A Ritual for the Trees

It was time for the celebration again. My favorite night of the year. Most nights, no one comes to visit. During the day, people pass through sometimes commenting on my good looks, but more often than not, they just seem to be in a hurry. Most tune out the sounds with their headphones. And many seem to be running away from themselves or running to catch something that doesn’t exist.

But not tonight. Tonight is the one night of the year that I feel seen, appreciated, and loved. Tonight is the festival of Bilanx.

Every year that I can remember, the Priestesses come to pay us a visit. For many years, I was just too small to be included in their rituals. But that changed last year. A slight woman decided I was just the right size and selected me over all the others. That night was so magical, so powerful, so incredible, that I have spent every day since then dreaming about being chosen again this year.

I feel them approaching before I can see or hear them. While their footsteps are immaterial on the forest floor, the beat of their drums drives deeply into the ground, sending shock waves into my already heightened senses. As they slowly advance, I can hear the overtones of the drums. I imagine their voices singing, and ultimately their real voices supplant those in my imagination. They sing about life and death, about masculine and feminine, about honor and protection, about love and appreciation.

I listen to their song and eagerly anticipate the light from candles they carry with them to break the intense darkness of the night. The candle flames dance shadows across their dark robes and barely illuminate their next step. The flickering light also adds a fluid dimension to the masks that cover each of their faces — the leaves, acorns, feathers, and moss dance with the darkness.

My pulse begins to quicken. My blood is already moving faster these days. The longer days are pulling me out of my time of rest and encouraging me to create again.

The lead Priestess, the tallest one with the long, jet black hair, comes to a slow stop just a few feet away from me. The others continue their slow walk, singing, as they make their way into a circle. As they complete the circle, their voices quiet, and they set down the bundles and candles they are carrying in the center of the circle. The ten women step back silently into place and stand motionless, just as I am.

I feel their energy pouring into the earth below their bare feet, traveling through the mycelium mat, the worm tunnels, and root system, and as it reaches me, my body and limbs begin to buzz. I send my energy on the same path back to them and search their still faces for evidence that they can feel it too.

“Ah-ah-oooooooooooooooo!” The deep, guttural howl from the lead jolts me back to attention and shatters the stillness of the forest. The others join her with their masked heads cocked back to the sky. Their howls ring out through the night. In the distance I wonder if any wolves have stopped what they are doing to perk up their ears and wonder who these distant relatives are.

Their voices howl and call, call and howl, some losing breath while others get started. Finally, the last howl is released and we all listen to it drift into the night until our imagination can even no longer hear it.

Breathing. Chests rising and falling. In and out. Otherwise, total stillness. I am intimately familiar with stillness, and it feels good to have others join me in it.

The leader slowly leans forward and picks up her drum. Boom! She allows the sound waves to come to stillness again before beating the drum again. …. Boom!

The Priestesses begin to move, almost imperceptibly at first. I notice that half are moving in the same direction the sun moves across the sky, and the others in the opposite. Slowly they weave through each other as they circle around the inner circle of candles and bundles. The leader slowly picks up the tempo of her beat and the bodies match the increase with their movements. As they cross paths with one another, the light of the candles illuminates hands reaching out from below their cloaks — reaching out to touch one another. Some caress each others faces beneath their masks, others interlock fingers and squeeze, one combs through the long, wavy hair of another. They move, intersperse, touch, caress, and kiss.

The drum beat shifts from a single boom, to a collection of varied patterns and tones as the speed of the sound increases. The Priestesses open their robes to reveal white undergarments that seem to be their own source of light — glowing brightly in the candle light as compared to the dark robes and blackness of the forest around them. I see lots of skin, and places where skin should be, but is covered by pants, tank tops, bras and underwear, short dresses, and other various forms of white fabric where I wish there was none.

Their movement takes on the variety of the drum beat and smiles emerge on their faces as they begin to shake, sway, skip, and spin. They begin to add their voices to the drum beats. Cries. Moans. Whoops. Hollers. Faster and faster the music and the movements go. The more ecstatic the Priestesses seem to get. As if the leader knows when they’ve had enough, the drum beat stops, and each priestess falls to a small heap on the forest floor — her knees, hands and forehead against the cool earth.

From my vantage point, they look like little boulders stuck in the ground, trying to free themselves by pulsating upward. This pulsating begins to slow as the Priestesses catch their breath and reconnect themselves with the pace of the forest around them.

I watch as the leader picks up a metal bowl and strikes the side with a small stick. I catch my breath as the deep tone resonates through me, as I know this signifies my participation in the ritual. The leader milks the sound of the metal bowl by twirling the stick around its outer rim. The Priestesses move along with the haunting, circular sound as they each gather up the small bundle from the center of the circle they brought with them. Once each has gathered her bundle, they turn away from each other and the center of the circle and out towards the forest. They follow the hum of the bowl and feel for their attraction for who they will choose to honor tonight.

How do I get one to pick me? I wish I could call out, or wave my arms, or plead my case. Last year, I was shocked to be chosen. The Priestess had snuck up behind me and put her arms around my slim body. For so many years, I had only been a spectator, in my mind I had assumed I would always be one. But to be an active part of this ceremony was so enlivening, so delicious, so incredible that I fear how I will feel if I’m not chosen again.

I watch the Priestesses slowly walk around me and the others. Some stop and touch, others look us up and down. A few Priestesses seem immediately called to one and make their choice with no hesitation. I see one Priestess heading in my direction. Could it be the same one from last year? Her mask is adorned with painted feathers, small rocks, and flowers. Her dark brown hair tumbles off her head and barely caresses the tops of her shoulders. Her white, silky dress hangs loosely on her frame.

I hold my breath as she approaches, hoping, praying, willing with all my might that she choose me. When she stops in front of me, rests her hand against me and smiles, I feel relieved and thrilled at the same time.

The leader continues to the hum of the bowl, until each priestess has made a choice. I can see many of the others, but not all. I know the selection process is complete when I hear her strike the stick against the bowl again.

The priestesses unlatch their robes and spread them out on the forest floor at our feet. Then they set to work.

I watch as my priestess unties the bundle of fabric and pulls out a long rope, about the width of her finger, that has a large silver ring tied in the center of it. Then she removes a medium-sized, dark grey, erect phallus, complete with generous drooping balls. It is love at first sight. It’s an odd feeling to see something that doesn’t belong to you, and yet feels like it should have always been a part of you.

She kneels in front of me on top of her robe, and loosely ties the rope around my body, placing the ring in the center of her body, about the height of her pubic mound. She pulls the rope slack so she can fit the phallus up into the ring, and places its flat side against me. Holding the penis in place with her legs, she reaches around behind me, tightening down the rope so that my new penis is firmly in place.

I start to imagine what it would feel like to reach down and stroke my penis, or shake my body back and forth to feel it flap around. I imagine what it would feel like to pee from this penis, or to have it’s limp tip bounce against my body as I move.

I look around at the others and see them all outfitted similarly. Some of their phallus are brightly colored, and some have theirs placed higher up on their bodies than others.

My priestess is kneeling in front of me with her eyes closed and her hands resting on her bare, beautiful thighs. I hear the bowl struck again and watch as a smile creeps over my Priestess’s face. She looks up at me, so lovingly, so admiringly, with a heat of want and desire in her eyes. With her eyes locked on me, she raises her hands to her heart and then to her forehead. She bows before me.

She lifts her head off the ground and takes my phallus into her hand. While the penis isn’t a native part of my body, tonight it feels as if it has always been there. I can feel the heat of her hand, the softness of her skin, and the gentle breath from her mouth as she moves closer to me. Slowly, she places me into her warm, wet mouth. I wish I could howl like they did, or run my hands through her hair. The pain of not being able to show my appreciation is mostly compensated for by the incredible pleasure I feel right now.

She sucks on me, rubs me, licks me, tickles me, and she even kisses my balls. I am able to break my attention from these incredible sensations for long enough to witness the others being similarly revered. Priestesses on their knees, bellies and seats, sucking, stroking, and holding our masculinity so sensually.

In between the sucking and slurping noises, I hear my Priestess starting to make little moans of pleasure and I turn my full attention back to my dark grey phallus. One of her hands has left my body and has made its way down between her legs. I mentally shudder as I think about her getting as much pleasure out of this as I am.

She begins to give me big, wet licks around my shaft and along the top of my head. I can feel the saliva dripping off of me as she continues to moisten me. Her moaning increases as she works her way around me again and again. When she stops, I realized I’d stopped seeing and was only feeling. I turn my attention towards her and watch as she reaches under her soft dress to remove her white panties. Then she turns around so her back is to me, and she removes her dress as well. I admire the way her body folds and curves and find myself wishing I could see all of it.

On her hands and knees, she crawls backwards towards me until her pussy is directly in line with my cock. She reaches between her legs to take hold of me, and uses me to stroke herself, replacing my hardness with where her fingers had been moments before. Her moaning increases as she tips her pelvis back and forth allowing my head to stimulate her.

I hear her take a deep breath of air as she tips her pelvis forward and positions me at her opening. She sighs as she slowly moves back, sliding my wet cock, slowly, slowly, slowly into her. When I am as deep as I can go, I feel her warm buttocks pressed up against me, and my balls lightly kissing her lips. On all fours, she rocks forward and back, almost to the point where I might fall out of her, back to the point where her flesh meets mine. She rocks, moans, and shakes her head. I imagine what her breasts would look like, could I crawl under her and see her from beneath.

I look around at the priestesses who have found their own pleasure with the others. One holding on with her arms and one leg as the penis penetrates her while she is standing. Others are standing and being penetrated from behind as they hold their own breasts and play with themselves. And yet others are still making love with their mouths, even while pleasuring themselves with their hands.

A rhythmic beat rises up from the Priestesses. Instead of drums, the beats are comprised of their moans, sighs, and calls. While not in unison or cohesive rhythm, collectively they make the most beautiful music I have ever heard.

I feel my own pleasure and I also feel the pleasure of all the others around me. Even those who are not being worshiped tonight are pulsing in the music, magic and mystery of this ritual.

The intensity, volume, and pitch of their voices increases as they all bring themselves to climax. I feel myself climax too. Not only does my pleasure shoot through my penis, I feel it crest out of the top of me, dance through my limbs, and dive deep into the ground beneath me. Pulses of joy, pleasure, and ecstasy course through my body. My Priestess still has me inside of her, and I can feel her inner folds contract and pulse and dance around my cock as she allows her orgasm to flow through her body.

She tips her body forward pulling me out of her ever so gently and slowly. Her saliva is now mixed with her own juices and cream on my penis, and I can feel the coolness of it against the night air.

She stands and turns to me, looking radiant and flush, and puts her arms around me in a gentle embrace. Normally, I would worry about my rough bark hurting such delicate skin, but right now I feel so soft and weak, I’m shocked that I can continue to stand erect. Like my penis, it was the way we were designed to be.

I pay little attention to my Priestess as she removes my penis — I don’t want to think about it not being there in the morning. Instead, I decide to share my experience of ecstasy with the others around me. I send my attention down into the ground and disperse it to whatever root or grub or animal it might come across—so that they may have even the tiniest taste of the passion and love I felt. Tonight, the masculinity of the forest was truly honored and celebrated by these women. And I stand just a little bit taller, and a little bit stiffer because of it.

By Silky
November 2015

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