Chapter 101: The Last Woman's Blessing
The rest was not peaceful. Aidan’s sleep was a dark, churning sea of fractured images: the feel of seventeen different cunts clamping down on him in succession, the glazed look in Sorrel’s eyes as he emptied into her ass, the sound of his own breath, ragged and constant as a bellows. He woke not refreshed, but raw, every nerve exposed. The silvery tracery on his skin felt warm, almost itchy.
Mei was there, pressing a cup of bitter tea into his hands. “The Elder says you have one more.”
Aidan blinked. “One more? I saw… I blessed all seventeen.”
“Not all,” Kioni said softly from the doorway. She wouldn’t meet his eye. “Nia. The widow from the high pastures. She was tending a birthing ewe during the rites. She returned at twilight. She has been waiting.”
A cold knot, entirely separate from the heat of the marks, formed in Aidan’s gut. It wasn’t reluctance. It was a deep, bodily understanding of his own depletion. “Now?”
“Now.”
The walk to the ceremonial hut was different. The village was quiet, hushed. The work of the day was done, and the women he passed looked at him with a new, settled reverence. They had been sown. Their part was to grow. His, it seemed, was not yet complete.
The hut’s interior was bathed in the deep gold of late afternoon. Dust motes swam in the slanted light. And there, standing before the carved phalluses, was Nia.
She was slight, her frame almost bird-like, wrapped in a simple grey shawl. Her hair was the colour of ashes, tied loosely back. Her face was pale, fine-boned, and etched with a quiet grief that hadn’t faded with her husband’s passing a year prior. She turned as he entered, her hands clutched together at her waist.
“Springbringer,” she whispered, the title sounding foreign on her tongue.
“Aidan,” he said, the name feeling just as foreign to him now.
She gave a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of her head. “No. For this, you are what they say you are.” With trembling fingers, she undid the clasp of her shawl. It pooled at her feet. She wore nothing beneath. Her body was slender, her hips narrow, her breasts small with dark, tight nipples. A scar, thin and white, curved over her ribcage. She stood utterly still, offering herself, but her eyes were those of someone facing a cliff.
He approached slowly. The ritual felt different here, stripped of the crowd’s energy, the desperate frenzy of the mass blessing. This was silent, intimate, and heavy with her unspoken fear.
“You don’t have to,” he heard himself say, his voice low.
“I do,” she replied, her gaze steadying on his. “For the village. For my own… emptiness.” A tear escaped, tracing a path down her cheek. “Please. Don’t be gentle. I need to feel it. I need to know I’m still alive.”
Her request hung in the incense-thick air. Aidan nodded. The boyish accountant was gone. The soldier surfaced. He closed the distance, his hands finding her waist. She flinched at first, then leaned into the touch, her skin cool. He bent his head, not to kiss her mouth, but to trail his lips down the line of her jaw, to her neck. He felt her pulse hammering against his tongue. His hands moved up, palming her small breasts, thumbs rubbing over her nipples until they peaked into hard buds.
She let out a shaky breath, her head falling back. “Yes.”
He guided her down onto the woven mat. The earth floor was cool beneath them. He kissed a path down her sternum, over her flat stomach, his stubble scraping her pale skin. He hooked her legs over his shoulders. Her cunt was a neat, closed seam, a pale pink. She gasped when his breath hit her.
He didn’t tease. He used his tongue, broad and flat, licking a firm stripe from her entrance to her clit. She jolted, a sharp cry echoing in the hut. He circled her clit, then pressed inside her with his tongue, fucking her shallowly with it. She was tart, clean. Her hands flew to his hair, not pushing him away, but tangling in it, holding on.
“Oh, god. Oh, fuck,” she whimpered, her hips starting a tiny, involuntary rock. The crude words sounded strange in her whispery voice, unlocking something desperate.
He added a finger, sliding one thick digit inside her. She was incredibly tight, a virgin-like clutch that made his own spent cock twitch with interest. He worked her open slowly, curling his finger, finding a rhythm with his tongue on her clit. Her moans grew louder, less fearful, more frantic. Her body arched, her heels digging into his back.
“Now,” she begged, her voice breaking. “Please, now. I’m close… fill me up. Make it real.”
He rose over her, his shadow swallowing her. He positioned himself, the broad, plum-shaped head of his cock nudging against her soaked entrance. Even fully aroused, she was a tight fit. He pushed, and her body resisted for a breathtaking second before yielding, swallowing the immense head with a soft, wet pop.
Nia screamed. It was a raw, torn sound of pain and catharsis. Her eyes flew open, locked on his. “Don’t stop,” she gritted out. “Don’t you fucking stop.”
He buried himself to the hilt in one long, relentless thrust. She felt like a furnace, her inner muscles fluttering wildly around his shaft, a frantic, hot embrace. He held there, letting her adjust, watching the pain in her face sublime into something else—a stunned, overwhelming fullness.
He began to move. Deep, punishing strokes that rocked her whole body. The mat beneath them rustled. Her cries came with each inward drive—short, punched-out gasps of “ah! ah! ah!” Her nails scored his arms. He fucked her with a single-minded intensity, the sweat springing up on his back, the power from the rites stirring once more in his veins. This wasn’t about blessing a womb. This was about exorcising a ghost.
Her orgasm hit her suddenly. She shattered silently, her mouth a wide ‘O’, her cunt convulsing around him in rhythmic, milking spasms that tore a groan from his own throat. He rode her through it, his pace never faltering.
Then he felt his own climax gathering, a tight coil in his balls. He drove into her one final time, seating himself impossibly deep, and let go. The release was a deep, pulsing eruption, jet after hot jet flooding her deepest channel. He grunted, animalistic, as he pumped his seed into her, claiming the hollow space her grief had left.
He collapsed atop her for a moment, spent. Then he rolled off.
She lay staring at the thatched ceiling, her chest heaving, his cum already seeping out from between her swollen lips onto the mat. A minute passed. Then she turned onto her side, facing him, drawing her knees up.
“The other part,” she said, her voice hoarse. “The deepest blessing. I need that, too.”
Aidan looked at her. He was sore, drained. But her eyes held a challenge, a need for completion. He nodded.
He helped her turn onto her stomach. Her ass was pale, small mounds. He spat into his palm, slicking himself and her tight, pucker. He positioned the head of his cock against it, applying pressure.
“Breathe out,” he murmured.
She exhaled, and he pushed. Her backdoor was a fierce, clenching ring of muscle, agonisingly tight. It yielded slowly, a burning, gradual invasion. She muffled a scream against her arm. He sank in, inch by torturous inch, until he was fully sheathed in the hot, snug vice of her rectum.
“Fuck… fuck… it’s so full,” she sobbed, the pain evident in her voice.
He began to move, short, shallow thrusts at first. The friction was intense, incredible. Her body slowly relaxed, accepting him, and her sobs changed pitch, mingling with moans. He fucked her ass in earnest now, each stroke a crude, profound possession. The slap of skin filled the hut. He came again, a secondary, shocking release that felt like it was being pulled from his marrow, filling her bowels with a wet, deep heat.
When he pulled out, she wept openly, messy, cathartic tears. She reached back, touching her leaking, used holes with wonder.
“Thank you,” she whispered, the words thick with snot and relief. “I feel… planted.”
Aidan stood on unsteady legs. He left her there, curled on her side, his seed marking her inside and out. As he stepped out into the cooling evening air, the Elder was waiting, a knowing look in his milky eyes.
“The circle is closed,” the old man said. “Every field is sown. Now we truly wait.”
Aidan walked back towards his hut, his body a map of exhaustion and strange triumph. The village was quiet. But as he passed the last dwelling, he saw Sorrel, the Keeper, standing in her doorway. Her hand rested on her flat stomach. She didn’t smile. She simply met his gaze and gave a single, slow nod.
The work was done. But as he lay down that night, the silvery marks pulsing softly in the dark, he knew with a cold certainty that this was only the first harvest. The waiting would be its own kind of torment. And the goddess, he felt, was not yet satisfied.