Claimed but Free
spontaneous sex magick & finding devotion in openness
Our relationship is intense. Not in a toxic turmoil sense, but certainly in the roller coaster of having a wide open, honest heart kind of way. Every week it deepens. Every day, even. Have I scared you away yet? I’ve withheld heart and truths from past lovers, this time I’m determined to do it differently.
I lay all of myself on the altar for him, wondering if the offering will ever be too much. He doesn’t simply accept. He honours, bows before my temple of humanness. Licks every drop of imperfection. The reverence I have for this man.. It’s so natural, innate. It doesn’t come from a place of “worship him into his godly state” like it has with others in the past. He just is.
I’m lounging on the bed massaging oil into my breasts when he comes in, mangos and dagger in hand. He palms my skin with one hand as he slides the dagger along my lips, letting the mango slip into my mouth. Juicy sweetness pervades my tongue as he meticulously continues his exploration with the blade. Our eyes are fixed on eachother, breath slow and deep. Presence and intention penetrate the space. He pulls the blade away from my skin and starts gliding it over his own, playing with different edges, pressures, and impact- testing the limits before trying them on me.
The sight is an absolute delight. I’m transfixed watching the glint of the blade shimmer across his bronzed skin. My body involuntarily spasms, arching closer, entirely provoked by the seduction of it all. His eyes darken in response to my arousal, eliciting even more. It’s enthralling, this shared pleasure, we feed off of and into one another, conjuring connective bliss that could be eternal, if we let it.
He trails the dagger along my skin, carving hieroglyphics of love spells into every inch. Along my neck, circling my breasts, down my waist, across my hips. I’m not sure if the movements of my body are guiding his trail, or vice versa. I’m on my back with a gentle twist in my spine, my left knee bent and draped over my right. Smack. The flat side of the dagger lands with a thud and a sting to my bum. The impact unique- delivered with the weight I love, traced with a sharpness that keeps me alert. Sensation erupts across my entire body as he continues delivering, alternating between using his hand and the blade.
Waves of energy continue, guiding the next moves. He has me flat on my back, both knees bent on either side of his head as he kneels at my centre. The dagger is dragging down to unchartered territory now and my breath hitches. We’re no strangers to dagger play, it’s how our intimate connection started after all- 6 months into building a friendship, a new spark ignited as he offered to help chisel the candle wax off my body after a performance ritual at the Erotic Renaissance. But.. that’s a story for another day ;)
He’s bowing before my spread legs, a position I’ve witnessed him in many times now. His gaze fixed on me as he gently traces my skin with the blade, teasing my inner thighs, the glint in his eyes telling me he has much more planned. I trust this man with my entire being. His playfulness, his steadfastness, his care, his danger.
An overwhelming sensation takes over my body as the message “turn this into a ritual” ripples through my mind. “May his movements with the dagger symbolise a clearing of all others from your womb”, the words were not my own, but that of the Goddess. I felt the intensity of it all the moment I heard the message. That’s a lot. A lot to surrender, a lot to ask of someone. It’s too much. I pushed the inkling down, tried to bury it beneath sensibility.
“Turn this into a ritual, may his movements with the dagger symbolise a clearing of all others from your womb”. The Goddess spoke louder. Do not ignore me, she demands. She continues prompting, almost urgently. I take a breath and my voice comes out a bit shaky, but deep and resolute. “I’m having a really strong intuition,” he puts the dagger down to the side immediately, focused on what I have to say. “For this to be turned into a ritual, to represent releasing all the debris from others in my womb. To clear space, to devote to you.”
He sighs, in what emotion, I’m not sure. Our eyes hold each other and it feels like a million pounds have been lifted from me just from declaring that. He picks up the dagger and slowly marks an X across my abdomen to hips, then places it down again before planting his hands on my womb and bowing his head. I think he’s done. Maybe it was too intense of an ask.
Intimate prayers start spilling from his lips. Verses of healing, of revival, of reverence. Again, the dagger meets his palm as he strategically glides it along my womb. It’s a pleasurable pain, not physically, but energetically, emotionally. I’ve done chord cuttings with myself and other women before. But I’ve never trusted a man enough to do this. Here he is. Moving lower, slower, tracing around my vulva. Every sense heightened, sharp. He watches me carefully. I feel the strings being pulled from me. Strings I’ve held onto for far too long. Untethering. Bindings breaking. Guttural sounds escape me. Grief and ecstasy entwine in a dance of paradoxical pleasure.
My body begins to find movement, hips gently circling, back arching, the delight overriding the intense emotional waves now. He brings the hilt of the dagger to my clit. Oh, my Gods. I grind into him, he’s firmer with the pressure of the hilt now. He brings his other hand to my centre, swirling around the wetness building. He dips a finger in, then two. The hilt moves in slow circles now as he rhythmically pumps into me.
Utter euphoria.
He pushes his tongue into me and the next moments are a blissful blur of ecstasy. Mouth, fingers, dagger all blending in one orgasmic sensation. My body softens and squeezes all at once. Inner tides churning. Waves building, cresting. I’ve never been made to come from a dagger before. But here I am, releasing my pleasure into his mouth, cascading puddles into his palm.
Prayers of praise pour forth from him, and what sense I have left in this moment is in disbelief. How I’ve yearned for this. The way he holds the space, holds me. How ceremony thrums through him so naturally. We let the energy circulate and ground. I’m landing from decadent obliteration.
Caressing my whole body, he touches every part of me with tenderness. I pull him closer, his thickness pressing into my centre, sliding along my folds. My heart ripped open. My pussy ready, open. My desire for him in this moment feels like a need. He grips my hips as if they were made for the palm of his hands. The head of his cock nudges my entrance, never looking away from my eyes, he slips in with ease. Fully. I gasp, never quite getting used to the fullness.
The way it feels like our bodies were designed for each other. He moves slowly, milking every drop of anticipation from me. My hips rise to meet his thrusts. We find a perfect cadence of give and take, push and pull. I wrap myself around him as the backs of my thighs prop atop his upper legs. He’s gripping my mid-back now, helping my back arch to find the spot we both know I love.
Ecstasy erupts. The Gods wringing cries of rapture from every cell. His seed filling me, coating me with devotional love. He stays inside me as we worship one another, revelling in the magick conjured. Incantations of gratitude. I bring my fingers down to our connection, dipping into the elixir dripping from me before bringing it to my forehead. I anoint myself with the mixture of moon blood and him before marking him with the same blessing.
Moments pass, hours. Maybe eons. Inner union pulses through me, reflecting onto the experience of this relationship. My mind is empty as my body fills with wonder. He somehow managed to empower me into more sovereignty whilst simultaneously claiming me. Claimed but free. Giving me more autonomy while dropping me deeper into love with him.
As much as he coaxes it from me, I actively let it happen. This kind of healing occurs not from passivity, but from conscious choice. We must be more than willing to wade into the depths of vulnerability for this alchemy to transpire. To reach into the long-buried pits of despair to transmute into integrated wholeness. To touch the pain so we can feel the fullness of pleasure.
I honour all of those who’ve touched, loved, fucked me. And I release the energies that do not belong to me. Blessed be and so mote it be, so mote it is.