auden says softly. A little bleakly.

  “You came in everyone without a condom.”

  “Not Delphine or Rebecca,” he says. “I know you won’t be worried about diseases since all six of us talked about it before Imbolc, but I still should have asked, Poe. I’ve been sitting here all night wishing I’d asked everyone. I just took and took.”

  “Maybe you should have asked,” I say, because fine, sure, that’s what I’d demand from anyone with a penis in the world outside Thornchapel. “But I would have said yes, Auden.” Then I blush a little—well, okay, a lot—and he looks over at me.