Winter Solstice Ritual
She walked to the thermostat and turned off the heat. In this northern climate the move was a bold one. Yet it was part of the sacrament. To feel in the next half hour the temperature drop slightly was a way to represent the drop in temperature that led to this, the darkest and longest of nights.
They sat quietly meditating side by side, reflecting on the past year. The hopes that had at last come to be reality. They thought of the men and women that had guided them, the wise few that had brought them some bright light of wisdom. They thought of the seeds of potential asleep under the snow within them. They thought of each other …. and hands reached across the floor and clasped tightly.
At midnight – they both lit the white candle left in the center. Untainted white. No fragrance. The symbol of the purity of hope, of new life, of the everlasting spark of joy. They stood and shed their clothing and stepped away, peeling it like old snake skin and leaving it behind. Turning they faced each other and with a natural sponge, they quietly and reverently cleaned each other in warm water.
As the cleansing made it’s way across her flesh she was aware of everything. The scent of the red and green candles, her nipples hardening in the cooling air how her own hand on his chest trembled slightly and the Goosebumps showing. She enjoyed the feel of his hands across her shoulders, her spine, her lower back, her ass and as the wet sponge made it’s way between her thighs her entire being arched into him.
Her own digits wrapped around his manhood, and she pulled him closer. Tonight, they symbolized the God and the Goddess. Slowly as they washed away the fear and failures of the year past, they brought on the moment of purity. La petite Mort. The small death. Orgasm. Winter was, the small death in the wheel of the seasons. Orgasm was, the only time when we as humans, were closest to purity, to Love. The transparency of the moment when closing their eyes, together they felt, from the simple gesture of cleaning one another, of caressing, of holding, pulling, jerking … the ripples of ecstasy flow though them.
The floor was wet, their bodies as well, heaving, arching, rupturing in pleasure – in one blissful moment his white semen surged forward with a deep guttural growl. Her own body responded with a flow of clear liquid. For a split second, they were united in the white, unadulterated light. Back on earth, with flushed cheeks, they finished cleaning each other in breathless silence.
Walking on slightly shaking legs she turned the heat back on. As of today the days would get longer, the slow progress towards spring, summer and fall would start anew.
She turned to see him standing in his naked glory. Her man, her love, her God. Handing her a glass of Champagne he pulled her in for a kiss, deep and passionate.
“May this year fill your heart with the ever lasting spark of hope and joy my love”.
And they fell to the floor and melted into each other anew.
© Fantasia Lillith and Pillow Talk, 2009. Unauthorized use and/or
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© Fantasia Lillith and Pillow Talk, 2009. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Fantasia Lillith and Pillow Talk with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.
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Happy Solstice darling – my celebration tonight will be less sensual and more communal…a ritual with the bff, and a party with friends.
Sounds lovely… what is your ritual?
I’ve slacked off on creating seasonal rituals – but if I were to start again your version would top my list! Beautiful, sensual, and memorable.
Thanks Emma! Feel free to use it if it speaks to you!
We’ve never celebrated the Winter Solstice together as Mister is atheistic in all faiths, but a memorable Samhain was spent with my very good friends one year on a local beach which was beautiful. Metal goblets of red wine; one extra in which to burn our well-wishes and hopes for the year ahead; moonlight on the water. Couldn’t have wanted anything more right in that moment.
LP x
Did you know that, including myself, many Pagans are atheists. Paganism is a spirituality and not a faith or religion. At least not in it’s purest form. It’s why I follow that path since it allowed for me to tap into my desire to be spiritual but also avoided all the things I could not accept for myself in religion and doctrine.
That does sound wonderful, your Samhain sounds most lovely! You will find that there are as many rituals as there are pagans/wiccans. No two are alike since the beauty of it all is in the individuals desire to personalise. For it to have meaning for you as an individual. What means something to me as a solitary practitioner actually changed when two are involved. The symbolism changed entirely. I love the flexibility and creative expression. Thank you so much for dropping in Lady Pandora!
Not many truck stops have colored candles…central Iowa had such a stop.
the harsh survival of the forest, the evergreens, the hunt.
hunter
Fantasia,
It’s interesting the various spins we put on definitions. I see “spirituality” as inherently religious. Even if you aren’t acknowledging a deity per se, acknowledging a spirit seems very faith-oriented to me. Most atheists whom I come into contact with are of the notion that there is nothing to us humans but biology and electrical reactions in the brain, and nothing at all that is “spirit.”
But regardless, a beautiful ceremony that you offer here. I will try to get back here with perhaps a fictional solstice celebration and maybe even a wish for what I might like to do some winter solstice with my beloved. But whether it’s one or two offerings, I’ll try to make sure I get it to you as your holiday gift before my Soltice/Season/Christmas activities consume all my time.
😉
hmmm… yes but you see – at least to me – and I add here that you do bring up a great point and perhaps a better word than spirituality needs to be found – I don’t acknowledge “spirits”. It’s more acknowledging the fact that I am part of the cycle of life, the seasons and time. Gods and Goddesses are really just symbols to create images that are easier to grasp. But on the whole I don’t really “tap” much into the spirit side – unless I refer to my own spirit – that “thing” we know isn’t all that explainable by science. That spark of life. Smokedawg – as usual you bring up a really good point. One I shall ponder.
AS for your gift – I can’t wait!!
Only have the energy for one of those gifts right now, Fantasia, though I’ll aim for having a second one for you for Christmas…something that goes completely into the realm of fantasy/magic. But for now, something more “realistic” and perhaps something I might experience someday in my own life…
———————-
Love in Shades of White and Black
By Smokedawg
“Are you out of your mind?” my wife asked me, eyes wide. “It’s freezing out there.”
I knew it was, but I couldn’t shake the idea from my mind. This was the Winter Solstice, the longest night of the year. The precipice between night and dark, death and life. Starting tomorrow, the days would begin getting longer, tiny bit by tiny bit, as we marked off the progress for the return of spring and then summer. I was not a wiccan or any kind of follower of more pagan spiritual pursuits but still, this seemed like something more than spiritual. It was elemental.
“It’s the solstice,” I said. “We should do something special. Celebrate the icy grip of winter, even as we celebrate our own heat. Embrace the symbolism of death, even as we revel in the passions of our life.”
She looked at the back door of our house, leading out to the modest but fresh mounds of snow; the white stuff had taken its sweet time arriving, but finally had, just a couple days before the solstice. “It’s cold.”
“And it’s warm in here. Hot, even,” I answered. “And if those crazy Polar Bear Club folks can go naked into the freezing cold ocean, with shoreline winds ripping at them, we can handle a few moments out there. We’re not rushing back to just some mere dry towel on the beach like they do. We’ll be rushing to a warm house and heading straight for the fireplace. Let’s go celebrate the black of the longest night. And the white of the first fresh, blanketing snow.”
I fixed my gaze on hers, and let my longing linger there, hot and insistent. Not pleading. No puppy eyes. Lust and love entwined though; plenty of that.
“Oh shit, fine,” she said, and the curiosity and desire were there in her voice, creeping up to overcome the hesitation and irritation there. “Anything once, right?”
The decision made, she wasted no time, and shed her clothes quickly. I kept pace, and then we stood naked at the door. We rushed out into the cold, naked against the elements, both my tiny nipples and her more substantial feminine ones becoming hard and erect with the chill. My balls began to shrink back against my body, and my cock lay halfway between flaccid and erect, caught between natural responses to cold and desire, which were so clearly at odds with one another.
There in our backyard, largely but not completely hidden from the prying eyes of neighbors, we tumbled nude into a snowbank, embracing each other, rolling as one and pressing hot flesh against hot flesh as freezing snow touched those parts we couldn’t press together.
It was shocking, and made us both gasp; knocked the wind out of us. But as our tumble came to a stop, and my wife looked up from beneath me, I saw something in her eyes, and could feel it mirrored in my own. Her pupils widened, and not just in response to the darkness. Her eyes darkened, and her lips curled just a little with something erotically feral.
To a large extent, both of us were eager to rush back inside to dry and warm our bodies. But for this fleeting moment, that desire was cast aside. We were animals in this moment; creatures of nature. We might be hairless apes, but at that moment we felt like wolves. My wife caught me tight, pulled me close, and my erection was full now, rejecting winter’s hold, and slipping inside her.
For a minute, maybe two, we were one, hardly moving, but laying there as passionate heat in the icy drifts.
I swear my wife growled before she said, “Inside. Now.”
We rushed back to the heat, and tumbled to the floor in front of the fireplace. Wet and cold and shivering, the sudden heat stung our skin, but it also enflamed that primal spark we had started. Dripping and shaking, we pressed hard against each other and inside each other. We bit and sucked each other’s mouths. Our hands, chilled but warming now, gripped cold flesh in the heat of the room.
We writhed. We snarled. We moaned. We gasped.
Memories of our touch with winter. Our communion with the solstice. And now our union of flesh. Our renewal of love. Our kindling of passion into a bonfire to melt away the hold of winter and light the dark of the longest night.
We rutted there on the carpet and it was the fiercest affirmation of our oneness. We kissed and sucked, fondled and pinched, gripped and slid until the cold was driven away and the heat was well-nigh unbearable.
It wasn’t a cliché as we came together. It was, indeed, inevitable.
One in celebration of solstice. One in greeting the slow return of the light. One in passion.
I just read this out loud to Lover and … we both agree … one word will do. WOW.
Smokedawg – you never let me down my friend. Everything about this was wonderful. First off – love your style. It’s clean, it’s well thought out – as always. But the symbolism – and …. well I could se it!! I mean really see it happening as I read. Having lived in Scandinavia – I know what it’s like to let the snow hit flesh like that … my friend this was a wonderful treat!!! thank you so very very much!
Meryy Christmas my friend … I look forward to another year of marvelous words, reading and exchange.
Thank you, Fantasia, and my pleasure. Your own solstice story that started all this off was a joy to read…and an inspiration.
May the wind-up of 2009 be good for you and your Lover as well.
[…] Love in Shades of White and Black here (in the comments section; don’t neglect to read Fantasia’s story in the blog post […]
A beautiful way to celebrate the solstice – cleansing, intense, and liberating. I wish you all the best of the season my dear and may this new year bring you more perfect moments. Perhaps Thorn and I can come up with a few ideas on how we would celebrate…but we need to brainstorm a bit first. It would be nice to have an idea for next year’s celebration. 🙂
Thank you Silia … I await your idea and will keep an eye open on this post!
Oh Silia… We should bodystorm indeed… from now till the New Year, we’ll make love in the cold and tell Fantasia about it.
I wait … Thorn and Silia … I wait.
And now, for something completely different, Fantasia. Not as delectable a gift, perhaps, from a standpoint of erotica, but hopefully enjoyable all the same. My second solstice gift for you:
——————————
Longest Night; Darkest Fortnight
By Smokedawg
It insulted both Ghaolit’s senses and his sensibilities to see two ogres outside the Fertile Queen’s chambers, one of them carrying the ritual Awakening Gown and the other with a large tray full of a range of victuals, a goblet of blossom wine and a carafe of rose-and-lavender flavored water.
He had come to the Demesne of the Fertile Queen—the Lady of Spring, the Mistress of Summer, the Dominese Courtesai, and so many other titles besides—several moon-passings earlier. Ghaolit had been born to a far lesser manor that this, but his grandsire had acquitted himself well in some campaign on behalf of the Fertile Queen and the Sylvan Duke recently. And so his gran had taken the opportunity to see Ghaolit off to a brighter future. Servant to the Fertile Queen was a substantially more enviable position than heir to a tiny manor in the Fey Realms.
Ghaolit was, of course, familiar with the generalities of what tonight was, and it was in part the reason he had been loitering so much near the grandest bedchamber of this palace. Sadly, the fortunes and the environment of the Fey Lands was tied strongly to the world of the mortals, that finite ball of earth and sea known as Arkhyn Seriphyn. And that meant that tonight, as in the mortal realm, was the longest night of the year. Even with the manner in which time passed differently and at varying paces compared to the mortals’ world, some things did not change.
The sun might rise to its highest point in the sky thrice in one day at times, but there was only one year, and as many moon-passings in it as in the mortal realm.
A day might sometimes last a score-fold as long the time it took a single day to pass in Arkhyn Seriphyn, but there was still only one longest night each year.
Some called it Solstice. Others called it Hahrmgyn or Pilj or Wrumwyre. Or perhaps Longnight, Far Dark or Winter-Break, which were all three used as here more often than in the mortal realm.
When Autumn ruled on Arkhyn Seriphyn, the leaves changed in the Fey Lands, too. Well, most of them, anyway. The weather cooled. And the Fertile Queen began to sleep longer, and become more sluggish. Still not a Fey Lady to cross or challenge; still not weak. But more lethargic.
And then, in the moon-passing immediately before the Longnight, the Fey Lady who ruled the blossoming of the flowers, the beginning of the plantings, the rutting of the animals and the passions of thinking creatures—well, she slept. She fell into the most profound slumber, from which she could not be awakened.
Until tonight. The moment that dawn broke the Longnight and the worlds—mortal and fey alike—looked forward to shorter nights, longer days and eventually Spring. That was the moment she was awakened, as the longest night of the year came to a close.
Everyone knew that, but few had ever witnessed the event, and Ghaolit wanted to see as much as he could of it, even though he knew he would not be allowed inside the bedchamber.
But this? This was intolerable. Ogres were base, crass and ugly. Not fit beings to awaken a queen from her long slumber. And servant though Ghaolit might be, he was high-born enough to speak to such as these with stone in his voice, regardless of whether he wielded actual authority over them.
“Ho, there, fangteeth! Bristleworms! What brings you to the queen’s door and not more cultured servants? Who dares send such insult to the queen’s rooms?”
They stopped their grumbling, and Ghaolit saw that one held lots in one hand. They were going to cast lots to see which of them would touch the queen to wake her. Brutes! Callous grunt-fumblers!
“I see that you are not a sort that I can break without suffering pain, but I also see that you have no whip over me, brashling,” said the more grizzled and scar-ridden of the pair. “What concern is it of…”
His companion laid a calloused, hair, dirty-clawed hand on the other’s arm and looked at Ghaolit appraisingly.
“You seek to favor the queen, young lord?” the other said. “Forgive my fellow here. It is a hard duty we are given her, told to greet the Lady’s awakening with our hideous forms. We do not greet it well, or happily. Yet you are young and comely. Do you hover here seeking to gain our queen’s eye?”
Ghaolit hesitated. It was good to see that they chose ogres of decent breeding here, or at least educated them well once they arrived. But he was caught off-guard. Not so much because of the solicitous tone of the one ogre but the notion that he, Ghaolit, might seek the favor of the Fertile Queen. Did he? Is that why he was here?
“Such was not my aim, though I cannot say such a task would be burdensome to me,” Ghaolit said. “Though I am certain there are more fair servants than even I to do the task.”
“But none so close by, and if I or my fellow here were to return with this duty un-performed, we would suffer. We have been sent. It is either one of us, or ye.”
Ghaolit considered. The ogres had no fear that Ghaolit would mean their lady harm, as the many and deeply layered wards of her bedchambers would keep him at bay if malice was in his heart. They were offering him a chance he might never see again even if he served here for six centuries.
“I apologize for my earlier rudeness,” Ghaolit said. “I had misjudged you both. If this is a duty you believe I can do without offense to our queen, and you wish to pass it to me, you needs but tell me what to do.”
The ogre with the food and drink said simply, “I will bring this inside, and you come with me. I leave, and you kiss the queen on the brow. That is the way of things. Nothing else need be done. She will open her eyes a more fair face than I or my fellow here, and life will move on for all of us.”
“Then I accept the duty.”
It is possible that Ghaolit might have spoken coherent words at some point thereafter, though none can bear witness to such a thing until he finally asked for a damp towel three moon-passings later.
For Ghaolit discovered something as dawn broke and he kissed the brow of the queen—and it was a something that made him gaze darkly at that pair of ogres for decades to come. Only the most hideous servants were picked for this duty. And for good reason.
For the Fertile Queen is a being of passions. Of love and lust. Of pleasures that sometimes border on pain. She spends not a single night without having release at least once, and usually multiple times. Unless it was a night where she had never been awake to begin with.
And she had been slumbering for weeks.
Weeks of boiling passions unspent. Caught in dreams, helpless to achieve the heights she craved.
At first, once the kiss was delivered their queen awoke, the ogres could hear moans of passion. Cries of pleasure. And they suffered through that for several hours, until they heard Ghaolit begin to cry for mercy. For release from the chambers. For succor. Certainly, he cried out in passion, too, from time to time, but the pain gained steady increase. Those were the sounds they were waiting to hear from the idiot brashling who had insulted them.
It was a fortnight later before anyone dared to enter the bedchamber and pull Ghaolit free of the exquisite and mind-rending effect of unrelenting sexual assault upon his person. For one does not refuse the queen. Had she been met with an ugly servant, her awakening would have been without much incident. An hour, two at most, before the warty, misshapen servant began to disgust her, and cause her passions to drain away without harm.
But presented with such a prize as Ghaolit? Young and fresh and comely? She expressed herself fully, and it was the most joyous awakening she had experienced in centuries.
For Ghaolit, it was something more dark, and flavored with passions, but followed by many moon-passings of night terrors. It was a season full before he could stand again. Weeks more after that before he could walk. Nearly a year with the healers before he could function in the household again as a useful servant.
And whenever he passed by the bedchambers of the queen, or caught her gaze around the palace, it was never without an overwhelming series of shivers and quaking on his part.
And even now, many of those were from remembered passion, even if most struck his heart timid and quivering with terror.
BRAVO!!!!! First off I am a huge fan of fantasy fiction … so WHOOOOP!! this was awesome!! it tickled me pink indeed!! well done … oh to have the young man put in his place that way … how perfectly poetic!
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hah, i never knew a ritual could be this pure and sensual. marvelous work… 🙂 have a merry new year!
Thank you!!! I read somewhere that ritual is important – even elephants do it! but mostly humans.
The need for ritual is why religion has survived so long. But I believe that ritual is more powerful when it comes from within. IMHO.