The Modern Danae

*

They're selling postcards of the hanging...

*

Trevor's true childhood hero hadn't been Lebron James, Will Smith, or even Obama: it had been Bob Dylan. He couldn't even remember how he had ended up watching that weird biopic, the one where the singer/songwriter was played by six different actors, but he did, and that got him hooked. Particularly because the first of these six happened to be a black kid, about the same age as he was when he watched it. In the picture, that boy was the nerdy one who wanted to fit in,without compromising his own identity... and this was exactly how he was feeling at the time.

In the end, Tre had managed to fit in, while keeping his true self indeed. Twelve years had passed, and the nerdy boy had turned to a 6'4", lean, handsome guy, eager to spend about an hour at the gym each day to sculpt his admirable physique. But the figure of Dylan had stayed with him all through the years, probably because it had shaped him intellectually. Those cryptic lyrics and references had led him to dive in poetry, mythology, philosophy even... and he had never looked back. Now, at 22 years old, he was focused in his Literature studies, on way to his Master's degree, which he would normally get next year. He was getting somewhere, though he was not too sure of what this somewhere might be.

On top of that, he was a guy that people loved to hang around with, one whose great personality drew kindred people like a magnet. He could thank his parents for that: they had taught him, every step of the way, that kindness and trust were the key words than a human being should live by, no matter what happened; and if it didn't pay off at first -- like they themselves experienced long ago -- that would make a difference in the long run. Tre had struggled with that idea for quite some time, but he had put it in practice anyway... and now, he realized that they had been right. He had tons of friends, some of his youngest cousins looked up to him as a role model, and he was making a few connections in the academic world too. Things looked like they were about to go great. He felt grateful and lucky.

Except... in that

one

department. Or, come to think of it, maybe that was the department where he got a bit

too

lucky.

The voice of Bob reminded him of it, this very instant:

*

Everybody's making love or else expecting rain...

*

He had always loved that line, but the bitterness of it stung harder this time around. It was Tuesday night, and up to an hour ago he'd been supposed to be be part of the former group, after two months of failed or aborted opportunities... but that one had failed, too.

As he hit puberty, his body started to change... and one part of him, in particular, began to develop quite dramatically. He thought nothing of it at first, but then he realized over the years, in the gym lockers, that none of his buddies had indeed transformed quite as substantially as he had. This was so much pronounced that, on his first viewings of porn, he had wondered what the fuss was about, since none of these guys in the videos had the kind of equipment that could match his own.

But the real downer came with his first sexual encounters. All through his high school years, he managed to date some incredible girls; and most actually seemed to care about him, or to find him genuinely lovely. He'd never had any problem finding them. But when they felt ready to "do" it, the same scenario repeated: they would recoil in shock as they saw the whole of him, uttering things such as "it ain't possible" or "it can't be" and ultimately not willing to go any further with him.

He tried to aim at college girls, who he felt would be more experienced at this kind of stuff, but that didn't make much of a difference... especially since his package continued to grow, up to the point where he eventually had to wear baggy pants most of the time, to prevent the bulge from becoming too obvious. He had to say goodbye to any kind of underpants, too: going commando had become the norm. Playing sports could also be a problem. Football? Those outfits were a little too tight. Tennis? Too revealing. Swimming? Even worse. It had reached a point where that thing between his legs was more of a liability than a benefit.

Maybe the worst part about it all, was that everything seemed to be in working order! He had no trouble getting a rock-hard erection, or even keeping it for extended periods of time; he guessed his healthy lifestyle and constant exercising contributed a great deal to that. He could cum perfectly too, though he had found out soon enough that it brought its own set of problems; and he would now wait until he was on his own to blow his load, usually in the shower. That last part wasn't really a problem for him, for two reasons: he always felt like pleasuring the girl first, and he had been blessed with that natural ability -- that, unbeknownst to him, very few men had -- to delay his ejaculation as much as was required.

Unfortunately, it wasn't like any girl he had known could have enjoyed it: very few even let him try to be inside them, and the brave ones who managed to accommodate him would usually be worn out after about 10 minutes. Tonight's girl hadn't been any different. She was from his English Lit class. They had been seeing each other for about 2 weeks, a wonderful red-haired buxom girl that made him feel quite special. He hoped she would be the right one... and got disappointed as usual.

Umpteenth verse, same as the first.

Like so many other girls, she had been apologetic about it, telling him what a great guy he was, and she mentioned how his cock was "mesmerizing" (God, how many different adjectives he had heard about his junk over the years... he could have published a whole thesaurus by now) but she hadn't feel up to the challenge -- because that was one, indeed.

That started to take a toll on him. He felt like a diamond in the rough. There was so much pleasure he could bring to a woman, he was sure of it... but where was the one who was willing to receive it?

Because until it happened... he would still feel a bit like that nerdy boy of long ago. Unable to fit. And no amount of friends or academic success would make up for it.

*

Was that some kind of joke?

*

Well, since he had nothing better to do anyway, he decided to browse some "interesting" ads on Dougsfiles, one of his go-to sites in case of extreme sexual desperation. Not that he excepted anything from it, but maybe the idea of checking on some other lost souls, out there, trying to find their perfect match, however odd and specific it was, could bring him some kind of long-distance comfort.

He checked those within his area, from today... then from yesterday... then from 2 days ago... until one caught his attention. Probably because if was among the very few whose title was not painfully obvious.

It was simply named "The Modern Danaë".

He was familiar with the tale, as he had read it in Ovid's Metamorphoses. A king had locked up his daughter in a chamber because a prophecy had told him he would be killed by her offspring. Little did he know that it was Zeus himself who had decided to impregnate her, and no mere castle was going to prevent him from having his way; he simply turned into a golden cloud, passed through the window, and rained down on her. Now, how would such a tale fit into a Dougsfiles post? His curiosity was tickled: he clicked.

"

Female, 26.

O Jupiter, of obsidian mold,

Shower me with mother-of-pearl, not gold

."

That's all there was to it, but for Trevor, that was more than enough to fuel his imagination. It didn't take a genius to guess that the "obsidian mold" referred to that woman's preferred skin color, but he loved the poetic touch the pearl reference brought. The rest said all that needed to be said: here was a lady who wanted to be covered in her lover's seed.

Something he knew he would have absolutely no problem delivering.

That almost felt too good to be true. Her request, if he had indeed read correctly between the lines, fit him exactly to a tee. Now what was the catch? Because there had to be one... but he felt eager to know more. He was willing to follow that path, to plunge into that rabbit hole. After all, that was better than staying on Desolation Row.

He began to think of what would be the most appropriate answer.

"You want me to leave the light on?"

The voice came from the living room, distant, already in the past tense.

"Uh... No. Turn it off. Please."

"Alright. See you?" That last syllable hung, suspended in mid-air.

She let it linger. The door closed.

That had been Fiona's night fling, an all-around nice man she had picked during her after-work, as she did on most Thursdays. He had been good-looking, fit, considerate, and had looked absolutely delighted to score a chick like her as she brought him home, a reaction shared by many other guys over the years.

The lovemaking was just like him: all-around nice. He had been sweet to her all through, not hesitating to go down on her when she wanted to, and he had made sure not to cum too soon... and yet, even with all those boxes checked, she remained ultimately unsatisfied.

Though, she had to admit, it wasn't just a recent thing. Actually, she couldn't remember a single session which had not left her wanting, deep down inside. It's not that it was bad; just mostly average, and given how sex was important in everyday lives, she felt like she was missing out. This was probably why, at 26 years old, she had never settled with anybody, and wasn't about to. Unless, of course, she could find the one man that would make her feel

... if he ever existed.

It had taken her a long, long time to guess what she really craved for. Before that, she had made one wrong assumption after another. She had tried sex of the rougher variety, but being called a bitch or worse by her partner usually made her blood curl; she had even ended up kicking out a particularly rude asshole who had tried to manhandle her the wrong way -- that was how these dreaded boxing lessons had paid off in the end. Then, she had tried with a few women; it was... nice, but ultimately not what she was looking for. She had also tried mind games, and all that revolved around domination and submission, but she couldn't escape the feeling that it was all a big put-on; or at least that's how she felt about it.

No, what she needed was something else. Something... which would leave her like

that

painting.

It had happened a few months ago. She had to meet a client in St-Louis, MI, and as she usually did on a first-time travel, she had taken some extra time to be able to visit their art museum. Art was indeed one of the things she regretted having no talent at whatsoever, but she was fascinated by those who had, and who were able to transcribe their vision to the world. It was one of the greatest things mankind was capable of, and she reveled in it, any occasion she had.

And that was in Saint Louis Art Museum that she saw it.

The painting of Danaë by Artemisia Gentileschi.

It wasn't the first version she had seen of that particular story; the Titian, in Naples, came to mind, or the Rembrandt one she had browsed in a book... but none of these equaled the sexual power of the one right before her eyes.

She remembered very clearly how she had stood in front of it, for minutes on end, absolutely transfixed by the pose of the heroine. There was a defiance, an affirmation in the way she lied, that shook her to the core, long after she had left the museum.

And it made all the more sense once she found out that Artemisia Gentileschi was a woman; one of the few, indeed, who not only managed to be accepted as a female artist in the 1600's, but who even turned out a profit. One who was not afraid to use her own persona - and body - in her works of art. One who stood up for herself throughout most of her life.

In short, a true badass woman.

There was more, though; just before she reached 18, she was sexually assaulted by her father's friend and assistant. She nevertheless dared to denounce him, and against all odds, this led to his imprisonment. It was during that trial period, it seemed, that she had painted that Danaë, and because of the time frame, some art critics later read that artwork as an allegory of what happened to her, with Zeus, through his shower of gold, acting as the rapist in the story.

But this was not how Fiona had interpreted it. At all. The figure she saw in that painting wasn't a victim; instead, that was a woman who was claiming back her sexuality. The worst had happened, but that would make her all the more stronger; she refused to be kept a prisoner by her father, in that ivory tower. She wanted to follow her desires... and act on them.

And these desires felt strangely close to hers. There was, in the face of Artemisia here -- because that was obviously her own -- the expression of a woman that had been pleasured to oblivion; her eyes half-closed, her breasts swollen, her body offered to the most gifted of lovers -- Jupiter himself, from whom she had enjoyed the greatest of nights, and who was about to shower her with his own ecstasy.

That was how Fiona wanted to feel. Like that woman in the picture. In a state of total erotic abandon.

And this was what had led her, five days ago, back from her night out, a little tipsy, and still not satisfied, to send her Danaë ad, like a spur of the moment thing.

And right now... she felt like checking on it. She knew it probably was no use. If the man she had dreamed up did exist, he probably had a lot better things to do than to read about people's fetishes on Dougsfiles. But as a social experiment... maybe she would get some witty or interesting answers.

She first read her own message again. What struck her was the "Obsidian mold" mention, that she had no recollection of having written. Did she put it just to fit the meter? Or because she loved the way that word sounded? Or because of... something else? Well, she didn't feel like thinking about it too much right now.

She then checked the replies, all twelve of them. Most were dirty takes on the "Roses are red Violets are blue" routine, a few looked written by guys whose active brain cells were now in the single-digit department, some were just pics of a very lewd nature... but among that trash, one message stood out. It was written in iambic verse, like her own:

"

I'll hover like a cloud at your window

And shower you with pearls from head to toe

."

This one, at least, understood the assignment.

But there was more: a link, which pointed to a MP4 file. She clicked, ready for absolutely anything. Except she could never have been prepared to what was now playing.

The scene took place in what was obviously a bathroom, the camera pointing towards the shower. A black man stood, the frame only showing the body from his shoulders to his knees. His physique was absolutely overwhelming: a lean figure, but which seemed to be made of pure muscle, without an ounce of body fat. His pecs and abs looked like they had been chiseled from a Renaissance master, carved directly from that stone Fiona had quoted in her message.

And yet, these were nothing compared to the thing that stood up between his legs.

"Holy shit!" she actually exclaimed out loud, still unable to fathom the reality of what was on display.

That cock was just... unbelievable. The man was holding it with both hands, and it looked like he barely covered two thirds of its length. As for the girth, it looked like it beat her own wrist easily. But despite those mammoth-like proportions, there was something... entrancing about the way it looked. Despite its massiveness, it seemed perfectly proportioned. The pubes around it where shaved, giving it even more scope and majesty. And the texture of it made it look really inviting, in its own strange way. Here was a manhood that did not feel monstrous, but rather... godlike.

And then, he began to jack off with wide moves, so fast that his hands were practically a blur; he had quite a lot of practice in the matter, it seemed. As he went on, she could see a thing that seemed to bounce on the bottom of the screen, not grasping exactly what it was but--

Scrap that. She knew exactly what it was. Those were his testicles. How could these be real, though? They looked to be larger than tennis balls, as hairless as the rest of him, swinging in rhythm with the furious jerking of his hands. How on earth could such a thing exist? It had to be a prop, a strap, something like that. But then... how come it looked so realistic in that video? AI could do marvels in this day and age, she had seen proof of that but, still... this looked like a proper human being, without any weird artifacts of glitches.

She was still pondering about the reality of it all, when the guy suddenly started to erupt, and the word was not too strong here: the velocity, pressure and amount with which those bursts came was nothing short of extraordinary. She could not see where they landed (somewhere left of the frame) but she did admire the thickness and the whiteness of this semen that spewed out of his colossal rod.

And... it just kept coming, each explosion as copious and powerful as the last. By the end, Fiona was pretty sure he had shot at least twenty volleys of cum. Not only had she ever seen a thing like that, she was not sure she could have imagined it as well. That was the stuff of dreams, the kind of vision that seemed lifted from a straight-up fantasy.

Like... her fantasy.

So this was what it was about. That man was not just versed in iambic pentameter; he had managed to find, somewhere in the dark, sleazy corners of the Internet, a video that exactly matched what she had asked for in her message. She appreciated the effort, and she was glad to think that there existed one man, somewhere, who could make that erotic dream come true, even though he probably lived ten thousand miles away from her. Well, at least that was something to masturbate to when she would feel at her lowest.

But the video was not over. The black man was moving toward the right side of the frame, picking a sheet of paper that he now held in front of the camera. It read:

7753179419

.

What was that all about? Did she have to replace numbers with letters? Did it make a particular word if she looked at it upside down? Did she have to convert it to hexadecimal code or other? All kinds of theories popped up her head... too many to count.

But then, she went back to her ad... The number on the bottom left...

God, that was her post ID! So this meant...

She thought no further, and immediately started on her reply.

It was Saturday, and Trevor was making his way to "Danaë"'s apartment. The heat was still going strong on that late evening in early June, close to 75°F, and he had opted for a simple T-shirt, and of course the inevitable baggy short pants.

They had started to exchange messages a couple days after his reply; they were all written in character, and he had been pleasantly surprised by the wit and charm that the other person had displayed through their words. That wasn't just somebody who had found a fancy way of portraying a dirty kink; that was somebody who had a real interest about art and culture, and not in an "holier-than-thou" way, rather eager to share their impressions about things. They found a common ground to explore, and that was the basis that had led to this appointment, obviously to act on the fantasy which had brought them together.

That being said, he had no idea what he would actually find there; maybe he was going straight into the lion's den. His doubts had been put to rest after their art conversations, but they had crept back once Danaë had decided to send a picture of "her". There was something fishy about all of this. The girl, in that picture, looked impossibly gorgeous. She was white, her face perfectly round, framed by shoulder-length dark brown hair, with high cheekbones that naturally amplified the breadth of her smile, so bright and gentle at once. Her wide eyes were of a light hazel touch, and they felt like a world of their own, inviting you to drown in them. Once again: too good to be true.