Tuesday, 14 July 2015

Blue Monday

Every Monday I post a naughty excerpt for your entertainment!

Since I've been all about the statues this last couple of weeks, I've been reminded of my short story Sacrifices, which appeared in my first collection,  Cruel Enchantment. It was the first (but not the last) story that I wrote about Medusa. In this story, as a minor goddess, she is capable of going unseen by mortals when she wishes - and she likes to spy ...

One of my poor victims can be found in a grove of cypresses by the river, not far from the royal palace of their little king, and it is often visited by the womenfolk when they come to do their laundry. I have forgotten his name, or even if he ever told it to me. He is old; his upturned face has worn away a little, blunting his nose and smoothing his hair. He kneels, knees braced apart, hands splayed on his thighs. There is a bare patch of earth about him where the women of the town have walked. His phallus rises straight as a spear, white as the moon. It too has been worn by much touching and anointing. It is slender and smooth; not ugly or massive enough to frighten a virgin, but quite virile enough to bring a flush to her cheeks.

The handmaidens of the royal entourage giggled and sighed and hid their faces in modest hands at the sight of such a shocking thing. Then without exception they came forward to touch him, and to pay their respects. Some were nervous and only stroked his shoulder, some tickled his straining member teasingly. One of the older ones, greatly daring, fondled his hard pouch and kissed his unyielding lips before swaggering away, swinging her hips for the benefit of her companions.

The king's daughter stood watching these flirtations. Her lips were parted and her colour high; she was the only one of the maidens who was not laughing.  I watched her closely. She signalled to her entourage and gave them some order, and reluctantly they all retreated to the edge of the clearing and sat in little groups, their backs to the princess and the statue.

When she was sure that her companions had stopped looking over their shoulders, she leaned forward to the stone image, put her pink lips to his ear and whispered a heartfelt prayer. She wanted a gold-crowned hero, a king's son who would love her and make her his wife - and soon. The sincerity of her plea made my nape prickle. She was ready for bedding, this maiden; her words were only confirmed by the curves of her body showing through the transluscent folds of her peplos. Her eyes smouldered as she stepped back from him and bit her lower lip.

Then she knelt, as many had knelt before her, and laid one hand on his marble shaft. She stroked it cautiously, as if it might come to life under her touch - and I could almost believe it would, if stone were able to be tempted as flesh is. She circled the snake's head with one finger, blushed, and then leaned down and pressed her lips to it in a long, devout kiss. He looked whiter than the snows of Olympus against her living skin. I saw the very tip of her pink tongue lick his alabaster wand.

She sat back then and looked around her, silently daring any of her entourage to have been spying, but they were obediently turned away.  Hesitantly she took from the folds of her peplos a small jar. When she broke the wax seal I smelled a waft of expensive perfume, such as is used after bathing to anoint the skins of great queens. She wished to make an offering. I licked my dry lips. She slipped her fingers into the jar and drew out a scoop of white unguent, then very slowly applied it to the phallus before her. Its scent filled the grove; the handmaidens stirred and whispered. She trailed her fingers up and down the elegant shaft, spreading it from wrinkled balls to smooth prick-end.

As she  gained confidence she used both hands and found a firm, rhythmic grip. I watched entranced as she massaged the erection - gods, it was already so stiff and vertical that it could not have responded in any other way than to erupt in spurts of silver sand, so lifelike was his form and so intimate their pose.

The king's daughter paused, looked down at herself and shifted her posture. Something was causing her discomfort; she wriggled her creamy buttocks as if to accommodate and alien presence. Then, looking about her from beneath her lashes, cheeks burning with shame and some other, more imperative emotion, she rose to her feet, pulled her peplos up around her thighs, straddled the image's hips and - one hand on the back of his neck to balance herself - sank slowly down over his slippery stone member until it touched the doors of her secret underworld.

I had to admire her strength and determination. Unable to drop straight down the entire length of the rod, she had to brace herself on straining thighs and cling to her obdurate partner's neck as she introduced the bulb of his phallus to the wet lips of her virgin hole. Her eyes closed in concentration and her face creased with effort; she did not wish to hurt herself, yet her every instinct was to take the shaft as far as she could within her. She rocked back and forth, letting the cold stone stir the hot hearth of her fires, mingling the chrism with her own juices. Her peplos slipped from her shoulder and one rose-tipped breast slid into view; she did not notice, or care, that it was quivering shamelessly in full sight of the gods and anyone else who might look at her. She did not cry out, but her breath was ragged - and the faces of her handmaidens, who still did not dare look around, were growing pink.

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