Cupid His Ex And Las Vegas

Cupid stood in the darkest shadows of the candle-lit room, not that the couple enjoying an Italian dinner in front of him, Shelly and Mark, would be able to see him anyway. He was Cupid, almost always invisible to human eyes, an angel of heaven and the prince of love. Throughout each year, decade, millennium, he kept busy matchmaking and inspiring romance between humans all the world over. One day, he would be patching up a crumbling Graceland marriage, the next he would be conjuring change into the hand of a homeless girl so she could buy her first crush some ice cream.

Now, in front of Shelly and Mark, he knew that he was doing good in the world. Mark would propose to Shelly, and they would both be delighted when she said yes and threw her arms around him over the solid dining room table, breaking a wine glass with abandon in the process. It was a perfect manifestation of the American dream. But something was missing from his love creation. He couldn't put his finger on what it was, but as he furrowed his white-blond eyebrows on the scene, he realized that he was downright bored.

His head nodded as he thought this over, but he was jarred out of his musings by a sharp snapping noise. His green eyes swiveled up to inspect the romantic scene in front of him. Everything was just as it had been, slow conversation between the smiling dark-haired couple, giggles protruding here and there.

Then he started as his eye caught sight of someone standing across the room. But it couldn't be... it was. It was Sadie. That damned girl he had fallen in love with, in horrible lust with. The girl from the other side, from below, from...

"Hell, Cupid, you've become so damned predictable," she shouted across the room. Shelly and Mark did not hear her. "I hope you can think of something fun and new to do for Valentine's Day. It's your big day, after all."

She turned her attention away from him and squinted her eyes at the couple. It made her look cat-like and almost sinister. She was plotting something, Cupid could tell. Her dark red bob haircut almost seemed to sizzle with electricity around her ears. The flower and snake tattoos on her shoulders and bosom stood out electrically on her smooth skin, as if she had gotten them a week ago. Cupid knew the tattoos were much older than a that, and that she was much older than she looked. He knew that no earthly woman had such a graceful, muscular body, a body fleshy in all of those voluptuous places, at age 826. He looked down at his own body. Slouching beneath a jeans ten years out of fashion and a pilled sweater, holes cut out for his wings, he was disgusted with himself.

"I've been really slacking these past 50 years," he muttered to himself. "I've been depressed. But it's all her fault." At this, he looked up again to search for Sadie's figure. But what he saw instead shocked him. Mark had Shelly pinned against the edge of the dining room table, belly down, her dress pulled up, binding her arms above her head and covering her face. Mark's cock sat awkwardly at the entrance of her asshole.

Mark was whispering in Shelly's ear. Cupid made out the question: " Do you want my cock? Do you want it hard in the ass?" Mark whispered it with intensity. Shelly's covered head nodded enthusiastically. He leaned across the table for a bottle of lube that had somehow materialized within the last five minutes and massaged some over his now unrestrained boner. He took a dab and, using his finger, worked it into Shelly's asshole without hesitation. Cupid could see Shelly's puckered hole squeezing and twitching in response to his thick, callused finger. The small-time romance writer had never been fucked in the ass before, not with so much as the pencil she took story notes with. And while Cupid knew that she fantasized about it, he knew that Mark had never considered anal before in his life - he was always content with a socially acceptable, fast frontal fuck.

Yet, here they were, in the middle of dinner, doing the anal deed... well, almost. Mark had finally pressed his lubed cock head in her ass, the bulb of it bulging her open, after a few moments of inexperienced slipping. But she was so tight that she cried out in pain and he had to pull out almost immediately. He leaned his face over to Shelly's head again, speaking in soothing whispers, and Cupid snapped out of the room.

Still cursing Sadie's work, he rematerialized as gently as he could in the Brooklyn bedroom of one member of a teenaged trio he had been working his magic on. He had expected them to be talking out their issues as he had influenced to do an hour ago. When he left, the hip heartthrob young man whose room it was listened and nodded as a svelte and studious 19-year-old woman explained to a third youth, a square-faced, neighborly looking kid, that she couldn't hook up with him any more because Heartthrob-in-Frye-boots was her true soul mate.

Instead, the room was a mess of teenage fornication. Clothes were strewn among naked LPs, empty condom wrappers, and a forgotten tray of store-bought sushi. Lady Gaga thumped from the subwoofer, and the reek of spilled coffee vied for attention over Nag Champa incense and smell of cunt and sweat.

Still clad in his Frye boots, Heartthrob gave it to Squareface in the ass with a condomed penis while Squareface jerked his tongue into Studious's ungroomed slot. Studious didn't look so interested in studying right now, her glasses askew and her fingers pulling rather recklessly on Squareface's protruding nipples and her own swollen hairy labia.

Cupid was incensed, and could feel his face reddening. He let out an uncontrolled roar of anger, and the three teens momentarily stopped their revelry and looked around, seeing nothing unusual. Cupid clamped his mouth shut, clenched his fists, and set off in a sudden snap to find Sadie.

He had to fly above clouds for more than two hours, peering down at earth every 20 miles, hoping - and afraid - he would find Sadie, before he caught sight of her through a heavy bank of fog stolidly placed over Golden Gate Park in San Francisco. He darted down to earth, procrastinating as he drifted through the cooling fog instead of appearing directly next to her. She was sitting on the edge of a crumbling sandy wall protecting a dugout horseshoe pit. Drug needles had long since replaced horseshoes as the only game going in that dugout, and the place was not often stumbled upon by tourists. Except for Cupid and Sadie, it was empty.

"What the hell are doing?" he shouted as best he could. His didn't like that his voice sounded thin and weak in his ears. She'd know he was nervous seeing her again. "You're screwing everything up!"

"Screwing things up? Ha!" she scoffed. She took a long swig out of a copper flask. "You're the one who's barely getting your job done, and someone needs to help along love in this world." More quietly, she added, "And you look like shit. You don't even bother to carry your bow and arrow anymore, and your hair is disgustingly greasy."

Now Cupid was getting fired up again, remembering why they had broken up in the first place. "You're such a hypercritical, hypocritical hussy-cunt," he said, proud that he didn't stumble over this tongue-twister. Still, he ran his hand through his neglected, grown-out hair. Combined with his three-day beard and rumpled shirt, it made him look like a bleached-out California beach bum.

"You know what? I'm not going to stop creating lustful passion until you start to do your job a little better. I'm sick of your depression shit. Everyone's talking about it. They think it's because of our breakup, and it's embarrassing me. You'd better put on a good Valentine's Day show or my love solutions are going to get raunchier than a virgin nun's pussy."

"What the hell? Hussy-cunt!" Cupid repeated stupidly again. "I- I'm not changing anything I do. You're disgusting and unethical. The whole two centuries we were fucking, I was disgusted, but I felt responsible for you because I thought you were in love with me. You made me tie you up with straps and fuck your between your restrained legs, you made me bend over so you could fuck me with your conjured cock, you made me hold my penis inside you for hours without moving while you slept. And conjuring her...."

"I didn't make you do anything," she rolled her eyes. And she was right. Half of their perverted sex acts had been his idea. He had never felt so uninhibited as he was with her.

She took another swig from the flask, her dainty uplifted chin revealing a lonely, unplucked chin hair, her nipples almost falling out of her black leather vest. "Fugyou, get out of here," she waved her hand at him, then tried to stare him down.

But he had heard the slur in her voice. To sound like that, she must have had at more than one flask of whisky already. So, she was depressed about their breakup too. He pushed up off the ground, containing his smirk until he burst up through the fog and into the sun once again, out of her sight.

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For the next few days, he carried out his duties as best he could. He didn't want to think about everyone in the ethereal world talking about his depression, and besides, it was almost Valentine's Day, and he was usually thrown a party in heaven complete with an angel food cake topped with whipped cream and cherries. He was certain to get laid after the party by some pretty angel or goddess, and he'd be able to forget about everything.

He influenced wildflower bouquets and handmade chocolates, sweet nothings whispered from pimps to whores, canoes that overturned at edges of tiny grassy islands, long glances over Dance Dance Revolution competitions. He even let humans catch a glimpse of him in his freshly laundered traditional linen toga, carrying the golden bow and arrows that had been sitting in his dusty garage for half a century.

It was the week before Valentine's Day that he felt he should make a short appearance at a sci-fi convention in Las Vegas. There were plenty of, well, sci-fi dorks that needed some love their lives. Of course, most of them weren't romantically inept just because they liked to read about robots, time travel and dystopia, but some of them were painfully shy.

He arrived at the conference on its second day, Friday, February 12. He appeared with a snap into the men's bathroom - he saw no reason to pay admission - and strolled into the main lobby dressed in a Zeus costume, trident and loincloth golder than gold, whiter than white. A young boy came up to him and unhurriedly examined Cupid's outfit and shining, muscular physique, pale and wonderfully Greek, though not exactly Zeus-like.

"Actually," commented his observer, "this is a sci-fi con, not a fantasy con." The boy shook his head and walked away.

Cupid pursed his lips and made his way across the lobby to a room where a presentation, "Predictions of Science Fiction: Do They Dictate the Future?" would be held in 15 minutes. He passed a door to his left, and stopped suddenly - something interesting was happening in there, he could sense it. And it involved someone he knew. He used his angelic abilities to see though the door, and what he saw unfolding at first unsettled him, then tantalized him and finally, when he realized the identities of those involved, shocked him into a flood of emotion and confusion. For it was her, she was the one behind the closed door, giving head on her knees to a lowly hotel bellhop.

For all the raging emotion inside him, Cupid couldn't move a muscle. He watched helplessly as his love of so long ago, object of his lust and affection long before Sadie was in the picture, was degraded in the face over and over by this despicable, acne-faced hotel servant who'd probably never even made a woman come before. His red-bulbed staff jerked in and out, in and out of her mouth, yet she still looked beautiful, dignified, a slight smile around her closed eyes - hazel, he did not forget their color - and her hands grasping the backs of Bellhop's still-clothed knees.

As he stood taking in the details of the scene, his eyes wandered over her body, her exposed ass, full as it was so many hundreds of years ago, waving in the air as she sucked. Out of her ass protruded a feather duster. The duster's handle was lodged at least six inches into her ass, judging from the remaining length outside of it, and its feathers swished back and forth as she clenched each ass cheek: left, right, left, right.

He frowned and thought about how she looked rather like a chicken, her ass holding swooshing plumage and her neck and head rhythmically thrusting forward onto Bellhop's cock.

He finally stopped the lewd movement, and stood up. Bellhop grabbed at her still covered breasts and pulled her by them down on top of him, his back leaning across the office's large desk. Grabbing hold of the feathered end of the duster, he pulled her pelvis close to his until his cock found the entrance of her cunt, yet unmolested. He pulled the duster toward him, pulling her pelvis toward him, and her thus her slit onto his erection. As his cock opened her slit wide around it, she gave a moan of pleasure. Cupid didn't remember that kind of moan coming from her, and it shot him through with jealousy and longing.

"My sweet Persephone, what has become of you?" He begged the question out loud. His own voice recalled him to the present, to his place outside the office, in the middle of a lobby at a sci-fi convention in Las Vagas. He clamped his mouth shut, and continued toward the hall where the talk would be held very soon now. He wondered whether that sex scene in the office had been a apparition, or if Persephone was really at the conference with him. He'd see sooner or later. And if it was she, she'd have to come and talk to him when she realized he was there.

After the boring talk, Cupid shrugged over to a crepe kiosk. He hadn't shot any invisible love arrows yet at this conference, and he was too preoccupied to care. But he was hungry for something sweet. He had just ordered a strawberry-brie crepe and started to dig in when he felt a hand on his bare back.

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Her nipples poked at the thin material of her toga, and she smiled up into the sunshiny Greek breeze that always carried the scent of mint, honeysuckle and ripe fig.

"Not unlike her scent," Cupid mused, as he lazily tugged on the shoulder of her toga.

Persephone giggled. "Summer!" she exclaimed. "What a time to be a goddess. I hate winter, when I'm all cold down below with Hades," she added, in a half-serious whine. "But right now, you're here."

She reached out toward his naked penis, limp but large in the warm sunshine, and began stroking it. "I wish you would stay here for at least a few weeks, Cupid," she stated candidly. "I love when you're here, and I want to be out in the open about our relationship, I want to be an item for a little while. I'm tired of hiding it-let's visit the villagers, let's have some fun, let's drink some wine! Plus, until you stop gallivanting around focusing on other people's joy, I don't know if I can copulate with you anymore."

"You are my fun, my darling, and my everything. I have a job to do, I can't just hang around here," said Cupid, trying to sound nonplussed by her ominous words. He tried to erase his fears by grasping her waist, turning her away from him on her hands and knees, and humping her ass cleft until he was hard as a boulder. She sighed, and started humping in place-she was a horny as a bitch in heat.

Her cunt, still wet and juicy from their last round of lovemaking, seemed suddenly to press up against his cock until he was admitted and fully enveloped.

"You're a bitch in heat, you animal!" he cried with pleasure and slapped her ass.

"Yes, yes, I'm dripping just for you! And my ass-"

"-is a tight rose bud waiting to be plucked," Cupid finished with a concentrated grin.

"-is a tight cumhole waiting to snatch the head of your bulging member!" she finished in defiance of his romantic statement.

At that, he withdrew his cock from her cunt and rammed it into her asshole-or at least, he tried. It was quite tight, and he had to pause and push against the stubborn opening to get the head past her puckered threshold. She screamed out in pain and pleasure, "Cupid! Give it to me!" but he barely heard her. He pushed his cock shaft forward into her ass hole several inches, and withdrew it so only the head was within her, and started again. He picked up speed and depth with each stroke, and when he could finally feel her asshole twitch with orgasm, and her body collapse in his arms, which had be tightly clenching her around the bosom, he rammed it three more times, hard, and then came himself.

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He snapped out of the inappropriate memory and turned to see whose hand rested on his shoulder. It was she. There was no mistaking her. He gazed into her eyes, hoping to feel that familiar spark, and it was there, though different than in the olden days.

"I though you had decided to stay in Greece, I thought we weren't to see-" he began.

"Hush." Persephone muttered. "I have a room. I want you to want me, to lust after me, like you once did. Suite six, top floor. I'll see you at 8 p.m."

The rest of the day crept along. He had, at least, come out of his depression and nostalgic memories, and gotten some work done. In fact, it was work that Sadie would have been proud of. Two shy young men dressed as cyborgs took turns groping one another in a restroom between speakers. An older woman dressed like a Vulcan flashed a furry Klingon her titties from down the hall between their hotel rooms, and they commenced to lick and fuck until they were both pink and raw and condoms and come were strewn across her hotel floor. An arguing couple realized that it didn't matter if the haircut her partner had given her was perfect, she still had a good long bush to yank on-and it was yanked. A group of four extreme nerds in their mid 30s who had come to the conference together in a van from Ohio, none of them dressed up and all of them wielding at least five books wherever they went, had spontaneously met back up in their shared hotel room and realized that they wanted nothing more than to role play kinky versions of famous sex scenes in classic dystopian sci-fi novels. Each one took a turn describing the scene they wanted to feature in.

Valentine's Day was approaching. Cupid was doing his job. And he was passing the time until he could go see her.

At last it was eight, and he climbed up to her room. She let him in without a world, and led him to her fantastic picture window to observe the gaudy, flashing seduction of a long Vegas evening.

And then he was kissing her.

And then she was whispering his name. "Cupid." she said.

And then they were on the king-sized bed of her penthouse suite, and his mouth was on her cunt, tongue thrusting just as he hoped his cock would soon be doing deep inside her.

But when he came up to kiss her mouth, his lips salty and humid from her cream, he started. It wasn't Persephone, it was Sadie. He had been fooled. Persephone hadn't wanted to see him again, it was a cruel joke that Sadie had use to get back at him... Or to get back with him?

He looked at her gazing longingly at him, his muscles shiny with the sweat of longing. She said not a word, seemingly ashamed of her inappropriate deception. He could feel her trembling beneath him, with longing, with apprehension at his anger. Finally, she spoke in a squeaky voice, "At least I got you lusting again."

One part of him understood everything. That this wasn't the real reason she had played this trick on him, and also that she was right-his libido engaged, he had finally begun to do some effective work toward spreading love and pleasure. But he was annoyed that she would say that to him, right now, that she couldn't apologize even just this once. She had to be right all the time. He knew she was sorry, and he did forgive her, but he decided their reunion should represent a change in their dynamic, so he confronted her, half playfully, but half really expressing a frustration that had been building up in him since before they broke up 50 years ago.