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Althaea held her newborn son in her arms, only seven days old. While staring into the fire on the hearth, she made an attempt to enter into a trance to see what fate would hold for her handsome son. At first, she thought she’d failed, but the crackle of the fire in the palace nursery stopped snapping as an odd wind breezed past. Still staring at the hearth, Althaea stood up, moving closer to the window to listen to the Moerae singing in the wind.
Clotho, the youngest, sang of the child’s lineage and of his nobility. Lachesis, the middle sister, sang of the child’s heart and bravery. Althaea had smiled in quiet acknowledgement of the first song; her pulse quickened with excitement on hearing the second. She locked her vision still onto the fire, particularly on the smallest piece of charred wood, for she knew she could keep her concentration at least long enough until it would burn out.
As excited as Althaea was on hearing of the sung glory of her young prince, her heart sank when the eldest sister, Atropus, began her sad lament. “He will live,” she sang, “Only as long as this brand remains unconsumed.”
Desperately wanting her son live a more prolonged life, wanting him to find adventure and eventually rule as king, she set him down, grabbed a pair of tongs, and pulled the small brand from the fire. She let it cool on a stone, then taking the charred piece in one hand and her son in the other, carried them both to her bedroom. She laid her child onto the bed, placed the brand into a small wooden chest, and tucked it away to be hidden in her drawing room. Althaea suckled her son on her bed that night, assuring herself that her prince would indeed lead a brave and noble existence… and a very long one, at that.
The forest had its usual sounds as Actaeon listened carefully. He had sent his hounds into the hills to flush whatever prey they could find toward him for an easier shot. Though he would normally make some sort of noise, a slight crunching of underbrush, a small splash in the stream, this day Actaeon was pleased that he padded silently along the banks… perhaps he might even find a deer or a boar to feed his party in the distance without the aid of his beloved fierce hunting dogs.
A certain splash or trickle coming from the stream seemed out of place, though, and Actaeon moved slowly on to investigate its source. He approached stealthily and spied what a less intelligent man could have mistaken for a woman bathing in the running water; even though he came from behind her side, Actaeon knew her features to be too perfect for that of a mortal. He had never seen one before, but was certain he was in the presence of the stream’s naiad.
Actaeon silently laid his bow and quiver next to a tree and removed his sandals, then crept upstream along the bank until catching her profile. Her dark hair was immaculately trimmed above her shoulders, baring her body underneath. Her breasts were full and spherical, her waist lean and firm. While she sat in the flowing water, what he could see of the soft curves of her calves and thighs were nothing short of magnificent. He ached to see more of the naiad’s body, his cock growing harder with every witnessing second, but he dared not frighten the creature away.
Still, his aching and desire took control of his body, and he reached down beneath his tunic to stroke his member. Though the palm of his hand was rough against his tumescent cock, it gave him at least some relief as he fantasized about taking the naiad. It was said if a mortal were to mate with one, he would become king of a city that would grow on that site. Power and lust drove him on, and Actaeon took a few steps farther upstream to espy a more frontal view.
The only sounds in the forest were that of the streaming current of the water and the spattering on the creature’s skin as she bathed. Actaeon watched her beautiful face, her small nose, her deep eyes, the sway of her breasts with her every motion. Her bath was near completion and she stood up. The curve of her hips amazed him and the sight of her naked pussy almost drove him to orgasm on the spot. He had to have her, and he had to have her now. Actaeon took three silent steps toward her, pulling and jerking on his cock, then grunted in disappointment stepped on a twig just shy of the stream.
The snap of the wood alarmed her and the nude creature made direct eye contact with the hunter and with one swift motion, lifting her arm straight out, palm extended, urged the man to stop in his tracks. Actaeon could not move a muscle, except to continue stroking himself. He seemed unable to stop, compelled to masturbate while his feet were trapped in the muddy bank.
Faster and faster he stroked, until his cum began streaming out of his member. With every drop that landed onto the ground, a squirrel or rabbit sprang from it; with every drop that fell into the stream, a fish would appear with a splash and swim away.
Actaeon panicked etiler eve gelen escort immediately. Even a naiad might have her desires and had she deemed him worthy, he could have indeed become a king. But with his body controlled at the whim of the creature before him, he knew he was standing before, and had insulted, the virgin goddess of the wild, Artemis, herself.
“What makes you, mere mortal, believe you are allowed to see me like this, or even at all?” The hunter could never find the correct words to respond and didn’t bother trying. Artemis continued, incensed, “And I suppose you’ll boast to your friends how you spied a goddess? What impiety is this?”
Actaeon knew with the slightest wrong word or gesture he would be dead in an instant. Artemis in firm tone warned, “If you ever speak again, I will turn you into a stag. Do you understand?” The hunter nodded in agreement.
He also knew that the magical silence he’d enjoyed was long gone as the bark of his hounds grew louder and, beyond them, the rest of his hunting party. The goddess stood her ground, awaiting his reaction.
“Actaeon! Actaeon!” his friends called from the crest of a hill. They hadn’t yet seen him, but the hunter knew they’d approach within a minute. “Actaeon!”
He wished the goddess would vanish, but she remained in place, standing naked before him. “Actaeon!” At any moment his friends would see her as well and have a similar fate cast upon them. The dogs were coming closer, barking wildly, running as hard as they could down the hill. “Actaeon!” He couldn’t bear to see the party arrive. “Actaeon!”
“No! Turn back!” he shouted in warning.
“If you ever speak again,” the goddess reiterated, and in that second, the mortal transformed into a stag. Artemis watched as the dogs were first on the scene, unable to recognize what was once their master, and now their prey. The hounds tore into the deer with their fangs, shredding it limb from limb, and the goddess disappeared before being seen by any other man.
The hunting party later that evening savored their venison, but the spirit about the camp was dim as no one would ever know what fate had befallen their leader and friend. All that was found of him was his bow, arrow, sandals, and slashed tunic.
This spring brought feelings yet unknown to Atalanta. She was as old as there were numbers to count. She could scarcely remember her first hand of springs, except that each one brought relief from winter’s grasp. In her second hand of springs she remembered how spring brought the longbeards out into the woods, how they played with her and taught her to speak. In her first foot of springs she ran faster than any of them could and learned to hunt for herself. In her second foot of springs she noticed how her body had changed and grown, and adapted to it. Now she was on her last toe, her twentieth spring, and this one brought feelings yet unknown to her. She couldn’t help but notice every female beast in the woods lately seemed to be amid estrus, and Atalanta, who had always felt more animal than human, began to feel the same burning within her.
She wandered a passage in what was once her mother’s cave, left the fur cloak and boots behind, pulling out her sandals and the cloth tunic she’d received a year before as a gift from Pirithous, a shortbeard and her friend. She glanced about the cavern and missed her mother so, the warmth of her large body was comforting on a winter evening, even while she slept. With a sigh, Atalanta left the cave to wander back into the forest with her clothes and few remaining winter provisions in a sack.
It would take at least a few days to get the musty odor from the cloth as it had sat unused in the cave during the past four months. She thought to at least wash out the damp smell before finding more woodsy aromas to help camouflage her scent when hunting over the spring and summer.
Atalanta broke off a juniper branch, then scooped some water from the nearby brook into a small pot with what wild flowers she could find. Her fire was started easily enough in a clearing, and soon the water was close to boiling. She left her tunic in the hot, scented water to initially clean it. She realized how hungry she was and roamed into the forest wearing only her sandals, her bow and arrows over her shoulder, and a leather strap tied tightly about her waist with three sheathes, two for her swords and one for her knife.
She made her way deeper into the woods without a sound, every step with an air of confidence. Before long she found the tracks of numerous animals, and knew her supper was not far in front of her. Sure enough, she found a doe, and Atalanta selected an arrow and drew her bow, but before she took a shot, she witnessed a buck approaching. Atalanta watched as the male mounted the female from behind.
“By the gods, what must that feel like?” she wondered, burning inside. etiler grup yapan escort The deer were done in less than a minute; Atalanta never shot. Instead, she dropped her bow and arrow to the ground, no longer tracking the animals startled by the sound and scampering away in skittish panic; she merely stared at the knife dangling off her hip. The handle fit the grip of her hand perfectly. Atalanta thought that it might fit another part of her body perfectly, as well.
She hurriedly tugged at the tool, loosening it from her belt. Not wanting to cut herself on the blade, she jammed it underhand into a large tree, then dropped to her hands and feet the way she’d seen every other female beast in the forest. The maiden of the woods pressed backward on all fours until she felt the knob of the knife handle touching against the slit of her labia, then plunged herself back onto and surrounding it. Rare was the moment she would ever show physical discomfort, but she let out a groan of pain when the tool broke her hymen.
When she realized a few tears trickled from her face, she wasn’t certain if it was from the aching of her vagina or from the aching of her heart, the futility that there was no way the tree could fuck her. She pulled her body forward, then plunged backward again. It still hurt, but she tried it again, and again. “No, this just isn’t working,” she bemoaned, and leaned ahead until she felt the squishy closing of her lips from off the knife handle. She felt so terribly wet inside, unlike any other wetness she’d ever before known.
When she turned to retract the knife from the trunk of the tree, she was surprised to see lines of blood on it. She glanced between her legs and knew the wetness was that of her bleeding. It was so strange and different to her, though. She had bled there every moon for nearly eight toes of springs, but this one didn’t bring the painful tingle to her nipples or the restless and angry feelings for a hand of days. Atalanta was hurt, but this time she strangely yearned to feel more of it.
Picking up her weapons, she walked slowly back to the clearing. She took a stick into the pot, drawing out her tunic and flung it into the brook to cool before putting it on to wear. She stepped into the stream to clean her knife, pussy, and legs. As Atalanta sat down into the cold water, she rubbed herself, at first to wash away the blood, then more and more simply because it felt so nice to do it. She pressed the fingertips of one hand madly over her clitoris, while forming a small cock with three fingers from her other hand, fucking herself in ways she couldn’t against the tree.
Her body was a jumble of sensations… the icy chill of the water flowing around her legs, but between them ever-increasing warmth from within. More and more this spring she had felt a burning desire, but this was a burning pleasure. A few moments of longing exploring of herself later, she found her body taut in the brook, then as though she were part of the water itself, let go, relaxing and flowing downstream. Atalanta cried out in the glory of nature, satisfied by her own tender touch, drifting slowly back into consciousness.
Over the span of an entire moon, she never saw a single man in the woods, but between moments of hunting and cooking rabbits, fishes, tubers and other vegetables, Atalanta spent every waking moment finding new ways to please herself. She learned to plunge the blade of her knife into the ground and to squat over it, using her powerful legs to lift and lower her body on the handle until she brought herself to climax. She carved a phallus from a leg bone and polished it smoothly with the fat of her kills, using it in nearly every way possible when lying on the grass. She found new ways to touch herself with one, two, or three fingers. Yet, with each orgasm she felt, the need to feel a real man mating with her nearly drove her into a frenzy.
The forest had its usual sounds as Meleager listened carefully. Though he would normally make some sort of noise, a slight crunching of underbrush, a small splash in the stream, this day he was pleased that he padded silently along the banks… perhaps he might even find a deer or a boar to feed his party in the distance.
A certain splash or trickle coming from the stream seemed out of place, though, and Meleager moved slowly on to investigate its source. He approached stealthily and spied what a less intelligent man could have mistaken for a naiad or even a goddess bathing in the running water; even though he came from behind her side, Meleager knew her features to be too perfect for that of a deity. He had never seen her before, but was certain he was in the presence of the maiden huntress, Atalanta.
Meleager silently laid his bow, quiver, sword, and shield next to a tree, then crept upstream along the bank until catching her profile. Her hair was long, dark blonde or light brown etiler masöz escort he couldn’t quite discern, and slightly curled, covering her shoulders and the top of her body underneath. Her breasts were sloping and smallish for her frame, but athletically firm. Her tan nipples were very small in diameter, but stood out hard and erect from her body like two tiny fingertips. Her waist was lean and slender, and while she sat in the streaming water, what he could see of the shape of her calves and thighs were as muscular as any man’s. He ached to see more of her body, his cock growing harder with every witnessing second, but he dared not frighten the woman away.
The only sounds in the forest were that of the streaming flow of the water and the spattering on the woman’s skin as she bathed… that is, until Meleager heard a pleasureful, guttural moan coming deep from within Atalanta’s being. He watched her beautiful body while she played with herself in the stream. In a moment he saw her face contort, her voice calling out in a tremor. He waited until she had begun to find peace, her eyes in a dreamy bliss, her shoulders drop, her body in relief, before coming forth.
When she saw the shortbeard, she immediately tensed and reached for her swords nearby, but Meleager lifted both hands in truce. “I am unarmed,” he offered, then bent to pick up her tunic beside the bank, readying to toss it to her. He did seem honest, as most shortbeards were, but he was handsome as well. He stood only an inch shorter than she did, and the brown hair on his head was as well-groomed as that on his face. His shoulders were broad, his arms strapping, and his legs looked strong and swift.
The woman stood, but kept her hands at her sides, unwilling yet to catch the garment. As she stepped out of the water, he saw she was taller than most of the men he knew, every inch of her body lean and muscular. She walked toward him with grace and carried a pride he had never before seen in any woman. He asked, “Atalanta?”
“I am. How do you know me? We’ve never met.”
“I am Meleager, Prince of Calydon. It is part of my learning to know of all of the royal lines.”
“Royal lines?” she curiously inquired, stepping directly in front of him.
Meleager gave Atalanta her tunic, then waited for her to don it before continuing, though it did little to conceal her form at all; the shrunken cloth clung to every inch of her wet body. “You are Atalanta, daughter of King Iasus and Queen Clymene, Princess of Arcadia, granddaughter to Lycurgus, the son of Aleus, the son of Aphidas, the son of Arcas and grandson to Zeus and Callisto.”
“I’m a princess,” she replied, mocking him in disbelief. “I’m Princess of Arcadia.”
“That’s impossible. I don’t even live in a city, much less a palace! The only mother I’ve known was not even human, and father I have none, nor ever had.”
Meleager asked to take a seat on the stream bank, then explained how Atalanta was abandoned by her father. Iasus had bragged to every he knew when Clymene became pregnant how they’d have a son to rule all Arcadia. When a daughter arrived instead, Iasus couldn’t bear to face the humiliation and had the infant lain atop a mountain peak, abandoned to the wild. The girl would have certainly died exposed to the elements had Artemis not interceded. The goddess sent a bear to suckle Atalanta through infancy, and throughout her childhood, hunters would take turns caring for her over the winter months. “You are,” Meleager said, “A living legend.”
Atalanta paused a moment to contemplate the story. “What you say makes sense, I suppose… but having known nothing else but the forest my entire life,” she added, “It’s all so much to swallow. It does explain something, though.”
“Why Pirithous has always called me ‘Princess.’ The first time he said that and I’d asked about it, he only said that I was Princess of the Arcadian woods.”
“You are that, and much more.” It was Meleager’s turn to pause before speaking again. “Well, if you would allow me, I would very much enjoy hunting with you this summer.”
The huntress felt she was up for an adventure, especially with a man as handsome as this. “Very well, I will.”
“I will take your leave now to let my party know not to expect me soon, but I will return at sunset, if you’ll be here.”
“I’ll be waiting,” Atalanta smiled back, then smiled more broadly while watching the rounded ass of the prince bounce up and down with every step away that he took.
Atalanta was more than ready for Meleager’s return while she tended what would be their evening fire, and he did so even before dusk had fallen. The two each eyed the other as a hunter watches his or her prey. There was no doubt that a sexual tension had built between them from their earlier encounter, each knowing exactly what they wanted.
The prince was first to break the ice. “Before I saw you in the stream this morning, I was of the understanding that… well, legend had it that you were a virgin.”
“I still am.”
Meleager was somewhat shocked, and it showed in the stuttering of his voice. “But… but … but it seemed to me…” he looked downward, “That you seemed to…” with a shuffle of his feet, “Know what you were doing… to me.”
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