Page 245 of Monsters in Love

I am still not convinced the others speak truly, for I have not been consumed with lust since our coupling. I have not pushed and shoved before the brazier amongst the other brides, fighting for position to be taken by him, I do not rock in corners when I am not chosen. Instead, I walk, and put distance between myself and the debauchery...but I would be branded a liar if I were to say I had not thought of that night more than once. When I stop in the darkness between the torches, he grunts, tugging my arm to follow. Instead, I lay my hand over his, my fingers that are so like his, sliding up his arm until I am able to drag them down his chest. The broad plain of his body is familiar to my hands, in the way a sheath is familiar to a sword. Despite the silky-coarse hair that covers him like a pelt, his body is that of a man’s, and the curves of my own form fit against him as if they were carved in stone to do exactly that. My fingers—small, but so like his—trace the shape of him, the line of his throat and the hollow of his chest, learning him. There is a bubble of fear in my chest, but it has been eclipsed by a mad bravery, like Apollo’s chariot covering the darkness of the sky with his light. In this darkness, my husband is the only sun, and I am eager to be warmed by his light.

It does not take much to prod him to arousal. He grunts again, deep in his throat, a much different sound than the one he made when he found me. His manhood is a thick, shining rod, and for the first time, I am able to take a long look at it. As it rises from the furred sheath above his heavy testicles, I am able to see the pink of it is yet another sheath, pulling back slowly to reveal the winking tip, already leaking a viscous stream of his seed. My observance is short, for his hand lands at my waist, and I am lifted once more.

I am taken on hands and knees once more, and once again I find myself opening for him eagerly. I do not wish to be one of the desperate, scrabbling women who push and shove for the privilege of his cock, but I am unable to pretend I do not enjoy it when he ruts me against the labyrinth floor. When he empties inside of me with what is nearly a growl, I am once again sailing through the sky, sailing on wings into Apollo’s bright sun. My belly bulges with the shape of him, and his copious release puddles on the floor even before he has withdrawn. When I am pulled back to my feet, it is not without gentleness, and I cling to his strong arm until I regain my balance.

"Are you able to speak?" Since arriving, I have not heard him utter a word to any of us, and it is easy to think him a mindless beast without speech. When his hands motion to his throat, I am able to see the scars, buried deep beneath his thick hide. I understand then, that he is a prisoner here, just as we all are, and my heart quivers at the thought. I wonder of the life he has lived; if he has ever known the warmth of the mountainside and the wind blowing free across his face; if he has ever looked out to the sparkling sea.

He knows the way back to the heart, that he knows how to find me when I wander too far, an indication that he has walked the same halls over and over and over again. I wonder if he too misses the sun; if he knows the same absence of hope I have felt wandering these endless corridors. There is nothing cruel in the way he grips my arm, leading me back to where the torches are tightly aligned on the walls, and the way he looks back to me whenever we pass beneath the flickering flames leads me to believe he is not without intelligence. If he could speak like a man, it might have forced those topside to treat him like one, and I remember for the very first time since my lot was drawn as a tribute that he is a prince. A prince of Crete, born to the Queen herself, and if he is a prince, then I am a princess. There is no throne to which my husband leads me back, but I follow him willingly, allowing him to grip me tightly.

The next time he finds me, there is almost a hint of a smile playing at his wide mouth, as if this has become a game. I put my hands around the great spear of his cock as it rises from its sheath upon finding me, stroking up the pink skin, feeling the way it swells, and closing my small hand around the fist-sized head that graces the tip. The sheath of skin covering him moves easily, and he grunts as I pull it up to cover his cocktip completely, before moving my hand down once more, exposing the moisture he leaks. He takes me against the wall, and it is the first time I face him as he mates me. My hands are free, and I am able to grip his wide shoulders and feel the strength in his arms and chest, drag my fingertips over the scars at his throat and gently touch his face.

The next time I go wondering, he very nearly manages to take me by surprise. I had turned a corner paying more attention to the torchlight flickering ahead than I did to the shadows beyond, and when he hooked me around the waist, swinging me into the air, I shrieked. It is only when I realize they are his broad arms encircling me that I'm able to relax, melting into the warmth of his skin. His tongue is just as rough and wide as I remembered from the first time, when it strokes up my legs, parting my thighs. I hold onto his horns as he spreads me open, and for the first time since I watched the frenzy of brides encircling him, my own voice rises in a hitching, gasping moan. If new brides were to arrive at that moment, it would be my voice they followed, my screams that caused their own, and when they found me, I would be on my knees in the dirt, carried on the tide of ecstasy as my husband took me from behind. They would see my belly swell like a wineskin as he filled me, would see his seed dripping from me as he thrust through his release, and it would be my body they pulled aside to clean with their tongues, every drop of his essence a feast not to be wasted.

I understand now, that scene I first saw on arriving in the maze. I am able to feel him inside me even when he is not; able to feel the shape of him pushing through my skin and stretching me wide, and when I realize it is a dream and I am alone, the maze is darker than ever.

When he holds me aloft in his arms, thrusting relentlessly into me, I can see the sun's glow and feel its warmth. It is the warmth of his breath, I come to realize, and he is the only sun I will ever need again. When he releases into me, filling me with his seed in great spurts that I am able to feel shaking up my spine, I am able to see across the sea, to the very gates of Mycenae, to the top of the Acropolis, to the fires of the great oracle. It is the freedom of being his that I feel, and this is the only independence I will ever need again. Topside, my behavior would probably be viewed as concupiscent, but here there is no shame in desiring to lie with my husband, to feel the freedom and hate of being filled by him, the shape of him within me breathing new life into my indentured soul.

I do not know if he engages in these private assignations with any of the others, and I do not like to dwell on the thought. The time we spend together in the shadows between the torches belongs to us alone. I belong to him, and I was fated to be his bride. I realize when we arrive back in the heart where the others are, I will likely never join in their hysteria-fueled bacchanal. The temple where I served had no such ritual; I have never witnessed the ecstasy of the maenads, nor have I desired to join their ranks. I do not begrudge the others though, if this is their way of celebrating their marital rite with him. It is not for me, will never be for me, but as long as I wander I have the security of knowing he will always find me. If I am to end my days in this maze, at least I know there is someone here who will notice when I am gone.

“Ithink we need to take a break,” she gasped. His hand had moved up the back of her thigh, finding its way beneath the edge of her skirt in such a way that it would not have been immediately evident on the fish-eyed camera lenses around the room. He’d moved beneath the edge of her panties, working a thick finger into her.

“You’re dripping, Dr. Bowman.” While she normally prided herself on her poker face, Gwen was finding it increasingly difficult to keep her knees from buckling as he fingered her, giving her clit the friction it needed at last and stroking her inner walls. She could feel his cock against her, swollen like a club, and she wasn’t sure if they’d be able to wait to get home before finding relief.

“Your office doesn’t have cameras, right? Youdohave your own office, don’t you?”

“It’s like a broom closet,” he chuckled, cutting off on a groan when she tightened around the finger he’d worked into her, reminding him of the way she’d squeeze his cock, given the chance. “But itisa camera-free broom closet. I’m a little disappointed to hear the exhibit isn’t holding your attention.”

“I love the exhibit, babe, I do...but Ireallyneed you to fuck me. I don’t think I can look at one more minotaur cock painting without pulling yours out.”

His low laugh was a rumble of thunder against her, the pressure against her clit increasing, the other arm around her doing the bulk of the work holding her up.

“You seem a little on edge,” he hummed. “Are you going to come on my fingers, right here in the middle of the exhibit? Or would you rather I leaned you over one of these plinths and filled your pussy the right way? I’m not sure this is academically appropriate, Dr. Bowman.”

Gwen whimpered, wanting exactly what he described. She wanted to feel like one of these ancient brides, being bred by her big bull with her ass in the air, wanted him to pump her full...but she knew the security made such a scenario impossible.

“I’m going to pull your cock out if you don’t take me somewhere to fuck me right now, Madoc. Is that what you want to happen? I’ll stroke you right here in the middle of the exhibit, I’ll get down on my knees and suck until you empty those big balls all over one of these frescoes. Will you be able to live with yourself knowing you came all over a priceless artifact? The janitor will clog up their shop-vac trying to clean up a lake of cum, and you’ll be known all over town as the minotaur who splooged all over the museum.”

“Enough!” She smiled in triumph as his shoulders shook in laughter, breath hitching when he sucked clean the finger that had just been inside her. “Fine! We’ll take a fuck break. You can’t even get through the same exhibit school children have been looking at all week because you can’t control your horny, I hope you’re proud of yourself. Don’t blame me when you’re finishing the exhibit bow-legged.”

She squealed as he led out the way they’d come in, her heart flip-flopping briefly again as they passed the case containing the iron manacles. His officewasa broom closet, probably hastily cleaned out and requisitioned once he’d been hired, but its lack of spaciousness didn’t stop him from dropping his ass on the edge of the cluttered desk, hooves planting wide on the tiles as he opened his pants.

“I was promised someone dropping to their knees to suck,” he reminded her, pulling his cock free.

She wasted no time following the directive. His balls were fat and full, hanging heavily in a soft pink sac, and she focused her attention on them first. Gwen loved the nearly-transparent fuzz that covered them, feeling like she was mouthing at plump, juicy peaches as he groaned, licking and nipping at the soft skin, pressing her tongue into the seam that separated them until they lifted and bobbed. His cock had already swelled out of its ivory sheath, dark pink and riddled with veins, and as her hand pulled up its length, she twisted, giving him the friction over his head that knew he enjoyed, gratified by his groan.

“Sounds like you’re enjoying the effects of my horny,” she pointed out, twisting her wrist again. “Or at least, your cock sure is. Do you think the original brides stroked their minotaur this way? Do you think they lined up to take their turn on his cock? Or was it a free-for-all? Do you want to go back out and look at more vases, or do you want to show me how the minotaur fucked his brides?” He’d already teased her cunt into readiness, and she clenched as his dome-topped cockhead was exposed, one pump after another, squeezing him over his swell until pre-come oozed over the edge of his foreskin.

She yipped in surprise when his big hands tugged on her arms, lifting and spinning her, reversing their positions. Gwen sucked in a breath, clutching the edge of the desk as he loomed over her. She was tall, taller than most human women, her own minotaur blood seeing to that. Her mother was the daughter of a bull herself, and despite stressing over the years that Gwen could fall in love with whomever she wanted, there had been something in her bones that echoed when she’d met Madoc, an undeniable attraction that owed, she thought now, to those dutiful first brides. “Are you going to devour me?”

Madoc smiled, his hands closing over her wrists as she backed up into the desk. His arms were solid with muscle, tenting around her until she was trapped, as helpless as the tributes of old. She already knew every corner of his body, had mapped every inch of his skin with her lips; knew how he took his eggs and preferred brand of detergent and that he hated talking on the phone...but there was something about this game of pretend, something primal that quickened her pulse.

“I am,” he confirmed, horns cutting through the air as he leaned over her, pushing the mountain of papers back and sliding her to the center of the desk. “You belong to me. A sacrifice. A supplicant. Mine to devour.”

She mentally cataloged the direction in which her panties were thrown as his head lowered, his wide, rough tongue licking a broad stripe up her sex, dragging against her clit in a way that made her toes curl. She understood how the myth of the tributes being eaten was started, she thought, for if the labyrinth’s minotaur ate out his brides half as well, they probably bragged to anyone who would listen. The texture of his tongue against her clit made her writhe; the way he sucked on it made her vision go fuzzy. Gwen gripped his horns as he devoured her, her hitching breaths cresting into a moan when she tightened and released against his mouth, his hum of pleasure at her gush on his tongue vibrating through her.

She barely had time to recover before she was being lifted, her legs over his arms as she was lowered onto the glistening head of his cock. She was built to take him, her anatomy designed to be bred by a big, well-hung bull...but every time was like the first time when he speared her, stretching her open, his mid-shaft swell pulling a strangled moan from her throat. Gwen closed her eyes, imagining the purple dress she would wear, the way he would lift her on their wedding night, filling her until she bulged with the shape of him, coming inside of her over and over until she dripped in his seed. Her clit rubbed against his front in this position, his cock dragging against her inner walls, and she could feel the curling pressure within her beginning to give way to a spine-rattling orgasm, so close...when he pulled out of her, she nearly sobbed.

“I’m going to come,” he groaned, setting her back on the edge of the desk, ignoring the way she clawed furiously at his arms, “and in case you were unaware, we’re not at home. The night janitor isn’t a splooge mopper and the museum doesn’t have a sucky-sucky machine. I don’t want it running under the door.”

---