4 comments/ 5482 views/ 1 favorites Aria By: XxKatiexX Her eyes. That's the first thing that caught my attention. Aside from the earth-shattering smile, they were the thing that made me approach. They were literally teal. Her eyelashes were long and black, her eyebrows thick. She had lips that curled around her teeth when she smiled in a way that said, you don't know me, and you never will. She was enticing. I wanted to get to know her more. Her hair was a dark blonde, but her eyebrows were darker. I always wondered if she had dyed her hair, but she said she hadn't. She was all natural. My name is Eric. I'm a graduate student at my local university with a degree in Writing. I write when I'm sad, mad, happy, depressed, insightful, confused...I've been doing it since I could hold a pencil. Becoming an author is my ultimate goal. When I actually spoke to her, I discovered that she was probably the nicest girl I've ever met. She had tasteful conversations, was interesting, and was very intent when I had something to say. Slowly but surely, she was turning into my best friend. Her name is Aria Kabinov. She was born in Russia, and came over here when she was three with her parents. Neither of them are still alive, but Aria's twenty-four years old and can handle herself. She's got a tiny accent to her voice, but nothing overwhelming. Think of it as coffee with a pinch of sugar: bold, with a sweet aftertaste. She's a beautiful painter. If you put her on my balcony with paint, and easel, and a brush, she'll paint everything within a 360 degree radius, including the wall of my house behind her. But, the thing is, she'll paint it so well, that I'd still hang it up in my living room. She's just that good. One time, she sat me down on the balcony on one of my kitchen chairs and ordered me to sit as still as possible. I obeyed, and for the next half an hour, she had the backbone of a beautiful portrait of my face in the works. She captured every detail: my un-shaved morning stubble, the flecks of color in my eyes. Of course, it wasn't complete, but, over time, she did finish it. She has it hanging on her wall in her entryway. I love Aria Kabinov. It's easy to say all the cliché things about love, like, I'd do anything for her, or, I'd take a bullet for her, or, I can't live without her, but they just don't do it justice. I can't put all of my love into words for Aria. She makes me smile, yet cry because...what the holy hell did I do to deserve her? I know I, in fact, would do anything for her. She's mysterious, beautiful, elegant, harsh, smart...she's almost every trait known to man...and I think that's why I love her so much. She always keeps me guessing, yet I know her and her little quirks. "Hi," she said as I opened my door. "Hey." I bent down and kissed her cheek. I'm over six feet tall, and she's a tiny five foot three. "Ready to go?" I asked. "Yup! Let's go." We hopped into my car and started heading to the forest. We were going hiking to the top of a mountain, and were going to paint and read. That's one of Aria's favorite things to do: adventure to places where she can paint. Where no person has painted before. We came across a deer trail that we followed for some time, confirming that it did indeed go all the way up the mountain. It looked as though no one has went up there, and that's why we were going. Aria strapped her easel to her back and carried her paint bag over her shoulder. I carried her medium-sized canvas covered in a sheet up for her. Whenever I write, I write the things I've seen. I study the things and people around me in order to get a realistic advantage on what I'm trying to tell others. As Aria and I walk up this unnamed mountain together, I focus on the way the light hits her face. How her hips raise and fall when she steps over stones. How her hair has slightly fallen from her ponytail and is drifting in the breeze. The tune she hums as she looks at the canopy of trees up above our heads. "Beautiful day," she says, looking back at me, her white teeth glistening. "Very," I said, smiling back at her. She picked up speed. The top of the mountain was imminent, and it looked as though she couldn't wait to get to the top. "Look," she said. "The lighting is going to be wonderful!" She continued to hurry and when she got to the top, her breath caught. "Eric. Look at this view!" she exclaimed, her arms outstretched in front of her. She belted out a yell and it echoed back to her. She looked at me and smirked. "I love Eric!!" she yelled, and it echoed back. "You do it. Say something," she said. "I love Aria!!" "I love Eric, more!!" I furrowed my eyebrows at her. She raised one. "I love Aria more than she loves me!!" I yelled. "NOT TRUE!!" "TRUEST STATEMENT IN THE WORLD!!" I belted at the top of my lungs. Aria stared at me and started to giggle. "I have a super competitive boyfriend!!" she yelled. The mountains yelled it back. "Not true!!" I yelled. "So true!!" "Will you marry me?!" I yelled. She was about to say something along the lines of proving me wrong, when her eyes popped open and she turned to me. "What?" she asked, fingers resting on her throat. I turned to her, "Will you marry me?" She stared and that lovely little smile that she has slowly bubbled to the surface. I focused on her eyes, the lines from smiling and laughing, every hair that makes up her eyebrows. The creases in her lips. This moment was one that I want to write about fifty years from now and remember every single detail. There's no possible way that I'll ever forget it. "Yes," she said, "yes I will marry you, Eric." I dropped my book and pulled the easel and bag from her body. I pulled her into a kiss and held her there by her face. I ran my hand down her hair and face, silk beneath my fingertips. Tears streaked down her face. She pulled back and laughed as I reached my and into my jean pocket and pulled out the tiny velvet box containing her ring. I opened it and placed it on her finger. It glistened against the light. "Eric, it's beautiful," she said, covering her mouth. She looked up and kissed my lips three times. She wiped her face and looked out at the scenery. "Great," she laughed, "now I'll never be able to focus!" "You can do it. I want to see that painting. Be sure to date it," I said. "You know, every time I look at it I'll remember that's what it looked like when you proposed to me," she said. "Half the reason you should paint it," I smiled. She smiled back and looked at her ring again. She held it close to her face, and then far away, moving it slightly to see the light hit it at different angles. She then grabbed her easel and paint and started painting. I'm going to be completely honest. I couldn't focus on my book for the life of me. I was too busy watching her. She was so intent. It seemed that even the fact that she was engaged to be married, nothing could break her concentration on what she was painting. Occasionally, I did see her glance at her left hand and smile. She glanced at me a couple of times, too. I looked down at my book and made it look like I wasn't watching her. About two hours later, just as the sun dipped below the horizon, she looked at me and sighed. "Done," she said. I stood up and walked over to her. It looked like a photograph. The sky was orange, pink, yellow, and purple, just like the sunset had been. The trees and mountains were exact, their peaks exactly what was in front of me. At the bottom was her signature, the date, and the words, engaged to be married. "Beautiful," I said, bending around her shoulder and placing my lips to her neck. I felt a spark, and she looked at me. Her head laid on my pillow and I stared at her as I ran my fingertips from her forehead, across her collarbones, down the valley between her breasts, over her belly and hips. I put my mouth to hers, her hand resting on my neck "I love you," she said. "Forever," I said, kissing her ring. The next morning, I woke up with her head on my chest. Her left hand also rested there, the ring glistening against the morning light. Her hair was fluffy and smelled like strawberries. I didn't want to move. I wanted to stay here for ever. Her head on my chest, her hair tickling my nose. I ran my fingers over her shoulder, down her left arm, over her fingers. I loved this woman. I loved her with every single fiber of my being. Cliché as it sounds, that is the truth. I seriously cannot picture my life without her. I want to be the father of her children. I want to grow old with her, die with her. She started stirring, rolling over and raising her arms above her head. Her breasts pointed to the ceiling. "Good morning," I said. She rolled back over and pressed her lips to mine. "I've got to get to work," she said. "When will you be back?" I asked as she got up and stretched. "Hmm," she said, taking her clothes from the back of my chair. "Tonight. Is that okay?" I stood up and wrapped my arms around her. "Of course." "Okay, then I'll see you tonight. Would you like me to pick up anything for dinner?" she asked. "Nope. I'm making it for you," "Ooh," she said, buttoning her shirt. I walked her to the door and kissed her. I then lifted her left hand and kissed the ring. "I love you, Aria. I love you more than you'll ever know," I said. She smirked. "What's with the speech?" she laughed. "It's not a speech. Speeches are mostly there to convince another person of something you believe. I'm stating the hard facts. I love you with my entire heart. I can't picture my life without you. I don't even want to think about it." She smiled. "I'm not going anywhere." Aria gets off work at 8 PM. I sat with dinner on the table, waiting. I looked at my phone and it read 9:14. I was starting to get extremely worried. I tried calling her phone again, but it was just carried to her voice mail. Hi, this is Aria. I'm not here right now, but leave your name and message and I'll get back to you as soon as I can. Have a good day! I cleared my throat, "Hey, Aria. I'm just calling to see where you are. I tried calling once before, but you didn't answer...hope everything is alright. Call me back. Bye." I got up and walked into the kitchen. I started grabbing pot and pan lids to place over dinner so it'd stay warm.   9:32. 10:01. 10:13. Hey, Aria. Just leaving another message. Can you please call me? 10:30. 10:42. Aria, come on. Did I do something wrong? 11:03. Aria, where the fuck are you?! I never pace. It's just something I've never done. Then again, I've never had the love of my life not return my phone calls for over three hours. My heart was pounding in my chest, my hands were sweating profusely, and I couldn't breathe. My phone started ringing. I ran over to it. "Hello?" I asked breathlessly. "Mr. Anderson?" "Yes?" "Hello, this is Hope Memorial Hospital. We have just checked Aria Kabinov into---" I didn't even finish listening. I was out the door in five seconds. "Oh my God, please, please, please, please," I begged. Obviously I was begging him to keep her alive...although I wasn't sure if she was even alive because I didn't finish listening to the nurse at the hospital. This added to my hysteria. I pulled into the parking garage and threw my car into park. I ran up to the hospital, the big red EMERGENCY sign illuminating the ground. I walked up to the front desk, breathless, "Aria Kabinov. Where is she?" The nurse typed painfully slow on the computer as I waited. My fingers drummed against the faux wood of the desk. "And who are you?" she asked. "I'm her fiancée. Eric Anderson." "You're not on her list of visitors," she said, tapping the computer screen with her long red fingernail. "Is she dead?" "I can't release that information." I took a deep breath. "Look," I said, "I'm her fiancée. I don't know how to prove that to you, but, I am. She knows who I am. Can-can you go ask her? Just say Eric-" "I'm sorry, sir," she said, shaking her head. "IS SHE FUCKING DEAD OR NOT, LADY?!" I screamed. "Security!" she shrieked. "Just tell me if she's dead!" A tall, older man walked up to me. "Come on, buddy. No sense in making it difficult," he said. He took me by the arm and led me out of the hospital. Once outside, he let go of me and folded his arms. I paced, my hands pushed into my eyes. What the hell was I going to do? "Your mom?" the security guard asked. "What?" "Trying to get in to see your mom?"   "No. My fiancée." I said. "What's her name?" "Aria Kabinov. I have no way to get in to see her because I'm not on her visitors list." He shook his head, "You know, that whole visitors list thing is bull shit. How do they expect a person in ICU to even be coherent enough to tell you names?" I shrugged and started walking away. "I don't know." "I'll let ya in. Hence the whole reason explaining I didn't agree with the whole visitors list thing." "What?" "Did you really think I was going to tell you that and kick your ass to the curb?" "...Yes?" "Get in there. I'll clear you." I walked up to him and shook his hand. "Thank you. Thank you very much...uh..." "Oscar." "Thank you, Oscar." I walked through the doors and the front desk nurse stood up. "Security!" she wailed. I stuck up my middle finger and walked past her. I heard Oscar telling her to shut up as I walked down the hall. Stainless steel letters against dark wood walls addressed the Intensive Care Unit. I walked up to the desk praying that I wouldn't have to deal with another crazy nurse. "I'm looking for Aria Kabinov." "Are you Eric?" she asked. "Yes! Did she ask for me? Is she okay?" I asked frantically. The nurse stared at me, her mouth flat. "Her doctor is here to talk to you. He'll see you in a moment. Take a seat in the waiting room." "Can I see her?" I asked. "Possibly." I turned numbly to the waiting room. Several tired looking adults filled the seats. Some holding hands, some holding rosaries. Some crying. I sat down and waited. My fingers drummed against my leg. I couldn't sit still. I felt like my skin was crawling and like I wanted to throw up. I got up and moved to the chairs closer to the bathroom. People stared at me. I must look like hell. "Eric Anderson?" an older man with a white coat asked. I stood up and raised my hand like a moron. Like a school boy answering a question for the teacher. "I'm Aria's doctor. How are you?" "Is she okay?" I asked, ignoring his question. "Come with me." he said. We walked down a separate hallway from the patients. He turned to a door and put a key card in it. It opened and a dark paneled room with diplomas on the wall appeared. A large desk with a laptop sat in the center of the room. Two soft leather chairs sat in front of it. "Take a seat," he said. I sat down in one of the chairs and felt like a poor person in a billionaire's mansion. The doctor sat down in the chair behind the desk. "Aria is not doing well," he said. He folded his hands on the desk and leaned forward. "She was driving on the highway and got in a head on collision with a drunk driver. It appeared that she tried to veer away, but it basically made the situation worse than it would have been. We're seeing severe, irreversible brain damage as well broken bones, damaged organs, etcetera. This leads me to a question you have to answer because you're the closest one to her and she has no parents and relatives." He paused for me to answer. I just stared, completely destroyed in every way possible. Numb. "Aria has little chance of surviving except on the machinery we have here at Hope Memorial. Either she stays here on machines for the rest of her life, or we 'pull the plug' and let her pass." He pauses again. I say nothing. "I know this is a huge decision," he said. "It's a lot of stress on your shoulders. But, Mr. Anderson, you need to evaluate what she wants...or would want with her life." We sat quiet for a moment. "I'll give you some time." "Can I see her?" I begged, tears in my eyes. "Yes." I followed him into Aria's room. He pulled back the curtain and there she was. She didn't look like my petite, beautiful Aria. She was...broken. Black, blue, and bloody. Dying. "I'll leave you two alone," the doctor said. "Can she hear me?" I asked before he left. "There's a possibility. We can't be sure right now." He walked out and I pulled a chair up to her bed. I took her left hand and looked at her engagement ring. One of the diamonds was missing, blood was caked on the band. A ventilation tube was down her throat, monitors on her forehead. Her eyes were taped shut so I couldn't see her beautiful long eyelashes, or her teal eyes. I couldn't run my fingers through her dark blonde hair, because it'd probably fall out. I couldn't run my fingers over her broken body, or kiss her swollen lips. I couldn't see her smile with her beautiful white teeth, because half of them were gone. I couldn't listen to her talk or laugh or breathe. She was not my Aria anymore. She was already gone. I already knew my decision. "Aria," I said, "I don't know if you can even hear me right now, but I just want to let you know that I love you with all of my heart, and I always will. I'm so sorry about what happened...I wish this never did happen. But, I made a decision that I wish I didn't have to make." I was crying now. No holding back. "I wish I got to marry you. I wish I got to call you my wife. I wish we got to have babies. I wish we got to get old and gray together. I wish I got to die with you, not watch you go first." I rubbed her cold fingers vigorously. I prayed to God that she'd just wake up and breathe on her own. That she'd sit up and hold me like she used to. It wasn't the fact that I wanted her...I needed her. I needed Aria. I needed her in my life. I can't picture my life before her. It's bleak and ugly and something I don't want to feel again. "I want you to wait for me up there, Aria. Don't go in until I'm there. I want to go in with you. I want to hold your hand. I love you. I love you so, so, so much. I'm going to miss you. Every day. All day, every day. Every breath I take, I'm going to miss you." A nurse walked in with the doctor. "Have you made a decision?" he asked. I put my head on Aria's leg. My tears dripped off the tip of my nose. My hand clutched hers. "Yes," I said. "What would you like to do, Mr. Anderson?" I swallowed and tried to contain myself. "I want to take her off of it. This is no life for her. She always hated having to be in one place for too long. She'd hate me if I made her live the rest of her life in a hospital bed." The doctor nodded and put his hand on my back. "Have you said your goodbyes?" "Yeah. I have." "When would you like us to do it?" he asked.   I looked at Aria's face. Not even pain was an emotion on her face. She was so sedated and broken that she didn't even have color to her skin. She was a ghost already. She was already going away even on life support. "Now." The doctor walked up to the machines and waited for me to look at him. I took Aria's hand and gave him one nod. He started flicking the switches off, and I looked at her face. All I could hear was the beating of her heart on the monitor, and my own heartbeat. I whispered that I loved her several times, and heard her flat-line. The doctor put his hand on my back and gave it a pat. He and the nurse left the room and shut the door. I looked at my dead fiancée. I couldn't breathe. Part of me was waiting for someone to say this is a sick joke. I kissed her hand laid my head on her leg again. I sobbed. The only other time I ever sobbed was when my grandmother died. Now, this was different. These were sobs that felt like they were shattering my ribs. They felt like they were crushing my lungs. My throat was closing up. My stomach was retching. I was fucking falling apart. Aria I'll never forget Aria. I'll never forget us on top of the mountain the day I proposed to her. I'll never sell the painting she painted, and I'll never be with another woman. She probably would have wanted me to move on with my life, but I don't think I ever will. The only person I wanted to marry was her. She was the only person in my entire life that I wanted to marry, and, now that she's gone, I won't be with another girl. I loved Aria with my whole heart, and still do. Always will. Aria Makes Morocco Sing One day in May 1980 I received a telephone call from Morocco. She asked if I'd seen that month's issue with her fight. I told her that I had. Silence. "It was a mistake," she told me. "Cynthia caught me on a bad day," she said. The match had been fought earlier that year. Because of Cynthia's loss to an aging, but sexy first time grappler she was having difficulty getting matches in the higher echelons of the sport. Nobody wanted a loser. She wanted a rematch to prove that she still had the same fire and that she could still compete at the highest levels of the sport. I told that I'd do what I could. After a few days of research I recalled Aria's loss to another newcomer, a Scot named Cherish, back in April 1979. Aria had been a celebrated woman in those days, but since Cherish's victory over her I'd heard nothing from or about her. Let's face it, when you spend the kind of money that the AHW crowd did on their stables of wrestlers you sometimes need to cut your losses if you want to keep winning and maintain your staus within the inner circle. After checking with Dave, I began searching for Aria. We'd put out the word that it was to a match for redemption, with two hungry, lush grapplers going it with all their energy to return to the select few who graced Moll's penthouse apartment. It didn't take too long to track down Aria. After her loss the year before she'd taken time off, not necessarily her choice, and trained like a woman possessed. She was hungry, and she agreed to take on Morocco that summer. I made the arrangements. It was, like all the other matches, to be a no-holds-barred fight. The winner would claim her due following the match. Because of the high stakes it promised to be a great fight. Moll's circle of friends was abuzz with excitement when it heard the news. The evening of the fight each woman was chauffeured to Moll's penthouse. They came up in separate elevators, but entered together. Conversation stopped. Both women were applauded. The attention restored something of their old self-confidence as well as the kind of haughtiness that champions like these exude. Neither woman acknowledged her opponent. I escorted them to their rooms. Morocco changed into a new bikini that she'd purchased specially for this bout. As she disrobed she carefully hung her clothes in the closet and on the bed. The brunette shook out her thick mane of black hair as she held up the tiny, but sturdy suit for a last examination. It was beautiful and would accent her lush body, her full hips, her ripe breasts, and her sumptuous ass. First Morocco slid one leg and then other into the bikini. It fit low on her hips. She admired its cut and the way it fit and felt so snugly against her pussy. She could see the faint outlines of her labia, and she liked it. Morocco was the kind of woman who wanted the audience's attention, every bit of it. Made of a turquoise material, it had a liquid metal finish that gathered and reflected the light to her advantage. She tied the strings behind her back and then behind her neck. Morocco's breasts were like firm melons supplely held back by two thin, cloth triangles. The room temperature was such that her nipples grew long and hard, as if trying to poke their way through their restraints. She was ready. Aria, as arrogant and careless as ever, threw her clothes in a pile on the bed. Someone else would pick up after her, she thought. Confidently she changed into her bikini. It was the same custom-made, pink satin affair that she'd worn in her savage battle against Cherish. The satin felt good against her shaved cunt. It was snug, and rode low on her hips, with two small pieces of string straining to keep the fabric in place. The top was just above the cleft of her ass and only barely so over her clean-shaven pussy. Like Morocco, Aria's labia were clearly outlined. Unlike her, Aria didn't care who admired her. She fought to satisfy her needs for battle, conquest, and domination. She fought to satisfy her lust for power. The tight bikini was part of that process. Its close fit aroused her clit ever so slightly as she fought. The brazen nature of her custom-designed outfit helped intimidate her foes. No one but a self-assured woman, one confident of her superiority would wear a bikini like this. Aria's breasts truly were like spires, jutting outward and upward, poking their stiff, thick nipples against the fabric that only barely covered her beautiful breasts. She was ready to reclaim her rightful spot in the limelight. Both women were ready for the redemption. They entered the room. Dave introduced the women; spoke briefly about what was at stake, and reiterated the rules. It was more of a formality than anything else. Everyone knew why Aria and Morocco were here and what was at stake. Aria and Morocco sized up one another. Both women felt a stirring in their loins. They were tingling with excitement, anticipation, and desire. There was clearly a sexual and competitive tension. They circled slowly, their breathing becoming rapid, and shallow, their widened-with-anticipation eyes narrowing from their combative instincts. Morocco feinted at Aria, quickly lunging forward, flicking her open left hand at Aria's face forcing the blonde to jerk back. Morocco exploited Aria's reaction by leaping at the blonde and tackling her to the floor. Aria rolled through it, causing Morocco to roll past her. Both women got to their feet and charged at one another. Morocco lowered her shoulder, meeting Aria's stomach with enough force to knock the wind out Aria and drive her to the ground. Morocco leapt in the air, hoping to land on Aria's aching midsection, putting her out of the action early, and winning the match. Although she wasn't able to get up or move quickly, Aria had enough in her to roll to one side. Morocco landed hard on her right knee. She fell over clutching it, rolling in pain. It was just the opening Aria needed. She got to her feet, stomped Morocco's wounded knee repeatedly, and then followed it up with a surfboard hold, viciously trying to tear Morocco's arms out of their sockets. The brunette screamed in anguish. Aria grinned and pulled even harder, all the while digging her heel into small of Morocco's back. The brassy blonde followed up her surfboard by grabbing a handful of the brunette's hair, bringing Morocco to her feet. Aria punched her in the stomach, spun her around, and picked up the pained brunette in a bone crushing bear hug. Aria was gleeful. It was a magnificent sight watching these fabulous females struggle for dominance. Morocco's tortured body strained to its limits as she tried to break free. She was sweating profusely, glowing in the room's lights. Her pained looks made her all the more beautiful. If it were possible, her tight bikini hugged her hips even more snugly, still outlining her labia. Despite Aria's dominance at this point she was tiring. Her arms started quivering, but she refused to quit. She channeled every bit of her energy into the hold, her ass tightened, looking delicious in the pink satin, highlighting the cleft in her tight, hard ass even more visibly, her skin aglow. Finally, Aria's arms gave out, she let go of Morocco, and staggered backward, dropping the brunette, who crumpled to the floor. The action stopped for a moment, one of member of the audience suggested intervening and halting the fight. She was willing to take both amazons into her stable. Both grapplers shook their heads and said "no." Aria and Morocco stood, slightly stooped, sweating and breathing heavily, glaring at one another. As if on cue both women came together, albeit much more slowly than before. They walked toward one another deliberately and embraced. Slick, sweaty, bodies rubbing, grunting, and straining, their arms wrapped around one another, their legs trying to trip each other. Morocco succeeded first. She hooked her right leg behind Aria's left and kicked it out from under her. The two fell to the ground with Morocco on top, their arms still wrapped around each other and struggling to beat the other. Morocco used her superior position to wrap Aria in a grapevine and then began smothering the blonde between her bounteous breasts. Aria Struggled to pull her head from between Morocco's glorious globes. She tasted the brunette's salty sweat and breathed in the smell of Morocco's new bikini. Aria loosened her grip slightly, and Morocco exploited it. She slid over placing Aria in a crucifix hold, locking Aria's right arm between her legs, forcing down the left with hands, and smothering Aria between. Aria struggled frantically. She bucked, kicked, and twisted. Morocco merely tightened her grip and set her face in a look of determination. Morocco took a calculated risk. She slid her right hand down to Aria's pussy, believing that if she could force Aria to cum she could win because the blonde would be too busy climaxing to fight back effectively. Morocco fingertips began massaging Aria's highlighted labia, rubbing steadily, and strongly. Rather than panicking Aria took advantage of her and Morocco's glowing bodies. Despite Morocco's scissor hold Aria was able to slide her right hand out and up, and began using her fingers to rub and pinch Morocco's clit. Morocco was on the horns of a dilemma: she could either break the hold and attempt reasserting her dominance or continue and risk being driven to orgasm by Aria. She decided to continue. The sight was grand: two wrestling vixens, soaking with sweat, and driving one another steadily to climax. Aria's lower body began shivering. She would cum soon and Morocco would be restored to her former place. Morocco redoubled efforts, but Aria bravely fought off the orgasm. Morocco shifted just slightly and slid her hand under Aria's snug, pink, satin bikini to administer the coup de grace. Aria had other plans. Rather than play Morocco's game Aria put her hand inside Morocco's liquid metal, turquoise bikini, but instead of driving the brunette to orgasm she pinched, pulled, and twisted Morocco's clit with her fingernails as hard as she could. Morocco screamed and jumped, giving Aria just enough time to roll out and catch her breath. She moved to the attack quickly. Morocco, curled in a fetal position, was unable to resist Aria's onslaught. The blonde put Morocco into a standing head scissor and squeezed with every ounce of energy. Morocco clawed at Aria's thighs, but it was futile. Aria pulled her foe's head up by the hair and slapped her. She twisted around, slapped Morocco's shapely ass, and pulled the brunette's bikini into a thong, splitting the tormented woman's thighs. It didn't take long for Morocco to signal her surrender. She stopped clawing at Aria and slumped to the floor, collapsing in a sweaty, sobbing heap. Aria stood up and walked around her defeated foe eyeing her every detail and drinking in the vision of the crushed, but still-beautiful grappler lying at her feet. Aria slipped Morocco's tits out of their fabric casings and began teasing them by pinching, twisting, and pulling them. She began sucking and biting the defeated woman's nipples. Morocco tried resisting, but accomplished nothing except angering Aria, who twisted Morocco's nipples even harder, causing her to scream. Looking at Morocco's high, hard nipples, Aria climbed on Morocco, sliding her pink, satin bikini to the side, and inserting Morocco's left nipple into her moist pussy. Aria began riding rhythmically the brunette's tit, feeling her breasts with one hand and fingering Morocco with the other. She teased her clit with Morocco's stiff nipple, and began breathing harder. Aria was near orgasm. She moved up to Morocco's face and ordered the brunette to tongue fuck her. Aria rode Morocco's face with a vengeance. Morocco licked, sucked, bit, and jammed her tongue deeply into Aria's cunt. She pulled the brunette's head even more deeply into her pussy. The blonde began convulsing; her breathing became shallow and rapid. Grabbing a handful of Morocco's hair, she arching backward, grabbed the brunette's wet pussy, and began fingering it. Aria rocked to an earth-shattering orgasm, grinding her juicy twat into Morocco's face, as the brunette neared her climax. It was at that time that Aria stopped fingering the broken woman, leaving her at frustrated, beaten, sobbing, and at the precipice of an orgasm. Aria dismounted the beaten woman, stretched and stared contemptuously at Morocco. Aria was back. I couldn't tell you what happened to Morocco. Ariadne Author's Note: this story is a sequel to "Pasiphae" and derived from the Greek myth of the Labyrinth and the Minotaur. "How unfair," I said, "that a princess of Crete should be less free than the lowliest slave." I was chin-deep in my bath as I said this, the oiled and scented water laving my skin like a caress. Had my servant not been in the other room readying my garments for the feast that night, no doubt she would have laughed. Many a slave would have been glad to take my place. Life in the palace, with fine clothes and jewels and luxuries, was a fate that even freeborn women would have wished for. If it meant that I had no choice in my future, but must abide by the king's choice of a husband for me, well, what of it? I knew that my wealth and prospects were good – my husband would succeed my father as king of Crete. Even were I hideous as a Gorgon, my station alone would have made me a valuable bride. Where, then, were my suitors? Their absence should not have bothered me. I had often bemoaned the fate that took my choice of love from my hands, and set my future in the dynastic whims of kingdoms and princes. I loathed the idea of being a piece in such a game. Trade goods in woman form. I should not have been bothered. And yet, I was. If my only destiny was to be married to a strong man who could rule Crete capably when my father no longer could, where was that strong man? Minos was not young, and suffered bouts of ill health. If he should die before I was safely wed, the kingdom might be torn apart by struggle and unrest. Too, and perhaps more importantly, I was weary of being treated like a little girl. I was a woman grown, and age-mates of mine were already wives, mothers. They enjoyed the bountiful gifts of Aphrodite, gifts that remained largely a mystery to me. Oh, I knew something of them, of course. The palace held many fine pieces of art celebrating the joys of the goddess of love. Sculptures and painted vases showed mortals, nymphs, centaurs and gods alike cavorting in carnal abandon. Men and women, men and men, women and women, entwined in ways I might never have imagined. Nor was I a stranger to the solitary pleasures of my body. I had explored its contours and crevices with hands first curious and then urgent. I knew of the tender little nub that afforded such rapture when gently teased with saliva-slick fingertips. I had felt within my snugly clasping passage, barred by Hymen's gate to which only my husband should ever have the key. These thoughts led me to action, there in the bath as the water slipped and lapped so comfortingly around me. My breath quickened, a flush broke over my face, my eyes drifted closed. In my mind I saw the husband of my dreams. He was the very ideal of perfection, the form and visage of Adonis. In my imaginings, this nameless stranger saw beyond my title and fortunes, saw only Ariadne whom he would cherish and love. He would, on our wedding night, take me passionately into his arms and shower kisses on my lips, my throat, my breasts ... he would undress me as he murmured his adoration … he would be exquisitely proportioned, lean thighs, flat belly, a phallus that might have been lovingly crafted by the whim of Aphrodite herself. He would bear me down upon our connubial bed, part my legs, guide himself into me with devoted gentleness. I knew from the talk of the servants that the first time, as that gate was breached, would be a moment's pain, but my dearest love and husband would kiss me and whisper reassurances until the discomfort had passed. And then, with slow and careful strokes, he would move back and forth within me until we dissolved in bliss together. I would sleep that night in his arms, whole and fulfilled. I would wake to find him smiling at me, and no more would I be the shy bride by the knowledgeable wife … I would pleasure him with my hands and my mouth until he was aching with the need to sink once more into the warmth of my body. Ecstasy flowered sweetly within me. I pressed my thighs together, trapping my hand between them, and arched my back as sweet ripples raced outward from my core to tingle across my skin and curl my toes. Dimly, as though from far away, I heard myself gasp and sigh. When I opened my eyes, it was to find my servant standing before me with a clean white drying cloth. I was abashed, but she wore a look so bland and uninterested that I could not sustain my embarrassment. With her assistance, I dried and dressed in a long flowing tunic of sea-green, clasped at the shoulders with gold and emerald brooches. She arranged my hair in a coronet of braids, with long dangling curls to brush at my collarbones. I tried to hide a sudden upswelling of excitement as these preparations neared completion. My parents were finally treating me as an adult and not as a child to be protected. I was not to remain alone in my chambers tonight while the feast went on and the tribute was presented. Errant eddies of wind through my window brought me tantalizing hints of the delicacies being prepared in the royal kitchens. From my window, I could see the unfamiliar shape of the Athenian ship in the harbor. Its sails were black, and this struck me as a strange showing. Once, so they said, Minos of Crete had been a man of imposing stature and strength. It was hard to see any vestige of that man in the one who wheezed and lumbered into the banquet hall that night. My mother had chosen not to attend, so I was granted her seat at the high table At last, it came time for the tribute to be presented. I sat up straighter, wondering what manner of prize it would be. Gold and silver? Precious jewels? Rare spices and oils? Several Athenians filed into the hall. They came two by two, escorted on both sides by my father's guards. Seven youths and seven maidens, none of them much older than myself. I saw such terror in their eyes that my heart quailed. Minos swilled wine, wiped his mouth, and regarded them. "The majesty and victory of Crete must be honored," Minos said. "Let these offerings be taken, as the others have five years before them, below into the labyrinth. Let them be given unto the Minotaur!" The assembled crowd gasped, but it was an eager gasp full of bright-eyed anticipation. The Athenians clung to each other in despair. The labyrinth! I had heard only rumors of a dungeon maze hidden beneath the palace. It had been built by Daedalus, the master inventor who had, when I was barely old enough to remember, committed some offense that angered Minos. As punishment, he and his young son had been exiled to a barren and rocky island. I had been distraught, for Icarus had been one of my few playmates, almost as an elder brother to me. Of the Minotaur, I had heard even less. A monster, sometimes called the Bull of Minos, was said to dwell in the darkness of the maze. Until now, I had not believed it. But, hearing its dire name from my very father's lips, I could no longer doubt that it was true. My father's people surged to follow the guards as the prisoners were ushered from the hall. Minos joined them, and after a hesitation, I followed. We entered a part of the palace previously forbidden to me. Its entrance was a tall arch, at the keystone of which was a gilded image of a bull's head with wide curves of horn and eyes made from rubies. The door, stained black, stood open. A chill breeze, dank as the very breath of three-headed Cerberus, issued from it. Beyond the door was a long and narrow room of rough-hewn stone. Its walls were lined with tiers of bare, hard benches. The Athenians were herded into a group at the center. Minos' attention was fixed on them. At their feet, a massive trap door was set into the floor. Its bolt was as thick as a man's forearm. At a signal from Minos, two of the guards undid this bolt. Then, as their fellows waited tensely with spears angled for attack, they raised the trap door. More dank, cold air gusted forth. The hole in the center of the stone floor was a pit of darkness. "Quickly now, quickly," barked Minos. "This shall give warning to all others who might think to challenge the power of Crete." The guard nearest the prisoners gave a jab with his spear. Its bronze point did not pierce Athenian skin, but the threat was enough to make them begin descending a ladder into the pit. Their plaintive voices echoed hollowly. I heard prayers, final messages to loved ones, sobs. Then one of them screamed. It was a high and shrill sound, purely born of terror. The crowd sucked in its collective breath. The guards slammed shut the heavy door and threw the bolt, and stood ready with their spears. A scrabbling noise was followed by the frantic sounds of fists hammering at the underside of the trap door. A voice screeched to be let out, in the name of the gods. Then came a deep grunting, a final shriek, and a wet thud that was audible even through the thick planks. The fists ceased their battering. Sick knots had tied themselves in my throat and stomach. The rich feast churned violently in my belly. My palms stung where my nails had cut them, so tightly clenched were my fists. Five years? This had gone on for five years already? I could not believe that my father would do this. It tore at my heart, sickened my soul. I fled, heedless now whether anyone saw me or not. When I reached my room, I took to my bed for the next several days. The merest thought of food nauseated me. How could I eat when I was haunted by those horrible sounds? How could I sleep when my nightmares plunged me into a world of utter darkness and dripping stone, with the pungent reek of the monster choking my every breath? On the fifth night of my illness, my mother came to me. They said that in her day, Pasiphae had been a woman of stunning beauty. A prize for which many worthy men had vied and Minos had won. Her waist and hips might have thickened some over the years, her breasts might have lost their firmness, but she remained a striking figure of a woman. Often, growing up, I had looked with envy on my mother and wished that my looks were more in her image. Her eyes were as blue-green as the gown I now wore, while mine were dark. Her skin was fair, mine dusky. Her hair had been burnished gold, now dimming into pewter, while mine was black as the River Styx. Now she had become less lovely in my sight. "What is the Minotaur?" I asked. "What manner of beast lives down in that miserable pit? How can Father be so heartless as to send so many to their deaths? I will speak to him –" "He will not listen to you, of all people," she interrupted. "You have seen what happens to those who cross Minos. He suffers your presence, just as he suffers mine, just as he has suffered us these nearly twenty years. Do not give him more cause to hate you." "Hate me!" I gasped. "Why should he hate me?" A possibility struck me then with the force of one of Zeus' own thunderbolts. A flash both hot and cold raced through me. "I … I am not his daughter, am I?" Pasiphae's hand snapped out against my cheek. I fell sideways, stunned more by the fact of the blow than by any pain it caused, though it did sting. "You dare to suggest that I would cuckold the king with any other man?" "Mother –" "Enough!" She seized my hair and dragged me from the bed. "Up, wretched girl. Wash and dress yourself. It is time that you earned your place here. You are old enough to bear some part of the duty. I have been lax with you, coddled you, kept you blind and deaf to any unpleasantness, but I will do so no longer. Up, at once, I say!" Coddled me? Despite her words I could remember no instances of coddling. She had always kept me at an aloof distance, no true mother-daughter warmth between us. But even then, she had not been unkind. This was no longer the Pasiphae that I knew. This was some harpy, some Fury, with a wild and deranged light shining in her eyes. I scrambled to my feet and obeyed. I had no idea what I could have done to cause this wrath. Yet I dared not even speak, lest she descend on me in a further violence. "Well, Ariadne," she said when I had finished combing my hair. "Do you like being princess? You would not care to be exiled from Crete and doomed to wander, making your way where and how you can, selling your body for bread on the streets?" "No!" Shocked, confused, I fell to my knees before her. "Please, Mother, what is the meaning of all this? What have I done?" "It is not what you have done, Ariadne, it is what you are. You wonder, perhaps, why Minos has not found a husband for you." "Yes," I said, though I now felt I had a better idea. Her heated denial aside, I knew in my very bones that I was not the true child of Minos after all. My father was someone else, some other man, and Minos knew the truth. That was why he hated me. She stalked from my chambers without further reply. I trailed after her, so bewildered that it did not immediately dawn on me where Pasiphae was going. Only when I saw the gilded bull's head above the black-stained door did I understand. I faltered in my steps. The door was supposed to be guarded, yet no guard was in attendance. The hour was late, the palace quiet with sleep. I had seen no one in our trip through its rooms and corridors. When Pasiphae led me inside, I also saw that the heavy bolt had been drawn back. "Mother … I do not like this place." "Help me with the trap door." "Please, no! Whatever I've done, I'm sorry, forgive me, I'll do whatever you ask, but please, please, do not send me down there in the dark!" "Do you think I mean to let you die?" Pasiphae asked scornfully. I did not know what I thought anymore. I only knew that I wanted to be away from here, back and safe in my own chambers, with all of this no more than a dream that would melt away upon my waking. "We cannot go down there," I said. "It is a maze, a labyrinth. Even if we elude the Minotaur, we'll surely be lost." "Minos hates you because you are not his daughter," she said. The harsh words, though I had already suspected, hit me like another slap. I flinched. "The very sight of you reminds him of his greatest shame," she went on, her expression hard as the stone benches around us. "He despises the thought of you being the next queen of Crete, unavoidable though he knows it is. That is why he has not married you off. He cannot bear the humiliation, even if no one else in all the world knows." "Who … who is my father?" I asked in a weak and tremulous voice that did not seem like my own. "He who built this selfsame labyrinth," Pasiphae said. "Daedalus?!" Ignoring my shocked outburst, she said, "Minos agreed to raise you as our own, to conceal the shameful curse his pride had brought down upon us. But Daedalus grew dissatisfied. He wanted you to know the truth, and threatened to reveal it. To reveal everything. For that, Minos exiled him to his lonely island." I thought of Icarus, who had been so like a brother to me. Now I knew that he was my brother, and lost to me forever. "As for his labyrinth," Pasiphae continued, "I know it well." She went to the bench, where a candle in a dish rested beside something that sparkled gold in the flickering firelight. "This ball of twine is endless. I tie it to the ladder when I enter the maze, and it always guides me safely out again." "But the Minotaur!" "Yes, the Minotaur." She exhaled softly. "It is time for you to know of that, Ariadne, so you will know of your duty. The pride of Minos was a white bull. It came to him as a sign from the gods, and he swore to sacrifice it to Poseidon. But he delayed and delayed, not wanting to part with such a magnificent creature. In the end, he disguised one of his other bulls and slew that one, keeping the white bull for his own." My teeming thoughts and emotions aside, I hissed in a breath at this dangerous deed. Oaths to the gods were not broken lightly. "The gods were angered," Pasiphae said. "They saw in the wife of Minos the instrument of their revenge, and cursed her with an overpowering, unnatural lust for the white bull. She bade Daedalus craft a wooden cow, within which she hid, and had this construction led into the pasture. There, the bull mounted her and serviced her. Sating her lust. And filling her belly with a monster." Revulsion must have shown on my face. Her smile was bitter. "It burned all desire from me," she said. "Never again did I hunger for the touch of any man, woman, beast, or object. Minos dared not risk the anger of the gods further by killing the infant, so he had it imprisoned instead in this dungeon beneath our feet. There, in the Stygian darkness, he lives and he hunts and he feasts on the flesh of our enemies. There he has been for almost twenty years." "That … that thing, then, is my … my brother?" In my mind, I heard again the low animalistic grunt, the screams of the Athenian who had scaled the ladder to pound against the trap door. "No," Pasiphae said. "He is my child. You are not." The room dipped and swayed around me. I sank onto a stone bench, unsure if I were about to faint or not. "My pregnancy could not be hidden," she said. "Yet neither could we present a bull-headed beast as the son of a queen. I had importuned my maidservant to lay with Daedalus and earn his cooperation in my plan. When she bore you, we took you for our own and let it be believed that Ligia's babe had been stillborn. You are the daughter of a servant and a prisoner, Ariadne. That is why I ask how well you enjoy the comfortable life of a princess, and how badly you wish to keep it." I lowered my head into my hands. Tears pricked my eyelids. I felt everything I'd ever known crumbling around me, my world turning to ash and ruins. Not a princess, but a servant's bastard. I had never even known my true mother, barely remembered my true father. It was a lie, all a lie. "I know this must distress you," Pasiphae said. "Think, though, of how my son must feel. He has lived all his life in darkness, a filthy reminder of my lust and Minos' greed and pride. He will never see the sun, never feel the fresh wind on his face, never walk free. You have wealth and luxury and a future. He has nothing. He is alone except for those rare occasions when I dare to visit him." This was all too much for me. I could not even raise my head to look at her. In her voice, which was calm despite the unimaginable things it said, I heard a motherly affection that I had always yearned to hear her direct to me. Now I knew why. "Well, those occasions and every year when Minos sends those poor foolish Athenians to him," Pasiphae amended. "He has learned that they are our enemies, to be brought down and savaged. But he is not entirely an animal! Now, rise, girl, and quit that pathetic bleating. Help me lift the door. I am growing too old and frail to do it myself, and there is no one else in whom I can put my trust." I joined her at the edge of the trap door. "Why me?" "Someone must look after him when I am gone," she said. "He is not a dumb and unthinking brute. He cannot speak, but he can hear, he can understand." I wanted to abandon her to this madness, but knew that if I did, she would see to it that Minos did send me away. The fetid smell wafted up as we opened the door, worse than before, a hundred times worse as it was now rife with the decaying corpse-stink of murdered Athenians. Candlelight pierced the black. I saw a ladder stretching down to a stone floor strewn with hay. The hay was clotted here and there with dried blood. Pasiphae felt compassion, even love, for the hideous denizen of this dungeon. A mother's love, doomed, perhaps, but potent. I was shocked to catch myself envying the Minotaur. For all his imprisonment, he at least had a mother who cared for him.