Legends of Lust

by Autumn Bardot

  Theseus flicked his tongue across her nipples. “Not done yet.” He tied her ankles together.

  Hippolyta wiggled. “I don’t like being trussed up like this.”

  Theseus beamed from ear to ear, his blue eyes twinkling with mischief. “You will.” He spread wide her downy cushion and flicked his tongue across with a teasing lightness.

  Wanting more, Hippolyta tilted her pelvis toward him but Theseus lifted his head and grinned.

  “Be patient, lover.” He fondled each breast, then licked and sucked until each nipple was as stiff as the tip of his sword.

  Hippolyta moaned and squirmed as he moved from breasts to clit and back again. His lovemaking made her forget she was a queen, made her forget the problems and responsibilities of leadership. It did, however, make her remember nature’s primal urges.

  “I love you,” she mouthed soundlessly as Theseus kissed her navel.

  Theseus watched her lips speak the words he had waited for. “This is the best part.” He jammed a wad of cloth into her mouth, securing it with another looped around her head.

  Hippolyta struggled, her eyes wide with panic.

  “Trust me, it’s better this way. You don’t have to agonize over a decision or disappoint the Amazons.” Theseus wound a sheet around her nakedness.

  Tears sprung from Hippolyta’s eyes. How long had it been since she cried? She couldn’t remember. And why was she crying? Were they tears of joy? Of relief? Of sorrow?

  After donning his tunic and strapping on his weapons, Theseus wiped away her tears and kissed each eyelid. “Give me a sign and our game is over.”

  Hippolyta remained still, her unblinking eyes staring into his. Now was the time to make a decision and she couldn’t. Didn’t even want to.

  Theseus nodded, then scooped her up and threw her over his broad shoulders. He leapt over the balcony and landed nimbly on the ground below. He patted Hippolyta’s ass, then stood still, ears and eyes in search of sentries. Finding no sign of them, he took off running through the grove.

  Hippolyta had the agility to twist away from him.

  She had the strength to thrust her knees into his chest. She didn’t. She let Theseus kidnap her. It saved her from making an impossible decision, from having to choose between shared love and solitary leadership.

  Theseus understood her dilemma just as he sensed her deepest desires. Hippolyta found comfort in this. Having the love of the greatest hero the world had ever known brought her immense satisfaction. Theseus had no equal. He was strength and intellect and compassion and daring. And sensual pleasure.

  In the middle of a copse of trees at the edge of the beach, Theseus stopped and drew the sheet down over her face. “I don’t want my men knowing who I’ve kidnapped until we are well under way.”

  Hippolyta nodded.

  Theseus raced across the moonlit beach and splashed into the water. “Be quick about it,” he told the rowers as he set Hippolyta gently down in the skiff.

  Hippolyta grunted with surprise. This had been his plan all along!

  “Have who you came for, King Theseus?” asked a rower.

  “Even better. I kidnapped the moon and stars and sky. I kidnapped my everything.”

  Beneath the sheet, the last traces of Hippolyta’s uncertainty melted from this declaration of love.

  Once on the ship, Theseus ordered the crew to make way for home, then with Hippolyta over his shoulder he traipsed across the deck and into his cabin.

  Theseus pulled the sheet from her face, untied the fabric, and pulled the gag from her mouth.

  “You had this planned all along,” said Hippolyta.

  “Not a plan. Preparation. I had high hopes.” Theseus unwound the sheet from her body.

  “Is it too late to scream?” she lifted her wrists as he unknotted the silky restraint.

  “You’ll be screaming in a moment, I promise.” Theseus freed her ankles.

  Hippolyta lay back on the bed. “Finish what you started.”

  Theseus stripped off his clothing. “Finish? This is the beginning, my queen.” He lifted her legs in the air and sunk into her misty heat. He caressed her breasts and tugged on her nipples until she writhed and moaned. He felt her pleasure mount and surge like the waves beneath them, and knew she was close.

  He pulled out. “Sit on my cock.”

  Hippolyta sat on him.

  “Like this.” Theseus draped her legs over his shoulders.

  Hippolyta wrapped her arms around his neck and cried out as his full length penetrated deep inside her. Theseus cupped her ass, his fingertips stroking the skin until it felt like a thousand butterflies fluttered against her loins. Their tongues battled, pushing, twirling, tasting, and sucking. Hippolyta urged him faster with her hips, but Theseus slowed down to prolong their ascent. They were one heartbeat, one purpose, one need now. Their lips separated so that they could watch the other’s joy. Their rapture came together, two sharing one long cry of release.

  They remained in this position, until Theseus’s cock no longer jerked and spasmed, and until Hippolyta felt cum roll down her ass.

  “How is it possible that I am both utterly satisfied and yet want more?” Hippolyta said.

  “Because it is love.”

  There are different versions of this story. One has Theseus kidnapping Hippolyta; the other has her going willingly. A Shakespeare fan, I took inspiration from the first innuendo-laden scene of A Midsummer Night’s Dream when Theseus says, “Hippolyta, I wooed thee with my sword and won thy love doing thee injuries.” Yowza! Want to read more about Theseus? Check out stories by Ovid, Plutarch, Apollodorus, and plays by Sophocles and Euripides.

  UNDER THE ARJUNA TREE

  This isn’t going to end well, but what can I do? I have no choice; I must obey Indra, the King of Heaven. I am an apsara, a Daughter of Joy, a celestial maiden, and a nymph of the air, forever fresh-faced and lithe, my dancing beyond compare, my seduction skills irresistible.

  “Why me? There are many of us to choose from.” Dressed in a towering, elegant floral-silk headdress of intricate gold, I am on my knees before him in the heavenly garden blooming with fragrant flowers.

  Indra reclines on a silk pillow under a wide-leafed arjuna tree. “Menaka, you are the most beautiful apsara of all.”

  It is true, I am, and my face flushes with pride.

  “You are the only one capable of seducing this particular man.”

  “Yes, Indra.” I bow my head though I tremble with fear. It’s no mere mortal man Indra commands me to seduce, but a powerful sage. I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment to gather my courage, and when I open them

  I find Indra sitting atop a white elephant adorned with a golden collar and tasseled anklets.

  “Hurry. There is no time to waste,” Indra says as the majestic beast lumbers away.

  I bring my hands together in namaste and then ride home on the next warm breeze. Back in my chambers, I bathe in sweet water, wash my hair, and prepare myself to destroy a great sage.

  I am brushing my black hair to a glossy sheen when Saha, another apsara, sashays into the room. Her hips are swaying to the tragic love song she sings.

  Saha takes my brush. “Who is the sage Indra wants you to seduce?”

  “Vishvamitra.” My eyes are shiny with tears.

  Saha inhales her surprise through her teeth. “No wonder you look worried, I hear he seeks to become a brahmarishi.”

  Seducing a man on the spiritual path to becoming a member of the highest level of seers is fraught with danger.

  “It’s true,” I say. “Vishvamitra’s spiritual strength has grown so great that Indra fears the sage will try to seize his throne.”

  Saha rolls her eyes. “Indra worries too much. Every time a sage completes an intricate ritual or performs a miracle, Indra believes his supremacy is in jeopardy.” She drips a few drops of oil onto her hands and runs her fingers through my tresses. “Do you want me to put on your jewelry?”

  My gaze travels to the tight s
ilk dress on the bed and to the towering gold five-pointed headdress standing on the chest. “Too obvious.” The gold-beaded collar, glittering bangles, and gleaming anklets are too extravagant for a sage like Vishvamitra. “He will take one look at me, see through my tricks, and curse me—turn me into stone.” I shake my head. “No, gold and gems hold no enticement for a man with the power to curse King Harishchandra by turning him into a crane.”

  “Mmmm...” Saha stuck the fine-pointed brush into the kohl pot. “Then how do you plan on seducing him?” “I will dance—it’s what I do best. He must not know I am an apsara.” I look up at the ceiling as Saha draws a black line across my lower eyelid.

  “That’s not possible, Menaka.” Saha lines the upper lids. “Our beauty is far greater than mortal women. And your beauty surpasses our own! You cannot hide your beauty. Not unless you’re planning on covering yourself from head to toe in a blanket.”

  It’s true. My eyes are larger, my lips plumper and rosier, my breasts large and firm, my waist narrower and my hips wider than all the other apsaras. Even my hair is thicker and glossier, its length falling past my buttocks.

  “I don’t intend to hide my beauty, but I can make it less obvious and more pure.” I point to the silk, gold, and jewels we adorn ourselves with.

  Saha chews on her lips. “Is looking plain really necessary? I mean, think of all the sages whose penance we have broken. These gurus are all the same. We jiggle our breasts and shake our hips, and their piety disappears.” She twirls around, her arms outstretched.

  “Almost as quick as their cock appears.” I spin in unison with her.

  We stop, posed in the classical posture with bent

  arms and legs. I laugh, my fear diminishing with her positive attitude, her encouraging words calling to mind all of our previous seductions.

  “The last guru I seduced was weak, foul smelling, and ugly.” Saha steps back to admire her artistry with rouge and kohl.

  “I remember. You shook your breasts in front of his face and his siddhasana pose became Stroking Cock pose. Little good that pose did to bring about celibacy.”

  “A few twirls and one little leap was all it took before his hand dripped with ten years’ worth of cum.” Saha laughs.

  “I like seducing the ugly ones best. They succumb to our charms with ease,” I say, feeling more confident by the minute. “They are always the most arrogant, somehow believing they can achieve higher spiritual powers because they were not blessed with handsome features. As if having one blessing means you cannot have the other.”

  “Let’s hope Vishvamitra is ugly,” says Saha.

  “He must be,” I say. “Why else would a king who has everything—hundreds of concubines and stores of wealth—give it all up to be a rishi?” I select a midriffbaring choli and shimmering silk sari the color of coconut milk. Next I gather my hair at the nape of my neck and my tresses cascade down my back in thick waves.

  “You will be back before sunset.” Saha finishes weaving flowers into my hair. “And then you will tell us how quickly Vishvamitra forgot his penance for sexual pleasure.”

  I hope so. Whether Vishvamitra is ugly or handsome, the sage is known for his wisdom, self-control, and spiritual power—power so great Indra wants to destroy years of penance and abstinence.

  Will Vishvamitra see through my tricks? Will this sari lessen my beauty and minimize the curves that drive both gods and men wild with desire? How angry will Indra be if I fail?

  I smooth my sari and take a deep breath.

  “Watch out for demons,” says Saha, waving goodbye as I depart.

  “I will,” I promise, and I ride a wispy silver cloud to earth.

  The air is sultry as I travel the shaded path where tiny lizards scuttle into the thick green flora, a painted grasshopper jumps out of my way, and two dragonflies zip past me. Yet, the beauty of the earth’s smallest creatures is not my focus. Demons lurking behind a banyan tree or hiding between the great boughs of a peepal tree are. Demons love nothing better than kidnapping a celestial maiden. Several years ago, my friend Urvashi had a traumatic encounter with demons that resulted in serious consequences. She had been enjoying an early morning walk when two demons swooped down with claws outstretched. Urvashi tried fending off their attacks, screaming all the while. Luckily, King Pururavas, hunting nearby, heard her screams and rushed to her aid. The demons fled but Urvashi’s ordeal was not over. Captivated by her beauty, King Pururavas pleaded with Urvashi to be his lover. Urvashi, feeling indebted to him, agreed on one condition: she never saw him naked. He must content himself to fuck her in the dark, under blankets, or concealing his chubby stomach with a kurta. The arrangement worked for a while, but then we tricked King Pururavas into revealing his nakedness to get Urvashi back.

  Fortunately, neither demons, nor gods, nor man delay my trip. I reach Vishvamitra’s favorite meditation spot.

  The place is without beauty. The trees are scraggly, their leaves lacking vibrancy. Faded flowers droop in the heat. The birds sing off-key. Even the river is sluggish and murky.

  From my hiding spot behind a tree I watch Vishvamitra meditating under an arjuna tree—or rather I see his back, which is a deep copper color and surprisingly muscular for a guru. Vishvamitra, in the lotus pose, wears a topknot, the rest of his long ebony hair flowing past his shoulder blades. He is dressed in only a dhoti, a loose-fitting white cloth worn between his legs and secured around the waist. Needing a better look at this impressive sage, I move, quiet as a breeze, to a closer tree.

  Though I see only Vishvamitra in profile, a puff of excitement flutters my heart. He is very handsome—not old at all—with the chiseled face of masculinity, determination, and wisdom. His beard is thick and groomed, and he wears a single strand of prayer beads around his neck. He has a lean, muscular build, all sinewy limbs and perfect posture.

  Handsome and spiritual! No wonder Indra fears him.

  I exhale my enchantment through pursed lips. The sky becomes bluer, the sun glows with radiance, the river gurgles, its water now a sparkling azure.

  Vishvamitra remains motionless, the change in surroundings either unobserved or ignored.

  I step into his field of vision. One exhalation later and the flowers stand straighter, their blooms saturated with color. Each tree I walk past is infused with vitality, the boughs thickening, the leaves lush and verdant. The birds obey my soft hum and sing a melodic song. The grass, responding to my approaching footsteps, softens and lengthens. Now Vishvamitra sits on a verdant carpet. Two peacocks in iridescent display walk beside me. I wait for him to notice.

  Vishvamitra blinks. Blinks again. His body remains still. Perhaps he thinks I am a beautiful hallucination.

  I stretch my arms toward him, spread them wide, then raise them over my head. I sashay toward him, my body undulating to a silent rhythmic melody in my mind.

  Vishvamitra squeezes his eyes shut.

  I smile. This tactic never works. Closing your eyes does not remove the memory of our loveliness; it only enhances our curvaceous beauty. I circle around him in a slow dance. He feels my presence, senses my movements in the air’s disturbance. I circle again, see the creases of eyes determined to stay closed. Another good sign.

  After circling the third time, I stand in front of him and wait patiently for curiosity to get the better of him. I do not wait long. Vishvamitra slowly opens one eye. Except for the involuntary contraction of his sizable pectoral muscles, he remains motionless.

  “Are you thirsty?” I offer a shy smile.

  His eye shuts, and all signs of his previous meditative peacefulness vanish. The muscles in Vishvamitra’s face tense with concentration. It’s a good sign. He is weakening.

  “It will be an honor to get water for the great sage Vishvamitra.” I turn away and stroll toward the river, my rounded hips swaying, my small feet delicately stepping.

  Vishvamitra watches. I feel his wide-open eyes upon me. With each step forward, my walk becomes more dance-like, my footwork more in
tricate, my arm movements more elaborate. Unencumbered by the tall formal gold headdress I usually wear, I am able to slowly bend backward, my arms slithering skyward as I straighten up.

  I do not pause at the riverbank, but step into the cool clear water. Ankles, knees, hips, waist, breasts, shoulders, and head sink into the azure.

  Vishvamitra will be leaning over, anxious, his eyes trained on the spot where I submerged. I stay under until I sense he has broken his meditative pose, is on his knees, perhaps contemplating how to save me.

  I rise from the river holding a banana leaf formed into a cone. My wet silk sari clings to every curve, the milky-colored fabric transparent against my skin. Partial nudity is always more tantalizing.

  Vishvamitra is standing, his gaze fixed on my unhurried approach. I dance slowly, not a drop of water spilling from the banana-leaf cup.

  “Cool water.” I offer the banana leaf with both hands.

  “Thank you.” Vishvamitra accepts my humble offering, his hand brushing against mine.

  An odd feeling courses through me, a hot-cold sizzle that steals my breath. We stare into each other’s eyes, and I am struck by the intensity of his attentions. He does not gawk at my bosom, nor do his eyes travel the length of my body and settle on the dark thatch of hair below. Rather, he looks into me, as though finding the divine within. All tenseness washes from his face, and his eyes beam with such pure goodness my own heart blooms with love.

  How can this be? Heat rises in my cheeks when I realize I do not fear this powerful sage, I love him.

  Vishvamitra lifts the banana-leaf cup to his lips and drinks.

  I no longer want to dance because of Indra’s commands. I want to dance to please Vishvamitra. The kathak is an elegant dance, a story told with my arms and body, my hands and fingers speaking with mudras, symbolic gestures. Vishvamitra is enthralled, his face beaming with pleasure. I spin about, faster and faster, his delight my own.

  “Who are you?” he asks when my dancing story is done.

  “I am Menaka.”