Ritual_sex on Knotty Biscotti

Litha

Fri, 19 Jun 2026 00:00:00 +0000

The festival sprawled across the old commons and into the bordering woods like a dandelion crop: nothing but green one day, a cacophony of brilliant yellow the next. The air was rich with woodsmoke, crushed meadowsweet, meat roasting over open fires, and the acrid tang of honey mead. Rhiannon had paid her ten dollars at the gate and walked through with her shoulders loose for the first time in weeks.

“RhiRhi!” Roselyn waved eagerly as she approached. Of course she’s in costume, Rhiannon smiled to herself. Roz was at every ren faire she could attend all summer long. She was wearing an unbleached cotton shift dress beneath an absolutely gorgeous green over-dress with a lace-up front. It did precisely what Roz probably wanted it to do: emphasise her narrow waist, wide hips and comically large bust.

“Roz!” Rhiannon felt under-dressed in her ‘Hartendale Veterinary Services’ t-shirt and faded jeans, but Roz was Roz. If Heather was her sister who always had her back, Roz was Rhiannon’s Santa Claus, Easter Bunny and Tooth Fairy all in one. She pulled Roz into a friendly embrace and kissed her cheek. “This is amazing! How’d you find out about it?”

“Isn’t it awesome? Tony—you remember Tony—” Rhiannon did not. “—he told me about it! I knew you’d love it! Do you love it? You love it, right?”

It’d been a very strange year for Rhiannon, but this place just felt right. “Love it!”

“Oh! There’s Tony!” Roselyn hiked up her skirts and was already running.

“I’ll catch up,” Rhiannon called after her, laughing softly.

Instead, she drifted away from the merriment. Something here wants me. The thought seized her, but she found the idea comforting.

It had begun at Pharaoh Lake—unmarked paths opening for her, brambles drawing back if she walked with intention. She crossed a meadow gone gold with buttercups and stepped through a gap in a hedge she would have sworn wasn’t there a moment before.

Nine stones stood in a hollow she should have seen from the festival grounds. Each was draped with garlands of chamomile, yarrow, vervain, St John’s wort. Bees worked the offerings with single-minded devotion.

Inside the circle, a woman knelt among the plants.

She was tall, even kneeling; Rhiannon could tell. Her hair was the colour of river-water—neither blonde nor brown nor silver but like all of those. She wore a simple shift of unbleached linen and a silver serpent coiled around an egg at her throat.

She didn’t look up when Rhiannon stepped between the stones, but Rhiannon noted a hint of a smile. “I’ve been waiting since the snowdrops appeared.” Her hands moved with a gentle rhythm as she tended the plants all around the circle.

“Waiting for me?”

“Mm.” The woman pinched a sprig of yarrow free and held it up to the light, scrutinising. “The Wood gave tribute. The Ploughman before that. I’ve been patient. Summer does not hurry, summer luxuriates.”

“Who are you?”

The woman finally looked up. Her eyes were the pale green of new willow leaves, and they had no whites, just that shifting, sun-shot green from lid to lid.

“You know me, witch.” The way she used that word, Rhiannon thought she heard The Pumpkin Lord’s voice. But from her, it was different.

Reverential.

“Sirona. Of the serpent and the egg. The long healing.” She tilted her head, considering Rhiannon the way she’d considered the yarrow. “And you, little vessel, are late. But Litha still has hours.”

She rose in a fluid, unhurried motion and closed the distance between them. When she brushed a fingertip along Rhiannon’s jaw, the touch was warm and faintly damp, grass on a summer morning.

“What do you want from me?” Rhiannon whispered.

“Today is the healing, the offering.” Sirona was a full head taller than Rhiannon. “Today is for the cup to learn it is a cup.” The nymphic woman’s breath stirred against Rhiannon’s cheeks, smelling of lilac and pine gum. “I will share this with you: You were known before you were born. You will be known when this body has returned to the earth. The summer has always loved you.”

None of this made sense, so Rhiannon latched on to the most concerning word. “Offering?”

Sirona smiled. “An offering. Yourself. Body, breath, and the quiet space you hide. Given freely. Not bargained in drink. Not taken in startlement.” The impossible green eyes held hers.

“What if I say no?” Breathless.

The woman’s smile never wavered. “You walk through the hedge, the festival is just a festival, and I am a story you nearly remember. No rot. No bad luck. The summer doesn’t punish. It waits.”

Rhiannon thought of the Pumpkin Lord’s ember-grin. The Green Man’s amber eyes. Both had taken, even as they gave.

It was, Rhiannon realised, the first real choice she’d been offered since October.

“I offer myself.”

Sirona led her to a spring welling up from a basin of pale rock, ringed in moss so deep it looked like velvet. Rhiannon noted the bottom was covered in small, smooth stones.

“Undress. Into the water.”

The water was the exact temperature of her own blood. It closed around her calves, her thighs, her hips; the moment it reached her navel, something in her chest released—a knot she hadn’t known she’d been carrying. She gasped, and the gasp turned into a laugh, and the laugh into a small, surprised sob.

“Hello, old friend,” Sirona murmured.

As Rhiannon stood in the waist-deep pool, Sirona anointed her with an oil that smelled of honey and rose and something spicy while speaking syllables Rhiannon didn’t know but somehow recognised. Bendith. Ffynnon. Calon. Croeso.

Sirona started at Rhiannon’s forehead. A slow spiral, traced with two fingertips, the oil warming the skin beneath. Then the hollow of her throat. Then her collarbones, each one mapped with the same care, as if Sirona were reading by touch something written there.

Her hands moved lower. She cupped Rhiannon’s breasts without urgency, thumbs tracing circles over her nipples until they tightened and Rhiannon’s breath caught. Sirona’s strange eyes met Rhiannon’s, but she didn’t smile. She simply moved on. Down the centreline of Rhiannon’s belly, the oil leaving an iridescent trail. Into the crease of each hip, where she pressed more firmly, and Rhiannon felt years of small accumulated hurts surface and dissolve—a torn ligament from college, the persistent, quiet ringing in her ears, a grief behind her left shoulder blade she had never been able to name.

“Turn.”

Rhiannon obeyed. Sirona’s oiled palms opened wide across her shoulder blades and squeezed. Something in Rhiannon’s spine relaxed with a warmth she felt all the way to her toes. The hands moved down, tracing every vertebra, every knot of tension. They curved around her hips. They mapped the swell of her ass with the same focused veneration they’d given every other part of her, and Rhiannon’s breath grew louder.

“Face me.”

She turned back. Sirona’s expression was intent, but her eyes had warmed to something that was no longer clinical. She tucked a wet strand of hair behind Rhiannon’s ear with an oiled fingertip, then trailed that finger languidly down Rhiannon’s jaw, her throat, between her breasts, all the way to the waterline at her navel. A question.

“Lie back,” Sirona said, quietly. “Let the water hold you. Let me hold you.”

The water held her weightless. Honeysuckle vines stirred at the spring’s edge—softer than the Green Man’s, almost worshipful—and wreathed her wrists above her head with a gentleness somehow more binding than rope. Rhiannon understood she could break them with a thought and chose not to.

Sirona straddled her. Their bodies met, their pussies kissed, and the contact was an electric, slippery, perfect thing. Rhiannon gasped as Sirona began to grind against her, slow and deliberate. Heat gathered where they met and spread inward, into places Rhiannon hadn’t known were there. Sirona bent low over her. Her jade eyes were inches from Rhiannon’s, and in them Rhiannon read joy.

“You don’t know yet,” Sirona whispered, her rhythm never breaking. “On the day you do, remember I was glad.”

The stones at the basin’s bottom woke one by one, glowing softly. Rhiannon could see some out of the corner of her eye, but she could feel them all. She pushed back against Sirona, grinding slower so their out-of-sync movements enhanced the contact. She tried to speak, but only managed a whimper.

“Come with me, little vessel. Open.”

Rhiannon opened, not with the seismic violence the Green Man had wrung from her, but in a long, sustained unfolding. Petal after petal. Every chamber opening in sequence. She felt Sirona’s pleasure as if it were her own, no edge left between them, just one union of ecstasy.

The honeysuckle bloomed, a string of small exhalations. Gold pollen hung above them in celebration.

Then it was very quiet.

As she dressed, Sirona pressed two fingers to the centre of Rhiannon’s chest. A warmth bloomed and stayed. At Rhiannon’s questioning look, she smiled. “You will know.”

Back at the festival, heads turned as she passed. An old man smiled as at a long-lost friend. A child waved with both hands. A honey-cake vendor pressed one into her palm without taking money. Rhiannon ate it walking. It tasted like the inside of the spring.

She stepped into the circle dance. The pattern that had baffled dancers all evening resolved itself as she joined them, and one by one the others fell into step, laughing, surprised at themselves.

The sun took its time setting. When the stars finally thickened overhead, Rhiannon stood barefoot in the dew-cool grass, turning a slow circle of her own.

The summer, patient as ever, listened.

Knotty

Beltane

Fri, 01 May 2026 00:00:00 +0000

“Any weekend plans?” Dr. Ashford asked casually as she and Rhiannon washed up, having seen the last patient of the day.

Rhiannon nodded, “Yeah! Going camping near Pharaoh Lake! I haven’t been there since I was a kid but I have the best memories from up there!”

Dr. Ashford’s look was cautious. “Alone?”

“Mm-hmm! I need a quiet weekend. Recharge the batteries, y’know?”

The veterinarian’s concern gave way to a smile. “Well, you’ve earned it. Everyone wants to work with you.”

“Thanks, doctor. This really is the best job in the world.” Rhiannon felt a blush rising.

“Alone out there, though—just be careful.”

The city’s concrete grudgingly gave way to sprawling green. She parked in the lot she knew well. This trailhead was rarely used, unknown by most. Moments onto the trail, she was already out of earshot of the highway. She followed Desolate Brook Trail until she located the spur she remembered from her childhood, and turned deeper still into the wilderness.

The air grew heavy with the scent of damp earth and pollen. The clearing she remembered appeared as if summoned and she sighed happily, unshouldering her backpack. In the clearing’s centre stood an ancient oak, the trunk wider than a car. She didn’t remember it, but everything else was a perfect match to her memory.

“Hope it’s okay if I sleep with you, big guy,” Rhiannon laughed softly, caressing the monstrous tree’s bark. A resonant thrum vibrated through the bark, up her arms and into her ribs. The debt of seasons paid in flesh. A voice, ancient and slow as growing wood, came from all around her. Amaethon had his due in autumn. The Living Wood pays tribute in spring.

She gasped, backing up a half-step. The bark had shifted, swirling into a pattern that resembled a bearded, textured mask. Panic tickled her mind, but before she could react, vines, thick as her wrist, uncoiled from the base of the tree. They were quick but gentle as they looped around her wrists and ankles. They turned her back to the oak, then pulled her against the mossy bark. “What—?” The moss thickened, softening the wood, becoming a living throne.

From the heart of the oak, he emerged, The Green Man. He stood impossibly tall, his body a weave of branches and leaves, tall, bony horns extended from his head, his face a gnarled mask of wood with eyes of glowing amber sap.

Distantly, Rhiannon registered that the vines had not ceased their work. They held her, yes, but they had already opened her shirt, removed her bra, and as she sat, fascinated by The Green Man, they had removed her jeans. None of that seemed important.

“You called the Lord of Rot.” His voice was the creak of boughs in the wind. “He answered with a year of stolen fortune. Now the forest calls you, offering true fortune.” Rhiannon’s gaze left his ‘face’ and she started. His ‘penis’ was a shaft of polished wood, veined with channels of amber that pulsed with a faint light. “I will plant the seed of summer in you.”

No! she thought, wildly. YES! Then: I need this!

He was on her. The tip of his wooden member, impossibly smooth and warm, pressed against her pussy lips. It was unyielding, and as he slid inside, the veins on its surface exuded a warm, golden sap.

Rhiannon’s world dissolved. The sap was a fire inside her. Her senses expanded. She felt the desperate push of the first snowdrop through frozen soil, the shudder of the beechnut splitting open for the root, the patient climb of ivy seeking the sun. Her pleasure was an echo of the forest’s perpetual orgasm. He drove deeper, the wooden shaft filling her completely, each thrust a hammer blow of life itself.

“Feel it.” His voice vibrating through her. “You are Rywedawt.”

The vines holding her wrists tightened as he began to move in a slow, relentless rhythm, fucking her with the patient power of the river breaking granite. She felt the sap spilling out of her and pooling beneath her ass-cheeks. Her perception expanded further—no longer just Rhiannon; she was the deer birthing in the thicket, the frantic coupling of the squirrels overhead. Her body bucked against the wooden cock, using the little freedom she had to bury it deeper inside herself. A greenbriar vine snaked up and began to circle her throbbing clit, the tiny spikes the final, perfect catalyst.

She came with a silent scream, her body quaking as her consciousness shattered, exploding outward to merge with the thrumming life of the forest. For a moment, she was the forest, feeling the sun on a million leaves and the roots drinking deep from the earth.

Limp, panting, but fully returned to her body, Rhiannon was certain it was over. But the Green Man remained, his amber eyes glowing and unreadable. He withdrew his wooden phallus, now slick with her juices and his own syrup.

She felt empty.

“The tribute is not complete,” he rumbled. “You have known the sun. Now you will know the soil.”

The vines binding her ankles shifted. They pulled her legs wider, lifting her hips from the mossy, sticky seat. More tendrils, thinner and more numerous, emerged from the forest floor: roots, tipped with nodules that glistened with moisture.

They swarmed her. One thick, strong root pressed against her slick, well-used cunt, gliding in with ease. It was different from the wooden dick—pliable, textured, and moving in a way that made her gasp. It began a slow, grinding rhythm that seemed to churn her insides, but it wasn’t alone.

Another, thinner root probed lower, circling the tight pucker of her ass. Rhiannon whimpered. No, she tried to say, but her body betrayed her, pushing back against the tip.

“Yes.” As if he had heard her thoughts. “The season has you in every way.”

The root was insistent, inexorable. It burned as it entered her, stretching her—painful, but fulfilling. Her cheeks glowed with second-hand shame. She should resist, she should hate this, but her heart and mind both rejoiced at this coupling, at the way she was being used.

The roots began to move in opposition, one retreating while the other advanced. It was overwhelming; the double pistoning made it difficult to breathe. She was being fucked by all of nature. She’d never felt so alive.

The dual penetration sent shockwaves through her, building unbearable pressure. The Green Man knelt, his carved face close to hers, and extended a single, branch-like finger to her clit. He didn’t rub; he simply pressed, and the pressure in her core detonated.

This orgasm was a seismic event that shook her soul. She convulsed, impaled between living roots, an animal howl tearing from her throat as she felt the essence of the earth itself flood her womb.

Rhiannon slept that night naked, unashamed, seated on her throne the forest had created for her. The vines and the ancient oak ensured her comfort and her safety as she slumbered. Animals watched from beyond the treeline but were gone before morning twilight.

Slowly, Rhiannon resurfaced from a deep, dreamless sleep. She marvelled at her body, covered in the proof of the night, but not even an insect had approached her. She ached, a satisfying soreness in her muscles, a throbbing between her legs.

Rising from her seat, she reached for her clothing. Her wrists felt tender. Looking down, she saw the marks were not rope burns. Faint green patterns, like filigree tattoos of leaves and vines, spiralled around her wrists and up her forearms. The Green Man’s mark.

She stood, the forest humming with a new energy. After dressing, she set about building her camp. She belonged to the forest now; it welcomed her as one of its own.

Knotty