From: mark.terka@rose.com (mark terka)
Subject: The Ritual (Sto  1/ 2
Date: Sat, 17 Jul 1993 17:02:52 GMT

No, I didn't write this...and was torn as to where to post it. But I
thought you all might be interested in seeing it here:

First, this is from Nan Hawthorne's book, 'Loving the Goddess
Within'...  and second...this is by no means my re-entrance into this
echo...just a little something I learned and wanted to pass
on. *grins*

Enjoy!

THE WITCH AND THE HORNED ONE

It is Beltane night, and you are the High Priestess of a coven in
Europe in the Dark Ages.  All day your village has celebrated the day
with feasts and dancing.  You alone have stayed on the periphery of
the festivities, knowing that your role as leader of your coven will
bring you the greatest pleasure of all mortal women.

You form a circle, in the middle of which you build a bonfire.  You
join hands in the circle humming a low tone and stamping your feet on
the ground to wake the Mother.  A priest hands you an ancient athame,
the one that belonged to your grandmother's grandmother's
grandmother. The hilt is made of stag horn.  You dip the blade into a
chalice of wine.  The wine was made in ritual fashion, using specially
grown grapes and fermented in accordance with the phases of the moon
and imbued with the magickal properties of an herb only you know.  You
take the reddened athame blade and carry it around the outside of the
circle, stoppping at the four quarters to sing praise to the
elements.  When the circle is cast, you begin in a low voice to intone
the story of Beltane, of the young Goddess who takes to Herself as
Lover the young God who was Her Son.  You can barely be heard above
the cackling of the fire, which has grown higher and higher.  The
priest who gave you the athame takes it again and places it on the
ground before you.  Your young sister places the chalice in front of
you, but closer to the fire.

 As you proclaim these two Goddess and God, they stand before each
other between blade and cup.  She begins to kiss him, and each slides
the robe from the other's shoulders.  Their hands move around each
other's body, and the look of combined anxiety and anticipation which
filled both their faces before the ritual begins to fade into
passion.  The coven watches, chanting low, as the two sink to the
ground and make love.

The other coveners turn to one another, women and men, men and men,
and women and women and sink to the ground.  Only you remain standing,
the thirteenth member, the odd number.  Their sounds fill the air
around you as the sip of herbed wine you took from the chalice begins
to fill your head with buzzing.  The heat of the fire warms the cloth
of your robe.  You can feel the Mother awakening and feel Her joy in
the pleasure which is being shared on this night all over the world.
The writhing bodies of untold numbers of Witches, in circles or
solitary, on every continent, send shafts of primal energy into the
ground, vitializing the seeds, roots and creatures in the soil and
warming the ground so that decaying matter may feed the crops.

As you stare into the fire, a figure appears in its midst.  You cannot
tell if it is a great stag or a tall man clothed in skins and having a
pair of antlers on His head.  You gaze into each other's eyes.  The
heat of the bonfire overwhelms you. As the stag/man nods, you let the
robe fall.  The heat concentrates in your groin.  Outside of time or
space he drifts toward you, and you embrace.  You know it is Herne,
the Horned One, you partner for the sublime lovemaking of the
sabbats.

Your lips seek each others' hungerily, your hands press hard against
each others' flesh.  A rippling sensation spreads down your back
muscles.  You cannot tell whether you are standing or lying, as the
warm air holds you suspended like a soft cushion.  You part Hernes'
legs with your knee and feel His erection against your belly.  He
answers your moan of pleasure with a deep, guttural sound.  You feel
His hands slip from aoround your body to gently but firmly push your
legs apart.  His hands caress and probe your vulva.  You have fleeting
impressions that the mouth which nuzzles your neck and then licks at
your breasts is that of a majestic stag.  You pass your hands down you
own body as you writhe under the ecstacy of the God's touch. Again
your attenion is momentarily diverted by the notion that you feel
light fur instead of moist, smooth skin on your own abdomen.

As you near orgasm one of Herne's hands softly grips one of your hips
and guides your body to face away from Him.  He enters you from
behind, His phallus already lubricated with your own vaginal juices.
It fills you and fits you exactly, and you feel the heat of it every
centimeter of the length of you throbbing vagina.  The poignant energy
builds, His phallus and your vaginal muscles exchange the thrilling,
breath taking sweetness of union.  Your orgasm starts inside and
shoots down your vagina and outward like an arrow, your contractions
grabbing Him and pushing him away simultaneously. You pulse on and on
with His thrusts, waves of sweat and chill sweeping over you. You can
feel his own energy build inside you and at the moement of His
ejacualtion you realize that you have both been transformed into great
harts, and His human gurgle of joy translates to a truimphant stag
call.

The mystic world of your coupling flashes bright with golden light and
you fall back into nothingness, exhausted and yet full of intense
satisfaction.  When you open your eyes, your coven surrounds you where
you stand in a position of enraptured praise.  In a halting voice you
join them in a song of thanks to the Goddess who has given the gift of
erotic pleasure to you all and whose joining with her Lover , the God,
will bring you all and all your people a harvest of plenty and
security for the winter to come.

The ecstatic end...