persephone's abduction part II: a dark erotic tale

what if the story you thought you always knew was false? this is not a tale merely of abduction, but of awakening and choosing...

*this story is intended for mature readers and explores themes of childhood sexual abuse and elements of BDSM and conscious kink. all characters depicted are consenting adults.

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in case you missed it, read part I of persephone’s abduction here…

are you a persephone woman? read the goddess’s invocation here…

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now we descend together into part II of my retelling of persephone’s abduction… this part of the story does explore the theme of childhood sexual abuse in some detail, so please be mindful and look after yourself…

but before we continue, take a moment and breathe.

my stories aren’t just erotica—they’re alchemical spells.

they will change you, if you let them.

imagine the spiral staircase of your mind. feel the rough stone steps beneath your feet, cushioned with moss, as you descend deeper and deeper into the dark.

enter the obsidian temple in the underworld of your own psyche.

kneel inside yourself. inhale the sacred smoke.

read this unfolding from that place inside your being, and allow it to take you on a journey that might reveal something that’s been waiting to be seen…

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I gasp as I breach the surface, water streaming from my hair and lashes. Violets clinging to my skin like bruises in the shape of fingerprints, tangled in the long wet skeins of my dark hair.

And he’s standing there, looming over me at the pool’s edge, as if he’d materialized between one breath and the next.

As if he’d always been standing there.

Tall, powerful, and muscular but lean and somehow ruthlessly elegant with it. A harshly beautiful, starkly masculine face, softened only by the close-cropped beard that frames it. His slashing dark brows and eyes black as pitch, that seem to drink in the light giving nothing back.

The shadows seem to emanate from him, heavy as mourning cloth. Something wild coils behind the stillness in his face. Something dangerous.

The forest holds its breath. He doesn’t speak. He just looks at me—the way he always does—but deeper this time.

Hungrier.

Like something inside him has broken loose and he’s deciding whether to put it back in its cage… or let it have me.

A breeze stirs between us, carrying the sharp scent of sacred wood smoke and something darker—iron, maybe. Earth and blood.

“Thalos,” I whisper. Not as a greeting. A question.

All at once, I’m painfully aware of how exposed and vulnerable I am in the water, my shift clinging to my body wet and translucent beneath the glimmering surface, and I feel a hot blush roll over my skin.

Only moments ago, I’d felt so bold, stripping off my dress as if daring him to see me. But now, with the reality of him looming above me, all that boldness seems to have been washed away—leaving only some deep instinct ringing like a bell in my chest, warning me that something isn’t right.

It takes a moment for my conscious mind to catch up as I look at him more closely.

His eyes are darker. He’s taller than I remember. Broader. Sharper. Dressed all in black. His presence cuts through the golden light like a blade.

And that’s when it hits me.

No hunting leathers. No forest-worn cloak. No softness.

And suddenly, I know.

This is not the version of Thalos I’ve known in waking life.

The Thalos I’m used to seeing could pass for a woodsman, a hunter. The man standing in front of me now could never.

This is the Thalos I’ve only seen in dreams—the one I thought my subconscious conjured from shadow and longing.

The one who speaks in silk and shadow.

The one who makes me watch.

And I feel it—twisting low in my belly, a tingling rush of warmth across my skin, an unholy ache between my thighs.

He still hasn’t said a word, and there’s a strange slippage in the moment, as though the fabric of reality is thinning—something else seeping through. I feel trapped and helpless, caught in his obsidian gaze, gleaming like burning torchlight… and then I’m not in the hollow anymore. Not in the pool.

I’m in my dream world, kneeling on the hard floor of a dark and cavernous room I know too well—its contours as vivid as waking life. My thin cotton nightgown clings to my skin—the same one I wear to bed every night.

Mother’s choice.

So girlish. So virginal. So pure. It makes me feel like an impostor, and so out of place in this darkly glimmering place. The stone floor is smooth and cool beneath me. Candlelight flickers all around—tall tapers and torches set into the walls, casting everything in gold and blood.

I know this room. And I know where he is before I even look—my body attuned to his presence like a second heartbeat.

He’s seated just behind and to my left. Not on a throne—at least not one I let myself name as such. It’s just a chair, I tell myself. An ordinary chair.

But the way he occupies it...

The way the space bends around him…

I cast my eyes up and to the side, unable to stop myself. The compulsion is too strong.

His starkly beautiful face in profile—chiselled like marble by a master’s hand—angled down toward me, those coal-dark eyes burning, watching.

He’s always watching me.

The distance between us is negligible, yet it feels insurmountable.

A thousand desires left unsaid, and yet they saturate the air between us.

I should be terrified to find myself here, awake. But something in the air lulls me, and I slip too easily into dreamlike acceptance. Into surrender.

A flicker of flame. A shift in the air. The scene ripples like smoke.

We’re no longer alone.

Look.

His voice like dark smoke curling through my mind. I turn my face toward the tableau now playing out in front of us.

Dream Thalos likes to show me things. Dark, shocking things. Things I should never see—yet they speak to the fractured places inside me.

They repulse me. They undo me. They make me ache and yearn for the unspeakable.

This is how I know there’s something rotten in me. That my mind could conjure such depraved visions.

She’s kneeling—pale skin glinting in the firelight, arms chained high above her head. Red hair clings to her flushed face, her heavy breasts rising and falling with every breath. She’s beautiful. Ripe. Trembling. Her thighs are parted for balance, knees pressed into the same hard stone as mine.

Welts bloom across her back like a dark garden.

The man behind her—broad, brutal, his shaved head gleaming—wields the whip like a lover’s ribbon.

It whistles through the air. Cracks across her spine.

She cries out.

And something clenches low inside me.

"You like that, you pathetic little whore, don’t you?" he snarls. "Say it."

Pathetic little whore. The words make me flinch as if I, too, had been struck by a whip. I want to hide my eyes, to look away, but I can’t.

It’s not just that I’m being made to watch. It’s that some part of me wants to.

The woman lets out another sound—something between a cry and a sob, wet and open and raw. Then, hoarse and broken, “Yes… yes. I like it.”

It’s then that the second man steps in front of her. Long and leanly muscled like a big cat, shirtless, the fall of his leather trousers already undone. He fists the thick, rigid length of his cock—jutting forward almost violently, like a threat.

“Then show us what a good whore you are,” the man with the whip growls, as the other presents himself to her mouth.

She opens wide without hesitation, tongue outstretched, eyes glassy.

He doesn’t give it to her. Not yet.

Instead, he fists her hair tight at the nape, holding her steady—his cock just out of reach. She leans forward, straining, her tongue flicking toward him, trying to close the distance, swaying slightly with each of her desperate little movements.

Both men laugh.

“Beg for it,” he says, voice rough with amusement.

“Please,” she gasps, already breathless. “Please… I want it…”

“Want what?”

She whimpers. “Please… I want your cock… please…”

He finally presses forward, the head slipping over her tongue, and she moans around it like it’s a blessing.

A sick heat coils in my belly at the sight.

No.

My body seizes. Something buckles in my chest. I want to flee—but I can’t move.

The memory presses forward, sharp and sudden. I’m still in the room, but my mind and body are cast back in time, and suddenly I feel so small.

I shudder. My breath falters.

Stone still beneath my knees. Mother’s priest’s voice, thick with sanctimony and something darker. The scent of old sweat beneath his robes.

He said it was sacred.

He said I was chosen.

And I remember believing him.

And I remember knowing it was a lie.

I remember how it stretched my too-small mouth. The taste—thick, bitter, wrong. How it made me sick the first time it happened… how he whipped me for it. How he’d told Mother I’d shirked my lessons, and she never questioned it.

Something in me folds inward. My stomach turns. I realize my face is wet with sweat and tears.

Breathe, little one, stay here with me.

His voice unfurls through the storm of my memory like dark smoke, and my body obeys.

I inhale. A shallow, quivering breath at first. Then another. A little deeper.

His presence wraps around me like weighted silk, like warm hands pressed firm over my shoulders—not real, and yet it’s the only thing I can feel. His phantom touch seeps into my bones, steadying me, calling me back.

The scene continues before me in the cavernous room, the woman whimpering and gagging around the cock in her mouth as the man slowly and deliberately pumps his hips, still using his hand in her hair to guide her up and down his shaft, meanwhile the man with the whip has started again making her body sway and jolt, her cries muffled.

The confusing, twisting pull of desire—low and heavy in my belly—as I take it in, mingling with the shame and disgust of my memories, brewing some unholy potion inside me. And something in me wishes I was the one being whipped, needing to feel the hot lash of it against my skin.

Needing to be punished for what I am.

“Why are you showing me this?” My dream voice breaks on the words, thick with tears, with horror, with some secret hunger I still don’t understand.

For a moment, there is only silence.

And then—

Because it’s already inside you.

I go stone still. My breath caught in my throat as he continues, relentless.

Because you’ve dreamed it. Craved it. Woken soaked with shame and longing… Because you ache to rewrite it.

And something inside me shatters. Because somehow he knows.

Not just this dream. Not just this moment. But that.

The memories I bury, the ones that rot in the back of my mind like spoiled fruit—he’s seen it. Somehow, he’s seen it. And not just the past, but the other part, too—waking from my dark dreams, overcome with disgust and need in equal measure.

I recoil inside. Heat floods my face. Shame crashes over me like a wave, bitter and hot.

I can’t breathe.

What was done to you was not your fault. But what you hunger for now is yours. I can help you, but you must choose.

His voice is soft but inescapable—like silk pulled taut around my throat. It moves through me with the intimacy of a touch.

I feel my body react—heat blooming in my core, a catching sob. My lips part, but nothing comes out.

I still feel his phantom presence at my back, not as a figure but as a pressure.

He won’t let me disappear.

He doesn’t coddle. He doesn’t soothe. He tethers.

And I realize—he’s not pulling me away from the pain. He’s holding me inside it, making it bearable, keeping me from drowning.

Because he wants me to feel it.

The woman cries out again as the whip lands. The man in her mouth groans, buried deep. She doesn’t fight. She moans around him like it’s pleasure.

My most intimate muscles flutter and ache, a shameful wetness gathering at my core, as a new vision unfurls in my mind’s eye.

Of me, in her place.

I imagine him—Thalos—standing before me, vast and dark and silent. Looking up at him, my face streaked with tears, my hands trembling. But my mouth opens. Willing. Wanting.

I imagine the weight of him in my mouth—not bitter, not forced—but something I reach for. Something I crave.

The taste of him erasing the taste that once made me sick.

I want to hold his cock in my mouth until I can no longer remember anything else.

Until my shame is smothered by worship.

Until the filth is remade as prayer.

I know it must be wrong. But I want it more than my next breath.

To choose it. To rewrite it. To make it mine.

My eyes flicker back to the woman. Her breasts sway with the rhythm of the strikes. Her mouth stretches, her throat working as she takes him deep. Her face rapturous. Humiliation and holiness, braided together.

I clench my thighs together, trying to soothe the ache.

She moans again—and I feel it in my body like it’s mine.

And then he says, low and certain.

You see yourself when you look at her. You’re the same.

I sob. “No.” Trying to deny it.

Little liar.

He’s mocking me.

He says it without heat. No cruelty. Just knowing.

It slices through me more deeply than a snarl ever could.

Because I am lying.

And we both know it.

My mouth opens—to protest, to deny—but nothing comes out.

The truth trembles inside me like something blasphemous.

I close my eyes. My whole body is shaking now, heat and memory and shame burning through me. I want to run. I want to kneel forever. I want to crawl out of my skin.

Choose.

The scene flickers, and I’m blinded by daylight, back in the pool in the hollow, with Thalos still looming above me…

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turn the page for part III here…

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i’m so grateful for your presence and attention. please don’t forget to subscribe so you don’t miss the next installment of persephone’s abduction. everything i share here is born of years spent reclaiming my own pleasure and power—through grief, shame, devotion, and desire. each story is the fruit of a decade of embodied study in tantra, bdsm, feminine embodiment, and sacred sexuality. when you subscribe, you’re not just supporting my work—you’re casting a spell for your own becoming.

and if this second part of persephone’s retelling stirred or unlocked something in you, i’d love to hear about it in the comments below…

finally, don’t keep it to yourself… part II of persephone’s abduction is free for all to enjoy for a short time only, so please consider sharing this with someone brave enough to enter the underworld with you…

xx persephone

p.s. in case you’re hungry to read more while you wait, the door to daddy’s study opens below…