My name is Asteria. With the autumn moon round and full, I am now twenty-five.
I am today’s sacrifice.
The matriarchs drape me in white. A slip beaded with glittering sea glass peeks out from under my skirt. The delicate lace lining the collar of the dress extends down my torso. The waves and droplets hide my nipples, which stiffen and rise as they rub against the rough netting. I lower my eyes and smile demurely as the matriarchs weave forget-me-nots into my jet-black hair and make the last adjustments to my ceremonial outfit. My eyelids have been dusted gold, my lips painted scarlet, my cheeks blushed with rouge.
The white of the dress is meant to symbolize my virginity. But I was no longer a virgin by the time I was eighteen. I’d tried to quench every desire myself, my hand thrust between my legs, fingers slick, hot, toying with my open cunt, my hips bucking, bolts of pleasure shooting through me as I grazed a nail against my clit. It was never enough. I needed another heart beating through mine, another person’s breaths to swallow.
It’s an open secret that only perhaps half of the chosen adhere to our virginity vows. I am one of the ones who don’t. I have found myself with the taste of the ocean against my lips as I looked up into another woman’s eyes, my tongue deep in her as she trembled against me and moaned. I’ve had a man’s cock buried to the hilt in me as he pressed my face into the cold stone of the cellar floor, keeping my hips high in the air for him to take. I’ve come as one man fucked me against a wall while another watched, his dark eyes smoldering in the midnight light; I’ve pressed hard against the solid crest of a person’s pubic bone as I fingered them, their lips full and flushed, their hole a dripping wet mess.
It’s easy to find someone to couple with. But I have wondered too, even while pleasure bites through me, whether the Minotaur will know that I haven broken my virginity vow.