Page 111 of Feast of Sparks (Thornchapel 2)
Saint also pushes up on one elbow. “You want me to move in?” he says in disbelief.
“Yes. Tomorrow.”
Saint laughs like he thinks our May King is joking, but when the king just looks steadily up at Saint, Saint seems to get the picture.
“Oh,” he says faintly.
“Do I have to prove once again,” the god asks dangerously, “that you’re mine?”
“Well, I guess—”
The god’s kiss seems to stun Saint into silence, and then before I know it, all three of us are kissing. Seeking lips, chasing tongues. St. Sebastian’s lip piercing like a tickling tease through it all.
The god sits up and rips my dress in half as easily as paper, throwing it into the darkness while Saint wriggles free of his jeans. And then all of us are naked, and ready, and for the first time, all of us join together. Both the priest and the god take turns between my legs, and then the god uses the priest’s mouth to his satisfaction, and then there’s lube from somewhere, but no condoms, and we fuck bare and raw, the god watching Saint ride me until he can’t stand it, and then he enters Saint while Saint is still fucking me. The three of us move and fuck and breathe as one, and that shared heartbeat between us thrums madly, ecstatically, and then I have the thought again, the hope that I thought was dead after we found my mother.
Everything is possible.
I don’t even realize the others are around us until I feel Rebecca’s slender fingers on my chin and she tilts my face for a long kiss.
The god comes, and a mortal man would be spent and sore right now, staggering with the weight of so much pleasure, but he’s not a mortal man, not entirely, and so he pulls free of Saint with his cock still spilling its seed and looks around at the five of us on the platform.
“More,” he says, panting hard, cock jutting out lewd and dark from his hips. “I want more.”
The night blurs then, the fire and lust and champagne kicking through our veins, stirring us into something past frenzy, luring us into the sacred, wild magic of Beltane night. Saint climaxes inside me as the god pushes Becket to his stomach and mounts him with a thrust no less savage for how slow it is. Delphine and I kiss and then continue kissing between Rebecca’s legs, pushing up her dress and mingling our kisses with kisses over her pussy until she cries out. There’s more champagne somewhere in there, some old-fashioned making out, and then I remember seeing the god finish with Becket and then flip the reverend over so that Rebecca can climb atop him and use him with long, rolling movements of her hips, keeping him still with a hand over his throat while she uses his cock to make her come.
I’m so inspired by this that I do the same to Saint, mount him and fuck him while I’m still wet with his and the god’s mingled seed. And next to us, I hear the god murmur to Delphine, something more tender and broken than the moment warrants, as if Auden is creeping into the wild god again.
He looks over at me, seated fully on St. Sebastian’s cock, and he says quietly to the both of us, “Is this . . . would it hurt you? I won’t do it if it will hurt you.”
Of course it’ll hurt. I don’t think I could see him have sex with his former fiancée and not be so jealous that my chest aches. In fact, I’ve been jealous this whole night. Jealous of him and Becket and him and Saint and him and Rebecca.
It would be easy to pretend that what he does as the Thorn King doesn’t matter, that when he’s the wild god, he’s not Auden at all, and so it’s not Auden fucking all of us, it’s merely a strange king from the forest. But it does matter. I want it to matter. I don’t want to pick the human and the divine apart, I want him to be both. He is both. Human and divine, man and god, architect and king.
He is both, and I am jealous.
And I also want him and Delphine to have this moment. I think they’ve both earned it.
“Do it,” I tell the god and Delphine.
They both smile up at me, and then Delphine lets the god kiss his way down her body. Kiss between her legs as he never was allowed to do when they were engaged.
The god slides to his belly and arranges his arms under her thighs, keeping her spread for his attentions, and then Rebecca is there, kissing Delphine on the mouth, and Becket is behind me, whispering in my ear, “Please, Poe, please, I can’t stop thinking about your cunt.”
I lift myself off Saint, and soothe away his wounded look by getting to all fours between his legs and taking him into my mouth. I suck on him while Becket sinks into me from behind, fucking me not like a priest at all, but like a filthy, sinful man.
I know I come at least twice more, I know I swallow Saint’s climax as he writhes and pants under me, I know Becket comes so hard that he gasps up to the sky, and the sky seems to answer with drums and wind and voices—all of it growing louder as the god replaces Becket and takes his final pleasure inside me. I’m past coming again, but it’s more than physical ecstasy that I feel at his grunting, roaring, holy satisfaction, it’s an ecstasy that bubbles up from the very well of my soul, from the root of my heart.
The god is satisfied.
And so am I.
I think there’s giggling then, lots and lots of exhausted giggling, and sleep starts sucking at me like dark water, pulling me under for micro-seconds and then for full seconds at a time, until the god cruelly nudges me up and makes me drink a bottle of cold water.
As the fire burns down, there’s some perfunctory cleaning and relieving of basic needs, and then Becket reminds us that we are supposed to have a feast of food and not just a feast of sex, so the fancy picnic Abby made is hauled out, and I eat cheese and grapes while slumped sleepily against Saint’s side.
I don’t remember much at all after that, except the god making me drink more water and then tucking me into the blankets next to Saint, tucking us both in and then kissing us as if we are his most precious things, as if we are his own heart.
There are still drums and voices from that other-place, and somehow I know that the air will stay thin all night, that the other-drums will beat until dawn. Just beyond here, just past the veil that separates this Thornchapel from whatever Thornchapel lies beyond, they will celebrate Beltane until the horizon pinkens and the forest stirs.
