Friday, April 24, 2015

All about Zeus!

Meghan Trainor said it best...

And Zeus agreed.

It really is all about that bass... no matter the age of the woman, her lineage, body size, or even if she was a woman. All Zeus is focused on is that sexy place between a woman or man's legs. He is one horny king of gods. This Friday we are going to take a look at some of the most disturbing and WTF moments of Zeus's affairs with his many lovers.


She was a titan, a woman of great wisdom, and seduced by Zeus. They married and she became pregnant with Athena. Now, having overthrown his own father and seized power AND having heard the horrible prophecies regarding Metis’ second child (a potential overthrow of his father), Zeus got understandable worried. So, he ate Metis. Before this, Zeus didn’t have a lot of common sense. However, after ingesting her, he gained her wisdom making him a little better in the future.

But what about Athena? Well, she gestated inside her mother now inside Zeus. And, when full grown, began shoving and pushing at Zeus’ skull, from the inside, giving him one hell of a headache. It isn’t until Hephaestus offers to help Zeus with an axe strike to the head, that she is born. No word on how long it took her to forgive him for eating her mother…

Another titan, this time of justice and order. She, through Zeus, bore the Fates and the Seasons. We have no idea how or why. You would think she would have been a little leery of marrying Zeus after what happened to her sister.

Yet another titan. I’m beginning to believe Metis was the only one with intelligence in this family. She was the titan of memory. And, believe it or not, she gave birth not to one child or even a few, but to all nine of the Muses with Zeus. She did, however, leave him after all those births so perhaps it just took a while before she realized who and what he really was.

His own sister. The protector of marriage and married women and obviously very dangerous to those women who help men cheat on their wives (ahm… Zeus!). Her marriage to her brother began in strife and continued on in strife.

When he first approached her, she said no, thank you, and he went on his merry way. Sort of. Not thrilled with the reception he was receiving (Hera was smarter than the titans), he turned himself into a cuckoo. Hera, feeling bad for the poor bird, cuddled it against her chest. Zeus resumed his normal self and taking advantage of the situation and surprise factor, he raped her. Hera only married him to hide the shame she felt for the betrayal. Considering how Demeter denied him… it may have been her only recourse.

Proposed, She Said No

Before courting Hera, Zeus attempted to seduce Demeter, his other sister. She denied him and he forced himself upon her. However, unlike Hera, she blamed him and chose to leave the council of the Gods on Olympus. She got pregnant and bore her daughter, Persephone. Later, as Persephone’s father, Zeus gave Hades the go-ahead on snatching his daughter and marrying her. That did not end well, for Persephone, Hades, Demeter, Zeus, or the world at wide.

Gave in to Zeus’ seduction techniques—one can only imagine he got better with the practice and experience—and got pregnant for her effort. However, Hera, who was quickly his next target, after falling for his trick, took revenge on Leto. She denied, as goddess of childbirth (as well as marriage), Leto to bear her growing twins on any place under the sun. Poseidon took pity on Leto and eventually—way after her due date—covered an island (who also happened to be her long lost sister—long story…) with a huge tsunami wave. Thus, the sun didn’t shine.

Leto gave birth first to Artemis. Artemis then helped her mother give birth to Apollo. Both were full grown deities. That was one heck of a gestation period. Poor girl. She should have tried to keep Zeus around for at least the 9 months… then, let him go to marry Hera. Would have ended far sooner.

Oh, and props to Poseidon for helping out…

Other Lovers

Zeus fell in love with and seduced the young priestess of Hera. Because he was already married to Hera at this point, he covered the Earth with clouds. But this sudden fog only made Hera more suspicious, so she arrived on Earth in search of her wayward husband. She followed her gut to her own temple. As she stood on the steps, she heard noises of lovemaking inside. She rushed inside to find… Zeus talking with a beautiful white cow! She wasn’t stupid. Hera knew there was something funny going on so she asked Zeus for the cow as a present. He knew better than to turn her “simple” request down.

She added the cow to her herd of cattle, guarded by the hundred-eyes of Argus. Desperate to save Io, Zeus sent Hermes to retrieve the cow. Faced with the dilemma of Argus, Hermes resorted to playing music and telling stories in order to lull every last one of Argus’ eyes asleep. Then Hermes killed Argus. (Hera honors Argus by taking his eyes and putting them on her bird – the peacock.)

Even though Io was now technically free, Hera wasn’t done punishing her. She sent an immortal gad-fly to torture the poor cow. The cow wandered so far trying to escape the fly that she even met Prometheus, chained to a rock. He told her not to give up. She would eventually be turned back into a human and bear a child. And that, one day, a descendent of her would return to save him, too.

Upon reaching the Nile, at last, Zeus turned her back into a human. She gave birth to a son and many generations later, Hercules was born. One of his final adventures was rescuing Prometheus. Oh, and Io also became an Egyptian goddess… not too bad considering none of this was her fault.

Semele was proof of the saying, “Be careful what you wish for.” She was the only mortal parent of a god and a Theban princess. She was seduced by Zeus, in disguise, got pregnant, and then got tricked by Hera (through Semele’s sisters) into begging Zeus to reveal his true form. When he did, she was so awed by his presence that she caught fire and burned to ash. The immortal part of her son, however, survived.

Zeus, himself, sewed the fetus inside his own thigh and gestated the fetus to term. Thus, Dionysus was born. A full-blood god from a mortal mother and a literal baby-father.

Friday, April 17, 2015

What Kind of Erotica Sells?

What sells?

I can tell you, first, that mythology erotica is not a top seller. I do sell about three to four ebooks a month with a handful more of Amazon Prime shares, but I do not make a good living writing what I love. I love it, though, which is why I still write it. If ever mythology erotica does take off, well then I will be the first to tell you all.

So, if it is not mythology erotica, what the genre or sub-genre is doing best?

This is not an official survey or some gleaned marketing research, all of these observations are my own from what I have seen and read, and ghostwrite.

Just recently, within the last few months, my ghostwriting gigs on Fiverr have really taken off. On average, I am collecting about $200 extra cash a month just from ghost-writing 500-1,000 word love scenes. Which is far more than I make through book sales. And all I can figure is that whatever it is I am writing must be selling and selling well. Otherwise, why would so many of my gig sales be repeat customers who are exceedingly thrilled with my stories. If I was writing bad sex scenes or those not selling, I don't think these folks would be so willing to drop $20 at a time to have me write more and more.

Sure, fools there be in the world from whom their money slowly disappears. But surely not so many I can earn so much extra cash continuously?

What, exactly, then do I get asked to write over and over?


This genre really seems to be taking off. If I had to guess why, my first guess would be Shades of Gray. The world at large, both erotica lovers and the general public have seen how famous this series has become. And it probably doesn't help that the author started off self-publishing. So all those would-be writers in the world see this self-publisher get so far and become so famous and believe it can and will happen to them. And if it does, well why not go the same route.

Recently, I have been asked to compose dominant-submissive scenes nearly 1 to 3. For every six new gigs I receive a week, at least 2 to 3 involve some form of this genre. Mostly, young professional women who meet a successful businessman and enter into a submissive relationship with them in which all manner of degradation, pain, and bondage exists and in which all these young women discover their true selves. I haven't read more than a cursory look at Shades of Gray, but this seems oddly familiar don't you think?

Erotic Couples

I have to say I am excited this is doing so well as a genre. These scenes are likely a couple, whose love blossoms over time, just flat out enjoying one another. They are sexy and romantic. However, what might set these scenes apart from the erotic couplings of most commonplace and old-timey (I'm talking the 70s and 80s here) bodice rippers is the variety of sexual positions and locations I have been asked to incorporate. Lots of doggy-style and weird places. Shower scenes are being common. Although, to anyone who has ever tried shower sex... it isn't nearly all that fun. A little bed-room missionary, but this location and position is definitely falling by the wayside.

And no longer do we have the virgin protagonist. All the ladies I write about nowadays are modern women who love sex and demand good sex from their partners.

My last comment on this genre is that billionaire lovers seem to be favorites. I don't know where all these billionaires are coming from--we are in a recession after all--and why they are all single and handsome, but can I just say I wish I'd found one before I married my husband. Life without the worry of rent and food? How absolutely wonderful!


A genre I struggle with when asked to write it, but nonetheless still comes across my sales pretty often. The women may be shy or confident, but they are big, beautiful women who rejoice in their plus-sized bodies. I must admit, however, that at first I thought BBW meant beautiful black woman. Hell, I think I would have been thrilled with writing this as the race is constantly ignored in mainstream erotica. In fact, I'd love to see more diversity in the erotica genre in general. A lot more.

Finally, I'd like to suggest Kink...

I haven't been asked to write much with this, but that which I have been asked to write covers a wide variety of various kinks and all, or so I've been told, are sadly under-served in the erotica community. So, if you got the balls to write this stuff, do it. You might just fill a niche and do exceedingly well there.

I'd love to hear from you all about what trends you see taking off and what seems to be drifting into the wilderness never to be heard from again.

Tuesday, April 14, 2015

Scylla's Pool - Now Available!

It's here! It is finally here!

My very first publisher-published short story, not self-published, is now available at Forbidden Fiction.

It is a retelling of the myth of Glaucus, Circe, and Scylla. A love triangle on the Mediterranean sea.

I loved writing the story and absolutely loved working with a real editor. He offered me so much growth, making all my new writings that much stronger. I now think long and hard about my sexual position scenes making sure all the parts are clearly in the proper places and moving in the proper ways. Not to mention, point of view. I had a bit to learn there and am so happy my mistakes were pointed out to me. Good stuff to know and pay attention to. It is nice to have that kind of caring and attention to detail when looking at a story and for that alone I am already considering what to write for them next.

Please feel free to check out this story and leave me a note about what you loved or hated. Reviews are always welcome. It is also available at Smashwords and Goodreads.

Click here for direct link to purchase.


Friday, April 10, 2015

To the Victor (part two)

(part one)

Laying back, her hair mussed and one braid undone on the sun-heated turf, Daphne sighed. A smile played on her lips. The satyr was long-gone. She was laid out, splayed wide. Her arms and legs ached with the effort of the fucking. Her cunt throbbed, but whether with aftershocks of pleasure or from the beating it took, she didn’t care. This is what she was created for. What her being, deep down, craved.

“Shy nymph… please?”

The voice, masculine yet lyrical, surprised her and she moved to sit up. Apollo’s hand touched her shoulder, stilling her movement.

“I am Apollo, a god from Olympus.”

Daphne turned slowly to look over her shoulder. Indeed, he must be a god! The cascading waves of his blonde-tipped hair fell to caress his broad shoulders. His brown eyes were flecked with golden chips, making them glow like bronze. An aquiline nose, strong and wide only emphasized the greater chisel of his high cheekbones and sturdy jaw. Her gaze dropped and even through the unflattering cut of the tunic, she admired his toned waist and thick thighs.

“Daphne,” she answered the unspoken question twitching his lips—strikingly feminine in their fullness.

“Sorry to have startled you.”

“I was just resting. Would you like to lie with me?” Daphne patted the soft grass under his sandals. Her smile struck him like a bolt from Zeus. Her face lit up with the innuendo of her words. She had never had a god before, either in the chase or between her legs. Wondering what he would feel like and winking at him with the thought, her smile grew as he fell to the earth beside her.

“You only have to ask, sweet nymph.” In that moment, Apollo would have done any and everything she asked. “More than my immortal life, I wish to lie with you.”

Stretching a hand out, he ran his fingers across the rise of her breasts and up between the shadow of her collarbone to her pulse point. Toying with her, he circled the sensitive skin with his fingertips then leaned down and did the same with his tongue. Suckling roughly on her tender flesh, he marked her as his. He sat back and passed his gaze over her naked body. She flushed pink under his observation. Placing his hand back on her, he plucked her nerve endings like his lyre and in response, she sang. She hummed. She whimpered. She opened her mouth to scream. Maybe she wouldn’t run this time.

* * * *

Eros watched as Apollo approached Daphne from the clouds, which still hung in the cooling evening sky. Drawing a lead-tipped arrow from his quiver, the youthful god ran his fingers up and down the string of his bow. A replay of the previous night’s feast flashed before his hard eyes.

Apollo, his head thrown back and golden neck arched in mirth, filled the vast room of Dionysus’s palace with his musical laugh. Standing close, pulled up under the larger god’s arm by a firm grip to his shoulder, Eros cringed. Once again, he was teased for his small stature and slender, nearly feminine build. Despite his age, older than the newest generation of Zeus’ children, he still appeared to be pubescent. No hair marred his cheeks or chest. His muscles were the gangly wires of youth, not yet defined like those of Ares or Hephaestus.

“With arms like those, it is no wonder his aim often falls short of the mark,” Apollo taunted, grinning drunkenly down at the minor god.

“Unlike the aim of your sister, the master huntress. How poor a son you must have been to your mother for her to give your sister the skills of a man,” Eros tossed back at the sun-god. A look over to his side, he winked at Artemis. They had an understanding, a long-standing agreement. Neither of them was overly fond of her twin brother and his habit of boasting. Nor his claim of skill in archery. They knew who really held such a honor.

“Oh? You dare to question my manliness?”

“You sing songs, write poetry, and play with the dolphins. Is there really a question?”

Apollo flung Eros across the room at the insult. “You are just a child! Playing with your toys! You have no idea of the work of a real god!”

Eros lifted his head high, thrust his chin forward, and rose to his feet. “I will show you the power I can wield. You wait!”

Rocking back on his heels, Eros smirked. He would show Apollo. Apollo would rue the day he thought to question the elder god’s power. Eros was not the weaker of the two, nor were they equals. Eros would always hold sway over everyone. Even Zeus knew better than to mess with him. The god of love was a force to be reckoned with.

Glancing down at the cloud beneath his sandaled feet, he placed the arrow beside the gold-tipped one. One for hate, one for love. The ripples of a smile danced across his lips. This was going to be fun!

* * * *

The green blades of the soft, fresh spring grass tickled Daphne’s back. Her slender and unblemished fingers tangled in Apollo’s flaxen locks. His curls danced with the movement of his bobbing head between her thighs. A heavy arm draped across her hips, holding her down, keeping her in place. His other hand cupped her mound. Massaging the skin there, he teased her with fleeting touches.

Apollo’s tongue lapped at her folds, up and down the seam, seeking the sweet nectar of her feminine secrets. A finger sifted through her petal-soft curls in search of the delicate nub hidden beneath its hood of flesh. Finding it, he pinched and rubbed. Her back arched and hips thrust forward, threatening to push him off. Gripping her hip hard enough to leave a bruise, he fought to control her reaction. However he had imagined this moment, he was surprised how good she felt pinned under his ministrations. He loved the way she moved. Loved the way she sounded. Loved the unique smell of her approaching climax—like a meadow after a rainstorm. Loved the taste of her filling his mouth. Loved… her? A gold-pointed arrow struck his heart—a perfect shot—and disappeared in a puff of mist.

Blowing his warm breath on her clit, he felt her weaken and sigh in complete surrender. From between her thighs, he spoke. “Honeyed nymph, have you ever been to Olympus?”

“No,” she squeaked. His murmur traced along every quivering fiber of her being and she squirmed.

“Would you like to see Olympus?”

He eased his tongue from between his lips and across the barrier of hers. He groaned as he felt her body yield to his invasion. Stroking deep, as deep as he could, he drew the thick cream of her body’s sap from within. He needed more. So did she.

“With you?” The whisper hung on the edge of her conscience.

“Of course.” He grinned. She’d be welcome with him anywhere.

Replacing his finger with his mouth, he suckled on her aching nubbin and thrust two fingers into her moist, heated core.



Plunging the digits in to the knuckle and curving them to caress the spongy anterior of her sheath, he gave up his hold on her hips and grabbed her ass. He lifted her high with one hand to kneel under her body. Bracing her slight weight on her neck and shoulders, his mouth and fingers worked their magic.

He had spoken of his home… and her… together. Her, a nymph. Him, a god! Dear gods!

She melted under her thoughts. Begging her divine lover for what she desired, Daphne used her body instead words. He played her body like an instrument. In moments, she was lost in a field of gently waving, verdant ferns. She stood on the edge of sanity. Daphne had never felt like this before. A pleasure beyond anything she had ever known hung just out of reach. Love.

She never felt the lead-tipped arrow pierce her heart or heard the sinister laugh of the god of love as he spirited away. All she felt was sick. A sudden, stomach-roiling swelling of dread coursed through her veins with each pump of her heart. Bile rose in her throat. Her head pounded, severe pain making her squint against the intensity of Apollo’s golden skin. Raising her fisted hands, she pounded on his hands. Nails dug into the yielding flesh of his wrist. Delirious, he ignored the minimal pain and continued to feast on her now unwilling garden.

“God…” she whispered, upper lip curled in disgust.

Pulling away from her eden, her dew dripping from his chin, he lifted his eyes to hers. “You called?” The pain, rising anger, and open hatred in her gaze froze him to the core. “Darling nymph?”

“Release me.”

Apollo did as she ordered, setting her softly on the cooled ground. A crease across the bridge of his nose spoke to his confusion. The sign of his own arousal at their previous actions stood accusingly at her, nodding its approval of her—until now—willingness. Her body recoiled at the implication. Moving as fast as she could, she crawled backwards, putting distance between her and the god.


“Get away from me!” Her yell was shocking in the calm evening. Bird song and the hum of insects fell silent at the rage in her tone. Pushing herself to her feet, the whites of her eyes glowed in the dimming light. A shake of her head and she spun on her toes and disappeared into the darkening forest.

“Zeus’s balls!” And Apollo took off after the fleeing dryad. “You want a chase? I will give you a chase.” He was laughing beneath his heavy gasping as he attempted to keep Daphne within sight. His strides, even as a god, were no match for her fleetness. She easily avoided capture.

Dodging around giant oaks and shadowy pines, she kept just out of reach. Her feet fell upon the mossy floor of her wooded domain. Coming to the stream of her friend and lover, she leaped it as gracefully as a doe. Apollo paused in his pursuit to admire her lithe beauty. She was an amazing creature. Her voice alone held him entranced—whether in mirth or wrath. The fact that her body, voluptuous in the right places and toned in the rest, was so beguiling only made his heart ache for her all the more. Placing a hand over his heart, he ducked his head and closed his eyes.

“Not love, I cannot be in love…” he mouthed, with the same words echoing in his mind. The sound deafened his arguments. Gods did not fall in love. Lust, just lust. Lust was all they had, wasn’t it? Apollo had never been so unsure.

As her footfalls faded away on the far side of the stream, he jumped back into action, choosing to splash through the stream instead of hurdling it, hoping the water would cool his sore feet. The soothing liquid was a temporary relief. In haste, he rejoined the unrelenting chase.

Daphne ran as fast as she was able, plenty fast to avoid the amorous embraces of a clumsy, aroused satyr, but a god was a different being altogether. A quick glance over her shoulder as she whipped around an oak and she could see Apollo’s golden radiance in the distance. He was keeping pace with her, gaining even. Placing a hand against the rough bark of another tree, she paused in her flight to survey her surroundings. She was nearing the edge of the forest where her friend’s stream swelled and churned, mixing with her own father’s river. From this distance, though, she struggled to make out the roar of his turbulent flow. She would need to get closer before pleading for his help.

Pushing away from the tree, the nymph shuddered. She had to make it to her father’s shores. The thought of Apollo between her legs again, with either his tongue or cock, had her stomach threatening to heave. Her legs wobbled at just the memory of what he’d been doing. Dropping a hand to her curls, she willed herself to forget.

“Daphne!” His yell startled her into movement. She had dawdled too long. He was close. “Wait!” She didn’t.

Sprinting, she moved in a blur. Apollo cursed. He lunged, reaching out. His fingers touched the feathery strands of her hair as she streamed away from him once again. So close.

The straining rhythm of his breathing filled her ears and her mind. He was right behind her. She could feel the warmth of his sun-darkened skin. Could sense his eyes staring at her, following her every zig between the trees and over the fallen limbs. Daphne could feel his desire, his need emanating from his every pore and tracking her every move. Her skin crawled at the sensation.

Closer and closer. Apollo would have laughed in joy if he’d had the air. She was beginning to weary. Soon, she would be his at last!

When the sound of her father’s swift-moving water greeted her, she nearly fell to the earth and wept.

“Father, river Ladon, hear my prayer!” she began, “Your daughter, Daphne, seeks your aid.” She fought for the right words, her mind spinning with the knowledge that Apollo was within reach, dangerously close, and from the exertion of her escape. “Help me flee the unchaste clasp of this god! I do not welcome his embrace!”

* * * *

Ladon, from beneath his roiling waves, heard his daughter’s plea. The fear in her voice stirred his anger. Rising from the depths, he was held back by a fist around his wrist. The lord of gods and king of men, Zeus, appeared in the water beside him.

“The Fates have spoken, Ladon. We are all theirs to weave to and fro as they see fit. This was ordained. She is to be his. Do not let her get away.”

Ladon nodded. He was not in a position to deny his lord. Not even for his daughter.

* * * *

Daphne ran along the bank of her father’s river, her worried eyes begging the water for a sign. Suddenly, she saw a whirlpool form ahead of her, slowing the flow of the river. She lowered her eyes in gratitude.

“I am sorry, daughter.”

Ladon emerged from the river and clapped his giant hands in the air. A fine mist surrounded him. Daphne sprinted through the vapor. The droplets of moisture clung to her skin. Watching his daughter, he noticed her pupils widen and her head jerk up. She felt the magic work on her instantly.

“No!” Daphne screamed. The birds in the branches high above screeched and fluttered away in a shower of feathers and broken twigs.

Apollo froze.

A dense numbness seized Daphne’s limbs, beginning at her feet and climbing higher with every effort she made to continue her flight. Her skin, so pure, so flawless, ripped apart and subtle imprinting marred her flesh. A thin bark molded her curves. Her toes stretched toward earth again, this time seeking her mother’s nutrients. Up her legs, the transformation rose. The bark closed over her feminine garden, her leafy eden taking on its true form. A thick moss, bright and verdant, spread down to the soft ground below.

What was happening to her? She was his. His love. He wanted her. Beneath him, clamped around him, in his arms. And she wanted him. He knew she had. Her body had proclaimed its truth. He walked around Daphne, facing her, and watched her change. His brows knit in concern and confusion.

Her fingers grew and hardened. Her spine shifted and straightened, pulling her taller. Panting with shallow breaths, tears tumbled from her eyes, turning to sap as they rolled down her roughened cheeks. She stared into the face of her enemy. His smile, his love, her worst nightmare and the last vision she was going to ever see. Life wasn’t fair.

Caressing the hard smoothness of the metamorphosing nymph, Apollo admired her beauty, even now. If he could not have her as a nymph and lover, he would still have her this way. Under his fingers, wherever he touched, he felt her body yield to fate. Yield to him. Her body never lied.

Her breasts rose perky and youthful with her final breath, her life finally taken from her and given to another.

Rising onto his toes, the sun god stroked down the thinly veined, dark green and glossy leaves that surrounded her once-immortal face. The echo of her perfect features was faintly etched in the canopy of waving branches. He stepped in close and wrapped his arms around his one true love. A glimmer of her warm life force was still there and he soaked it in. Closing his eyes, he remembered her emerald-colored irises and her sweet, melodic laughter. He sighed. Gone, but never forgotten.

Stepping back, he extended his hand and snatched a handful of her leaves from her limb-like branches. He snapped off a longer twig, green and flexible. With deft fingers, he wove the leaves along the length of the twig and curled it around, fastening the ends together. He placed the crown of laurel on his blonde, wavy locks. Pressing a kiss to her trunk, he turned and walked away.

“You will always be mine, Daphne. You will see Olympus, as I promised, and I will love you for eternity.”

Her only answer was the rustling of the leaves in the breeze. He took it for assent.

Monday, April 6, 2015

Cover Reveal for Scylla's Pool

As you may have read in an earlier post, one of my short stories got picked up for part of an anthology with Forbidden Fiction, a sub-company of Fantastic Fiction Publishing. It is being sold independently and as a part of the larger anthology.

Here is the cover reveal:

Perhaps not the best cover ever, but I am happy with it and like its surreal and sexy vibe.

I am very happy about this chance and if the story does well, I am definitely going to look into writing some more short stories for them. They were fun and good people to work with during the editorial and proofreading parts of publishing.

I received the ebook proof just the other day and except for one minor error in a quote's placement, it looks so awesome. Can't wait until April 14th!

Friday, April 3, 2015

Sorry... But Here's a New Story!

I have to apologize for the break in posts... a lot started happening in my day to day life and I got bogged down in reality for a while.

But, I am back. Truly.

I am here again and just to prove that I haven't completely forgotten you all here is part one of a story I wrote about the Daphne and Apollo myth. I had submitted this to an anthology and it got denied - "wasn't what they were looking for."

However, don't feel too bad, another story I submitted to another anthology (Forbidden Fiction) was accepted and after months of editing, will finally be released April 14th. As soon as I have more information, I will pass it along. I am very excited about this opportunity and hope to publish more with the company in the near future. They are a great bunch of people to work with.

Benedetto Luto's Apollo and Daphne

To The Victor

The emerald irises of her eyes rolled back into her head at the sensation of his cock thrusting past her slick petals. She had never been so filled. Her ivy-bound braids hung in long ropes, swaying side to side with each pump of the satyr’s coarse-haired thighs. He worked his masculine rod within her tight walls, deeper and deeper with each plunge. His thick, yet surprisingly gentle thumb rested perched on her clit. With each thrust up into her, he pinched and flicked her nub. His gaze widened at the sight of her body undulating under his ministrations.

Sitting atop his lap, she bounced, her hands gripping his human shoulders in an effort to lift herself from his engorged cock before succumbing to the need and falling back down to impale her sheath on his staff.

Slamming back down, taking his whole length within her core, she bent to bathe his small, peaked nipple with her tongue. The human half of the forest creature was nearly as hairy as his caprine half and she had to sift through the dense hair to reach what she wanted. His skin tasted like the sap of the pine trees that stood proud on the rise of the mountain. The difference between the flavor of his human half and animal half always surprised the nymph. Moments earlier she had had his red and raging erect flesh between her pink lips and on her sweet tongue. Then, he had tasted of raw, barely controlled lust and the heavy musk of an aroused buck.

The satyr’s lusty, rumbling bleat of pure goat from her mouth’s labor made her womb flutter and the passion build. The noises of their coupling filled the immediate area, masking the usual sounds of chirping birds and humming insects. She shimmied on his groin, using her tight inner folds to massage and milk her captor’s cock. They were both close to climaxing. Both worked for their own conclusion, oblivious to the needs or wants of the other. This was not a mutual fucking. This was primal. Natural.

Daphne had been hiding and running from the satyr’s raging desire for days. He had stumbled upon her snoozing in the shade of her tree, drawn by the scent of her recent orgasm. Beside her rested her friend, a naiad of the local stream that trickled through this forest. Both were sleeping, snoring slightly, wrapped around each other in a tangle of feminine limbs. Daphne’s leafy eden glistened with her honeyed dew. Her lover’s moist finger still rested on her sensitive bud, a barely-there caress. The chests of both nymphs heaved with the aftershocks of their recent orgasms.

The satyr’s nostrils flared at his luck. His upper lip curled under his nose, his jaw spasmed and drool seeped from the corner of his mouth. The scent of a doe in heat, no matter the species, had him hard in moments. Two in heat and he was primed twice as fast. Urine spurted from his erect staff, wetting the bristly hair of his upper groin. He was unable to control the beastly reaction, signaling his readiness and masculine potency.

His short tail wagged and he stomped a hooved foot. He craved both, wanted both. But, he was alone. His brethren were elsewhere, drawn by the flutes and drums of Dionysus in a far-off grove. He had forgone the god’s invitation to an orgy. He was not in the mood to share. Not this time. Not ever, if he was honest with himself. Deciding that the naiad was the far slipperier of the two—they were an inherently shy and reclusive race—he had grabbed her first.

Wrapping his meaty arms around her middle, he had hauled her to him and pinned her beneath his hairy, smelly bulk. Grasping her by the ankles, he had lifted and spread her legs wide. He lowered his mouth to her dewy breast and suckled. The naiad’s eyes flew open, the round O of her mouth following.

Daphne had taken the opportunity to flee, awakened by her lover’s shriek. A shriek that quickly became the cooing of a woman in passion as the naiad succumbed to the natural order of the woods. With a masterful push of his already ready cock into her dripping sheath, she relented to his masculine mastery. Once caught, a nymph, whether dryad or naiad, desired only the taking of her welcoming cunt. The thrill was in the chase, the game of hide-and-seek that occupied the satyr and nymph’s immortal lives.

The satyr ravished the naiad quickly and left her to rest in the bloom of her second orgasm, then had taken off with the roar of a horny buck. Daphne doubled the length of her strides and laughed, sending the melodious sounds of her delight to the heavens above. She was the fleetest of the dryads. They would have a grand time as he tried to keep up, reach, and capture the nymph.

* * * * 

Reclining on the marble bench in his garden, Apollo was surrounded by all the heavily-scented flowers of the world. He held his lyre in one hand with the other clasped around his erect cock. His golden eyes were closed against the warmth of Helios’s rays. Singing a seductive melody, he suddenly quieted mid tune. The whispering hum of the heavenly song died on a non-existent breeze. Tilting his head at the light, melodic, soothing laugh of a nymph—a sound he had never before heard and now was unable to forget—he placed his instrument in the mossy grass.

He continued to stroke the long length of his golden-skinned staff. Quickening his pace and tightening his grip, he brought himself to an abrupt climax, letting his milky seed spurt into the air and fall in a cascade to the ground. Sitting up, he swung his tanned legs, long and toned, to the ground. Sliding his feet into his sandals, he reached down to tie the strands, interlocking the thongs of leather up his calves.

Standing, he sighed heavily. Apollo straightened his white thigh-length tunic and adjusted the gold-braided belt. Attired properly, he strode to the edge of the garden and peeked down through the clouds, which seemed to hang interminably around the peak of Olympus, hiding the immortal kingdom from the mortal gazes of Hellas’s inhabitants.

He searched the hills and valleys stretched out before his bronze-speckled eyes. Laugh again, my sweet nymph, summon me from Olympus to your side, he begged the land below.

On the edge of a white-yellow field of softly waving grain, where the verdant, dense forest met, ran a ditch of irrigated water surrounded by a tangle of berry-brambles and thorn hedges. At that exact moment, as Apollo’s gaze slipped along the seam of civilization and wildness, Daphne emerged, leaping gracefully across the ditch. Like a deer, her long, tanned legs allowed her an ease of flight not common to lesser mammals. Falling to her hands and knees she wiggled beneath the clinging brambles and slowed to glance over her shoulder.

The satyr was panting heavily, his furred body drenched with sweat, the hair plastered to his muscular, bestial form. Apollo’s upper lip rose in a sneer. Even from here, he could smell the stench of the horny goat-man. With a muddy splash, the creature fell into the ditch and clawed its way back out with the stubs of a human male’s fingers. Instead of yielding to the tangled thorns, it crashed through them, pulling the strands of berry-laden branches along with it. Smears of juice from ripe red berries tattooed his chest and arms.

Daphne watched, letting another laugh flow from between her perfect, lush lips. Reversing direction, she easily climbed the thorny brambles and disappeared back beneath the lavish foliage of the woods. The satyr bellowed and followed. The chase would not last much longer.

* * * * 

Apollo alighted on the earth, feeling the warmth and power of his grandmother Gaia pulse and thrive beneath his sandaled feet. Following the sounds of the crude and ungainly satyr as he trampled through forest’s olive and avocado-colored undergrowth, a complement to Apollo’s own golden and bronze-colored skin, he tracked his nymph easily.

When suddenly the satyr’s rampage hushed only to be replaced by the squeal of a young woman caught by surprise, Apollo grinned. At last, she was in reach. He slowed his pace, eyes searching the ground for the cloven marks of the satyr’s passing. Even without his sister, Artemis’s, training, this was an easy trail to follow. Tracking the path, he sidled up to an expansive meadow. Blooms, not unlike the ones back in his garden, filled the verdurous glen. In the middle of the field, the dark form of the goat-man stood solitary like a statue, motionless as though frozen in time. There was no immediate sign of the nymph. Apollo hesitated. He should go. No doubt, she was long gone from here now.

But then a snort of muffled glee reached his ears. Squinting, he stepped out from under a leafy bough and into the bright sunlight of Helios’s chariot. Keeping close to the edge of the meadow, he walked around the figure of the satyr. There, in the softness of the spring grass, the nymph squatted on her knees. One slender hand, like a tender branch of new growth, wrapped around the satyr’s meaty rod. The other disappeared in the mossy covering of the dryad’s private eden. Her maidenly lips were stretched wide as she took as much of the satyr’s cock as she could.

Apollo’s eyes were transfixed on the scene laid out before him. He could almost imagine the nymph’s tongue as it licked the underside of the plunging staff. The suction of her mouth, the heat, the moisture. He could almost smell the freshness, like a forest after a spring rain, of the nymph’s approaching climax. Could almost hear the growling of the rutting goat-man in his own chest. Dropping a hand to the hem of his tunic, he lifted the woven linen away from his now stiff cock and stroked himself. He drew out the final ecstasy of his own climax as he witnessed the nymph release the satyr.

Lifting her willowy form by the arms, the satyr tossed her easily to the ground and flipped her over. Slapping one giant hand on the center of her back to push her down while the other hand grasped her hip and pulled her up to meet his thrust, he drove his staff as deep as possible into the nymph. Riding her like the animal he truly was, he claimed Daphne.

Apollo basked in sight, the weariness and satisfaction of his own coming easing him down to the grass. Propped on one elbow, he watched. He enjoyed. Never before had he admired the art of animalistic fucking. Now, he had to admit there was a certain freedom in the action, a certain symmetry, a certain perfection to the act. The satyr didn’t come, grunting or bleating, atop the nymph, though she cried out her finish multiple times to the wonderment of Apollo. He was a beast. Pulling out, feeling the slick slide of his cock as her folds clutched at and trembled along it, he tossed her to her side. She wiped sweat-soaked tendrils from her forehead with a shaking hand. Smiling through half-closed lids, she climbed onto the satyr’s lap—spread wide and eager—to be filled and taken again roughly in the meadow. Neither was done yet.

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