Ceremonies are important. Tonight’s is by a firepit surrounded by a stage of freshly stained pine planks.

The pledge and his erection stand on the wobbly crate. Males love their erections and they should. The gold ring, recently pierced between his penis and scrotum, glints in the firelight. His Mistress relaxes regally below my dais in a cushioned high-backed wicker swing, facing him across the flames.

She uncrosses her legs which briefly uncovers her matching ring. She teases herself, teases him, before tucking her feet between the pillows. His twitchy cock betrays his stony visage.

Flanking the Fire of Death and Resurrection are two males wearing naught but black stockings and heels. They tend to the controlled blaze with long poles which ironically call inattention to the tiny plastic prisons impounding their pricks. They poke and thrust to elicit sparks and embers and to feed the flames with air.

Behind the silent celebrant sit seven Women, silhouetted by the full moon as it shimmers across the still pond. Crimson hoods shadow their faces and capes drape only as far as the smalls of their backs. Breasts rise and fall in unison with every unknowingly synchronized breath. I stand to speak, lifting my own hood away. The blaze bares me.

I have lived longer than the others—much longer than some. I am proud of my heavy breasts which droop below my chest. I am as proud of my age as I am of my curves and bushy cunt. If lovers are years, then I am immortal.

“We celebrate!” I begin. The fire-tenders toss powders that colorfully ignite and illume. The Women arise and encircle the fire. The males upon whose backs they sat, stand and stay in the darkness. “This male has asked to be rid of needless masculinity and we have scrubbed him with fire-borne stone.”

The ceremony is for all but I have staged it for my own benefit. The male crawls around to my side of the fire. His Mistress rises to present him with her ass which he immediately devours, burying his face between her cheeks. The Women line up behind him and one by one, turn by turn whip him with a tawse made with their own hands.

The males form a semi-circle on the far side of the fire and jerk with care lest they cum without leave. The fire tenders join them, stroking pretended pricks. They are all fit and trim, self-driven to be beautiful for their Mistresses.

The new Mistress turns her open cunt toward the male who waits. She looks at me with want, and I give. “Feed,” I command. He does.

She moans and cries out an unscripted libretto as his tongue lashes in time with his lashings. “One!” she declares.

“One!” I echo. They pause, more powders are burned and he rises, still on his knees. She ties a cloth ribbon of her color around his cock. The ribbon darkens where it contacts the leaked, broken bead that clung along the length of his shaft.

The Woman retrieves her own tawse and joins all but one of her Sisters in the queue. The male falls once again onto all fours and dares to inhale the scent of the fresh pussy as he waits.

“Feed!”

The pledge uses his jaw, mouth, and tongue the way God Herself had intended and the Woman soon calls out her number, the next of many. She ties her personal ribbon next to the first.

My satisfaction turns into disappointment as I spy from across the stage an arc of creamy masturbatory triumph that fails into the fire. The offender knows better than to apologize and simply prostrates himself. His Mistress has him assume the position, and she binds and gags him.

I step down, wet a long dildo with my cunt, and shove it into his asshole while she locks away what’s left of his dick. I leave distinct red stripes with my own tawse. I remember this one—he might have done this on purpose.

The dutiful pledge dares not tire. Each Woman delivers crest after crest of climatic juices into his eager mouth, antidotes against his toxic rearing, and adds their ribbons to the others after they do. His ass is fire-red crimson. A lesser, untrained male might have cried out or simply cried but this one took every strike as fuel for his fire. When they are done with him, his cock is proudly plastered with colorful overlapping ribbons.

“Fire has cleansed this male but fire, like males, must be contained,” I declare. The celebrant lies on his back to give access to the squatting Women as their warm streams extinguish him. I am last, straddling his face from high above. He doesn’t need to be told to open his mouth and imbibe.

The Women sit again on the far side of the dying fire as the fire tenders beat their sticks against it. Scattering sparks melt tiny holes into their hosiery.

“We rejoice! Behind every successful male is a red behind and a loving Mistress.” I call the new Mistress and her male, on his knees, before me. I clasp a long gold chain to her labia ring, wrap the chain seven times around her palm and snap the other end below his cock. “May the enthralled serve you seven kinks for every link in this chain. May he love you, honor you, and may he obey you all the days of your life.”