Hylas kissed Ojastara’s cunt. It was warmer than human skin should be, almost hot. And her sweat was somehow sweet. No one in Thebes had ever talked of a goddess like this one before, but she must be such, in someone’s pantheon. 

In any case he adored and kissed her cunt, worshipping with fervour, with conviction and with a hard-on. His cock had never felt so hard, so longing, or … so large. He felt as if his cock was full, not just with blood but with energy. Then he kissed her belly, her navel, and, crawling further up her body, her nipples, left then right.

He kissed them again, trying to take as much of each breast into his mouth as he could. He was rewarded when she closed her eyes and let her head fall back. He’d learned that that meant he was doing the right thing.

Her thighs lifted, so her inner thighs clasped his outer thighs, and he lowered his body so that his cock pressed, at last, against that warm wet fruit. He entered her easily, but slowly, wanting to savour every moment and every dactylos* of this new experience. 

Her cunt seemed to embrace his cock, to clasp it in a warm and wet and tight paradise. It was heaven and he was in heaven. Her arms reached up and embraced him, held him, hands stroking his back. He pressed forward then for the first time withdrew a little, and she moaned. Encouraged he pressed forward a little further, then moved back and forth, each forward thrust taking him a little deeper.

At last they met, his pelvic bone pressed hard against hers, cock fully buried in warm pleasure. He could not think; only experience. This was the most intense sensation he had ever known.

He pressed his forehead down towards hers and kissed her nose, inexpertly, then her mouth, open-mouth to open-mouth, with growing skill.

At last he couldn’t hold himself from moving in her, and he began to pump slowly. The goddess held him, with her arms, her thighs and her arms. He was imprisoned, infinitely pleasured. 

He put his hand under her, holding her buttocks, for the sensual pleasure of that, and to hold theirs bodies close. He rode.

• A dactylos was an ancient measure, used in Thebes and elsewhere: about 19.3 millimetres.

There were once, in ancient Thebes, two lovers. They met infrequently and cautiously, because both families were opposed to their love. Hylas’s family were citizens, and they farmed their land and served in the army, but never conducted business. Their land and their service brought them wealth and power. 

Phyrne’s family made lanterns, oils and candles, so that those who wanted to stay awake past the natural hours of darkness could do so. The family had become wealthy, and it too was powerful in its way, but to the citizens of Thebes it was a disgrace to be in trade, no matter how successfully. 

So Hylas’s parents heartily despised Phyrne’s parents, and in return her parents gave hatred, ridicule and contempt. Hylas and Phyrne met when they could, but they had little pleasure, and no sex. Instead they held each other, unhappy, spoke of their love and bemoaned their fate. 

Sometimes he allowed himself to hold one of Phyrne’s plump breasts in his hand, and afterwards, alone in his own bed, pleasured himself with that sensual memory.

Fortunately, there was, in Thebes at that time, a beautiful witch, dark of skin and beautiful, from some far and unknown land. Her name was Ojastara, and she was always followed by a cloud of foxes.

One night Hylas was in his family home. His parents and his sister were in their rooms, asleep, and so had he been. But he got up to get a cup of water. But as he was pouring water from the pitcher the servant girl in the kitchen suddenly froze. She stopped. Still. The house had stopped. Even the wind had suddenly stilled.

That was odd, and a feathertop of apprehension seemed to run down his spine. He shivered. Then he shrugged and turned to go back to his room.   

Then he cried out, very lightly, in fear, because a dark corner of the wall had wide, white eyes. Then he saw there was a woman, darker than the night, in the room with him. He stared. She smiled, and she was beautiful beyond anyone he had ever seen, except perhaps Phyrne. But his fear did not diminish. “What … are you?” 

“I’m your rescuer. My name is Ojastara, but you will call me Teacher.” 

“Teacher?” 

She selected, from an indoor pot that held orchids, a length of bamboo and swished it in the air. “Yes. And I suggest that you pay attention to your lessons. Come here.” 

Hylas wasn’t sure why, but he obeyed. The woman took him by his penis, which grew, incredibly fast and hard, in her hand. She whipped the cane, hard enough to hurt and leave a mark, just a micron below the hang of his balls. Hylas found, to his consternation, his cock hardening even more.

She smiled at him, the smile not entirely reassuring, and said, “You need many lessons, Hylas. Before you’re worthy of Phyrne. Now.” She turned her back on him, her hand still firmly holding his cock, and began to walk.

Hylas guessed that she was taking him to his bedroom. But he had eyes only for her rolling bottom and the firm femininity of her thighs.

He had never had a woman. He and Phyrne had never had the opportunity, and perhaps he had not had the courage to make it possible. It seemed, he realised, that a woman was about to have him. But her hand on his cock seemed to drive all other thoughts and considerations out of his mind. He followed, close. 

Bridget leaned back against her plantlike lover, his penis, if that’s what it was, firmly held in her anus. She felt a deep love and affection for him. She knew that was partly because she was influenced by the psychotropic chemicals he exuded from his body, what he called his “pollen”. At the same time he’d been a skilled and considerate lover, and that told her good things about his nature.

Though she had to admit her asshole was a little sore from his vigorous thrusts as they closed on their respective orgasms, she was disappointed when at last, and slowly, he with drew from her.

At last, though, she was no longer taken. He reached for her shoulder and helped her turn so she could look at him. He was an extraordinary being. His skin was dark green bark, his hair was leaves, and although the lines of his body and face were manlike, he was made of living, animate wood. His beard was tightly knotted, flexible twigs.

 She touched his face. He was oddly soft, for a man of wood. He smiled at her. “I do not often court mortal women quite so abruptly. But I wanted you, on sight.”

She grinned at him. “My arse is still sore, you abrupt bastard.”

He looked concerned. “I’d hoped to bring you pleasure. Not pain.”

“You did. Pleasure, I mean. I was teasing you. My arse is sore in a good way. Oh!” She remembered something. “You spanked me! You can’t spank me and pretend you didn’t want to hurt me!”

“I felt you wanting it.” He looked up then, and saw Ojastara looking at the pair of them, smiling benignly. “Cousin, I have never had such a gift. May I keep her?”

Ojastara said, “That’s entirely up to the gift, now. I only introduced you. She is not mine.”

Only a short time ago Bridget would have been hurt, if Ojastara had said she didn’t belong to her. Instead she looked at the Green Man. “Jack, if you’ll have me – often! – I’ll stay with you. I’ll willingly be yours. If you’ll -“

“I cannot be yours, little mortal. I’m an elemental; it isn’t possible. But your life will seem all too brief to me. I promise to keep you and love you as long as you live.”

“Then” Bridget pushed her owner back, onto his back. He was immensely strong, she knew, and he was humouring her, as she might ‘lose’ a wrestling match with a child. The protuberance that had been in her arse was clean, now, and gleaming. She lowered her lips to it. “I wonder how sensitive this is?”

Jack said nothing, but the protuberance oozed sap, and then a sticky substance that tasted faintly of something woody, but nourishing. As she licked and sucked at her strange new lover, his hands fell to the ground, and the fingers seemed to dig deep into the earth. The protuberance grew, and it streamed as she sucked, the fluid viscous and faintly sweet.

He placed a bony, woody knee between her thighs, and she rode it, pleasuring herself as she pleasured him. At last she seemed to be back in that shining, fuzzy cloud, high above the world.

Jack came in her mouth at last, releasing something nutty and faintly sweet. She swallowed, and wondered if she would ever need any other kind of sustenance again.

But his great inflexible hand pressed down on her buttocks, so that she pressed closer, tighter to his knee and thigh, soft bark against sensitive womanly skin. And she made the first high-pitched peep, of the sound that seemed to be her new orgasm noise. There were many more before the need and greed of her cunt at last allowed her to relax and rest. 

When she could look around again she saw that Ojastara and her foxes had gone. But she did not feel abandoned, in this new life. Jack said to her, “You’re my Queen now. Queen of April. Or possibly the May. Usually a goddess takes this role. So you must be a goddess too.” 

“And Queen,” she said, wondering. “Then she looked at him. “‘For the shepherd lads on every side’ll come from far away; And I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother; I’m to be Queen o’ the May.'” 

Jack stood, and extended his strange hand. Bridget took it and rose. He said, “You’ve become a goddess. Whatever the season was, you’ve just brought the Spring. That was strong, and good. I’ll have to try very hard to make you immortal. With – pardon, I don’t usually work by human manners – with your consent, of course.” 

Bridget remembered that hers was a goddess’s name. An old one. Perhaps that was more than coincidence. She said, “You may make me immortal, fine sir, if you please.”

Bridget waited on her hands and knees, her bottom arched up, proffered and offered. Behind her she heard the door of the cottage open, and a male sigh of pleasured surprise.

Seconds later, she felt hard hands on her shoulders, pushing her down so her face and breasts pressed against the grass. A voice that seemed deep but oddly constricted, said, presumably to Ojastara, not to her, “This is a thoughtful gift, Vetter.”

Bridget thought. “Vetter” meant “cousin” in some languages, and probably meant it once in English, before French influences entered the language. Could Ojastara somehow be a relative of this being? But she forgot questions of philology, because the voice addressed her. “You are very beautiful, little human. My mortal morsel.” She felt his thighs, hard as teak, pressing at her softer thighs and buttocks, and something, also hard, pressed protuberantly against her asshole.

She thought about that hardness entering her without lubrication, and whimpered. But the end of that protuberance began to flow, and it entered her, somehow exuding its own slippery gel. She looked down, for the first time, at the hands and forearms that pressed her down. They were solid, without fat, and the striations were neither muscles nor veins. They were a dark green colour. What, she thought, on earth am I fucking?

The voice said, “It’s late to name myself. But your invitation was too strong, little one. I am the Green Man. I’ve been on this world far longer than humans, but I welcomed you when you arrived. Recently, I mean about four hundred years ago, which is a long time ago for you, and yesterday for me, they gave me a name: Jack in the Green. You may call me Jack.”

“Well, you are welcome to fuck me, Jack. Though you’re like nothing I’ve ever seen before. Or… felt.”

“I’m sorry about that, a little. When I saw you I desired you. And when I’m in a state of desire, I exude … Well, think of it as like pollen. But I exude desire, and you feel it too. So you desire me very much, but you didn’t exactly choose to desire me. I think. Anyway, we want each other, and I’m afraid I’ll have to leave pollen ethics to human thinkers. Jacks in the Green don’t have philosophy. We don’t have politics, either. That’s for you beautiful mortals.”

And he began to move, deliciously, in her ass, taking care not to to hurt. Bridget knew, in a far-away part of her mind, that the pleasure she felt was also partly derived from the chemicals he released. But it was such intense pleasure, and she began to rock back on him, so that she was fucking him, and doing so hard and fast.

Then he held her, one hand on her shoulders, and took control again, fucking her very slowly. Bridget’s world seemed to shimmer, as if their mutual pleasure was somehow visible, like a shining cloud surrounding them both. She turned her head and bit that hard forearm. There was a very faint print from her teeth, and he grunted, not in pain. He reached one hand back and smacked her bottom, six times. His hand was utterly hard, but he was careful not to hurt her, or not much. Then he stopped her spanking and began to fuck her a little harder, a little deeper.

Bridget gasped. she was being taken on a high, hormonal path, as if she was flying, with his hard tube in her ass. She gasped in air, as she could feel her climax build, relentless. Usually she came noisily, guttural or a scream, but deafening for her poor lover. But she could only squeak. Her orgasm came in sharp jabs of pleasure, over and over, possibly for four hundred years, or a day.

At last she stopped, and relaxed against him. She felt immensely happy and fond. She hoped he would let her up, in a while, so she could see his face.  

When Bridget had come Ojastara kissed her cunt fondly, then slipped her hands out of her bonds with surprising ease. She took the flogger from Bridget’s surprised hand. “We’re going for a walk,” she said.

“Where? Why?”

“I don’t think I’ll let you speak any more, Bridget. If you speak before I ask you to, you’ll feel this flogger. Hard, girl. It’s not always a toy.”

Bridget’s eyes widened. Wisely, she remained silent, but followed Ojastara through the forest. After a time Ojastara told her to stop, and take off her Domme costume. Bridget obeyed, and watch as Ojastara stowed her outfit, the tight black pants and the halter-top, and stowed it in a tree. Bridget wasn’t sure if she’d ever see those clothes again.

A smart lash, with the flogger’s thongs wrapped across her bottom, soon made her forget it. Naked, she followed the woman who was now her Mistress.

At last they came to a clearing, and a wall, within which was a small cottage.Ojastara called, but didn’t knock. She shouted, loudly, “Jack! Jack! I bring a gift!”

She glanced at Bridget. “Hands and knees, girl. Drop!”

Bridget began to understand just who and what the ‘gift’ must be.

Then the flogger lashed down again, and she cried out in pain. Properly used, it was anything but a toy. “Not like that, girl. Your ass facing the door. Knees apart. Arch your back, little one.”

Bridget obeyed, feeling like a cat making herself available to a tom. The lashes struck her bottom again, but gently. She took it as approval. Ojastara said, “Good girl. Now we wait.” 

Ojastara knelt, her hands cuffed together over her head and suspended from a hook in the ceiling. Her knees were well part, the skin of her cunt inner thighs ablaze from the steady, insistent and insinuating lashes of Bridget’s flogger. 

Then Bridget increased the intensity, aiming the floggers lashes only at her soft, sensitive cunt. Ojastara closed her eyes,amnd her mouth hung open. She made no sound. Bridget increased the forces of the lashes, and Ojastara at last moaned, as though she was immersing her body into a warm bath. Then her brows arched, pleading, and she said, again, “Yeeees. Please. Please.” 

Bridget smiled. She leaned down and kissed Ojastara’s forehead, and pressed the handle of the flogger against her cunt. Ojastara seemed to collapse, her whole weight hanging from her wrists while she pressed forward and pushed herself against that hard, leather cylinder. 

At last Ojastara cried out like a cat being fucked, a high animal sound that was both need and satisfaction. It built and suddenly reached up to a higher pitch. There were years in Ojastara’s eyes, spilling, running down her face.

At last she breathed, “Oh yeah. Thank you, Bridget.”

“I think I’d like you to call me ‘Miss Bridget’.”

“Thank you, Miss Bridget.”

“Good girl. Not that you’re a girl, any more than, I don’t know, Eris was. You’re a trickster goddess. There aren’t many of you.”

Ojastara smiled. “That’s nice, Miss Bridget. But I’m not a goddess. Or a trickster.” 

“Just what a trickster goddess would say. But I have better uses for your lying tongue, Tara. Come forward a bit, still on your knees.”

Ojastara, who was still in charge there, and they both knew it, made an interrogative noise. Bridget sighed. “My cunt likes that sound. I think I want you forced to lean back a little, while you get me off.” 

So Ojastara crawled forward until her body hung back, from her uplifted, bound, wrists. Bridget stepped forward, thighs parted, and pressed Ojastara’s face into her cunt. She closed her eyes and sighed, as she felt her tongue in soft, wet, sensitive skin. And she let the flogger’s lashes rest against Ojastara’s back.

The flogger was reaching between her shoulders, and Ojastara, her arms outstretched and her wrists tied to pillars of either side of her. Her bonds were not uncomfortable, but she couldn’t slump and relax, the way she wanted. 

Bridget was applying the flogger almost lazily, letting its weight drive the impact as she swung it down on Ojastara’s back. Ojastara sighed. A happy sigh; this was good pain, and it was almost comfortable. Then there was movement within her, and her eyes widened suddenly.

Bridget had introduced a dildo into her cunt before the flogging started. Now it was as if it had suddenly woken up. “Remote control,” Ojastara thought.The stimulation was gently insistent, and exceptionally pleasant.

Then Bridget stepped in front of her. She was a tiny girl, with hair the colour of a fire engine. She wore satin black shorts, cut high, and a tiny black leather bra, and little black high heeled shoes. Apart from her hair, she was pale white, speckled with freckles. She smiled at Ojastara. “Oh, I am enjoying myself! It’s a pity you don’t colour much. But you have the yummiest skin.” 

Ojastara nodded. Just then, with the vibe in her cunt slowly becoming more insistent, she couldn’t gather her thoughts enough to form a sentence. She watched, helpless, as Bridget raised the flogger again, and delivered two slashing strokes to her breasts, left to right and then right to left.

One of the lashes caught at Ojastara’s dark plum-coloured nipple, causing an instant’s fiercer sting among the long, warm thud of the flogger’s path. Ojastara felt it like a kiss, or a kiss-and-bite, and she sighed, pleasured. The flogger lashed her breasts long and hard, with only occasional sharper sensations. 

The strokes came shorter and faster as Bridget worked her way down Ojastara’s body. The flogger swept across her thighs from left to right and back again, for a long, long, hypnotically long time. “Tara,” she said at last (no one but Bridget ever called her ‘Tara’), “I’d love to whip your cunt. Long and – mostly – slow, till you come. That all right by you?”

The flogging stopped, suspended, waiting on Ojastara’s word. Bridget bit her lip, supplicant though she held the whip, waiting. 

Ojastara smiled. “That’s you. You ask me nicely, in your Scots accent. I don’t think I could refuse you anything, little Bridget. “I mean, yes. Yes, please.”

“Oh, thank you. You’re so sweet, Tara.” And the flogger dropped, to lash upwards at Ojastara’s warm, dark, wet and tender lips.