Trojan Whores

TROJAN WHORES

by

SYRA BOND

Published by
Chimera Books

ISBN
9781780804545

Would you like a
FREE EROTIC
eBOOK?

Just join our newsletter at
www.chimerabooks.co.uk

New authors
are always
welcome, or if you’re already a published author and have existing
work, the rights of which remain with or have reverted to you, we
would love to
hear from you
.

This work is
sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or
otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated
without the publisher's prior written consent in any form of
binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and
without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent
purchaser. The author asserts that all characters depicted in this
work of fiction are eighteen years of age or older, and that all
characters and situations are entirely imaginary and bear no
relation to any real person or actual happening.

Copyright Syra
Bond. The right of Syra Bond to be identified as author of this
book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the
Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.

This novel is
fiction - in real life practice safe sex.

After the
tragic death of Professor Harrington I stayed in Austin, Texas,
with one of his colleagues, a senior lecturer in the Archaeology
Department, Dr Wemer Harris. Dr Harris, for that is what he always
insists I call him (and then only when he gives me permission), not
only worked with Professor Harrington professionally, but also
shared his interest in sexual experimentation and depravity. Before
his untimely death, Professor Harrington had been thinking of
handing responsibility for me over to Dr Harris. With this in mind,
he had already passed instructions on how I should be dealt with,
together with notes on how he had kept me since we met. He had also
informed Dr Harris that, at times when he judged fit, I should be
allowed to continue my work on the manuscript which he had
translated, and from which I worked to produce Trojan Slaves. This
manuscript, written in Attic Greek, had been recovered from the
library of the Villa of the Papyri in Herculaneum, Italy, where it
had been buried since the eruption of Vesuvius in AD 79. It dates
from an era much earlier - the era of Homer - and gives an insight
into the lives of the Ancient Greeks as they fought a terrible war
against the powerful city of Troy.

Immediately
after Professor Harrington's funeral, I went willingly to Dr
Harris' house seventy miles or so north of Austin. I have remained
there since that day.

Mostly, Dr
Harris keeps me shut up in a heavy wooden wardrobe. I have to sit
naked with my knees up and my hands folded around them. Sometimes
he gags me with a leather strap, but not always. Most nights, if he
leaves me there, he pulls a black hood over my head. It gets hot.
My breath warms the skin around my mouth, and my cheeks flush with
the moist heat. When I inhale through my nose, I can feel the
hotness around the edges of my nostrils. When I am like this, in
the middle of the night, I take my hands from around my knees and
push them between my legs. I lay my fingers against my flesh - it
is always wet and warm. I do not have to push my fingers in, I
simply have to touch the soft flesh, or sometimes perhaps just the
tip of my clitoris. That is enough. I have to be careful then, not
to make any noise, not to gasp too loudly, or cry out. Once, when I
did, he came to me, took me out and bent me over his knee. He held
me down with one hand while he thrashed me with a cane. I squirmed
and cried out but he only stopped when he was satisfied I had been
sufficiently punished. I had to stand in the corner of the room for
the rest of the night and, when it was light, he thrashed me again
in the same way, before he would allow me to sit.

At other times
he keeps me in a cage. It is hardly big enough for me. Sometimes
the cage is suspended from the ceiling of the cellar beneath the
house, sometimes he pushes it into the corner and drops a heavy
cloth over it. He brings me food in a bowl, and I have to eat it
without using my hands. He brings me milk in the same way, and I
have to lap it up with my tongue. Sometimes he calls me his
'puppy'.

When he
releases me I am allowed to work on the manuscript. It is hard, not
knowing how long I will have until he takes me again and puts me
into captivity. It has taken me nearly a year to complete this
latest work. And there is still more to do. The Museum of
Antiquities in Rome has sent Dr Harris the transcription of a
further papyrus which records the events of the terrible return
journey of the Greeks from Troy. There is still so much to be
completed. I only hope I will be allowed the opportunity to do
it.

This then, is
the second part of my interpretation of the original manuscript. It
covers the latter period of the Greeks' war on Troy. A war invoked
by Paris' abduction of the beautiful Spartan princess Helen, wife
of King Agamemnon's brother Menelaus. A war fated to lead only to
destruction and death - the ruination of Troy, the loss of the
Greeks' greatest warrior and, ultimately, the decimation of the
whole Greek force.

Syra Bond

Waco, Texas.
January 2007

Sappho stood
back as the naked girl knelt and offered up her wrists for binding.
She looked up at the young man who stood above her - her dark eyes
wide with anticipation, her body shivering with apprehension. She
waited for the wet leather thong to be brought forward. Sappho
could see it was the girl's only wish - to be enslaved, tied,
bound. It was as if she had waited all her life for this moment,
and now, at last, it was here. The girl's chest rose and fell with
her heavy, excited breathing. Her full lips trembled. The small
pink nipples on her modest breasts hardened with every moment of
expectation. Her slim body, shaven of all hair, glistened in the
light of the torches which surrounded the sunken altar. She tipped
her head back further. She kept her eyes fixed on the young man's
face. She sighed helplessly and dropped her mouth open.

Sappho
swallowed hard. She squeezed Chryseis' hand. Each of them stood
decked in ceremonial robes and plumed headdresses, in front of the
massive marble altar. She could hardly believe what was happening.
She could hardly believe she was to be crowned as a priestess of
Apollo. She could never have dreamt that, one day, she would stand
with Chryseis at the temple altar. She could never have thought
that there would be a time when the followers of Apollo would see
her as next only to the god Apollo himself. She shivered with
excitement at the thought, and squeezed harder Chryseis' hand.

Torches set on
towering columns surrounded the glistening altar, itself raised up
several steps for prominence, yet set on the lowest part of the
floor at the heart of the temple. Naked girls, their shaven heads
crowned with yellow and white flowers, surrounded it. They
scattered petals from silver baskets, throwing them out in
multi-coloured showers. Their bodies had been oiled, and they
glistened as they moved. Some of the fluttering petals stuck to
their gleaming skin.

Surrounding
the steps to the raised altar more tiered steps rose to the columns
like a theatre. On these worshippers were packed, some naked, some
wearing ceremonial clothing, some standing with hands together,
some kneeling, some lying prostrate. At the uppermost tier a row of
columns formed a towering square, and between them stood statues of
the gods Apollo, Hera, Zeus and Aphrodite.

Chryseis
turned to Sappho and smiled. Her beaded headdress hung in heavy
strands against her smooth cheeks. When she moved it swayed heavily
against her skin. In her free hand she held a tall staff. It bore
the emblem of her authority; a ram's head with huge curling horns.
A golden robe draped from her shoulders. It parted at the front,
revealing her firm breasts, her flat stomach, and the tight slit of
her shaven sex.

'Sappho, we
can do anything we wish now. No one will dare defy either of us.
See, they treat us like gods. All our desires can be fulfilled.
Never again will we have to serve as slaves to the wishes of
others.'

She turned and
held her hands out, blessing the grateful followers. Those that
stood dropped to their knees immediately, clasping their hands
together and praying as if their lives depended upon their
obedience.

Chryseis
smiled with pleasure.

'Look at all
those men. They worship us, but their faces betray their desires.
They have only one appetite. They are hungry for the bodies of
young women, desperate to penetrate them, to abuse them, to treat
them as their slaves. Look how they ogle the young girls. How they
leer at the shaven clefts between their tight buttocks as they bend
in unquestioning submission to their priestesses. See how they lick
their lips at the thought of bringing a smacking hand down on them,
or a cane, or a whip. Sappho, my flesh moistens at the
thought.'

Sappho nodded,
barely able to contain her excitement; the ceremony, becoming a
priestess, all the men, the description of their desires. She
licked her lips and trembled at the thought of it all.

Heavy perfume
hung in the air. The naked girl kneeling at the altar urged her
wrists forward. The young man dipped his hands in a bowl and drew
out a dripping leather thong. He held it up and looked towards
Chryseis for approval. Its wet, shiny surface sparkled with yellow
flashes in the torch light. Chryseis nodded slowly. The man turned
to Sappho. Sappho's stomach filled with nervous excitement. She did
not know what to do. Suddenly she realised what was expected of
her. He was waiting for her permission, and he would not act
without it. She could hardly believe it. She bit her lip. All eyes
were on her. Everyone was waiting for her approval. She flushed.
She nodded. The man nodded back respectfully, and stepped a pace
forward. The worshippers murmured with excitement.

Tears welled
up in the girl's eyes as the man held out the soaking leather
thong. At last it was her time of sacrifice, of submission. She
only had a few moments of freedom left. Once she was bound she
would no longer be under her own control. She would be a slave of
the temple, a chattel of the priestesses, an object of pleasure, an
acolyte, a plaything. Once bound she would have no mind of her own,
no will; her subjugation would be total, her life prescribed by the
will of others.

Sappho
imagined the girl's fate, bound by the leather thongs, led by her
new master, no will of her own, dedicated only to pleasure, to
submission, to the bidding of another. It excited her; the thought
of being in another's power, of being controlled. She imagined
being tied up like the girl. She felt her throat tightening at the
idea of being controlled in every way, in everything she did. Her
heart quickened, she felt it pounding in her chest. She sensed the
tension of her hardening nipples, pulling stiffly at her breasts,
aching, pulsating with her growing expectation.

The young man
draped the wet thong over the girl's wrists. He pulled it around in
a binding. The slimy leather slipped around the girl's skin,
sticking to it, enveloping it. Water dripped onto the ground.
Sappho imagined it was the girl's blood seeping away, running
around her feet as her will was drained and her life with it.

The girl held
her breath. It was as if the wet confines of the leather were
smothering her. The man pulled on them. He folded the ends into the
beginning of a knot. The girl winced, tightened her buttocks and
rose up on her knees. She dropped her head, but all the time she
kept her doe-like gaze on the young man. She pushed her wrists
forward more. She needed to show him she did not mean to react
against him, that she was completely willing, that she wanted the
binding as tight as he could make it.

'She will soon
feel the pain of the tightening leather,' said Chryseis to Sappho.
'When it begins to dry she will know for certain that she has been
enslaved. There is no other pain like it. It creeps over the body
like a slowly burning fire. It increases all the time. It never
eases.'

'Have you felt
its pain?' asked Sappho, still unable to take her eyes off the
girl.

'Yes. When I
was brought into the priesthood. I had to suffer the pain of the
shrinking leather.' She held up her wrists. 'And I still bear the
scars. They are reminders of my suffering, my penance, my
obligation.'