Today, I bring to you the entire prologue from The Greenwood Goddess, book 3 of the Erotic Myths & Sexy Tales boxset. It’s set at the time of Beltane, so it seems apt this month! 🙂
The prologue gives you a glimpse into the seduction of each of the five men into becoming competitors in a very strange and steamy storytelling competition. What they don’t know is just exactly why the goddess Gaia wants to find a winner – and what she will do with him when she gets him…
When the moon shines through the blanket of leaves in the forest, the goddess Gaia wakes from her sleep. She is beautiful, at one with the bark and the branches. Her body, peeling away the layers that have held her still, reveals its nakedness, emerging from the wood and the moss that has protected her, releasing her arms from the branches that hold them on high. Goddess, or captive? Whichever way she sees it, Nature needs her. And she needs it.
She watches from up in the big oak. How can she be so sad, so discontented, when it’s only a day until Beltane Eve? This is her time; she should be ready. But she is not. She has no mate. The old ways no longer suit this world; the men are resistant to a goddess.
But they haven’t changed that much. They still can’t resist a woman…
Sitting high in the tree, Gaia watches the man and his wife, visible to her from the tops of their heads downwards. Year on year, her tastes alter in what might arouse her, sometimes taking her by surprise. But this couple are no surprise: they definitely do. Watching them has been a strange kind of interesting that’s left her throbbing between her thighs for the last few hours. The couple’s tent may be large, but it has been rocking spectacularly with the force of their copulation.
Is he a good choice for Beltane? He’s clearly got what it takes to make his woman peak, to make her run with juice. To make her come. So, what’s wrong with the pair of them right now? He could be the one, already proven himself, with a lovely newly-ripe age of maturity and experience. Just like his woman. Hmm. She wouldn’t normally take these ones. They would be missed too easily. But in this case…
“Is it going to be absolutely necessary to stay here? It’s just a bloody field. What if it starts pissing down?”
“What’s wrong with you today, Rob? You’re normally so…” The wife scans the field.
Rob speaks to her shoulder blades. “I thought that we were all right, Jessica. Just you and me. Holiday from work.”
“Yeah, this is nice.” She grins at him. “It’s still running from me. Shame you didn’t lick it up. I’d have liked that.” She heads toward the two small tents that have appeared since the pair of them were fucking, curiosity all over her face, leaving him wide-eyed, and alone.
Sighing, Rob stands and watches Jessica for a while, his hand running the length of the rope outside their makeshift doorway. He looks beyond her to the man and woman she is approaching.
Last time it was the two men who’d decided to share a tent that she had latched onto – in every possible way. Jess had played with their guy ropes.
Rob spins round to take a walk, almost bumping into a woman who has appeared from nowhere.
“I see you like handling your guy. Isn’t it beautiful? May I?” She runs her fingers along the rope above his, sliding down to meet his own. “Is it just you two, together…?”
The woman nods towards Jessica.
He appraises her quickly while her head is turned: a bit younger than him, definitely not yet fifty. Moving his hand from under hers, somehow it gets caught in the strap of her canvas dress. Loose stitches give way and the strap drops, revealing the hint of a well-kept chest. The top of her bra is decorated at the top with little leaves, just like her green dress. The white underwear clearly wasn’t meant to be on show, he’s sure, because he can see through it as the strap drops just a bit further. The dark shadow of a nipple beneath her flimsy fabric leaves his tongue dry. The sight makes his fingers twitch. They brush against the translucent material.
His head feels fuzzy. He’s never touched another woman since Jessica. But… his fingers… they have a life of their own right now.
“Oh, I… that’s nice.” She clasps her hand over his, her breath coming in small gasps. “Oh…I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you blush. I’m…I’m Gaia.”
The woman smiles, releasing his hand, but slowly – really slowly – and flashes huge blue eyes at him. His mouth is desperate for something wet; his chest is banging ten to the dozen.
“Er… hi.” He doesn’t know what else to say. What a total idiot, colouring up like that.
The woman – Gaia – leans in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush, and her breast brushing his arm. “I don’t normally blurt out things like that. But it’s always been a fantasy of mine. I mean, there’s my significant other – he’s amazing. I’ve left him tied with silky cord to the tent post. It’s what he wanted. But he thinks I should bring someone back to see if I’ve done it right.” Her blue eyes look straight into his. “Do you think I might have done it right? I want to join in with him, but I don’t know… Will you help me? I’m a bit scared.”
“I totally get that.” After his time in the Army, and what happened before as a kid, and having to watch Jessica vanish off for her playtime with other men’s ropes on every holiday they’ve ever been on while denying it’s happening, he really does.
“I’ve left him naked. He’ll want me as Nature intended the moment I get back. Will you mind me being naked?” Her breath is against his ear, like a warm breeze blowing over him.
Rob looks back towards Jessica. She’s squatting by the female owner of the tiny tent, stroking her hair, her palm on the man’s knee.
The woman in front of him holds out her hand. “Will you come with me?”
He takes her hand. “Oh, yes.”
She has heard the others call him Patrick.
There’s something about his eyes. Not the colour; just the way Gaia notes that they devour the scene. He’s standing, leaning over the fence near his tent. Did he plan it, or is it just fortunate on his part to be pitched near the ablutions hut?
She watches him scanning for details – the little skirt that’s remained stuck in the back of one woman’s knickers; the bare midriff that makes him lick his lips; the shape of a woman’s backside in her tight jeans; the nipples that harden when they make contact with the April air through flimsy, silky sweaters.
Patrick knows exactly what he wants. Gaia senses what arouses him. He’s…interesting. Will he want her? Even though she’s not heard him speak, even though he’s interacted with no-one, something makes her add him to her list.
“What are you doing?”
Patrick stands, stunned like an idiot, as the woman of maybe forty, or possibly her late thirties – similar to him, anyway – leans over the fence right next to him.
“People-watching.” He swallows hard with the realisation that his people-watching has suddenly become much more of an up-close and personal experience than he expected. She’s brushed her hair to one side, revealing a beautiful alabaster coloured neck, the kind anyone would want to watch her fingers trailing down, to watch them brushing against the soft skin. Two stunning, pert mounds fill out the blouse she’s wearing. His nerve endings begin to head into overdrive as he stands up straight, taking in the way she has her top tied just under her bust, and the way her backside curves in her tight jeans. Unable to help himself, he blows air through his teeth. She smiles. He can feel his cock beginning to swell.
“Anyone here belong to you?” she asks. “Oh, and I’m Gaia, by the way.”
A pang hits him like a lump hammer in his middle, and spreads to his chest. He remains silent. What’s the answer to that question? There’s nothing physical happening with… It’s not so easy to explain. He’s not even sure he knows what’s happening.
He shrugs. Gaia doesn’t push the question, and he’s grateful for that. Instead, she asks, “I bet you know where the really good spot is to see what’s going on here, don’t you? And to join in, if you’re lucky enough to have someone close by who fancies – well, you know? During the – what is it – the ceremony?”
Patrick’s cock throbs, and he has to shift around in his trousers a bit until it’s no longer straining and painful.
“No. Where?” He colours beetroot, watching her play with the button that just prevents him seeing straight down her cleavage and getting a perfect view of those tits that have nothing else covering them whatsoever. Her nipples are like bullets. He whimpers. She grins, stroking her backside.
“You really don’t know? It’s worth being right there, when it’s Beltane Eve. Maybe you want to come there with me. And I mean ‘come’.”
Her look through thick, long lashes isn’t lost on him. She holds out her hand, and he doesn’t even have to think for a second. He squeezes her fingers and nods. She whispers in his ear as she leads him away.
“Do you squeeze your cock like that? I want to watch.”
What a beautiful human. She recognises a well-groomed man, yet she notices the traces of acrylic and oil paint on his jeans. In fact, she can smell them. And the linseed oil. Mmm, she loves that smell. He’s an anomaly; what is he? An artist? He must be. Would he paint her as she is, as a goddess, bound to the tree by everything that’s ancient? He’s seen a lot. Decades and decades; she can tell. The eyes are always the giveaway, staring like that into space. Is he really seeing anyone in that field, even though he’s surrounded? She has a feeling about him. About a memory…
“Excuse me. I hope you don’t mind me butting in. You seem so far away.”
Tom’s senses snap back from the edge of darkness, of reverie, of near lunacy. It’s always the state that his work pushes to the fore. He drags himself back into the here and now, eyeing the woman in front of him, shocked to find one standing there at all.
“I saw the paint.” She nods towards his jeans.
Oh my, she must already have noticed the bulge in them. An old man shouldn’t do that to a pretty young woman. Or maybe he should. He’s never been able to help it when he’s been painting. Something else that his work pushes forward in him! But, for pity’s sake, he doesn’t know her. He tries to recover himself. She probably hasn’t noticed after all; she’s hardly going to want to look at him. He offers an embarrassed smile.
“I was twenty when I began to paint. I’ve been doing it for over forty years.”
“Professionally?” She cocks her head, and he melts under her gaze. Those stunning blue eyes… She smiles at him, and swishes her little white dress.
He utters some kind of unintelligible affirmation, finishing with, “I paint trees and water a lot. Fields.” Fuck, he sounds boring. She’ll leave in a minute. He really doesn’t want her to. He wants her to stay.
“Well, we’re in a field, and we’re surrounded by trees.” She moves closer. Her skin smells of flowers, her dress brushes the back of his hand. His breath is uneven and the ache in his balls is almost unbearable.
“There’s a mill wheel here. I don’t know… Would it be too much of a cheek to ask if you’d like to come view it with me? I’d like some pictures for my exhibition – it all ties together with water – and I…”
He’s already up and beside her.
“So you’re an artist, too? A photographer. You don’t want to take any risks down there. You’re— You’re very lovely.” He reaches over and takes her hand. You’re not from… Are you local?”
He feels like an idiot as she shakes her head and smiles.
“Not exactly. But I’m from very close by. My name’s Gaia.”
His heart is racing, and it isn’t just the beat of his heart that’s growing. He’s shocked; maybe it’s the thoughts combining here, in front of him. A white dress with flowers, the mill – that’s next to a grassy field, isn’t it? There must be a field… Oh, the way she looks at him. He wants to lay down and take himself to hand, unbearably aroused by the imagery, but he can’t because of this beautiful young woman.
“Gaia. What a beautiful name. Don’t worry. I’ll make sure you’re safe. I’m coming.”
She glances down with a smile. “Not yet, I hope. But soon.”
He feels his neck burning, the colour flooding his face. A need filling his blood. When she meets his eye, her blue eyes spark. She holds out her hand. “Would you like to come and see what I can do with you?”
Tom takes her hand, and kisses it, and holds on tightly. “Yes, please.”
Mmm, this one’s interesting. Very nice muscles. Pretty to look at. Knows what he’s doing around the ladies. Or thinks he does.
She needs to test him out. He’s not arrived with a woman; that’s interesting. Maybe he’s expecting to get lucky for Beltane. Maybe he’s looking for something sexy, dangerous. Well, he’s in for a treat, then. Maybe those hands over her body would be exactly what she needs. What kind of a man he is inside? Not inside her, although that might be an interesting experiment right now, if only she wasn’t who she is.
It will all become clear. He’s not giving much away – except that he really likes women. It’s not difficult to spot. He was almost naked when he stepped out of that tent a little while ago. A one-man tent.
He might be a risk. But she’s prepared to lose a few in the process.
Rushing up behind the random woman he spots leaning against the big oak tree, he grabs her round the waist with one hand and shoves his other hand between her legs, pushing it right up and leaving it sticking out at her front.
“Ha! Never seen a woman have a hard on before. It’s fucking sexy, seeing you with a dick out front, even if it is my hand, darling.”
When she turns around, her heavily made-up face one of sultry looks and appreciation for the anonymous, unexpected grope, he sees her properly, and the growl he emits leads to a number of strange glances from people nearby. Most women slap him for doing that kind of thing. Four have rung the police, but he’s always vanished and he’s never given them his name. Or been stupid enough to try and use that pulling tactic near CCTV.
“Fuck, you’re gorgeous. I’ve never seen anyone wearing a rubber catsuit before. Sulphur cross-linking hydrocarbon chains…mmm. Chlorinated latex, too – good girl. Only seen this on a stunner once, when I was doing my PhD, just once. Couldn’t get my fucking cock out of her sight. Couldn’t get it out of her later on.”
“You here to watch the festivities – or to take part?” Her fingers slide down his shirt, over his belt, and down to his restless bulge. He smirks.
“Whadda you think? Think I’m gonna sit here watching two people pretending to be a god and goddess, so they can fuck each other’s brains out and call it a blessing for the crops? You have got to be joking? If they can fuck in public, I can fuck – anywhere I fancy. Or you fancy.”
She puts her hand inside his jeans fly, takes hold of the other hand to lead him away. “Coming?”
“Fuck, yeah.” He doesn’t elaborate. He’s too busy murmuring, “Stroke it, bitch.”
The one on the periphery. That’s the one. Sitting there, watching the groups of people. What is it about this man that makes Gaia know she needs to take him? Something about the way he watches the women dancing about, and the men pulling them close and slipping their hands inside their clothes. The way he bites down on his pencil and sighs, but doesn’t move. The way he picks up his book and can’t focus on his reading. Just for once, she wishes she had the gift of mind reading. Other goddesses find it cumbersome, frightening even, but her task would be so much easier if she could only know what’s going on internally, not just watch and discover what makes his cock hard, and when.
But there must be more to the one she chooses this time than just that.
“Hi. Are you enjoying the festivities?”
Ben looks up, trying to figure out where the voice is coming from. He spots her, about fifteen feet from the ground, sitting like a cute little imp on a thick branch, surrounded by blossom and leaves.
“Are you all right up there? Erm… do you need help getting down?”
Apart from climbing hills when he’s working, he’s not one for heights of any kind, and he really hopes that she doesn’t. His heart bangs when he sees her slip herself over the branch, push her foot in a hole in the tree trunk, make her way to the branch beneath her, swing on it and get ready to drop to the floor. He rushes to align himself with her one dangling leg, ready to catch her when she releases the other from its foothold. Something inside him goes twang as he catches sight of her black silky panties, and he blinks rapidly as she drops from the tree.
The thing that went twang – it goes thump and crash now. She lands, sliding in his arms until she’s pressed against his t-shirt, and looks up at him with blue eyes. She feels like a bundle of fragile nothing in his arms, one covered in a white bouclé cardigan, and smothered in tiny flowers – bluebells printed on her pale green button-through dress. She’s probably about a decade younger than his 35 years, and definitely a strange one, like him. He can tell by the boots. It flits across his mind to query whether anyone knows she wears black silk beneath her clothes but his common sense tells him to keep his mouth firmly shut.
He stifles a groan as she lands on his foot.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to… But you didn’t have to catch me, you know. I’m perfectly capable. I’m always in trees.”
He looks down.
“I hadn’t realised that I would need my steel toe-capped boots during the festival. I thought it would be relatively safe – unless the maypole hits me on the head the day after tomorrow.” He smiles at her, and she smiles back, rustling her scraped up, scruffy-looking ponytail in between her fingers, blushing a little.
His belly does the twist, and the contents of his trousers lurch. He blushes, too. Would she feel that, still pressed to him as she is?
She releases herself, not taking her eyes off him, and biting her lip, a little frown appearing across her face, making her nose twitch. His heart bangs. She’s adorable. She sits herself down under the tree, hunching her knees up and hugging them with one arm, patting the ground with the other. He sits himself down next to her, and she casts a quizzical look at him.
“Wasn’t sure if you’d join me down here, in all this moss and muck. Lots of the people who come here sit on blankets or sleeping bags, or their coats.” She frowns again. “Aren’t you a bit chilly?”
“Nah. And I don’t care about sitting on the floor.”
“My job. I spend a lot of time in fields like this.” He shrugs. “I save ancient relics.”
“Ah. I see.” She becomes pensive. Has he said something wrong? Everything goes around in his head: memories of every time he’s put a foot wrong before. Too many ethics (is that even possible?), too obsessed with his own thoughts, too unable to be what he’s feeling (whatever that means). He can’t have done something wrong already. He’s not grabbed hold of her and kissed those lips, or run his hand underneath that pretty little white cardigan that makes him grin inside and want to cuddle her. Ridiculous. Why would he want to do that? He’s only just met her. Maybe it’s those black knickers. He’s always liked the taut relationship between the dark and the light. Or maybe he just needs to be touched by someone who understands him.
She’s staring into the distance, where couples and groups of friends are arriving and finding spots to pitch their tents. His gaze joins hers in drifting over the field. Most of the tents here are small, like the ones his group takes on a dig, but there are some bigger ones, too, making it look as if the people have come on a week’s holiday, rather than for Beltane. Do they know they’re in the middle of the country and not at the seaside? He half expects to see windbreaks and buckets and spades appearing, regardless. The thought depresses him, as it does every year, that maybe they have no idea what Beltane’s really about at all.
She breaks into his thoughts, coming out of her own reverie, and looking straight into his face. “I’d like to show you somewhere. It’s very close – just through the trees, a bit deeper into the main part of the forest.” Her chest heaves, each breath leaving a tiny gape in her dress between buttons. The faintest sight of her flesh lets him know she has no bra under that pretty dress. She continues, “We can’t see here. It’s too much on the periphery. But I think you’ll appreciate it. Maybe even like it. I hope you will. It…fits what you were just saying.” She holds out her hand. He takes it. Where will she lead him?
“Will you come where I take you?” She circles around him.
“I sincerely hope so.”
Still clutching his hand, she utters a breathy, “Oh, I forgot; just one second.” Before he can look round to see what she’s doing, something soft and tickly drapes around his eyes, redolent, with the scent of woodland. Then – he doesn’t know. Everything’s black.
If you liked this, all four of my erotic myths and sexy tales so far are in a digital boxset. Even better, it’s still $2.99 (or your equivalent, instead of $4.99). You can find it at all of the following stores:
At the moment, you can still get Carnal, my collection of 20 erotic stories for 99c/99p (or your country’s equivalent) until the end of May. So if you fancy some short erotica to keep you company, you can find all the purchase links here.
Happy reading, and stay safe. x