tagErotic HorrorCat and the Collar, The

Cat and the Collar, The

bypetemgurk©

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story is a work of fiction, and is not intended to portray individuals of any faith in an unfavorable light. The author was actually married several years ago to a Wiccan High Priestess, and attended one Samhain ceremony, but any factual errors or artistic licenses are his own. Thank you.

*****

It is exactly one year since the death of my wife, and all I want is to be alone. It was Halloween night when she died, or Samhain, depending on what you believe. She believed in Samhain, and Samhain was what killed her, although somewhat indirectly.

I don't even know why I'm telling you this, since to talk is to indicate a desire for company, and I don't want company, I want to be alone. But I also want something to drink, and since I don't have anything at home, I guess I have to pay the price. My glass is empty, by the way. Thank you.

What's Samhain, you ask? See, you're actually paying attention, and I guess I'm flattered, in a way. Funny, it's the same question I asked my wife, the first time she brought it up. We weren't married at the time, we were in our courtship, which is an old phrase I guess, but it seemed right for us to use it. Anyway, Lyra, that was my wife's name, Lyra - Lyra said one morning that Samhain was coming up, and she showed me a flyer for a meeting of her coven. No, no, I saw the flyer first, it was on the table, and I asked her about it.

- What's sam-hain?

- It's pronounced SOW-en, dear heart, and it's one of the most important holidays ever.

- I notice that this, um, SOW-en meeting is being held on Halloween night. Is it like a costume party?

Lyra laughed her tinkling laugh, the one that told me I was _such_ a silly boy and had _so_ much still to learn.

She explained that Samhain was bastardized by the Catholic church when the first Popes realized that the people were still celebrating the pagan holidays as well as the Christian ones. So they changed Samhain to "All Hallow's Eve" and created a new holiday on November first. Lyra said they did the same thing to Winter Solstice, turning it into Christmas, and Beltane, changing it to Easter.

All of this went straight over my head. I was raised a Lutheran, and Lutherans didn't learn things like that. I am not a Lutheran anymore, and wasn't at the time Lyra was explaining it to me, but I still had quite a bit of Judeo-Christian simmering inside of me.

But I digress. Again, here I am, wanting to be left alone, and talking my head off because you actually seem to be interested in what I have to say. But you will be rewarded for listening, because my tale has sex in it, and who doesn't like a sexy story? My glass is empty. Thank you.

So we went to the Samhain celebration, at which my Lyra was High Priestess, and there was this great bonfire, and quite a bit of dancing, and not a little abandon, and even some nudity. My Lyra - and remember, we weren't married yet, this wasn't the Samhain celebration that killed her - looked glorious, dancing around the bonfire and chanting words that I'd never heard before and couldn't repeat if I tried, her long, black, wavy hair flying all around her face. There was an animalism all around me - a hearkening back to the primitive nature in those who joined in the celebration. And, I must admit, in myself as well, who merely sat on the side and watched. For me, the animalism roused a deep, feral lust in me, so much so that any woman who found herself close at hand might not be safe. I can't say for certain what it did to the others, but I'm willing to guess it was a pretty similar reaction.

Drums were beating, Lyra was dancing around the fire, arms and legs flailing. She hiked up her long skirt so that she could dance with more abandon. Her long, curvy legs gleamed in the firelight, and during one turn she made I noticed that she had gone regimental.

Excuse me? Sorry, I mean she'd either come to the celebration without panties, or she'd taken them off at some time during it. Every few moments her circuit would take her past me, and she'd catch my attention, flashing some message to me with her dark eyes and her white teeth, and then she'd kick one of her legs up high enough to show me her neatly trimmed bush.

My glass is empty. Thank you. It was doing something to me, the drumming, the dancing, the crackling flames, my Lyra's exhibitionism. I sat there squirming with lust, my erection straining against my jeans there in the semi-darkness. It was a chilly October night, but I had to take off the sweatshirt I'd put on before I left home. It was soaked with sweat.

Suddenly, more people, men and women, started dancing with Lyra, around and around and around the fire. The drumming increased in tempo, got louder, more sensual, more animal. My eyes feasted on my Lyra, or tried to, through the growing circle around the fire, frantically trying to glimpse her for the few seconds she'd appear to me before she began her next circuit. Clothes suddenly became redundant to the dancers, and as the garments fell away, so did the final remaining inhibitions.

Suddenly, in the firelight, there was my Lyra, my lovely, exciting Lyra, all of her clothes shed, "sky-clad", as I'd heard her call it. She must have disrobed on the other side of the bonfire, and picked up a sword of some kind at the same time.

Naturally, I had never seen anything like this before in my life. It's not the sort of thing you see on a Sunday in the good old Lutheran church! And while my parents, and my grandparents, and a good amount of other ancestors would have been utterly scandalized, I, on the other hand, was rapt. The message was getting through to me on a very basic level: this was the harvest festival, and the gods were pleased. The gods would be more pleased if there was some additional planting after the fire died down.

Lyra's dancing sped up, if such a thing was possible, and the blade of the sword she now wielded flashed and flickered as it caught the firelight. It soon became too difficult to discern where Lyra left off and the sword began.

Sorry? Oh, the sword - well, it wasn't your standard pirate's cutlass like you see in the movies. More like a long dagger it was, the blade about ten inches, not very ornate from what I could see. Later on, Lyra told me the name of it, but I never could get my tongue around many of the words she would use for things like that - I nicknamed it "Sting", after the Hobbit's blade in _Lord of the Rings_, and for my benefit, sharing the joke you might say, my Lyra would call it that as well, but only in private.

Where was I? Yes. So there she was, dancing with this great abandon, wantonly, the drums keeping up their frenetic thumping, and she'd stop briefly and wave Sting in a specific pattern, sometimes facing the fire, sometimes with her back to the flames. And each time, before she would continue her circuit, her final move with the blade would be a sort of mock-thrust with the point of it towards her vagina. My glass is empty. Thank you.

I have to tell you, I was worried about her and this blade, and the thrusting, considering she was being followed so closely - and led, too, in a way - by all the other dancers. And all of them were in the same heightened state as she was. The same frenzy, the same animalistic, lustful abandon. But she seemed to know what she was doing, so I put my worry aside and continued to enjoy the spectacle.

The dancers began pairing off, and running from the fire into the darkness. Well, I say pairing off, but there were a few groups of three and four who ran away, too. Finally there was no one left but my Lyra and a tall male figure wearing what appeared to be the head and horns of a goat.

The drums stopped, and the silence was deafening. Lyra and the goat-man stopped their circuit of the fire and faced each other, not six feet from where I sat. Their bodies were covered with slick sweat, and their chests were heaving, but they both stood straight. Lyra's back was to me at this moment, facing the goat-man, so I could see that he had a broad, muscular chest, massive arms and legs, and a tremendous erection. Really, it was one of the biggest dicks I'd seen outside a porno movie.

What was going to happen next? I didn't know for sure, but I had a suspicion that this was one of the final rites of the ceremony. The high priestess and the goat-man were going to do...something to appease their gods. I should have been jealous, or angry, I suppose. Any other red-blooded American male who had been raised in the Lutheran Church would have been, would have jumped up from his bench there by the fire and closed the distance between himself and the two dancers and made a big stink of some kind. But I stayed put, knowing that something exciting and wonderful was about to take place.

And, of course, I was right. Cutting to the chase, after some additional ritualistic thrusting with Sting, Lyra hoisted it over her head and threw it downward toward the goat-man, and the point of the blade buried itself about half-way into the dirt between the goat-man's bare feet. She then turned very slowly away from him and, legs spread wide apart, bent from the waist and braced her palms on her knees. She didn't look at me, didn't look at anyone or anything - her eyes were unfocused, rolled up slightly into her head. Her breathing was still ragged, and her beautiful, sweat-covered body glistened in the firelight. She waited for the goat-man's approach.

She didn't have to wait long. Taking three long strides, the goat-man came up behind her, bent slightly at the knees and completely impaled her vagina on his massive cock. One thrust! And without using his hands! Some part of me said this was an impressive feat.

Once the goat-man was inside my Lyra, he cupped her perfect cupcake breasts and lifted her as if she weighed no more than an ounce. Lyra, her eyes still rolled up, wrapped her legs backwards around the goat-man's thighs. Cords stood out on her neck as she writhed on his erection. The goat-man walked a slow, torturous circuit of the now-dying fire. I could hear him grunting, but I know it was not from the exertion of carrying my Lyra. Lyra herself was grunting, then she put out a high-pitched keening as her orgasm neared. The muscles in her thighs were rolling under her skin as I watched her push herself forward and back on the goat-man's cock. Suddenly the goat-man stopped, moved his hands from Lyra's breasts and gripped her under the shoulders. I could see both of them in profile now, and he pulled her ass tight against his pelvis. His buttocks clenched and relaxed, clenched and relaxed, and I knew he must be coming, must be filling my Lyra's tight pussy with his hot, sticky seed. Indeed, Lyra's orgasm arrived at the same time as, or a few moments after, the goat-man's, because her shriek of pleasure joined his low-pitched, raspy moan. At this point I came myself, shooting my own seed in great jets down the inside of my left pants leg. I don't remember if I was embarrassed by this, because I think I passed out.

I awoke and the sky was gone. I blinked my eyes a few times and realized that I was naked on my back in a large canvas tent. Feeling certain parts of my body being rubbed, I lifted my head and saw a beautiful young woman washing my bare chest with a soft cloth, a second gently coating my thighs and calves with some kind of strong- scented oil, and a third vigorously massaging my already fully-awake cock with her own soft cloth.

- What's going on? I asked. Where am I? Leave it to me to say something memorable at a time like this.

The girl washing my chest whispered: Blessed be, Traveler. Lie quietly, we are preparing you for Mistress Lyra.

- Thanks, but from the looks of things, I'm already prepared. When will she be here?

- When she arrives, Traveler, said the third one, still washing my dick, although it seemed to be pretty clean already; when she arrives, she repeated.

The one rubbing oil into my legs - well, I really should point out that not only was _I_ naked, the three performing their ministrations on me were also in the buff, with the exception of a few pieces of jewelry - well, the one rubbing my legs began using her breasts as a buffing tool, really smearing that strong oil around. The aroma was getting to me, too. I let my head fall back and breathed deeply, smiling, maybe chuckling a little.

- What is it amuses you so, Traveler? One of the girls asked. It could have been any one of them, or they may have spoken in unison for all I know.

- Oh, nothing. It's just...it's just that the Lutherans don't know what they're missing, do they?

I got no reply from this, so I guess the three must have merely rolled their collective eyes at each other and resumed their work on me. I didn't mind one bit.

The pungent aroma of the oil was relaxing me, but my erection was as stressed-out as ever, and felt to me as swollen and long as the goat-man's had been. A thought occurred to me, completely unrelated to my erection.

- Why are you ladies calling me "Traveler"?

There was a brief pause, then:

- At the end of the ceremonial dance, one of them said, you left your body for a few moments. Several of us saw you circle the fire, then run off into the woods. Your physical form had fallen back and was prone in the dirt. Mistress Lyra found you and brought you back, made you whole again.

She spoke so matter-of-factly that I imagined out-of-body experiences were old hat to her.

- You are precious to Mistress Lyra, another one said. I raised my head at this, and saw it had been the girl between my legs, the one washing my cock.

- Precious?

- Yes, Traveler, she said. You are precious to Mistress Lyra, and you are precious to us as well. She gave a sly look from left to right, dropped her cloth into the basin beside me, and lowered her mouth to my cock. It was so swollen that her cheeks hollowed out as she stretched her lips around the girth. Nonetheless, she eagerly bobbed her head up and down on it for a few seconds, until a harsh whisper broke the silence.

- Jessyka! No!

This was from the girl who had been buffing me with her boobs. She now reached out an oily hand and tried to pull my cock out of Jessyka's eager mouth. She succeeded after a moment's struggle, but once she had her hand wrapped around my swollen member, a curious look came to her face, and she exchanged conspiratorial glances with Jessyka, and with the first girl at my chest as well. Confirming that it was just the four of us in the tent, three mouths, three tongues, three pairs of lips consumed my cock.

Jessyka got her mouth around the head again and sucked as hard as she could. The oily girl, whose name, I found out later, was Maeve, alternated between licking the underside of my cock with the flat of her tongue and sucking my balls gently into her mouth. The one who had been washing my chest, Prudence, straddled my chest and lay across my stomach to get at her share of my meat.

They went at me like this for some time, kissing, licking, nibbling, trying to wrap their hands around it so they could jack me off. I lay back after a while to rest my neck and listened to the sounds of sucking, slurping and licking they made. Jesus, it felt good, and naturally, nothing like this had ever happened to me before, except in my richest fantasies.

I looked up again and saw that Pru's pussy had shifted up on my chest to just a few inches away from my nose. She had a really pretty one, neatly trimmed, with pink puffy labia that were glistening with arousal. I blew a little playful puff of air at it and saw it twitch, and Pru instinctively shifted back farther to straddle my face completely.

Prudence rode my face like a champion, coating my face with her pussy juices, and eventually sitting up to brace her palms against my chest so she could rub her cookie more forcefully against my lips and tongue. I sank my tongue deep into her, felt her vaginal muscles tightening around it, pulled it out again and sucked her labia deep into my mouth. With her labia came her copious juices, sweet and musky. Her moans of pleasure assured me that I was doing a good thing.

Jessyka, meanwhile, had other plans for my cock. She gripped it like a golf club and pushed it downwards, made it parallel with the floor of the tent. Then she sat between my legs and splayed hers out across mine, inching forward until the very tip of my cock was poised at the opening of her pussy. Prudence got off my face and Maeve sat up as well, both of them whispering to Jessyka that sucking and kissing was one thing, but she should not dare to join with Mistress Lyra's traveler.

Jessyka, by this time rubbing my dripping cockhead absently against the rim of her pussy, said she didn't care by this time and wanted to feel the traveler's - mine, that is, my - manhood inside her. It would only be for a moment, and the others could do it, too, if they wanted, there was time before Mistress Lyra arrived.

Suddenly it became a game for these three: Maeve suggested only five strokes each of my cock inside their pussies. Pru countered with seven, and Jessyka said the others could take what they wanted, she wanted ten, ten long, slow, tantalizing strokes of the traveler's cock, my cock.

And that's just what she did. My glass is empty. Thank you.

And was it only, was it just ten strokes? I can say with certainty that it was exactly ten, because Jessyka, and Maeve, and Prudence all counted the sequence in unison, their voices growing with excitement and lust. Jessyka's voice was the loudest, of course, because it was her tight, hot, wet, slick pussy that was riding me. And, overcome as I was by the sheer lust, by the wantonness of the whole situation, I confess that I was counting the strokes as well, grunting them, gutturally, under my breath; and I was so sorry to witness the end of that ten-count!

But they did last a long time. Such splendid muscle control Jessyka had - simply by bracing her arms stiffly behind her, and lifting her buttocks, she was able to slowly engulf my erection from head to base, coating it with her thick fluids, then reverse the action, lowering herself so that I would slide out slowly; then the muscles of her vulva would capture the head somehow to keep it from falling out. Then it would start again.

Naturally, a full ten-count was actually twenty strokes, ten in and ten out, there was no arguing with Jessyka about that. But she was good to her word, and when the ten strokes were done, she pulled away with a little moan. Sympathetic moans escaped the lips of the other girls as well, and yes, mine, too.

Before the other two could finish arguing over who was to go next, however, noises outside the tent seemed to signal the impending arrival of their mistress, my Lyra, so Jessyka gave me a wicked grin and a quick kiss on the head of my cock before she stood up with the others. A string of clear pre-come came away on her lips and she licked it off fiercely without time to savor it.

My Lyra entered and saw me on my back, my cock nearly purple, engorged, standing straight and tall and proud.

- Blessed be, Mistress Lyra, said one of the girls.

- Well met, dearest, said my Lyra.

- Your precious Traveler is prepared for you, mistress, said another. Her voice was awed, respectful.

- Go with my thanks, Lyra whispered, her voice husky.

Shall I tell you of the powerful sex we had that night? How she rode my cock for nearly 45 minutes before I came inside her, shooting my burning seed up, up, up into her womb? How she let me rest for a while, then began licking the mingled juices (mine, and hers, and yes, yes, yes, Jessyka's) from my limp, aching cock and balls, washing it clean with her tongue, until I was hard and ready for her again? Shall I tell you of how my hands roamed her finely muscled body, relishing how her flesh nearly burned my fingers as I touched her? She was in charge that night, she was the High Priestess, and she took me, took me as if I were a mere stripling, and not a man nearly the size of the goat-man she'd had some hours before.

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bypetemgurk© 6 comments/ 21725 views/ 2 favorites

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