Your erotic stories

Too many erotic stories. Erotic stories free to watch. Only the best porn stories and sex stories

Daughters of Priapus

BadFairGoodInterestingSuper Total 0 votes

My dear sisters:

I have been asked to give a history of my experience with Priapus, and my part in the revival of his ceremony. I trust that this account will not leave the walls of this sorority house. Here, as best I can recall and recount it, is the story.

When I was in college in the early seventies, it was a very different environment than it is today. We were all so much more innocent than girls are now.

I chose this college because it was, at the time, a very ordinary college in a very ordinary Eastern college town. There were six sororities then, each with a different reputation. There was the academically oriented one, for what would now be called “nerds.” And there was the one that catered to female athletes. There was also one that was rumored to be the “Lesbian” house and another for freethinkers and hippie-types. The girls in the fifth one seemed to think of nothing but marrying well, to the most affluent and well-connected dates they could find. And lastly, there was ours.

Our sorority was the “artsy” house, as indeed it is today. All the art majors and drama majors aspired to join it. When I was tapped to pledge them, I was so happy. I’d heard that their initiation ceremonies were a bit unconventional, not to say weird, but when I asked the “senior sister” about it, she wouldn’t give me details. She did say that while there might be some element of a sexual nature, there wouldn’t be rape. I would have complete control when I did whatever I had to do. I had to be content with that.

The initiation was held in the large room in the basement, next to the furnace room. I was led into the room naked except for a blindfold. There were five of us similarly attired. I was a virgin … not an uncommon thing for a college freshman back then, although almost unheard of today, I’m told. There was a short speech welcoming us, and then our blindfolds were removed.

I noticed that the other pledges were nude as well. We were very self-conscious of our nakedness, holding our arms in front of our breasts in an attempt to preserve some of our modesty. I was particularly self-conscious about my nipples, which were (and still are) extraordinarily long and get hard with the slightest stimulation.

The other members of the sorority were also naked, but displayed little of our modesty. Indeed, most of them were masturbating themselves, bringing themselves to sexual arousal, for reasons I couldn’t yet guess. The senior sister, an arts major named Esther, had enormous breasts, which weren’t remarkable to me except for the fact that she had a ring in her left nipple. Several of the other women had tattoos in areas that were concealed by everyday clothing. These things were quite rare back then, particularly among upper-middle-class white women. I wondered nervously if I was going to be tattooed or pierced as well, as part of the rite, but then I noticed that some women didn’t seem to have any such adornments.

Somebody passed around a bottle and I took a swig from it. It was a strong sweet wine. The bottle was followed by a fat marijuana cigarette. When I hesitated, one of the older sisters said, “Go ahead. It’ll be OK. It’ll help you through the rite.” Then she took a hit from it, inhaling deeply as she shook her long brunette hair. She handed it to me with a smile, and I sucked in the pungent smoke. Luckily, I’d smoked a few cigarettes by that age, and was able to retain the smoke without discomfort. I exhaled, and felt the effects of the drug seep over me.

We were led over to an area dominated by a large object, the size of a sofa, draped in a sheet. Joan, one of the junior sisters, grabbed the sheet by the hem while the Esther intoned the ritual of initiation. It was the usual stuff about swearing fealty and devotion to your fellow sisters, and promising never to reveal the secrets of the sorority, and so on. We all murmured our agreement to these terms. And then Joan whisked the sheet away.

This exposed a statue of a recumbent satyr, carved in gleaming white marble, polished to a high sheen. He lay on his back, propped up on his elbows, his head thrown back and his mouth open. But one part was not gleaming white, but a sort of rusty brown. It was his phallus. It was long and slender and very dark in color, and the brown stain extended down into his groin. It had a gentle curve, and an oversized head, about the size of a golf ball. The outside of the statue’s hips was also dirtier then the rest of the statue, a sort of cream color, and it was polished to a smoothness even greater than the rest of the statue.

“Behold Priapus!” Esther said. “He will accept you into our company. Submit to him, as I do!” With that, she straddled the statue, situated her vulva directly over its crotch, and impaled herself on the phallus. Meanwhile the other girls were chanting:

“Priapus, accept our sister Esther.

She is your willing servant.

She consummates her devotion to you with her body.

Grant her beauty, grant her luck, grant her your protection.”

Esther masturbated herself on the statue’s phallus for the entire duration of the chant. Then she relinquished her position to the next most senior girl. The chant was repeated word for word, except for the substitution of each girl’s name for Esther’s. When it was done, it proceeded down the line until all the sisters had coupled with the statue. One of the girls was menstruating, and pulled out her bloody tampon before coupling with the god. I suddenly realized why the phallus was brown: it was stained by countless years of the blood of menstruating women. And, no doubt, the blood of countless maidenheads being torn.

One of which was to be mine. I was still a virgin. “So this is how I’m to lose my cherry,” I thought. Well, better now than never. At least I would have something to show for it … through initiation into a company of fellow artists whose respect I craved, instead of being fucked by some jerk who didn’t know when to stop. And I realized that when I finally made love to a man, I need not fear the pain of having my hymen torn. So I submitted. The effects of the marijuana were becoming more pronounced, and by the time it was my turn, I silently thanked the brunette. I lowered myself onto the phallus and felt that huge cap pressing at my entrance. And then I forced it into me. There was a twinge of pain, but the marijuana and wine made it more tolerable. I felt the cap slide up my vagina, then down again, as I gingerly moved my body back and forth, feeling the blood trickle down the inside of my thighs. I heard the girls chant “Priapus, accept our sister Virginia…”

And then it was over. I was next to last; the girl behind me saw the new blood on the phallus and smiled, and then performed the rite with an easy grace that showed us that she was no stranger to sex. I heard Esther say something like “That concludes the ceremony.” The lights went up, more wine and grass was passed around, and we initiates hugged our new sisters. The air was sexually charged, and some of the girls were pairing off with each other, while others went back to Priapus to fuck themselves to orgasm as the others hooted and clapped. I was feeling too uncomfortable to participate, but shared in the general good feeling.

Over the years, I participated in three more such ceremonies. There was no further discomfort, and I enjoyed the feeling of that phallus filling me as the girls chanted the litany. And, like many of the girls, I visited Priapus for private sessions of my own, independent of the initiation rites. This was usually when I came home from dates still sexually unsatisfied. I had finally been having sex with men, but found that once they came into me, their energy suddenly evaporated, leaving me still horny and eager for more. But Priapus would stay hard as long as I wanted, and never failed me.

I discovered that the phallus itself was not marble, but ivory, imbedded in the marble statue. That was why it didn’t have the cool touch of the rest of the statue. Neither was it warm, of course, but it seemed so in contrast to the rest of the statue. I would let my breasts hang down and rake the satyr’s chest, feeling the cold stone on my nipples. I would kiss that cold mouth, and clench and polish those cold hips with my thighs. Eventually, I found it easy to masturbate my way to orgasm on Priapus’s cock, perhaps inflamed by the thought that countless other girls had done so over the years, and would again in years to come.

But that all ended with my graduation. I moved to New York, where I took my new degree in Dramatic Arts to Los Angeles and tried to make a living with it in the film and television industry. I succeeding in getting many minor roles in forgettable movies and soon-canceled series, but never hit the big time. I moved back to New York to try my luck in the theater, with similar results. After a few years, it became apparent to me that I would never be able to count on my talents as an actress to feed myself. Instead, I accepted an offer of marriage and had two children. I found, as many wives and mothers did, that the pressures of my new position sapped my libido. Our lovemaking became less and less frequent, and eventually died out altogether.

When I was in my fifties, my husband left me for a woman in her twenties. I couldn’t really blame him. She was good for him in many ways, re-igniting his virility as I no longer could. Our divorce was as amicable as could be expected under the circumstance, and his alimony tided me through until I obtained a real-estate license. I made a good living at it, since it was at this time that real estate prices were skyrocketing, particularly around New York City.

But to get back to the story: a few years ago, I attended a sale of art … more of a flea market, really. Among the various things for sale was an object that was exhibited in a case with a tag that read “Ceremonial (phallic?) object. Provenance unknown. $250.00 OBO.” I recognized it at once. It was Priapus’s phallus!

It was just as I remembered it, except a little darker. It had the same slender curve and enlarged head that had pleased my vagina so many times. I noticed a long pin extending from the phallus’s base, an extension of the object itself. In contrast to the rest of the piece, the pin, or peg, was the color of slightly burnt cream and absolutely straight. It must have been shaped to fit into a corresponding hole in the statue itself.

I talked with the owner and found that he had acquired it about five years ago from another collector. He had hopes that it might have some archeological value but found that, without some record of its origin, it was useless. I offered him a hundred for it.

“That’s half of what I paid for it!” he protested.

“And twice what it’s probably worth,” I replied. “If you buy something whose provenance you can’t document, you always take a chance that you’ll lose money. Just be glad you only lost a hundred.” But he wouldn’t accept my offer. After much haggling, I talked him down to a sale price of a hundred fifty, and it was mine.

That night, I obtained some pot from a friend of mine in the community theater where I still acted and directed from time to time. I bought some cigarette papers from a convenience store and, with shaking hands, rolled my first joint in twenty years. I took a hit and found to my surprise that it was much stronger than the pot of my college days. Two hits were enough to get me really stoned. And then I had a glass of wine, lay naked on my bed, and masturbated myself with my new toy. I didn’t climax. Something was still not right; perhaps my libido had ebbed to the point where a climax was no longer possible. Or perhaps I needed the rest of the experience, complete with the statue. But my session with the phallus was still pleasurable and reminded me of my college days.

And of course, it got me to wondering what happened to the rest of the statue. That is how I came to be once again at the door of your house. It was summer, and the house was deserted except for the senior sister, whose name was Amy, and a few other girls who had stayed the summer.

It was Amy who answered the door and let me in. She was a buxom woman with dirty blonde hair and an easy smile. I identified myself as a sister of the sorority and she greeted me cordially, although she requested some verification. The sorority library had a set of yearbooks from my years, and I showed her my pictures, which she compared with the one on my driver’s license. Satisfied, she hugged me and welcomed me back as a sister of the house.

She told me something of the intervening years of the sorority, which were not good ones. At one point in the late nineties, it had actually been closed down for a few years, its charter suspended. The reasons given were drugs and prostitution.

“All that stuff about prostitution was bullshit,” Amy said. “But the drugs, that was real enough. A few of the sisters, including the senior sister, were dealing big time. Meth, acid, heroin, you name it. The college finally had to do something to convince the town that it was “dealing with the problem,” so it shut us down. When we got our charter back and re-opened four years later, it was with an entirely new set of members.”

“So there’s nobody whom you know from before then?”

“Not a one. You’re the first. I think that they all heard about the closure, and figured that it was permanent.”

“And all the stuff that was in the house? Furniture and artwork and stuff?”

“It was all gone. The college contacted a lot of the artists, and they came back to claim it and take it away. The rest got sold at auction, to pay for the legal bills. The only thing left was that old statue in the basement.”

My heart skipped a beat. “A statue?”

“Yeah. A statue of a faun or satyr or something. It was too big to move. I don’t know how they got it in there in the first place. Maybe they built the house around it, I don’t know.”

“May I see it, please?”

“Sure. But it isn’t worth anything, if that’s what you’re thinking. We had it appraised, and found out that it was a crude nineteenth-century copy of a crude fifteenth-century copy of a classical sculpture, probably Roman. And it had been damaged.”

“In what way?”

Amy snickered. “His dick is missing. The original had a big dick, according to the pictures we saw. But it’s missing on the copy.”

She showed me to the basement, and there he was! The same old Priapus, except that where that beautiful brown phallus used to rise from, there was now only a hole. A hole, I realized with a shock, into which my new toy would fit perfectly.

“That’s not the only thing we found in the basement,” Amy said. She showed me a panel on the wall, on which there was writing. But the writing didn’t make any sense; it was gibberish.

“What does it mean?” I asked.

“It’s a message in code. Tina … one of the sisters … cracked it this summer. Now we know what it means, but it doesn’t make sense.”

“What does it say?”

“It starts ‘Priapus, accept our sister.

She is your willing servant…'”

“‘She consummates her devotion to you with her body.'” I finished.

Amy stared at me. “How did you know that?”

“You don’t recognize the words?”

“No! I never heard them before! Except from Tina, of course. What do they mean?”

“It’s part of an initiation ceremony. When we were pledged. You don’t do that anymore?”

“Jesus, no! This is the first time I’ve heard of this! Wait a minute…”

She produced a cell phone from her fanny pack and pushed a few buttons. “Tina? Listen, what are you doing? … the library? Look, can it wait? … You’ve got to come home! Right now! There’s a lady here … no, you don’t know her. But listen: she knows the code! … Yes, that code! … I’ll see ya. Bye!”

She looked up. “She’ll be here in like twenty minutes. Come on up and have some wine until she gets here. She’ll tell you the whole story.”

Amy was wrong; Tina was there in less than fifteen minutes. She accepted a glass of wine, and told me her story.

“I thought at first that it was just one of those letter substitution codes, the kind that you see in the newspaper. But no matter what I tried, I couldn’t crack it. I even programmed a computer to try every letter substitution combination, and got nothing but garbage.

“Well, if it wasn’t a simple substitution code, maybe it was a what they call a ‘tableau’ code. It’s pretty simple, too, once you had the key. The key is a sample of text, like ‘To be or not to be, that is the question’ or “The Lord is our shepherd, I shall not want.’ Each letter of the key corresponds to a number…’A’ is ‘one,’ ‘B’ is ‘two’ and so on. To code a message, you take each letter, find its numerical value, add it to the value of the corresponding letter in the key, and then find out what letter that new letter the value corresponds to. If you don’t have the key, it’s damn near uncrackable. But once you had the key, the rest is easy.

“But we didn’t have the key. So I went around looking for other clues. Amy found another piece of writing, in the same handwriting, on a rafter in the attic. It just said ‘Psalm 46. IVvi15’ Not much help, until I realized that Psalm 46 was the one that people think has Shakespeare’s name encoded in it. That made me think that the second part referred to one of Shakespeare’s plays … The act, scene and line number. So I tried the indicated line of each of Shakespeare’s plays as the key, and eventually scored a hit.”

“Which play was it?”

“‘Pericles, Prince of Tyre.’ And, as I found out, the only mention of Priapus in all of Shakespeare. It figured, I guess. Anyway, once we had the quote, the rest was easy, really.” Tina professed modestly, although you could tell she was proud of her accomplishment.

Amy finished the story. “So now we had the text, but the text didn’t still didn’t make any sense. We figured it was some nonsense that somebody had coded as a prank. Until you showed up. So what’s it mean?”

I began slowly, deliberately. I recited the initiation ceremony as I remembered it, and described the statue’s role in it. My audience of two hung on my every word. When I finished, the girls were silent for a while.

“So that’s it,” Amy said finally. “Whoever wrote on that panel wanted to preserve something of the rite. I wonder what happened to the statue’s cock. Maybe she took it.”

“I don’t know,” I replied. “But I know where it is now! I have it!”

“You’ve got it? Here?”

“No, at home.” And I told them how I had acquired it. “I think it belongs here, though. On Priapus.”

“We don’t have any initiation rite like that any more,” Amy said. “We just sort of made something up. But it would be so cool to start it up again.”

“It’s up to you girls,” I said. Then we all went out to dinner. When we got back, it was already dark.

“Stay the night here, if you want,” Amy said. “We’ve got plenty of rooms!”

“Thanks! I’ll do that! I really don’t like driving in the dark any more. How about the room on the second floor, northeast corner?”

“That was Sally’s. She graduated last spring. It’s yours. And if you want to take a shower, feel free to use my soap and towels and stuff. They’re already up there.”

That night, before I went to bed, I decided to take up her invitation. Having no robe, I walked naked through the house into the bathroom. The shower area had been remodeled since my days there … instead of several shower cubicles, there was now a single space with six shower heads. Amy was already under one of them. And so was Tina.

They were embracing as I walked in. When they saw me, they guiltily looked up, but I smiled and motioned them to continue what they were doing. They smiled back and continued their embrace. I wetted myself down and began soaping up, and then I felt a hand on my back.

“Let me get your back, Ginny,” I heard Amy say. And then Tina was there, soaping my front. Tina was much shorter than I was, with plump breasts and a thick waist. Her mons was shaved and she had a labial ring. She lifted my breasts. “Wow, Ginny! Those are the longest nips I’ve ever seen! Amy, look at these!”

“Let me see!” Amy said, and then she was in front of me, her own heavy breasts inches from mine. She, too, was shaved. She had a dragon tattoo that decorated her rib cage, going all the way from the underside of her right breast to the center of her back. Together, the girls fondled my breasts. “Can I suck on them?” Amy asked. I nodded, and then felt two mouths on my nipples, their tongues circling them as they sucked. I first tensed, and then relaxed as they made no further moves on me. Then we finished our showers, and I went to bed.

I was reading when I heard a knock on the door. It was Amy. She asked if I was all right. And then she asked me something else.

“You’ve got the most amazing pussy, Ginny! Can I lick your curtains?”

“My what?”

“Your curtains. You know, your inner lips. When I saw how big they were, how much they hung down from your pussy, I knew I had to taste them!”

I laughed. “Forty years ago, I used to think I was a freak. Are these … ‘curtains’ in fashion now?”

“I dunno. But I like them. I think they’re hot!”

“The guys I went with back then didn’t.”

“Why should you care? They’re you.” And she gazed at me, waiting for permission.

“What about Tina?”

“It’s cool. We’re not lovers. She doesn’t really get off much on girls, she just likes to get groped a little.”

I got up and slipped my panties off. She smiled, and then gently kissed my pussy lips … my ‘curtains’ as she called them. I lay on my back on the bed and spread my legs, affording her complete access to my crotch.

She went to work with a will. I’d never had so much attention paid to this area of my anatomy, and was soon groaning with pleasure. Then I felt her finger snaking up into my cunt, searching for my G-spot. She was an expert lover, taking her time and waiting for my reaction. I became lost in my sensation, and then I climaxed with a force that left me shaking … my first climax in years. I began to weep.

“Jesus, I’m sorry,” Amy said. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No, dear. You did everything just right. It was my first orgasm in a long, long time, that’s all. Thank you so much!”

“So everything’s cool?”

“Everything’s perfect, darling!” She slithered up to me and we kissed mouth-to-mouth. She smelled of oranges and lavender and arousal. I smelled the juices of my pussy on her mouth and licked them off.

“I’m glad,” she said. “You know, it took you a long time to cum. I thought I was losing my touch!”

“If I took such a long time, it was because I had so much further to travel. You did just fine.”

“Was this the first time you’ve been with a girl?”

“Oh, no, dear. The first time was almost forty years ago. In this very room!”

“Wow. That is so cool! That’s like, twenty years before I was born!”

“Yes. You could be my grand-daughter, almost.”

“You don’t look that old. I mean, you’ve still got a hot body. That pussy! Those nips! I could go crazy!”

“Thanks, dear. You don’t have to be patronizing, you know.”

“I’m not! You are really hot. If this is what Priapus gave you, I want it, too!”

“It’s funny that you mention that. I was thinking how sad it was that our traditional rites have gone away.”

“Yeah. You know what? We could bring them back! You have the penis part, right? You know the rite! Let’s do it!”

“Don’t you have to talk it over with the rest of the girls?”

“Yeah. I’ll do that when they all get back. But I bet they’ll go for it.” And we nuzzled each other, and fell asleep in each other’s arms. I dreamed. I dreamed of Priapus, still a statue but animate, with his phallus restored to him, staring at me with eyes that were not sockets in the marble but dark brown and moist and yearning, and stroking his long brown penis. The semen dribbled from its tip in a constant stream, but he never went soft. When I awoke, Amy was gone, but her lovely smell still lingered, and I wanked myself to another orgasm as I lay there. When I went downstairs, I found the house empty. I wrote them all a quick note of thanks, stopped at a diner for breakfast, and then drove home. A few weeks later, when the term began, I got an email saying, “We’ve agreed. Come back home. Bring the piece.”

And that was how I came to visit your house again, last fall. Thoughtfully, Amy left my old room vacant as the “guest room.” I put away my things and took a shower, this time in the company of several of the girls. I was pleasantly surprised at how free and easy they were with their bodies, even more so that I and my sisters had been at that age. Body jewelry and tattoos were common now, and only a few of them left their pubic hair untended. My own thatch, thick and now mostly gray, seemed out of place here. But they accepted me with good grace and pleasant smiles, and I soon felt like one of them again.

That night, we performed the ritual. Before I went downstairs, I was accosted by Tina and Amy. They were both wearing only their robes, as I was. Tina opened my robe and kissed my breasts. She then produced a small jewelry box from one of the pockets in her robe. She opened it up to show me two nipple clips. They consisted of a loop of fine wire with a slider; the loop ended in a beautiful teardrop pearl. The girls slipped them onto my nipples and slid up the slider until I could feel the wire gently biting into my nipples.

“If they’re too tight, just squeeze the slider and slide it back down a little.”

“They’re fine. I like the stimulation. And they’re beautiful. Do you want them back after the ceremony?”

“No, they’re yours to keep,” Tina said. “They’re a homecoming present from me to you. We figured that nips like yours deserved them. The moment I saw them, I thought: if there were ever any nips that cried out for something to dangle from them, those are the nips!”

“And I got you something, too,” Amy said. She took something out of her pocket and put it into my hand. It looked like a small egg, with a cord attached to it. She pulled the cord, and I felt the egg vibrate. She then took it from me and, keeping hold of the cord, poked the egg into my vagina. The sensation was exquisite.

“I thought you might have a little trouble lubricating. You’ll be the first tonight, you know.”

“How thoughtful of you! Actually, I just wanked myself, so I’m pretty wet. But this feels wonderful!” I kissed her and felt her slit; she, too, was wet. Tina, meanwhile, was stroking her belly, just above her mons. We all closed our robes and went downstairs.

And there were all the girls of the sorority. Fifteen of them, plus six new pledges, all naked. They each held a copy of the initiation oath. As the Senior Sister, Amy gave a little speech about how they were about to undergo an initiation that stretched back in time to the founding of the sorority. “None of us has had this initiation, since the rite was broken in the days when the house was closed. So, in a sense, we are all pledges tonight. But one of our sisters, who has often participated in this rite, has returned to us tonight. She will initiate us, so that the line will remain unbroken.” And then she kissed me and nodded. I said a few words and then dropped my robe and stood before Priapus naked, as I had done so often before. Amy handed me the box I had brought down earlier. I removed the phallus, held it up for all to see, and kissed and sucked on it, tasting my own pussy on it from its most recent use. Then I bent down and slipped its peg back into the hole in the statue’s groin. It fitted perfectly, as I was sure it would. Priapus was again whole, and waiting for me. I pulled the egg from my vagina, straddled the statue and, pulling my cunt lips apart, impaled myself on that dark brown penis. I let my now bejeweled nipples press against the statue’s cool breast and wept with joy as I heard the girls chanting: “Priapus, accept our sister Virginia. She is your willing servant. She consummates her devotion to you with her body. Grant her beauty, grant her luck, grant her your protection.”

And then I kissed each girl in turn, starting with Amy, as she mounted the statue. One difference from the old days was that many of the girls took the trouble to cover Priapus’s penis with condoms they were provided with, a precaution that I thought most sensible in this age of STD’s. I remember that, during the ritual, one of the pledges whispered to me, “Virginia, I’m a virgin. What do I do?” I whispered back that when I first fucked Priapus, I was a virgin, too, and never regretted losing my cherry to that stone god. “Let your blood help renew the beautiful color of his penis, as mine did,” I said. That reassured her. She bit her lip as she fucked the statue, but didn’t wince or cry out. I was so proud of her that I gave her an extra kiss as I wiped the blood from her labia.

After the ceremony was over, I fucked the statue again, the first of a row of waiting women. Every girl stroked my back and ass and legs as I rode the phallus. My orgasm came easily now, and I once more felt like the sensual, sexy woman I was forty years ago. That feeling only deepened when, later that night, Amy slipped into my bed and it was my turn to use my tongue and fingers to transport her to ecstasy.

My dear sisters, I write these words not for those who were there that night, and who remember the rite, but for all the sisters yet to come. I write them so that you may know that the ritual you have undergone is part of the history of our sorority, and that you are part of a chain that stretches back to its origin. The chain was broken, but has been repaired, And I rejoice that I, through the grace of Priapus, am the link that mended it.

Leave a Reply* Marked items are required