Winning Sexy Scribbles Speculative Rose Scene
Winning Historical Scene: Clyve Rose
Soon I am given over to the nuns, my mother fearing for my immortal soul. She intends me to join the Order. I do of course and for eighteen months I am a devoted Sister of Jesus. After this time I am allowed to wash in the All Saint’s Pool.
I walk down when the moon is full, remove my habit and begin to bathe. No sooner have I begun the Ritual Prayer, whispering in Latin as I have been taught, when a low laugh bubbles up from somewhere below the water’s surface.
I freeze, uncertain whether I have heard correctly. It crosses my uncomplicated mind that perhaps Satan lives below the All Saint’s Pool to prey on the Sisters of his arch-enemy. I shiver, muttering a curse to ward off the Devil, but the laugh comes again.
Something soft moves in circles around my ankle, touching the surface of my skin. I would shriek, but the Initiate’s Oath includes a Vow of Silence (excluding Latin prayers), so I utter no sound. The strange sensation moves higher, tingling the back of my calf. I repeat the incantation taught by the nuns should I ever be tempted by The One Below, but the feeling persists so I decide it can’t be the Devil.
By this time I have made another discovery; the sensation is pleasurable. As the soft touch roams upward and begins caressing my buttocks and inner thighs, small palpitations pulse at my very centre. A low whisper causes the waters to ripple.
“Woman,” the wind breathes.
The touch reaches the part of me that stands above the pool’s surface, but my eyes are closed, my whole attention focussing on the throbbing deep within. My inner self convulses with light and whispered song, legs quaking with pleasure and moisture sliding down my thighs, returning the power of the bruja to the pool where it belongs; where it began. Slowly, almost reluctantly, I look down to see what pleasures me so. The first sight to greet my bewildered eyes is a tongue, tinted silver by the moonlight.
Attached to the silver tongue are the face and features of a dark man, whose hooded eyes bewitch me so that I can not even form the words to the prayer that keeps demons away. I breathe slowly, feeling my desire flow outward onto the soft, deep lips of the face emerging from the surface of the pool. He draws my taste inside him with the tip of his silver tongue. His cheeks run with my liquid power and the wetness of the pool. He buries his mouth in my womb and licks me again; I shiver with pleasure. My mouth moves silently, forming no coherent shapes. To do so would be to no avail in any case; I appear to have lost my voice.
As his tongue plays across my hips and navel, the man’s body rises out of the water behind him. His smooth chest is perfect and hairless – too beautiful to be real. He kneels to gently lick at the lower reaches of my chest, pausing only to lift his eyes to mine; whispering with low-voiced laughter. “Woman,”
He stands almost nine feet high: Wet, gleaming in the silver light, tightly muscled and lithe; an enormous erection hangs from weighty demon’s balls like a gift from the goddess herself. He bends his head and continues to run his tongue over my breasts, making my nipples come to a point that he rests his mouth upon every so often.
The sensations of my body make me luminous. I feel my face glowing silver as the moon. I half-expect the Abbess to come striding down, demanding to know why there is a light burning through the trees. The faint throbbing becomes almost too exciting to bear. I open my lips, forgetting my Vow in the thunder of blood through my body; I want to scream, or at least to moan.
As though to protect my Oath, the demon softly touches the insides of my mouth with his tongue. I can not speak of course, with his gentle probing caress held within the lantern of my face, but I almost let loose a sound from the back of my throat, when the demon withdraws his touch from my mouth and replaces it on the skin of my neck. Lifting his mouth for only a moment, I again hear his low-voiced laughter, and the whisper: “Woman,”
When his lips next touch my body, they caress the back of my neck, softly nipping at my earlobes. They run almost too lightly over the back of my scalp. Then he licks the tip of my hair, each strand glowing silver fire.
And then my spine . . .
. . . from the top of my neck to the base of my spine, now tingling in rhythm with the wet throbbing between my thighs, he murmurs into the texture of my skin: “Woman,” he whispers.
Standing, turning me to face his eyes, he places his lips fresh with my own taste over my own, whispering against my useless mouth: “Woman,” he says.
I raise my arms, gently running them along the length of his own. “Woman,” I whisper.
Lifting myself onto his thighs, I slide my legs around taut hips. He is cool and smooth, like silver grown over muscle. I forget about the Abbess and my Vows; about my mother, her fears and her silence. Wind moves through my mind, bringing back songs and spells no one is supposed to speak. I sing them to the demon as I stroke his polished chest, hips and sac. Widening my thighs, filling myself with his giant demonic penis, I feel it rise with my own power. In my excitement I call out to other demons, drawing on decades of dormant power and I feel a roaring, a pulsing, a powerful surging . . . .
Rocking back and forth, feeling the sensation of sex and lust and sweat move through me like a wave, I remember spells, crying them aloud as the demon locks my hips to his and makes the magic come. Every ridge of his penis touches every inch of my organ wall – and all, all of it liquid with pleasure. Pushing down harder, I draw him deeper within my own pool of moisture, sharing the demon’s shuddering gush; feeling him harden again as I quake. I make him pant and drip with sweat, running off him in rivers of silver, marking my skin like mercury. The silver makes its way inside me, filling me with riches, with power, with song. His desire heats my blood and warms my soul. I feel witches waking; feel him grow longer and wider, filling spaces the Church left empty until there is no room for anything else but the voluptuous heat of the Belize witches.
With my voice rich and strong like molten gold, my spells shake the little forest glade. Women appear around the pool in their hundreds, chanting and singing. I smile, licking the lips of the demon-man who appeared to assist my magic. I throw back my head, laughing aloud – hearing echoes through the trees bouncing back at us, at me; at the bruja I have finally become. Listening to the words of the witches surrounding me, I realise they are calling someone; summoning the mother goddess who once lived in the nearby fortress. Their chant grows loud and melodious.
“Po, come back to us. Po we need you.” Among the bruja I recognise several of the nuns, their habits torn off and thrown down at their feet in disgust; faces open and smiling at the moon. They call for Po in the same way they have been taught to recite Novena but with a fierce passion the Latin never inspired.
I turn back to my demon, reaching my hands down to massage his balls and sing. I sing of Po and the Old Ways, feeling his penis shrink as I slide off him. Perching myself on his upper thighs, I sing of the witch-women of Belize who are still here, after all these years; who have never left and are ready to take back their power. As I lift my voice to the moon and sing, I rub his thighs and penis, feeling them shrivel and shrink and change, until his silver body remakes itself. I place my hand on his chest and chant loudly, stroking, kissing; licking his breasts into being.
I keep whispering “Po, Po, where are you?” And the bruja echo my chant as I work on the demon-man, transforming him; recreating him with my power. I step off his thighs with a soft splash and run my magic hands over my hips and thighs. I stare at the demon; now all flesh, all woman and nine feet high. I smile up at her and raised my arms to her power. Po smiles back down at me and wades to shore, ready to lead us again.
For thousands of years our ancient village squatted on the Belize coast. The Church came only a few decades ago, but by the time I was born great changes were already underway. The priests implored the people of Belize to turn their faith to a man who descended from the sky instead of the skilled witch-women herbalists, or bruja, who defeated plague, drought, and childlessness among our people.
Our witches watched the soldiers rape our women and take our children; they waited while their sacred sites were demolished to make way for a faith that had nothing to do with love. They remained silent as the Belize people swore allegiance to a queen they had never met and a faith forced on them at swordpoint – a faith that denied love and flesh and sex and sweat, barring the very essence of bruja power.
By the time I turned thirteen, the Old Ways seemed to have disappeared, along with my magical father and the half of me that belonged to the witch in him. I have a suspicion though that the old witches (many of whom are now nuns) are merely sleeping, not silent; that the strength of stone churches built over Sacred Places is but temporary. Sometimes I hear snatches of songs in the wind and stand quite still, feeling the breath of words I am no longer allowed to recite tickling my neck and moving my soul. I am a quiet child but I am also the descendent of witches and this is what my mother fears most.