I’m Margot, and I’m a Sarxite.

You don’t know what a Sarxite is? Well, the short version is that we’re the beings that have been written out of what you people feel obliged to call “Greek myth”. Except there’s nothing mythical about it, we’re real enough, even if you people have stopped believing in us.

Wherever there’s conflict and strife, you’ll find Ares. And if you’ve ever wondered how you come to find yourself at a gravel pit outside of Cleethorpes when your satnav claims you’re outside Scunthorpe station, well Hermes never tires of playing those delightful pranks. Aphrodite is a sex therapist in Orange County, California, while Tiresias, having been brought back from the underworld, is now an advisor to the Tavistock Clinic.

So what about us Sarxites? Well, we’re originally mortal beings, just like you. Our transgression was to assume that we might sate our lusts as freely as the gods and goddesses. Our punishment was to be stripped of our corporeal existence, to exist forever as spirits, dependant on hosts of flesh and blood for our carnal pleasure.

You’d think that after a few thousand years, a Sarxite would have seen it all and done it all, that it would all be a bit stale, but every host is different; besides, what else are we to do for eternity but pursue pleasure, just as we did as mortals? The advantage is that you can experiment to your heart’s content; the disadvantage is that when you’ve been done bovine style by Zeus, nothing else quite measures up, ever.

If I’m feeling particularly horny, slipping into a host at a swingers’ club or a dogging site isn’t difficult. After a few thousand years you get a feel for a good host. These days, though, I prefer to find myself a project, a challenge, someone in need of spicing things up a bit. The most fun a Sarxite can have is inhabiting someone whose nature is as far from their own as possible, and getting them to behave in wholly inappropriate ways. You may recall, some years ago now, a certain Lady Mayor of a medium-sized town who was embroiled in a scandal involving a succession of teenage boys and the seals of office? Oh yes, that was me!

Then there was the TV presenter whose lewd exhibitions in a public park somehow managed to go viral. Once again, I take full credit. I could tell you about the vicar’s wife and the fund raiser for the church steeple that got completely out of hand, but that’s old news by now. Suffice to say that the clergy provides fertile grounds for Sarxites. For us the term “priest hole” has a very particular meaning.

Since Sarxites can’t control a host’s body, we have to work through suggestion; a reluctant host needs to be worked on. In excess of two millennia have taught me that there’s little point in overwhelming a host with lascivious suggestions, they need to be coaxed. Thus I like to start with their dreams, implanting certain scenes and visions in their heads while they sleep until they’re ready to yield. This is the Sarxite version of edging. Particularly prudish hosts can display considerable resistance. The longest I’ve had to work on a host in this way is eight years, ten months and eleven days. Oh Zeus was I desperate! I considered nipping out of my host for a quick holiday in pornographic debauchery many times, but I stuck to my task. It’s not as if I don’t have all the time in the world, is it? Anyway, it was well worth the wait.

You know a host’s initial reluctance has been overcome when they wake up at three in the morning, sweaty and wet from a dream in which their husband has invited a colleague home and they’ve ended up on their knees on the hearth rug with two eager cocks prodding their face, or, if I’m feeling in a particular humorous mood, a replay of the myth where Zeus disguises himself as a bedraggled bird in order to ravish Hera, with the host playing the part of the consort to be. If they can’t get back to sleep without pleasuring themselves, I know I can move on to the next stage.

A few millennia ago, when I was a flesh and blood human, I used to masturbate at least three times a day. Did I tell you nymphomania is in my blood? I gather you don’t use the n-word much these days. I liked it when it was called the Messalina complex, because, well, I take full credit. She was such fun! And still my greatest triumph – though one of these days I’ll find a host to eclipse even her.

Anyway, I do like to get a host to pleasure themselves multiple times a day. That might take a while, but what’s a while to eternity? By then I’ve moved on from dreams to suggestive ideas when a host is wide awake. The trick is to catch them unawares, when they’ve gone a bit blank in front of the computer after lunch, or when they’re driving on a long and very boring stretch of road which doesn’t demand much conscious thought. That’s when I gently remind them of that look a colleague gave them, the way a client stared at their legs or that suspicion they’ve always had that Mr Cummins in accounts does everything he can to get a peek up their skirt.

Very often they’re not particularly happy about these things, which is why I have to be quick off the mark, interrupting their normal thoughts and interjecting other thoughts, suggesting how exciting it is that the colleague, client, or even that dull Mr Cummins finds them sexually attractive.

Once a host becomes more comfortable with such unbidden thoughts, even excited by them, I have reached an important milestone. Though I cannot control a host’s body, I experience all the bodily sensations they do, and knowing that planting the right suggestion in their head at the right time will shortly result in ecstatic release is just what the doctor ordered. (And yes, many’s the time a host has been caught pussy-handed in a doctor’s surgery, sometimes with extremely pleasurable results.)

Once a host reaches the three-a-day stage, I know that they are now putty in my hands (or would be if I had any). The stage is set for me to take them on a voyage of discovery (some call it debauchery) until I’m bored with them and need another project.

My present host is a woman called Wendy. I’ve come to like her, but I wouldn’t have chosen her were it not for her next door neighbour. She’s not especially prudish, but as is the way with so many couples who have been together for a long time, her and her husband’s relationship is one of embers rather than flaming desire. With my aid things have improved a great deal, though Wendy is still a bit embarrassed about the three-a-day thing, a milestone we’ve only just reached. If her mind is left alone, she starts to question her new habit, so I have to be vigilant and implant the right thoughts.

I would like to work on her a bit longer, but this evening her husband’s away at a sales conference in Rotherham, and if I don’t strike now, I don’t know when the opportunity will present itself again. I suppose I could wait, but even if I do have all the time in eternity, sometimes I get a little impatient, truth be told.

There’s plenty of opportunity during the day for me to push Wendy’s limits, but nothing could ever come close to what I have in store for her, because as luck would have it, she and her husband live next door to a very old and dear acquaintance of mine, who presently calls himself Hugh Smith. Wendy thinks of him as ‘Creepy Guy’, which is frankly a bit disablist of her in my view. So he walks with a limp, hobbling about on a stick whenever he ventures out in the driveway (which isn’t often). He also has a straggly beard, an Eneolithic brow, and is never seen without a sturdy tool belt, most often carrying a hammer.

Maybe Wendy wouldn’t think of him as ‘Creepy Guy’ were it not that she also occasionally sees him arrive home in his pickup in the company of very attractive women. Creepy guy and absolute bombshell, off the chart gorgeous women; there has to be some kind of trick to it, because on the rare occasion when Wendy has spoken to him, he’s been gruff and taciturn – definitely not a man with a magnetic personality and sparkling conversation.

And of course there is a trick to it. I don’t mean to make my sex sound superficial, but when a guy is capable of crafting the most sublime jewellery the world will ever know, scoring isn’t that hard. That’s not the trick, though. Wearing the jewellery, be it a necklace, a bracelet or some other item, renders the wearer incapable of resisting the will of Hephaestus.

For it is he, the God of smiths, metal workers and the rest who resides next door. Of course some things are no longer as they once were. Twenty bellows would make an almighty racket in a quiet suburb, so instead Heph (as his friends affectionately call the old curmudgeon) has installed a sub-station at the bottom of his garden craftily disguised as an outhouse. The Nymphs keep trying to make him go green, but even if he was granted planning permission for a wind turbine, installing such a thing in the garden would really rile the neighbours.

The difficulty I face is in manipulating Wendy into an encounter with Heph. Except by now it’s fair to say I have enough experience for it not even to be a little local difficulty. Ventriloquism is one of the talents I’ve picked up along the way. I talk all the time, of course, my hosts confusing my words with their thoughts. But now, as Wendy puts her key in the lock to enter her house, I scream out loud, simultaneously throwing my voice so that the scream appears to come from next door. (I’m using ‘talk’ and ‘scream’ metaphorically, you understand, since as a spirit being I don’t actually have a larynx. I could explain how this works, but you mortals have a hard time grasping spiritual reality.)

As Wendy turns, I scream again for good measure. This, it transpires, is all it takes, since she already has the very worst suspicions about ‘Creepy Guy.’ In short order she’s squeezed through the hole in the fence where the timbers have rotted away and jogs hunched over across the lawn. There’s a window set low in the side wall, and she decides to take a peek while deciding if she should ring the bell or not.

It comes as quite a shock to her. (I love that feeling in a host!) She finds herself staring into the enormous cavern that is Heph’s workshop. But what immediately catches Wendy’s eye and refuses to let go is the naked blonde. She is, of course, a stunner, but it’s the state of her that’s the thing. Gold chains are wrapped round her ankles and her wrists, her arms outstretched, and there are miniature anvils hanging from gold chains attached to her nipples. But the thing that really freaks Wendy out is that the woman is hanging upside down, seemingly attached to nothing, yet suspended in mid-air, her mouth open, her eyes glazed as if from some illegal stimulant.

The police! She must call the police! Then Wendy realizes that her phone is in her bag, which she dropped on her own door step when she heard the scream. She runs back towards the rotting fence and trips over. She makes to get up and realizes that she is trapped, though she can’t see how that can be. Arms flailing, her fingers come into contact with some kind of net, yet she can’t see it. Sensing her panic, I plant the thought in her head.

It’s a dream. Just a dream. Relax.

That’s easier suggested than believed, but the situation is so unreal that Wendy buys into the suggestion, thinking, even as her fingers scratch at the invisible net, ‘A dream. Yes. That has to be it.’

Just a dream.

Knowing what happens next, it’s important for me to reinforce the notion. (You don’t think this is a first, do you? A first in eternity; that would be a new one.) Four dwarves come running round the corner of the house. Wendy screws her eyes shut, then opens them again. “You’re trespassing!” one of the littl’uns says accusingly, pointing up at a CCTV camera nestling under the eaves of the house.

The sight of the creatures settles things for Wendy. An invisible net and the arrival of four dwarves – what else could it be but a very peculiar dream? She momentarily wonders why she can’t waken from it, but then sinks heavily into the notion that this reality is all a figment of her slumbering mind. “I heard a scream,” she says. “And then I saw…”

“It doesn’t matter what you think you heard,” the dwarf says. “Fact is, you’re trespassing.” The four creatures have surrounded her now, and they stoop in unison to take a corner of the invisible net each and carry Wendy round the back of the house and down a flight of steps.

“Where are you taking me?” Wendy demands. A little more reinforcement can’t hurt.

It doesn’t matter. None of it matters. It’s all just a dream. Best to just roll with it.

She’s carried into Hephaestus’ workshop and laid on the floor. “We found her trespassing, oh Great Lord of the Forge,” one of the dwarves says. It may be the same one who addressed her, but Wendy doesn’t know, she can’t tell them apart. Besides, her eyes are once again drawn to the upside-down blonde who is breathing heavily, in a way that can hardly be mistaken. Her chest is heaving, the miniature anvils swinging, her open lips move. “I-I-I-I…” she gasps. Then she gives a deep groan of disappointment. “Why?” she whines. “I need to cum so bad. Why won’t you let me?”

Wendy’s mouth opens in astonishment. She turns her head to look at Heph who seems completely oblivious to the blonde, but who is surveying Wendy with great interest. “Pretty,” he decides at last.

He snaps his fingers and one of the dwarves steps forward, stooping to pull at the air. Wendy feels the net fall away from her in a way she can’t comprehend. “Stand!” Heph tells her.

Standing is definitely better than being curled up on the floor, and Wendy gets to her feet, momentarily distracted by the blonde, who gives a desperate sounding moan. When she looks back at Heph he’s holding out his hand to her. “Here.”

She takes the object he’s offering her. How can she refuse? The choker displays the most exquisite craftsmanship she’s ever seen, the gold threads as fine as gossamer, but as strong as titanium. Still I sense some reluctance in her. Time to gush.

Gosh! It’s so pretty! I suppose it’s Creepy Guy’s way of saying he’s sorry. It would be rude to refuse. Besides, the blonde seems to be enjoying herself.

Before she’s even aware that she’s done it, Wendy has fixed the offering round her neck. There’s a flicker in Heph’s eyes that is more than just pleasure at the sight of his handiwork on her. Then the blonde is moaning again. “So close! I’m gonna… I must… I have to… I-I-I-I…”

I so wish I was her!

To my delight the thought causes a little sensation in Wendy, which in turn causes embarrassment, but nevertheless can’t be denied. The blonde is screaming. “Nooooooo!” Her body jolts in frustration and swings in thin air. “Why won’t you let me cum?”

Heph nods at Wendy. “Skirt!” he says.

“What?”

“He wants you to drop your skirt,” one of the dwarves clarifies.

There’s considerable reluctance on Wendy’s part, but since she’s now wearing a fruit of Heph’s labours she’s powerless to resist, and I can relax. With my powers of suggestion no longer needed, I can enjoy the sensation as my host obeys, blushing violently as she bares stocking tops and her naked pussy. (To spare her blushes slightly, I ought to point out that Wendy doesn’t normally go around without underwear, but today she became particularly enthusiastic during her lunchtime diddle, and unless the cleaners have found them, her knickers are still hanging from the fire sprinkler in the work toilets.)

To distract from her own state of partial undress, Wendy points at the blonde, who is now moaning again, as if willing herself to climax. “What…?”

“Sit!” Heph tells her, pointing at a large metal armchair. The design is clean and streamlined, but Wendy gets the feeling it might be uncomfortable. Not that it matters, since she feels compelled to do as Heph wants. Her surprise is great when she realises that sitting in it is like being carried heavenwards on big, fluffy clouds. Her surprise is even greater when she feels her body being dragged into a new position, her limbs moving without any conscious effort. She tries to lift an arm and fails. She kicks out, but her leg doesn’t move. Somehow she finds herself held fast, arms on the armrests, feet curled round the chair legs. She tries to lean forwards, but can’t.

“What is this?” she exclaims.

The dwarves chortle. The chair is one of their favourites. They always get a kick out of recalling how Hephaestus made a magical golden throne for Hera, from which she could not rise once seated, as revenge for her rejection of him. The chair represents a refinement of that throne. We’re talking serious mummy issues here!

“I-I-I-I…” the blonde stutters, thrashing about, the anvils swinging ferociously on the chains clamped to her tits. “Fuck it! Fuck you! Fuck you all! Let me cum, you Sintian freaks!”

Hephaestus responds with a grunt, but one of the dwarves is more talkative. “It’s an experimental model,” he tells Wendy.

What, the blonde?

My little joke shocks Wendy. The dwarf continues, “The basic vibrator is familiar enough. One large bulb inserted in the vagina, a smaller bulb on the clit. Sensors measure the level of arousal on a scale of zero to a hundred. One hundred represents the climax. If the vibrator is set, as it is now, to 99.8, it will automatically stop when that level of arousal is reached, denying the wearer an orgasm. Their level of arousal recedes, and when it reaches a pre-set lowest permissible level of arousal, the vibrations resume, until the arousal level again reaches 99.8 and the cycle is repeated. The vibrator can also be set to operate at completely random times and with completely random values.”

Oh yeah! Give me some of that!

Wendy still has the power to combat my occasional interruptions, but opts to ask a question instead. “Why is she hanging upside down?”

“Because dwarves just want to have fun,” one of the other littl’uns says.

“I don’t understand.”

The dwarves give their collective chortle, then one of them fetches a stepladder. He places it in front of the blonde, who is once again fast approaching the point of denial and climbs it, balancing on the top as he undoes his trousers. With his stiff cock exposed, he holds it right in front of the blonde. Her lips part. “I-I-I…” she stutters.

Another orgasm is denied, and as she cusses loudly, the dwarf gives her a push. “Everyone loves a swinger!” he exclaims as the blonde’s body is sent swaying into space. She adjusts it, knowing what she’s doing, the slight change of angle bringing her barging into the dwarf who tries to catch her, but is knocked off his perch, much to the amusement of the other three who laugh viciously as he tumbles to the floor.

He’s on his feet again in a flash, ascending the stepladder and grabbing hold of the blonde, directing his cock to her open mouth.

I so wish that was me!

Wendy goes hot all over at the thought. I wonder how she’d feel if she knew that dwarf cock tastes like sirloin steak. Delicious, especially with some of your modern developments – my favourite is Worcestershire sauce. I’ve always had an appetite and am feeling intensely jealous of the blonde, who builds again as her cheek bulges with dwarf cock.

“How long has she been hanging there?” Wendy asks.

“Five,” Heph grunts.

Wendy frowns. “I’ve been here longer than five minutes.”

“Days,” Heph clarifies.

Wendy is so delightful when shocked. The dwarves’ attention having been drawn back to her, one of them says, “May we see the chair in action, oh Great Polýmētis?” You may be aware that Hephaestus is sometimes given this epithet, which you modern mortals assume refers to him being a crafty plotter. He is that, but the reference to many devices ought really to be understood otherwise. Heph has always been a great inventor, and in modern times he makes a great living that way. If you’re a fan of dungeon porn you’ll be well-acquainted with his work.

The chair, rather disturbingly given Heph’s mummy issues, is one of his favourites. He touches the back of it, where there is a control panel. A hatch in the seat of the chair opens. It is invisible to the naked eye, which is why Wendy hasn’t spotted it. She hears the whirr, though, and feels the tip of the mechanical dildo concealed beneath the chair push up against her.

She gives a shriek, but I’ve been here before (it’s been too long), and can’t contain my excitement.

Oh yeah! Give it to me! Give me that big fucking machine cock!

“I-I-I…” the blonde is crying. Yet another nearly orgasm makes her shout. “NOOOOOO! Let me cum you fucking… Straight in my eye, you runt!”

The dwarf has indeed spurted, his semen running down the blonde’s face. She snorts and twists her head to avoid dwarf seed trickling into her nostrils. In the meantime the mechanical dildo has penetrated Wendy, and by extension me. It’s the best! Well, no, I’m contractually obliged to say that Zeus’ is the best, but it comes a close second. Besides, Wendy’s husband is a bit too considerate for my liking.

Zeus and all his offspring, this is such a fantastic fuck. I could sit here all day, having my cunt stuffed! Harder! Faster!

My thoughts confuse Wendy, so I make an effort, to make it easier for her.

So fucking good! I love it! I wonder how many times I can cum being shafted by this monstrous invention! Faster! I want it so hard and fast!

“So good!” Wendy gasps suddenly. “I want it so hard and fast!”

It hasn’t taken her long to get into things, and she’s growing wetter by the second. I relax into her consciousness, allowing her excitement to be my ecstasy, my spirit glow expanding to every part of her. Heph has moved round the chair to stand in front of Wendy. Regarding her with a lecherous eye, he sticks his hand in his dungarees to bring out his cock.

Now I hate to have to break it to you, but the real reason Aphrodite isn’t that hot on her husband isn’t because of the damaged bodywork where his mother dropped him in disgust, but because he has a very small dick, the kind that is to normal penises what baby corn is to corn on the cob. Much as I have every reason to hate Aphrodite, I do understand her. Heph is fiddling with his barely visible tackle, staring at Wendy while she is (and by extension I am) being drilled delirious by the fat, forceful machine dildo.

“I-I-I…” the blonde cries. Then I realise that it’s not her, it’s Wendy. “I…” she begins again. “I’m going to…”

Yes! I want to cum! I want to cum, and then cum again, and again, and…

Heph has taken a step closer, standing over Wendy, red-faced, grunting, clearly preparing for a climax of his own.

“No!” one of the dwarves cries. “Don’t do it, oh Great Lord of Metalworking! Don’t cum on her thigh! You know it never ends well!”

“I won’t hear a word said against Erichthonius!” Heph tells him sternly, but he does step back nevertheless.

Wendy might have been astonished that Heph could string a whole sentence together were it not for the fact that she is now contracting violently on the mechanical cock that is pulsing inside her. She screams. I too feel a violent burst of pleasure, dimly aware that Heph and three of the dwarves are ejaculating. As the first of his seed lands on the floor, Heph intones, “Oh Great Brother, Dionysus, pray send us your most bawdy companions!”

On striking the floor, the semen from the four cocks produces a fierce mist, then, with a loud bang, four satyrs appear as if from nowhere.

I know what you’re thinking, but you mortals have let your bestial imaginations run riot regarding stayrs. They are simply ordinary young men, albeit with humongous and permanent erections (covered in peach fuzz) and the ability to produce semen the way you modern mortals get running water from a tap. Satyr spunk also happens to be extraordinarily nutritious. Once, in my mortal state, I was stranded on a remote island for three months and survived on a diet of nothing but the stuff (lucky me, and not just because it tastes like a cream liqueur flavoured with cocoa!).

But enough about that. With Heph having ejaculated, the spell keeping Wendy in the chair is broken. The satyrs grab her and tie gold chains round each wrist and ankle. You’d have thought that she might protest, but by now she’s too far gone, too convinced it is all a dream, and, well, far too horny to object.

Fixed to an assembly of invisible chains, she is hoisted into the air, the way the blonde is. Suspended like that, she can be manoeuvred into any and all required positions. I can’t contain my excitement. I haven’t been tied up by satyrs since one of my previous hosts wandered down a dark alley at Bartholomew Fair in the 13th century, but we won’t dwell on that.

Yes! This is the best! The absolute best! I so fucking want this! Give it to me! Give it to me!

Wendy’s still wearing her top and bra, but the satyrs make short work of those. While two of them tear the garments from her body, a third gets between her legs, the chair having been just the prelude to being stretched wide by the satyr’s enormous erection. There’s nothing quite like it (except Zeus). I feel it as Wendy feels it, a rampant, lustful, fat cock stretching me beyond sanity.

“Yes!” Wendy screams. “Yes! Yes! Yes!” Two of the other satyrs stand on either side of her, teasing her breasts with their fuzzy lengths. The fourth has her head upside down and is attempting to fit his great length in her mouth, but it’s hard to feed a woman who is shouting, “Oh! Fuck me! Fuck me! I want every inch of that furry fucking cock in my cunt!” Given that the average satyr cock is about fifteen inches long, you might think that this would be a problem. Fortunately satyr cocks are also telescopic, and therefore adaptable to every woman’s anatomy.

Anyway, I’d like to give you the full details, but as you’ve probably gathered, we Sarxites aren’t good with limits and I’m closing in on five thousand words. All you need to know is that Wendy’s body is pulled all over the place, like a game of Twister, only in mid-air. The satyrs are all over her as she screams with delight, feeling them penetrate her over and over, their semen washing over her in a great flood. Inexhaustible as they are, there is ample time for her to climax over and over, until her body feels like one giant contraction. All the while the dwarves stand by, watching, cheering and clapping with glee.

Then Wendy is on the floor, her body drenched in satyr fluid as she gasps for breath.

I needed that!

“I-I-i…” the blonde announces. One of the dwarves, fully turned on from watching the action is across in a flash, mounting the step ladder to feed the blonde while his companions help Wendy to her feet, the satyrs having been hauled back to Dionysus with a sinister whoosh.

“You might be wanting to get back,” Hephaestus says, eyeing Wendy speculatively. “Unless you’d like to try out one of my other inventions. The self-lubricating, self-propelling, rotating butt plug, perhaps?”

Yes please!

“Some other time,” Wendy tells him. I’ll be sure to hold her to it.

“Soon, I hope.”

But Hephaestus needn’t worry, and neither do I. The choker is far too pretty for Wendy not to wear, and when she does, she will be his.

As for me, Margot; I won’t be going anywhere else anytime soon. I’ve found the perfect host, not so much for herself, though she’s congenial enough, but because she has the perfect neighbour. It’s been twenty-four years since I last lived next door to Hephaestus, and I’m determined to make the most of it.