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Subject: {ASSM} Lydia and the Swan
Date: Tue, 14 Mar 2000 04:10:03 -0500
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LYDIA AND THE SWAN
by
Frank Saynesberry
Lydia Tyndareus sighed deeply as she reached for the crumpled bedsheet that
lay beside her. This should be a pleasant moment, she thought; this was
supposed to be the "afterglow" that everyone mentioned in those romantic
novels. But she felt very little pleasure, and the only thing that was
glowing was her own naked body stretched out on the bed, illuminated by the
moonlight from the huge bay window on the other side of the bedroom.
Glistening with the sweat of frustrated passion, her long, firm legs still
wide apart, her husband's semen still seeping from her vagina, she pulled the
sheet over herself, resisting the urge to use her fingers to provoke the
climax her husband had, as usual, failed to provide. She was only 23 years
old, but already locked in to a loveless marriage, with divorce an absolute
impossibility.
In a moment, the bathroom door opened, and she covered her eyes against the
harsh electric light as her husband sauntered back to the bed and sat down
beside her. He leaned over and gave her the very briefest of
no-longer-passionate kisses, then sat up straight again and flicked on the
bedside-table lamp. "That was so lovely, my dear," he said in his inimitably
smooth syllables, "but you yourself are far lovelier, even covered with that
sheet." He smiled, as if pleased by his smooth wordplay, and added, "They
even say we're a lovely couple!"
And they were: Lydia, with her sleek, yet voluptuous body, classic features,
and flowing black hair; the husband, Roy, with his tanned, handsome face, his
carefully-coiffed brown hair, and his excellently maintained 35-year-old
body, once the body of a star athlete. If nothing else, they were a lovely
couple; lovely and unimaginably successful. But not lovers, not for a long
time, and not even the best of friends. Just two beautiful people in a very
stale relationship: not bad enough for a divorce, but not worthy to be called
a marriage. And partly because of their physical beauty, and the way they
looked so perfectly suited to one another, Roy had been elected the first
Greek-American Governor in the history of the largest State in the nation,
and Lydia had become its youngest first lady.
And now, less than five minutes after withdrawing from his wife's body, the
Governor was moving around the immense bedroom quickly, purposefully,
gathering up a set of clean underwear and socks, a creme-colored Italian silk
shirt, and a conservative black business suit, which had been superbly
tailored to his still-rugged physique. He quickly slipped into the clothes,
securing the French cuffs with cufflinks made from gold nuggets found during
the State's Gold Rush. Pausing only briefly, he selected a sedate, but
elegant, black necktie, and in a moment was gathering up a sheaf of papers
and heading for the bedroom door.
"I wish you didn't have to go," Lydia said sadly. "I wish it didn't have to
be so rushed!" Without turning to face her, he replied, "Sorry, my love, but
I'm expected at the office at eleven, and it's already 10:45. I can't let
the reporters think that I take this part of the job lightly."
She sighed; why argue? Changing the subject, eager for any bit of
conversation, any human contact, she asked, "Are you sure you're not going to
commute the sentence?"
He laughed abruptly, then immediately assumed a somber expression, finally
turning to face her. "You know I can't commute, Lydia. The boy was actually
caught in the act of carving out that little girl's kidney, and the thing's
been appealed to the Supreme Court three times. Justice must be served," he
concluded haughtily.
Turning away from him, facing the window, she murmured, "Then I don't see why
you have to go sit in your office until it's done."
"Lydia, you know the game. I'm troubled, I'm conscience-stricken, I'm
carrying the heavy burden of The People's Will on my shoulders. I have to be
seen agonizing and reviewing the case for the millionth time, right up until
they zap the kid at midnight. If I were to commute, the other party would
crucify me next November. And even if the 'civil liberties' crowd claims
that this boy''s retarded, I'm not about to give up my office for him!"
Without another word, he straightened his tie and opened the door, where a
State Trooper already waited to escort him to the Capitol.
So this was it, Lydia thought bitterly, fighting back tears as she lay alone
in the now-darkened room. She had been swept away by this man when they were
both even younger and more beautiful than they were today; and, thinking that
she had found her girlhood dream of the perfect romance, she had learned
quickly that she had stepped into a life of glamour instead. And glamour was
fun, but it was cold, and the romance she had expected would have been so
warm.....
She pulled away the sheet, got up, and went into the bathroom to clean
herself up. "There goes the sweat," she muttered, rubbing a damp washcloth
over her throat and breasts and belly. "There goes the semen," she mumbled,
wiping the stuff from her thighs. Tossing the washcloth into the sink, she
thought angrily, "I wonder where the love went?" After slipping on the
elegant silk nightgown she had discarded earlier, she walked back to bed,
wrapped herself in the bedclothes, and began to cry.
She did not notice, at first, the strange little noises coming from the
window. But as they grew louder, and more insistent, she quickly stifled a
gasp, brushed away her tears, and rolled across the bed, where she fetched
the .32 revolver from the bedside-table drawer. The noise was now a
pronounced, definite tapping, as if someone was rapping on the window with a
drumstick. What could it be? No intruder could have climbed to the
second-floor balcony outside the window without being spotted by the State
Police who guarded the Mansion, and it was a clear, calm night, so no tree
limbs could be brushing against the house.....
The tapping stopped as abruptly as it had started. But now, silhouetted by
the moonlight, Lydia could see a strange shape, about as big as a large child
(or a small man), moving slowly and slightly at the glass door. In a moment,
she was horrified to hear a soft "click," and wrapping both hands around the
revolver as she had been taught, she extended her arms, pointing the barrel
directly at the weird, dark shape. She became conscious that her mouth and
lips were completely dry, and she could taste the tension in the air. She
slipped her index finger over the trigger.
Suddenly the glass doors opened inward, as though by themselves, and a very
large, snow-white swan waddled from the balcony onto the bedroom carpet. It
paused long enough to extend its long neck and glance around the room, eyes
shining in its coal-black face, as though searching for a rival or an enemy.
Seeing none, it suddenly, dramatically spread its wings wide, to their full
span of nearly ten feet, and shook its entire body vigorously, tiny droplets
of water and a few stray pinfeathers twinkling and drifting in the moonlight.
Then it relaxed its sleek, velvety neck, folded the massive wings with
dignity, and set its black, glistening eyes on Lydia, still trembling on her
bed, the little .32 clutched in her sweating fists. But she, too, had
relaxed somewhat, since discovering just who (or what) her intruder was, and
she supressed an urge to giggle. The flock of trumpeter swans that made
their home on the large pond behind the Governor's Mansion were beloved
symbols of the State, and this one, which was so very big, had apparently
gone roaming tonight and, swans not being nocturnal birds, had gotten
disoriented. Obviously, the strange tapping sound had been the creature's
tapered orange beak, testing the glass in the doorframe. Odd, Lydia thought;
she did not see one of the unobtrusive plastic bands which were clasped
loosely around the birds' necks to declare them property of the State.
Still, thank God, it was only a swan. She sighed audibly and turned to
replace the gun in the bedside table.
She had not even finished closing the drawer when she heard a loud flapping
sound, felt a distinct "thump" on the mattress behind her, and a rush of cool
air ruffled through her hair. Rolling over instantly, she came face to face
with the swan, which had already settled into a nesting position on the bed
and was looking into her face with its dark, gleaming eyes. This time, she
couldn't help but giggle, although she remained completely still, so as not
to frighten the creature. "Well, look at you!" she murmured softly. "What's
a pretty bird like you doing in my bedroom?"
The swan's long, black neck straightened; now it was looking down at the
half-frightened, half-delighted woman. Then, to Lydia's horrified
astonishment, it spoke.
"'Pretty bird' indeed," the swan said haughtily. "Who do you think you're
talking to, a fucking parakeet?"
Lydia became lightheaded, as though she might faint. Was she dreaming? No,
of course not; she hadn't even gone to sleep after Roy had left for the
execution. Could this really be happening? She finally managed to find her
voice again, saying, "You talk! You can actually talk! And you sound just
like - - - "
"James Earl Jones," the swan interrupted, "yes, that's right. I could have
chosen any voice I wanted, of course, but this was one of the few that
conveyed the proper dignity. Don't you like it? Would you be more
comfortable if I switched to Elmer Fudd, or Michael Jackson, or your
wonderful spouse, the so-called Governor?" The last few words fell from the
swan's bill with heavy contempt. "No, no!" Lydia blurted out, the mention of
her husband's name snapping her out of her daze. "It's a fine voice, a very
distinguished voice. Are you a boy swan, or a girl swan? I mean, I don't
know the right words, but...." Her voice trailed off.
"I am a male, as you're about to find out, woman!" the swan said in an
offended tone. Dipping his head momentarily to preen the snow-white feathers
of his chest, he then added, "Now, why don't you just slip out of that
charming gown you're wearing, and let's get acquainted, shall we?" It did
not sounds like a request, but very much like a command.
For reasons she would never be able to explain or even understand, a slight
tremor of excitement ran through Lydia's body, and she found herself becoming
flushed and moist. But she made no move to undress, asking, "What are you
talking about? What are you? Who are you?"
The swan stood up from his nesting position, stretched out his neck, and
spread his wings proudly. With his neck extended, he stood nearly five feet
tall. Without warning, he darted his head down, grabbed the low-cut bodice
of Lydia's nightgown in his bill, and, shaking his head, ripped it from her
shoulders, leaving the cowering woman naked to the waist. Then he folded his
wings, nestled down against the bed once again, and announced, "I am one who
is accustomed to being obeyed! Now, remove that silly garment at once, and
perhaps I'll tell you more!"
Without a word, but stifling a sob, Lydia pushed aside the bedclothes, took
hold of the nightgown that was crumpled around her waist, and, raising her
hips slightly, pulled it off. She was now completely naked, her breasts once
again shining in the moonlight, her legs slightly spread. The swan's gaze
was aimed directly at the shadowy, trimmed place at the juncture of her
thighs.
"Don't do that," the swan commanded, when Lydia moved to cover herself with
the sheet. "That won't be necessary." Lydia's mind was racing. There were
only three possibilities that she could conceive: either she was dreaming, or
she had suddenly and completely lost her mind, or she was about to be
sexually molested by a bird!
The swan stood up again, spreading his wings only halfway this time. "You
obeyed, so I will answer your questions. But shit, girl, don't you know
anything at all?" Lydia's mouth fell open at the swan's crudely phrased
question. Realizing what she was thinking, the creature laughed (a wheezing,
snorting sound, as air burst from the tiny holes atop his bill), and said,
"Oh, you didn't expect the colloquialisms, did you, my dear? I don't blame
you. But I try to adopt the speech patterns of whatever species
I'm....visiting! Don't have a fucking cow, man!" He snuffled/laughed again.
Despite the bizarre events unfolding around her, Lydia's curiosity was
tweaked by the swan's choice of words. "W-wait a minute!" she stammered,
holding up one hand, as if to fend off whatever might be coming next. "You
said 'species!' You said 'visiting!' I think I understand now! You're an
alien! You're from outer space! You - - - "
Flapping his wings lightly, the swan hopped across the bed with a single
graceful movement, and, setting down suddenly between Lydia's thighs, forced
them wide apart. As his bulk pressed against her, Lydia felt his heat, and
the beautiful, feathery softness of his underbelly, moving against her
thighs, her groin, and, most of all, her slick, shuddering sex. She reached
up instinctively to grab the tops of his wings, so that she could tear him
off, but without any conscious decision, she allowed them to fall, her
fingertips brushing along the long white feathers as her arms fell limp at
her sides.
"Smart move," the swan commented. "Resistance wouldn't do you a bit of good,
and anyway, it would only ruffle my feathers. Believe me, sweetheart, you
wouldn't like me when my feathers get ruffled! Especially when I'm not
wearing feathers!" He snuffle-laughed again, apparently at some private
joke. "Anyway, if you'll pardon my French, it looks like you're going to get
fucked twice this evening. You might as well enjoy it at least once!"
Unable to contain herself, torn by fear and the undeniably pleasurable
sensation of the swan's heavy, unbelievably soft belly molding itself to her
secret places, she blurted out, "F-fucked? Fucked twice? What do you mean?"
"Oh, don't be embarrassed," replied the creature. "I saw your husband take
his little poke at you a while ago. And I know just how little it meant to
you, or to him, for that matter. And we both know that he's just trying to
get you pregnant so he'll have a nice, warm 'family image' to show the voters
at reelection time. What an incredible fool he is, to think about that
mindless rabble when he has a treasure like you...."
Lydia's eyes filled with tears, and she decided that she must certainly be
dreaming. This talking swan, this monster, was speaking the same thoughts
that came to her mind a dozen times a day, and, at the same time, was causing
her body to react as it had not been able to react in a long, long
time....unconsciously, her hands moved up to the swan's sides, and her
fingers began to gently trace their way from just under his wings down to his
underbelly, down to - - -
She started to scream, but the swan was gently holding her lips shut with his
beak, even as the largest, hottest, most perfectly shaped phallus she had
ever imagined slid suddenly and effortlessly into her pussy, filling her up
with a single, unhesitant thrust. What was it? It didn't feel like any part
of an animal, certainly not a bird; the shape, so far as she could tell, was
like a man's, but longer and more tapered: thick at the base, surrounded by
the tiniest, downiest feathers that stroked and tickled her asshole and lips
and clit simulataneously, then becoming just a bit more narrow, centimeter by
centimeter, until the head of the swan-cock (if that's what it was) nearly
came to a point, which nuzzled and flicked against her cervix.
The swan did not (or could not) slide its cock in and out like a man would,
but this was no disappointment to the sobbing, shuddering Lydia, whose mind
had given way to uncaring, irrational lust; because what the creature did
instead produced sensations she had never known. In order to maintain his
balance, the swan extended his massive wings to their full length and began
to slowly beat them rhythmically against the air. The cool air of the
bedroom stirred and swirled and blew between the two bodies, covering Lydia's
face with her own hair, evaporating the little drops of sweat that had broken
out between her breasts, hardening her nipples, and roaring in her ears. The
swan lowered his head and momentarily rested it between her breasts; to
Lydia's naked skin, it felt exactly like the finest velvet. And, as the
great bird continued to slowly beat the air, his own body shook with the
effort, so that his slick, pointed cock, embedded in Lydia's cunt all the way
to her womb, vibrated with a steady, soft violence that touched and tickled
and massaged her in places that had never been touched before. Then, moving
its dark head close to her ear, the swan began to speak again, more softly
now, though not ceasing its wild bodily motions.
"That man Tyndareus will never give you what you need," the swan crooned.
"He'll use you to make weak little replicas of himself. And you'll love
them. But the children that are truly yours, my Leda...excuse me, my
Lydia...will be the ones I give you tonight. Our son and daughter, Lydia.
You'll call them Paulie and Helen. And the world will know that they are
children of the gods." Lydia's mind buzzed at the sound of these words, even
though her passion did not lessen. As she felt her innermost flesh clutch
and clasp in the first of many orgasms, she heard the swan's final words.
"I'll see you again in three months, woman. I'll be back as soon as the eggs
have hatched, and we will see our children together!" Then, straightening
his neck and letting out a sound somewhere between a roar and a hiss, he
exploded inside her, his swan-cock inundating her human womb with the seed of
the Greek gods. Then, in the blink of an eye, he was gone, and Lydia lay
naked, violated, and sexually satisfied for the first time in her life.
She felt between her legs with one hand. Something very much like human
semen, but with odd little sparkles of light flashing like facets of a
diamond, covered her fingers. She smiled a smile such as no male, mortal or
immortal, had ever seen. Yes, she thought, it was real. It happened. And
that thing understood me so well! Oh, if only he had asked first....
For Lydia, like most women, despised rapists, and resented the swan's
arrogant indifference to her opinions or wishes. But, unlike most women, she
would have her vengeance. Three months? Very well. She'd carry his progeny
that long. But, when he came back to meet them, he would see no baby gods.
Instead, she'd fix him a place at the breakfast table, and offer him his very
first serving of
scrambled eggs.....
(If you liked this story, please write!
Saynesberry@hushmail.com)
--
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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