The Taste Of Divinity

Ε Ν Α

R H A R I A N   F I E L D S,  E L E U S I S.

How often do you catch yourself wondering how somebody's touch would feel? How soft their hands would be as they caressed your entire form, how sweet their lips would taste as they descended down to yours, how diabolic the touch would become as the hands would drift lower and lower?

Persephone often wondered the same thing.

And when curiosity got a hold of her, it simply did not release her.

That's why she followed the pair to one of the hidden spots of her meadow, her steps light and soundless as her bare feet moved across the grass.

She'd noticed them while cleaning the dirt from her hands by the stream. The Satyr had been chasing the laughing nymph, calling her name when he thought she'd disappeared somewhere behind the freshly bloomed trees. It had struck her as peculiar, seeing as the nymph had always been distrustful of Satyrs and rightfully so, seeing as they were mischievous to their very cores.

Perplexed by the scene unfolding before her, she had pressed her wet hands to the skirt of her formerly pure ivory chiton and moved carefully behind them, growing more and more intrigued as the seconds went by.

She saw Mirithea, the golden haired nymph, playfully push the satyr down on the soft grass before straddling him, the sheer fabric of her garment highlighting the graceful movements of her pale, supple thighs.

Persephone's eyes closed on their own accord, as she felt her knees grow weak as a myriad of unknown emotions surrounded her.

A whisper of flesh colliding with flesh filled her ears.

Soft, choked gasps kissed her exposed skin.

Her eyes opened.

The light-eyed Kore heard Mirithea's hushed giggles and the satyr's amused growls. Her feline green eyes widened when she saw the satyr's hand wander underneath the nymph's skirt. Her breath caught. She lost the ability to move, turning into a statue.

Perhaps, she should have left the moment she realised what she had stumbled upon.

Perhaps, she should have returned to her field of wildflowers and picked some lilies for her mother.

Perhaps, she should've done anything but watch.

Perhaps, she should have but she didn't.

She kept watching, her mouth dry, even when the nymph's giggles vanquished and their place was taken by sounds of pleasure which both captivated and terrified her.

The nymph moved her supple body rhythmically against the Satyr's, her face tilting upwards towards the sky, her lips parting in soundless gasps.

She looked like she was praying, thanking the Great Mother for her many gifts.

Leave, her subconscious urged, leave now.

Yet, she remained immobile, her gaze unwavering.

Her mind was tormenting her with thoughts that belonged to vulgar creatures, not a young Goddess destined to remain a maiden for all eternity.

But the wretched thoughts did not release her from their painful grip.

They painted pictures for her, forcing her to imagine herself in the nymph's place, being touched by another's hand, no matter how dirty and impure the caress would be. Then, she imagined herself in the Satyr's place, offering the touch and caressing the soft flesh with fascination and wonder.

It felt odd, not knowing what she wanted.

Touch or be touched?

Perhaps both.