The Minotaur

WARNING: this piece contains themes of beastiality. Please use your best judgement when deciding whether to read on.


Ice on ice, grey on grey, barefoot on the silken stone,
the sacrificial bodies, “sick as sin”, shook in their sheets
and only one pure face dared raise her chin and gaze
upon the vast stone wall of the fortress-like labyrinth.
So high. So impenetrable. It took her gentle breath away,
made the tender air ragged. But she didn’t cry, never
a tear, nor a sob, whilst her fellow victims wept pebbles,
rattled on the stone beneath the soles of doomed souls.
The fortress of her eyes consoled her captors who forced
strong hands to push forward her comrades but let her take
stride by stride, by her own will, step by step, the crude stairs.
Gaze upturned, all amazed by the grandeur of a place of
terror, she forgot to look upon the floor, passed by
the fears of spat-out bones, the sight of which caused

the rest to quiver in their skins. She stumbled and bloodied
her feet and the jeering laughs of soldiers told that she was
bait. The creature would smell her, spilled, heated,
and tear her limb from limb. Too late to cry for mercy.
The sisters had wept, to no avail. Begged on their knees
grazed palms, scuffed shins, tore nails from the root
on the rough, ragged rock floor of the courtroom, yet
here they stood, front and centre, clasping clasped hands,
tears streaming, forced towards the muttering, monstrous
mouth of the maze. Quietly she went, into the dark with
fortitude, in possession of her wits, and adamant that
these final hours would be passed in silent reverence.

First cloaked in blackness, the sisters’ sobs echoed coldly
crushing hope from the hopeless, and she observed the tragedy
of Minos’ men reduced to their under-the-bed fears of childhood.
The golden youth, recognised by the melodious tones of
his minstrel voice, called for the fourteen to cling together.
“There is safety in numbers.” But his wishes were dashed
by the cutting remarks of the raven haired seductress;
“Only number one” she spat. Together, were the
creature to find one, he would find all. And thus they divided.

She stayed with those who remained, the others nothing but
footsteps retreating to deadly sanctuary, alone. The silence
dripped in soul crushing tears, and she breathed
prayer over her despairing companions. Considering –
time to think was plenty – she concluded that her peaceful
resolve put to rest the heart that ought to be thundering,
in unison, ‘gainst those royal hallway walls. They wandered
lonely together, seeking solace in a gaol built by a step-father
for his least-loved son. The sorrow-seeped walls permeated
her soul and she began to think tenderly, deeply of her
ferocious captor. As eyes grew accustomed, they began
to see and regretted that they could. Grey from grey distilled
before them and their feet dragged heavier in Xanadu’s
kingdom. Around corners and corners and corners,
doubled-back and stitched twice over, wound round and
twisted, the group finally came to a standstill. An empty alcove
arched cold, housed them in their last exhaustion.

Laying head on granite, she fell far to dreams. Images of angels,
cherubim, seraphim, standing, thirteen, around her resting place,
guardians of her peace, saviours of her blameless soul.
Feathered wings brushed her skin, comforting, close,
but became rough, firmer, wetter, air acrid, each touch
less pleasant, less desirable than the last. Peeling her

 eyes open, she looked into yellow irises. Breath already
gone, she could not gasp, only gaze into fate’s jaundiced
face. The light of angels, so it seemed, illuminated all
his glory; deformed, repugnant ugliness, vast and huge in
his frame, flecked with hair; filthy, sinful, foul of flesh.
Supine sacrifice was pressed to ground beneath the beast
whose breath, emitted from fist-broad nostrils, steamed on her
fresh skin, left pestilent vapours in streams across her face,
as his nose wrinkled, drawing in every vine of smell his
prey produced. She was sweet on the ground, life in the form
of pale purity. Her body didn’t move, did not recoil from his
hideous form, did not clamp eyes and mouth shut against his
repulsive breath. And the creature seemed moved to curiosity.
Towering high above she saw ivory horns, stained with blood,
dull and shining wet, move solidly, and thought of death,
of being run through, penetrated, impaled on his power.
Blood-stained, bloodthirsty bull’s head hovered over,
smelled her with it’s carnality. With great courage she drew
a lungful of putrid breath, only to have it snatched by screams
when, raised before her, ‘til then, calmed expression was

the hand of a man, large and rough, but utterly human.
Skin and flesh and pink in the lines of palms, tiny hairs,
soft as down, nails torn not cut, but nails nonetheless, not
hooves nor claws nor talons, nor any other reach pertaining
to animal. His touch undoubtedly untamed; masculine
but more; commanding, o’erbearingly close. Original
in his illiteracy. But that of a man, exploratory and
possessive. She was, after all, his prey, perfect in
ceremonial robes of sacrificial white. Palm either side
of her open face, he raised himself higher and into her
view came broad broad shoulders, strong and muscular
and frightening as they moved minutely, pulsing power.
She bit her lips to stop her mouth as the great head pulled
down, traversing the curves of her body. Sniffing loud
he smelled the pits of her arms, the indent of her naval,
through paper thin fabric, travelled down and paused,
momentarily above her pubic mound. She shivered,
wished herself unknowing, and threw her gaze about the
alcove. Shock, but not surprise, filtered into her mystified
mind as she cast eyes across the mangled and mutilated,
ripped and ravaged bodies of thirteen companions.
Myth, legend, fable, old wives tale – poor, luckless souls.
Far removed from mourning she shut her eyes, most
unhappy to gaze upon the corpses of those she could not

have known. Attention moved her to the beast whose nose
she felt pressed, hot breathed, into the space between her
thighs. She writhed at his intentions and felt his press
firmer there. But the fabric moved him to confusion
and he slid down, down, to her toes. He smelled blood
between them and his great tongue extended to lick
– long and slow – and push apart the tiny toes of her
fairy-like feet. Cow’s tongue dug and rubbed rough
the filthy soles creeping between each toe to wet
and whet his appetite. Trailing languid licks, delirious
in her danger, she opened her pink lips and let slip one
momentary drop of laughter. It’s carefree echo echoed
hollowly. It was not fear, ‘twas abandon. Loss and loss
and long awaited blitheness. She settled, foot raised in
his man’s hand, and allowed his animal tongue to pedicure
her feet. Bizarre beyond bizarre she had lost sight of
fear and all his brothers, and raised her torso up on
weightless arms to see her never-thought-of toes
adored by the most hated. When they glistened white he
sniffed again and crawled towards her, head lowered,
following the alluring scent of “The best of unwed girls”.
Strengthless with curiosity she made limp her
legs and allowed his massive head to force wide
her thighs. Robe rode up about her waifish waist
and openly exposed to the creature was her pulsing,
untouched center. No longer afraid, the huge lick of this
first tongue did not dismay her unlearnéd mind. Not
once had her Mother done her duty and schooled her
daughter in the basest of human intimacies. Her daughter
knew not shame, knew not why she wore clothes, hid her
body, but that she did not hide it when she swam in the river.

So it was that she opened to the beast, spread
wide her thighs and allowed herself to find pleasure
in his carnal touch. Nothing human was there in his bull’s
head, on his rough tongue, nor his lipless mouth. Unmeaning
she tipped back her head, raised chin to ceiling and
moaned as he devoured her cunt with slick desire.
Pleasure overflowed and the wetness grew warm until
she could only imagine that it came from her, from this
untouched place of supposed sin. Waving sanity
farewell she smiled desire between the valley of her
legs and as the beast raised his enormous head
he appeared no more threatening than the animals
she named pets before the hearth. Swimming head
around fixed eyes, she reached down and stroked the
shocking fur of his head, betwixt ears and horns.
Nose raised, his eyes shut slowly; did she imagine
the satisfaction in his close-eyed expression? No
way to tell, still she delighted in the animal’s happiness
and delighted again when the roughness of his tongue
returned to pleasure her incited sex. Trembling in his
human hands, she covered his fingers in her palms and
pressed her centre forward, offering her engorged
pleasure to the gaping mouth of forgotten danger.

Time passed, slow and fast, as this ever feared animal
brought her again and again to shuddering heights, the
like of which she had never known, and in her sweet
innocence believed no one but she and Pasiphaë had
ever felt. By her thirteenth trembling climax, her
feet were balanced precariously on the shoulder-blades
of the passive creature, and it took the simple pressing
of them into his human back, to rouse him from his
feeding. Able to overpower her at a moment’s notice, she
tipped his submitting form onto his back, rolled over

and smiled delight to see the aching pinnacle of his
manhood, upright and strong in want of satisfaction.
Horns reached three foot, lain across the silvered floor,
so huge, and now under her power. Rocking forth

she stalked to cover his massive frame, on hands
and knees, crawling to him. Thighs astride his waist
beauty taming the beast, she wrapped her tiny hand around
his heated cock and smoothed it silken in her palm.
The creature snorted and steamed beneath her touch,
arched and threatened to keel her to her back, but she
saw deep into his eyes and, placing a palm above his
human heart, she tamed the beast as she slid her
heated, dripping cunt down onto him. Controlled
convulsions rolled through him as he pierced the
intact skin of her bloody chastity. She rode him like
the oarsmen that had pushed back and forth, bringing
her across the sea from Knosses to her final oblation.
Left alone, in deepest solitude with the bestiality-born
son of noblemen she cast away her cares and crested
waves of queer copulation. Love-making sullied to
pure submission, he arched and asked in groans for
the apex of pleasure. Poising both hands on his chest
she granted his wish and the beast offered his white
hot seed to her impaled womb, stirring them
both by the same strength, shuddering in unison.

Together they lived in that sacrificial temple; he
licked and scratched filth from the crevices of her body
and defiled her endless lust. He fed her sustenance in
the dark and she thought better than to ever gaze upon
his meagre offerings, preferring survival kept
secret. And so they ought to have lived, Mistress
served by obedient pet for the rest of their dark lives,
in that impenetrable fortress of purpose-built confusion.

3 thoughts on “The Minotaur”

  1. David says:

    What a powerful interpretation! Innocence and the evil one. I’m so glad you’re writing again, Harper.

    1. Harper Eliot says:

      Thank you so much. I actually wrote this a couple of years ago, but I thought it was time it came out from under the dust again.

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