Medusa's Trophy

Author's forward: In Greek mythology and in almost all its modern manifestations, Medusa is a straight-up monster. This story portrays a different perspective. I hope you enjoy it.

All characters are over 18 (especially Medusa)

****

The slave winced as he stumbled along the stony gorge, following his master. After a fortnight trekking over this misty, barren island, the carrying strap of the slave's heavy pack was nearly as red as the weeping sores on his shoulder. His thick callouses from years of carrying heavy burdens had softened in the damp air, and the rawhide of the pack's strap had chafed those softened callouses down to painful ulcers. The slave's other shoulder was worse, so he hoisted the clanking pack with his rough hands instead. That hurt too. Such was the life of a Helot.

His master stood at a bend in the gorge, a statue of the Spartan ideal, his skin unblemished by whippings, his broad shoulders and corded muscles sculpted from birth to dominate and kill.

His master didn't even glance back as the slave caught up. "I found it. The Gorgon's lair. Time to don my armor."

The warrior shrugged off his polished shield and planted his spear by its butt-spike. The slave hurried to open the pack. His master spread his arms and legs as the slave went to work.

As he fastened the warrior's greaves, the slave looked at the place they'd sought since the full moon. At the bottom of the gorge, the gurgling stream pushed between the soft, yielding sandbanks into a dark fissure where two marble ridges met beneath a round, stony hill. If the Gorgon's lair was anywhere on this gods-forsaken island, this had to be it. Wisps of steam rose from the top of the crack, and from the rocks above, as if it were --

-- A sharp crack brought searing pain to the side of his face. "Pay attention, Helot!"

The slave turned his back on the dark, steaming entrance, ignoring the swelling welt on his cheek and trying to keep any blood from smearing the bronze armor as he focused on each step. Breastplate, bracers, and helm, each piece had a specific ritual. Any deviation meant pain. His master sighed, closed his eyes, and settled into his own ritual: a prayer of sorts.

"Look here, Aphrodite. I've found her just as you showed me. I'll kill her just as you bade me. Then you'll raise me just as you promised. From the depths of Poseidon's seas to the high throne of Zeus, all shall know that I avenged you. I shall take my place in your bed and -- "

-- The slave tried to ignore the prayer and the growing bulge beneath his master's loincloth. Soon enough, the warrior would go in, meet his end, and then the slave would -- what? Run? Hide?

No. He'd starve on this barren isle, and there was no way off but the Spartan ship due back at the next full moon. He'd never be free.

The slave buckled the sword belt around his master's waist. He lifted the polished shield and strapped it to the warrior's arm. Then he handed over the spear. The arming rituals were complete; the Spartan warrior stood ready to fight and kill.

The warrior looked down at his slave. "Light a torch, Helot. You're leading the way."

The Helot gaped. "Master, the oracle appointed you alone, not --"

-- The side of the spear caught him in the ribs, knocking him flat. "You'll do as I say, or I'll kill you. Slowly. Now get up and light a torch."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The slave shivered in the water, though he wasn't cold. A bubbling heat from below warmed the current, which had slowed to a crawl as it deepened to just above their waists. The slave's mouth went dry as his torch's trembling light revealed the horrors within the cave.

A dozen grotesque statues, half-submerged, lined the passageway. The life-size sculptures were all well-built men much like his master. They hung from the walls, their hands bound by some translucent fabric to spikes in the wall. They seemed to strain against their bonds with muscles tensed, faces contorted, and mouths twisted in eternal, silent screams.

The slave nearly screamed himself as he felt a light prod of the spearpoint in his back. His master hissed, "Eyes down! One look at her face, and you'll join these statues."

His master's head bent over the shield, using the polished surface to see. He'd been practicing the trick for weeks. The Helot had no shield or weapon: just the torch.

Keeping the torch aloft, the slave groped under the warm, gentle flow, feeling the smooth, slick walls as he pushed deeper into the tunnel. The walls widened, the water shallowed, and he entered a wide, well-lit cavern. As he left the water, his feet found a paved walkway. There were other torches in here, but he didn't dare look around. He held his torch high and walked slowly forward toward one of the lights--

--The slave bumped into a stone column, heard a hiss, and felt piercing pain in his hand. He wrenched his hand back, and a snake flew into the water with his torch, which snuffed out in a sizzling splash. Then his master cried out. Forgetting himself, the Helot looked up and saw his master fall next to a pool of water, grasping at a snake on his ankle. Then the light shimmered, and the cave seemed to tilt. As the slave slunk down to the water, he saw the two snakes slither toward a single point in a nearby pool, where they joined a small mound serpents rising from the water. The Helot's sight dimmed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The pain in his palm brought him back. Where was he? The cavern? A glance down showed that he was sitting on a stool, his back to a post, his hands bound behind it. The cords were soft, but unyielding. Testing them hurt, though; he felt the nub of something poking out of his wounded hand. One of the snake's fangs had broken off and stuck in his palm. He started to look --

-- Then he heard soft footsteps walking by, and closed his eyes fast. The Gorgon.

A coquettish, almost musical giggle echoed faintly in the steamy cavern, slightly dulled by its echoes. "A fallen hero. My favorite."

Her words grew clearer; was she facing him now? "And his... companion? Servant?"

His master's voice was rough. "My slave. A Helot."

"Ah." The voice swelled a little as her feet padded toward the slave. "I've never had two at once before." Her voice dropped to a whisper in the Helot's ear. "Be still" The slave squeezed his eyes shut as a soft gag pressed his tongue down and his cheeks back. "I'll get to you later."

behind his back, the slave drew the fang out, then balled the wounded hand in a tight fist to stop the bleeding. Her voice grew duller again. "Now, warrior, tell me, Who are you?"

His master grunted. "A Spartan."

"Welcome to my home, Spartan. Who sent you?"

His master groaned in effort for a few seconds -- was he tied up too? -- Then he sighed. "Aphrodite."

The slave felt the broken fang. Still sharp. His uninjured hand went to work at the bindings. Poke, scratch, scrape.

"Ah! the love goddess. Still jealous of me, yet she keeps sending me her lovers. Spartan, you're mine now. You may have come to honor her, but soon, you'll be honoring me. You'll be part of my shrine, eternally testifying to the lies, weakness, and wickedness of the gods."

The master's angry grunts mixed with soft thumps. The Gorgon laughed. "Are you frightened? I don't blame you. You did come to murder me, after all. But don't worry, I won't force you to look. You'll look because you'll want to."

Seeing his Spartan master humbled was worth risking death.

The slave opened his eyes,

And stared.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

About six paces away on the far side of a stream in the cavern floor, his master lay fully armored upon a cushioned, grey-blue bed. The Spartan's thrashing hands were tied to stakes above his head, his feet bound together and tied to a third stake. The slave sat somewhere between where his master's feet pointed and the side of his master, allowing the slave to see his master's armored head jerked from side to side. At any other time, that would have held the Helot's full attention. But the slave also saw her.

She lounged next to his master on the bed, her back to the Helot, utterly naked. Her green skin looked almost painted, but then he saw its fine scales and patterned textures. Smooth, long legs were folded and tucked next her round backside, and she rested on one arm. The rich curves of her hips, bottom, and waist ran up her arched back to round shoulders and hinted at more tantalizing shapes out of sight.

Her hair -- could it be called that? -- hung down, and yet didn't quite hang. At first glance, it looked like thick, tapering braids running down aside her gorgeous body. The braids, however, were smooth snakes of varying thicknesses. These hair-serpents shared her exotic skin, and subtle undulations slowly worked in concert along their lengths, swaying in sinuous harmony with each other, each ending with a snake head.

The slave almost didn't notice when his master stopped thrashing, but his hand continued its work on the bindings as he drank in the sight. Poke, scratch, scrape. The bindings felt no different.

The Spartan turned his head towards the Gorgon, eyes shut tight, and snorted. "You're a cursed liar. A monster."

Her snake-hair rippled as her voice rang in clear laughter. "A Cursed liar? Do the priests still tell my story, Spartan? Aphrodite claimed to be the most beautiful. Then I flowered into womanhood. I dedicated myself in virgin service to Athena. But Poseidon thought me fairest, so he raped me in Athena's temple, and Athena cast me out. When I refused to care for the sea god's bastard, the gods cursed me. Do you know why they cursed me?"

The Gorgon bent down, her lithe fingers undoing the knots the slave had tied in a heedless mockery of the usual order and ritual. The helm rolled off the bed and down the cavern floor into a pool beyond with a splash. She sniffed. "The gods cursed me for vanity, because they are vain."

More knots loosened, and the Gorgon pulled off the breastplate, tossing it to the cavern floor with a loud clang. "The gods cursed me for defiling their temple, but they defiled me!"

She leaned over and reached across his master's body, her serpent hair sweeping across his chest. His master shivered as one bracer fell away, then another. "The gods cursed me for cruelty, yet they send their servants to murder me in my seclusion."

His master sneered. "Torture, then. I saw your other victims. Get on with it, monster."

Poke, scratch, scrape. The slave pulled at his bonds. No difference. Poke, scratch, scrape.

She moved down the bed and loosened the straps on his master's greaves. They slid to the floor. Then she crawled up and settled on his master, straddling the warrior's belly as he squirmed under her. "You still believe their lies, don't you, Spartan? Let's see, what do they say about me?"

She leaned forward across his wriggling master, picked up a small jar from just out of sight and poured oil onto the Spartan's chest. "Did they tell you I'm so hideous, one look will turn you to stone?"

While she massaged the oil into his chest, she eased her hips back, pressing her backside against his loins. "Did they tell you I'm disgusting?"

His master's resistance faded, and the taut muscles relaxed. Her hands massaged the oil into his shoulders and neck. "Did they tell you I'm cruel?"

Now her glistening hands slid across his master's belly, his chest, his shoulders, and up his arms as she leaned forward, resting her chest on his. The warrior offered no more resistance, but kept his head to the side and his eyes screwed shut. As the Spartan turned his face away, her lips lowered to his master's ear. The slave just barely heard her whisper, "Is this cruel?"

His master's hips and legs squirmed anew, but was this aversion or desire? She sat up again and slid off to his side. The Spartan's breath became ragged as she ran her oiled hands into his loins. "Is this disgusting?"

His master sputtered, "I -- what -- "

-- The warrior gave a small cry as her hands found his manhood. "Oh, the gods were right about one thing, though." With a few sharp tugs, the sword belt and loincloth came off, and she flung them away. The scabbarded sword clattered near the feet of the slave. The Spartan lay naked, his growing arousal plain to see. "I can turn you to stone. Let me show you."

Three thinner lengths of her hanging snake-hair curled away from the others and wrapped around his master's manhood. The warrior gasped as they constricted and relaxed. With another dribbling from the small jar, all glistened with oil. Unbidden, the warrior's hips began moving with the pulsing constrictions of the coiled snake-hairs.

She leaned over the Spartan, her knowing fingers exploring and massaging the warrior's tight muscles. Then her head's snakes uncoiled, leaving behind a turgid phallus standing tall, openly betraying its owner. "You see, hero of Aphrodite? Hard as a stone. Shall I continue?"

His master's face flushed, his brow furrowed. "No -- More!"

Her throaty laugh was music to the slave. "More? So be it!"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bending forward, her head lowered towards his loins and a few more more snakes squirmed to attend his master's manhood. The rest hung down, obscuring the details of her efforts from the Helot as her serpented head rose and fell. Her curving form blocked almost everything else. The slave could only see his master's legs as they twitched and twisted, and his curling toes. But he wasn't watching his master.

No longer turned away from the slave, the Gorgon's body undulated in profile as she worked. She was a perfect harmony of form and motion: her back bowing and arching, her hips rolling, and her proud, full bosoms swaying together. No Athenian statue could capture such a figure in stillness, and no mortal dancer could capture such grace in movement. She was voluptuous, yet athletic, curving, yet lithe. Tied to his post, the slave sat bewitched, transfixed by the unearthly, raw allure of the Gorgon.

Even in his reverie, his hands persisted at the bonds. Poke, scratch, scrape. They remained unyielding, and the slave knew his plight was hopeless. Even if he broke free and took up his master's sword, she or her snakes would kill him. Whether he broke his bonds or no, the Helot knew he'd never escape, but stubbornness or the life habits of labor without hope kept him at it. In any event, it was hard to care about his prospects with the astonishing sight unfolding in front of him.

Under her ministrations, his master moaned with pleasure between ragged, uneven breaths, yet she kept the warrior's satisfaction at bay, now slowing, now renewing. Finally, as he neared the cusp of his zenith, she stopped and pulled away, leaving the Spartan to vainly thrust his loins into empty air.

The warrior roared. "Damn it, woman!"

She stretched out on her side, lying beside the Spartan. A single leg brushed over the warrior's, her pointed toes and knee slithering slowly up and down his master's bound legs. "Woman? You called a monster."

His master stammered, unable to find the words. "You -- I...want..."

Her leg hooked around his, and she pulled herself against his side. Her serpent-covered head lay upon his shoulder as her hand cradled his loins. "You want me, don't you? You came here to slay me with a thrust of your spear. And now you want to lie with me, to take me as a woman? Do you know who I am?"

"You -- you are a -- a Gorgon of --"

"-- I am Medusa!" She cried. The warrior had no answer, and she pulled herself fully atop him now, loins to loins, chest to chest. Her thighs splayed out, her knees anchoring astride the warrior as she slid forward to whisper in his ear. "The gods told you to kill me. So thrust in that spear, Spartan. Go on. I'll help."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She slid back, and the slave saw his master's manhood push between her soft, yielding folds into the dark fissure where the smooth ridges of her legs met beneath the round hill of her backside. She moved like a wave in the surf, gliding down before swelling, rolling and breaking against his loins, then flowing back away. His master tried to buck his hips -- to throw her off or couple more vigorously? -- but gradually, the warrior relaxed, surrendering to the slow, tantalizing ebb and flow of her movement.

Medusa made little sighs as each undulation of her hips rocked onto his manhood, her serpentine hair rippling around the two. "Mmm. yes. Not bad, Spartan. I can -- hmm -- see why Aphrodite chose you."

His master's fingers and toes curled into tense hooks, as if to hold on to something, anything, even air. Little by little, his master began rolling his hips up to meet hers. Then his voice joined hers in a lustful moan.

Medusa gave a mocking gasp."Why Spartan, are you -- ooh -- enjoying this?"

His master fell silent, but his loins still rolled up to meet each crest of her undulations.

"You are! -- Oh yes! -- you are!"

The warrior's voice growled. "Shut up, woman!"

Medusa's pace picked up slightly "Are you -- ahh -- afraid they'll find out? -- Mmm! -- hero of the gods -- unnh -- mating with their enemy? -- Ohh! -- What will they say?"

His master's voice wavered. "I -- I don't -- "

Her pace picked up more" -- You don't -- mmmh! -- care, do you?"

"Nnn! -- no."

Her rolling waves broke harder against him now, and his master's thrusts matched them with increasing passion. "Yes! You are -- ahh! -- so close now, Spartan! -- Mmm! -- So close! Now tell me -- ohh! -- who do you want? -- mmmh! -- Medusa, or Aphrodite?"

"I -- uh..."

She paused, holding them both still. "Say it, Spartan! Say it or it's over!"

His master's voice was quiet. "I want... you." He tried to resume his urgent thrusts, but barely swayed her.

She pushed up from the supine warrior, almost sitting, arching her back, her hands and serpentine hair pressing down on his chest. "Not enough, Spartan! Say my name! Who do you want?"

"I want... Medusa."

She resumed with a teasing, slow, stroking pace. "Who do you choose, Spartan? -- Mmmm! -- The gods, or Medusa? Say it!"

"I choose Medusa."

She threw back her head, her serpent hair whipping onto her back as she cried out, "Shout it, hero! -- Ohhh! -- Let Olympus hear your choice!"

"MEDUSA! MEDUSA! I CHOOSE MEDUSA!"

Leaning forward, she grasped his master's head, turning his face to hers as their loins crashed together again and again in frantic coupling. His master cried out in wordless, breathless passion. Her serpent hair rippled out in every direction with each heaving stroke, every end tasting the moment, hissing in triumph. Together, they rose in a final, stormy crescendo, and Medusa's voice rose above it in descant, crying "Yes, Spartan! -- Mmmhh! -- Take me! Finish me! -- Ohhh! -- Sate your lust!-- Yesss! -- Now look on your prize, hero! -- OHHH! -- Give in! Feast your eyes on ME! YEESSS!"

His master's hips never came down from his climactic thrust. A final ecstatic shudder rippled through Medusa. Panting, she slumped down upon the statue that had been the Spartan, and all her hair-serpents slumped down as well. All but one. That snake stared at the slave unblinking.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Medusa's ragged breath slowed. She slid forward off her latest trophy. The snake kept watch on the slave behind her as she stepped into a pool on the far side of the bed and washed herself, her hands running over her exquisite form as it glistened in the torchlight.

His former master's body lay frozen in place. With a glance, the Helot understood. The Spartan would join the others in the hallway, another monument in Medusa's shrine of defiance against the gods. He'd thought her victims had died in agony. Now he knew they'd succumbed at their zeniths of lust and pleasure, unable to resist a look at their temptress, all piety and reason lost in their torrid mating with Medusa.