Chapter 56: The Feast of Six Thrusts
He woke to the smell of roasting meat and the sound of laughter. For a confused moment, Aidan thought he was back in his old apartment, hearing neighbors through the wall. Then the stiffness in his muscles, the deep, satisfying ache in his core, and the weight of Kioni’s leg thrown over his own brought the truth crashing back.
The hut was empty save for her. Sunlight streamed through the open doorway, painting a bright rectangle on the packed earth floor. Outside, the compound buzzed with an energy that felt different from the usual daily rhythms. It was louder. Festive.
Kioni stirred, her eyes fluttering open. She smiled when she saw him awake, a soft, private thing. “They are preparing a feast,” she said, her voice rough with sleep. “For your return. For the blessing.”
Aidan pushed himself up on his elbows. The memory of the previous night—her confession, their quiet lovemaking—was a warm ember in his chest. But the thought of a feast, of being the center of attention again, made that ember feel fragile. “I don’t think I’m up for a party, Kioni.”
“It is not a party,” she said, sitting up and stretching. The furs fell away from her. “It is a thanks. To the goddess. For your safe return and for the life she has quickened.” Her hand rested again on her belly, a gesture that was becoming instinctive. “You must be present. It is the way.”
The way. He was learning that phrase covered a multitude of sins and ceremonies.
Nala, the translator, appeared at the doorway a short while later, her expression a blend of formality and what might have been sympathy. “The elders request your presence at the central fire when the sun touches the top of the kapok tree,” she said. “You will be cleansed and anointed.”
“Anointed for what?” Aidan asked, pulling on a clean linen loincloth.
Nala’s gaze was steady. “For the gratitude.”
The central fire pit was a roaring hub of activity. The air wasn’t just thick with woodsmoke now, but with the rich, mouthwatering scent of spitted goat and the sweet, yeasty smell of millet beer. Garlands of vibrant flowers and pungent herbs hung from the surrounding poles. The entire tribe, it seemed, was gathered—men, women, children—their faces painted with ochre and ash in intricate patterns.
Aidan was led to a space cleared near the fire. An elder woman with hands like knotted roots beckoned him forward. She poured water over his hands from a clay vessel, then rubbed his skin with a paste of crushed herbs that smelled sharp and clean. Another elder placed a simple circlet of woven vines on his head.
Then Nala stepped forward, her voice rising to address the gathered crowd before turning to him, her tone shifting to something more conversational, almost instructional.
“The oracle accepted your offering. The goddess is pleased. Now, the people must show their thanks,” she explained, as if outlining a straightforward, if unusual, procedure. “Each woman of the tribe will come to you. You will give her six thrusts. Into the back passage. It is the goddess’s preferred… channel for receiving devotion. Precise. Six. No more, no less.”
Aidan stared at her. The noise of the feast seemed to recede, replaced by a ringing in his ears. He looked past her at the crowd of women—dozens of them, young and old, their faces expectant, serene. His exhaustion returned, a physical weight.
“Every woman?” he heard himself ask, his voice flat.
“Every woman who has bled,” Nala corrected, with a slight nod. “After the six thrusts, she will clean you with her mouth. For the next woman. It maintains the purity of the ritual.” She leaned in slightly. “Your brides are the exception. For them, the gratitude must be… substantial. You must finish inside them. The goddess requires a seal for her own.”
A firebrand seemed to press against the base of his spine. It was a demand of such monumental, grotesque scale that his mind simply blanked for a moment. He saw Kioni watching from the edge of the circle, her expression unreadable. He saw Zola, her lips pressed together. He saw the line already forming, women chatting quietly amongst themselves, some adjusting their skirts, as if queueing for a well.
“Aidan.” Nala’s voice brought him back. “They are waiting.”
The first woman was older, with kind eyes and silver streaking her hair. She gave him a motherly smile, patted his arm, and then turned, bracing her hands on a low, carved log placed near the fire for this purpose. The flames cast a dancing light on the curve of her back, her exposed skin.
His body felt like a tool that belonged to someone else. He stepped forward. The act was mechanical. Six measured, deep penetrations. She gasped quietly, a sound of effort, not pain. On the sixth, she shuddered and let out a soft sigh. Then she turned, knelt in the dust before him without a hint of shame, and took him into her mouth, her tongue swirling with a practiced efficiency that left him clean, hard, and strangely detached.
The next woman was younger, giggling nervously with her friend before it was her turn. Her hands were trembling on the log. “It’s bigger than they said,” she whispered over her shoulder, and her friend stifled a laugh. Aidan focused on the count. One. Two. The tight, resisting heat. Three. Four. Her giggle turned into a low moan. Five. Six. She slid to her knees, her enthusiasm more pronounced than the elder’s.
On and on it went. The fire crackled. The night birds called. The men of the tribe drank and watched, their expressions ranging from passive acceptance to vague amusement. Aidan’s world narrowed to a cycle of pressure, warmth, wetness, and the relentless count in his head. His cock, sustained by some deep, now-autonomic reflex, never faltered. It was a machine part, well-oiled and performing its function.
He lost track of time. He knew only the rhythm. The push, the clench, the release, the cleansing heat of a mouth. Faces blurred. Some women sighed his name. Some prayed to the goddess. One older woman, after her six, turned and winked at him. “You keep good time, young stallion,” she said huskily before she took her turn.
His brides were last.
Lea was first among them. There was no log for her. She laid out furs before the fire, the eyes of the entire tribe upon them. Her defiance was back, channeled into a fierce, proud sensuality. “Make it count, accountant,” she whispered, pulling him down to her. This was not six thrusts. This was possession. He drove into the tight, forbidden channel, and she wrapped her legs around him, meeting him thrust for thrust, her eyes locked on his until the moment his control shattered and he emptied into her with a guttural groan. The tribe’s chanting, which had been a low hum, rose to a steady, pounding rhythm.
Zola was tender, guiding him, her whimpers soft against his neck. Nia was methodical, almost clinical, until the very end when she clawed at his back and sobbed. The others blended into a haze of sweat and sensation and the endless, chanting beat.
Kioni was last. She looked up at him as he moved over her, her eyes reflecting the firelight. There was no performance here. This was the quiet from the hut, made public. Her hand found his where it was braced beside her head, their fingers lacing. When he came, it was a deep, full-body surrender that felt less like spending and more like a homecoming. She held him inside her until the chanting ceased.
A sudden, ringing silence fell over the compound, broken only by the pop of the fire.
Dawn was a gray smear in the east.
Aidan rolled onto his back, utterly spent, his body a map of pleasant and agonizing aches. The sky lightened from charcoal to ash. He felt a hand on his chest. Kioni. She helped him sit up, then stand. His legs barely held him. She and Zola supported him, his arms around their shoulders, and led him away from the dying fire, past the sleeping forms and the empty beer pots.
They didn’t take him to their hut. They took him to the bathing spring at the edge of the compound. The water was shockingly cold. They washed him without speaking, their hands gentle on his bruised skin, rinsing away the sweat, the scent of sex and smoke and dust.
Back in the hut, they laid him down on fresh furs. Kioni curled into his side. Zola lay down on his other, her head on his shoulder. He felt their warmth seep into him.
His body was a hollow shell. But his mind…
The rigid anxiety, the numb detachment he’d carried from the oracle’s cave, was gone. Burned away in the long night’s fire. In its place was a vast, quiet stillness. It wasn’t happiness. It wasn’t acceptance, exactly. It was the profound, unshakeable peace of a debt fully paid, a function perfectly fulfilled. He had been used, completely and utterly. And in that total expenditure, there was a perverse, perfect freedom.
He stared at the thatch as the sun finally rose, painting the roof in gold. The goddess’s preferred channel. The thought should have revolted him. It didn’t. It was just a fact. Another part of the way.
He listened to the even breathing of the women beside him. He thought of the seed he’d planted in the six of them, and the one already growing in Kioni. A network of obligations. A living, breathing covenant.
His eyes closed. For the first time in what felt like ages, there was no dread waiting in the dark behind his eyelids. Only the deep, bone-marrow knowledge that he had done what was required.
He slept.