Under the endless blue skies of mid-September, McKayla knelt in the heart of a golden Kansas wheat field, the crisp autumn air brushing her skin. Her electric blue hair glowed against the amber stalks, and her latex corset gleamed, accentuating her curves as she held a reverse prayer pose, her arms bound tightly behind her by ropes of braided hemp. The sun bathed the field in warmth, though a cool breeze hinted at the turning season. She was alone—or so it seemed—her heart pounding with purpose.
The village elders had whispered of the old harvest rites, tales of offerings made to ensure bountiful crops. McKayla, ever drawn to the mystical, had volunteered as this year’s tribute, not out of fear but a yearning to connect with something ancient. The ritual was simple: present herself to the field, bound as a willing sacrifice, and wait for the harvest spirit’s blessing. No one spoke of what the spirit might do, only that it craved devotion.
She’d walked into the field at dawn, the ropes tied by the village’s keeper of traditions, their texture grounding her as she sank to her knees. The wheat swayed, whispering secrets, and McKayla’s breath hitched, her corset amplifying each inhale. Was that a flicker in the stalks? A presence? Her pulse raced, not with dread but with electric anticipation, as if the earth itself might rise to claim her offering.
The story continues at AI-LTX: McKenna’s Sacrifice Rewarded
