Promethea

"If you die of suffocation, who else in this world can please me?" she asked accusingly, turning her head upside down to look at him between her legs, her long black hair cascading down to tickle his penis, making it even harder if that was possible.

The painter realized his selfishness and immediately started apologizing.

"Don't apologize. If you love me, take care of yourself and do the Work!" she said admonishingly before looking away from him.

She then used her hands to spread her butt cheeks, exposing the painter to the infinite abyss that rested at the center.

He felt a strong pull from it, as if it was trying to pull his entire being inside.

Indeed, he felt his mind and spirit being consumed by it as she sat back down, covering his face again.

The world didn't exist anymore, there was only her. Being under her in servitude was a primal feeling that pre-dated humans even. The painter's tongue still continued its work, years of mental practice having made the effort as easy as breathing.

As Promethea's pleasure climbed, so did she relax more on the painter's face. She looked down at the painter's manhood, which had stood erect since the moment she had appeared to him.

Being the Goddess of Love, Promethea didn't want to be selfish. She reached forward and gently took his manhood in her hand. Her fingers snaked around his penis, finding the right places to grip it. The painter felt shocked, he was not worthy!

The very grip was enough to send the painter to the highest peaks of orgasm. As the peak finally fizzled out, he felt shame for not lasting even a second - and for coming before his Mistress!

A dozen years of abstinence had taken away his self-control. But Promethea laughed it off, taking it as a compliment.

She leaned back so that she was once again sitting on his face with some weight.

"Is it my turn now?" she asked cheekily from above him. The painter had never stopped servicing her, but realized that he needed to up his game. He started licking her faster, using his arms to pull her legs down harder on his face. Promethea laughed lightly and indulged him, pulling her legs out from under his arms and putting them on his stomach instead.

Now all her weight was directly on his face, pushing it hard down into the pillow. Knowing it might be hard for her to balance, the painter instinctively offered up his arms for her to rest her elbows on.

But Promethea had perfect form and needed no help. She gently coerced his hands back over her thighs instead.

She had started growing wetter with pleasure and sweat, and his nose slid in all the way to the seemingly bottomless abyss between her cheeks. Despite having ejaculated moments ago, the artist found himself getting hard again. To be honest, the painter found it difficult to please her with his tongue now. The pathways had cramped up, his mouth fixed in position by her weight.

But he still managed to artlessly thrust his tongue in and out, doing his best to hit the right areas. The weight combined with his desperate techniques was definitely bringing Promethea closer to orgasm.

She started making rougher noises of pleasure from above, gently moving herself around on his face. His nose was now rubbing smoothly along the inside of her cheeks, while his tongue continued to serviced her.

Soon Promethea's breathing started growing heavier, as she seemed to sit even harder on his face. The artist pulled her down on his face even harder, knowing that sitting on him was pleasing her.

But he also wanted to stick his tongue in another orifice - one his nose already had the pleasure of knowing.

Once again, it was as if Promethea had read his mind.

She pulled away quickly, and turned herself around, settling on his stomach.

"No need to rush things my love." she panted, taking his tired head in her hands, although the painter could feel the pheromones from her, being so close to orgasm. It took restraint for her to pull away. He wanted nothing more than to go back to pleasing her.

But being the Goddess of love and art, Promethea knew that hurrying was a fool's game. She felt her pleasure ebb away as she relaxed on his chest, his labored breathing slowly moving her up and down.

Having taken stock of the situation, Promethea decided to inch back onto his face, from the forward position this time. The artist had no words for when he could feel her gently drag her weight forward until it settled back on his face.

He felt an access to the forbidden area between her butt cheeks, and went to work faster than ever before. Her ass tasted - well, not like what he had imagined. It tasted as good - if not better - than her womanhood. It must have been decades since Promethea had taken her last shit.

But his tongue work was having an effect, as he could feel her getting excited again as she slowly gyrated on his face.

Promethea was now almost at the peak, moving rougher on his face. The painter now just stuck his tongue out, letting her movement do all the work.

Between his nose and tongue and her gyrating, Promethea finally reached her peak, gasping and shivering from the onset of her orgasm. Her eyes grew bright white, blinding the room with light. Anyone who looked at it directly would have been blinded.

Luckily the painter's face was deep in her butt, the safest place away from the light.

She collapsed even heavier on his face as the waves took her.

The painter couldn't help but stop his incessant tongue thrusting as he felt her reaching the end of her climax - he was just in heaven knowing that he could bring about such a reaction in his Goddess.

When it was almost done, as if broken out of a trance, he went back to servicing her, even though she had stopped grinding -- he wasn't about to let her have an unfulfilled orgasm. The painter couldn't breathe anymore. Not that he cared, but his love had asked him to stay alive.

Being the Goddess of love, Promethea's orgasm lasted a long time, bringing the painter to the ends of his breath-holding abilities. She lost control of herself during the peak, accidentally scratching his chest with fingernails in a fit of pleasure. The painter didn't feel the pain, only intense pleasure.

Her juices started overflowing, drenching his face and mouth and flowing on down to the pillow, as blood trickling from his thin chest wounds seeped down to catch up to them. The artist tried to get as much of her nectar as possible in his mouth, despite choking on it a bit. The pain of bleeding somehow made it even better.

Promethea's breathing finally came back to normal and her eyes returned to normal. The most intense of the waves were ebbing away now, but she wanted to keep sitting on his face a bit longer. She knew he would do it for her.

But as she managed to come back to her sane self, her love for the painter made her hastily get off his face. The painter would happily die under her if she wasn't careful.

The painter gulped in air gratefully. Promethea turned around and sat on his stomach so as to look at him better. The painter was still heaving from the effort of pleasing her. His chest still had tiny blood droplets coming out of where she had scratched him.

"That was wonderful. Thank you my love..." Promethea whispered, slowly healing the scratches she had made. The painter lay there, basking in her post-coital glow, her gentle weight on his stomach.

She had liked his service! The painter broke out into happy tears again but quickly stopped himself. Being alone for so long had taken away his emotional stability.

Having been completely satisfied for the first time in decades, Promethea decided to give the painter more of what he desired.

"But you didn't get everything you wanted, did you?" she asked him.

The painter frantically refused, not to be an ungrateful one.

"Well, regardless, I want to go again!" she beamed, pinching his nose playfully.

"This time, I'll put a small cage on your manhood so that you can last longer," she continued, suddenly holding a chastity lock in her hand. The painter had never seen something like that before, but quickly grasped its intended usage. It seemed just big enough to accommodate his flaccid self.

"You're gonna need to lose your erection for me to put this on," she said with a giggle, getting off him to lie on to the bed beside him.

But the painter couldn't help himself. Promethea's very presence demanded an erection. Shamefully, he told her as such, "I'm sorry my Goddess, I can't get it down in Your presence..."

"Well maybe I can help you..." she said with a brilliant smile and reached for his penis again. she looked back at him and teasingly told him to close his eyes.

He closed his eyes and suddenly felt the cold floor on his back. He opened his eyes in surprise to find that he was alone in the workhouse. The moonlight had dimmed, and he felt a sharp pain on his side where the dagger had pierced it. He could feel the blood oozing out of his wound. There was no bed and no Promethea anywhere.

He was bleeding out, but he ignored it. Shock and anguish came over him as he looked around wildly for his love.

"No. No NO! Where did you go!" he screamed desperately closing his eyes with pain.

Was it all in his mind? A desperate hallucination of a man who was bleeding out alone in a barn in the middle of nowhere?

Suddenly felt something cold snap on his now-flaccid penis. He blinked in surprise to find himself back on the bed. Promethea hopped back onto his stomach, having finished locking the chastity in place.

"There, problem solved!" she said with a sly smile.

"How - Why did you do that! I was terrified!" the painter complained, quickly regretting talking back to his Goddess.

"Well, you said you can't help but be erect in my presence. Soo..." Promethea trailed off, her beautiful face filling up with mirth.

The moment she had come back, he felt himself trying to get hard again, only to stopped by the chastity. He felt surprised at the new kind of pain, never once having to deal with such strong sexual impulses combined with such a small cage for his penis.

"I can take it off if you don't like it," she said nonchalantly, gently taking it in her hands. Although she couldn't reach his skin through the cage, he still felt himself almost ready to burst if only the cage would allow it.

"I wish to do whatever pleases you my Mistress," he whimpered with pain, hoping for both outcomes.

"Well in that case, let's leave it on!" she said happily. The painter felt relief because now he would be able please her first.

"Now let's get your hands out of the way," she continued.

The painter knew it was necessary. He had shamelessly grabbed her at moments of extreme passion. He nodded to agree, and out of nowhere, two of the red ribbons from her former flowing dress came flying and tied his arms to the headrest.

Promethea asked him, "So. Are you ready to serve me again?"

"Now and forever my Love!" the painter proclaimed with confidence.

Wordlessly, Promethea moved up on his chest, using her legs to pin his hands down further. Once her sex came within reach the painter leapt at it again, only to be blocked by Promethea's hand.

"I have more openings you know," she said playfully and moved up further on his face.

Now the painter again had access to the sweet spot between her moon shaped butt cheeks. Timidly he reached in with his tongue, before going all in as if he was possessed. He had wanted to do that for over a decade. The small taste he had earlier wasn't enough to satiate him.

Her butt tasted like nothing else in this world - even for the second time that night. He couldn't help but lose his mind trying to taste it from all angles.

"Okay..." Promethea said from above him. She was a bit taken aback by the hunger with which he ate her ass. But not that she had complaints. She sat down a bit harder on his face, successfully slowing down the artist's frantic rimming. He kept trying to pull at his bonds, trying to grab her and feel her.

It took her a longer time to get aroused this time thanks to her having orgasmed just moments ago. But she still smothered him at times in her excitement. It was getting really hard to breathe for the painter.

The artist had no complaints once again, choosing to serve her over his breathing needs, unless she got up to let him breathe. Promethea was now fingering herself while his tongue exclusively worshipped her butthole. She didn't feel the need to grind this time, choosing to keep sitting firmly on his face instead. The artist couldn't help but feel proud of his work. She reached down and parted her cheeks more, allowing him to reach deeper and deeper.

It took a lot longer this time, much to the artist's pleasure. He had explored Promethea's insides to his heart's content - for now.

Finally, Promethea was near orgasm again. She made sure to let him a take long deep breath before the final stages, and clamped his face down strongly using her butt. Promethea moved her legs closer to herself to hold his head in place as she felt the light coming again. As if on cue the painter brought a surge of effort and started licking more frantically.

Wave over wave of intense pleasure crashed over Promethea, her eyes once again shining white with the brightness of a thousand stars. The painter was out of breath and had now started struggling against his bonds for dear life, trying to buck her off. However, his devotion was such that, through all his struggles, he still kept up worshipping her depths, knowing that she was at her peak.

Promethea trusted the painter to see her through and gave herself into the mindless pleasure, screaming loudly as she gripped his head tighter using her legs and butt, while simultaneously pulling his hair hard.

A whole minute later, she was finally done. As sanity returned to her, she felt the artist still continue his work under her, although quite feebly. She hopped off his face and back to his stomach quickly, to let him breathe air in.

"Wow... I never thought I'd be the one learning about love today," Promethea panted breathlessly to him, clearly pleased at his efforts. The painter felt intense gratitude at having had the opportunity to do so, a feeling his penis also wanted to display, but couldn't thanks to the chastity.

She decided to leave his chastity on, and the painter didn't dare bring it up himself. However, she untied his hands, and she collapsed on the bed next to him, hugging him tightly.

They spent night in bed talking. Promethea had answers to every question he had about reality and the universe, and yet he had an infinite amount of questions to ask her as well.

When dawn was within reach, the artist felt himself overcome with the strongest urge to sleep. He was completely content.

"What happens now?" he asked her sleepily, not wanting to know the answer. He wanted to stay in that moment forever.

"It's time for me to go," Promethea said sadly. Somehow the artist knew she would say that, although it didn't make it any easier to accept it.

He looked at her forlornly, and asked, "Can I come with you?"

"No.... You have a job here. Your paintings make people happy," Promethea said kindly.

"I've served them long enough, and they can have all these paintings as well! Don't... Don't I deserve to be happy as well?" the painter asked hopefully.

"Are you sure? You will never be able to come back..." she said, hoping to deter him for his own good.

But the painter was having none of it. "Wherever you are, my place is at Your feet my Goddess," he said earnestly.

"Well in that case..." Promethea smiled happily. She had secretly wanted him to come along as well, having been pleased with how well he had serviced her - both tonight and in the dozen years before.

She reached over to kiss him on the forehead, taking his arms in hers. They smiled at each other as they both glowed bright and disappeared.

__________________________________________________

A couple of days later, the man who brought the painter his supplies every week knocked on the door of the barn. Hearing no sound from inside, he put down the supply basket and turned around to leave. The painter had often been too passed out drunk to receive his supplies in person anyway.

But just before he left, he thought he caught the glimpse of something excessively bright through the boarded-up windows. He went closer to take a peek and saw several brilliant paintings inside the house. Now, the painter had never put his paintings on display like this - he was always secretive about his work.

The delivery man had never seen any of his paintings, and never knew who the painter really was.

But to his shock, he also saw a figure collapsed on the ground in front of the paintings.

Worried, the delivery man kicked open the barred door and went inside, pinching his nose at the smell.

To his shock, he discovered the painter dead on the floor, having bled out from a deep cut on the side of his stomach.

He had rented the barn out to the painter, not asking too many questions. But a death on his property could be trouble.

The dead painter suddenly took a back seat when the delivery man took a good look at the paintings that hung on the walls. Thirty one paintings of exquisite landscapes and sceneries full with life, and yet somehow empty, as if something was missing.

Wordlessly admiring the hauntingly beautiful paintings, the delivery man knew he had struck gold. He quickly called a few workers, paid them triple to ensure sealed mouths, and quickly transported all the paintings to another warehouse that he owned in the town.

He called in the murder, and the law authorities came over. The next day they identified the body as belonging to the famous reclusive painter who had disappeared from the world of art a couple of years ago. They couldn't figure out what he was doing in the middle of nowhere instead of being in the party halls of London.

The delivery man gave his 'honest' testimonial and also added some lies about his suspicions on how the painter had become a drug addict in the last few years.

After the heat died down, he started putting out the word that he had some exquisite paintings for sale from the recently deceased artist. He worked through middlemen, to ensure that nothing could be traced back to him.

A short few weeks later, the painter's fans would recognize his work and flock to the small town to buy out his paintings. The small town expanded thanks to all the tourism revenue - the painter's death was the best thing that had happened to it.

The mysterious "missing subject" of his paintings became a topic of huge debates and discussions in the art community, raising the value of the paintings.

The delivery man made a lot of money out of just the first ten paintings he sold, setting himself up for life.

But the delivery man kept the biggest of the paintings hidden, knowing it's value far outweighed the rest of the thirty one paintings combined. He would sell it when the demand rose high enough. For now, he stored it safely in his new mansion.

Often, he would spend entire hours pondering the painting. Unlike all the other ones, this one didn't feel like there was anything missing.

In fact, looking at this one, anyone could tell that it held the answer to what all the other paintings were lacking.

For this one depicted the impossible love between a heavenly woman and a mortal man. He had always focused on the woman, unable to have any other thought the moment he looked at her form in the painting. But he also registered the fulfilled, yet insatiable love with which the mortal man in the painting gazed upon her - much like how the delivery man himself couldn't take his eyes off her.

In fact, now that he looked at the mortal man in the painting more properly, he looked a lot like the dead painter.