taurus season

The labyrinth was far more vast and complex than Thesea had imagined. She crept along its corridors, finding her way by gradually dwindling torchlight.

The stone walls were blackened from decades of neglect, and the cobbled floors were slippery. The air, dank and still, was cold, as though she traveled a crypt and not the trap of a living thing.

Thesea didn’t dare drop the thread in her hand. Once she found the monster, it would be her guide back to the palace. The maze was so massive, she feared the thread would run out before she reached the center.

Ignoring the aching of her feet after her hours of walking, Thesea turned another corner.

Instead of another corner or a long corridor, the maze abruptly opened up into a large, low-ceiling clearing.

Could this be the center? It was so rough, as though the builders hadn’t bothered to pave the part where the creature would spend his time. There was no light, no fire. Thesea thrust her torch high in the air, searching the darkness for any sign of the Minotaur of legend.

All she saw was jagged piles of rocks.

She began to move along the wall to her right, around the perimeter of the room. Catching movement in the corner of her eye, she turned to see one of the rock piles beginning to stand.

Her torch threw confusing shadows. What were those curved points? bulging and tall, so tall. She saw a tail swish, and heard hooves on the stones.

The creature opened its mouth and bellowed, so loud that Thesea fell to her knees, dropping her torch and the thread alike. Her heart pounded in her throat and she thought of drawing the dagger at her ankle. He roared again.

“Minotaur! I don’t come to hurt you. I come to free you,” she cried, reaching for her torch. She rolled over on the stones, reaching for the flaming stick, and when she rolled back he was a mere foot from her, towering over her.

He was majestic. Seven feet tall, glossy black fur covered him, but did not hide his rippling muscles. He wore a crude breechcloth, which barely concealed the size of him. Thesea swallowed, and scrabbled upright, holding her torch once more.

The bull-man’s head dipped to look at her. He had long, graceful black horns, and a head that was more bull than man. His obsidian eyes flicked up and down. They were framed by the most exquisite black lashes. His soft, velvety nose and chin protruded like a muzzle, but his mouth was soft and human.

Thesea gulped again.

“Who are you?” he uttered. Thesea was surprised he spoke her tongue. His voice was deep and rich.

“My name is Thesea of Athens,” she began. Her voice was trembling. He was so large, so masculine, and so very close. “I came to lead you from this prison.”

“Why?” He stepped even closer, so close he was in her personal space. His face held doubt and anger.

“Because,” she swallowed again, “because your father died, and you deserve to be free.”

“How do you know what I deserve? Didn’t they tell you I’m a monster?”

He came even closer but she held her ground. He was so close she could feel the heat coming off him. He lifted her chin to meet his eyes, one finger tipping her face upwards. His expression had shifted to curiosity.

“You don’t seem like a monster to me,” she whispered. She licked her lips. The torch burned close to her hand, and she dropped it reflexively.

“Do you sleep on the stone?” Thesea asked.

He had let go of her but he was still so close she had to tilt her head up to look him in the face. He gazed down at her with obsidian eyes that flickered in the torchlight.

The minotaur turned and led her the short distance to where she had first seen him lying. There was a bed, almost a nest, of sheepskins.

She stumbled back on the uneven stones, and he grasped her bare arm to keep her from falling. His hands were human, furred on the back and with thick fingers. His arms were muscled like a blacksmith’s. His rough fingers brushed her skin as he let go.

“What is it that you smell like?” the minotaur asked her, picking up her hair and running it over his fingers.

Thesea thought for a moment.

“Olive oil? You haven’t had olive oil?”

He shook his head and it tugged at her heart. Minos had trapped him here to hide him, ashamed. The minotaur had never even tasted the oil of the olives that grew just outside the palace doors.

“It’s something people eat. You can try it if you come with me, and we leave this place,” she said.

“Are the other people like you?” he asked. He ran his finger up her arm, toying with her hair again. He stepped closer.

He bent his head to her neck again, tilting his horns away. Acting on instinct, Thesea slipped her arms around his neck, and buried her fingers in his soft glossy fur. He reacted by wrapping one arm around her and lifting her. She threw her legs around his hips. He held her up with his left arm and stroked her hair with his right, brushing it off her face.

She dipped her face to nuzzle in his neck. His fur was so soft she couldn’t help rubbing her face against it, against the taut muscle of his neck and shoulder underneath. Her fingers stroked the back of his head and neck.

He gripped her ass with both hands, pulling her hips into his. She could feel him through their garments, his erection straining towards her.

Thesea ran her hands up the minotaur’s neck, caressing until she felt his horns in her hands. They were warm, finely grained, smooth. She lightly ran her palms along their curves.

The minotaur grunted and rucked against her as she stroked his horns. He released her ass with one hand and took hold of her hair. Her neck bent back, he kissed her, and she opened her mouth for him. Her back was arched so every inch of her body was touching his warm, solid form.

He knelt in the furs and skins and laid her out before him, not taking his mouth off hers. The velvet of his muzzle caressing her skin contrasted with the callused fingers sliding up her thighs.

Thesea’s knees spread apart of their own accord. She had no will, no urge to stop what was happening. The minotaur pressed his palm to her belly and ran his thumb down the trail from her navel to her thick thatch of curls. Thick digits found her damp slit and the swollen nub at its crest. Thesea cried out at the touch. Curious brown eyes found hers, wondering at the sound she made. He pressed her clit again and when she moaned, he began to stroke her rhythmically. He knelt above her, one hand steadying her thigh while the other worked her into a frenzy.

When she was squirming and crying incoherently, the fingers of his other hand moved to tease around her entrance, dipping just in and out. Thesea arched her back, heels digging into the furs beneath her. Finally the bull man’s thick finger entered her dripping wetness, sliding in and out, then crooking into her most sensitive place.

Thesea’s hands fisted above her head, the tension in her core building to an unbearable height. The minotaur loomed above her, his horns casting pointed shadows in the wild light of the torch.

The tension snapped and she came, screaming, gushing on his black fur. He grunted, his eyes hot on her, and brought his fingers up to his mouth. His long pink tongue slipped out and tasted her juices. Thesea cursed and felt herself pulsing at the sight.

Her bull bent his massive head, tongue out, and lifted her hips to his face. He slung her legs over his shoulders, and her shoulders rested on his bed.

His tongue lapped at her, pressing wide and flat at first and then flicking in detailed little strokes all the way up her slit. He devoured her, his tongue dipping in and out of her entrance, and she mounted her peak again and again on his lips.

At last he lowered her hips to the pelts. Her thighs shone wet, as wet as his muzzle. He licked his lips and gazed with hooded eyes at her exposed center.

Thesea, exhausted, flung her arms over her head and arched her back. Her breasts thrust up and he bent to them, sucking them into his hungry mouth. He reached down and freed himself from his breeches. His erection lay hot and heavy across her mound, so she reached down and stroked it.

“Want to fill you,” the minotaur growled. She twisted her hands up his length, to his swollen tip.

“You will,” she said, and guided him to her entrance. She gasped at the size of him, bigger than a human man could be. He took mercy and entered her slowly, until every inch of him was seated deep inside her.

Thesea didn’t know whether to cry from pain or moan from pleasure. What came out was a strangled keen. He took it as pleasure, and began to withdraw slowly. His hips began to move rhythmically, the instinctive beat of everything that mounts its mate.

Thesea, stretched almost to splitting, let her legs fall further open, spreading herself impossibly wide for him. He sat back on his haunches, her hips on his thighs, and watched her lithe body clutching around him. He ran his fingers along the silken skin of her legs, gentle and patient as she got used to the size.

At last Thesea began to move on him herself, drawing him forward. Forearms to either side of her, he mounted her in earnest. She was curled under him, unable to move, as he rocked harder and harder. Thesea cried out praise with each thrust, each tap of his pelvis to her swollen nub.

She slipped her arms around his neck, and pulled his head down to kiss her. She moaned into his mouth at the new angle, at the way his back muscles bulged under her fingers. Long fingers wrapped around his horns, and she rocked against him, with him, until she was sobbing at her climax again.

The minotaur lowed like thunder, and his thrusts grew ragged and pounding. He spurted inside of her, filling her to overflowing with his seed.

His movements slowed, and he bent to kiss her once more. She caressed his shoulders and back, savoring the texture of his fur and the shape of his body. He carefully slotted himself next to her on the pelts, arranging her gently to make room for himself.

“Thesea of Athens,” he murmured in her ear, his wide hand splayed over her belly. He nuzzled her neck with his plush nose.

“Pasiphaides,” Thesea answered. “Will you come with me out of this labyrinth?”

“I will follow you anywhere,” he rumbled in her ear.