Meeting with Medusa

Medusa Illustration by Simon Eckert

Illustration by Simon Eckert

Meeting with Medusa

An erotic short story for Halloween. Note that it’s comparatively mild, but still NSFW.


I knew I shouldn’t have tangled with a Gorgon.

It could have Medusa. She’d been reported working in Vegas by the other Hunters I’d been in contact with. Or it might have been Stheno or Euryale, her lesser-known sisters. But it didn’t matter, really. I’d been hunting her, saw her, and been seduced against my better judgement. When I saw her hair — snakes, rather — that had been it. After a most delicious girl-on-girl orgasm, I was now a block of stone up for auction by Sotheby’s.

I still held hope my colleagues would rescue me, knowing who I had been pursuing and the probable outcomes of my defeat. I wondered if they were logical enough to look for me at an art auction. Being unable to move or speak, of course, was a hindrance to my rescue, not to mention a frustration for someone as athletic as I was. I also knew there wasn’t much point in stewing in the feeling.

In the meantime, I watched the crowds file into the hotel ballroom beyond the velvet rope where I was displayed with all the other fine sculptures and exquisite furniture. The buyers were well dressed, wealthy, a mix of old money and new. They gaped at me, consulted their auction catalog, snickered, and gaped again, longer this time, for I had been petrified at the height of my passion and was stark bonkers naked to boot. A more humiliating scenario couldn’t be imagined.

A good thing marble doesn’t flush.

But after a while, I ceased to feel shame. They didn’t know who I was any more than I knew who they were. I was just some anonymous pretty thing to them. An eternally orgasming pretty thing, but so what? Realistically, there was little to be upset at.

So I told myself. I also told myself that scrapes like this were common for my line of work.

The afternoon passed. I looked for rescue, as much as I could with my head and eyes fixed in the same position.

Then a flatbed cart was pulled up next to me, on it a large object covered with a quilted moving blanket. Two workers untied the ropes that kept the blanket on and freed the sculpture, maneuvering it into place beside me. I would have gasped if I could, for beside me, petrified in all her naked, snaky glory, was the same creature who had stoned me, the Gorgon herself.  She must have looked into a mirror, or been tricked into doing so.

Feel better, now? The foreign thought rung clear as a bell inside my head.

It was feminine, lucid, and sour: the voice of the creature beside me.

Turnabout makes fair play, I thought back. I need not fear her now… although her shapely body, I must say, still imparted some desire.

She thought something back in ancient Greek, which sounded vile.

Pretty nice business you had going there, I said. Petrifying victims, selling them in art galleries.

A girl’s got to make a living, she said. Might I add you were not unwilling? Quite the opposite.

How I’d been dazzled by her sweet dancer’s body, thinking I had the upper hand. I knew she would never risk exposure to a known Hunter. It was I who had sealed my doom, a jerk of my hips displacing her wig. I saw her eyes staring up at me at the juncture of my thighs, the dainty grass-green serpents on her scalp waving like seagrass in the tide. Before I could cry out they hissed, and I was stoned with my mouth forever open.

The buyers were coming more thickly now. I couldn’t see what was written on the placard placed in front us, but by their talk, we were being sold as a pair. Oh, great! I might be stuck with her for a very long time.

I suppose you know of a way to transform us back, I said.

If I did would I tell you? You intended to kill me after all, she said. I’ll let you suffer, I think.

I fumed. Meanwhile, our joint sexuality was discussed and dissected. Which might have been horrible if I was still flesh and blood, but I wasn’t… and it struck some exhibitionist note deep inside me.

I suppose you feel like one of these Vegas showgirls now, don’t you, gyrating in some club, not even a g-string covering your slit, the Gorgon thought nastily. Sweat and excitement, men with money,

Oh, be quiet, I shot back. But to my horror I couldn’t help feeling a little turned on. The leering and giggling of the crowd enhanced it.

Wait. Just wait, she said ominously.

The velvet rope was lifted. Qualified buyers came forward to examine us as if we were, indeed, two works of art and not sentient beings.  Brazenly they cradled my buttocks, fingers probing between my labia, and pinched the hard knobs of my nipples. They looked inside my mouth, down to my petrified tonsils, and traced my pubic hair. Fingernails clicked against my mons. And I discovered something even more amazing than my ability to telepathically communicate. I felt all of it.

Not as flesh could feel, mind you, but something purer and higher, like the vibrations from a musical instrument. The sensations echoed inside my stony flesh, a cacophony of tiny crescendos. I had thought I was a mere object, passive, but I was not. I had become a highly refined feedback mechanism, channeling and re-channeling the endless pleasure of my inspection.

It feels good, doesn’t it? the Gorgon said. You Hunters do not know what you hunt. If you did, you would worship us for what we can do. Our talent is a rare one, to bring sensual satisfaction without the wear and tear of the flesh.

…yessssss… I said, buoyant in my pleasure. And remembered what she had said to me, before I came under her skilled tongue and slender fingers: Remember you are a work of art. You will be pampered and protected, eternal as flesh and blood is not.

The golden mist of pleasure washed over me, through me, and I heard her laughing in my brain, or whatever passed for a brain now within my stony cranium. The resulting orgasm, and the many others that followed, carried me through the auction and the rest of the night. And I could only wish for my fellow Hunters to delay their search for me, so that I might enjoy this bliss a little longer…

(c) 2017 by Cobalt Jade

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