persephone's abduction part III: 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, and part II here…

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

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now we descend together into part III of my retelling of persephone’s abduction…

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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The world snaps back around me like a trap, the sunlight cutting too sharply through the trees.

I’m in the pool again—lungs heaving, water still sluicing from my hair and lashes, as if I’ve only just breached the surface.

As if no time has passed at all.

I blink, but everything feels off—too bright, too still, too real.

And Thalos is still there. Standing over me. Silent. Watching. Kissed by shadows.

He’s so tall and powerful, looming over me. His dream world, unrelieved black so stark and unfamiliar in the light of day. His harshly sculpted face I’ve wished I could reach out and touch so many times is cast in darkness, but I can feel his eyes on me like a flame.

It’s as if the whole thing—the dark vision, the whip, the girl, the shame, the voice inside my mind—never happened.

But the taste of iron still lingers in the back of my throat. My core still aches with shameful wanting. And I can still feel the imprint of cold stone on my knees.

My breath hitches. The water ripples gently around me, cool against my skin, but I no longer feel its temperature. I’m trembling, and my soaked shift clings to me like a second skin, wet and translucent. Violets are tangled in my hair and pressed against my skin—I can feel them like bruises blooming across my body.

Only minutes ago—a lifetime ago—I stripped down to this same shift—heart pounding, bold and aching—daring him to see me, trying to cleanse myself of shame. But now, the moment feels haunted. Like I’ve been dropped back into the same second, only the ground beneath it has shifted.

Time hasn’t moved. But everything’s changed.

And somehow I can still sense him behind me, like he was in my waking dream, his phantom presence holding me through my inner storm. The imprint of his ghost hands on my shoulders lingers, even as he stands before me at the water’s edge.

A strange slippage pulses in my chest.

For a split second, I swear the candlelight flickers. I hear the wet, choking sobs. The crack of the whip.

Then the water shifts, and the hollow pulls back into focus.

The pool.

The trees.

The golden light.

The place I thought was mine.

And that one word is still ringing through my mind—choose.

My body doesn’t know what to believe. My mind reels. Nothing makes sense.

I open my mouth and whisper, “Thalos?” Not a greeting. A plea. A question. “What’s going on?” My voice trembles. “I don’t understand—”

“We’ve run out of time little rabbit,” he says. “You have to choose.”

His voice is low and iron-weighted, and it pierces through me like fate. The word tolls again, sharper now. Echoing not just in my mind but in my bones. I can feel my breath catch. My heart stutters.

Choose.

He doesn’t move. Just watches me from the edge of the pool—an unmoving pillar of shadow and sun. Then he says it, flat and final, “Stay in the water and you’ll never see me again after this.”

A pause. It cuts like a blade.

“Or come to me now—on your hands and knees.”

The silence stretches between us, taut and trembling.

I don’t move. I can’t. My fingers curl slightly beneath the surface, water whispering against my skin like a spell being undone. My breath is ragged. My whole body is a tremor.

I don’t know what’s real anymore.

He’s him. Not just the Thalos I met in this sun-dappled glade, the man who watched me from the shadows and spoke in riddles and restraint. He’s also the one from my dreams. The one who broke me open. The one who saw me—all of me—and didn’t look away.

They are the same. They have always been the same.

A part of me wants to scream. To swim backward. To submerge myself in the safety of the water and never come up again. But the thought of never seeing him again…

It strikes something deep inside me. Something deeper than fear. A pulse I’ve been ignoring for too long. The same one that made me strip off my dress like a challenge. The same one that makes me ache in my sleep.

That part of me is already crawling.

He sees it. Of course he does.

“If you want to keep lying to yourself,” he says softly, “then stay in that pool. Let your life go back to what it was. Unchanged. Unchallenged.”

The words coil around me like a noose.

“Or you can crawl to me now.”

My breath breaks on a sob. I wonder if I can even make my body cooperate, if I could even do such a thing in the light of day. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. Everything in me is shaking with fear, with wanting, with disbelief.

The ground of my reality is gone, and the world I thought I knew—my mother’s world of sacred silence and frozen virtue—feels like a glass box.

Preserved, protected, trapped.

Suffocated.

Something inside me buckles. And then—quietly—gives way. A hush falls over me, vast and unearthly. As if the earth itself is holding its breath.

I am still terrified. Still spinning. Still lost in time and trembling in my skin.

But beneath it all, there is a terrible, steady calm.

Because there is no choice. Not really.

I chose the moment I stepped out of the boundary of my mother’s forest and into this hollow. I chose the moment I shed my dress and dove into the water like I was being hunted by shame itself.

My mouth is dry. My pulse is chaos.

The water shivers around me—cool and strange, like the breath of something ancient.

I move toward him. I swim forward through the floating violets.

The water parts around me—cool and weightless—but I feel heavy, as if dragging chains behind my ribs. Still, I swim.

Slow, trembling strokes toward the shadowed figure looming at the water’s edge like an imposing statue of a god I’m meant to worship.

His boots are all I can focus on—black, gleaming, planted firm on the mossy rock. Fixed. Waiting. Like a gate I cannot pass unless I’m chosen. Or unless I surrender.

I reach the edge. My fingers dig into the earth—wet grass, moss, half-submerged stone. I pull myself up and forward out of the water and onto the bank, gasping. Every part of me soaked and trembling.

The thin white shift clings to my skin like a confession already soiled by dirt and moss. I can feel how the wet fabric exposes me—my breasts, the dip of my waist, the way the cloth clings between my thighs, hiding nothing from his view.

My cheeks burn and for one breathless second, I lift my eyes from the mossy bank, his gleaming boots right in front of me.

I close my eyes, steeling myself for whatever’s next, but when I open them, he’s not there.

For a moment, I’m seized with a terror that I’ve truly lost my mind and it’s all been a hallucination, but then I see him further away, several paces back now.

As if he’s blinked out of time.

But the message is clear—if I want him, I’ll have to crawl.

A bolt of heat flushes through me, humiliation and hunger wrapped tight together. I hesitate for one moment longer, a last pause at the cliff’s edge, my fingers gripping into the soft, muddy earth.

Then I crawl.

And his voice lands against my skin—low, velvet-dark, impossibly close and encouraging. “That’s it. Such a good little rabbit crawling for me.”

A wave of shame and tears at his words, but it blooms low and hot, curling into a throb of want I can’t control. A flush rises up my neck, across my cheeks. If only Mother could see me now.

And then I feel him, and it chases all thought from my mind.

That same phantom touch from my dreams.

Only now, it caresses and ignites.

A finger’s whisper down the back of my neck. A palm ghosting over the curve of my backside, trailing lower.

My breath hitches. My nipples harden. Heat pools between my thighs.

It’s like his energy coils into mine—pulling, igniting, spiraling. A swell of golden light building just beneath my skin, rippling through my chest and hips in waves.

It halts me in my tracks and a shameful whimper escapes me—soft, involuntary, soaked in need.

“Look at you. You’re exactly as you were meant to be,” his voice is rough and soft all at once. “On your knees. In the dirt. Just where you belong.”

My palms are filthy now. The hem of my shift dragging like a flag of surrender. Every degrading, humiliating word he speaks vibrates in my skin. My body arches toward him, aching for more, even as my shame burns deeper.

“Did I say you could stop? Keep crawling.”

I lurch forward at the commanding words, but the overwhelming pleasure keeps building. Each crawling inch forward twists me tighter heat pouring through me like molten metal down my spine, pooling between my legs.

The moss clings to my knees, wet and fraying beneath me, but I barely feel it anymore. The only thing I feel is him.

The phantom touch is everywhere now.

It’s not just touch—it’s current. Raw, electric. His will dragging sensation out of me. My breath shudders. Tears stream down my cheeks. I’m soaked in heat, flushed and tingling. Light coils in my belly—something unholy and obscene blooming from within.

"That’s it," he murmurs. "You look so pretty crawling for me… covered in mud like the filthy little whore you know you are."

My body jolts. Tears prick at my eyes. Shame sears through me, but my innermost muscles spasm and clench. My thighs tremble. I try to bite back the next sound that claws up my throat, but it escapes—half sob, half moan.

Every word unravels me more. Each syllable cuts and soothes in equal measure.

The heat is unbearable now—crawling up my ribs, pulsing through my belly, coiling like light behind my eyes. Like he’s reaching in and twisting something under my skin. Like he’s teaching my body what it’s for.

It's more than arousal. It's possession.

Turning me into his slave.

And I’m powerless to stop it.

Then, as if he can read my mind, “It's all right little rabbit,” he says, low and steady. “You're just remembering what you are.”

And somewhere in the haze—between the aching want and the humiliation—I realize what he’s doing to me.

Visions of all those nights he made me watch, tumble through my mind at his words.

The women. Crawling through shadow. Knees scraped raw, faces streaked with tears. Bodies broken open by need.

I watched from behind the veil of sleep—silent, still, untouched. I told myself I was only the witness. That I was different. That I was safe.

But he was showing me what I am.

Every moan, every sob, every inch of their shame was a mirror held to my face. A rehearsal.

He’s been training me from the beginning.

And now—now it’s my skin grinding into the earth. My shift clinging to me like a second, soiled skin. My breath catching in my throat as I crawl through the dirt, aching and dripping and undone.

I am the thing I feared.

And the worst part is… some part of me always knew.

I’ve been crawling toward this moment for years.

Since the moment the priest's hand on my head pushed me to my knees.

Since the day my mother wrapped me in white and called me pure, even as I flinched at her touch.

That lie has been choking me ever since. Because I was never her maiden. Never the untouched flower she wanted me to be.

I was this. I’ve always been this.

This trembling thing. This ruined girl. This little whore on her hands and knees.

Tears stream hot and silent down my face. I’m sobbing now, but it’s not grief. Not really. It’s need. Too much need. It’s the unbearable ache of wanting what I shouldn’t. Of craving the ruin. Of knowing he’s already rewritten me with nothing but his voice and presence, and I let him.

Every whisper of air, every phantom brush makes me flinch and gasp and drip. I can barely breathe.

And then I’m there—kneeling at his boots. Shaking. Sobbing. Writhing and whimpering like an animal in heat.

My hands twitch helplessly in the dirt, my whole body lit from within by a trembling, unbearable ache. I shouldn’t want this—I can’t want this—but I’ve already given him everything.

And then he reaches down. Fingertips—just two—slide beneath my chin.

The first real touch.

My breath catches on a moan—wounded, overwhelmed, full of all the longing I tried to silence. I’ve dreamed of this touch. Feared it. Begged for it in secret. And now it’s here.

Soft. Steady. Devastating.

It rolls through me like a bell struck at the center of my body, echoing outward in wave after wave. My thighs clench. My chest heaves. Another sob rises, tangled in the shame and the relief and the aching need for more.

Tears spill fresh down my cheeks—tears I can’t contain. Not from pain, not from grief—from wanting. From being touched, finally, by the one who’s already remade me without laying a single hand on me.

“Look at me,” he says—quiet, unyielding, almost reverent.

I do.

And meet the eyes of a god.

And it shatters me.

Because there’s no mask. No mercy. Just hunger and power and the terrible, tender certainty that he owns me now.

And in that moment—raw and shaking and ruined—I realize I’m his.

There’s no going back. No undoing it. No reclaiming what I was.

The fear crashes over me then—blinding, suffocating, vast. I’ve crossed the threshold and left myself behind. I don’t know what I’ve become.

But I know I want him more than I want air.

And that terrifies me more than anything else ever could…

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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 final 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.

if this third 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 III 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…