Page 29 of Beneath the Dirt

“Good.” Relief lines his voice as we become submerged in the chaos that is Heathen’s Cross.

Everywhere I look is an absolute sensory overload. Every inch of this place lives up to its name. More crosses made of bone and corn stalks surround us, forming a large circle around the fire that’s burning in the center of the open area. There are so many people scattered about. Some are in cloaks, like the ones we saw earlier, wearing all black with hoods, while others are completely naked.

I try to see if there are any of the usual haunt-type attractions that pop-up spots like this are known for, but as far as I can see, there’s nothing like that. Just an open area of people losing themselves to the night.

A fire burns in the center of the open area with a group of people gathered, dancing around the open flames. My attention is immediately drawn to a woman standing on a podium so high she looks like she’s standingonthe flames. She’s completely naked, wearing nothing but a large necklace made of bone in varying sizes around her neck, and some sort of symbol smeared onto her sternum in the same shade of rich crimson that paints her lips.

Is that… blood?

She lifts a cow skull in the air as her lips part, chanting in a language that sounds similar to Latin. The people around the fire begin to sway their arms in the air and chant along with her.

The woman is no longer alone on the podium. A man and woman have made their way on the platform attached to the bottom. They kneel before her, bowing, and she slips the cow skull overtop her head as she spreads her legs in a wide stance. The couple kiss each other once through a heated exchange. Their tongues clash against the other before they move on their knees to be centered at the apex of her thighs. They continue to kiss, this time making out on her pussy, licking it together.

“Are you seeing this?” Harlan asks. He’s standing behind me now, both arms draped over my shoulders. Our bodies sway together as one, mimicking the motions of the crowd.

I nod. Unable to look away. My own pussy grows wetter by the second the more I watch.

The wind picks up, and through the chanting mixed with moaning, I can hear every particle on the ground as it's transferred from the small shift in the air.

The woman getting her pussy eaten—who I assume is their leader by the level of power she holds over the crowd—begins to chant louder just as another woman, who is also naked, runs in front of us. A man is chasing after her with a bucket in his hand.

A dizzying rush takes over my head. I turn to look at the running woman, my head falling deeper into Harlan’s hold. The iron tang of blood mixed with sweat becomes alive in the October air. The smell is ripe, like the vibrant hue of blood everywhere myeye lands. There’s no doubt in my mind that there’s blood in the bucket the man is holding. He dips his hand in, swirling it in the red liquid before bringing it to the woman who was just running. He smears it onto her chest.

She doesn’t fight it. In fact, she moans louder with each swipe of his hand. He continues to smear the blood onto her until she is covered everywhere in different unfamiliar symbols.

The more I watch, the more turned on I become.

My back arches as my head finds solace in the divot between his broad chest and his shoulder. I can feel his heart thumping at my back.

“This place is…” I begin, practically moaning.

“Amazing,” Harlan finishes for me.

“Yes,” I breathe.

It reallyisamazing. Frida was wrong about this place. It isn’t dangerous. It’s freeing.

We remain swaying together, taking in the crowd and the scene before us. The chanting grows louder by the second. So loud my hands spring upward, unintentionally breaking the hold Harlan has on my shoulders. My mind is begging my hands to lift to either side of my head, to create a shield for my ears, but my hands aren’t moving up. They’re moving down. Skimming past the elastic waistband of my skirt. Traveling with vigor to my throbbing clit.

The sex… the blood… the madness all around me is too much of an aphrodisiac not to submit myself to. The flames burn in my irises, matching the heat coursing through my center. The colors move in synchrony with the motion of my hand rubbing at my bundle of nerves.

Harlan tugs at the hem of my miniskirt. “How wet are you right now?”

Thrown off by his question, a grin spreads on my lips.

“Well?” He purrs.

I go to answer, but all that slips my lips is a guttural moan. The pace I’m touching myself quickens.

“Fine,” he clips. There’s a sadistic tone to his voice. A confidence that I know surely wouldn’t be there if there wasn’t an altered state brewing in his mind or a mask to hide behind. “I guess I’ll just have to feel for myself.”

No longer teasing the edge of my skirt, his eager hand slithers its way to my center, replacing mine. His fingers trace a line up and down my slit, poking through the open holes of my fishnets. He continues this for a few more passes, and each one has me growing more desperate for him to tear at my fishnets and sink his fingers deep inside me.

I throw my head back and my lids close. “What are you…”

“Shhh,” he whispers, breaking through the barrier of scattered nylon wide enough that he’s able to slide into me with ease.

I clench around his fingers upon impact, and he groans in approval.

---