Upon a Flowery Throne

As you drift from confusing dreams to an equally confusing reality, your senses turn on one by one:

First hearing: the buzzing of quiet conversations, female voices ranging from bored through sultry all the way to giddy. The steady beat of a drum, deep and primal, making your heart speed up to follow along. And strangely, a low slurping.

Then smell: an overpowering, floral scent, too mixed to identity individual flowers and you were never much of a botanist anyways, probably roses or something. Underneath there's hints of something else, salty and heady. An aroma your short stay in Spurting-Spent has already cemented as sex - a mix of sweat and feminine arousal.

Thirdly, you open your eyes. The man grove tree is gone, the man grove itself is gone. All the school girls that had seemed so keen to play to the break of dawn are equally gone, though they've been replaced by something even stranger. It is now night, and you find yourself sitting in a large, ornate chair, wicker-woven and covered in a blanket of blossoms, tied to it at hands and feet. A large bonfire on your right lights the forest clearing and reveals the collection of robed figures spread around, some standing in small groups, some sitting cross legged in meditation, one lighting candles and placing them in bowls around the clearing, others engaged in more illicit activities. Two are kissing deeply, their hands roaming over each other's bodies with familiarity. There's something powerful and strange about the soft silken robes coiling around them, like they're spirits of the mists, dancers in the fog luring travellers to disappear in bogs, with only the fire illuminating tangible breats, hips and legs underneath the vaporous cloth. You only now realize that you're actually wearing both pants and trousers, only when your cock starts straining against them.

You recognize the woman who **** you earlier, now beating a large drum. Her brown skin glistens from the performance and she is biting her lip in concentration. The hood covers most of her face, but you still know exactly when she's notices you looking. Her lip quirk upwards and you're fairly certain she just winked at you. With a final pound of the great drum, the indian beauty brings every set of eyes back to you. With practiced fluency the figures drift to stand around you in a circle, like mysterious, sexy cultist out of fiction.

Twelve of them.

A woman steps out of the circle towards her. She is imposing, almost as tall as you with a strict turn to her lips. The wrinkles around her mouth and the grayish hair cascading out from under the hood reveals her to be at least in her forties, but her breasts strain magnificantly against the robes. They almost distract you from the giant fucking knife she's holding in her hand.

The blade is curved like a half-moon, the hilt looks suspiciously like the male organ everybody is so fixated on around here.

"The sacrifice has awoken, the ritual can commence.." she exclaims, easily holding the others in rapt attention. Clearly she's a leader of sorts. Meanwhile your brain tries to analyze details to distract from the fact that she just called you a sacrifice, Jesus Christ! She smiles, clearly enjoying your discomfort.

"What are you-.." You begin but she places a finger imperiously against your mouth and you can't help but shut up.

"Hush now, boy." she says stepping towards you and pointing the tip of the knife towards the center of your chest, "you shall not be hurt, provided you only sit still."

You swallow and hold your breath as she deftly cuts open your shirt, first once then twice then thrice, leaving it tattered and easily peeled from your body. The drumming has taken up again, or maybe that's just your panicked heart. She moves down to your legs, dragging the knife down your jeans and though you see it cutting cloth, you barely feel a scratch. Your trousers are discarded as well, leaving you only in your underwear; the entire circle of spectators draws closer.

"Sister Camilla.. If you would."

A curvaceous woman steps up and with no hesitation kisses you greedily. Her tongue forces its way past your lips and you feel a liquid running into your mouth. Her hand is already in your hair, forcing your head back and her lips stay locked against you until you're **** to swallow.

"Don't worry, sweetie." Camilla laughs, "just a li'l cocktail to make sure you can keep up."

The effect isn't immediate, but you do feel a strangely hotter. Despite its earlier mistreatment, your cock is throbbing insistently and your vision goes a little blurry. The head priestess once more brings down the knife upon what remains of your clothes, and despite her steady hand and obvious craft you still hold your breath as the large knife makes short work of your pants. As your cock flops free, the women around you go bonkers, clapping, stomping, cheering, some even ululating wildly. It feels primal and potent, like a ritual passed down through generations, like the weight of history is bearing down on you.

"Tradition demands that you be given a fair chance." The bewitching elder continues, silencing the commotion, "..Say the word and you shall be released. We will give you 3 minutes before taking pursuit.. You shall run and you shall hide, but we will find you, we will take you. Repeatedly. Until your cock is red and raw and you beg us to stop. Then beyond. You will perform in our rite, it is simply a question if you need to be run tired first."

"Please do!" A voice from the back calls, "it's been so long since we've had a wild hunt."

"..Alternatively, you can walk freely to the altar and we may offer you a modicum of choice in how you are to be used."