Drilling For Oil

"It's like drilling for oil."

That's what I think to myself as I poke at the tip of his cock with the sharp point of a needle.  You have to hit exactly the right spot at exactly the right depth to get what you want. 

Poke here, you just get a little red spot. Poke there, nothing at all. Poke there and you get a gusher, not quite what you want, either. But what about there, just there, little bit over...just a little deeper. A-ha! Got it!

What am I doing?

I am holding this man-- my playmate-- my lover-- by the shaft of his cock and I'm hurting him. Well that's nothing new; but this time I'm deliberating wounding him, intentionally trying to make him bleed.

Why would I do such a thing?

Because he wants me to. Because he needs me to. He has to give me this, and so I take it from him, happily and eagerly.

It is the day before the equinox and once again, unknowingly, he's stepped into the role of the Corn King; he  who dies to bring new life to the crops next spring. His pain, his blood, his come, his very life force become a sacrifice offered up to me, and perhaps to something greater.

We revel in it, celebrating the joy of each other and of being alive.

Later in the day it rains. I stand on my patio, savoring the smell and the sound of the showers drenching the earth. There's a quiet peace, and a feeling of connectedness, as if I am the latest link in a chain stretching all the way back through history. The daughter of the house has at last come home and the old traditions are made new again.

For a moment, it's as if the rain understands these things, as if the storm is a gift given in exchange for the gifts that we gave.

I go inside, pour a drink, light a candle, collect my silent thoughts before bringing the glass to my lips.

It was a very good day.

Lady Koregan