Hermes stared at the ceiling and wondered how he had arrived at that exact, irritating point. It wasn’t the being tied down spread-eagled, with arms and legs roped to the posts of a bed that irritated him. Or the waking up naked in a different place than where he had gone to sleep. It wasn’t even the fact that his being tied hand and foot to a strange four-poster bed meant that the trap had definitely been sprung. That wasn’t it at all. In fact, he quite approved of the way it had been baited: entirely gratuitously, and with great artistry for a goddess who disliked the softer, subtler arts. What irritated him was that waking up tied to this bed really had been a surprise. He had taken the bait hook line and sinker. Others got caught with their pants down, not him. Yet here he was, with not only his pants down, but with his shirt off, hands and feet restrained and a bright red ribbon tied to his penis. He should have seen it coming. No, he had seen it coming, but he should have been able to detect it happening so that he could play along.
Then again, perhaps he was being too hard on himself. Kudos to the huntress for skill in tracking her prey. The bait had been tempting, soft and most deliciously tangy. He had been hoodwinked and that was perhaps a first. He was now confined, no doubt with a squadron of lovely guards outside the door. All that remained was to see the extent of the damage. Other than that, the main question was the position he wanted to be in when that door opened to let in the Amazon patrol.
The red ribbon was fine—a nice touch, really—but this helpless prone thing wouldn’t do. A modicum of dignity, please. He began wriggling a hand around in its restraints and returned to his original question: how had he gotten here?
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Chapter 8: Hermes is well and truly screwed
Hermes stared at the ceiling and wondered how he had arrived at that exact, irritating point. It wasn’t the being tied down spread-eagled, with arms and legs roped to the posts of a bed that irritated him. Or the waking up naked in a different place than where he had gone to sleep. It wasn’t even the fact that his being tied hand and foot to a strange four-poster bed meant that the trap had definitely been sprung. That wasn’t it at all. In fact, he quite approved of the way it had been baited: entirely gratuitously, and with great artistry for a goddess who disliked the softer, subtler arts. What irritated him was that waking up tied to this bed really had been a surprise. He had taken the bait hook line and sinker. Others got caught with their pants down, not him. Yet here he was, with not only his pants down, but with his shirt off, hands and feet restrained and a bright red ribbon tied to his penis. He should have seen it coming. No, he had seen it coming, but he should have been able to detect it happening so that he could play along.
Then again, perhaps he was being too hard on himself. Kudos to the huntress for skill in tracking her prey. The bait had been tempting, soft and most deliciously tangy. He had been hoodwinked and that was perhaps a first. He was now confined, no doubt with a squadron of lovely guards outside the door. All that remained was to see the extent of the damage. Other than that, the main question was the position he wanted to be in when that door opened to let in the Amazon patrol.
The red ribbon was fine—a nice touch, really—but this helpless prone thing wouldn’t do. A modicum of dignity, please. He began wriggling a hand around in its restraints and returned to his original question: how had he gotten here?