poseidon

Baubo rested against the fence through which she’d escaped the dark-haired young man who’d pursued her. She was thankful that he was too big to fit through the space left by the rotten boards that, she assumed, neighborhood adolescents had broken away to form a shortcut. She’d heard savage dogs howling, barking, and snarling, and she’d been afraid that she might encounter a fierce canine on this side of the fence. She had not. There was nothing and no one in the dark yard in which she stood, struggling to catch her breath. She had no idea where she should go. She was a stranger in a strange land, stranded in a bizarre, unfamiliar world inhabited by women far stronger than Amazons and witches as powerful as any she’d encountered in ancient Greece.



After a few minutes, she regained control of her labored breathing. Her pulse slowed. Her heartbeat returned to normal. Her trembling ceased.



Baubo returned to the streets, careful to screen her movements and keep to the deepest, darkest shadows. She vowed to stay focused on the moment. She couldn’t afford to lose herself in the memories of her bawdy, sometimes tawdry, past. She couldn’t, and she wouldn’t. From now on, she’d be on her guard. She’d live in the here and now.



She managed to keep her promise to herself for fifteen minutes before, once more, she’d drifted into reminiscences of her past sexual escapades. Despite her best intentions to do otherwise, sex, present and past, was too powerful for her to escape. As a sex goddess, sex was who she was. To forget her sexual exploits would be to forget herself; to forger herself would be to sink into oblivion.



This reminiscence picked up where her previous one had left off. Having killed the hydra, Baubo had returned to the mountain trail she’d been following toward the beach, far below. After bathing in a pool, she’d entered the foaming, white-capped surf of the Aegean Sea, trying to wash the hydra’s hated sperm from her flesh.



She’d spent most of the day wading in the surf. She sat on the sandy bottom of the sea and scrubbed at one leg with the foot of the other. She was exceedingly flexible, able even to wash the chin-cunt in her belly-face. By kneeling on one knee, she could use the foot of her other leg to scour her buttocks. Bathing in this manner was a time-consuming undertaking, but it was one to which Baubo applied herself with vigor and single-minded purpose.



So intent was she upon performing her toilet that the sex goddess remained unaware of her visitor until he was inside her, upon her, around her, above her, and below her. Her attacker was as liquid as the sea–in fact, he was the sea. The arms that held her, the pubes that pounded her, and the cock that pulsated within her were all formed of water!



Baubo had masturbated with water before–several times. She’d lay inside a bathtub while servants, sometimes male, sometimes female, poured water from a large ewer directly over the tiny bud of her chin’s clitoris. She would station a servant on either side of the tub. While one poured, the other stood ready to take over the task when his or her counterpart’s pitcher had been emptied. Meanwhile, other servants filled a third and a fourth pitcher so that there was always a container full of water at hand. In this way, a steady and continuous stream of falling water could be directed upon and against the goddess’ chin-cunt and clitoris. Sometimes, depending on her mood, one pitcher was enough to bring her to orgasm. On other occasions, two, three, or more might be required to accomplish the same goal.



What Baubo felt now, however, was far superior to the sensations she’d enjoyed as a result of the pouring pitchers. Cool surges of water caressed her thighs, her labia, her clit, her cunt, and her ass. She felt waves of warm, salty water wash over her belly-face. Billows and swells of white-foamed water washed through her streaming hair. It was as if every inch of her flesh and form were being rubbed and kneaded and soothed by an expert masseuse. Wayward currents streaked along the cleavage of her sleek buttocks and tickled the cleft of her chin-cunt. Watery tendrils trailed past her lips and fluttered her eyelids and lashes. A different kind of fluid stirred within her sex as Baubo began to get excited by the caresses of the sea. Baubo wished she had breasts so that her mounting excitement might stiffen their nipples, adding to the exquisite passion that was building inside her. She moaned, parting her legs.



An endless series of waves rocked her. She swayed gently upon the troughs between the swells that had passed her and those that approached her. It was absurd to think in such terms, Baubo realized, but the waves, like the currents and the undercurrents that caressed and massaged her, seemed to represent a strange sort of foreplay that was both erotic and, at the same time, frightening. It was as if the sea were making love to her.



Impossible, of course–but that was what it felt like, what it seemed like.



A vortex of water swirled about the bud of Baubo’s clitoris. She gasped, startled–and delighted–at the sudden, intensely concentrated, twirling contact. The water’s touch seemed too definite, precise, and adept to have been the accident of natural forces. It seemed to have been deliberate and purposeful. It seemed to have been the result of conscious will.



Baubo chuckled. She was being absurd, thinking that the sea was somehow alive, somehow mindful and aware. It was not. It was merely saltwater. It was nothing.



As if to confirm her logic, the miniature eddy ceased.



See? Baubo asked herself. The idea that the sea was somehow a conscious and purposeful entity was absurd. It was ridiculous. Baubo shook her head, rolling her eyes.



The next whirlpool tunneled into her anus, tickling her sphincter. Again, the definite, precise, and adept character of the vortex, in touching her there and nowhere else, especially after another eddy had tickled her clitoris, just a moment ago, seemed uncanny. Her mind told Baubo that the water was nothing more than water, whereas her deeper instincts cautioned her that the sea was more–much more–than it seemed.



Baubo shook her head again. Preposterous!



The vortex that drilled her asshole was joined by a second eddy that spun against the tip of her clitoris.



Baubo squirmed, startled.



The sea’s actions seemed responses to her thoughts. They weren’t, though, obviously. The sea was simply salt and water. It had no mind, no spirit, no soul. It could understand nothing, any more than it could know, or even sense, anything. The vortexes’ tickling first her clitoris, next her asshole, and finally both her cunt and her rectum were mere coincidences, proving nothing.



The whirlpools at her clitoris and anus widened, intensifying.



Another answer? Another coincidence?



Baubo didn’t seem as sure now as she had been before.



Effervescence exploded, burst upon burst, between the sex goddess’ legs, tickling and caressing her chin-cunt. More fizz and froth erupted along the cleavage of her buttocks, stroking the sleek mounds on either side of the deep cleft. Baubo’s sex responded, releasing its own flood of warm fluids. Her clitoris was rigid and swollen with passion.



A conch shell, drifting through the water, swept past the side of Baubo’s belly, settling in place over her ear; a second floated toward the opposite side of her abdomen, settling into place over her other ear. Flowing sea currents kept the shells in place–another seeming marvel, Baubo thought.



More explosions of tiny bubbles flicked Baubo’s clit, stroked her labia and cunt, and caressed her ass. Baubo’s cunt was itself a river of juices. She gasped, biting her lower lip. She was so titillated that tears sprang to her eyes. She wanted–needed–the release of orgasm, but such liberation through ecstasy eluded her.



Through the conch shells, she heard what appeared to be the sound–no, the voice–of the sea. “Bauuubbbo!”



“Who are you?” the diminutive deity asked, feeling only slightly silly at addressing herself to the sea. After all, never had any body of water done the things to her that this sea had done.



There was no answer.



Perhaps, Baubo thought, she’d imagined the voice, the sound.



Perhaps she’d imagined the caresses, too.



Perhaps she’d imagined everything.



She shook her head at her silliness, her suggestibility, her foolishness.



The sea was saltwater, nothing more.



A surge of effervescence flashed through Baubo’s legs, along her buttocks, and past her chin-cunt. Baubo thrilled to the watery touch.



Then, again, from the shells, she heard her name: “Bauuubbbo!”



Convinced, at last, that the effervescent caresses, the surging wave-massages, and the voice calling her name from the conch shells that the sea had clasped to her ears were no coincidences, the sex goddess felt unnerved. These phenomena, although, for the most part welcome, were eerie.



Again, Baubo demanded, “Who are you?”



Instead of an answer, Baubo felt a churning inside her. A wide whirlpool spun through her labia, past her clitoris, and into her chin-cunt. The goddess cried out, shrieking with surprise, fear, and delight. She trembled with passion.



The revolving column of water spun faster and faster inside her, even as it rose and descended with the rapidity of a watery tornado.



“Uh!” Baubo moaned, her thighs shuddering. All around her, the sea went white with foam, and the vortex inside her withdrew. The water frothed and fizzed; everywhere tiny bubbles rose. The whole ocean seemed to roil and churn, as if it were boiling, but there was no heat. It was another wonder, Baubo thought, astonished, another miracle. She was in the presence of an entity of tremendous power. Once more, she demanded, “Who are you?”



Out of the churning sea, a towering figure rose–a gigantic male with scales instead of flesh, gills in his throat, and fins along his back, forearms, and thighs. His hands and legs were webbed, and in his right fist he clutched the long handle of a golden trident. Water ran from his magnificent body–from his deep, broad chest; his firm, flat belly; his powerful thighs; his two-foot-long penis and coconut-size balls. The soaring figure was twenty five feet tall, Baubo judged.



At last, she knew her latest lover’s name: no less a personage than Poseidon, the god of the sea, had had his way with her!



“Where are you bound?” the god spoke, his words like thunder booming over the deep.



Baubo gulped. Although she herself was a goddess, she was one of the lesser deities, whereas Poseidon was one of Zeus’ brothers. “I don’t know,” she managed to reply.



“You don’t know?” the god repeated, sounding incredulous.



“No,” Baubo admitted, thinking that her lack of direction in life was the reason that things always seemed to happen to her rather than her making things happen. Her indecisiveness, hesitancy, and vacillation made her the victim of others’ whims and the plaything of others’ lusts. It also added to her sense of the absurdity of existence, of the ultimate meaninglessness of life. Perhaps it was a reason for her promiscuity as well. Lacking a sense of meaning and purpose, she sought to lose herself in sex, in men, women, and hermaphrodites. If she could find no home in the world, she could, at least, find beds, if not arms, in which to rest.



“Anywhere is as good as nowhere,” Poseidon replied, and he lifted his arms. The sea rose around them, higher and higher, forming a mountainous peak. “Peace be with you, goddess of sex,” he said, and lowered his arms.



The mountain of water dropped upon itself, rushing away in every direction. Baubo was borne away upon a flood. In minutes, she was miles away, coming to rest upon the sandy shore of a small island green with the lush foliage of thick forests and fields. Birds and butterflies rose among the treetops, and there were wildflowers everywhere. Baubo was no longer anywhere or nowhere; she was somewhere. Where was “somewhere”? That was the question.



. . . to be continued. . . .

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