LYDIA AND THE SWAN


Lydia Tyndareus sighed deeply as she reached for the crumpled bedsheet that 
lay beside her.  This should be a pleasant moment, she thought; this was 
supposed to be the "afterglow" that everyone mentioned in those romantic 
novels.  But she felt very little pleasure, and the only thing that was 
glowing was her own naked body stretched out on the bed, illuminated by the 
moonlight from the huge bay window on the other side of the bedroom.  
Glistening with the sweat of frustrated passion, her long, firm legs still 
wide apart, her husband's semen still seeping from her vagina, she pulled the 
sheet over herself, resisting the urge to use her fingers to provoke the 
climax her husband had, as usual, failed to provide.  She was only 23 years 
old, but already locked in to a loveless marriage, with divorce an absolute 
impossibility.

In a moment, the bathroom door opened, and she covered her eyes against the 
harsh electric light as her husband sauntered back to the bed and sat down 
beside her.  He leaned over and gave her the very briefest of 
no-longer-passionate kisses, then sat up straight again and flicked on the 
bedside-table lamp.  "That was so lovely, my dear," he said in his inimitably 
smooth syllables, "but you yourself are far lovelier, even covered with that 
sheet."  He smiled, as if pleased by his smooth wordplay, and added, "They 
even say we're a lovely couple!" 

And they were: Lydia, with her sleek, yet voluptuous body, classic features, 
and flowing black hair; the husband, Roy, with his tanned, handsome face, his 
carefully-coiffed brown hair, and his excellently maintained 35-year-old 
body, once the body of a star athlete.  If nothing else, they were a lovely 
couple; lovely and unimaginably successful.  But not lovers, not for a long 
time, and not even the best of friends.  Just two beautiful people in a very 
stale relationship: not bad enough for a divorce, but not worthy to be called 
a marriage.  And partly because of their physical beauty, and the way they 
looked so perfectly suited to one another, Roy had been elected the first 
Greek-American Governor in the history of the largest State in the nation, 
and Lydia had become its youngest first lady.

And now, less than five minutes after withdrawing from his wife's body, the 
Governor was moving around the immense bedroom quickly, purposefully, 
gathering up a set of clean underwear and socks, a creme-colored Italian silk 
shirt, and a conservative black business suit, which had been superbly 
tailored to his still-rugged physique.  He quickly slipped into the clothes, 
securing the French cuffs with cufflinks made from gold nuggets found during 
the State's Gold Rush.  Pausing only briefly, he selected a sedate, but 
elegant, black necktie, and in a moment was gathering up a sheaf of papers 
and heading for the bedroom door.

"I wish you didn't have to go," Lydia said sadly.  "I wish it didn't have to 
be so rushed!"  Without turning to face her, he replied, "Sorry, my love, but 
I'm expected at the office at eleven, and it's already 10:45.  I can't let 
the reporters think that I take this part of the job lightly."

She sighed; why argue?  Changing the subject, eager for any bit of 
conversation, any human contact, she asked, "Are you sure you're not going to 
commute the sentence?"

He laughed abruptly, then immediately assumed a somber expression, finally 
turning to face her.  "You know I can't commute, Lydia.  The boy was actually 
caught in the act of carving out that little girl's kidney, and the thing's 
been appealed to the Supreme Court three times.  Justice must be served," he 
concluded haughtily. 

Turning away from him, facing the window, she murmured, "Then I don't see why 
you have to go sit in your office until it's done."

"Lydia, you know the game.  I'm troubled, I'm conscience-stricken, I'm 
carrying the heavy burden of The People's Will on my shoulders.  I have to be 
seen agonizing and reviewing the case for the millionth time, right up until 
they zap the kid at midnight.  If I were to commute, the other party would 
crucify me next November.  And even if the 'civil liberties' crowd claims 
that this boy''s retarded, I'm not about to give up my office for him!"  
Without another word, he straightened his tie and opened the door, where a 
State Trooper already waited to escort him to the Capitol.

So this was it, Lydia thought bitterly, fighting back tears as she lay alone 
in the now-darkened room.  She had been swept away by this man when they were 
both even younger and more beautiful than they were today; and, thinking that 
she had found her girlhood dream of the perfect romance, she had learned 
quickly that she had stepped into a life of glamour instead.  And glamour was 
fun, but it was cold, and the romance she had expected would have been so 
warm.....

She pulled away the sheet, got up, and went into the bathroom to clean 
herself up.  "There goes the sweat," she muttered, rubbing a damp washcloth 
over her throat and breasts and belly.  "There goes the semen," she mumbled, 
wiping the stuff from her thighs.  Tossing the washcloth into the sink, she 
thought angrily, "I wonder where the love went?"  After slipping on the 
elegant silk nightgown she had discarded earlier, she walked back to bed, 
wrapped herself in the bedclothes, and began to cry.

She did not notice, at first, the strange little noises coming from the 
window.  But as they grew louder, and more insistent, she quickly stifled a 
gasp, brushed away her tears, and rolled across the bed, where she fetched 
the .32 revolver from the bedside-table drawer.  The noise was now a 
pronounced, definite tapping, as if someone was rapping on the window with a 
drumstick.  What could it be?  No intruder could have climbed to the 
second-floor balcony outside the window without being spotted by the State 
Police who guarded the Mansion, and it was a clear, calm night, so no tree 
limbs could be brushing against the house.....

The tapping stopped as abruptly as it had started.  But now, silhouetted by 
the moonlight, Lydia could see a strange shape, about as big as a large child 
(or a small man), moving slowly and slightly at the glass door.  In a moment, 
she was horrified to hear a soft "click," and wrapping both hands around the 
revolver as she had been taught, she extended her arms, pointing the barrel 
directly at the weird, dark shape.  She became conscious that her mouth and 
lips were completely dry, and she could taste the tension in the air.  She 
slipped her index finger over the trigger.

Suddenly the glass doors opened inward, as though by themselves, and a very 
large, snow-white swan waddled from the balcony onto the bedroom carpet.  It 
paused long enough to extend its long neck and glance around the room, eyes 
shining in its coal-black face, as though searching for a rival or an enemy.  
Seeing none, it suddenly, dramatically spread its wings wide, to their full 
span of nearly ten feet, and shook its entire body vigorously, tiny droplets 
of water and a few stray pinfeathers twinkling and drifting in the moonlight. 
 Then it relaxed its sleek, velvety neck, folded the massive wings with 
dignity, and set its black, glistening eyes on Lydia, still trembling on her 
bed, the little .32 clutched in her sweating fists.  But she, too, had 
relaxed somewhat, since discovering just who (or what) her intruder was, and 
she supressed an urge to giggle.  The flock of trumpeter swans that made 
their home on the large pond behind the Governor's Mansion were beloved 
symbols of the State, and this one, which was so very big, had apparently 
gone roaming tonight and, swans not being nocturnal birds, had gotten 
disoriented. Obviously, the strange tapping sound had been the creature's 
tapered orange beak, testing the glass in the doorframe.  Odd, Lydia thought; 
she did not see one of the unobtrusive plastic bands which were clasped 
loosely around the birds' necks to declare them property of the State.  
Still, thank God, it was only a swan.  She sighed audibly and turned to 
replace the gun in the bedside table.

She had not even finished closing the drawer when she heard a loud flapping 
sound, felt a distinct "thump" on the mattress behind her, and a rush of cool 
air ruffled through her hair. Rolling over instantly, she came face to face 
with the swan, which had already settled into a nesting position on the bed 
and was looking into her face with its dark, gleaming eyes.  This time, she 
couldn't help but giggle, although she remained completely still, so as not 
to frighten the creature.  "Well, look at you!" she murmured softly.  "What's 
a pretty bird like you doing in my bedroom?"

The swan's long, black neck straightened; now it was looking down at the 
half-frightened, half-delighted woman.  Then, to Lydia's horrified 
astonishment, it spoke.

"'Pretty bird' indeed," the swan said haughtily.  "Who do you think you're 
talking to, a fucking parakeet?"

Lydia became lightheaded, as though she might faint.  Was she dreaming?  No, 
of course not; she hadn't even gone to sleep after Roy had left for the 
execution.  Could this really be happening?  She finally managed to find her 
voice again, saying, "You talk!  You can actually talk!  And you sound just 
like - - - "

"James Earl Jones," the swan interrupted, "yes, that's right. I could have 
chosen any voice I wanted, of course, but this was one of the few that 
conveyed the proper dignity.  Don't you like it?  Would you be more 
comfortable if I switched to Elmer Fudd, or Michael Jackson, or your 
wonderful spouse, the so-called Governor?"  The last few words fell from the 
swan's bill with heavy contempt.  "No, no!" Lydia blurted out, the mention of 
her husband's name snapping her out of her daze.  "It's a fine voice, a very 
distinguished voice.  Are you a boy swan, or a girl swan?  I mean, I don't 
know the right words, but...."  Her voice trailed off.

"I am a male, as you're about to find out, woman!" the swan said in an 
offended tone. Dipping his head momentarily to preen the snow-white feathers 
of his chest, he then added, "Now, why don't you just slip out of that 
charming gown you're wearing, and let's get acquainted, shall we?"  It did 
not sounds like a request, but very much like a command.

For reasons she would never be able to explain or even understand, a slight 
tremor of excitement ran through Lydia's body, and she found herself becoming 
flushed and moist.  But she made no move to undress, asking, "What are you 
talking about?  What are you?  Who are you?"

The swan stood up from his nesting position, stretched out his neck, and 
spread his wings proudly.  With his neck extended, he stood nearly five feet 
tall.  Without warning, he darted his head down, grabbed the low-cut bodice 
of Lydia's nightgown in his bill, and, shaking his head, ripped it from her 
shoulders, leaving the cowering woman naked to the waist.  Then he folded his 
wings, nestled down against the bed once again, and announced, "I am one who 
is accustomed to being obeyed! Now, remove that silly garment at once, and 
perhaps I'll tell you more!"

Without a word, but stifling a sob, Lydia pushed aside the bedclothes, took 
hold of the nightgown that was crumpled around her waist, and, raising her 
hips slightly, pulled it off.  She was now completely naked, her breasts once 
again shining in the moonlight, her legs slightly spread.  The swan's gaze 
was aimed directly at the shadowy, trimmed place at the juncture of her 
thighs.

"Don't do that," the swan commanded, when Lydia moved to cover herself with 
the sheet.  "That won't be necessary."  Lydia's mind was racing.  There were 
only three possibilities that she could conceive: either she was dreaming, or 
she had suddenly and completely lost her mind, or she was about to be 
sexually molested by a bird!

The swan stood up again, spreading his wings only halfway this time.  "You 
obeyed, so I will answer your questions.  But shit, girl, don't you know 
anything at all?"  Lydia's mouth fell open at the swan's crudely phrased 
question.  Realizing what she was thinking, the creature laughed (a wheezing, 
snorting sound, as air burst from the tiny holes atop his bill), and said, 
"Oh, you didn't expect the colloquialisms, did you, my dear?  I don't blame 
you.  But I try to adopt the speech patterns of whatever species 
I'm....visiting! Don't have a fucking cow, man!"  He snuffled/laughed again.

Despite the bizarre events unfolding around her, Lydia's curiosity was 
tweaked by the swan's choice of words.  "W-wait a minute!" she stammered, 
holding up one hand, as if to fend off whatever might be coming next.  "You 
said 'species!'  You said 'visiting!' I think I understand now!  You're an 
alien!  You're from outer space!  You - - - "

Flapping his wings lightly, the swan hopped across the bed with a single 
graceful movement, and, setting down suddenly between Lydia's thighs, forced 
them wide apart.  As his bulk pressed against her, Lydia felt his heat, and 
the beautiful, feathery softness of his underbelly, moving against her 
thighs, her groin, and, most of all, her slick, shuddering sex.  She reached 
up instinctively to grab the tops of his wings, so that she could tear him 
off, but without any conscious decision, she allowed them to fall, her 
fingertips brushing along the long white feathers as her arms fell limp at 
her sides.

"Smart move," the swan commented.  "Resistance wouldn't do you a bit of good, 
and anyway, it would only ruffle my feathers.  Believe me, sweetheart, you 
wouldn't like me when my feathers get ruffled!  Especially when I'm not 
wearing feathers!"  He snuffle-laughed again, apparently at some private 
joke. "Anyway, if you'll pardon my French, it looks like you're going to get 
fucked twice this evening.  You might as well enjoy it at least once!"

Unable to contain herself, torn by fear and the undeniably pleasurable 
sensation of the swan's heavy, unbelievably soft belly molding itself to her 
secret places, she blurted out, "F-fucked?  Fucked twice?  What do you mean?"

"Oh, don't be embarrassed," replied the creature.  "I saw your husband take 
his little poke at you a while ago.  And I know just how little it meant to 
you, or to him, for that matter.  And we both know that he's just trying to 
get you pregnant so he'll have a nice, warm 'family image' to show the voters 
at reelection time.  What an incredible fool he is, to think about that 
mindless rabble when he has a treasure like you...."

Lydia's eyes filled with tears, and she decided that she must certainly be 
dreaming.  This talking swan, this monster, was speaking the same thoughts 
that came to her mind a dozen times a day, and, at the same time, was causing 
her body to react as it had not been able to react in a long, long 
time....unconsciously, her hands moved up to the swan's sides, and her 
fingers began to gently trace their way from just under his wings down to his 
underbelly, down to - - -

She started to scream, but the swan was gently holding her lips shut with his 
beak, even as the largest, hottest, most perfectly shaped phallus she had 
ever imagined slid suddenly and effortlessly into her pussy, filling her up 
with a single, unhesitant thrust.  What was it?  It didn't feel like any part 
of an animal, certainly not a bird;  the shape, so far as she could tell, was 
like a man's, but longer and more tapered: thick at the base, surrounded by 
the tiniest, downiest feathers that stroked and tickled her asshole and lips 
and clit simulataneously, then becoming just a bit more narrow, centimeter by 
centimeter, until the head of the swan-cock (if that's what it was) nearly 
came to a point, which nuzzled and flicked against her cervix.  

The swan did not (or could not) slide its cock in and out like a man would, 
but this was no disappointment to the sobbing, shuddering Lydia, whose mind 
had given way to uncaring, irrational lust; because what the creature did 
instead produced sensations she had never known.  In order to maintain his 
balance, the swan extended his massive wings to their full length and began 
to slowly beat them rhythmically against the air.  The cool air of the 
bedroom stirred and swirled and blew between the two bodies, covering Lydia's 
face with her own hair, evaporating the little drops of sweat that had broken 
out between her breasts, hardening her nipples, and roaring in her ears.  The 
swan lowered his head and momentarily rested it between her breasts; to 
Lydia's naked skin, it felt exactly like the finest velvet.  And, as the 
great bird continued to slowly beat the air, his own body shook with the 
effort, so that his slick, pointed cock, embedded in Lydia's cunt all the way 
to her womb, vibrated with a steady, soft violence that touched and tickled 
and massaged her in places that had never been touched before.  Then, moving 
its dark head close to her ear, the swan began to speak again, more softly 
now, though not ceasing its wild bodily motions.

"That man Tyndareus will never give you what you need," the swan crooned.  
"He'll use you to make weak little replicas of himself.  And you'll love 
them.  But the children that are truly yours, my Leda...excuse me, my 
Lydia...will be the ones I give you tonight.  Our son and daughter, Lydia.  
You'll call them Paulie and Helen.  And the world will know that they are 
children of the gods."  Lydia's mind buzzed at the sound of these words, even 
though her passion did not lessen.  As she felt her innermost flesh clutch 
and clasp in the first of many orgasms, she heard the swan's final words.  
"I'll see you again in three months, woman.  I'll be back as soon as the eggs 
have hatched, and we will see our children together!"  Then, straightening 
his neck and letting out a sound somewhere between a roar and a hiss, he 
exploded inside her, his swan-cock inundating her human womb with the seed of 
the Greek gods.  Then, in the blink of an eye, he was gone, and Lydia lay 
naked, violated, and sexually satisfied for the first time in her life.  

She felt between her legs with one hand.  Something very much like human 
semen, but with odd little sparkles of light flashing like facets of a 
diamond, covered her fingers.  She smiled a smile such as no male, mortal or 
immortal, had ever seen.  Yes, she thought, it was real.  It happened.  And 
that thing understood me so well!  Oh, if only he had asked first....

For Lydia, like most women, despised rapists,  and resented the swan's 
arrogant indifference to her opinions or wishes.  But, unlike most women, she 
would have her vengeance.  Three months?  Very well.  She'd carry his progeny 
that long.  But, when he came back to meet them, he would see no baby gods.  
Instead, she'd fix him a place at the breakfast table, and offer him his very 
first serving of 
scrambled eggs.....