The Minotaur's Bride
Copyright© 2025 by Eric Ross
Part 2
Fantasy Story: Part 2 - Every seven years, a woman is sent into the labyrinth. None return. This time, the sacrifice is a defiant priestess who discovers the beast is not what he seems—and that her own beast is waiting to be freed.
Caution: This Fantasy Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual Romantic Heterosexual Fiction Fairy Tale High Fantasy Paranormal Magic BDSM FemaleDom Light Bond Cream Pie First Massage Masturbation Slow Transformation AI Generated
She didn’t mean to sleep.
She had only meant to rest—curled in the warm alcove above the spring, the oil vial nestled between her breasts, the memory of his breath still tingling on her fingers. Her robe was unfastened to the waist. She hadn’t bothered to tighten it.
The air in the Labyrinth was warm tonight. Heavy. Sweet.
She drifted.
And the dream found her.
She was standing in a grove.
The trees were silver-leaved and bowed with fruit, branches shimmering under a blood-red moon. The ground beneath her was soft, petaled, and damp. Her feet were bare. She was naked, but not cold.
There was no fear in her.
Only breath.
Only yes.
She felt him behind her before she turned. Not because he moved, but because her skin recognized him. The heat. The gravity. The ache.
She turned—and he was there.
Unchained.
Crowned with shadow. Horned. Luminous.
Not beast. Not man. Something in between. Something true.
He did not reach for her. He waited.
His body glowed with gold beneath the skin, as if the light of the Labyrinth had entered him, soaked into his bones.
She stepped forward.
The earth sighed.
He knelt—not in worship, but in offering.
And when she touched his face, he closed his eyes the way he had before. But this time, her hands did not stop there.
She straddled his lap.
His hands rose—hesitant, reverent—but did not touch her until she whispered, “Now.”
Then they moved together like ritual. Like water poured into a vessel. Her thighs wrapped around his hips. His breath staggered. Her body opened around him like a flower knowing sun for the first time.
There was no pain.
There was no shame.
There was only the sound of her own moan caught in his throat.
Above them, the moon bled brighter—deep crimson and burning.
Their bodies moved as if they’d always known this rhythm. Like something sacred long buried had remembered its name.
She arched against him as he came, her own climax washing through her like salt tide. Their mouths never met. They didn’t need to.
In the moment of stillness after, the voice came—not from the sky, but from inside her.
“What you free in him, you free in yourself.”
She woke with the words in her mouth.
She lay panting, her skin slick with sweat, her legs damp with want.
The vial of oil was warm against her heart.
No—not warm. Hot.
She lifted it in her hand, unscrewed the wax seal, and let the scent rise.
Dark jasmine. Spiced fig. Amber and smoke.
She touched a single drop to her lips.
“I know what to do.”
She stood. Smoothed her robe.
Tomorrow, she would go to him.
Not as a priestess.
Not as prey.
As bride.
She did not wear the robe.
Only the chain with the oil vial remained, resting between her breasts like a promise.
The path to the chamber opened before her—not like stone yielding, but like breath drawn in pleasure. The Labyrinth had become warm with waiting. The light in the walls pulsed low and slow, matching her heartbeat. Amber deepened to gold at her passing.
She walked barefoot.
The stone underfoot was slick and warm, like the inside of a mouth. The scent of jasmine and salt filled the air—so thick it clung to her skin, sweetened by her sweat.
She did not tremble.
She had done that already.
This time, she came not as priestess.
Not as sacrifice.
She came as bride.
He rose when she entered.
He was no longer kneeling. He stood at full height now, his body enormous, trembling with some animal knowledge he could not name. The chains still held his limbs, but they hung looser now, like silk veils rather than fetters. His chest rose and fell in uneven rhythm.
His cock was already hard.
She said nothing.
She stepped into the circle of his chains.
He did not move.
But his breath caught as she came close.
She reached up and undid the wax seal of the vial. The scent rose like smoke. Jasmine. Resin. Heat.
She tipped it into her palm.
Then she touched him.
First his wrists—slicking oil over the bruises she had tended. Then his ankles. His throat. The chain around his neck hissed where the oil kissed it, as if recoiling from her touch.
“These are not sacred,” she whispered. “These were never sacred.”
He made a sound low in his chest—not speech, not growl. A broken exhale. A sob that had never learned to be loud.
She dipped her fingers again.
Traced the oil over his chest, his nipples, the thick cords of muscle at his sides. Her hands trembled only once—when she touched the hollow just beneath his ribs, where the body remembers hunger.
Then she moved higher.
She reached his face.
He bowed his head.
Not in shame. In offering.
She anointed his lips. His brow. His horns.
Then she cupped his jaw, lifted his gaze to hers, and said:
“I come to you now—not as a sacrifice.
Not as purity to be devoured.
But as a woman who chooses.”
His breath hitched.
She kissed him.
It was not hesitant. It was not sweet.
It was a kiss made of knowing—of breath held too long, of silence breaking open, of the moment a flame chooses to catch.
Her mouth moved against his slowly, fully, with the ache of everything they had not yet touched.
When she pulled away, his eyes were wide.
She said, simply:
“Yes.”
Then she stepped out of his gaze and knelt before him.
She unstoppered the vial again, tipped a fresh pool of oil into her palm.
With slow, steady hands, she reached between them and anointed his cock.
She touched him from root to crown, oil slicking the thick length of him, spreading warmth and reverence with every stroke. He groaned low in his throat, but did not move. The veins along his shaft pulsed visibly, his restraint fraying.
Then she dipped her fingers once more.
She slipped her hand between her own thighs.
She anointed herself.
She dragged oil over her outer lips, then parted them and pressed her fingers lower, circling the entrance of her cunt. She was already wet, already aching—but the oil turned her heat to flame. Her breath caught. Her eyes fluttered closed for one long, slow beat.
“I consecrate this,” she whispered, half to herself, half to the Labyrinth. “Not for the gods above, but for the truth below.”
Then she rose, straddled him, and guided him into her.
She angled her hips and, with a breath held deep in her chest, she sank down onto him in one motion.
Her cunt stretched to take him, the fullness shocking and exquisite. A gasp escaped her lips, part pain, part pleasure, part something deeper—recognition. Her thighs trembled, but she didn’t stop. Didn’t ease back.
She took all of him—root to tip—until her hips met his and her breath came out as a shuddering exhale.
He groaned—not loud, but guttural, like air rushing into lungs that hadn’t dared expand.
His hands, still bound, fisted in empty air. He did not grab. He did not pull.
He received her.
She set the rhythm—hips rolling like waves, breath hitching at every thrust. Her hands gripped his shoulders, then the chain around his throat, then the base of one horn. She felt power bloom in her pelvis and radiate up her spine.
The Labyrinth throbbed with them.
Light burst from the walls in pulsing gold. The floor vibrated. The stone beneath her knees warmed and softened, as if the Labyrinth itself were climaxing with them.
She was close.
So was he.
Their eyes met—amber and silver, molten and wild—and in the final moment, she cried out a word she didn’t know she remembered. A name. His name.
Her orgasm tore through her like a storm. She ground her hips down hard, riding the wave, gasping his name again as he pulsed inside her—thick and hot, his release flooding her in rhythmic surges.
The chains shattered.
Not with clangor.
But with a sigh.
Like something that had held its breath for centuries had finally exhaled.
And then—
His horns gleamed, light catching along the curve in a sudden flash of gold. His fur began to recede in places, sloughing away like smoke—revealing the shape of a man beneath. Scarred. Beautiful. Real.
He looked at her, breathless. Naked, in every sense.
Her own body arched with a final shudder.
And then the tattoos along her spine—those inked in silence, submission, erasure—began to glow white-hot. Symbols the temple had carved into her skin lit like stars.
And burned away.
One by one, they vanished.
Not scraped. Not erased.
Released.
She collapsed forward into his arms.
The Labyrinth sang.
Not with words.