My first erotic spanking story for s.s.s. No attempted amusing twists, just a straight female spanking. The narrator is the *lady*, by the way.
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Eden's Grove

Pythiakos was a speck in the Aegean, a mote in the azure eye of a goddess, warm and young in the cradle of the world. It was there that we spent the spring - or was it the early summer - but what is a season when an eternity is distilled into every passing moment?

As the days warmed and lengthened we drifted down from island to island, jumping ship on a whim, careless of time or destination until we beached at last on Pythiakos. To any onlooker we would appear as just another pair of hippies, dusty and frayed, but we knew we carried in us the wanderings of the past, Agamemnon sacrificing for a breath of wind, Ulysses returned once more.

We set ourselves up on the beach in a small cove about a mile up the narrow coast road from the small harbour village where we had first come ashore. There, as before, we had been through our solemn ritual of thanking the deities-that-be for our safe passage across the hazardous ocean, while the locals looked impassively at our foolishness. On an impulse I uncorked a bottle of wine and anointed the ground at my feet: the island, dry, fissured, ancient took my libation and drank it in. It remembered thirst: it remembered youth and it looked to me for more.

The days of our idyll hazed into weeks as we lived and loved in our private dream, remote from the world. We would watch the dawn splinter across the water as we swam; sleep in the shade of rocky alcoves while the sun blistered the sand; eat and drink in the cool of the evening, with the islanders but without their world. And the night, ah the nights my Love, what would be the visit of Zeus himself in a shower of gold compared with you, coming to me in a shower of stars under that infinite canopy of night.

But even so the restless itch reasserted itself, whispering the joys of the horizon, urging us to listen to the waves tugging restlessly at our feet as we wandered the margins...onward...onward. The same siren voice that pulled us to our feet to climb up the rocky paths to the interior..look..explore...see...move on.

We laboured upward, starting in the early cool of morning, stopping every so often to look out over the unfolding seas, through the thickening heat haze, in search of some distant speck to be our quest, one step closer, perhaps, to paradise. And so we came at our last, hot and tired, to an olive grove set back into a depression in the mountainside. It hugged in on itself, ancient and secret, each tree seeming to spring from the very rock, roots creeping down into the heart of the mountain. Here and there sprang patches of closed cropped grass, a rarity in those parts, soft and thick as if the grove had been strewn with the fleeces of emerald sheep.

I was enchanted. I skipped across the warm herb strewn turf and sang my joy to the skies. The trees bent to hear me, carried my song deep: this was the island's ear, and it listened. But my Love, oh my poor Love, he was hot and tired and the wine that last night had fired and inspired him now raged and cursed. I saw magic and delight: he felt the noon sun pour its fire upon his head. I danced in the misty scent of thyme and rosemary pouring off the rocks: he tasted the only the leaden ash of fatigue.

Like some feral creature I tasted the scent of water upon the air and found my way to a concealed crevice where clear cool water trickled into a shallow basin carved from the rock. The air was thick and still and the waters spoke to me, liquid and laughing. As I strained to listen to their voice my love's voice was there also, urging upon me his need to drink, but it was the dull buzzing of a fly compared to the laughing voices echoing off the rocks around me.

I stared into the pool. My face danced before me and spoke with the voice of the waters, urging me to be one with them, to succour and nourish this island before running to join the seas in their eternal restless rolling. As I bent to kiss my lips the waters scattered and danced away. My Love, my poor impatient Love, could hold his thirst no longer and had put the spirits to flight in a shower of dancing drops as he drank deep of those strange waters.

His good humour returned as fast as his thirst receded and he mocked gently at our my talk of oracles and magic: but I knew the spirits were with us still, for even as he drank the sunlight had exploded the flying water drops and my spirits placed a rainbow garland around his head. He made to kiss me but I ran and skipped about the grove. He tracked and cornered me, taking me up into his arms. A kiss for the huntsman from this pretty fawn? Still I resisted, playing the proud one, the maiden of the grove protecting her virtue.

If not a kiss then a forfeit. He pulled me to him, lifted me, held me down as he settled himself upon a broad rock shelf. I became the she-wolf, snarling and spitting my rage to no avail as I lay clamped in the vice of his grip. The she-wolf was expertly skinned and I felt his hand on me, again and again. The sharp reports echoed around the bowl of the grove, ringing back off the rising slopes above us. I struggled and growled as the heat behind me became a fire within me: my wild thrashing about became a rhythmic push, thrusting myself hard against him with each slap propelling me forward.

Stealthily the air closed in on us wrapping us in the sound of our own ragged breathing as my Love began to touch me gently, but I, drunk on these new sensations, pulled free and stretched feline on the grass, hissing and thrusting, taunting the inadequacy of his mastery over me.

The trees called to me and I fixed my gaze on them. I doubt that he heard the soughing dryad calls, but in seeing my fixation he moved to the trees and cut free a thin branch. The dryads moaned, but not in pain, in anticipation. He stripped the branch, older wood with the knots of the last year, tipped with green growth and advanced on me. The dryads whispered that even he who hears not may answer.

He curled his fingers through my thick, damp hair and led me over to a flat outcrop of rock in the centre of the grove. The bleached white rock momentarily scorched my flesh as I lay and embraced it but I felt myself wedded to the heart of the mountain. In the thick, still air my Love whispered "Call for fair winds to travel, the breath of the Gods to speed us on, Iphigenia."

I bucked at the rip of the olive branch across me, tearing at our my flesh, but it set my blood boiling and my heart racing once more. I found myself drifting out of the pain, able to turn it over and examine it, let it wash through me, a curious kind of peace extended to me by that green rod. Tiny rock pools formed around me and the mountain sucked them dry. The pain built, gnawing and stabbing until my bruised flesh could take no more and sent a trickle of blood running down my thigh to drip thickly onto the thirsty stone.

I have little memory beyond that point: my own climax took me out of the world of the rational. I seem to recollection a crashing of tinny goat bells as every animal in the herd, unseen among the rocks, took flight and scattered. Did the earth move? I fancy it did, groaning with me to its very core and sending the goats skittering this way and that. My Love writhing with me on that rocky altar felt nothing, or nothing outside of us, and as we stumbled back down the mountainside the grove remained as ancient and unchanged as ever, with no sign of our being beyond a discarded olive branch and dark stains drying upon the rock.

As I looked back for the last time I saw a figure standing high above the rim of the grove, the goats reassembling around her. And I knew she was happy, that her harvest would be full and rich.

Epilogue

We moved on, for a while, my Love and I but the drifts of the sea and of life carried us apart: me half around the world and he I know not where. Better though, I think, that he lives and roams as young and free in my mind as on that day while I sit, this old body waiting for the warmth of the spring sun to set its young spirit stirring, yearning to travel once more to where my myriad children ripen in the heat of the Aegean sun.

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stylised riding crop spanking graphic

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