Promethea

Promethea

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A full moon shined bright in the starry sky, casting eerie shadows over the sleeping town, while also providing much needed light to a painter's workhouse, which was more of a barn that was converted to meet his purpose.

Hunched over near the canvas, the tired painter continued his work. His body had grown frail with neglect, his frazzled hair and skin colored with paint and grime. The strong addictive smell of the chemicals in his paint drowned out the stench of his week-old clothes and unwashed body.

Though physically tired, the painter had never been more alive in spirit. He was finally reaching the end of his Great Work, with the last painting nearing completion. Thirty two paintings dedicated to capturing the multi-faceted glory of the Goddess of love and art: Promethea.

Having come across stories of the Goddess at an old bookshop years ago, the painter (who was a young man who hadn't picked up a paintbrush yet) couldn't help but develop an obsession. She was so resplendent, even though she was only lines of text in a dusty book. He could feel her warmth through the words in a way no real woman ever had made him feel.

He worshipped her so much that his love turned into devotion, and shortly after, into a desire to serve her.

One night soon after, she had come to him in a dream, and they had spent the most magical of nights together. He had vague but unforgettable memories of serving her sexually. Ever since then he had sworn his heart to her. He also swore off all other women, saving himself exclusively for Promethea.

He scoured England to find historical books, stories, art, off-hand mentions, anything that would let him be in her presence, if only for a fleeting moment. The latest record he could find was over a hundred years old, but she had appeared throughout history. He could trace Promethea's origins back to Egypt, where she was the adopted daughter of an Egyptian God.

Whenever she appeared in history, she took different forms, although always as a beautiful woman. The only thing that remained constant was her name, Promethea.

She appeared almost exclusively only to artists, dreamers and people with imagination beyond their time.

He soon knew that to be truly be with her, he needed to call her out himself. That's when he started learning how to paint. But he dared not attempt to draw her magnificence until his skill was good enough.

His rise to fame was fast, with people all over England coming to see and bid for the chance to own one of his paintings. Some of his abstract masterpieces even made their way across the seas to the Americas.

But the paintings of Promethea were for his eyes alone. They were a work of pure passion and honest desire, unbridled by financial motivations. After the first twenty Promethea paintings were done, ten years had passed, and the artist decided that he no longer had time to paint other subjects. He abandoned his name and fame and moved to a quieter town to dedicate more time for the love of his life.

Sure enough, in another short two years he found himself in the present day, putting the finishing touches on his last offering. The last one was the biggest and most perfect of them all. It depicted Promethea alone in a moonlit garden balcony looking back at the viewer of the painting.

He paused for a moment, knowing well what the end signified. If his work wasn't enough to manifest Promethea into his reality, then this life was no longer worth living. He would end it all right there tonight, surrounded by the paintings of his love. Either way, he knew that his desire would be answered - in this life or the next.

The fear of his impending death was but a whisper compared to his honest belief that Promethea would appear to him when he finished his Work.

Soon, the final strokes were done.

The night grew quiet as he stepped back to look at his final masterpiece. With a sigh of relief and excitement, he realized he was finished. His heartbeat rose, pounding loud in the quiet night as he looked around expectantly. His thirty two paintings stared back at him with desire and love. She had so many doors to enter.

A couple of minutes passed by before the painter realized that nothing had happened yet.

"Promethea, my Goddess. Please accept my life's work and grace me with your corporeal form!" the painter stated passionately, looking at his paintings. But nothing happened. He waited. But soon, he realized that nothing was happening.

"Well?!!! Am I still not good enough!!" he paced the room angrily and shouted wildly into the night, only to be greeted by the silence of his paintings. Some birds could be heard flying away, scared off by the loud voice in the night.

The painted couldn't believe it. He knew in his heart - he knew - that this would have some effect. But now, he couldn't help but feel doubt creep into his mind.

He broke down into tears, knowing that Promethea had rejected him. Years of fatigue suddenly crashed down on his frail body, bringing him to the ground on a heap. If he lived through this pain, his next paintings would be legendary.

But the painter had no desire to so much as touch a paintbrush anymore. Realizing he was still desperately clutching his brush he angrily threw it away.

Time had come to use another tool instead. Shaking with the effort, he managed to pull himself up and go to the pile of clothes where he slept. He fished around in his item chest to bring out his ceremonial dagger.

It was rusty - he had never used it, saving it for one purpose alone, ever since the day he started painting. And he had never cleaned it, thinking that he would never have to use it.

He got into position kneeling on the ground, making sure all his paintings were within his field of vision. He held the dagger in both hands, raising it above his head.

He closed his eyes and uttered one last prayer to his heart's captor, "Promethea my Goddess. If my offerings were not good enough, please accept my life instead. I lived in love with you, and I'll happily die for your love."

He brought the dagger down to his chest in one quick motion, fully intending to pierce through.

A bright light suddenly washed over the entire barn, blinding him through his closed eyes. It made him falter, grazing the size of his torso with the blade rather than piercing his heart.

The pain did not even register as he opened his eyes widely to see the love of his life hovering before him. None of his paintings had come close to doing justice to her beauty, the artist realized. He felt shame in his audacious thinking that he could paint her.

She shone with a brightness that seemed to physically hit him. He dared not look away from her magnificence despite how it was blinding him still.

Promethea had the kindest of smiles as her brightness faded to a bearable level. "Put thy dagger away, dear one. It is thy love in living that hast given me life," she said in the voice of angels.

The artist felt his dagger slide from his hand and broke into tears once again, unable to believe that he was gazing upon Promethea herself. In the background he noticed that all his paintings were now devoid of their primary subject, turning into empty landscapes instead.

Those paintings could still go on to fetch a pretty price even without her in it.

Promethea was cloaked in bright-red silk ribbons that moved about like a flame even as she floated motionlessly. The painter had drawn her in those magical clothes in the last of his paintings.

She was completely naked under the dress, glimpses of her perfect breasts visible as her clothes moved about her. Her whitish-wheatish skin glistened in the dim light of the barn, the shape of her body silhouetted through her dress in the moonlight shining through a crack in the roof. Her caduceus staff glowed white and blue, floating behind her.

Shock and embarrassment came over the painter as he looked around at his current lodging, and at his own unwashed self. This was no way to welcome a Goddess. He wished that he had taken the time to bathe himself before his final piece was done.

She still had her kind smile as she slowly floated down, landing on the unkempt floor of the barn. As soon as she did, her radiance turned itself all the way down.

Her floaty clothes turned themselves to something the painter hadn't seen any other women wear in the 18th century - it was a little too revealing.

She was wearing a colorful t-shirt and loose white pants, which women never did during that time - nor did men for that matter. For the uninitiated, this would now just be an incredibly beautiful woman who was dressed weird - but a human woman. Her clothes still had an iridescent red shade to them.

"It's really You!" he managed to rasp out. Speaking in her presence was difficult. It felt like shouting at a waterfall.

"Thou art correct," Promethea said with a smile.

"You.. uh.. Thou speakest like my ancestors once did!" the artist exclaimed. He couldn't hold back his curiosity even when he was so speechless.

Promethea paused for a moment as if doing some calculations in her head.

"Oh you're right. How 'bout now? I guess Shakespeare was well before your time. Is this cool?" Promethea asked, suddenly changing her language.

"This is stranger still, but I understand you well enough my Goddess!" the painter rasped out, amazed at her proficiency in language.

"Yeah you gotta forgive me, the last man I appeared for was a hundred years in your future," Promethea shrugged.

The painter had so many questions upon hearing that, but he also found himself falling in love with her all over again, her strange speak only turning him on more.

He reached out almost as if to touch her, but shrunk his hand back remembering how perfect she was and how dirty he was.

Promethea seemed unbothered as she gently grabbed his hand.

"I'm here only for you," she whispered back and moved his hand on to her hip. She gently pulled him up from the ground and proceeded to slowly dance with him. A hauntingly beautiful melody started playing out of nowhere and echoed off the walls of the dirty barn.

The painter closed his eyes, and wept silently into her shoulder. Abstaining from sex for a dozen years, he didn't know what to do in the presence of a woman, much less a Goddess.

He could feel the pain as years of atrophied muscles seem to come back to life, filling him with an energy he hadn't felt since his young days.

She pulled away from the dance after a few minutes, and the painter was shocked to find that he was now clean, his clothes returned to their original white color and his long hair flowing smooth, freed from its dreadlocks. He touched the side of torso to find that his knife wound had healed over in a matter of seconds. She smiled at him again, filling him with happiness indescribable.

"Well, are you ready to show me your love?" she asked him, gently lifting his chin up to look at her.

The painter always knew that he wanted to serve her. In every painting, he would picture her in his mind as his Mistress. He was ready to undergo the suffering of entire lifetimes to satisfy her every whim.

"I wish to serve You my Goddess! In... in ways I can't speak in Your presence!", the painter fumbled as he realized there was no way he could utter his depraved fantasies to Promethea. He sank to his knees, cursing himself for being such a pervert.

Promethea frowned but had a look of unbound forgiveness as she walked closer to him. "I know what you want. You want me to hurt you, and enjoy hurting you. You want me to smother you out with my weight. That is what will make you happy. Am I wrong?" Promethea asked, again with her knowing smile.

The painter gulped. Hearing his inner desires spoken out loud in her presence made him cringe. It didn't make it easier that he hadn't uttered the words himself.

Promethea didn't mind though. She wordlessly pulled down her pants a bit, revealing her womanhood to him. The artist had never dared to paint her tastelessly naked, choosing always to depict her provocatively instead. Nevertheless, he had spent days dreaming what her sex looked like.

Now that it was in front of him, he leapt at it like a moth towards fire. The moment his tongue touched her, his mind exploded with brightness again, blinding him from the inside. There was no more need for shame, his Goddess had already forgiven and accepted him - and his perversions.

She tasted like the nectar of the gods, full and wet as if she was just as excited to meet him as he was. The artist put his hands around her, hugging her voluptuous haunches while trying to push his tongue deeper inside her.

Her vagina was exactly as he had imagined it, and he had years of practice in his imagination, guiding his tongue through her secrets in his mind. That imaginary experience paid off, because as he continued his work, Promethea uttered a single syllable of pleasure that was so arousing that the artist knew he could die right then, and his life would still be complete.

Promethea put her hands on his head, gently pulling him away from her womanhood when she realized that he had stopped breathing in his feverish efforts to please her.

"Be kinder to yourself, love," Promethea whispered and bent down to kiss him on the forehead.

The artist was in shock to be suddenly back in the real world. Like a newborn babe, he gasped as if breathing for the first time.

"Relax, I'm not going anywhere, dear one," Promethea whispered, gently running her hands through his hair.

He blinked and opened his eyes again to find that suddenly there was big comfy bed on the other end of the room. To his shock he realized that the bed was the one from one of his favorite paintings of her.

Promethea tilted her head in the direction of it invitingly. Knowing full well that she could float there, the artist quickly requested, "May I carry You there?"

Promethea laughed lightly before telling him, "As you wish."

The artist hurriedly got on all fours, his heart pumping. Promethea gracefully sat down on his back in an angled position, moving one of her folded legs on his back while the other one hung over the side lazily. She rested a hand on his shoulders for support. She was a being of light, and it was almost difficult to comprehend carrying her.

But the artist felt the real weight of a young woman on his back, his body shivering with goosebumps where her bottom touched his back.

His weak limbs shivered with the effort of holding up her weight, and his motor muscles cried as he tried to walk with her on his back. The ground hadn't been swept for months and the debris poked into his hands and knees. But every bit of pain registered only as pleasure in his brain, knowing he was doing it all for his love.

But he couldn't help but make occasional gasps of pain. Promethea laughed lightly when she heard his grunts, her laugh sounding like a tinkle in the night.

"You created me to enjoy your pain, so don't blame me for enjoying it!" she chuckled. The painter had no words for the pleasure he felt hearing that.

Once at the bed, Promethea floated off him. Scrambling to his legs, the artist looked around to find that she was already on the bed, relaxing in the same pose as in one of his portraits. her clothes unwrapped themselves from her, sliding away like something alive. she beckoned him over tantalizingly.

"I- I only want to serve You my Lady. I-I'm not worthy of --" he trailed off, hesitant to get on the bed.

"I already know what you want, remember?" Promethea whispered, again smiling at him with forgiveness. Could she really accept him despite his sick desires?

"H-How can you know?" the painter whispered back.

"Well, we're lovers, aren't we? You know everything about me, and I know everything about you. I've watched you from so many windows..." Promethea whispered.

She beamed and sat up straight, drawing her knees to her chin. "Now come here already!" she continued, playfully gesturing at him. As she did, both their clothes pretty much dissolved into nothing, and he found himself - and Promethea - fully naked.

The painter muffled his tone of surprise, because he was too mesmerized by seeing Promethea fully naked for the first time - even in his imagination. Her beautiful supple breasts looked they belonged to a 20 year old, although her behavior was of someone much more mature than even him, who was an aging adult at almost 40 years old.

As he climbed on the bed and crawled towards her, she opened her legs, figuratively blinding him with her magnificence once again. Mesmerized, he crawled over to it, moving his face in closer to service her. She held his head and pushed it inwards, closing her legs around his neck to keep it there.

Her leg hug made him feel that eerie feeling that, for the first time in his life, he was exactly where he needed to be.

He went to work, slowly exploring her womanhood. He kissed around it, making his way to tickle and part her folds.

Promethea giggled at his slow pace. But she was in no hurry.

She felt ticklish at the way he was going after all the wrong areas and couldn't help but giggle, holding him stronger with her legs as she did so.

He eventually found the courage to venture deeper inside her. He had abstained for so many years that this night felt like the first time. But his innate reflexes guided him true as he found that he was able to elicit joyful moans when he tickled her clit with his tongue in the right way.

As much as he loved this, he wished he could do it from under her instead. He wanted to bear her weight.

As if Promethea read his mind she gently pushed his head away and stood up on her knees and looked down at him with a naughty smile.

Words needn't be said. The painter quickly turned onto his back, sliding his head under her legs. He looked up to see her glistening womanhood nested between her proud thighs and couldn't help but hold his breath in wonder.

He was also witnessing her butt for the first time. The painter couldn't believe that he was actually staring at her unclothed butt. He had never dared to paint her so blatantly, but her butt was always in his mind and his dreams. Seeing it in person made him feel blinded all over again.

Promethea lowered herself enough that she was now resting gently on his face, her curves slowly melding onto the curves of his own face with just the right amount of stickiness.

Contact with her skin sent electricity sparkling through his face. Her apple shaped butt was now on his forehead and eyes, ever so gently pushing his head down into the duck feather pillow.

She felt so warm and comforting, her weight covering him like a blanket in the cold night. His mouth was right where he needed it to be, allowing his tongue to traverse the intricate pathways of her womanhood better.

He went to work again like his life depended on it. Promethea uttered even more gasps of contentment thanks to the better angle of attack.

She deliberately lifted his arms outwards, folding her legs under them so that his arms were now sandwiched between her legs and thighs. She leaned forward from this position so that she could present an even better angle for him to worship her. This also allowed his nose to slide up between her butt cheeks, resting in the warm depths of her butt.

She folded his hands over her thighs, encouraging him to grip them. The painter held on to them like a life buoy.

The painter was now truly in heaven. Each moan of pleasure or each little laugh that he would elicit from her gave him several lifetimes worth of satisfaction.

He kept forgetting to breathe, his nose firmly closed between her cheeks, and his mouth too busy pleasing her. Promethea pulled away from his face, only to find that he moved his head up right alongside, never once stopping his worship. Promethea playfully pushed him down and away from her, forcing him to breathe.