The Eroticon Pt. 01

Edited by Kumani.

This is my first erotic story, so comments are very welcome. I would like to improve. Yes, it is a wordy little thing. I was playing around with some historical erotic satire and got caught in that narrative voice. So just as an opening thought, if you do not care for words the size of 'consanguinity', you will likely want to skip this story and head back on over to the incest section.

Prologue

To the great Courtesan Entrenetitia three gifts were amply bestowed by nature and rearing: kindness, wisdom, and beauty.

Her ancestry is quite as magnificent as she, having descended from a lady renowned for political, literary and erotic merit: Margaret of Angouleme, Queen of Navarre, liberator of Kings, from whose hand the Heptameron emerged, a work sacred to love. No less, for a paternal forebear she claimed relation to Avicenna, that astute and wondrous thinker of the East, author of the exquisite text Treatise on Love, among other great works of lacy metaphysical design.

Like her maternal forebear, Entrenetitia was removed early on from society to be educated in the seclusion of a country chateau under the experienced hand of a preceptor, a lady whose name remains shrouded.

There, Entrenetitia was trained in the literary and philosophical arts, the sciences, medicine, politics, journalism, eastern and western mysticism, and magic. Magic was her early speciality. She combined it superbly with her erotic education, which began when she turned the sacred age of nineteen.

The erotic education of the Courtesan was unparalleled. Her preceptor was a Priestess of a sect originating from the temple of Mylitta in ancient Babylon, upon the precinct of which each woman of the city-state was required to indulge in sanctified prostitution as an offering to the goddess Astarte. The forbidden mysteries of this long distant culture, though they have emerged in brief moments throughout history, have usually been considered politically and religiously dangerous, and hence were suppressed under the banner of heresy in a number of faiths. As a result, only mere traces survive...at least in the public light.

Upon reaching twenty-five, Entrenetitia had in the seclusion of her chateau so perfected and embodied this sublime tradition of the original temple that she could inspire uncontrollable gushing of any manly fountain near her by revealing just one of her thighs in the sacred manner (for this reason, her male servants were tightly girded at all times unless she was practising on them).

With no less ease, she could bring men and women alike to a state of trembling bliss with a single, grazing, whisper of a touch to any frequented or unfrequented part of the body. Of what great deeds she is capable to further the tradition, to provide it with a greater apex, posterity shall no doubt record.

What follows, dearest reader, are tales accounting for how the legendary Entrenetitia became cursed through her own doing, and, in attempting to break the curse, improved a winsome leader, and through him, the world.

First Part: How Entrenetitia is cursed through her own doing

As many wise heretics of the past have understood, the combining of magic and sexual passion can lead to moments of great power in which the universe itself may fall out of alignment. Entrenetitia had been taught to respect this truth and in her heart wished to maintain the intended balance of all things. Were it not for her ravishing hunger for knowledge, in itself a noble passion, she might have obeyed all the precepts that kept her and the universe safe.

In her final year as a student in her secluded chateau, Entrenetitia developed a curiosity bordering upon obsession for a certain forbidden ancient scroll, said to be from the temple of Mylitta. Her Preceptor was very cautious with it, withholding it at all times from her direct view. Enternetitia longed to extract from this text the hidden knowledge she was certain had been recorded there. However, the Preceptor was ever vigilant.

The first opportunity the Courtesan had to view this extraordinary document was the day upon which she mastered the prayer to the goodness of Astarte. When properly chanted just above and in delicate contact with the exposed clitoris of a priestess, this prayer is capable of inducing six sacred orgasms, each dawning more powerfully than the preceding one, until a catatonic bliss takes over, a prolonged spasm of wonder so acute that the body yields mind and soul to transcend into glorified suspension to the hidden inner chamber of the Goddess herself. The holy state persists until, embraced and released in the same moment by the presence of Astarte, the priestess is permitted to return once again to her deliciously sensual earth-bound form.

On a morning perfumed with a misty light rain and lilac, a morning with a slight chill in the air to heighten carnal need, Entrenetitia approached with reverence the pale, silken thighs of her Preceptor, presently splayed, awaiting the sudden warmth of a mouth. At the foot of her Preceptor's bed Entrenetitia disrobed, her caramel skin aglow with passion, and knelt over her mentor to recite the prayer. Though she had conducted the exercise before, this particular morning she felt more deeply inspired, sensing the presence of the goddess to be quite near.

Remarkably, the Preceptor under the touch of Entrenetitia's sweet mouth succumbed to not six but twelve sacred orgasms that morning.

The Courtesan waited as her Preceptor communed with Astarte, sensing that the return may take several hours. As her attention began to flag, she noticed the scroll she coveted, laid open to view at a side table near the Preceptor's bed. At first she resisted. But helpless to the pull of it, she finally gave in. She took it carefully from the bedside and began to read (having been schooled in ancient scripts of all kinds).

There, sitting gloriously nude by the side of her helpless Preceptor, she encountered secrets of such power they would be far too dangerous to repeat here. What may be recounted is that Entrenetitia learned that day the ritual to summon the flame of Astarte.

This discovery proved to be her immediate undoing. No sooner had she summoned the scared fire to hover with unearthly bliss above her palms (a feat that had not been accomplished for several thousand years), her Preceptor awoke. With haste, not knowing what else to do, Entrenetitia swallowed the flame to douse it.

"Ah! Ah!" cried the Preceptor, sensing something was amiss. "What have you done, child?"

Entrenetitia confessed to her wayward behaviour. Hearing the full account, the Preceptor was dismayed. "This is very bad indeed, dearest one. The Goddess will surely punish you. Sit quietly now, I must return to commune with her once again to find out what fate she intends."

With trepidation, Entrenetitia waited while the Preceptor returned to her trance. Within an hour, her mentor stirred. "The good news, dear pupil, is that you have become immortal. The bad news is that you are subject to a curse: as you have swallowed the flame of Astarte, so you will become it. Your worldly flesh will gradually fade. Your mind and soul will gather in the form of the holy flame and like a flame, you will be scattered across the world, summoned anywhere there is sufficient erotic passion. Your presence will eventually become so powerful that you will threaten the sanctity of all things. Societies will collapse one by one. You will encourage only lust and chaos."

Entrenetitia wept when the Preceptor presented her with this news. "Is there some way to lift the curse?"

"The love of Astarte for you is great, for she also told me this: if before you fade entirely, which will be a full year from this day, you enlighten the world as to the truth of the flame, the curse will be lifted."

"Surely this is something I can do."

"Perhaps, though given your great talents, the Goddess added one extra requirement to make it more challenging. You must raise the awareness not directly, but through another. The revelation must be accomplished through the poorest of raw materials: a man. I suggest you choose a man with influence."

Thus cursed, Entrenetitia left the seclusion of the chateau to find a way to avoid her daunting fate.

Second Part: The lessons given by Entrenetitia to a leader who wished to become magnificent enough to serve her purposes

The First lesson: Visibility

To be remembered by history, a great leader must build or replenish the cultural treasury of her or his nation by providing examples of courage and vision such as winning or avoiding a war, leaving to the books of quotation a number of coveted gems, sweeping aside the sacred veil of the present to point the way to a bright new era...or at the very least act with a bit of panache for the press to celebrate.

The Prime Minister of a country that shall remain unnamed was well known to exhibit no better sense of panache and exoticism than a milk carton. He spoke, as men of his calibre seem to do, a scripted, ubiquitous drone that ever threatens to put the soul of the universe to sleep. His lack of passion applied to all his life and deeds, with the exception of a few private experiences spent masturbating.

In these exquisite right-handed moments, all his dullness fell away. He threw himself into the raw and primordial energy hidden deep within his body. He knew somehow that he must more clearly engage this force if he was to leave behind the boredom that haunted him, to live and act with panache, which had become his greatest craving.

Beginning his search for deeper and more abiding passion, he started late at night in secret to perve the webcams and dating sites, right hand at the ready, until with great good fortune he happened upon the sanctified precinct of Literotica. Even better, after signing up and dubbing himself GreatHair, he landed straightaway on the member profile of Entrenetitia. She had posted at this time only one poem and two pictures: one of her perfect ankle and one of her shoulder, which gleamed with delicate and astounding promise.

Once he had recovered sufficiently from the poem, which had aroused him more than he had ever remembered, and the sight of these two wondrous photos, the Right Honourable hero wrote a private message:

Entrenetitia: Your poem is [sic] grate. I can tell by these pictures you are just freaking gorgeous. I feel obsessed with the idea of meeting you. Can I umm, see you?

To which that most elegant woman, who happened to be online, sensing fate gathering in the moment, and perceiving that she communicated to someone with whom she shared destiny, replied:

Dearest GreatHair: I make love only to advance the souls of men. If you are to have any part of me, you must tell me of your deepest need. What lesson are you seeking?

To which the great man of state answered: I am not kinky. At least I don't think so. Not so sure about this 'lesson' idea. Will it hurt?

To which she, a model of patience returned: You have only one way to fulfill any desire with me. You must describe what you most need. Do not say 'sex' merely, for I require something much more true and soulful. Be sublime or honest. Say what is bold in your heart and mind.

Well... I really want to be more celebrated, but I am boring. I think I lack passion.

Her illustrious reply: That, my dear, we can fix.

For the first meeting, after considerable arranging, she allowed him only ten minutes with her. Having met him at the threshold of her rented sanctum in his fine nation, she retreated to undress behind a translucent screen so he could see only the perfection of her unclothed shadow and no more. In moments, he delivered up all the anticipation he had built over the previous days. His copious discharge, having burst the flap of his briefs, seemed without end, an enviable flood leaving its mark all the way down both inseams of his pants, which he had not had time to remove.

Even not having completed this voracious spouting, the Prime Minister was desperately possessed with wanting more. The episode, rapid as it was, caused the dawning of a profound realization, an imprint that would change his life.

Having recognized him as the Prime Minister of the country that will not be named, and understanding that she now had in her grasp a man with whom she might break her curse, Entrenetitia urged him: "Meditate on this short encounter and we will meet again. I will assist you to express passion, but I will choose the time. You must agree to this, or we shall not see each other again."

He agreed. Following this marvellous event, he looked over his shoulder constantly for her to appear, during press conferences, public galas and ceremonies, even the sitting of the Parliament when he actually bothered to attend. He was filled every moment with longing and desire.

She did not reappear until a full, agonizing week later, materializing in the lobby of the site upon which he was attending a summit of world leaders in New York. He was astonished to see her and responded immediately to her request to secure a private room. Once they were alone, she pressed a finger to his lips, which left him frozen, and then proceeded to unzip and withdraw him with painstaking sensuousness.

"I cannot! This is not the right time!" declared the Prime Minister, becoming more desperate at the size of his erection. "I meet with my colleagues in just a few minutes. I am already late. Listen! My bodyguards are knocking at the door."

Entrenetitia would not relent and held him against his will in her mouth until his very consciousness threatened to draw into the well of plenty. His body, every jangling nerve, she held in perfect, maddening suspension, her mouth taking captive his now alarmingly engorged member, sucking gently and then not, nurturing, sipping, providing the hot darting of the tongue, then pressing again with the slowest, delicious perfection to evoke the very pith of all ecstasy. She stopped suddenly, leaving him unrelieved and trembling, at the point of almost release (a state in which some holy women and men claim to have experienced dimensions not of the earth, known by many names) and then instructed him to go to his meeting.

With no choice but to obey, he just barely constrained himself back into his pants and ran to the meeting chamber. There he gave an address of historic ardour, quite erupting upon the stage like a new man. The passion of his speech vaulted high, memorably high, though he himself recalled nothing but the sense of having been held between the precious lips of that most beautiful and gentle of women.

After making this speech, he turned without thinking to slap the President of France hard on the ass with great affection. No one could explain this breathtaking moment.

Still delirious with lust, he was later seen to give that same gentleman a short coddle on the walnuts while shaking hands after the celebratory dinner, a shot that was captured and printed infamously first in the New York Times and reduplicated everywhere else.

The press unit of the Prime Minister's Office initially reeled in horror when the stories came out. However, it was soon to be noticed that the coverage, which blitzed across the light, electronic webs of the planet and the more steadfast print media, was not necessarily negative.

Ultimately, the gesture coupled with the ardour of the speech was taken as a sophisticated 'one-up' on the eminently cultivated President of France. The eye of the world was turning to behold the formerly unremarkable leader, now eager for more of him, willing to be seduced by the potential greatness of his character. Ah, this leader from a gentle country that shall not be named – he had panache!

On the Literotica private message, the radiant and Right Honourable celebrity wrote to his lover: You did it! I am visible to all! I am not boring!

To which the Courtesan replied: Yes, but now that you are visible...what good will you do?

The Second Lesson: Peace

There was a war between the country that shall not be named and an eastern nation that had been plagued by invasion and occupation for decades, occupation that was now officially a dubbed 'peacekeeping' mission. The Prime Minster was scheduled, covertly, to fly in and visit his courageous troops in that hot and dusty land, and to meet with his counterpart as a gesture to endorse support for the current balance of enforced power.

Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately in retrospect, his schedule had been inadvertently posted on a government website.

Having become aware of this dangerous excursion, Entrenetitia wrote to the Right Honourable traveller in a private message.

Dearest GreatHair: Take me with you when you leave on Thursday.

The celebrated leader was alarmed at this request. Placing the exquisite Courtesan in harm's way did not appeal to him at all. He experienced a stirring of noble, masculine instincts, a dawning of the heroic man in him. In a moment of unusual courage, he replied: Do I have a choice?

No.

Alright then. We leave at six in the morning.

The trip itself was unremarkable, except as the time neared for the discussion of leaders in the Presidential Palace. The plan had been for the two to confer alone in the President's sumptuous inner office. However, Entrenetitia made a point of joining them. This was easily managed. Her breathtaking appearance left the President of the war torn nation with no possible objection.

As soon as the three were alone, Entrenetitia bade them commandingly to sit before her, whereupon she swept off her dress as only a true adherent of Astarte can do. This gesture revealed a most astounding sight that caused both men to gape.

She wore an exquisite leather corset and chaps, nothing else. The workmanship of these accoutrements was astounding, having been made of the most precious, exotic leather, dyed night-black, burnished, etched everywhere with fine, mysterious tracery, ancient script and religious symbols. Even better, she had attached by a clasp at her hip a perfectly frightening strap, adorned with similar patterns. This, she removed.

"You gentlemen are here to discuss war. I bring you a message from the Goddess of Love about peace. Through it, we shall heal both your nations."

She bade them to remove their trousers and underwear, which they did, paragons of docile obedience that they were. With alternating strokes, she heartily strapped and lashed them in cadence with a chant to cause them to forever sexualise their will to violence (joining them that day in the ever growing community of BDSM). The snick and crack of the strap occurred so often in this time that the exposed bottoms of the two leaders grew as bright as polished red apples. They would have bled had not the blood in their veins been drawn into the unparalleled engorgement of their members.

Ending her chant and the spell it incurred, she began to ritually undress each man, and then entwine and pleasure them. Her tongue seemed to touch them everywhere, the caress of her extraordinary lips drawing them ever closer to release. She allowed them each a few treasured moments within her most sacred place (beyond which no ordinary man could remain in firm possession his mental faculties without considerable training). Then she bade them in the heat of their ecstasy to stand facing each other. They stood, their members outstretched like flagpoles saluting.

Kneeling between them, she enchanted them again not only with the skill of her tongue, but with a spell of a very holy nature. To the leaders, it seemed as if the heat, blessing and happiness of the sun itself rose to fill the space between them. At the perfect moment, she held each with tips of her fingers. With a single word, she released them. They achieved orgasm in perfect unison. Their seed intermingled everywhere, splashing an unprecedented distance and all about them.