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You knew the battle would be lost. You knew this was going to happen and your betrothed husband was too arrogant to seek the blessings of the gods. They were all mortals, but your husband believed that his strength was comparable to that of a deity, going into a duel in which he would lose without any options.
And you knew that the gods were unhappy with your husband's attitude. Too arrogant, cheeky, pointlessly proud. You swallow, thinking about your options and realizing that there are not very many of them.
Between the life of your unloved husband and his death, but sending you to the winner's chambers, with the right to freely use her body as a trophy, you would have chosen the first option any day. Your husband needed you for show - a wife with a beautiful pedigree and a fresh fertile body, one day ready to be used for his heirs. And you needed him for one thing - a life without fear, with clear expectations and the freedom to do what you like, not what you have to do. You went to bed with him once - during their marriage, when they needed to seal their bond on a sacred bed in the presence of their families.
You remember how sloppy and dirty it was: you smelled as a rose oil, which the maids rubbed to shine and stretched her inside, knowing that her husband would hurry to finish it faster. You threw out all the rose oils and perfumes after that night.
Your husband is more interested in battles, in challenges in his face. And now, having received a wild challenge to a duel for the right to his throne, he laughingly agreed. You were terrified, realizing all the chances. You're not stupid - you've seen her husband's opponent. The man was strong, looked at you as if you could be devoured without choking. He wouldn't hesitate to break your husband's throat.
You are sitting in your chambers, the air of the early night makes its way through the open doors of the balcony, caressing your skin. You're unwinding a network of intricate braids in your hair, letting them fall down your back like a waterfall. You're not sure if the gods will even listen to the wife of a man who so brazenly refuses to worship them, but with a sigh, you get out of bed, taking off krokotos, a saffron-colored chiton, its light linen of a rich shade easily descended along from your curves, deposited on one of the wicker chests. You stood naked in the room, watching the sky darken by the minute.
After dawn, you will have a countdown to your husband's death if you decide to go to bed now. With the death of your husband, the unwanted caresses of hands that see you as a trophy will come, with the death of your husband, the need to satisfy those whom you do not want will come.
That's why you choose to try, swallowing the saliva that has accumulated in your mouth and addressing no one and everyone at the same time. You walk slowly to one of the tables around, picking up one of the hairpins on the shelf. It was not obligatory to bring blood to the gods during prayer, but something seemed right to you about it. It's like an apology to the gods for the stupidity of the treatment from you, the wife of a heretic.
A hairpin made of animal bone, once pressed, easily passed over your palm, forming a neat incision. You clench your hand into a fist: your blood sprinkles your fingers. You're whispering, desperate:
«I know that neither God nor Goddess will see me as a mortal worthy of their mercy. But I beg you, because my life depends on it and I am just a woman who wants peaceful nights of rest. My blood and my body are my offering tonight. I pray to you for my husband's victory in his duel tomorrow, I pray to you to bless him, to ward off death from him. I beg you, in horror and despair… Please…»
You whisper the last words, your hands shake for long silent minutes. You don't know if the Gods have heard you, and even if they have, they probably won't decide to answer anyway. You know only one woman alive who met God after her prayer and gave birth to a child, and even she, speaking to you, talked about it as a miracle, as an impossible dream. Your chances are fading in such a scenario.
You sigh, burying your face in your bloodless hand and putting the hairpin on the table, thinking. You could run away, but where do you can to go? The family home is no longer yours, you have moved into your husband's family, you will not be expected where you were born. Surviving on the streets is hell, even if the salary of prostitutes in the capital was decent, you would still need to work on it, which seemed terrible.
You're thinking, thinking, thinking. You raise your incised hand to your eyes, looking at it with a squint and freeze. A strange hand appears on yours, a strong palm runs its fingers over the incision in your palm, gently and intimately. And then this finger presses, pressing on the meat of your body and you flinch, screaming.
You feel a body behind your back, but before you can turn around, another hand wraps your hair around its fist, pulling you forward so that you lean over the table. You're screaming. But no one comes to your screams, only laughter is heard behind your back.
You can't turn around, but you whimper when the hand in your palm is interlacing your fingers, and someone's thighs in armor and chiton are pressing on your thighs. You tremble, feeling a hand in your hair that forces you to put your head sideways on the table. You are breathing heavily when someone's hips are imprinted in circles into yours, a satisfied hoarse voice above your head mumbles.
«Your blood and body are your offering tonight…»
This voice speaks and you allow yourself to look at it, your face lying sideways on the table, pressed by a strong hand. He looks slightly blurred above her: but he, a man, is powerfully built, a true warrior, his dark skin shines in the moonlight, his armor is fierce, flashing red, as if stained with blood. You take a shocked breath, raising your eyebrows and opening your mouth, but only a sob comes out of you when a man's hand releases your hair and his fingers invades in your mouth.
«Your husband will receive a blessing, he will win the duel on which your life depends. Your husband is a true fool, whose prayers no one will listen to, even if he screams.»
The voice speaks and every word is a heavy army step, measured and precise. He lets go of your bloody palm and you hear his armor fall to the floor, as he unbuttons the fabric of his chiton and it falls at their feet: she feels the linen fabric with her ankles.
«Your husband is, first of all, a fool, since his wife is desperately begging the gods, knowing that she will not change her husband's mind. Your husband is a fool, but you are a smart woman, you have found your salvation.»
His finger is in your lips: heavy weight, it tastes like the smell of silver, like the iron taste of blood. You mumble around it, limp from the grip of the rest of his palm on your face; a man's palm holds your jaw, lifting you over the table by the throat, forcing you to arch into his hips. You're moaning around his finger. The divine voice behind her is laughing at her, pressing on your tongue and opening your mouth. You open it without a murmur, clutching the wood of the table with your nails. Your back arches, you feel the weight of his hand on your waist, caressing your lower back.
«Do you agree to feel the God in you, mortal? Your body tonight is an offering to the gods, which I will accept, fulfilling your prayer. So do you want to be blessed by God?»
You breathe heavily, feeling the saliva produced by your mouth trickle down the corners of your lips, fall on your chest and on the table. You know who's behind you, as if you knew from the first second you saw the silhouette, even if you didn't expect an answer to your prayer.
The fingers of the taste of war come out of your mouth and you breathe heavily, finally being able to close your mouth and moisten your throat. Calloused hands both slide to your thighs, pushing them apart and looking right into your tender interior with a contented deep rumble. You tremble, feeling your folds being pushed apart, just looking, not touching them and not making his way into them.
You wet your throat, the taste of smoke on your tongue tells you more than any words; you turn over your shoulder, look into the amber eyes of the God and nod.
«I wish to accept all the mercy that you can give me, my lord… God of battles and war, Ares.»
You say it in your official queen's tone, but the effect spoils because you sound hoarse, dehydrated. You feel your own saliva on your chin, which is drying up, and you watch a smile spread across the lips of God behind you.
«You are an intelligent woman, Your Majesty...»
He speaks, and his hands move abruptly to your waist, wrapping it in a tenacious grip. You scream one second, and the next you're lying on your bed on your back, panting and shuddering, your lips forming a ringing moan as the hand of God covers your vagina, one of his fingers playing with your pearl.
God is looming over you and the full power of his divine blood is visible in him. He is handsome: his long hair is pinned at the back of his head, his dark skin is accentuated by the lines of his muscles, his amber eyes are animal and wild. He looms over you, grunting contentedly, his arms wrapping around your ankles and lifting them to his shoulders. God's lips kiss your ankles, biting the tender bone under your skin. You're trying to kick your leg out, but divine power is not something your mortal body can handle.
The God of war smiles, licking the mark of his teeth on your ankles, his lips slide to your calves, exploring your legs as if he is not a deity, but you are the one he worships. You are so passionate about studying his face, his powerful jaw on your calves and strong hands on your hips, that only when a man settles his body between your legs do you pay attention to his penis.
You flinch, trying to crawl away, but he coos over you, greedily holding your hips and you, trembling, feel the natural lubricant flowing out of you. Because even if looking at that big dick between god's thighs and thinking that it won't fit into her mortal body, she's scared - her brain is already sending a signal to her body so that it is ready to accept God into itself. You moan, feeling how your vagina absorbs the first finger of the God, he slowly rubs it into you, gradually sinking each knuckle. He spits on your vagina, squeezing the pearl of your body with his fingers free from its tightness, growling contentedly at your sobs and the squelching of your pussy. You know that you're probably narrow, that you're probably greedy down there; you preferred to play with yourself with your fingers outside, bringing yourself to the peak only by touching your pearl, as if completely forgetting that you have a beautiful empty hole that any of your employees would gladly fill if you asked. Fucking the queen is the advantage of the king, even if this title will be on the person invited to your bed only until dawn.
And the God in your bed is the king of that which is greater than your kingdom and your husband is, the king of the order above the mortal. He is the lord of battles, he is the king of human warfare, he is worshipped and prayed for. And you pray to him, babbling something unrelated, your gut takes three wide fingers that pull you in different directions, knocking out a place in you for a massive flesh of the God.
You disintegrate in his hands: one of your knees is thrown over his shoulder, the other god has arranged in the crook of his elbow to tear you apart not only with his fingers, but also with the unblinking gaze of amber eyes. You tremble, clutching God's fingers inside you, moaning and howling, pouring essence on his hand, on your bed. You think for a second: can they hear you? Does their palace hear the queen moaning and her scream echoing through the corridors? Does the servants hear you, does your husband hear you, does his opponent of tomorrow hear you? You whimper, because the hand of the God of war continues to work in you in a slow but pressing rhythm, not worrying about the fact that you just came, but on the contrary, as if finding more loopholes in this to dive right into your deepest places.
He inserts the fourth finger and you scream, your chest wobbles as you try to even out your breathing. God penetrates you with four fingers, and a fifth, a thumb, pressing on your pearl, knocking out of your body all the essence right on his fingers, all the natural lubricant of your body. You whimper, trying to squeeze your legs, but God is an obvious obstacle between them because of who you cannot do that.
«Take it easy, my queen. I will give you everything and even more, my mercy will flow down your thighs and squish in your gut, it will fill your stomach and affect you... Your husband is a fool, Your Majesty... Since such a sweet cunt has not yet felt all the sweetness of the male seed warming her from the inside.»
You moan from the quiet, clear voice of the God above you, shaking your whole body: outside and inside. God hums over you, licking his lips contentedly as you squeeze his fingers deep inside you. You're thinking about what it's like to squeeze his cock when you come a second time.
«Ares! Ah, ah!»
You scream, your eyes roll back as you reach the second peak of the night. You catch the window out of the corner of your eye: the moon is not even at its zenith yet. You're shivering as if you've emerged from a lake into the cold air. You whimper when God's fingers come out of you with a squish, your cunt doesn't want to let them go and he moans very contentedly, slowly pulling his hand out of you.
God lowers your feet onto the bed, settling comfortably between them and smearing his penis with his hand covered with your essence. His penis is as dark as his skin: it is long and slightly curved, with a neat head and large balls. You try to squeeze your hips in anticipation of the God in you, but you only squeeze the waist of the God, to which he laughs, running his palm up and down his penis, from which he rises, as if becoming thicker. You cling to the bedspread with your fingers, holding your breath, when God's fingers spread your folds and push into you, just a little, the whole head of the penis penetrates inside, but you are already whimpering: it's so much, it's so big, you can't, no, no-
God is laughing at you, his laughter is the sound of a military drum announcing the invasion of the fortress and its defeat; he pushes into you and the way his penis plunges into you with one heavy thrust is true divine power. You arch up on the bed, your eyes are watering and your mouth is open in ecstasy. There is so much of it and God drove it all into her, as easily as if he cut butter with a knife. God moans, squeezing your hips with his hands and pulling out his dick. He pushes it back just as easily, knocking a moan out of you and pulling it out again. He repeats it in a wild hip movement, a bull running after a waving rag, a gladiator fighting for a prize.
You are pushed up the bed by the force of each push, you put your hands against the wall so that you do not hit your head against it from the next push. One of God's hands puts his hand between you and the wall: a gentle gesture for such an animal sexual act. His other hand went back to the pearl of your vagina, rubbing it and cooing gently. He doesn't slow down, moans, growls and grunts, your walls hug his cock and you can swear that you can feel it in your throat. You moan on his dick while God hammers you into the bed furiously, greedily, aggressively.
Your line between your duty to your husband, for whom you turned to the Gods, and your own pleasure is being blurred to smithereens, shattered by how fiercely God takes your mortal body, as if it were a necessary source of food, as if you were the last ambrosia from Olympus. His hands leave bruises on you from compression, his mouth bites and sucks the skin of your breasts, neck and jaw, a greedy beast devouring his prey. You whimper, lifting your head, surrendering to his touch; you push your hips forward, towards his furious thrusts, accepting your fate and enjoying it, enjoying this feeling of fullness of your cunt, which should have been accepted only by your husband, but with your own prayers was ruined. You don't feel a bit of regret when you take God's penis into your womb, suffocating, feeling as if your body is being reshaped just to take his penis and feel empty without it. It's just a pleasure, an ecstasy that has hit your head, but for just a second you wish that this feeling was true.
You feel God standing over you, his nails scratching your skin, as both his hands reach out to open your folds with his fingers and drive the divine penis deeper into you, as if the fact that his head of the penis can be touched and seen through your stomach is not enough. He pours into you with a growl on his lips, smiling contentedly, exposing all his teeth. He is beautiful, divine, obviously, and you come after him, feeling cramps in your legs, heat in your stomach and stretching between your legs.
You breathe heavily, looking at the ceiling distantly, feeling ephemeral, too here and very far away at the same time. You freeze when there is a slight pressure on your stomach and you hear your vagina squelching around the divine penis, the squeezed seed of a man, the seed of god, drips from it. He hums over you, quite caressing his own cock through your skin, moaning as he presses the bridle of his penis with his fingers.
You're shaking.
«Don't be afraid, Your Majesty.»
He smiles at you and you breathe heavily, crying out in surprise when he starts pushing into you again.
«My seed will not stain you, your hour to have a child in this mortal body has not yet come...»
He mumbles, moans contentedly at the ceiling. His cock in you expands again, fills with blood from his relaxed state again, and you moan, squeezing around him.
«My lord!»
You sob, the squelching of mess between your bodies and the creaking of sweat on your mortal skin are the sounds of pure satisfaction in the bedroom, accessible only to hidden, false lovers united in greedy pleasure.
«My queen.»
He answers, growling, both your legs throw themselves on his shoulder and he, he is war - he is its embodiment and its patron god. He is relentless and hungry, he is non-stop and greedy.
Tonight, your body, your blood, is an offering to the gods, accepted by the fierce god of war.
And the night is long.