Wings of Desire
Feathers. She has always loved feathers, but never more so than she does right now. And he certainly knows how to use them, masterfully stroking her lightly with their silky softness. Back and forth, covering every inch of her sensitized skin with feathery caresses. Exploring places she never knew existed with experienced plumage. Brushing her inner thighs with downy whispers. This is as close to heaven as she has ever hoped to be.
Her mind flutters with visions of flight and occasional glimpses of the fall should she look down from such lofty heights. She knows what she is doing is forbidden. What would her husband think? And what of the children? Still she cannot deny that this pleasure is unlike any other. It envelopes her and fills her with sacred resplendence, all but blocking out such mundane concerns. She has rediscovered her passions. She has rediscovered her need to be touched. To be loved. To be made love to.
Then the rhythms change and he runs a long slender pin feather up the inside of her thigh. Pleasure and pain combine in one long, trailing line of raw sensation. He rakes her labia with the razor soft edge, flicking it across her clitoris, and her body rocks with shockwaves of abandon. A sigh escapes her mouth, bitten off when she clamps down on her lower lip with her teeth. Yes. There, yes.
Never has she felt such sensations. No man has ever drawn so much pleasure out of her. It seems he is touching her everywhere. Brushing her and covering her with satiny caresses, never laying rough hand or bearded face on her milky white skin. Only feathers. Soft, velvety, pliable feathers.
She knows she's wet. So wet. He's alternating the almost painful flicks of her clit with brushes of softer plumage against her heated lower lips. Like the wind given substance. Like the breath of desire, exhaled slowly. Too much. It's almost too much. Small sounds escape her, from far back in her throat, and she begins to writhe like an animal overtaken by heat and passion. Inside. She wants him inside. She needs him inside her.
Suddenly he is upon her, invading her, slipping past the folds of flesh to fill her with his godlike maleness. Still no heavy weight to trap her and hold her down. Only gentle, probing contact and the yielding of blanketed feathers. Closing her eyes she sighs again and lays a hand lightly on his strong slender neck. He flinches away and she withdraws the hand to fondle and tweak her own sensitive right nipple. No touching. That is the rule. She must not touch him.
No kisses, either. She knows that, but the ache is upon her. She wants so much to kiss him. To touch him. To thank him for the pleasure he is bringing her. Opening her eyes she sees him staring intently down at her, a single point of brilliant golden light. No, she thinks, I won't ruin this moment. I must rise above my petty yearnings. Make the moment last as long as possible. A moment which may never come again.
As if reading her mind, he nods and his thick cock expands even more to make her gasp with undreamed of pleasure. His thrusts intensify and tiny downy feathers begin to rain down on her like snowflakes. She's close, so close... and then suddenly the waves of orgasm overtake them together and they are flying, locked in the wings of desire, heaven bound.
No sooner does she crest, than another orgasm rocks her, taking her higher than the last. One after the other they come until she finally loses count, giving herself utterly to the moment of glory. She trembles uncontrollably, her mind filled with one thought only: the unbelievable knowledge of what has happened to her. She has been chosen. She is special. She will be his forever.
It isn't every day that a mortal woman is taken by a god. Even in the form of a Swan, she knows him for who he is. He is Zeus, king of all the gods, and she is Leda, wife of Tyndareus and now concubine to the greater glory of heaven. Her life will never be the same again.
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This story originally appeared in the monthly adult entertainment magazine Playtime (June 1996), under the pseudonym Sylvia Grace.
© David Salcido, 1996. Registered with the Library of Congress and the Writers Guild of America, 2013. All rights reserved.