Page 73 of Captured By the Cupid

Himeros strokes his jaw while Pothos stands proudly, but it’s Crescendo who sets the best tone when he opens her triumphal march with Fall Out Boy’sCenturies. I smile wryly. Aradia beams at him before shaking her head with a breathy laugh.

She turns. Holds to the railing. And takes her first step.

My wings tighten with her every step, beautifully holding the golden treasure. She conquers the first third of the staircase. Himeros is strangely quiet until I understand. I could tease him relentlessly for shedding an emotional tear while his cock fully tents his suit pants. Pothos coils his arm around Crescendo, his emotion far more exposed as he waves a hand in front of his face to stem his tears.

And that’s when I hear the telltale clatter upon the staircase.

I turn. My Butterfly’s eyes are like prey caught in a thicket, but she throws a daggered gaze at Himeros. “That’s not fair!”

When I catch my brother snickering as he holds a remote to trigger the balls to vibrate, I roll my eyes before subtly winking at him.

“The Erotes never do things fair, Butterfly. This is your punishment, and I hope you are strong enough to take ithowever we choose. Now, fetch the little ball and tuck it back into your sweet little sex. I’ll even give you a reprieve so you need not return to the top of the staircase.”

Damn, I love the spark of spite lighting up in her eyes as she bends over, ostentatious and exaggerated. All to give us a grand view of her glorious curves. Fucking flutes, that ass. Prettier and plumper than the most beautiful cherub bottom.

“Don’t do me any favors, Eros,” she snipes, injects the ball back into her wet pussy, then turns around, marching back up the staircase, tits jiggling, nipples erect and swollen from the rings.

Gods, I love her spunk. Bewildered, I muse on how much I love it while rubbing my jaw. Psyche was…fluttery but not spunky. Full of heart and depth with a wondrous addiction to me, she would have walked across flaming hot coals to please me. I remember when she took the whippings from Sadness and Sorrow, a punishment from my jealous mother. Psyche did her best during Aphrodite’s trials.

By the time Zeus turned her into a goddess, Psyche’s relief and love were so great, she was more than ready to leave all suffering behind her.

But Aradia…she embraces it. Not as a martyr but as a devotee who finds meaning in the deepest and darkest of places, where she may bring the most love. As I should. Recognition, resolve, as hard and irresistible as my obsidian, washes through my chest, bleeding into the narrow cracks of my stone heart. The emotion tears up my throat, searing my vocal cords.

Nothing about these moments is sexual. Chemical, yes. But my brothers and I give her a sacred respect, silently urging her to triumph.

As if he can sense my inner state, Crescendo plays his next song. I thrust my head to him, taking stock of the defining message of her caught between worlds, of her flawlessmisalignment—how she has become the object of my desire and design.

For, she is changing me. Together, we break through the chrysalis to breathe the purest form of freedom—beauty and passion won through pain, scars, and blood.

Up till this point, I’ve worn love through my essence and my title. Dead-set on taking her, melting into her heart and soul with no regard as to how she would do the same. Her soul’s chemistry transforms my heart. How could I not fall in love with this undiscovered element as Sleep Token testifies throughAlkaline?

Aradia pauses at the halfway mark, turning her chin ever so subtly. I root my eyes upon her.

By now, sweat sheens her skin, causing her already glowing skin to glimmer like a teary star. She takes a few deep breaths. More butterflies light upon her skin, tickling her and raising goosebumps to the surface. She shivers. She feels them. How can she notseethem?

No, she will never replace Psyche, but as I gaze at my Butterfly, at her victorious march down that staircase in all her unashamed glory—when she turns with glistening tears of emotion, of worship—I make my choice. Here and now, I choose to keep her. To find a path for her to immortality. Psyche is lost to me, fallen into darkness.

Aradia will be the dawn of my eternity.

Close to the end of the staircase, another ball drops, echoing like a clattering siren. I sigh, ready to grant her mercy after her excellent performance. Until she grabs that ball, thrusts it back into her wet sheath, and spins around. Eyes shimmering like flaming teal jewels, she plants her hand on the railing. I give her a firm nod, encouraging as she begins from the bottom.

It’s harder for her now. For me as well.

Crescendo plays Lindsey Sterling’sShatter Me, and Aradia doesn’t take it as a taunt but as motivation. Determined to wrestle with these inner demons, to break free from her fears.

A gold sphere winks at me as it escapes her lush sex. Her eyes are weary. Her limbs shake. But she parts her lips, snatches up the ball, and begins again. No groan, whimper, or whine. The burning spite of her eyes has transformed into a metaphysical force, a transcendent willpower—as if she’s determined to prove herself, her strength to me.

The emotional power of the song grows. She reclaims her identity note by note.

Both balls drop. She doubles over to snatch them, heavy breasts swinging. Of course, her body gets me rock-hard. All of us are hard. But we wouldn’t dare invade her moment of reclaim. These moments are not simply sexual, nor physical, though she must feel it with every form of pain splintering through her, carving, knifing, aching, burning…

Evanescence’sMy Heart is Brokenseems to drive her more thanShatter Me. I lock eyes with Crescendo and nod. Fuck, no song is more perfect for her.

A delicate opening like the brush of a butterfly’s wing. Melancholic vocals that evoke heartache and vulnerability—themes of woe, loss, and a broken heart. She’s pouring gold from her beautiful soul into the cracks of her heart.

The song’s intensity grows. A crescendo of ethereal vocals, symphonic orchestral elements, and powerful Gothic rock.

Her sweat-slicked hand slips on the railing. She stumbles. Not five feet from the crest where we stand. Blood shoots right to my shaft at the sight of her flushed state, eyes blotted with an onslaught of tears, her utter willpower conquering her weak mortal crust.

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