letterstohedone:

The Ritual

My phone lit up, a message flashed across the screen:

I grant you permission to perform the dildo ritual to orgasm.

My heart skipped a beat, and I felt an immediate heat flood my face…and other secret places. I cursed myself for having dinner plans, but knew that the waiting can be delicious, too.

I sat through dinner with a friend, catching up and eating takeout. We chatted about our jobs, our friends, enjoying each others company. But all the while, I was painfully aware of the soaking patch between my legs, the knowledge of what I was going to do as soon as he left. After a week of temptation and denial, of aching to touch, of bare lips and the provocative messages I’ve been trading with you, I was ready to beg for it.

It turned me on more to know that I had earned it, that my smart, eloquent new aquaintance was thoughtful enough to reward my restraint and patience. I wondered if you fell asleep, oceans away, thinking of me doing the naughtiest things, stretching my tight wet cunt alone in my bedroom.

When I was finally alone, I hurried upstairs. Behind my closed door, I bent over as I slowly, luxuriously pulled my panties and leggings down and surprised myself with a reflexive moan. You’ve had quite the influence on me, it seems. I paused a moment and breathed, bent over and exposed, enjoying the sensation.

I stripped down and stepped into my shower, letting the hot water wash the day away. I felt my body finally relax under the heat as I scrubbed down. I found myself wet, and wanting, as I applied shaving foam to my mound and lips, running my razor across my sensitive skin to shear myself bare once again. A little ritual to prepare myself for the night’s coming ordeal.

As I bent down to rinse off, I felt my bottom cheeks part and the hot water run between them, over my bottom hole. Enjoying it, I shifted my hips so the stream flowed over my freshly shaven cunt, sighing appreciatevely. I imagined your warm fingers, stroking me as I bent over for you, mewling in gratitude. I imgained your cock, rubbing just on the outside, just enough to part my lips. It was so hard not to touch myself, put naughty fingers in my little slit and rub myself to oblivion. But no, that wasn’t on the menu that evening. I was looking forward to a much heartier meal.

With a sigh, I stepped out, dried off and closed myself in my bedroom once more. I lit a few candles and turned out the lights. Placing my favorite dildo on a base on the floor, I pulled up a drumming playlist and knelt over the waiting member, its head just brushing my already seeping entrance.

I closed my eyes and imagined myself in the woods, in an overgrown ancient temple, taking part in an old and nameless pagan ritual. Naked in the dark, the flame before me, the sound of droning chants. The imaginary world unfurled around me, filling my senses; the smell of the bonfire, the rustling of branches overhead, the night sky above me. I let the beat carry me, swaying a little. I imagined you standing behind me, in nothing but a deerskin and a crown of antlers, reminiscent of Cernunnos, a leather strap in your hand. I leaned forward as I imagined you reaching back, and suddenly swinging the strap once, twice, in time to the slow beat as I knelt, helpless, transfixed.

My legs started the ache, and shake. I felt the drums driving me, as though the act of plunging myself upon the phallus beneath me would crack open the door between the mundane and the ephemeral, to see something Beyond. There was an immense sense of waiting, as though I were being watched, a ritual sacrifice of an uniquely sensual variety.

They were waiting for me, for me to give in. To open the door.

I rubbed my cunt over the tip of the protrusion, wetting it with my lips, feeling it part me, prod my entrance.

My legs weakened, my knees began to spread apart. I felt the tip push just inside my opening, stretching me. I rocked, panting. The drums egged me on, I felt my clit throb. My hips flexed forward, my head tilted back, rolling side to side, almost dizzy. I felt my cunt twitch, once, twice, dribbling my excitement onto the proud erection beneath me.

I felt myself breaking, swept up in the ceaseless drone and drums. I knew I couldn’t take any more, and finally drove myself down onto the upright cock with a groan of exctasy, pushing my bottom out and feeling it slide and press against my secret places, filling me almost painfully, slick with my juices, my cunt unused to being filled. I squeezed my walls against it hungrily as the wave of pleasure ripped through my muscles from my feet to my head, arching my back in an instinctual, unstoppable lordosis.

I leaned forward, began to raise and lower my hips, gasping, stopping sometimes to circle my hips with the full length of it inside me, hearing the obscene squelch of my juices and my puffy lips, and no longer caring. All I could hear was the drums, the rising chants, whoosh and crackle of the bonfire’s blaze, the crack of the strap against my spread cheeks.

I thrusted faster, harder, the need inside me growing. I felt my nipples, so hard as my breasts moved to the rhythm while I bounced, as I became hyperaware of the sensations rippling through my whole being. I spread my knees wider, to take the cock deeper inside me, arching my back and thrusting my soft buttocks out, supplicating, asking for more. I imagined my bottom reddening, crying out with each stroke of the strap, driving me on. On and on I rode, my hips stretching and knees sore, my frantic panting parching my throat, the drums never stopping, echoing the pounding of my heart.

I was fucking myself on the floor, rutting like savage, stripped raw and bare before the Gods. My orgasm approached, a final and ultimate offering. I ground and ground, imagined your tongue between my lips, imagined your cock inside me, imagined you castigating me. My thighs and bottom flexed over and over as I submitted to it, I knew I was going to come all over this thick cock, mouth open, groaning and eyes rolled back with total, animalistic abandon. I drove myself over the edge with my fingers on my clit, slamming myself down while spread wide, moaning aloud as my cunt rhythmically spasmed around the cock, drooling juices on the the base and floor.

Exhausted, I leaned forward and collapsed on the floor, panting and murmuring thanks, prone as if in prayer, in submission to the experience, to whatever Gods may have been watching.

To perform this ritual on your own, please head over to @spankingtheatre and read his excellent tale of Lupercalia, a personal favorite of mine and many others.

What a wonderfully evocative description of the Dildo Ritual game!

I hope this adventurous reader’s thrilling write-up might encourage other curious readers to set up their own dildo and experience the ritual pleasure of Lupercalia for themselves…