Consorts of Monsters: Medusa

So it came to pass in that golden age of heroes that many kings, queens, and oracles came to the same conclusion: monsters, be they from the land, air, or sea, would take tribute.

It was King Minos with his terrible beast of a stepson who started the tribute idea, mostly because he was the first to demand it, and the yearly take became normal for the entire region. The idea of course was a mere Quid Pro Quo: monsters, beasts, we offer you meals or servants in the form of the most beautiful youths, maidens, or children. Please do not attack us.

And for some monsters, the more animal ones, like the Hydra, the tribute was seen as more of invaders of territory rather than gifts. But to those safe from the tribute demands, the ones who organized and thrust the victims forward, the system worked.

The fact was also simply that while oracles could promise deliverance from this monster or that, the hero they insisted was coming could be, at the moment of prophecy, a newborn babe or barely able to hold a sword. Tributes were biding the time and paying the price before the prophecy could happen. Not that this was consolation to those picked.

In fact many monsters lived far from human prying eyes, and one of these beasts was Medusa.

Stories of this beast passed from the winds and spirits of the ocean, back towards land, to those who had known Medusa prior to her curse. Oh, the stories were wide and vague and many direct lies, but the simple matter was that she was cursed as so many beautiful maidens were, and her hideous hair, those living venomous snakes, atop her beautiful face, was so terrifying that it would strike anyone who saw her into stone.

And it was that legend, among others, that Pylos thought to himself as the other tributes, all nine of them males, moaned and cursed their luck. He had heard at least two of the men whisper about knives they had hidden on themselves, in some vain vague hope of attacking the monster, and a few others whispered their own hope that if Medusa was indeed slain, then they could return home. Five of the men had intended brides back home, wherever that was; Pylos did not know and did not particularly care. He knew enough how he had come to be on this damned voyage; up until two days ago he had been a slave in a noble's house, and when the tribute bell rang and the traders came to collect the master's son, Pylos, wearing the clothes of that boy, had gone instead.

Such substitutions were allowed if the new tribute wasn't adverse to it. Seeing as his fate was sealed had he refused, Pylos had simply gone. Being a whipping boy for the noble's son had long since to bother him, and being a plaything of the boy had grown old. If nothing else it meant his first trip to sea, and the smell of the water, the scream of the far off gulls, the beauty just of the sound, was worth it.

Unfortunately due to his shackles and the confines of the bench he could not focus on those. The others whined too much.

But for now he relaxed, finally the others silent, and he let himself drift into an uneasy sleep. The captain, a rather worried man, had said a day ago that they would be near the drop-off point, and they were late. The poor man, no doubt, worried that he would be staying with the tribute as permanent statues too.

It was not the gulls screaming that woke him hours later; he wasn't sure how many hours but the air was chilled, and the shackles that had kept his wrists bound were thankfully gone. As were most of the men, though three kept close to him, whispering about the strangness of the place. The cold white and gray rocky shores, the many rocks jutting up from the cold bay. And statues, of course. Dozens of them, ranging from animals to humans frozen in terrified poses.

"She'll find us here," whimpered one of the men, keeping a hand on Pylos. "She'll find us here, I know she will, the others later maybe, but us for sure."

"Then she will. Just close your eyes," Pylos said softly, taking a careful seat on a patch of smooth sand. "There isn't much we can do."

Silence. Even the gulls were quiet, and the waves died down. Low tide, surmised Pylos, and the men with him kept quiet too.

He was aware that he was mentally drifting, eyes closed, but as a slave he had done that plenty too. Stories. Legends. Legends said that Medusa lived on a crop of islands far from any city or isle. Legends said that she was guarded or controlled two sisters called the Gorgons who were somehow more monstrous than she. Legends said that Medusa was a vile evil witch, and-

And legends had never specified what she or the Gorgons ate, but he looked up silently at the sudden rain of screams, high shrieks, and the three tribute men at his side were gone from it, their voices high and desperate, screeching like lambs being held by hawks.

The stench reached Pylos nearly before the unearthly howls did; whatever was making them was not human, and from the swamp stench of blood and rotten meat, it was either the Gorgons or all three sisters coming to the beach to feast. The other two tribute men, still screaming, splashed off the beach, trying to swim from the beasts. And Pylos simply lowered himself to all fours, and crawled carefully up the beach, away from the screams, the wails, the heavy thumps of bodies striking the sand or many statues. The further up the beach he crawled, keeping low to the sand, the more statues there were, and whatever beast was on the beach ripping through the other men did not pursue him.

He continued to crawl, keeping himself low to the ground, keeping his eyes shut, until his hands brushed into thick plant matter. Pushing his way through, he slipped off the beach and into greens, and hid until the only sounds from the beach were the loud gulls fighting over the remains of the tribute.

He woke to similar sounds, less gulls fighting, and more of simple waves crashing against the island, and slowly, carefully walked back down to the beach, careful of the statues with their outstretched arms and hands desperate to be saved. At times he had to crawl again, so thick were the statues, and nearly halfway down he heard the first soft hiss.

There he froze, waiting, breath frozen, and the hiss repeated, and then was silent. Slowly, carefully, as a man holding the finest wine goblet over a chasm as he walks across a slight bridge, he moved in a large semi-circle until he was sure he was low enough. A careful and ginger reach out, and his fingers did not touch sand, or another cold statue, but warmth. Warm skin. And his finger gingerly trailed up a mound to a familiar bump, and the soft sigh was all he needed to know.

He had found Medusa. Asleep on the beach, among the dead statues, and from the sound of her breathing, asleep. And the snakes that adorned her skull, he had no idea of the precise breed, but surely they were long enough to strike him where he hesitated on three. His fourth, of course, was a hand outstretched, and finger pressed to a very human breast.

In part he realized that that made sense. Some legends said that Medusa was a pure monster, with a snail tail instead of legs, with claws and bronze teeth. Some legends, of course, also stated that the Minotaur was just a man in a costume. Legends had a lot to answer for.

This was madness, but in the past few days Pylos had come to term with the fact that if he was mad, there were far worse things to be, and most of them decorated this island well.

He shifted himself closer, sitting at her side, and let his finger rub over that small nipple which hardened under his own hard finger. When there came no hissing, no angry snakes rearing for him, he leaned down, sucking the nipple into his mouth, his other hand freely stroking down her warm stomach, and down.

Part of him expected to find snakes there too, for legends never specified where Medusa was cursed with snakes instead of hair, but instead his fingers curled into a dark brush of crinkly hair, and the monster sighed again.

His mouth moved from one breast to the other, and then to her neck, carefully licking the sweat from her salty skin as he moved between her legs, human legs warm from the beach and sun, and though he supported his weight, her breathing altered; she was awake.

Instantly he pressed his face to her neck, voice tight. "My eyes are closed. If I am to die today, let me enjoy you first, my lady."

And her voice was tight, but with fear, and from lack of use; indeed it cracked with the force of tears. "Please...don't..."

"Don't?"

"Don't open your eyes. Don't, please."

"I know what will happen if I see you, but I do not care."

And before she could protest, before her voice could crack with a sob, her mouth was covered with his, and the monster cried out as his tongue opened her mouth, sliding in with ease. Her hands still warm from clutching the sand, dug into his arms, feeling, for once, a warm body and not a statue.

The kiss finally stopped as the hissing suddenly rose, but he did not move, keeping silent and still as one, then another, then another serpent flicked their tongues at him before withdrawing. They either sensed he meant no harm to their mistress or, in typical snake fashion, did not care unless something affected them.

One of his hands stroked down her side as his lips pressed over her neck. "What killed the other men in the tribute?"

"My...my sisters. The Gorgons."

"Then we'll have to be swift, won't we."

She gasped, this monster, and the snakes hissed as his questing hand parted her legs more, as he lifted himself up to press his fingers to her naked body, to the crux between her legs.

"Your snakes won't attack me."

"No," she echoed softly, arching her body slightly, one hand pressed as if locked onto his back, fingers digging into his warm skin, as if she had not felt another living person in ages. She had not.

He nodded his approval, slipping his clothes down and off. His fingers parted her folds, and he expected, despite her words, to feel the bite of any of those cursed snakes as one finger slid inside her tightness, lightly, gently stroking. At her sudden moan, a second finger joined as his thumb pressed to her clitoris, and Medusa cried out, writhing under him.

"You're so tight," he whispered against her breasts, his breath burning as he kissed and nipped over her. "Those poor fools should have kept their eyes closed. Even a monster needs company."

A broken sob was her reply, and his tongue parted her lips again to silence her; after a few more quick strokes, his fingers slid out, and he rested between her legs, letting her feel his thickness.

"Please," begged the monster.

"Yes?"

"Please....please keep your eyes closed."

He knew why, of course, and it was not just the stone reaction. Her body was shaking already, and she was wet, sopping soaking wet and desperate.

And, he noted as he prodded and pushed to enter her, part of her resisted still. The human part, the monster part, or simply because she as a monster was immortal, and it had been so long since she had felt a body that wasn't stone. The snakes rose; he felt their breath against him as he reached down, guiding himself into her.

"Medusa," he whispered against her throat, feeling another sob building there, and he bit there as he pushed in and she cried out, her wetness parting slowly, and the monster shook under him, trembling from this eternal invasion. Pylos gritted his teeth, straining himself as he tried to withdraw, couldn't, and with the snakes hissing louder, Medusa whimpering softly under him, he knew she was not virginal, but may as well have been from sheer tightness, and loneliness. No statue could pleasure a woman, monster or otherwise.

There on the beach, the sun blazing overhead, the gulls crying here and away, the ocean crashing close and far, atop the monster set to kill him by a mere look, Pylos bit her shoulder as one hand seized her hip, and the thrust was hard and deep, enough that Medusa screamed herself, arching up hard and with enough force to have thrown him away and off her, had Pylos not kept his grip with both hands, and slowly he pushed in entirely, feeling her body strain and jump against him frantically.

In the same instant he felt the first snake lash out, whizzing through the air...and before it struck his shoulder, a hand seized it, slamming it back to the beach; Medusa's arms rose up and fell on her writhing mass of snakes, pinning them down to the beach.

"Thank you," he whispered, and at her whimper, he kissed up and down her jawline, and began the deep hard thrusts he had been known for back in his master's daughter's bedroom. Withdrawing nearly his entire length before sinking in hard, tilting her hips up to accept each stroke, he moved slowly, and as her body began to accept him, as her whimpers faded, he withdrew entirely...only to push back in to the hilt, forcing a sharp gasp from her over and over.

And from the gasps, from her body squeezing down, and hotly jerking under his hands now sprawled over her stomach and breasts, pinning her to the sand, he began to stroke harder, withdrawing halfway, pushing in sharply, and his teeth worked over her hard nipples, over her hot neck, finally nibbling over her lips as the monster cried out, starting to spasm around him.

So close, so very close himself, and his voice was tight as he whispered her name, leaning in deeper and forcing her legs up and over his shoulders, the monster sobbing as he delved in deeply, fully, stretching her out. He whispered how beautiful she sounded, how tight she was, how good and clean and warm she smelled from the beach, the sand, the sun, her natural body smell, and his thrusts were harder now as he arched his back, pushing as deep as he could.

"Medusa."

A sharp cry was her response; she was close, so very close.

"Medusa, when I finish, I will open my eyes."

"No!" This cry was horrified and for a moment her peak seemed lost. "No, no, please, please don't, it, this...so lonely here-"

"Hush." He bit her lip, ignoring the snakes hissing frantically, her arms pinning them down, and when she protested again, the sound of tears in her voice, he slammed into her, forcing the denying words into a high scream, and he withdrew entirely, only to slam in again, and again, and within seconds she was back to her peak, legs kicking over his shoulders, and when she came the howl was as alien as the screams from the Gorgons, a torn and almost painful wail.

Her tightness, human, spasming so hard he almost screamed himself, and he dropped her legs to the sand, but managed one, two, three more sudden and hard pumps before he released, a steady stream of his essence, and as if he needed any more proof of her near eternal chastity, it was the second shriek as she climaxed again, and only then did he lean down to gently kiss her torn lips, and her arms rose, coming around his neck weakly.

And the snakes remained in the sand, exhausted too, hissing faintly, though none rose to strike him.

The monster Medusa began to weep, a steady helpless sound, her own eyes closed now, her fingers digging into the warm body above her, the thickness shrinking inside her, but the burning, the liquid fire of his release took a short eternity to fade, and only then when he was finished fully did he touch her face with one worn hand, turning her to face him.

"Look at me, Medusa."

And she opened her green eyes, human eyes, to stare into his. The man above her was not young and certainly not beautiful. He was no monster, but with his scarred face and neck, his hands missing a few fingers, the others worn and aged, he was no one worthy either. His long muscled body was so not from luck but from years of hard work, slave labor. And his smile was of missing and chipped teeth.

And his eyes were white.

She stared at him, waiting for the curse, the poison to take effect, and he kissed her several times before she realized the truth. Overcome, caught between crying and laughing, she broke into tears, and this time as he covered her face with his kisses, the snakes curled peacefully in the sand.

After another session of hard thrusts and biting kisses, she led him to where she and her sisters lived; the Gorgons could not touch the man for fear of Medusa, and Pylos had her once more that day, falling asleep in her beautiful monster form. Still twitching in her as he fell asleep, Medusa crying softly in her pleasure still, he slept easily, keeping her body atop his, and her snakes sprawled over his arms and neck, resting too. He had no qualms or fears about being bitten by them or the Gorgons.

It would be another four years before another tribute of men and women were left on the island. Every one of those ten would never leave the beach, forever to live as statues. Despite Pylos' warnings, none of them could keep their eyes closed. Or perhaps, he thought as he rested alongside his monster, they took a long look at him, and thought him immune, so they would be as well.

The fools. He had studied each of them after with careful touches, and Medusa took care to describe them to him. But she was always careful never to describe too much, as if worried he would feel insulted. Those times he would laugh, stroke her snakes, and remind her that he had been blind from birth.