Gaia (Erotica)



The world was going to end, the King knew this. The tarot cards of the arcane, the hilltops of dead ravens, the boneless twins born at dusk, those had been nothing but omens, but outside—the sulfur air and wells inked with red—that was reality

These weren’t times for kings, but priests.

So the King threw down his crown and marched to his chamber. If he were to die, he’d do so where he belonged: in his bed with a maiden cunt on each hand and a mouth on each ball.

The room was dim, and instead of the further smell of brimstone he was greeted by that of jasmine and freesia. As he slipped off his armor he noticed in the dimness a figure of woman on his bed. Ah, the perks of being the king, even in the darkest of times…

“My body remembers this room, the smell of sex and suredness. What happened to those times?” the woman whispered in a jaunty, taunting tone. The King moved closer, recognized his guest, and bowed. A priestess. It took a second for him to register the strangeness of the situation and, specifically, her nakedness.

“What can I do for you, Sister?” he said in a careful tone. While indeed a cad, he believed in afterlife and the proper respect of those who guarded it.

“I had just come of age, and you asked me to perform my duty to the throne,” she continued, as if uninterrupted. “And then you asked me to dance, the dance of my mothers.” She began to mimic the dance, swaying her shoulder and neck like the women of Persia. “And it was so arousing you were afraid to take me for fear of ruining me.”

She rose from the bed now and the King could see the markings on her skin, the flickering candles making them move.

“So instead you stowed me in a Temple.”

As she got closer, he realized it wasn’t the candles: her tattoos were moving, changing. He bowed again, fearful of the realization.


“Please, look up.”

The King peered at the girl, now the vessel of Gaia. Her body seemed like Earth itself: her hair hanging cypress, her limbs strong and lithe willow. As she moved, he wide hips swayed easily but sharp, like the mating flight of hawks. Her tattoos were running tributaries and grassland, her breasts bubbling volcanoes of the North, and from her left shoulder flowed a blue river that snaked down her chest, through her navel, and ended in a strip of rainland between her legs. Gaia forcefully placed one breast in the kneeling King’s mouth, burning his lips. She then kissed him with her fertile lips to heal him.

She laughed as he scrambled.

“How easy it is for kings to bed virgins and whores. But can you satisfy me? Can you receive the blessing I’m offering?”

The King wiped his lips, still wet, throbbing as much as his manhood.

“Blessing?” he stuttered, as Gaia reapproached.

“The chance to be a true king and save the world. Satisfy my body, the earth, and your kingdom will live. Fail and it all will fall. Do you accept?”

Before he could answer, she did for him, grabbing him by his hair and pushing him back to his knees. The King’s head was then forced between her legs to waft the aroma, of sweet moss and untilled ground. He felt lost in it, drunk. He grabbed her buttocks and tried to pull himself in even more. Realizing it was in vain he picked the goddess up and threw her to the floor.

He looked up between her breasts at her smiling face, and placed his mouth on her womanhood. He slowly licked her labia up and down, his arousal mixed with memories of the past, of making love in caves under rainbowed waterfalls, of the joy of tasting dirt after a months-long sail.

Gaia moaned, her voice an animal’s, its power turning the candlelight red.

Taking that as his cue, he deepened his entry, enjoying the tanginess. It was a relief to realize a woman was a woman, no matter how divine, and the King lapped at her wetness, slowly, slowly, then picking up pace, feeling her tense and squeeze his head with her thighs. He placed a finger inside and began to suck at her where her folds met the clit. He rubbed her g-spot and sucked harder, bringing her to climax, soaking the floor and his face with a fluid as holy as sacrament.

Then the King began to kiss her body, moving from her vagina, up through the plains and streams and gardens.

He placed his lips back to her breast, embracing his fear, and sucked them. The burning sensation was sweet, intoxicating. He sucked harder and harder, his tongue now overfilled with heat, until her nipples erupted and the surrounding world trembled.

“Take me now!” Gaia commanded.

He took out his manhood and she grabbed, further engorging it, its veins turning the thickness of root, the shaft African baobab. The King growled at the feeling of power.

“You’re a king,” she hissed, biting his ear, “act like it! Take me the way you want to take the world!”

The King kissed her, a forceful kiss that symbolized his royalty. He kissed her hard, then soft, then even harder, moving his tongue over her thick lips, basking in the heat from her brown skin. He grabbed Gaia by the wrists, pinning her to the floor. He entered her hard, into the sloshing wetness. They screamed. Gaia’s body tensed against his, strong and supple, pushing them both off the floor.


She looked at him, smirking, her eyes frozen ponds. She sucked him in even more, the King lost in the sensation, vines entangling his hands and wrists, drawing blood.

With one final thrust they both came, Gaia screaming in the process, filling the room with spring mist. The King collapsed. Gaia gave him a final kiss and her blessing, with a strong world to rule and the will to do it.


About lacolem1

I'm a first-year Physics graduate student who spends his long drives from Mississippi to Texas thinking of new ideas and writing/enacting stories and publishable content in his head. I've been a comic book geek since I was 12, an internet philosopher since 18, and a wannabe media inventor since five minutes in the future. I love the beauty of short form fiction a la Maupassant, the ticklish excitement of flowery prose a la Bradbury, and the strict directness of blunt imagery a la Hemingway. Alas, this is countered by my love for bad black-and-white sci-fi from the 50s, bad Benetar-esque pop music from the 80s, and Bridezillas and the Real Housewives of Atlanta. I'd like to think I have a natural talent for words and storytelling, but I guess it's up to you guys to decide
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