Pandora’s box

It was all oppressive. The summer heat, the monotone murmur of the bees in the vineyard, the far away pipes of the shepherd and above all, the flimsy little silvery robe that she wore which hung on her like lead. She clutched at its hem and clawed restlessly.

“Never open the box!”, her mother’s warning rang in her ears. Her overbearing, smart mother who was always toiling at the loom.

Boring, boring mommy. With her rules and wise words on how young girls must behave. Eyes down, words soft, body frigid.

It’s funny though. The same mommy who said never to open the box also told her to take whatever her husband gave. And her husband did open the box.

She shook her head. It did not feel like anything was being opened though. More like being torn. They did promise her pain if the box was opened and there was a lot of pain.

And yet…

she pulled up her robe to reveal her alabaster thighs. These same tihghs that were gripped crudely last night and stained with blood and disgusting semen.

And yet…

she felt the box was not opened at all. She felt that none of that magic, none of those curses, none of those vicious and cunning traps which her maker had sealed up carefully into her had come out at all. The world was still normal. People laughed, cried, ate and slept. No catastrophe had occurred.

Her maker.

She smiled as pleasant memories welled up in her. Hephaestus, the lame god, whom all laughed at while they drank wine served in wonderful automatons that were created by Himself. Her hands clasped her neck and she licked her lips wistfully as her thoughts drifted to He (as she called him in short) and His wonderful tools.

Tools of wicked cunning and clever craft. Strong levers guided by supple pulleys. Smooth wheels driven by strict pinions.

How wonderful it all was. His workshop, the tools, the automatons…and the women. How skilfully He crafted their bodies, sculpted their minds into submission as he did with metal. It was strange, she reflected. When He touched metal it seemed to acquire a mind of its own and and when He touched the women their minds, their souls fused into His, no longer existing.

Her thoughts drifted and were lost in His workshop as her hands drifted and were lost between the folds of her legs. She felt a strange lightness all over. All that feeling of being chained with bonds, duty, roles, tradition…they seemed to slip off as her mind pictured her in front of Him, eager for His touch, His craft, His intellect.

She stopped. No, this was wrong. She had seen Him punish women for doing exactly this. She bit her lips as she recalled the punishments. The postures, the welts, the words, the tears…those of pain and then those of relief. Immense flooding relief.

Her head arched back, her neck stretching taut like bamboo. Her chest heaved thrown out like the flowery bough of a tree. Her left hand peeled off her robe like a serpent shedding its skin. Her fingers now fearlessly sought treasure. In her closed eyes all she could see was Him. Him working, Him setting up His tools, Him grasping his implements…

His hands touching her, guiding her, teaching her, teasing her, hurting her…

As her thoughts latch to pain, she felt a strange tingling, a gathering of monsoon clouds in her parched body. Images fleeted through her mind even as rosebuds bloomed all over her body. Hammer. Tongs. Anvil. Rough hairy gnarly feet. Beard.

And at last even as the clouds burst forth, a wise cunning face with sensuous lips barely visible under the thick beard. Him. Her mind was filled with Him as she flew across the Elysian fields.

With a soft sigh, she opened her eyes.

A wise cunning face with sensuous lips barely visible under the thick beard. Him.

“So,”, he growled in a dark voice “you have opened the box? You shall pay.”

Her eyes looked on in a mixture of terror and pleasure. She was embarrassed and tried to cover her nakedness which was exposed wantonly. But His firm hands held her.

She struggled a bit and then realized.

The box had been opened. The afflictions had escaped. Pain was born in her world. As was pleasure.

His rough fingers slid between her legs.

She closed her eyes. His fingers drew back and she pulled them back in with an eagerness that surprised her own self.His other hand clasped her neck. She was now bound and in that binding had her freedom.

Pain had escaped. Pleasure had escaped. All that was left now hope.

Hope of pain and pleasure.

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