Honestly I don’t know how mortals fuck at all. They only have their own senses, their own pleasures and responses. Fucking when you can only be one person is like shooting when you only have one eye. The only way you’re going to hit the target is dumb luck. Me, I’m everyone in the room. I’m myself of course, gushing seed into Ariadne’s hot little quim, but I’m Ariadne too. I’ve been edging her for more than an hour, and she’s ready to explode. She’s barely registering the pain as I maul her tits in my fists. It’s just one note in the symphony of sensation I’m playing across her body. The main theme, of course, is my thick cock beating a pounding rhythm in her cunt. She screams with frustration is I pull out, spilling drops of holy white honey on her belly and thighs.
As I stand, a nymph stoops beside me, offering wine. I’m her as well. She’s cautious and frightened, as she should be in the presence of divinity, although the emotions are more a response to the fact that she’s walked in on me fucking the living shit out of my consort than they are to do with my godhood. Nonetheless, she works hard to stay calm and bows her head respectfully as she proffers the booze. In the back of her mind she’s cold, and underneath that she’s pushing down a thrill of arousal that she doesn’t fully understand.
She’s naked, of course. I have the priests tell my serving girls they have to be naked for reasons of religious devotion, but that’s bullshit. I just like the way it makes them feel vulnerable and humiliated. I take the wine from the tray and savour a sip as I look over her body. She’s staring at the ground but she can feel my eyes on her. She has a slight frame, delightful little tits and a bald cunt. Her dark hair hangs around her face, but I can still see her button nose and her nervously bitten lip through the black strands. The wine is excellent, of course, rich and red. I throw the glass hard on the ground and the girl squeaks with alarm as it smashes. In the same moment, I grab her hair and throw her forward. She lands hard. I feel the sting of pain in her hands and knees and her horrified chagrin as her face ends up a finger’s breadth from Ariadne’s engorged cunt, its trimmed hair matted and sticky with sweat and cum.
I don’t give the girl time to recover. With a practiced hand and a god’s strength I line myself up, grab her slim hips and push hard into her arse. Her scream of agony is cut short as Ariadne takes what she’s given and pushes the girl’s face down into her cunt. In twenty bloody thrusts I erupt again, flooding the nymph’s bowel with seed while Ariadne vents her frustration by masturbating herself to climax against our hapless victim’s pretty face. At the same time I put my hand underneath her and work her bud with a firmness that itself borders on violence. I don’t manage to bring her to climax alongside myself and Ariadne, but she cums a couple of moments later, her shock at her violation confused by the quivering pleasure of orgasm.
It’s worth noting that there is, in a way, a fourth person in the pavilion with us. The girl myself and my consort are abusing so cruelly is a nymph, and they’re doubled creatures. This is because they are divine, and divinity springs from humanity. My Godhood is a many-facetted thing. I am madness, ecstasy, orgiastic fervour. I am death and rebirth. I can be a gentle healer, a farmer bringing forth grapevines from barren ground, a warrior, a lover or a monster. Nymphs are simpler than that, but still far from simple. They’re the reflections of male fantasy. That makes them two things: pure, innocent virgins on the one hand, and filthy sex-crazed sluts on the other.
On the one hand, this girl is completely untouched. A naïve virgin whom, in the space of a few seconds, I just despoiled as comprehensively as it is possible to be despoiled. On the other, I’ve fucked her countless times and she keeps coming back for more. Tomorrow, she’ll be as pure as she ever was. She won’t have any idea that she’s a perpetual fuck toy for a mad god and his debauched retinue. But a part of her does know. She knows she’s the perfect victim and she likes it. It’s literally what she was made for. Now you know where the term ‘nymphomaniac’ comes from. It’s the madness that comes from being the tiny god of men’s desire. I’m telling this because it’s true, not because I require any absolution. I already told you that I’m a monster. If she was a mortal girl who’d strayed into my camp I’d rape her just the same. Mortal girls don’t generally enjoy that, but I do.
I leave Ariadne with the nymph, whom she is now forcing to eat the cum out of her gorgeous, fat snatch. I love Ariadne as much as I’m capable of loving anyone. I rescued her from a cruel mortal hero and her mistreatment at his hands has made her cruel in turn. I love that about her; she’s my beautiful, damaged princess. She does things with yarn that leave permanent scars.
I step out of the pavilion into the camp. It’s evening, and the satyrs are already very drunk. They’re spit-roasting meat on campfires and nymphs on their forever-hard cocks. Some of the nymphs are like the innocent I left to be tortured by Ariadne. Others have freed their inner sluts to swallow every cock that is offered to them. Regardless of the side of themselves they show, they are met with pleasure and pain in equal measure. Among my followers, consent is not a defence against being pushed past your limits, no matter how enthusiastic it might be to begin with. Neither is refusal a defence against pleasure. My worship demands that all receive both what they want and what they do not want in measures beyond their capacity.
I wonder about satyrs. They’re not female fantasies in the same way that nymphs are male ones. I doubt more than a third of women secretly yearn to be raped by goat men. There’s probably an element of female desire in there – their dicks are enormous and they never go soft – but there’s something else at work too. They’re popular in plays and histories. Aristophanes and Herodotus have both worked them into stories that I’m pretty sure only involved humans when they actually happened. Maybe the hairy dipsomaniacal rapists exist to make mortal men feel like they’re better than some uniquely bad alternative. It would be sad if that were the case. I like satyrs a lot more than mortals. As I walk through the camp I glance over and see one of them ramming his giant cock into a crying nymph. The girl begs him for mercy while he laughs and digs his dirty claws into her tender breasts. His pleasure is wonderful but her mixture of physical and spiritual pain is better still. I was going soft but her agony makes me achingly hard again.
I’m tempted to stay and play with my more capricious subjects, but I’m in a wistful mood. I walk to the outskirts of the camp where my maenads reside. They’re mortal women, and the most beloved of my retinue, but they choose to camp on the outskirts of my train. That suits me. I respect the maenads, because they are insane, but I generally prefer to fuck nymphs or Ariadne. I understand that some people like to rape a rapist, but I like a victim who is a victim to the very core of their being. My love for the maenads isn’t simple lust. It’s based on professional respect. Of course I’ve violated every hole they have to offer. That’s what respect looks like in our line of work.
The intense moan of a perfect male voice tells me that the maenads are playing with Orpheus again. He’s me of course. All the gods are me. My seed has run true in twenty different women, every one of whom has given birth to me. I’m the ultimate mother fucker. Zeus is me, Hades is me, Zagreus is me. Later on Mithras will be me and so will Jesus. Mary Magdalene will anoint my feet with her hair and then I will rape her senseless and she’ll like it (no-one will write that part down). But I’m getting ahead of myself. Right now I’m talking about Orpheus. He truly loves his Eurydice, but he has a secret: he loves himself more. I understand his story better than anyone, given that everyone involved in it is me.
Here’s the essence of the matter. How hard is it to walk down a corridor without looking back? Not hard at all. So why did Orpheus do it? The answer is that what Hades offered was not a challenge, but plausible deniability. It wasn’t me, sir! It was the doubt, the temptation!
Orpheus looked back because he didn’t want to live happily ever after; he wanted to be the perfect tragic figure - heroic, defeated, tortured. What’s true love next to that level of narcissism? Eurydice was whisked back to the underworld and he emerged straight into the arms of my maenads. They’ve got a reputation for eating people but they don’t actually do that all that often. With Orpheus they saw a much more exciting opportunity: to give him exactly what he wanted. He’s been with me ever since.
I emerge into the clearing to find Orpheus in an explosion of carnality. There are maenads everywhere, doing terrible things to and with mortal men, nymphs and each other. Orpheus is right in the centre of it all fucking a fat maenad right in her sopping cunt. I pause to admire his sweaty little buttocks. I don’t generally go in for boys, but I am Greek after all. I’ve buggered him more than once and frigged Ariadne silly while I was doing it. She never gets tired of watching him cry, and who am I to deny my one true love?
The maenad he’s busy pumping full of seed is a choice morsel too. More than a morsel, actually – a decent meal. Seeing her big tits flap about as Orpheus ruts her reminds me of Aphrodite. The goddess of love keeps a roster of suitors – gods and mortals alike - pining after her and fighting each other, but she and I have an understanding. While Hephaestus and Ares are out trying to prove themselves worthy of her, I’m in the back of her temple watching the ripples of her chubby buttocks as I fuck her from behind. She loves to choke on a big cock too. I hold her slut head down against my pubis until she’s crying and gagging with panic. It’s a good job she likes it so much, because it’s exactly what she deserves. Hephaestus is sweet but he’s stupid. He doesn’t understand that she keeps going back to Ares because he beats the shit out of her, not in spite of it.
Orpheus finishes his business with a cry that is a pure, sonorous F-sharp and lies in a fleshy heap with his partner, the breath in their chests breath gently lifting and lowering him. A nymph hands me a glass of retsina: a crisp white wine flavoured with pine. Across the clearing the maenads have staked a man to the ground through his hands and ankles and are taking turns riding his cock. Immediately to my left a mortal girl is eating her first cunt. A little way to my right two satyrs are playing a complicated game involving dice, drinking and visciously whipping a nymph with a braided leather cord. Everything’s going well here. I head back towards my pavilion.
I have a wonderfully beautiful little brown girl in my sleeping compartment whom I picked up during my travels in India. I’ve been spoiling her with sweetmeats and thoughtful little gifts and she’s under the impression I’m quite the gentleman. She doesn’t know it, but I have her father in a cage too. I’ve been driving him mad with torture and drugs for as long as I’ve been cultivating her devotion. At some point when I’m bored of her I’ll spring a bit of surprise incest on her, but for now I’m looking for an early night and she’ll be lovely to curl up with. Moving aside the curtain to my quarters I see that Ariadne’s already had the same idea. They’re sleeping like spoons, brown flesh against alabaster, naked in the cool summer air. Careful not to wake them, I lie behind Ariadne so that she’s sandwiched between myself and the Indian girl. They murmur gently as I tenderly lay my are across them.
Life is good. Perhaps that’s not what you wanted to hear at the end of this story, but it’s all I have for you. There’s no moral here. I’m a monstrous God, and I do as I please. I don’t need your approval or your prayers. I’m you, after all, and you’re me.
