Mythology, whether classic or modern, has always taken readers on a magical ride. Mythologically Torqued, volume I, takes those tales from days of old, or more recent history, and places a unique spin on the beloved lore.
The gods of Olympus make appearances, as do deities from Japanese, Norse, and other belief systems. With rampant sexual desires, these gods manage to slake their thirst for passions of the flesh in a rather untraditional manner…if the oral traditions passed down from generation-to-generation were at all accurate.
These fifteen short stories are penned by both seasoned scribes and new authors; the anthology provides readers with the perfect opportunity to explore offerings from their favorite storytellers as well as find a new favorite or two. And, a unique perspective on the stories we enjoyed–or were forced down our throats at the hands of a sadistic English teacher or two–in our youth.
Containing both M/M and F/F stories from authors Alisha Monroe, Alyx Shaw, Angelique Voisen, Carol Tierney, Delilah Storm, Eva Lefoy, Jacey Mills, L.J. Hamlin, Leah Ellwood, Logan Zachary, Max Wilde, Salome Wilde, Shiloh Saddler, T. Strange, and V.L. Locey, Mythologically Torqued volume I is sure to have something for every penchant.
Torquere’s largest anthology to date features a total of 15 authors pleased to bring you 15 unique tales from when gods and goddesses ruled the world. This collection features both m/m and f/f content for your reading pleasure. Dare you enter this realm of Mythologically Torqued fantasy? Be on the lookout for Volume 2 summer 2015.
Back to the Garden by V.L. Locey
A firm foot to my backside startled me from my nap.
“Get you to the pond and bathe,” Apollo snapped, then pulled his bedding out from under me. He held the blanket to his nose then grimaced. “Ugh. It stinks of male goat.”
“You are most cranky, my lord,” I muttered as I stumbled out the flap to greet the new day. A handsome young man with dark hair and green eyes smiled shyly at me, and then rushed into Apollo’s tent. I turned in time to see my uncle embrace the young man, then close the tent flap. Ah. So that was why I had been chased from the tent so unceremoniously. I could not fault my uncle. The young man had been fair of face. The new sun shone down on the top of my head. I reached up to push the kinky mass of my hair from my face. Warm rays touched my face. Smiling to myself, I made my way to the pond and was shocked to see so many humans splashing about in it. Naked bodies bobbed up and down as laughter filled the air.
I slid my breeches off and waded out into the chilly water without benefit of a steam room filled with juniper, oils, or strigel. How did humans cleanse themselves? A young man with skin dark as night lingered beside me as I began lifting handfuls of water from the pond.
“Here, use this.” I blinked to clear the droplets from my lashes.
“You have my thanks.” I took the pitcher made from a material I had no knowledge of, and lowered it into the water. I doused myself several times then rubbed my hands over my face and neck.
“Don’t have any soap?”
I glanced at the dark male then shook my head. He waded to the shore, the pond sluicing around his lean waist, and returned quickly with a hard rectangular object that smelled like a mountain glen. I met his look. He smiled and my stomach, filled to near overflowing with ambrosia, flipped over on itself.
“Go ahead and scrub, you smell like you slept in a barn.”
“If you tell me your name I shall thank you properly,” I said as I ran the bar over my left forearm. Froth appeared where the bar moved over my skin. It was a pleasant feeling—not as pleasant as a good scraping, but enjoyable all the same. The young man studied me with deep brown eyes.
“Are you a poet?” he asked as I lathered my arm then lifted it to cleanse my armpit.
“Nay, that is my uncle. I am a shepherd,” I told him. “From Olympus,” I said, and then realized that mentioning where one hails from seems to be a social gaffe among the humans of this century. “Which is in the state called Washington.”
“Wow, you made a long trip to celebrate.” I nodded and continued washing.
“My name is Jerome Acardi.”He offered me his hand so I slapped my soapy one across his palm, then returned to my bath. “I rode in with some friends from Jersey.”
“Ah yes, Jersey. ‘Tis a most beautiful village.” I ran the bar over my face many times then slid under the water. When I came up, Jerome was smiling at me. I smiled in return. His hair, so much like mine, was drying now and becoming more voluminous with each passing moment. I washed several times, until I felt sure that my aroma was no longer offensive. Jerome took his soap from me then walked to the shore, this time leaving the water to deposit his cleansing bar beside a ball of fuzzy material. His ass was tight, tempting. The water coursed down his back and ran in a thin stream between his buttocks. When he bent over, I saw that his stones were snug to his body. I wished to see more of him, for he was most appealing and kind. I glanced away when he turned, pretending to be studying a bug floating about on the water’s surface. ‘Twould not do to be seen ogling his cock, for he may not welcome such attention.
“So, what’s your name?” Jerome asked after wading back out to stand beside me.
“I am known as Pan.” I pushed the water skipper dancing on the pond’s surface away. Several young women near us squealed and splashed. Jerome laughed. He had a rich laugh. One that instantly made me wish to hear it again.
“Pan from Washington State who thinks that Jersey is a village,” he said, pulling my attention from the women trying to escape the bug. Our eyes met. His held mirth I was relieved to see. Jerome leaned closer, his arm rubbed my wet bicep. Shivers danced over my flesh. “It’s cool,” he whispered beside my ear. It grew difficult to swallow. “If you’re here illegally, I won’t turn you over the fuzz.”
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