Fiction Friday: Mount Olympus

By golly, she’s done it again. Gone completely into NSFW (not safe for work, for those of you not internet addicted folks) territory. So, don’t say I didn’t warn you.


Mount Olympus

You are a fucking god.

When I say this, it perplexes you. I watch your capable mind twist my words into more familiar ones.

No? You say, and somehow make it sound as though you’re asking for permission to disagree with me, even though the strength in your stance and the calm authority in your eyes says otherwise.

I make obvious work of staring at you, top to bottom, naked as a newborn baby. Goddamn, ours would be beautiful.

Yes, I say playfully. We both have mouths that make for pretty, saucy, smug little grins. When I smirk, you kiss me, and when you smirk, I want to kneel. I shrug and lean back on the bed, resting on my elbows. I am all feminine softness, and you carved yourself out of a block of marble from somewhere.

This is nice. With far more confidence than I feel, I beckon to you with a crooked finger.

You are, so hot, you say, a ragged breath making you pause in an unnatural spot.

Nein, Vati. I’m cold. Help? I raise my eyebrows and bat my lashes because you love that shit.

Your body feels like hot stone on top of mine, but your flesh gives way under my fingernails so easily. Adonis was a mortal, after all.

I am Persephone, who bites hard into the fruit of the underworld, and it tastes so fucking good. When it bites back, she screams in pleasant surprise and pleasant pleasure. Before she can take another breath she is pulled and transformed.

On top, I am Aphrodite. I toss my hair to one side and smirk. You are godly in your patience, and I like the view from up here.

You groan, eyes rolling back in your head. Mein Gott.

I lean over, hair tickling your chest. It makes you shiver. My god, indeed, I whisper in your ear and let my teeth graze your lobes.

You wrap your arms around my waist and tell me not to move. I’m held fast to your skin, and I feel like a plaything you could snap in half at your whim. You read my mind and spare a hand to yank my hair, hard. It makes me move, deep inside where all I can do is cry out because I’m still pinned by the strength of that arm.

You hiss through gritted teeth and make my entire body move. My hair becomes the reins of the horse pulling a chariot into a ring. Darling gladiator. I’m smirking again, but you can’t see it so you don’t kiss me. I’m giggling and stretching in a way you hate because it pulls me away from you.

We both say things that the other doesn’t understand, but your statements are punctuated by sharp slaps in places that will make it very difficult to sit, especially when you dig your nails in. I don’t even know what the question is but the answer is fuck yes when you do that, and you know it, you self-satisfied bastard.

You let go of my hair to reach underneath me and pull me close while you finish. It’s unexpectedly tender. You catch your breath and then drag me out of bed to the full mirror in the bathroom.

So fucking hot, you say. I see matching satisfied smirks and flushed faces. I’m about to say something when you stop me.

No, you are a fucking goddess.


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