I Dreamt Last Night Of The Three Weird Sisters: To You They Have Show'd Some Truth.

There is a place, 'twixt sleep and wakefullness where those who can, have mastery over their dreams, and may steer them as they will. In such a place I love to wander, directing my course as my mind and body demand. 

And so I met these three and they did know me well. I dismount, and walk barefoot towards them. I am dressed in naught but a white shift, and although the forest crackles with the cold of a winter's night, all is warmd about me.

The three women step back from me as I approach and with reverential awe make abasement unto me. One, the youngest, reaches for my shoulders and slowly draws the shift over them and guides it to the forest floor. Naked, I stand before them as, one by one, they shed their robes until the four of us stand skyclad.

From the darkness beyond the trees others come, holding candles seemingly impervious to breeze or cold. No rain, nor sleet nor snow touches us, but falls around our mystic circle in abundance. For becomes six, and six becomes twelve. Twelve around me stand, and I, in the centre attend on their mutterings. 

"Will she be the one?"

"Only time shall tell."

"Will she be ours?"

"By her deeds shall we know."

"Will she be accepted?"

"By our deeds shall it be so."

A gentle hand takes mine and leads me to the fire. 

"Take the flame inside you.  Burn and burn below, Fire seed and fire feed, And make the baby grow." bids my leader. Baby? I am not pregnant. I step boldly into the ashes around the fire, but they do not burn my feet. Confidently, I step forward over the dancing flames, and feel, deep in my stomach a warmth that has nothing to do with the fire. 

Again, and again, they bid me cross the fire until the last time, I am facing a stone table. Too ancient to be called an altar, yet undoubtedly it is sacrificial. The young girl leading me eases me onto the flat top which I see is a tombstone of Sarah Templeton who was committed to the earth in 1535. The slab is aged, covered in moss, and cool on my back. 

She lays me down, and smiles. A friendly face, yet with a hardness around the mouth. I hear the gentle touch of steel on stone, and look down to my right. An athame, cruel, curved and surgically sharp lies unsheathed next to my waist. 

The twelve surround me and I feel hands stroking my body. My eyes close of their own volition, and I feel arousal. First, the hardness of my breasts and the erectness of my nipples. Then the familiar tingle between my legs, and the wetness begins to seep from me. Instinctively, I seek to open my legs, but they stop me. Each gentle fingertip seems to take on an electrification and each touch, no matter where on my body, seems to direct its energy directly to my clitoris.  If they keep this up, I shall come.

Just as the moment seems inevitable, they stop, leaving me poised on the precipice of unspeakable pleasure. Gently, I feel my feet being drawn up to my bottom, and my knees being urged apart. To expose myself to these women seems to be all I want in the entire world. I do not want them to see my wet sex, I need them to! Those who can, glance between my thighs and murmer in approbation. There are whispers about me being ready. 

Above my head, the young girl holds a blood-red candle. I see the wax dripping down its sides and it is beautiful to my eyes. She holds it over my forehead and makes mystical signs with it before tilting it slowly. I know what will happen. I know, and I desire it. 

With a searing lance of pain, hot wax falls onto my right nipple. Then another, then another. She moves across me and baptises my left nipple the same way. If I was close to orgasm before, each agonising touch brings me a shade closer still. How am I not writhing in orgasm right now? How much more can my body take before it falls helplessly into ecstacy?

Hot wax splashes onto my navel....then, drip by agonising drop down my belly to my mound. A finger traces a shape on my lower abdomen. I don't need to see it. I know it is a uterus and ovaries....and I know, without a shred of doubt that the drawing is exactly over MY uterus and ovaries. 

And then the hot wax touched my clitoris. It is as if I am communing with the gods of sexual pleasure, yet still I don't cum. I want to scream, beg them to push me over, to do something, anything that will bring about the orgasm that is the only release I need. 

The young girl crawls up onto the slab and her knees press against my shoulders. I look up between her legs, and see that she is also wet. More than that, she is also open, and I can see her hymen clearly, glistening with her arousal. My left hand is moved. Somehow, I know I have control over it again, and I realise that the moment I lay on this headstone, I was paralysed. 

The girl kisses between my legs. Once, twice, three times. The gap between me and orgasm is immeasurable now. we are so nearly one and the same. 

"Shall she be the one?"

"Shall she take the flower?"

"Shall she lead yet obey?"

"Shall she obey yet lead?"

In my head, an image forms. A swirling mist of blood-red vapour that seems to centre between the young virgin's legs. I feel an urge growing in my head. They've given me a candle and I am consumed with the desire to deflower this young virgin with it. I try to resist the feeling, because there will be no gentleness about it. I want to hurt her - to rip her hymen. 

With no warning whatsoever, and autonomously, my hand stabs forward, at the same time, I feel her penetrate me as well. Something impossibly big forces its way into my vagina even as her hymen rips. She cries out in pain, and then, a single drop of her virgin blood kisses my lips, and my entire being, body and soul explodes in orgasm. An orgasm like no other I have ever experienced in my life. An orgasm so complete, so utterly fulfilling, there will never be another like it. There is no sheet to grab in ecstacy, but my hand curls around the athame, and I feel it slice my flesh which only seems to enhance the moment. My blood joins hers on the stone. 

And then, I am robed. I am sitting on a wooden throne, and each witch is making obeyance to me. Each one kneels, between my spread thighs, and kisses my sex. As they do, I know, know beyond all doubt, know without being told, that I am pregnant. 

The old witch, burned alive in 1535 is being reincarnated in my womb. 

Back in my bed, I awake, still feeling the aftershocks of such a powerful psychic orgasm. My stomach heaves and I run to the bathroom and vomit. In the aftermath, a single flake of red wax falls to the floor.