Dionysis - Sex Stories

Dionysis

... orgasm.

It’s worth noting that there is, in a way, a fourth person in the pavilion with us. The girl myself and my consort are abusing so cruelly is a nymph, and they’re doubled creatures. This is because they are divine, and divinity springs from humanity. My Godhood is a many-facetted thing. I am madness, ecstasy, orgiastic fervour. I am death and rebirth. I can be a gentle healer, a farmer bringing forth grapevines from barren ground, a warrior, a lover or a monster. Nymphs are simpler than that, but still far from simple. They’re the reflections of male fantasy. That makes them two things: pure, innocent virgins on the one hand, and filthy sex-crazed sluts on the other.

On the one hand, this girl is completely untouched. A naïve virgin whom, in the space of a few seconds, I just despoiled as comprehensively as it is possible to be despoiled. On the other, I’ve fucked her countless times and she keeps coming back for more. Tomorrow, she’ll be as pure as she ever was. She won’t have any idea that she’s a perpetual fuck toy for a mad god and his debauched retinue. But a part of her does know. She knows she’s the perfect victim and she likes it. It’s literally what she was made for. Now you know where the term ‘nymphomaniac’ comes from. It’s the madness that comes from being the tiny god of men’s desire. I’m telling this because it’s true, not because I require any absolution. I already told you that I’m a monster. If she was a mortal girl who’d strayed into my camp I’d ...

... rape her just the same. Mortal girls don’t generally enjoy that, but I do.

I leave Ariadne with the nymph, whom she is now forcing to eat the cum out of her gorgeous, fat snatch. I love Ariadne as much as I’m capable of loving anyone. I rescued her from a cruel mortal hero and her mistreatment at his hands has made her cruel in turn. I love that about her; she’s my beautiful, damaged princess. She does things with yarn that leave permanent scars.

I step out of the pavilion into the camp. It’s evening, and the satyrs are already very drunk. They’re spit-roasting meat on campfires and nymphs on their forever-hard cocks. Some of the nymphs are like the innocent I left to be tortured by Ariadne. Others have freed their inner sluts to swallow every cock that is offered to them. Regardless of the side of themselves they show, they are met with pleasure and pain in equal measure. Among my followers, consent is not a defence against being pushed past your limits, no matter how enthusiastic it might be to begin with. Neither is refusal a defence against pleasure. My worship demands that all receive both what they want and what they do not want in measures beyond their capacity.

I wonder about satyrs. They’re not female fantasies in the same way that nymphs are male ones. I doubt more than a third of women secretly yearn to be raped by goat men. There’s probably an element of female desire in there – their dicks are enormous and they never go soft – but there’s something else ...