Pherenike - Chapter 88

Pherenike always wore a short chiton on the island. She waited for him as she did in her youth, to enjoy the reckless freedom never allowed to noblewomen or women of the sanctuary.

It was attire suited for women wielding swords and bows, for lowly women roaming hills and forests for their livelihood, or for young girls who could bare their legs and play in the fields.

Not even the power of Kybellaune or the authority of a queen could dictate the length of one’s hem. Therefore, sometimes a woman’s power felt fleeting. Despite her name holding much, she was free only on this small island.

Here, she could do everything she wanted: wear short garments, smile without calculation, make gestures without purpose, utter useless words… except outside this island.

Her freedom was complete only in front of Deucalion. Pherenike knew she appeared more beautiful in his presence.

A hem reaching her thighs made her look youthful, like a goddess of the hunt under the sunlight pouring over her head. Deucalion gazed at her enraptured, as if looking at the first light of dawn in the sky.

When he reached Ogygia’s spring, the water was up to her thighs, Pherenike hastily draped her garment tossed aside on a rock. Pretending to care about her appearance for his first glance, like a young girl wanting to look pretty.

Her hurried dressing upon forgetting she was in water, and her careless hug upon seeing him, dropping all else, were all adorable.

But her most beautiful moments were when she gradually fell apart in his arms, one piece at a time.

Pherenike’s clothing, initially wet only at the bottom, soaked further near the shallow water’s edge as she collapsed onto him, becoming just as drenched. Since he was below, naturally, he was wetter.

“If you get colder, you won’t leave my side, right?”

Deucalion playfully poured water over Pherenike, soaking the white linen draped loosely over her shoulders.

The wet fabric clung to her chest, revealing the contours of her skin and the delicate blossoms atop the rounded mounds. After bearing the princess, her b*****s had become fuller, a change Deucalion noticed yet pretended not to.

He teased her gently by nibbling over the fabric. Best to shut off his thoughts entirely than to dwell on any lips that weren’t his lingering on Pherenike’s flesh. Always.

“It tickles.”

Pherenike murmured in mock protest, then playfully pushed him down into the water. As Deucalion reclined at an angle where the water lapped at his shins, it rippled up to his abdomen. His shoulders submerged slightly more than half, with his solid chest buoyant like a ship.

His silver hair spread out over the water like clouds, merging with Pherenike’s wet locks as she leaned over him, their hair intertwining as if they had always been one.

Pherenike, smiling contentedly as she caressed his chest, earned a tongue click from him.

“Tyrant woman.”

“Now you’re as soaked as I am, Deucalion.”

“My lovely Cal,” Pherenike teased, nibbling near his ear before her lips glided across his cheek, lips, chin, and down to his throat, pausing over the pulse beating beneath his skin.

She adored the most vulnerable parts of his otherwise steel-like body – his lips, the column of his throat, the ends of his chest, the tender webs between his long thumb and index finger, the hollows beside his clavicles, and even the grotesque manhood that she could toy with at her whim.

Pherenike’s hand pulled the heavy, wet fabric from one shoulder, revealing his chest entirely with a heavy splash. She bit down gently from his collarbone across his firm chest, marking her path.

“It’s hard here too.”

“Ah…”

“Adorable.”

She laughed as she playfully bit his n****e, then her lips traveled down to his abdomen. The moment her slender hand touched and pressed down on his manhood, coaxing it to arousal. Everything followed her command.

In an instant, Deucalion roughly grabbed her hips, lifting her onto his stomach with his overpowering strength. As Pherenike, effortlessly carried, tried to prop herself up on his shoulders, his large hand pressed down on her lower back.

Pherenike’s chest cascaded down towards his head. Deucalion, without restraint, grasped her b*****s, biting down hard over the wet fabric.

“It hurts.”

“You like it hurt.”

Rightly so. Pherenike beamed a pure smile.

Catching that smile as if to devour it, Deucalion, holding her, rose to a seated position from the water. His wet silver hair clung to his tense muscles, trailing down his back like a painting.

Though it seemed she was sitting on his knees, in reality, Pherenike was perched atop his palms, gazing down at him. He was effortlessly supporting her entire weight with just one hand and once again became engrossed with her chest.