Trojan Whores (2 page)

The young man
knotted the leather tightly around the girl's wrists. She got up,
her head bowed, and waited for his instruction. He reached forward
and took hold of her nipples. She tightened her shoulders and bent
slightly as he increased the pressure. He squeezed harder. Sappho
watched the girl biting her lips, trying to hold back the pain. The
man rolled the girl's nipples between his thumbs and fingers,
pinching them hard. The girl bent forward, unable to stand still as
the pain in her breasts intensified. He did not let go. She let her
shoulders drop forward, trying to soak up the pain, trying to
absorb the fiery tongues now penetrating every part of her.

Sappho was
suddenly seized by her own passion. She let go of Chryseis' hand.
She pulled the front of her robe aside, exposing fully her breasts,
her hard nipples, her flat stomach, her shaved slit. She looked
around. All eyes were on her. She was not embarrassed. The
worshippers' stares only filled her with excitement. She drew her
right hand across her hip and let her fingers rest near the base of
her stomach. She trembled. The feeling of everyone watching was
setting her senses on fire. She moved her fingers down to the
inside of her thigh. Shivers of joy ran through her.

She watched
the man leading the girl by her nipples, drawing her back down onto
her knees, guiding her, commanding her with pain. She followed his
command unerringly. She could not escape, and did not want to
escape, the control he now had over her was her only desire.

Sappho touched
her swollen flesh. She felt its heat, its throbbing, its
expectation. She pressed her fingers further, into the silky crack,
into the moist valley that lay between the two fleshy lips of her
delectable cunt. She glanced at the eyes of the worshippers - fixed
on her, watching her every move. She inhaled deeply and bit her
lip.

The young man
pulled on the girl's nipples, making her bend forward. She reached
out her bound wrists in utter submission, and laid her elbows on
the ground. The man released her. She stayed there, silently
waiting for her next command.

Sappho looked
at the form of the beautiful girl, oiled and glistening in the
torchlight. She was so slender. She described a perfect shape, bent
over, her back straight, her buttocks rounded and taut and held
high. Sappho looked at the girl's slit, squeezed between her firm
buttocks, a succulent oval which glistened with beads of shiny
moisture. The girl stretched more, reaching her bound wrists as far
forward as she could. When she could stretch no further she
inclined her face gently down towards the ground, stopping when her
nose and chin touched it.

Sappho pressed
her finger into her sex. The flesh opened easily at her touch,
welcoming, peeling apart, inviting entry. She touched the tip of
her clitoris; throbbing, heated, swelling, hardening with every
second. Thrills of excitement shot through her. They filled her
stomach. They tightened her throat. She struggled to breathe.

Two naked men
stepped from behind the altar. A heavy sheep's fleece hung in their
hands. The young man who had bound the girl's wrists motioned for
them to approach. They stood either side of the girl, holding the
fleece over her back. The girl remained still. Another signal and
the two men lowered the fleece slowly over the girl. They let it
down onto her back, draping her with it, only leaving exposed her
upturned buttocks and the delectable lips of her sex which squeezed
between them.

Sappho pressed
her clitoris. It was on fire. She took it between her thumb and
forefinger and squeezed. She imagined the young girl's nipples in
the man's grip. She imagined herself being led by him, his fingers
pinching her clitoris, forcing her wherever he wanted, taking her
under his control. She pictured herself bending before him, like
the girl, submitting to his will, his control. She saw herself on
her knees before him, bound and enslaved, waiting for him to demand
whatever he wanted. She imagined the feel of the sheep's fleece on
her back, heavy and warm, pressing her down, accentuating the
exposure of her upturned buttocks. In her mind she felt the glare
of the worshippers on her sex, peering at it, squeezed and tight,
moist at its centre, waiting to be used.

'Look,'
whispered Chryseis. 'They are coming. They have the scent. Look,
Sappho!'

Sappho kept
her fingers between her thighs. She still touched her clitoris, but
did not dare to squeeze it for fear of losing control.

At first she
saw some movement between the crowds of worshippers near the top of
the tiered steps, in front of the statue of Apollo. It was a man
covered in a ram's fleece. A ram's head shrouded his face. Its
curled horns shone in the torchlight. His muscular arms strained as
he worked his way down the steps on all fours. He looked from side
to side, seeking out his victim. Then another, descending from
behind the statue of Zeus, the father of all gods. Another worked
his way around the effigy of Aphrodite, the goddess of passion.
Then a last, emerging from the back of the statue of Hera, the
ox-eyed goddess. The worshippers stepped aside as slowly the
fleece-covered men worked their way down the steps.

Sappho again
pressed her pulsating clitoris. She could not hold back. It was
impossible. She held it between thumb and forefinger and pressed
her other fingers deep into the open flesh of her wet vagina. They
slid inside, penetrating her as deeply as she could get them. She
panted in short gasps. She felt the fire of delight blazing out of
control through her burning body.

The four men
gathered around the girl by the altar. Still she had not moved.
They sniffed around her in turn. They pressed the noses of the
ram's heads between her buttocks. They inhaled her scent. They
licked her succulent sex.

Sappho
imagined how the girl must feel; waiting, anticipating and yet
unsure what would befall her. Holding still, not daring to move
because her master had not instructed her otherwise. Keeping her
nose and chin against the ground, opening her mouth, filled with
fear. Feeling the cold noses against her sex, wondering what would
happen. Gasping as her heart beat loudly in her chest.

Sappho groaned
and dropped to her knees. She stretched her arms out like the girl,
reaching forward as she bowed down and raised her buttocks as high
as she could. She wanted her wrists tied in the same way as the
girl. She wanted to feel the drying leather thongs tightening. She
wanted to experience the pain of captivity, of submission. She
gasped as she felt a wave of pleasure running through her. Just to
hold her buttocks up for everyone to see, just to be ready for one
of the men to take her, was enough. She did not need to feel their
bodies against hers. She did not need to be penetrated, or smacked,
or thrashed with a cane, or whipped. She shuddered and trembled as
her joy coursed through her. She shouted out again. This time
louder. This time, a scream.

She heard it
in her head; shrill, piercing, a shriek. It was all she could do.
Her head was full of it. Shouts and screams, howling, voices. She
dropped forward gasping. But she could still hear the voice above
her own frantic breathing. She felt a moment of panic. What was
happening? Everything was out of control. The world was in
turmoil.

The voice
boomed out.

'Now! Now!
Take hold of the imposters. Stop them now before they corrupt our
ceremonies to Apollo. Stop them now, before they bring his anger
down on us for blasphemy and irreverence.'

She heard
stamping feet and noisy clatter. She turned and saw Priam's cruel
son, Prince Polydorus, standing next to the statue of Apollo.

'Take them!'
he shouted, pointing down at Chryseis and Sappho. A large ruby set
in a golden ring flashed on his forefinger. 'Take them!'

He marched
down the steps towards the altar. The men threw off the fleeces and
took hold of Chryseis and Sappho. Sappho was dragged to her feet.
She looked around wide-eyed and confused.

'And any of
their followers! Take them too! Are there any here who see these
pretenders as the true priests of Apollo? Are there any who think
the great god of prophesy, Apollo, could be served by such as
these? If there are, speak now.'

All the
worshippers shrunk back. Polydorus' reputation for cruelty and
quickness of action were well known. No one dared stand against him
or his ways. Many shook their heads, many shouted his name, none
proclaimed allegiance to Chryseis and Sappho.

'Then it is
settled!' he roared triumphantly. 'I will take over as the priest
of Apollo. My act will finish the reign of the priest Pelador and
his faithless daughter. Bind these two with the wet thongs they had
prepared for others. Let them feel the pain of the drying leather
as they come to terms with being in the thrall of Polydorus.'

Sappho and
Chryseis were dragged outside. Polydorus marched behind them in
victory. The worshippers crowded around the door of the temple,
afraid to speak against Polydorus, fearful for their own lives.
Sappho blinked in the bright sunlight. Her robe was ripped from
her, and naked she was flung to her knees.

Polydorus
climbed up into a small trap pulled by two tall women with large
feathered headdresses. They were both naked except for tight
leather thongs between their legs. These were secured at their
waists onto shiny leather belts with elegantly worked silver
buckles. They had metal bits in their mouths which led from rings
at the ends into leather reins, which were drawn through small
silver hoops on the front of the brightly painted trap.

Polydorus
pulled the reins into his hands and tugged them. The two women's
heads were pulled back. They bit the reins. Their eyes opened wide
with expectation. They snorted as they fought with the frustration
of waiting for their orders to move.

'Take these
pretenders away,' he shouted. 'They will serve me, and anyone who
cares to pay. I will use them as entertainment for anyone who can
afford it. That will be a fitting occupation for the "priestesses"
of Apollo - the slaves of Polydorus, the Trojan whores. Take them
away!'

He snapped at
the reins and the women, relieved to move, pulled him away on the
ornate trap.

A cage was
brought on the back of a cart and Sappho and Chryseis were forced
into it through an opening in the side. The door was slammed shut
and locked. There was barely enough room inside for the two of
them, and they were squashed together and unable to move as the
cart was pulled away.

Sappho could
already feel the wet thongs shrinking. Her wrists were already
tight together but now they were being drawn against each other
with agonising pressure. She could not move, but with her eyes she
drew Chryseis' attention to them, showing her that she too shared
her friend's suffering. But now it was not a recognition of sharing
the pain required as an entrant to the priesthood. Now it was an
acknowledgement of sharing the suffering of being plunged into
servitude and slavery. Her bonds were testaments to a future which
promised only fear and the unknown.

It had been ten
years since the Greek army had arrived at Troy. Their beached
ships, dark and forbidding against the turquoise sea, were dried
out, their planks shrunk. Armour, piled in heaps outside the now
ragged tents, was more dented, less bright than when it had first
been carried enthusiastically onto the Trojan sand. Swords, stained
with blood and entrails from defeated adversaries, and speared into
the ground like large crowns, had duller edges and were more
chipped. Achilles, though still angry at Agamemnon over his theft
of Sappho, no longer withheld his support. His friend and lover,
Patroclus, had been killed. Achilles had gained revenge with the
merciless killing of Priam's brave son, and the best warrior of
Troy, Hector. Defying the convention of respect to those fallen in
war, he then contemptuously trailed Hector's dead body behind his
chariot, beneath the walls of Troy. For two days he continued his
deathly parade, defiling the once perfect body, bringing terror and
anger and dishonouring the inhabitants of the great besieged
city.

Achilles, the
greatest warrior Greece had ever known, his long black hair
streaming behind him, and reinvigorated by his conquest of Hector,
again led his ferocious Myrmidons into battle. But for all the
killing, all the sacrifice, there was no gain. Troy was too strong
to be entered, its walls too tall and thick, its army too brave and
determined to protect its sovereign right. And so still the war saw
no victory. The two armies opposed each other across the great
plain of Troy in entrenched stalemate. There was no going forward,
and there was no going back. The beautiful Helen was still within
the Trojan walls. Helen, lover and ally of Priam's handsome son
Paris. Helen, the object of Agamemnon's mission to gain the return
of his brother's wayward wife. Helen, the cause of this dreadful
conflict.

During this
time the alliance of Praxis, the blind slave master, and Calliope,
the former slave, had firmed. Now Calliope was never out of the
company of Praxis, never excluded from his confidence, always in
his favour. She shared in his plans, his hatred of Ajax, and his
desire to gain increasing power. With her strengthened influence
and standing she had become more beautiful. She kept her dark hair
cropped short. It contrasted with her pale smooth skin, itself
aglow with the satiny gloss of youth. Her head was perfectly
formed, smooth and oiled. She stood erect, her body always held to
its full height, her square shoulders pressed back, her arms
trailing loosely at her sides. Her breasts were firm and her dark
nipples always erect. She had a noble bearing and usually went
naked. If she did wear clothing it was only a silk scarf around her
waist, or a leather belt slung diagonally across her chest. Her
pubic hair was carefully shaved and her labia was tight and pink.
By day the faceted gold ring in her clitoris glittered in the
bright sunlight, by night it reflected the shimmering torches or
flickering lamps. As she walked, confidently thrusting each hip
forward in turn, the crease at the base of her buttocks deepened
slightly and directed the eye into the dark crevice that lay
beyond. Sometimes, as she strode forward, the lips of her sex could
be seen; a beautiful silhouette outlining the perfection of the
moist flesh. Her statuesque form was at once alluring, divine and
bewitching. The blind Praxis called her his 'angel'. She stood
before him when he requested, so he could run his hands up and down
her body.