Altar State

Wandering the forest floor, my feet are sore and I am lost in leaves.

My heaving breasts hunt for air. My cropped hair twines with twigs and moss.

I cross through a glade, seeking escape and fearing raid and rape and ruin. Or maybe hoping? The sloping sky is dark and I see sparks against the ink canopy. I think this is my rescue. So I blunder blindly through a bush and into a clearing.

My heart pounds with secret pulsing drums and I am trapped in a tightening, tall ring of oak trees. Thick stumps of waxy candles glow gold against the ground. The rustle of leaves, the thrum of percussion and the crackle of the candles sound sinister and seductive. The musk of incense encircles me and smoke stings my senses. I should flee, but my body is overtaken. My defences fall before the flickering flames.

At the centre, there is a stone slab, wide and grey and suitable for wicked worship. In a dream and a daze, I feel ghosts grasp me and move me into the middle. Forked tongues lick riddles all around my ears and I hear violence and voices. I have no choice. I have been chosen.

The spirit hands guide me up upon rock, twist tantric ties around me, strip my shirt, my skirt and every secret suppression. A sightless mask clasps the contours of my eyes. I sigh, and I struggle with longing. Fingers force my face towards the moon and pour potions through my lips. I feel wetness and wildness slipping, sliding into my belly. My skin grows slick. My blood runs thick and throbbing through my veins. It starts to rain, and each drop falls hot as happy Hell and pools on my round stomach and opened thighs. My eyes are hazed with lust and my hips thrust at the bonds that bind them. The rain becomes a flood, matching the flow from my eager opening. My limbs are fixed fast and firm to this marble mattress and I fight to free them, aching to stroke my softness and push my fingers into my sacred spaces. But my arms and my legs and my head are pinned, placed supplicant to the sky and waiting for the storm.

The rain becomes a torrent, lashing my exposed flesh, meshing and matching my surging waves with the depraved demands of a lightning God. I am now a lightning rod and please, God, will receive a righteous rod in return. The first crash of thunder thrills me, throws my quivering core into an ocean open orgasm. I spasm at the bulge of friction bass. I quiver with the racing patterns of electricity. I am exposed and wanton. Live - wired.

And He finally touches me. He courses a current down my throat, callous and crushing and rushing responses to my needled nerves. He lays lightning down on my curves and into the catch of my breath. He sends bolts of brazen lust past distrust past terror past room for exclusion and evasion. His tesla tongue tests me, a tornado turning across my clit and driving disaster into my dripping depths. I am primed for electric invasion. I feel flame hands fold under my bottom and bend me into the clouds. My want is loud crowding my ears as He holds my heat in His palm and He taunts me with ten-thousand volts of tension. Bolts of blue fire push apart my liquid lips and He trips my waiting wires. His white-hot fists twist me harder and higher and I am flowing and fluxing and flexing into His torment. I was meant for this. Meant to come and crash in the howl and the growl of His tempest.

Finally, feverishly, he thrusts the thick stalk of His supercell into my tightness. Brightness burns my aching inner walls and I fall into the fury. Groaning, grown and galvanized. Hung on the head of His cyclone, forced apart and opened to His electric attack. Mouth slack, slit stretched wider than the weeping skies as He pounds pierces slams shoves jolts and bursts through every thirst every thought everything I have wanted and wouldn't ask for. Without the mask, I would see the face of a God and be vaporized. He roars and ruts and He heaves heavier still, filling every inch of my cave with blasting bombs and the cosmic castings of the Heavens.

I count eleven strikes sparking into my centre. I am stuffed with His squall, between a wall and his whim. Here there is only Him, holding me apart and starting again. Because when a God takes His pleasures, they are measureless and magnificent and shared with whomever He deems worthy.

It will be a lengthy night. My God has many acolytes.