The Ritual

 

Erotic Stories of the First Agricultural Revolution

Part II: The Ritual

Travel was not made easily. the valuable hempen rope that pulled my sled chafed at my hands, with a burn that lingered even after I applied poultices at the end of a day walking. Curled up on a soft patch of grass I spent a minute in self pity. Why did older brother leave this task to me, why was he taken so early. I; thrust from my family, roaming house to house. Used and low I hung my head. 

Of course I had stroked my own sex to completion many times in the shade of a tree, out of the eyes of my family. Of course I had dreamed about what it would feel like to share in that carnal and sacred act with a mate. How then did I now find my situation so miserable. I was only spurred on by a sense of familial piety, to trade and better the situation on our homestead. Despite the burning heat, I shuddered involuntarily at the memory of the ritual. 

In front of the family I would chew mouthfuls of pomegranate seeds, spitting the pulpy masses into a carved wooden bowl. This was smeared on our faces and necks and we were ceremonially stripped of our clothes. Once surrounded by the family on a straw mattress, a fire was lit, the woman was then covered in blankets and rubbed by many hands, as heat makes the body more fertile. I was orally stimulated by the eldest female until I achieved erection, and then angled in to the vagina. As I withdrew from each thrust, the firm hand of the family’s head would thrust forwards my buttocks, forcing me to enter once more. This was repeated until my orgasm was reached, and then I was discarded while the family swarmed the woman, raising her legs up in the air to ensure that the fluid remained. Only then could I discuss my barter with the head of the family.

Having repeated this cycle so many times, I was thoroughly depleted. I wished once more that older brother could come back to life and relieve me of my burden. Blistered and scorched by the sun I sobbed into my homespun clothing, bemoaning my wretched fate. 

The next day, I reached a homestead that was covered in shade, with a stream flowing some paces away. I dropped to my knees at the stream and splashed the running water on my face, laughing like a child. I drank, filled my gourd and washed the dust from my aching soles. As I began to feel better, I heard a feminine voice floating from the household, and as though in a trance, I walked towards it… 

The White Whale Inside

 THE WHITE WHALE INSIDE

Isaac Coady

On Tuesday nights, after my workout at the Lion’s Club, I went over to Julian’s apartment for dinner and casual sex. It was a fixed appointment which required no preamble or coordination. Sometimes he texted to ask if so-and-so could join us, or to forewarn me of any particular precautions I ought to take for the evening. The Tuesday which changed my life, and may just change yours, was a full moon in Pisces. The fish. How fitting. I took the train to Julian’s, and punched the code in the keypad to get into the building. The staircase was old carpet and thirteen flights. He was waiting for me inside, watching T.V., and drinking a beer. We met through mutual friends who thought I should get to know other transmascs before starting HRT. He had always been funny, and kind. 

“Hey, butch,” he said. He turned his head to look at me from the couch. I laid my gym bag down by the door, and slipped off my Adidas Campus’. 

“I’m gonna rip my clothes off my body, this is unbearable,” I replied, crossed the room, and threw myself down beside him. “When does it end?”

“What? The spontaneous boners? Or the weird looks from guys in the locker room?” 

“Both,” I said. “Mostly the first one.” 

He raised an eyebrow. He slid one hand over my short shorts, to cup my throbbing clit. 

“You’ve got a ways to go, yet.” He turned his body toward mine, grinning, and began stimulating my hard-on with the palm of his hand. He ground it against me in circles, and chuckled at my juvenile desperation. “Might as well have fun with it while it lasts, though. I know I do.” 

I threw my head back onto the seat, and squeezed my eyes shut. Julian knew exactly how electric my blood felt right now. How frayed and dismayed I was feeling. I took a few deep breaths, trying to make it last, before I realized I didn’t need to. We would go all night. We would go until we couldn’t anymore, and then go a bit further. We would call in so-and-so if we exhausted each other. I reached one hand to my scalp and the other to his, and pulled both of our hair. He pulled me in for a sloppy kiss, which turned quickly to biting his lip, nose, jaw, ear. He slipped a hand under the leg of my nylon shorts, and with finger and thumb, pinched my rock-hard micro. My skin burned from that spot in a fire that devoured me outward, then fizzled, like the alcohol on a baked Alaska flambé. My vision turned blue, like the air around those cakes. In the aftershock, my ears ringing, my chest heaving, was the first time I felt it. 

Many people are so trapped in the mind-prison of cock that they will never understand the freedom in a life with pure fluids. They will never know the beauty of the sperm worm. 

I was breathing hard through my nose, his forehead pressed against my temple. His hand under my shorts and boxers created a tunnel through the fabric, out onto my thigh. I felt the brush against my goosebumped skin of something slick, yet featherlight, and looked down to where his hand still tented my pants. I felt it again, a touch further down. It was slick like snails, but it skipped down my leg like a rock on still water. I lifted my left arm up into the air, grasped the loose fabric which concealed my immodesty, and pulled it up to expose this unusual cum spill. 

“What the fuck?” I bellowed in shock. 

Squirming down my leg like an inch worm was one single spermatozoid, white and creamy, the length of my forefinger. It left a translucent trail of thin discharge behind it, and slithered down my thigh enthusiastically, as if seeking passage through the cervix. I was frozen with disgust. “What the fuck is that?!”

Julian laughed quietly in my ear. He slid his hand out the tunnel he’d built in my pants, and plucked up the sperm worm by its fine tail. “First rodeo?” he asked, like a well-beaten joke.

He held it before us both, between his finger and thumb, the same digits that had pinched my clit, moments ago. I watched, jaw agape, as the spermatozoid wriggled, then shivered, then died. 

“Hold out your hand,” he whispered to me. I let go of my shorts, and flipped up my palm. Things had become fuzzy, like I was playing a video game, a first person shooter, looking at the screen as my character looked down at their body. Disjointed. Julian let drop the creature like a thick silver chain, cold on my skin like metal. 

“You’ve never seen one of these before?” He asked. I shook my head. “Welcome to sperm, butch. This here’s a T-sperm. The most potent semen known to mankind. And Transsexuality’s best kept secret. You make one of these bastards a day, and they’re guaranteed to take in any uterus they work their way into. One of nature’s blessings unto the trans community. I know it looks gross. Might be scary to you now, but I promise, the good outweighs the bad. Anyone you cum inside will be able to push it right back out, like a tampon, if they want to. And they can’t live outside the body for longer than ten, fifteen seconds. You can toss them or flush them. A lot of us get it out in the morning, then you cum empty discharge for rest of the day. Share fluids with whoever you want, no insemination possible. Everyone has different recovery times, but for the most part, you won’t produce another sperm until you’ve had a good night’s rest.”

I sat in a stupor while Julian spoke, staring at the thing in my hand. This worm had come from inside me. It had come out my dick. Or had it come out my vagina? I hadn’t felt anything pass through my urethra. But it was sperm, not discharge. Produced in the scrotum, not the ovaries. 

“I’m freaking out, man. How… What the fuck?” 

Julian smiled, tightened his arm around my shoulders, and stood up. He came back a moment later with two beers. He took the dead sperm worm out of my hand, and replaced it with a cold can. 

“It’s okay to freak out,” he said. “I think I pissed the first time it happened to me. But you’ll get used to it. I don’t know one guy who hasn’t grown to love it.” 

He was right. He always was, back then. We didn’t fuck more that night, I was too shaken up. We drank a few beers, watched stupid T.V., and then I took the bus home. I woke up early the next morning. My bedroom, the white walls and white sheets, the view from my window, everything, unchanged. My sperm, crawling out of my hole like a soldier in the trenches. Like a butterfly from the cocoon. Fish out of water, begging for life, struggling in my hand. I was already stiff and slippery from the thought of it. I slid one finger up my slit and circled the tip of my cock. The only image in my mind was the white whale waiting inside me. I imagined it swimming out, swimming through me, throwing me down and taking me, slithering in and out of my asshole, up one nostril and out the other. I knew my journey with the spworm had only just begun, and I could scarcely imagine where it would take me… 

"Do you smell that?" an Ode to The River of Time and The Love That Swims Within its Currents

 "Do you smell that?" 

an Ode to The River of Time 

and The Love That Swims Within its Currents

"Do you smell that?"

 

That was the last thing she ever said to me. It was last autumn as the final straggling leaves were saying their farewells. We were holding each other by the hearth and staring into the flame, avoiding eye contact with one another. I held her as I had always held her. I knew these moments we shared had always been fleeting but this one felt especially so. My hand rested on her stomach. The heat between us was rarely this palpable.

 

— . —

It is spring as I write this. I am sitting on a bus returning back home after a weekend with friends. There has been far too much travel lately and not enough time to soak in the joys of another in any meaningful way. I am staring at the back of the bus driver's head wishing I could truly feel wistful for times passed. Romance has been but a short visiting sparrow on a brisk wind. I am the sturdy rock that stays fixed and becomes transfixed by movement that passes me by. The bus feels apt. I am moved by others. All of my fuel is sourced from outside myself. It is best for me to be with another. Experiencing true spiritual connection, staring at the back of a lover's head.

 

The bus driver's hair swoops up to a point like an online .png image of a water droplet. His head is not wet, it is hairy. I haven't shaved my body down nude since I parted ways with the aforementioned "Her." Our time together was bountiful both in production and self exploration. She wrote poems about my oily skin to put on USB sticks and hide in mailboxes of abandoned homes. She posed me as she imagined Adonis would stand. She took hundreds of photos and would print them off at a Staples’ print shop by the apartment that was her's but she called our's. She always returned gleeful with a stack of photos of my naked body. All the digital copies were stored on the USB sticks with the poetry. All the hard copies were tucked under her favourite floorboard. I knew it to be self indulgent but I loved every second of it.

I can feel my chest hair rubbing against my unwashed hoodie I've been wearing for days. I'm not a loser but I haven't been treating myself the best that I could be. The bus seat ahead of me is pressed into my knees. My left hip has been tight the entire duration of the journey. If discomfort and a ride home is what thirty dollars affords I am happy to pay it. I smell like I've been sitting in a chair staring at my laptop screen for three days "working" at a tedious task that will most likely amount to less than nothing. I can see myself in one of the driver's many many mirrors and it looks like I've been sat in an electric chair and put through that whole process.

 

My hair is frizzed up like it was on those late starting days of last autumn.

(I would now like to address her directly)

 

You always said you loved the way my unwashed hair stands up on end. I can remember that last conversation we had laying on your rug that we had pulled over close to your fireplace. I stared at the back of your head and you said you could feel exactly how I was looking at you. You turned and said you had just gotten your work Visa approved that morning. I was still inside of you. I was inside you for the last time. We were so close then. I knew you then. You were working on things that I couldn't begin to pretend to understand. I gave you my seed and you gave me life. You were my impetus to start learning again and to forget that I was stone.

 

I stroked myself to completion in the Flixbus washroom thinking of you.

 

I want to thank you for your patience and courage to move forward. I know I will most likely never see you again. I know I will feel deeply towards someone new. I know that life moves on and as much as we both love to write mournful romantic one and a half page scribbles of poems to be snuck through friends back and forth to each other we must finally allow ourselves to be mobile.

 

That smell was my seed gone sour. We both knew it. Our seed and spum and fluids give way for new knowledge. Without access to our bodies’ most intimate mechanism we are made fools. We may allow ourselves to live in a land where creatures like imps play in fields and gnomes stroke each other dry by babbling brooks as life long committed throuples. Sometimes I may fantasize about this alternate magic that many folks relegate their understandings of love to. I believe fantasy must be momentary and always with acceptance that a return to practicing real world love magic is necessary. Sitting here dripping down my left thigh, pants on, I know what my smell is telling me. It is finally time. My healing journey has completed. I must indulge in the combinations and the alchemy that can be performed with my potent ingredients.

 

One more note: you already know this but I will always love you and I'm sure that your goo is telling you that this is the last thread that should be shared between our now disparate tapestries.

 

Much love to all and much love to you,

 

Sean Harper

We Did Sow Einkorn Wheat and Bitter Vetch

Erotic Stories of the First Agricultural Revolution

Part 1: We Did Sow Einkorn Wheat and Bitter Vetch 

We Did Sow Einkorn Wheat and Bitter Vetch. These were the crops of my family, and their ancestors. In the fertile basin of the Levant, we toiled ceaselessly during the agrarian season. The hot sun burned at our necks and arms - our simple homespun cloth could only shield so much of our skin. My two sisters and I watered the earth with our sweat as we tilled and plowed. Mother would oft tell us the stories of our life-givers, 10 generations back who walked the earth, seeking their nourishment from the grain and root that reproduced in abundance in nature. By some desire to cultivate, my forefathers settled and now we toil with humility and fervour. 

We lived alone. Many others had once shared our struggle, but in search of less arid land, they strayed. Stubbornly, we tended our plots and made do with the circumstances that faced our ancestors. My older brother was the trader of our family. If our farm equipment broke, he would travel to meet with our neighbours and sell grain, or the smooth wooden sculpture work that mother was so accomplished with. I had not the hands for her craftwork, always seen as clumsy among my siblings. 

Upon the eve of a full moon in our off season, we received devastating news. Older brother had fallen ill on his travels, and had been mercilessly taken off this earth by a cruel hand above. We wept for six weeks. We worked, and the hot tears fell to the ground, splashing the soil. The offering of our tears must have softened the hearts of the gods, because our einkorn wheat and bitter vetch flourished to such a degree that we abased ourselves in gratitude to the sky. We missed older brother, but now work renewed us. 

As our harvesting season waned, mother pulled me aside to share words:

“Son, you are 23 harvests. Older brother has left us forever, and our family needs a trader, or we will not last much longer on this earth. Our harvest is such this year that we will be able to sustain ourselves for many years to come.” After a pause, she looked up tearfully and spoke again “it is time for you to leave us my son, and exchange in benefit to the family." Another pause. "As uncomfortable as it is to speak about this with my own blood - if the trader of our family has the capacity, they have another obligation...”

Mother conveyed my duty. For me, the fertile planting season was far from over; a whole different one was about to begin. This time it would not be in the dry, arid land I had known my whole life, but in the warm wetnesses of the fertile adult women that plowed the fields across our region. 

The Worm King

Dear readers - this is a short story written by Tal Volkozha, a first time contributor from Montreal (CA). I want you to approach it with an open mind, and understand that there are many different ways people live their lives in the world 😁

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It all started with an intrusive thought, as most things do. I was laying on the couch swatting at mosquitos after a long hot summers day of farm labour. Everyone on the commune left for square dancing that night and I was in a funk at home. You see it’s been a long fucking time since I’ve been fucked. Sure I’VE fucked people; I’ll finger my supervisor when she asks and I’ll let my homie dry hump on my thighs when they’re feeling feral, but nobody and I mean NOBODY has fucked ME in months. I was bored out of my mind!!! Bored of my hands, bored of my pillow, bored of my barely functioning vibrator, bored of the shitty shower head pressure, bored of my hairbrush handle and bored of the cucumbers I harvest. Every prior tool of pleasure made me want to vomit. And of all the people living on this commune, not one crush was to be had.

It was about time that I go dump the weekly compost into the worm enclosure. A chore of no great significance to me, but as I opened the box and watched the worms wriggle, their pink flesh glistening under the rays of the full moon, I started to feel heat spread across my face and my pussy was throbbing. I didn’t really think twice about it, we can call it animalistic instinct. I unbuckled my overalls and pulled down my boxers, gently pressing a single worm into my pussy. This worm took to my flesh canal like a fish to water. The pleasure was instantaneous, I placed another and then another... 3 worms were inside me, thrashing around, searching for something... I squirmed as they found my gspot, forming a pulsating spiral. So I continued adding worms, wanting to experience as much pressure as wormly possible. I fell to my knees overtaken by the sensation, no longer able to control my limbs, my body started contorting so horrifically I thought I was about to transform into a wherewolf. I sensed spiritually that the worms wanted me to cum as badly as I did, and just as that thought came I had the most powerful orgasm I’ve ever experienced in my short pathetic life. My eyesight vanished and I started to cry. The brute force of convulsion from my pussy forced several worms to fall out, but the rest clung on. I quickly got up scanning the fields to make sure nobody witnessed my moment of enlightenment, and carefully placed each worm back into its habitat, thanking them with silent prayer for breathing new life into my body. That night I dreamt of the towns people gathering around my bedroom window with pitchforks, chanting “kill the witch”, all for discovering the pleasure within worms.

After that first encounter, everything changed. All I could think about while I ploughed the fields is when I’d get a moment alone with the worms. My obsession grew with every new visit. It felt like the worms were learning new ways to wiggle inside me, each time was better then the last and I would become desperate and depressed after several days without any opportunity to pay them a visit. My neighbours and friends could tell something about me was different, some thought I had a new glow on my face, others only noticed my antisocial behaviour. But nobody truly knew my secret.

And then I met him. I was told that a new member would be joining us to help with the late summer harvest, but as always I paid no real interest to this news. That is until I laid my eyes on him. He was tall, extremely slender, with the most beautiful pink glowing skin. His facial features were all peculiarly tiny, and he had freshly shaven his head bald. Actually, he was completely and utterly hairless, not even having any eyebrows or eyelashes. His most distinct feature was the way he carried himself. His walk could only be described as a slither, I was mesmerized. This may be a cliché but in my head I dubbed him “The Worm King” and I knew that I needed to get him inside of me. So I started my courtship as best as I could, I would offer him scraps from my breakfast, lunch and dinner. He liked this a great deal, and would thank me for my kindness. He wasn’t much of a talker, I liked that about him too. I’d often watch him secretly as he dug through the soil with his bare hands, dirt getting under the crevasse of each fingernail, the joy on his face during these moments was so pure, I felt guilty for witnessing it. I couldn’t tell if he liked me for a long time, but one day when we were working side by side, a gust of wind blew past us and he looked up at me, bewildered, whispering “You have a beautiful earthy scent, it gave me goosebumps.” I blushed so hard I thought my face would explode.

I forget where everyone went that faithful night, as I simply did not give a fuck. My eyes were set on one thing. After I stuffed as many worms as I could up my pussy, I went to find The Worm King. At this point I had learned to control the sensation inside me by a certain morse code kegal language I had developed. Like any good trainer, the worms listened to the commands of my pussy. I found him lying by the stream, in a patch of damp dirt, solely in a pair of boxers. I made myself known and laid next to him, not saying a word. He stretched out his arm to touch mine, slowly and softly inspecting my body with intention and curiosity. I slipped out of my clothes, as did he, and he started licking me from the base of my neck, to my chin, to my lips. We were intertwined in a way I didn’t think was humanly possible, and when he slipped his worm inside of me, all I could see in the dark was his tiny eyes widening in shock. “Wha-What is this” he gasped. I let out a moan, responding “Welcome home, Worm King”. But to my disappointment, he didn’t last long, I should have known that the pleasure of hundreds of worms wrapped around his cock would have been too much. In mere seconds he let out the loudest sound that has ever escaped his minute mouth. “I can’t take it, I’m gonna cum!And as he tried to pull out, the worms tightened their grip around his dick, forcing him to fill me with oozing hot liquid nectar. The force of his ejaculation was so brutal he shot out of me, falling straight into the river. A fountain of worms and cum poured all over me. In that moment, all I could do was laugh and laugh, for I knew no mortal man could ever know how to pleasure me like the worms.

In the ovum of god

In the ovum of god

 

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The first time I had a man fill me with warm glistening cum I had just turned 18. I was lying on my back in a haystack with a piece of hay clenched between my teeth while he railed me with his 4 inch cock. I teased my nipples and clit with my hands, arching my back into him and the heavy lurid perfume of lust and hay. He moaned and murmured, “fuck fuck you feel so good” and I groaned in response. My pussy felt so good and started contracting around his dick, aching and preparing to cum and making him moan even louder. “oh my god you’re so fucking hot i’m gonna cum” he yelled out.

“cum for me, fill my pussy with your creamy seed,” I squealed. I had been dreaming of saying those words for a long time. The women in my family had dropped hints that something special might happen when the spermazoidal juices entered my cavity chambers. But I had no idea what it would be yet.

“oh fuck i’m cumming!” he yelled.

“fuck yes fill my cavity chambers with your spermazoidal juices,” I screamed as he erupted inside of me and I felt a delicious viscous ooze fill me to the brim. My body and mind flooded with pure ecstasy and I was suddenly overcome by a vision of a golden spirit connecting a tube to my temples and sending sizzling blue lightning bolts that jolted my brain with an exquisite searing pain. My entire body vibrated as I received more cosmic understanding in a millisecond than most beings gain from lifetimes. My eyes shot open, burning hot and brimming with tears. The man was staring at me, his mouth gaping open. We both looked at my luscious twitching pussy which was glazed and dripping glossy cum like a most arousing donut. “did you... feel that?” I asked. He tried to speak but was unable. Clearly his brain had atrophied from the instantaneous download of divine wisdom and energetic records directly from source. “put your overalls back on,” I said. I knew in that moment that I had to chase this feeling and experience it as much and as often as possible.

I went on to have a glorious amount of unprotected spirit enlightening sex. I had it with men and women and always it was the direct exchange and expression, the churning cauldron, of sexual fluids that brought me to infinite access, doused, pure straight into the mouth of god. I gained telepathy, developed extra sensory sensitivities, and began having prophetic paradimensional visions. These came on in flashes,

sometimes just before sleep, sometimes randomly throughout the day, and always at the scintillating peak of fluid exchanging sex. With one heavenly woman in her bathtub, scruba dub rubbing up on her and grinding our pussies together, a mermaid goddess appeared to me. I was blissed out on the camphor bubbles and felt like I was floating. She was in motion, with long tangled hair and a tangled fishnet dress, swimming around me.

“hey sssssaillor,” her voice resounded in my head in my ecstatic state. “want this pretty pearl?” and she flashed a luminescent pearl the size of a baby’s fist. And we made a deal that I would give her the placenta of my firstborn for the pearl. But I negotiated her into also charming me against unwanted insemination. She licked the pearl before putting a hand to my stomach, pushing me onto my back and sliding the

pearl inside of me with a slick tentacle. Her tentacle filled me to bursting, making me gasp and writhe. She smirked and bit me on the neck before swimming away on the dark waves of my vision. Coming back to earth to the bath from that one was exhilarating, slippery. The woman beside me was riding the motion of some private experience. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck standing upright, the tingling awareness of the charmed pearl as deep in me as a single pulsating gem at the bottom of a mine. The fear of a maternal revelation hadn’t been stopping me from seeking the blissful union of fluids with my sexual partners, but now that I knew I was safe I was ready to become entirely fucking insatiable.

Everywhere I went I left a long stream behind me of spent lovers and squirt like a snail trail. I wore the pearl and was often flooded with ecstatic visions of the mermaid and her tentacle that put it there. There was one time that I lay draped facedown across my bed at a pale blue dawny hour of the morning. In my bleary up all night state I was rubbing against a shell shaped vibrator, losing myself to breathless waves of solo pleasure. I felt my pleasure mounting and was rocked by the current up to the dazzling heights of climax when suddenly in that dizzying portal the mermaid appeared, swimming in warm milky water in a placenta shaped pool.

I dove in and our bodies found each other and entertwined, caressing and grasping in liquidy synchronised movements. I wrapped my arms and legs around her body and she used her hand and her tongue and teeth to tease my nipples and nip at my skin. She set me off vibrating, the pearl deep inside me growing hot and pulsing in her presence. Our bodies turned in the water, my head sometimes deep under, sometimes breaking through the surface but always I was breathless and moaning and gasping air and water. Her long tongue flicked between my legs, slid against my clit and then darted into my opening, pushing with forceful determination all the way to the pearl in the deepest part of me. I squirmed and trembled as she reached for the pearl, grasped it with her tongue and rolled it over and over. The sensation pulled sounds from my body that I had never made before, barks and yelps like a whole menagerie. Any attempt at coherent thought or functioning was completely overwhelmed by the water and the roaring swells of rapture as I bucked and twisted from the pressure of her tongue. In this sex I couldn’t breathe. In this sex I could drown. What was insight, knowledge, any higher understanding worth when your lungs burned for air, your body reeled with all consuming pleasure, your mammal brain reduced to base seeking instincts and barking, no more speech, like a seal? Whiskers and all. Then she withdrew her tongue with a small amphibian laugh. Perched on the end of it, glittering with sacred secretions, was the pearl. I gaped. She brought her tentacle to the lips of my pussy and taunted me with it, rubbing it slowly against me. My entire being ached for her to enter me. “please...” I moaned. “I need your juice inside my...” before I could

finish that thought she thrust hard inside of me, my pussy spreading wide for her thick rubbery tentacle. She whispered dark serpentine fantasies in my ear that made my toes curl and she fucked me like a sea snake, like a leviathan, like a typhoon. I screamed and mimicked biblical floods, salty liquids pouring forth from a crack in the sky and submerging whole villages and herds of cattle. She clawed and caught my throat with her hand and hissed long and low as her tentacle shot a massive load of oily mermaid

cum into my throbbing depths. My body shook with the impact and I yelled and writhed on her tentacle still inside me, my pussy overflowing with her seamen.

I came to on my bed with light streaming through my bedroom curtains. I was drenched with sweat and other fluids. My heart was racing and I was reaching out for the mermaid goddess, surprised by her absence after the devouring closeness. But I felt something welling inside of me. Some energy collecting. And on my dresser in a wet mess of seaweed I found the pearl.

I had a vision of the baby 2 weeks into the pregnancy. A shrimpy smiley half mermaid with my dream goddess’ gills and my eyes. She and I visited more and I felt beyond the skin prickling desire I had for her, a very tender and fishy love forming. This was truer than all of the epiphanies and revelations. This was deeper than all of the enlightenment and understanding. This was the full, filled loaded and bursting, expression of creation. This was the miracle of life. She made that pearl into a ring and we wed on a sand bank on a summer’s Thursday. In a lightning storm. Kraken in attendance. 6 months pregnant. Anything is possible.

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In the ovum of god is written by acclaimed author Nikita Bleyer, for this blog