The Greeks knew her best, they say. They wrote endless sonnets in her name, splashed her image across vases and frescoes, and put words upon her tongue to be played out on stages from the Acropolis to Hydra. A figure of love, borne of the ocean, and possessed with the power to bring joy to the heart. How wrong they were.
Botticelli saw her in fever dreams, and scribbled endless variations of curves, her thighs and breasts undulating with the waves which lapped at her snow-white skin. A genius though he was, Botticelli was mistaken.
They say she turned sane men mad, leaving them clawing at their own skin with desire. They say she broke down figures of power, leaders of the world, and men of great influence, leaving them begging for mercy beneath her heels. They say that in her eyes, whole empires have crumbled to dust. They say all this, and yet they come back, over and over, crying out for more.
In the darkness, they whisper her name. Through the long night of the soul, she waits, and watches. She runs her pales fingers across her lips, dreaming of tortures beyond comprehension, and new ways to cure the hearts of countless millions. For those who know that the heart is cruel, she is a goddess of love.
Stockholm Domina & BDSM Goddess