Pasiphaë and the Minotaur

Set in Bronze Age Crete (referred to herein as Kaphtor, the Biblical term for that Island, which is probably closer to the Cretans' own name for it). I have significantly departed from the standard mythological narrative about these characters and this setting, for mostly prurient reasons. There is some influence of Mary Renault's The King Must Die. But a whole lot raunchier. Comments are welcome.

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It is late afternoon, early summer. I stand by the cliff overlooking the harbour of Knossos, where a large flotilla of fishing boats and ships have assembled. The priestesses sing hymns; offerings are made. At last, I raise my hands to bless the fishermen down below us, their boats and nets, ensuring that they will have plentiful catches of fish.

"All hail the living Goddess of Kaphtor," they gratefully shout up to me. The rites have gone well. I am pleased.

The priestesses and I walk the short distance back to the palace, the House of the Double Axe.

"Will you be taking your evening meal in the caves again this evening, my Goddess?" a maidservant asks. I nod. We do not speak of the reason I go down there, to be with my son. But she understands.

As I begin descending the stairs toward the cave entrance, deep underneath the palace, the weariness of the day departs from me. My heart beats with joyful anticipation. My woman-flower moistens.

* * *

I am the living Goddess. I am Pasiphaë.

I am Goddess and Queen: my word is law on this blessed island of Kaphtor; no one may gainsay my wishes.

I am Goddess and Queen, yet I must hide from my people the thing that most gives me joy. As though it were a thing of shame. I refuse to be ashamed: I love my son. Though he be called a monster. Though my love for him is not the chaste love of a normal mother.

I am not normal. I am the living Goddess. I am Pasiphaë. My divine body burns with sacred desire for him, for my Asterion. Though he be called a monster by the people of Kaphtor, though he must be kept hidden away, imprisoned in the caves beneath this House of the Double Axe. To me he is perfect. He is beautiful. He is my delight.

He is my delight, from his strong bull face, with his sad, tender eyes, down to his mighty hooves, that stamp the ground impatiently as I approach his chambers. (He can smell me coming, even before I enter the caves.) Yes, his head and legs are those of a bull; but his chest, arms and buttocks are like a man, though covered in short, coarse bronze-coloured fur, flecked with patches of ivory. I love to run my fingers through his fur, feeling the powerful muscles rippling under his skin, as he pounds into me. Yes, there is one other part of him that is magnificently bull-like. No woman but I can fully ensheathe him, down to his testicles. No phallus but his can satisfy me. We were made for each other. Or rather, I made him for myself.

* * *

What divine inspiration was it that led me to lie with his father, that magnificent White Bull of Knossos? How did I know that my womb could accommodate him, when no other woman's could?

I was then in the first flower of womanhood. It was just a year after my mother, the old Queen died, and the spirit of the Goddess passed to me. In the preceding years, my chubby girlish body had blossomed. Between my legs, a thick carpet of silky black hair had appeared, from my navel back to the furrow between my buttocks. My hips and thighs flared out wide and full; my breasts grew heavy, my belly was soft and round. I was ready for marriage. My counsellors advised me to take Minos, son of the Cypriot Queen, as my consort: it would establish friendly relations between our two islands, they said. I followed their counsel. But Minos could not satisfy me, and his seed was thin as water, with a foul smell: it had no life in it. He gave my womb no joy, and no child grew in it. After a few months of this, I ceased to lie with him. I could give myself more pleasure with my own fingers. I could adopt some suitable girl to be my daughter, to succeed me as Goddess. Minos has remained king; I saw no reason to humiliate him and offend Cyprus, by deposing him. Since those days, we have not spoken much to each other.

On Midsummer Day of that same year, I walked out into the fields with the priestesses, to bless the herds and flocks with our dancing. The White Bull stood out from the other cattle as the full moon stands out from the stars. The priestesses all noticed him; they commented on what a splendid bull he was. But I -- I could not take my eyes off him. I returned the following day, alone, to watch him: something drew me.

Then I saw him mounting the cows. I saw that glorious phallus emerge from his shaggy underbelly. The sight of it inflamed me, so that I could think of little else. How fiercely I envied those cows! Nectar dripped down between my thighs. The White Bull sniffed the air, then looked directly at me. As though he could see into my soul.

I returned again the next day, late in the afternoon. He allowed me to approach him; he seemed curious, almost amused by my presence. I offered him some figs from my hand, and he ate them, his thick tongue licking my palm. He let me caress his brow, his horns, his muzzle, his powerful neck and shoulders. His gentleness moved me; his beauty and power aroused me. He sniffed the air again, lowering his head, bringing his nose near to my lap.

It was now after dusk: the herdsmen had all gone home. I removed my skirts, wondering how he would respond. To my delight, the Bull immediately shoved his muzzle between my thick thighs -- snuffling with his hot breath, nuzzling at my shaggy pubic nest, licking over my engorged woman-flower, lapping up my abundant nectar there.

There was a large boulder nearby, shaded by a myrtle tree. I bent over the boulder, offering the Bull my body, presenting my fat rump to him the way the cows do. Again, he shoved his muzzle into my furrow, licking over my anus, over the petals of my woman-flower, with his thick hot tongue. He pressed the tongue-tip between them, deep into my sheath. But I was greedy for something even bigger and harder.

"Please... mount me!" I begged.

Did the Bull understand my plea, or was he about to do it anyway? I will never know. He reared up, placing his fore-hooves on the rock above my shoulders. And then, delirious with joy, I felt that enormous, thick phallus slide into my woman-sheath, filling me up, knocking the air out of my lungs. I had been close to orgasm from the Bull's licking, but now I immediately came. And I kept coming as the Bull drove deep into me over and over again, splitting me open, repeatedly punching my cervix with the head of his phallus. Had I been a slenderer woman, his pounding might have shattered my pelvis. But my hips and belly were amply cushioned, well able to absorb his thrusts. At last the Bull gave a great bellow, shuddering. I felt his phallus twitching deep inside me, as he flooded my womb with his hot, potent seed.

He withdrew, and the thick seed poured out of me, splattering on the boulder beneath me, puddling on the ground. He nuzzled my shoulder and licked the nape of my neck, licked at my armpits, a gesture of deep tenderness. I sat up, turning towards him. I kissed his muzzle.

"Thank you," I wept gratefully. He snuffled, as though returning my thanks. I hugged his warm neck. At last, I refastened my skirts and hobbled back to the palace, buoyed up on a cloud of euphoria, my inner thighs coated with his sticky seed.

I was so sore the next morning, I could scarcely walk; but the soreness was delicious to me, reminding me of my sweet tryst with the Bull the night before. I bathed for several hours in asses' milk, and by late afternoon I was mostly recovered. As dusk fell, I went out to the fields, to meet my Bull again.

This went on for many days. Rumours reached my ears, that some herdsmen had seen us. But I took no notice. I am the living Goddess. I am Pasiphaë. I need not blush at rumours.

* * *

One evening I went out to the field, but he was not there. Discretely, I asked my maidservant Rhea about the White Bull. Word came back that King Minos had offered him in sacrifice. I quaked with rage and crumpled in despair, but I could say nothing. For the king to sacrifice such a magnificent animal, so everyone thought, was an act of great piety; his behaviour could not be faulted. Not without publicly confirming the rumours.

For over a month, I shut myself away in my chamber, drowning in grief. I became ill with it, my belly began to swell with it, or so I thought. My maidservants grew alarmed.

But the High Priestess examined me and shook her head. "It is not grief that makes your belly grow, my Goddess. You are with child."

As the months passed, my belly swelled up till the skin was tight as a drum. My maidservants constantly rubbed olive oil into it, to keep the skin supple, fearful that I would burst open. Never had they seen such a heavy pregnancy, they swore. Toward the end, I could not walk without their assistance.

Meanwhile, everyone congratulated Minos on getting me with child. He said nothing to disconfirm his fatherhood, nor did any of the palace servants, though they knew very well that it had been nearly a year since Minos had shared my bed.

The day came when my water broke, and the contractions started. No other woman could have done it, but my woman-sheath, that had allowed the White Bull of Knossos to impregnate me, now stretched to allow the birth of his son. The midwife recoiled in shock as she reached in to draw out the crowning head -- not a human head, she found, but that of a bull-calf. At last, he fully emerged, making high-pitched grunts rather than cries. The midwife cut the cord and laid him at my breasts. I was exhausted with the labour, but joyful to hold my child. Joyful as well that he bore some of the features of his true father. I fell in love, instantly, deeply, completely, with his sweet bull-face, his fur-covered but human-shaped body, his adorable little hooves.

"Asterion. He shall be called Asterion," I panted.

"But... is it not for King Minos to name the child, my Goddess?" asked Rhea, unsure how to react to this monstrous-miraculous birth.

I shook my head fiercely. If I conceded to Minos the power to name him, he could instead order the child to be thrown from the cliffs. Rhea was giving me a way out, thinking that I would want the "monstrosity" quietly disposed of, to put this sordid affair behind me. How little my maidservant knew me.

"He is Asterion. I, Pasiphaë, have spoken." Like a she-bear protecting her cub, I hugged him tightly to my bosom.

Asterion's little bull-muzzle rooted for my nipple and latched on, drawing forth milk from my breast. A fog of drowsiness descended upon me. I fell asleep, grateful to be suckling my precious new-born son, comforted at last after the loss of my White Bull. I now had Asterion to live for.

* * *

Others were not so happy about Asterion's birth. No one spoke to me of him except in the most euphemistic and indirect of terms. I saw that my people were embarrassed by Asterion. Their lust-addled Goddess-Queen had lain with a beast of the field, obviously, and consequently given birth to a horrifying monster, half-man half-bull. What were they to think of that? I am their Goddess: they may not rebuke me; they may not question my behaviour. It was easier for them to pretend the whole thing never happened. As long as I kept Asterion from public view, their manner toward me was warm and respectful as before. But when I spoke with motherly pride about Asterion's childish accomplishments -- learning to walk, to eat solid food, and so on -- I felt their cold disapproval.

I had never experienced this sort of treatment before, and it did not please me. I could have railed at them and threatened curses. My angry words might have made them fear me -- and hate me. But I wanted their love, their reverence, which could never be won with harshness, I knew. I am their Goddess and their Queen, but that carries with it great responsibility as well as great power. They are my people, my worshippers, and I must take care for their well-being, just as I must take care of my precious son. I cannot run roughshod over their feelings.

And so, Asterion was kept away from public view. As he grew, my servants hinted that perhaps the best place for him was in the caves beneath the palace.

Indeed, he grew much more quickly than a human child. A bull matures in two years. Asterion did not grow quite that fast. But certainly by ten years of age, he was full-grown. To my sorrow, he never could learn to speak. Whether this was because his lips and tongue were not shaped for human speech, or because he could not think in human language, or some mixture of the two, I cannot say. Often he makes a sound, like "hmmagh-hmmagh". I think perhaps he is trying to say "mama". He seems to understand some of my words, or perhaps the gestures that accompany my words. But even without language, Asterion and I understand each other, perhaps more deeply than most humans do. There is a look of bright intelligence in his eyes. He knows how deeply I love him. Of this I am certain. Just as I know he returns my love.

He likes to spend his days making things: a chair, a goblet, things of wood or things of clay. There is skill in his fingers, and his wares are quite beautiful. I often give them as gifts to the priestesses and other officials. His creations are much sought-after in Knossos. I do not say who made them, but they know. Sometimes he makes fantastical figurines, with absurd faces that make me laugh. It pleases him, to make me laugh. It helps us forget that he is, by general agreement, imprisoned in these caves. There is no lock upon the entrance, but he knows he must not leave. His chambers are comfortable, of course. He is provided with all that he needs. The servants leave his meals by the entrance. He takes normal human food, neither the grass and straw that his father ate, nor the human flesh that some ignorant gossipers whisper about. I ordered shafts to be cut in the caves' roof, to allow in sunlight. There is a spring-fed pool in one of the chambers, in which he can bathe. A separate channel was cut to carry away his wastes. Sometimes after dark, we stroll together outside, so he can take in the fresh air. As long as we keep well away from other people, there are no repercussions.

My duties as Queen require me to spend some daytime hours away from my son. But I spend nearly every night with him. I cannot sleep, apart from him.

* * *

I know my son's body intimately. From his infancy onward, it was I who bathed and dressed him. From month to month, from year to year, I saw him grow to manhood -- if that be the right word. I saw him shoot up, to a stature much taller than me, taller than most men. He put on muscle. His strength is prodigious. I would love to see him pit his strength against the men of Kaphtor in the sacred games: I am certain he would win them all. But alas, for him to move about openly among the people of this land -- that is a wish I will never see fulfilled.

I am the living Goddess. To whom can I pray, to whom can I turn with the deepest supplications of my heart? I can pray to my divine Self, but that brings me no consolation. Instead, I pray to him. I worship him. Asterion is my God.

From his brow, horns grew, that remind me keenly of his father, the White Bull. And I saw the boyish waterspout between his legs grow into a magnificent bull-like phallus, another potent reminder of his father. Perhaps it is even a little bigger, I cannot be certain. In those all-too-brief times when the Bull and I were together, I was always so impatient to have him inside me, I never got a good close-up look at that instrument of my pleasure. With Asterion, however, I can examine and admire him to my heart's content. When erect, it is longer and thicker than my forearm, from my fingertips to beyond the elbow. I know: I have measured it.

He grew into adolescence. As I washed him, or as I hugged him or caressed him affectionately, as any mother may do with her son, his phallus would emerge from its hiding place, becoming fully erect. The first few times this happened, the look in his eyes was still that of a child, though his body seemed nearly full-grown. I patted his sweet phallus affectionately, then kissed his cheek, to let him know his erection was nothing to be alarmed or ashamed about. Gradually, the look in his eyes changed. It was replaced by a questioning look, unsure what to make of the strong new feelings arising in his heart and his body. Then a begging look, pleading with me to do something to relieve these feelings. In time, he would guide my hand down to his phallus, and I would pat it affectionately, as I had often done before. But now, he would put his hand over mine, holding it there. I would grasp his strong phallus with my fingers, though only partially: it is too thick for my fingers to fully encompass it. He would snuffle with happiness when I did this. Even more so when I stroked my hand up and down the shaft. It is one of the few parts of his body that is not covered with fur, and I love the feel of his bare skin there. A rivulet of seed often dribbled down from the tip.

By this time, the look in Asterion's eyes was no longer that of a child. There was desire there, such as I had seen in the White Bull's eyes. I could not behold that desire in his eyes without being deeply moved. In truth, the desire in his eyes, and the sight of his phallus, the bare-skin feel of it in my hand, the smell of his seed from its tip -- these all inflamed my passions. As with the White Bull, I soon could think of little else. Nectar welled up in my woman-flower, flowing out between my thighs, and he could smell it. He grunted, questioningly, longingly: "hmmagh-hmmagh?"

When this happened, I would pull my hand away. I would sit a little further away from him, attempting to subdue my own growing desire. I tried to reassure him that I was not upset with him, that he had done nothing wrong. I caressed his brow and horns. I kissed his cheek. Strong as he is, he could easily have forced me to do what he wanted. But he always accepted whatever limits I set. His phenomenal strength is matched by his utter gentleness; this makes me love him all the more. The question was, could I abide by those limits myself?

* * *

One evening as we reclined together, instead of guiding my hand to his phallus, he dipped his head down and took my breast in his mouth. I had not suckled him in years, and it brought back a flood of sweet memories. I cradled my dear son's head in my arms, stroking his brow and horns as he continued to nurse, switching from one breast to the other, licking my hard nipples with his thick, hot tongue. There was no milk in them, nevertheless my heavy breasts seemed to comfort him. His mouth felt so good on them. Instinctively, I reached out and began stroking his phallus. He huffed with pleasure. Between my thighs, I was wet as Knossos harbour.

Yes, I thought, this is what my son needs. He is ready for it, and no other woman can give it to him. I too am ready -- more than ready. Ever since the birth of my miraculous son, everything had been leading toward this blessed moment. I could fight it no longer; I did not want to fight it. I am crossing a line, I recognized, beyond the normal love of a mother for her son. But I am not normal. I am the living Goddess, I am Pasiphaë.

I rose to my feet, watching his reaction, as I unclasped the girdle that held up my skirts. They dropped to the ground, and I stood naked before him. He had often seen me naked before: we frequently bathed together. But this, he knew, was different. Asterion looked at me in wonderment, his eyes bright with emotion.