Drunk On Pleasure

This is my take on the Greek myth of Ariadne, daughter of King Minos, who helps the hero Theseus through the Labyrinth, faces abandonment by him on the island of Naxos, and falls in love with Dionysus, god of wine and ecstasy. Because it's based on myth, I didn't work to make it super "historically accurate," so please ignore any inconsistencies and enjoy!

As Ariadne walked along the white shore of Naxos, she took inventory of everything Theseus had left her with: 1) a small supply of water, half-empty already 2) her dress, torn and salt-crusted from the journey, and 3) one broken heart, weighed down with the loss of him. Already, she missed the Cretan dawn, soft and ethereal over the purple saffron fields she'd run through as a girl. She might never see it again, nor the palace, nor the labyrinth. She shouldn't have ever trusted Theseus, but she had, and there was no string that could get her out of this mess, and nothing to do but walk.

Ahead of her, the horizon stretched on depressingly, unobstructed except for a small, brown dot in the distance. As she got closer, she could make out—but not explain—a tall, curly-haired man, draped in purple linen, working diligently in front of a large, wooden loom.

Inexplicably, she felt compelled to get closer, and so she did, stepping forward to make out the strong jaw and playful brown eyes that defined his devilish features. The stranger was surprisingly dextrous for a male weaver, barely seeming to notice her approach as he walked back and forth before the loom, quickly producing several rows of fabric.

Nimble fingers

, she thought, and then blushed immediately.

As if he had heard her thoughts, the man turned towards her, a mischievous smirk on his face. "Enjoying the show?"

"Your—your loom," she stuttered, embarrassed. "It's beautiful."

"It is," he agreed. "But even it's not as well-crafted as you, Ariadne. I thought I might gift it to you. I've seen what you can make."

"You don't know me," she said suspiciously. But there was something familiar about this man, something undeniable. She stepped closer.

"Not true," he replied. "I've been watching you."

"Watching me?"

"Every time you've laughed at a play, every time your cheeks have colored from that fourth glass of wine, every time you

almost

reached the peak of pleasure while rolling around in bed with him, I have been there."

Gone was any trace of the playfulness in his eyes. Now, they seemed serious, darker. "Theseus was a fool to let you go."

"Who are you?" She asked. Despite the intimidation, she felt drawn to him, intoxicated by his presence. She had been around many powerful men before, but this was different—he

radiated

power, a kind of power that she had never experienced, dominating and inebriating. Her brain felt pleasantly fuzzy. She felt warm.

"I think you know who I am," he whispered. "Now, sit." He patted the open area on a seat in front of him, and despite her better judgement, she sat.

Could it be?

She wondered. That feeling of power and ecstasy, the unmistakeable smell of grapes.

Dionysus.

"Good girl," he said, gently sweeping her long hair over one shoulder and resting his chin near the crook of her neck. She blushed.

Ariadne knew she shouldn't be here, wedged between a loom and the hard, masculine torso of someone—no,

something—

other than Theseus. But the pain of losing him was raw, and the arousal of being near Dionysus was palpable. She wanted to feel something new, wanted to unlink her body from his. A small, bitter part of her wanted to see Theseus jealous.

So when Dionysus placed his hands over hers, claiming them, and guided her through the loom's motions, thread after thread, she sunk into him.

She felt his hands—calloused but surprisingly gentle—pushing hers, up and down, left and right, so swiftly that time itself seemed to stop, suspended in dusk. And when his fingers swept up her arm, leaving a trail of goosebumps, she wasn't startled, but she gasped anyway.

"What are you doing?" Ariadne demanded, not convincingly outraged. His skin, cool and light against hers, was maddening.

"You've known nothing but cruelty from men," he breathed into her ear, his voice dark and honeyed. He was so close that she could feel the stubble on his cheeks scratch against her face. "Poseidon, your father, that foolish hero. I want to show you pleasure."

Without warning, he kissed her neck, taking the sensitive flesh of it into his eager mouth and sucking on it. For a moment, he didn't let go, anchoring himself to her pale skin, and she shivered in contentment. She felt her hands creep up into the curls of his dark hair and tug.

"Be nice," he warned, nipping her in response and sending a jolt of pain through her body.

Earlier, she had thought him boyish, but now, she noticed the strength of his arms, the smell of liquor on his breath, and the press of his groin against her, swelling with every heave of her chest. This was a man, and she wanted him inside of her.

She pressed back into him, moaning, and felt the grip on her arms tighten.

"Not now," he said, his tone teasing. His breath was hot against her skin. "I haven't tasted you yet."

With that, he spun her around on the seat and ripped off the sheer fabric covering her breasts, taking one nipple into his mouth. She threw her neck back as he rotated between the two breasts, circling the aureolas with his tongue and sucking demandingly. At some point, they fell back onto the sand and he scrambled on top of her, fighting for better leverage.

When Dionysus finally lifted his mouth to kiss her, Ariadne felt drunk, heat coursing through her being. Before Theseus, she had never known a man, so she surprised herself with what fervor she crashed her lips and body into him. Eagerly—impatiently—she slipped a hand under the linen of his clothing and slid it downward along his skin. She could feel his cock against her groin, large and pulsating, and she wanted to touch it.

Suddenly, she felt a hand clamp around her wrist. The kiss broke.

"Not tonight, darling," Dionysus said, his amused expression meeting Ariadne's confused one as he rolled off of her. "You've had a long day, and one doesn't take the manhood of a god lightly."

Ariadne felt a twinge of anger as she felt the waves of warm, fuzzy pleasure drift away. Still hopeful, she reached out a hand, but he pushed it down into the sand with a smirk. He was playing with her.

"I've got duties to attend to tonight, but I'll be back in the morning, I promise."

For the first time that day, Ariadne noticed how much time had passed—the sky had darkened to an inky blue, and the island breeze was piercingly cool. She gripped Dionysus's arm tightly, and he seemed to understand.

"I won't abandon you," Dionysus said, his face softening. "I'll be here at dawn." With that, he kissed her forehead with so much tenderness that she squeezed her eyes shut, and when she opened them, he was gone.

Frustrated, Ariadne threw her body back against the sand.

Cruelty from men

indeed.

***

In the morning, Ariadne awoke the sensation of something hot and wet moving along her slit. Dionysus was lapping at her pussy in a slow, back-and-forth motion, matching his movements synchronously with the waves crashing against the shore. With a start, Ariadne realized that she was moaning—deep, pleading moans—and that she must've been in her sleep, too.

"Good morning," Dionysus said, voice muffled by the folds of her pussy. He worked his way up to her clit and then took it into his mouth, leaving Ariadne panting too heavily to respond. When he sucked her clit, she convulsed involuntarily, pushing his head of curly hair deeper into her. She could feel his mouth fold into a smug grin.

"More," she begged. "More."

"A woman who knows what she wants. There's no woman in all of Crete more demanding than you," Dionysus teased. But Ariadne didn't want his sarcasm, she wanted his mouth. She bucked against him, and he met the challenge, sticking his tongue inside her pussy and exploring its depths. Any nectar she produced he quickly drank up, licking and kissing and sucking her folds.

Desperately, she inched under him and reached for his length again. This time, she found it, harder and longer than she would've ever thought possible for a mortal man. Of course, Dionysus was no mortal man.

As she grasped it, it was his turn to moan. Seeing her writhe and beg in pleasure by his hand was too much. He had waited so long for this, and watching her fuck Theseus was the worst part. Theseus, that meaty bonehead, had taken her maidenhead and given nothing in return. Theseus never made her scream. But Dionysus would.

He thrust into her hard, causing Ariadne to grit her teeth, and began a hard, fast, slapping rhythm. Dionysus couldn't stop, couldn't slow down. He had waited too long for this.

"I want you to forget him, forget the string, forget the labyrinth. I want you to say you're mine," he grunted, shoving further into her. He grabbed a breast with each hand, rotating between massaging them, sucking on her neck, and kissing her insistently. The linen that once covered her body was in shreds. Occasionally, Dionysus slowed his thrusts to push in deeper, filling her completely and spreading warmth throughout her body, but soon he'd return to his familiar, insistent pattern. It was raw, animalistic, and passionate. It was claiming.

"I'm yours, Dionysus!" She yelled, feverishly, feeling her slick, aching channel clamp tightly around him. "He is forgotten."

She clung to him desperately as she felt a climax—her first climax—shake her body with euphoric, toe-curling intensity. After her declaration, Dionysus wasn't far behind, and his thrusts slowed as he exploded into her, filling her with warmth and satisfaction, and his calming, powerful presence.

Afterwards, they lay on the sand in a daze, Dionysus wrapping his arms around Ariadne.

As he cradled her on the beach of Naxos, salt air mixing with the smell of grapes, she knew, wholeheartedly, that he wasn't going anywhere.