tagAnalThe Receptive Goddess, In Repose

The Receptive Goddess, In Repose

bylilgrasshoppah©

(AKA: Chanson De Guest)

They have left her, to Be. The Many Spawn have spread out, into the farthest reaches of Merseyside. They have their things to do... their particular truths to discover. The sacred Consort is with the youngest of them — presiding over them, and caring for them. The Goddess is alone, for once. She has the chance to pursue her aim: communion with the Sun, on the back lawn. Communion She seeks: the Full Knowledge of Humanity.

Nearly naked, the Goddess takes her station upon the grass — clad only in pink panties. In her hand is a human oracle: a testament of flesh. This trashy novel, that speaks to mundane, female, things. She flicks through the pages — bored by the plot, already known to her. Still, she must know. She must hope there is undiscovered truth, just beyond her reach. So, she reaches, and quells her boredom. Her human core turns dewy, at the provocations of the novel. She is open to that. She has chosen that. Her butt wiggles, quashing her clad sex into the grass. It makes her become Human.

The name her spirit is, knows no human translation. Therefore, she calls herself Natalie. It suits the form.

Her spirit feels the doorbell ring. Its chimes jangle in her cunt. She rises up, halfway; calls, with all her authority, "Come to the Back! I'm here!"

At once, the man appears. He is golden, and Sun-kissed. His expression is bland, and accepting, though sweat strews his visage. He is clad in gray overalls, and laden with stacks of bedding plants. "Milady," quoth the man, "where do you want these?"

Her breasts, defended by an arm and a book — she raises her free arm, to point: "over there is good."

The man dips his head. He moves forward, and off, to the side. His body bends to the task. She watches him. Her purple eyes seek to know his form, from behind. Her book lies closed and forgotten — the shitty oracle... the incomplete testament. She watches him. She forms a command, "What is your name?"

"Jensson," he murmurs — throwing the word over his shoulder.

"I am... (She thinks to bestow her goddess self on the man; thinks better of it) 'Natalie.'"

"Nice to meet you, Milady."

She retreats, fractionally, in safety... where she may consider. She finds her place, and pursues her aim. "Can you help me, please?"

Jensson rises, and approaches... his air is diffident... yet he is solidly (if slimly) built. "Yes, Milady?"

She indicates the plastic bottle with her chin, "Oil me up, Sir...? I don't want to burn."

"Certainly, My Lady." Jensson enunciates each word with care. Thereupon, he kneels, and takes up the bottle. Her ears catch the snap of the opening — the opulent, liquid, sound of release. She feels his hand upon her; the warmth of him sends a shiver down her spine. The oil spreads. He spreads it.

"Tan-lines," muses She, softly.

"Pardon?"

"Tsk!" She takes matters into her own hands: making a delta of her middle, pointed toward the Sun, and shoves the panties down her thighs. She has remade the boundary. "There! (She remarks, brightly) No tan-lines, if you please? And, don't get oil on my panties. They're m'favorite."

Jensson is struck dumb. His very silence is pregnant.

Natalie, in her Goddess self, does not need to observe him. She knows his way. She is a prophetess, in these things. And, lo, she is proven True — his hands descend upon her.

Never, in the history of sun-protection, has a man been so thorough. From the border made by her bunched panties, to the small of her back (and everything in between), his fingers do their work. Neither do they resist playing... with respect.

Surely, He can feel Her? Surely every cell of her body speaks to his being?

"You may have what you want...?" She murmurs. She rolls half over, exposing one breast, with its arrogant nipple, "Only... I have no wish to be pregnant, Mind."

The Man wipes his hands on his overalls, considering.

With that, She rolls back over, grinning to herself. For, she likes surprises.

The man, stiffly, rises.

She has only a second, to curb her frustration... for she feels/hears his overalls 'hit the deck'. She feels him remove her panties, wholly, and cast them aside... so that she is all His. He kneels between the open invitation of her spread thighs. Newly-oiled fingers slice between her buttocks, and ply her secret hole... She knows He heard Her. She grunts at the intrusion. His slim finger feels like a spade, turning earth. One finger becomes two... then, three: slick, brutal, complete. She groans, and quivers — signalling readiness. It is inevitable, now.

Indeed, he covers her. His muscled arms take station at her shoulders. (She glimpses a tattoo of Thor's hammer on the interior of his left bicep.) Yet, she knows Mjolnir is waiting to do His work.

Do it, do it, dooooo it!

The man thrusts forward. His cock invades her cunt.

She gasps. She was not expecting that. It is goooood. So Good! She takes him fully. His meaty glans nests on her cervix. She sighs. She tries to... what does she try to do? Like a piston, he withdraws; so like a piston, he returns. She remembers her breathing... her pounding heart. He is unrelenting and firm.

Her weeping cunt rewards him... anointing his length. She prays he does not forget the Deal.

And, lo, he has not. He withdraws. Her needy cunt grasps furtively at him. But, he has a promise to keep, with her ass.

"Just greasin' the skid, Darlin'," He murmurs, afore pressing onward, as agreed.

Her sphincter... her compass rose... it irises around his girth... easily accepting his request for entry.

He resides there. His flared head is in her. His patience is rewarded, her little body expands to meet him. With no warning, he drives forward.

She has him all, to his very root.

He is not finished. He re-cocks and resets... pulling back sharply... then powering forward, with stony implacability. It is a loop, unbroken... step-step, step-step... pulsing, to and fro.

"ye-ye-ye-yeeeeessssss," She groans and shudders. Her needy ass seeks his shaft... chasing Him up, guiding Him back.

He grinds against her yielding ass, sending shockwaves to her weeping cunt. The metronome, inside him, guiding him, quickens. Heedless, and hurried: his mighty hammer crashes down upon her, again, and again. It fills her. It claims her.

The drum of her heart matches his pace. She presses fingers to her clit. She pleads for quickening. Her hunched hips rise to accept his every gift.

"Coooooooommmme," she cries.

He groans, stricken. His whole frame smashes into hers.

And, she convulses... in blinding light and electric darkness. Her wholeness bucks and snaps, beyond knowledge and reason.

His cock stretches and recoils inside her, firing blindly.

She squeals an incoherent, "Yeeeeeaaaaah!!!"

He is spent. The magazine is empty. He collapses on her, riding out the eddies of the blast wave.

Breath. Breathing. A heart. Another. Pulse, pulse, pulse.

Gingerly, he removes himself. He lays beside her. He makes a sound... half chuckle, half sigh. His right hand rests on the small of her back. The middle finger nests in the cup of her coccyx. He speaks, "I'll finish here... you best go get cleaned up."

What is it... that pricks her? Regret? Sadness? Not these. Awash in the undefined emotion, the Goddess rises. She totters off, bow-legged, to find steps to the house. She may never see the Man again: this son of Thor, or Apollo. But she will know him forever, inside. She has this thought, as the hot water rains down on her head.

Later, she returns to the yard. She finds there, the bedding plants laid out in a phalanx. There: her towel, and the bottle of oil. There, too: the book. Laid atop it, a pink rose. Her panties are missing. She smiles wanly. Her lavender eyes turn misty at the sight. It is a fair trade.

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by Anonymous

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by jetosh09/05/17

Well Done!

Nicely written. I enjoyed it very much.

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by Anonymous08/28/17

Wonderful...

... erotic, amusing, totally different tale. Well done! 5 stars.

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