Erotica Fantastica (5 page)

Then the man-god grunted and his hips
jerked. Aglaia let out a yowl, her body shuddering with release.
Melete was entranced at the sight of her friend being pleasured by
this strange creature.

"He truly was sent to us from the heavens,"
Aglaia whispered in awe as she rose to her feet, her hand cupping
her mound. "I have been touched by a god."

Melete looked down at him, curious as to
whether he would be up to the task of pleasuring her too. He was a
man-god, if anyone could he could. But his breath was ragged, his
eyes barely open. Melete smiled. A god in human form he may be, but
apparently he was as susceptible to their womanly charms as any
mortal man. Perhaps she could help him along, though.

He moaned with approval when she dropped to
her knees and stroked his broad chest. Curious and eager, her
fingers roved over his hard belly and then down to his groin. Her
fingers settled on him and stirred. The power of his phallus
growing beneath her fingers made her evermore aware of her own
need. She wanted to feel that inside her and she was a willing
slave to her lust. She bent down and kissed the swollen head of his
rod and then tasted him. The tang of his essence was mixed with a
more familiar flavor—that of her female lover.

The man-god was quickly rigid and ready once
more. When he moaned with pleasure she reached for the sap-filled
orbs that rested against his thigh, heavy and potent still. She
felt the movement of them as they tightened against her hand and
she sucked gently at the end of his shaft. The sense of urgency she
felt drove her on. He was more than ready to be mounted again, so
she climbed onto him and groaned as his sturdy erection stretched
and filled her.

It felt so good that she rode up and down it
vigorously, thrusting her hips at an angle in order to have it
stroke her most responsive places. Each time the head of his mighty
shaft pressed against her deep inside, intense pleasure bloomed in
the pit of her belly.

Meanwhile Aglaia stood by, lips parted and
eyes wide as she watched. Melete pulled on her own nipples to
increase her pleasure, reveling in the gaze of both the man-god and
the female audience. It made her wild. She moaned loudly and
squeezed his shaft with her inner flesh.

Behind his mask the man-god's eyes begged
her for his second release. The swell and throb of his pulsating
rod was so intense that her tender flesh began to palpate and
clench. Her release was upon her. At her centre, her flesh rippled
around his shaft, her juices flooding as she hit her peak.

"By the gods, yes!" she cried, when she felt
him tighten and reach beneath her, her tender places awash with the
magnitude of his release.

* * *

It took Icarus some moments to level after
his second spending. When he did he realized the nymphs were on
their feet and whispering to each other. They had grown curious and
their discussion revealed they were about to lift off his mask. His
father had warned him not to be discovered, and he realized he must
make haste back to the task from which he had been lured by the
sight of the two nymphs cavorting on the rocks below—his departure
from this land. As much as he hated to leave them he rose to his
feet awkwardly. Bowing to each of them in turn, he lifted his hand
in farewell.

"Farewell, man–god," the darker haired nymph
called out.

Icarus smiled and preened as he hastened
away from the place. They thought him a man-god. That gave power to
his stride.

Charging through the trees, he headed for
the clearing. Once there he manipulated his wings, lifted from the
ground, then spiraled upwards into the sky, his wings flapping
vigorously. He soared and soared, his body vibrant with ecstasy,
his loins still palpating from the glorious lovemaking he'd
experienced.

When he glanced back he saw the two nymphs
below, as beautiful as two young goddesses, and yet staring up at
him in awe, waving, and still he soared higher, carried on their
admiration. The rushing of his blood alone felt strong enough to
fuel his flight and it was as if the heat inside his body was
glowing all around him.

And so Icarus soared on, magnificent and
potent against the expanse of crystalline-blue sky. He noticed that
his bronzed arms shone with luminescence, and his wings were barely
visible with the strength of the light flooding through them,
making them all but transparent. His head burned, as if a crown of
sunlight had been placed upon him, and he bellowed his pleasure
aloud, bathing his sated body in the heat.

So filled with ecstasy was he that it took
him a while to notice the droplets of wax that sizzled and dripped
from his wings, and it was too late that he saw the stray feathers
that floated down, one or two of which now bore evidence of the
intense heat where they had been singed by the sun.

Too late he realized his fate, but he could
not regret his dalliance, for the pleasure he'd been given still
reigned within him, and when Icarus plunged to his death in the
sea, he was still suffused with pleasure—his mind, body and soul
consumed with the passions that the nymphs had shared with him in
the woods.

A sadness-tinged tale it is, but such an
amorous and ecstatic death is a special thing, and has been prayed
for by leagues of mankind, both before Icarus and ever since. That,
and the ability to fly.

WHERE THE HEART IS

Come home, Rhiannon. Come back
to me
.

Rhiannon Bryson stirred in her sleep, her
awareness sharpening as she faltered on the edge between reality
and her dream world. The man called to her again, luring her to
him. In the dream she was out on the moors and she struggled to
move, to look back over her shoulder and seek out his image. The
old manor house was there just as it had been so many times before,
shadowed and looming against the high crags. Then he stepped out of
the mist that surrounded the house, strode over, and lifted her in
his arms.

I know this
man
.

His face was so familiar that it was etched
in Rhiannon's memory, and his heart beat hard and fierce against
hers, locking its beat to his own. He held her tightly, so tightly
she could scarcely breathe. When he dipped to kiss her mouth time
and place morphed, and she was rolled onto a bed. Then he was
between her thighs and thrusting into her, stretching her open,
claiming her. His body arched and bucked, as if he were desperate
to find his release within her. Ethereal touches tantalized her
body. Struggling against the torpor of sleep, her skin was
feverish, the ache at her center demanding. She felt his kiss
against her throat—and at the moment of climax, his bite.

As always, it was the bite that woke
her.

Rhiannon's eyes flashed open and she
swallowed hard, panting for breath in the wake of her
sleep-drenched orgasm. Blinking into the darkness she rested her
hand on her chest and found the skin damp. Her core was still in
spasm, and she ached for the ghostly presence that had aroused her
so. Denying the truth of her situation she threw off the bed covers
and sat bolt upright. It was a strange phenomenon, one that she
could not ignore. Her pussy was slick—her groin suffused with the
heat of her climax—and a man's name was on her lips: Edgar.

The thundering of her heart and the ache of
loss made her cry out in frustration. She ran her hands through her
hair and looked around her bedroom, sad to be back in the here and
now.

"Who are you, Edgar?" she whispered into the
night.

That old familiar ache for the place that
haunted her dreams lingered. Home. Somehow she knew that. Deep down
in her soul she knew that he'd called to her from home.

* * *

That weekend Rhiannon stood on the wilds of
the Yorkshire Moors and let the place fill her senses. The
atmosphere was like no other, up here where the high crags seemed
to brush the sky. It was here that she felt closer to him—the man
who stalked her dreams—more so than at any other time in her waking
hours. This was the place that made him call to her, she was sure
of it. The very thought made her heart beat a little faster, her
anticipation building as she hiked out across the landscape. The
late-September sun was burning into the horizon, warming the purple
and yellow swathes of rough heather on the far hills, picking out
the thick, lush moss that covered the rocks. Blustery wind streaked
the sky with fast moving wisps of cloud, filling the air with the
heady scent of peat and heather.

This place had fascinated her since she'd
been brought up here on a hiking trip as a teenager. The dreams
started soon after. Strange, erotic dreams they were, featuring an
old manor house out here on the high rolling hills, where eerie
mist and gaunt shadows suggested movement, ghosts, and strange
creatures. As she grew into adulthood, the man had stepped out of
the mist and into her dreams.

"Don't go out on the moors alone," she'd
been told many a time.

Rhiannon couldn't heed the advice because
the place called to her. The sense of timelessness on the moors
seemed to tune into her very soul, and the peculiar heritage of the
landscape also kept her a lonely bookworm, studying everything she
could find as she tried to make sense of her connection to the
place. Folklore and legend were just a small part of it. The area
had been a hotbed for UFO sightings in the 70's and 80's. All of
that, and more—something innate and inexplicable—compelled her to
the place.

It was quiet and desolate today, and the
silence of the moor was somehow filled with anticipation. That sent
a shiver up her back and kept her senses keen as she followed the
well-trodden path. It was narrow but worn by footsteps, some places
inset with blocks of stone, a testament to how old the trails
were.

It was easy to get lost up here, so the
guidebooks said, but if you stuck to the path you couldn't go
wrong. Mostly she did, but not today. Today Rhiannon strayed from
the path into the wild, and yet that wild place felt more familiar
to her than her lonely flat in town and the local bookshop where
she worked. Here, she felt right, as if she belonged to the
moor.

"I know this place," she said aloud as she
kept the high crags in her sights. Her words were whispered away on
the wind. She hurried on, and reached a spot where an ancient wedge
of stone erected on the hill marked out the lay lines on the moor.
The occult insignia carved into its head was barely visible
nowadays, it was so weather beaten, but she'd read enough about it
to find and recognize the sturdy rock.

Rhiannon observed in awe as the lowering sun
sent a shiver of light across the ancient wedge of stone, exposing
its worn carvings. The thrill of discovery quickly fired her blood.
She reached out and touched the stone. Static clung to her
fingertips and then shot up her arm. Rhiannon trembled, but could
not break the contact. Light pooled around the stone and as she
watched, in awe, it was picked up on the far hill and arced across
the moor, a prism of startling illumination lighting the underside
of the sky. As quickly as it had appeared it was gone, and she
withdrew her hand.

The sound of footsteps behind her made her
jolt.

Rhiannon.

Her breath hitched. It was his voice,
calling her name. Bracing herself she turned to seek him out. As
she did the sky grew dark and the earth fell from under her boots.
Skidding down into a ditch, her body rolled, her face hit the
ground, and the scent of moss filled her nostrils. When her jaw was
forced shut by a series of impacts she coughed and tasted blood in
her mouth. The scrape of rough, exposed rock tore at her legs. Pain
seared her skin and bit deep into her left leg, and then she felt
the thump of hard earth against her back. Winded by the sudden
fall, she grunted heavily. Consciousness faded and she was
gone.

* * *

When Rhiannon came to, the sky was growing
dark. She quickly tried to gain some sense of her whereabouts.
She'd fallen about five feet, as deep as she was high, into a peat
bog. Her leg was pulsing with pain, as was her head. She thumped
the earth with her fist, incensed. She'd pulled something in her
calf, a sprain, at the very least. Glancing down she struggled to
see in the gloom. The fabric of her combat pants was ripped to
shreds around the painful area and up as far as her knee. Her shirt
was torn too and her chest was exposed and badly scratched. Blood
darkened the rip in her pants and she swore again. She needed
medical attention, but how was she going to get out of this bloody
ditch?

Raw fear hit her. She was out on the moor
and dusk was fast turning into night. The folklore witches were
probably the least of her worries. Who knew what madmen were out
here? Never mind the UFOs, more recent reports of big, wild cats
preying on the local farms had hit the news. The tradition of the
dark moor had called to her regardless, that fatal attraction of
fear and desire latching her to the place, beckoning to her
relentlessly. It was no one's fault but her own, whatever happened.
Hot, futile tears stung the back of her eyes. She'd strayed from
the path today, and she'd found the rock marking the lay lines. It
felt significant, and she was afraid.

The sound of footsteps focused her. She
recalled the sound from earlier. Had she dreamed it?

"Hello?" It was a feeble effort that caught
in her throat. There was someone else out here, but she wasn't at
all sure if that was a good thing or not. Friend or foe? That's
what they called out during the war. Halt, who goes there, halt,
friend or foe? As if any fool would say "Foe," and get shot on the
spot. So she didn't ask if it was friend or foe, she just hoped,
and prayed to a god she didn't believe in.