ebook $5.99
ISBN 9781613900734
26,190 words
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Here are stories of female power and erotic transformation, of sexual ritual, coming of age, breaking of curses, and freeing of creative energy. Drawing on Mayan myth, the Tarot, and magical worlds of their own design, these women celebrate sex and eroticism through their joyous fiction.
Including the work of Cecilia Tan, Shariann Lewitt, Velma J. Bowen, S.G. Johnson, Reina Delacroix, and Linda Hooper.
Look under the cut for a hot excerpt…
Excerpted from Burning at the Stake by Reina Delacroix
When I open my eyes now, all I see is the white-orange of flame. I have been waiting all my life for this moment of loss, of completion, of transcendence. It is time for the ritual to begin. I am ready.
I am dressed in a simple white cotton dress, almost sheer, little more than a drape, the hem only a few inches below my hips. Under the cloth, my nipples are visible only by shape; not hardened yet, but slightly swollen. There is no indication of the coming dampness between my legs; long before then, the gown will be little more than tatters.
I have no escort; I must go willingly. And I do, down the long, silent walk to the fields, the full moon dusting my path with its silver glow, making the tree limbs, and the waving grass, shine. At first the light seems faint; then my eyes adjust to the night, and the world is white outlines against the black.
And the world gets louder in my ears. The wind picks up, and the rustle drives the waves on the lake and the leaves in the trees. Soon it becomes a roar, covering any sound that might dare to compete with it.
The light changes, too, turning redder and hotter. With the wind came the scent of smoke, but only with the light comes the taste of ashes, the flecks there and gone in the increasing blaze. I am walking into the face of the fire.
The flames leap hundreds of feet in the air. The wildfire burns just on the other side of the lake narrows, hardly more than a few hundred feet from the clearing where I stop, seeing my fate reflected in the faces that await me.
The men are waiting in a semicircle that closes behind me like the jaws of a great beast consuming me whole. For a moment I am afraid of their eyes and turn mine to the ground, shy, but then I gather my courage from the roaring flames so close at hand. The heat of the fire masters us all; I look up and see the burning look in their faces, as I feel hot blood flushing my own.
A single drum begins to beat, slow and steady as a gigantic heart. My feet fall in time as I walk towards the altar. It is the stump of the eldest tree in this area, planed and polished as smooth as a tabletop and as high as my thigh. Its golden-brown whorls flicker in the firelight.
Behind the stump, between it and the shore, is set a stake, fashioned from a different tree, a white wood so ancient that none remember its making. It is kept in the temple to preserve it, even as I was, until it is needed for use. The full length of it is twelve feet, but it stands a little over eight feet, the balance sunk into the ground for stability. I was measured yesterday, to make sure of the proper height for its placement in the ground.
* * * *
The high priest waits there, to ensure that the ceremony proceeds as required, that the raging appetite of the fire is fully sated. I kneel before him and kiss the hem of his robe in reverence, to signal that I am ready.
The circle closes tighter; I could not break free now even if I had wanted to. How many are there? Fifty? A hundred? No matter; the fire burns in my veins, and I dream of being utterly consumed.
I feel the priest’s hand twining in my hair, bringing me to my feet. He leads me, by the pressure of his hand on the nape of my neck, over to the stake. On the side facing the altar is a wrought-iron hook set into the top of the post, with two chains dangling manacles. He clamps my wrists into them, and the metal is almost icy against my heated skin. The bass drum pounds still; other, sharper, drums now join it and the beating of my heart. Yet they cannot drown out the roaring of the fire.
He reaches up, with some difficulty, to hook the manacles above my head, my bonds secure yet comfortable, stretching my arms towards the sky. The bottom of the dress still covers me, but only by the barest line of cloth. The firm pressure of his body against mine rubs upward and sideways as he pushes a link over the point of the hook, and I can feel the nubby texture of the linen robe he wears through my flimsy gown, the heaviness of his body pressing it against me. Through I try to remain calm, I cannot help but thrust my body against him, returning the pressure, the several layers sliding in combination and opposition against my nipples and my mound.
He says nothing, only increases the pressure as he secures the other manacle, pressing me back against the pole. I writhe harder, now conscious of the unyielding wood as well as the tightness of his body.
He steps back, and I see his face clearly as he turns to the fire. At first he is impassive, and then he looks at me, up and down, and a slow, appraising grin breaks out on his face. He is thinking that I will be a fine sacrifice, a most sacred whore.
Everything must be done slowly, to invest it with as much meaning and consciousness as possible, to make me aware of each and every gesture and touch, and to build arousal not only in me, but in the watching men. We must all be at our peak for the proper performance of the ceremony, the human fire outstripping the forest fire across the lake.
He begins by leaning forward and kissing me, a surprisingly chaste kiss, his lips barely meeting mine before he pulls back, his eyes intent on me. It is part of the ritual that I resist at first, and so I remain still, but the first touch of his skin to mine moves me inside, and I know I cannot retain this outward indifference to his touch for long.
To read the rest, download the ebook today! And check out the companion volume, Sex Magick II.
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