Day one

I, Ixchel, humble priestess and scribe of the great city Tikal, journey hence to the neighboring city-state of Piedras Negras on a quest of sacred import. The esteemed king of Piedras Negras has granted me leave to observe and chronicle the sacred rites of harvest fertility practiced by their venerable priesthood, that I may carry this hallowed wisdom back to Tikal for the glory of the gods and continued prosperity of our people. On this day, 7 Chicchan by the Tzolk'in, I arrive in Piedras Negras to witness these ancient mysteries.

I rose before dawn and journeyed through the misty jungle, arriving at the limestone plazas of Piedras Negras just as the sun's first rays lit the great stepped pyramid. Priestesses in jade beads and quetzal feathers guided me to a stone chamber within the temple, thick with copal incense. There I met the high priest, draped in jaguar skins, his weathered face painted with sacred glyphs.

In a whispered voice, he explained the rites I would observe – an invocation, which, for a score of years now, had produced a bountiful harvest. I approached him in reverence and deference, eager to display my gratitude at so generous a sharing of insight into the divine nature of our world.

The high priest raised his arms and called out in a resonant voice that echoed off the stone walls. From behind a richly embroidered curtain emerged a young man, tall and muscular, with obsidian eyes that glinted in the flickering torchlight. His bronzed skin glimmered and he wore only a simple loincloth, which served to accentuate his finely sculpted physique, honed no doubt through dutiful service to the gods. The aesthetics of his form and the manifestation of his girth beneath his loincloth seemed to embody the peak of masculine vigor and vitality.

The wizened priest pronounced the youth to be Yax, one who held a crucial role in the sacred fertility rites to come. As the priest spoke, I observed how the young man's piercing gaze lingered upon me, his eyes roving over my body in a way that seemed to honor the very spirit of fertility I had traveled hence to absorb and understand. Under his appraising stare, I sensed an ancient, primal energy - the life-giving essence of creation itself stirred restless within me.

I then affirmed to the priest the gravity and import of my mission - to witness and record this ritual for the continued abundance and prosperity of my own cherished Tikal, a city struck with weak harvests in recent seasons. With a smile, the old priest bid me return when the sun reached its zenith in the sky. There, upon the high temple vista that overlooked the plaza and jungles beyond, the fertility rites would commence under the approving gaze of the gods themselves. I would be permitted to observe and record, and therein fulfill my duty.

Thus dismissed until the appointed hour, I took my leave, my mind awhirl with questions of my duty, and the nature of Yax, who would clearly play some pivotal role in the sacred proceedings I was soon to witness.

≋ ≋ ≋

At the sun's zenith, I returned to the high temple vista as instructed. There, standing alone near the precipice that overlooked the great plaza far below, was Yax. He greeted me with a solemn nod, his obsidian eyes smoldering with an inner fire.

With no hesitation, Yax composed himself, standing tall and proud, his bronzed skin glistening under the midday sun. I witnessed him inhale deeply, and the ritual began.

With a fluid motion, he untied his loincloth and let it fall away, revealing his manhood in all its glory. Even flaccid, his member was a sight to behold, the manifestation of masculine potency. So as to better fulfill my duty, I watched attentively, moving close as his phallus began to engorge and rise, growing thick and proud, standing erect against his muscled abdomen.

After raising his palms to the sky in silent invocation, Yax began to stroke himself with long, purposeful motions. I must describe the proceedings in detail to fulfill my sacred chronicle, and so I report that his manhood was truly a prodigious specimen, long and thick, the taut skin sheathing the tumescent flesh like burnished bronze. As his motions quickened, his organ seemed to pulse and throb with power and life all its own.

My body flushed with a sudden heat that I attributed to the intensity of the tropical sun overhead, and I found my breath growing short. A curious ache bloomed deep in my loins, no doubt a sympathy to the potent ritual energies being raised. I shifted my weight from foot to foot as a slickness gathered at the juncture of my thighs.

With a low groan, Yax reached his peak. His seed exploded in ropey strands, jetting out over the ledge to fall to the distant earth far below. I kept careful observation of every pulse and shudder of his manhood, committing to memory the sacred nature of his release. The ritual complete, he raised his fists to the sky and gave a triumphant shout. I could feel the ground tremble beneath my feet as the energy took hold.

Yax turned to me then, a sheen of sweat upon his skin, his chest heaving. He nodded once more. I returned his nod, unable in that moment to find my voice, for I was focused upon restraining the slight tremble in my limbs. Truly, this was a ritual of immense primal potency.

Yax spoke then, his voice deep and resonant. "Priestess Ixchel, your presence here honors us. But the rites are not complete - the ritual spans three risings and settings of the sun. Return again on the morrow, that you may observe the ceremonies in their entirety and carry the fullness of this sacred wisdom back to Tikal."

I bowed my head in acquiescence, striving to maintain a countenance of detached learning even as a thrill raced up my spine at the prospect of returning to witness more of these primal rites.

≋ ≋ ≋

That night, as I lay upon my sleeping mat, I found myself unable to calm my racing thoughts. Behind my eyelids, unbidden, rose the image of Yax in his moment of climax, the ecstasy upon his face, the power in his form as he emptied his essence unto the earth. A strange restlessness overcame me, and I tossed and turned, my skin feverish, my womanhood slick.

In the interest of fully documenting and understanding every facet of the fertility ritual and its effects, I feel compelled to record the following. I found my hand, as if bidden by a holy premonition, straying to that heated juncture at the crux of my thighs, my fingers seeking out the source of the wetness there. This response must in some way manifest a resonance with the powerful energies raised in the ritual, and is thus relevant to my chronicle.

Purely in the interests of anticipating and preparing myself for what I might witness in the coming days, I fervently pictured his magnificent manhood, how it might feel to be impaled upon its rigid length, to be filled and stretched by its girth. These visualizations, I must stress, were solely for the purposes of better attuning myself to the ritual's primal essence.

I muffled my sighs and whimpers brought about by my sacred investigation, hoping none would overhear as I imagined Yax planting himself in my fertile ground, my hands working prodigiously in my cleft. My release dampening my palm even as I stifled my cries. This physical response, though intense, I attribute to the lingering effects of the ritual's raw energy.

Spent from my exertions, I drifted into a dreamless sleep, the embers of my imaginings still smoldering in my loins. I both feared and craved the coming day, eager to once more immerse myself in the rites, and perchance gaze again upon Yax, all for the solemn purpose of better understanding and conveying the intricacies of these fertility rituals back to my people. May the gods grant me fortitude and clarity of purpose for the trials ahead.