Eros And Psyche

NOTE: All characters in this story are above the age of 18. Eros has been around for hundreds of years and Psyche, though a virgin, is a young woman in her early 20s. This story is based on the original myth and takes place over Psyche's first night in Eros' enchanted castle.

In the silence of the bedchamber Psyche waited, her body tense beneath the bedclothes as she sat, her eyes peeled wide in the unrelenting blackness. It was a different sort of darkness here— one so unfamiliar and complete that she could hardly see a thing beyond the nose on her face— and though she had relished the glory of this castle during the bright, waking daylight, in this darkness, her solitude had grown eerie. Far from her father's great keep where there were always courtiers, soldiers, petitioners, partygoers, and sisters to keep her company, Psyche felt a thrill of fear that made her shiver beneath the sheets.

She had never been alone before— not once, since the day she was born, had she been left unattended without at least a servant or a maid— and as she lay as still as bronze beneath the cold, soft sheets, she tried not to think of the vastness of the unoccupied space around her. The silence was pressing— she could not even hear the voices of the servants anymore, as she had during the day— and she clenched her eyes tight shut, not daring to peer into the shadows at whatever might be lurking.

What a little fool,

she thought, her eyes stinging with the threat of tears.

What a little fool you are...

how often had she longed for a solitude like this, for a peace so still when her world had grown busy and loud? How often had she wished her sisters away, wished

herself

away, wished, on bended knee to a god who hadn't cared, to be

alone

just once in her life, with no one to see her, or hear her, or stare?

Now, she thought, shivering on the mattress, she was almost positive she'd rather have the noise.

In the hollow of this place that she still did not quite understand, Psyche lay as still as she could, her eyes pressed shut but her ears wide open for any signs of life to ease her quiet panic. There must be someone here, she knew, for there had to be a staff to keep the rooms so neat. She'd heard them with her own two ears as she'd explored, had listened to the quiet titter of voices, the muffled whispers of talk around every bend and corner, though she had not seen so much as a hair from anyone else. She listened for them now, those invisible voices, and prayed that they might send her a pageboy or a maid, but as the minutes ticked by and the sky grew steadily darker, there was no noise but the wind against the stone, and the rustling of olive leaves from the little grove outside. She did not understand the enchantments of this place, could not wrap her mind around whatever force had magicked her clothing, her food, her bath, and her comfort, seemingly from thin air. There

must

be people here— there simply

must.

Words could not be spoken without a tongue. Beds could not be made without hands. A castle could not be run without its servants...

But of course, Psyche knew nothing of the magic of the gods. She knew nothing of how the world worked other than to say, definitively, that it

did.

The gods were as nebulous to her as the blue of the morning sky— lovely, immense, untouchable, and cold— and though she prayed in the temples, gave offerings at the altars, they had given her nothing more than empty air in return and so she had never really understood the wonder of them. The gods were nothing more than effigies to her— stone likenesses fifty feet high, inlaid with hoards of precious gold and gems. They were names, whispered like prayers in the dark. They were threats that came with each disaster. Olympus was a story, told to her by her nurse in the wee smalls, and Psyche was altogether too old to believe in such total, utter nonsense...

But even so, Psyche wished that whichever lord or king had imbued this castle with its splendour would be kind enough to send her a lamp. A candle— even the smallest, waxy wick would do— but there was none to be found and so she waited, trying to calm her racing heart in the ever-growing darkness, as the inky black of night overtook the indigo blue of dusk.

She did not know how long she waited, so tense and so frightened. She would never be sure— was it one hour, or perhaps two? Had she actually slept a wink, or had she simply closed her eyes? She was not sure— she would

never

be sure— but when the sound came, she felt all the tiredness leave her in a rush and her eyes snapped open, suddenly alert.

Nothing. There was nothing for her to see but that terrible, Stygian blackness, and she shivered beneath her bedclothes, tucking herself up a little tighter. She did not know what had made the sound— indeed, though she strained her ears, she could hear nothing more of it— and as that silence went on for one breath, and then two, she felt her heart begin to race. Her rather childish fear of the dark transformed into something much more sinister and as she waited to hear the noise again, she recalled the prophecy that had led her here in the first place.

High on a mountain crag, decked in her finery, lead your daughter, King, to her fatal marriage and hope for no child of hers born of a mortal, but a cruel and savage, serpent-like winged evil, flying through the heavens and threatening all, menacing every soul on earth with fire and sword until Zeus himself trembles. The gods are terrified and rivers quake and the Stygian shades beside.

From outside the door, there was another sound.

Breath held tight in her chest, Psyche heard the thundering of her own heart as it galloped like a racehorse. The sound was low and soft— the merest whisper of a sigh, the softest exhalation of breath before the distinct sound of feet moving across the stone floor— and almost at once, Psyche felt the air shift. She pulled the sheets tight around herself, biting her lip to force back her tears, and when she felt a warm, moist breath on her cheek she whimpered. She could not help her tears then— could not stop two, fat drops from squeezing past her closed eyes— and there was another sigh, and then a whisper.

"No... Do not cry."

She barely made out the words before she felt the bed sink down behind her, a warm, solid weight resting against her curled, trembling legs. The feel of him unnerved her— the warmth, so soothing in the cool, nighttime air, sent a shiver down her spine— and she froze, refusing to move another inch.

She would not look. She would not look, she would not look, she would not look...

"Dearest Psyche," said the voice, much louder and more pronounced, and this time, Psyche started like a colt. The sound of her own name on those stranger's lips made her shudder. "Dearest, sweetest Psyche..."

From behind her, soft as summer rain, she felt the gentle caress of fingers on her back— for they

were

fingers, not the hideous slime of a serpentine tail, as she'd expected. The feel of it sent a shiver down her spine and all at once she felt her chest loosen, her cheeks wet with tears.

"Do you weep, my darling?" said the voice, concerned. "There is no need..."

Psyche dared not say a word.

"There now... whatever is amiss?"

And at once, Psyche felt the touch of fingers on her face, instead.

His hands were big, she felt, and when she cracked her eyes open, she could make out only the barest outline of his long, slender fingers. The pads of his thumbs brushed away the tears, smoothing them up and away into the tangle of her hair. They lingered there for a moment, toying with the curls that had fallen loose over the pillow, before they came back to her skin again, and though the touch was as light as summer rain, it left a fierce and tingling burn wherever it went.

When she felt lips replace the fingers, pressed on the apple of her cheek, she squeaked and the creature laughed.

"As lovely as a rose and as sweet as honey," he murmured. "You are exactly as I remember you, my love. Just exactly the same."

"Remember?"

The creature laughed again.

"Yes."

Psyche pinched her eyes shut again.

"Give yourself over, my sweet," said the voice. He traced his fingers, feather-light, over the shape of her nose, her lips. "You are so beautiful, Psyche. So lovely..."

"I cannot see you." The thought made her nervous, though she tried her best to hide it. "I cannot see

anything."

She felt another touch on her face— a large, hot palm cupping her cheek— and the voice whispered again in her ear.

"Nor will you," he said. "It is for the best, love."

Psyche felt a tremor— a quake deep in her belly. Fear blossomed again as she imagined what this creature might look like— this fated, hateful beast of oracle and prophecy— and though she struggled to reconcile the ugliness of a monster with the gentle, sweet caress of her mystery lover, she wondered if this was not all part of the trick. Her father had sought the oracle, and the oracle had spoken true— this was a creature to be

feared,

not loved.

"Do not be afraid, Psyche."

"I

am

afraid." Her voice was small. "How can I not be, knowing what you are?"

"What I am?" The voice was amused, if not a little indulgent. "What, pray-tell, might that be?"

Psyche felt her face flush.

"A..."

"A what?"

"She

said..."

"Who

said, dearest one?" asked the man. "Who's been telling tales about me?"

"My father sought the oracle," said Psyche. "She told him of our union."

The creature laughed again— a low, delicious sound that made her cheeks grow hot.

"The oracle," he replied, once his chuckles had died down, "speaks in riddles. Such is the bane of the sybil. They might see the truth, or hear it from the Gods' own lips, but one can never be entirely sure what they

do

mean."

"Even a half truth is enough to frighten," Psyche replied. "She said you were..."

"A what?"

"A monster," said Psyche finally, and this time, he did not laugh. "She said you were a

beast."

The man said nothing.

"She said you were a menace."

"I'm sure..."

"She said that the Gods themselves should fear you."

"The gods

do

fear me," replied the man, much more seriously than Psyche would have liked "They fear what I can do, my dearest one."

"What can a man do to a god?"

"Very little."

Psyche frowned.

"You

are

a man..."

"Almost."

When he reached for her again, Psyche felt the warmth of his hands on her wrists, this time. There was less fear in her now, though her uncertainty had grown like a weed, and she felt him as he brought her hands up to his shoulders, and then his back. Her fingers froze when they rounded his ribs, her hands tracing patterns until they were abruptly halted, and she felt, rather than heard, his laugh against her bare chest, his lips coming down to brush her hair.

"Do you know me now, Psyche?" asked the man. "Can you name me?"

Where she had expected to feel the smooth expanse of skin across his back, there was instead a soft, solid interruption. From each of his shoulder blades grew a great wing, swathed in feathers from root to tip, their span too big for her to fully appreciate as she ran her fingers through the down. Soft, they might be, but weak, they were not, for beneath her probing hands Psyche could feel the rippling muscle as they moved, the careful way he tucked them down to trap her. She could picture them as clearly as she would in the light of a thousand candles— how white the plumes must be, how high they'd carry him when he set off into the sky— and though the name came to her as if in a dream, she could hardly dare to believe it. This was no monster— this was no cruel and mocking trick...

"You are Eros," she said in a whisper, and above her the man chuckled. "You—"

"Son of love and war," he said, and Psyche felt her heart hammering, her face hot with sudden shame. "Blessed and cursed..."

"You are not cursed."

Eros laughed again, but this time Psyche did not miss the bitterness.

"Love is a far more dangerous weapon than any sword, dear one," he said, and there was a note of sadness, of regret. "Gods

do

fear me. Zeus himself fears me, and what exactly I can do. Love turns men into fools. It turns the gods into petulant children. To be feared is to be cursed, my love, because where there is fear, there can be no true affection."

And though her heart still hammered, her hands shaking like autumn leaves on the skin of his back, she felt at once the touch of his lips on hers, the soft caress of his mouth as he moved against her, sweet and gentle.

Psyche had never kissed a man before. Indeed, she had not so much as

touched

one, for all she had seen of them beneath her father's roof. Men of any disposition had been forbidden to her, no matter how winsome they might be, and so Psyche had only ever watched and puzzled over the riddle that was man, unable to get close enough to study. Men had adored her since she had first blossomed into womanhood. She was used to the stares and the whispers, the way their eyes tracked her as she moved, but never before had she felt such ardor, such

passion

, as she did with this god's lips pressed so closely to her own.

He kissed her like Psyche had never imagined she could be kissed, his breath filling her and the taste of him overpowering everything else. He did not seem to mind that she did not know— indeed, though she could only follow what lead he gave her, he seemed more than happy to take control. She felt his lips and his tongue as it poked out to probe her own, and by the time he pulled away to let her breathe, she gasped, her hands tangled in his long, soft curls.

He said not another word as he moved instead for the sheets.

She was naked beneath the bedclothes and as he peeled them carefully away, she found herself naked in the dark, instead. She did not know what he could see of her— could not tell, exactly, what he could make out, but as he moved his fingers over her arms and her long, slender neck, she knew that he must be able to see more than she could. She could see nothing but the barest outline of him— the subtle glow of his wings in the nearly invisible starlight, a glint of dark curls catching the breeze— and her hands were uncertain as she tried to gain her bearings. He did not begrudge her— indeed, he seemed to enjoy her clumsy exploration— and as she felt over his chest, his stomach, his arms, his legs, he mirrored each touch with his own, sending Psyche into an unfamiliar, aching yearning.

She had never been touched before— not like this, and certainly not without her clothes— but she knew, as her fingers drifted over every inch of him that she could reach, that he would not deny her. She did not stop to consider the propriety of it— to think on whether or not what she did was

right—

and as her fingers tickled down his belly and his legs she felt it, hard and hot.

She froze, suddenly embarrassed. He chuckled.

"No need for that," he whispered, touching the new redness on her cheeks again. "It's only natural, love. Your body shows it differently, but I know you feel it too."

Between her own legs, where he had yet to touch, Psyche felt a throbbing wetness.

"It is because you are so lovely," he went on, "and so perfect. The very sight of you very nearly does me in."

"I..."

He waited.

"I don't know how..."

And at once, she felt his weight on her. His chest, strong and solid, against her own, soft breasts. The firm line of his midriff dwarfing her own slender frame. His legs, wedged between her own, limp knees, and that other appendage, brushing up against her...

"Shhh," he said when her voice faltered and he kissed her again, quickly, before he buried his face in the crook of her neck. "Hush now, little love. Let me show you."

"Show me?"

"Yes..."

When his weight came away, Psyche felt his hands on her legs, gently spreading her thighs. His fingers tickled as he pushed her knees back— first one, and then the other— and when he sighed she waited, staring up into the utter blackness that had swallowed the ceiling.

She opened for him like a flower, his gentle pushing urging her knees to either side, and though she could hardly say how or why it was so, the thought of it gave her a deep and satisfying thrill. He wasted no time as her knees hit the bed, his lips on her navel as his hands spanned her waist, and when she felt his hands on her belly, her ankles braced against his back, she could do nothing but wait, her fingers curled in the rumpled sheets.

She did not know what he would do until he did it, and when he did, she let out a cry.

Psyche, until that very moment, had known nothing of the pleasures of the flesh. She had been kept chaste and modest— as pure a princess as ever there was— and she'd never had any notion of what her body could do. She had no idea that such a feeling existed— no idea whatsoever that she would be able to feel such a depth of passion as she did just then, but as Eros lowered his lips to that forbidden junction between her thighs, it was all she could do to keep herself still on the bed.

He was gentle at first, this lover of hers, and his movements were slow and careful. He was the god of love, after all— the deity to whom nighttime passions had been entrusted by Zeus himself— and he knew exactly how to bring his darling to the very edge of bliss. Psyche felt him there and she writhed and squirmed beneath him, her face flush with heat and her body shaking with the sudden force of her lust. His tongue plunged between the petals, dancing across her like a flame on a log, and he used his lips, too, and his fingers. Where his tongue did not reach, he pressed his nose instead, and when his tongue had slowed, he pressed his lips to her in its place. His lips took her in like a babe at the breast, pulling at some part of her with a gasp and a groan. Her hips rose when she felt this, though he tightened his hands to hold her down, and as his lips suckled the taut, pink pearl that he'd coaxed from its sheath, Psyche heard herself cry out in a sudden tumult of noise. The blackness of her vision erupted into vivid, sparkling colour, her chest tightening with a sudden and vicious throb, and when she let out the first small

"oh!"

she heard Eros' quiet laughter, and he redoubled his efforts just as came undone.

Her cry was long and loud, echoing in the chamber like a ghost as she reached the peak of her pleasure. His lips, still pressed tight to her pearl, began to move a little faster. His tongue, having retreated, came back out to play. Psyche had never known a thing like it— had never known that such a thing was even

possible—

and when she began to cry out in earnest, he did not let up. Her feet scrabbled beneath him on the bed, rumpling the sheets. Her hands tangled in his hair as she tried to urge him away. He licked her and sucked her until he drove her stark mad, and when she howled out like a beast she felt his fingers, sliding through the wetness she had made, pressing so deep inside that she felt them in her belly. She felt herself clench down on him, felt the fluttering of those fingers beneath the tremble of her own, sacred self, and only once those tremors had died away, leaving her a shaking, wet mess, did he finally pull himself away.

"My beauty," crooned the god, and before she could so much as think, his lips were on her neck, her cheek. "My darling... my love..."

When she felt him move again, this time with a different part of him, she felt a pang of sudden, shaky nerves.

"Do not fear me," he said softly. "Let me show you, love..."

"We're not married..."

"We will be," said Eros and she felt him push, so slow, against her. "Just relax, darling. Feel me. Let me show you how it can be..."