The Fields Will Take What They May

There had been blood—a lot of blood, animal and human. Some of it was mixed with semen—a virgin's first experience... Power had been raised here, again and again, from that ancient triad of sex, death, and sacrifice, sometimes unwilling and at other times freely given, the magic woven of that power now lost in the turning winds of time.

But its residue remained.

-Barbara Hambly, The Magicians of Night

The rite went on, the fuck-lust orgy of fecundity and fertility, potency and pregnancy. It went on all that long spring night, fraught and teeming with the rich, rutting abundance of the Great Goat-Mother.

Dripping with seed and blood and milk and honey.

-Christine Morgen, With Honey Dripping

o0o

"Yeh'll be ridin' th' Horse at the Lettin', aye?" Young Albert asked me lecherously, as we lay side by side in the meadow.

I strangled an impatient sigh before it could emerge. We had been making love- no, fucking, fucking like animals in fact- for nigh on three hours now, and I was sore all through. I had climaxed three times that afternoon and he twice, and he was still capable of thinking about sex. Not that it was necessarily a bad thing, mind you. There was a reason I like younger men. The brains aren't much to speak of- all the space in their skull that would one day house good common sense being crowded out by piss, vinegar, and simmering male hormones- but the sex is amazing once you have them trained up a bit. Having the brains of stunned oxen is less of a barrier to a satisfying relationship when they have muscles, stamina, and prick to match.

Pillow talk isn't much to write home about, though. Grunts, mostly.

Young Albert's creamy seed was dripping from the depths of my well-stretched cleft to cool on my inner thighs, his spent prick was lying sleepily on his thigh like a girthy adder sunning itself on the warm rocks, we were both glistening with sweat from the effort of our lovemaking and the heat of the late summer sun and scratched by the rough grasses of the meadow. I idly ran a hand through the thick thatch of hair on his chest, and over his work-hardened muscles. Quite a man, he was. Arms like tree trunks, legs like stone pillars, arse like a Greek statue... prick like a horse. Just about everything you would want in a man.

"'twill be a foin thing t' see these foin things a bouncin' in th' torchlight." So saying, he fondled my breasts with surprising gentleness for a man I had once seen twist the neck of a grown ram a full ninety degrees (he'd lost his knife during the last Autumn slaughtering, and had to improvise- suffice it to say no one ever started fist fights with him in my pub again after that) with those self-same giant work-roughened hands that now cradled my soft breasts. They had covered me with bruises from rough handling and the occasional slap to my arse, but it had all been at my request and the aches they left were pleasant aches, akin to aching muscles after a day of good honest labor. Which, to be fair, good sex was. The good folk of Wickham Dolving apply the same good, honest work effort to sex that we apply to farming, cider-brewing, and pipe-smoking. There's no point in doing a thing unless you put your heart and soul into it, after all.

"All oiled oop an' shiny, covered all oop in oil 'n sweat 'n seed. All a' bouncin.'" So saying, he began to roll my nipples between his fingers the way he always did before suckling on them, and while I usually loved it when he did that, right then that was a bit too much for me, between the sexual exhaustion and the bruising. I gently redirected his hand away from my swollen breasts to my face, which he gently cupped. "All a bouncin' in th' torchlight..." He looked almost hypnotized by the thought. His prick brushed against my thigh, still limp.

Hmmmm. I could fix that.

I grabbed his hand, my slender fingers looking almost comically small next to his enormous sausage-sized digits (what? I like food metaphors; everyone likes food, after all), and sucked his index finger into my mouth like it was a prick, swirling my tongue over the tip the same way I had done to his prick a few hours before. He groaned in arousal, his prick stiffening against my thigh.

I gently shoved at him, and he obediently lay back and let me straddle him like I was riding he was the Horse, and I was the Rider. "Again?" I asked.

"Oh, aye," he replied. "Reckon Oi could manage it."

"Oh, could you?" I asked mildly. "Could you do that, as a favor to me?" I brushed the tip of his prick, now swollen to it's full hardness, with my quim. "Could you manage it for me, kind sir?" Reaching down, I grabbed the rod, feeling it's massive girth throb in grip, and slid the engorged mushroom head between my slick lower lips teasingly, back and forth, back and forth, the gentle rubbing bringing forth a gush of wetness from me to ease his passage further, if the seed still dripping from me wasn't enough. "Could you find it in your heart to- mmmmm, yes- take this magnificent prick and- ah- plow my- hmmmmm yes- my- oh, god-"

"Yes," he groaned, and pulled me down firmly.

I let out what I assure you was a delicate and feminine moan and not at all a howling banshee's shriek of delight that echoed across the meadows and fields as for the third time today my inner walls were spread and I was filled to my depths.

I raised myself up, letting his engorged spear slip nearly out of me, teasing him, and he wrapped his hands around my waist, damn near encircling it in his grasp, his paws were so big, and lifted me up like I weighed no more than a pint of my special extra stout and set me down on my back in a patch of nearby tansy. I writhed like a wanton, crushing the small flowers and filling our nostrils with their soft camphor scent (and no doubt staining my back a nice bright summery yellow in the bargain), legs spread wide in lustful anticipation, baring my womanhood to his erection, which he drove into me in one smooth thrust. I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him in roughly, only reluctantly letting him draw back before each earth-shattering thrust of his prick into my depths. I whispered sweet filthy nothings in his ear, panting his name and pleading, begging, "Yes, yes, in me, in me, fuck me, fuck yes, more, more," in a never-ending stream that slowly dissolved into incoherent moaning.

"Foockin' gawds, woman," he groaned as, for the third time today, he spasmed to completion inside me. "Yer gonna be t' death o' me!" He collapsed on top of me, his muscled bulk weighing me down, nearly crushing me. Oh, but it felt good.

"Doubt it," I replied sleepily. "We'll see."

"Aye," he replied, planting a kiss on my forehead. "We will at tha'."