She arched under his pounding, grinding strength, relishing her own indomitable manipulation as his calloused warrior's hand caressed and kneaded the fullness of her bosom. Tanned cheeks rubbed stubble-features over her alabaster flesh, leaving red streaks along with the nicely sore half-bruises of lips and teeth.

She hadn't been made for cinders, steel, or crude iron. Indulgence, pleasure, beauty: these were Aphrodite's domains, and no one would waylay the Goddess when her passions were peaked. Her poor ineffectual husband hadn't been able to peak anything within her for some time—not that she openly encouraged Hephaestus' ministrations. Just the thought of those blistered hands pawing her, those misshapen legs trailing along her perfect limbs, was enough to cool the blood. Redoubling her efforts, the Goddesses long, shaped nails scored down her lover's back, the skin devoid of the blemishes that made her husband's body so unappealing.

Aphrodite was not made for guilt. Her body opened of its own accord, for her own pleasure, and not on anyone's whim. There were no games between herself and Gods like Ares, no preconceptions or questions. There was only want, only sweat and skin, and no thought of property in the morning. But it was hard to feel bitter at the moment, with velvet muscle creating such delicious friction within her perfect body.

She hadn't expected the thick drapes to be ripped down, pouring shimmering mid-day light into her marble boudoir, nor the heavy, golden, web-like net to descend from high, stilling her lover's movements but locking their limbs together in a surprised mass of flesh.

Laughter followed from all sides as immortal faces emerged from the corners, eyes wide, teeth gleaming. Zeus, Athena, Apollo, Dionysus: Aphrodite saw them all while Ares' face buried into the crook of her shoulder. But she saw them all with clear eyes and firm jaw. No one would make the Goddess of Love feel inferior, not even her husband who tried to stand so stoically among the mockery. She understood. Hephaestus had expected outrage from the others, condemnation and disgust. But this was just another incident in the sad little life of Hera's crippled son. They expected nothing less from Aphrodite, but Hephaestus?

He was simply a cuckold.