Trojan Slaves

TROJAN SLAVES

by

SYRA BOND

Published by
Chimera Books

ISBN
9781780804521

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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.

In the summer
of 2003 archaeologists recovered a manuscript, written in Attic
Greek, from the library of the Villa of the Papyri in Herculaneum,
Italy. It had been buried there since the eruption of Vesuvius in
AD 79, but dated from an era much earlier. Its preservation was
completed in the Museum of Antiquities Rome, and then because of
his reputation in the field, its translation was taken on by the
internationally renowned anthropologist and classics expert,
Professor Gordon Harrington of Mercy University, Houston, Texas. It
was Professor Harrington who discovered its secret: a story about
the sexual lives of some of the most well known characters who
inhabited the histories of Ancient Greece; warriors, gods and
heroes whose deeds were recorded by the first true scholar - Homer.
Professor Harrington believes the author of this work to be the
central character, Sappho, herself well known for her writing at
this time, and here retelling in the third person, her own part in
the Greek war against Troy.

I met
Professor Harrington at a conference on the discovery in Austin,
Texas. In the raucous music district of the city we spent several
evenings together in a lively student bar inhabited by lovers of
bondage and slavery. Here I learned of his love of bondage, and he
found in me an eagerness to submit to a variety of humiliations he
had learned on his travels throughout the world. He kept me with
him for two months early in 2004, at one time binding me with tape
and shutting me in a small cupboard in his office for two whole
days. I have rarely experienced the levels of joy that Professor
Harrington brought about in me with his harsh techniques,
humiliating and imaginative practices. Especially, he aroused in me
a love for confinement in small spaces which, to this day, only
continues to grow.

At last, after
two more joyous and degrading visits to him, he has agreed to my
using his text, with some amendments, and it is reproduced here
with his full permission.

Syra Bond

Houston,
Texas. March 2006

Eva swung on
her painfully tight bonds, and shivered with uncontrollable fear as
the greatest warrior in all Greece approached the beach. Achilles,
son of the mortal Peleus - King of the Myrmidons - and the sea
nymph Thetis, strutted along the lines of Greek ships pulled up on
the shore at Troy. High off the ground, girls were suspended on
ropes from the flattened paddle ends of outstretched oars. Some
were only partially clothed, shivering in the morning light, their
ragged garments tattered and torn by the vicious mistreatment of
their cruel captors. Several were naked, red stripes marking their
buttocks or breasts where, during a night of terror, flailing whips
or leather straps had scourged them into agonised unconsciousness.
All had their wrists bound tightly, the rough plaited rope
carefully wound around twelve times before looping up between their
hands and onto a bulky knot, itself the weighty base of a rope that
dangled from the oars. These humiliated victims all hung on their
tethers, twisting around slowly, completely vulnerable to their
enslavers, and powerless to help themselves.

Eva, one of the
youngest amongst them and, before her capture, a proud member of
her own tribe's nobility, ached with the strain as she, one of the
naked ones, hung pitifully on her rope. Wide-eyed and racked with
gnawing pain she stared into the sky, her mop of long red hair
blowing slightly in the breeze. She swung slowly, her hands forced
together by the securing rope, as if in prayer - an anguished
supplicant bidding to deaf gods for deliverance. Her ribs were sore
and her breasts, tender from the night of mistreatment at the hands
of the Greek soldiers, throbbed. Her smooth stomach, tightened and
pulled in by the tension, dipped flatly between her hips only to
rise again towards her tight-stretched slit. Light pubic hair
curled above her crack, but it did not hide the shape or definition
of her beautiful sex lips, nor the delicate folds of her soft, pink
labia that surrounded it.

At the start,
when they first been hauled up onto the ropes, she had ached, and
like some of the others, cried out when the flails had been used.
But as the night went on she felt the pain less; it became less
acute, less penetrating. The sharp stings of the leather flails, so
burning to begin with, first became duller, then heavier, then, as
each stroke blended into the next, turned into a throbbing pulse of
pure sensation. The pain was absent; the naked sensation filled her
body. She listened to the exhalations of effort from her tormentors
as they drew the whips back then released them, ever quicker, ever
harder, ever more desirous to hear the squeals of their prey. Eva
felt their effort, their desire to create pain, to cause their
victims to cry out, but as the punishment went on into the night
she became absorbed only in the sensation, how her whole body
filled with it - the exquisite penetration of it.

Throughout the
night she remained suffused with the deep, exquisite sensation.
Occasionally she drifted into sleep or into unconsciousness, she
was not sure. When she came back she jerked with the initial shock
of pain again, or sometimes the pangs of her humiliation. But
always she was rescued by the delicate folds of the sensation which
again overcame her. As she drifted into a strange, brittle sleep,
she had dreamed of her life before in Germany; her· own servants
dressing her, combing her hair, bathing her, massaging her with
oils. Then the images of invaders violating her village. In her
mind she watched them tearing off her sisters' clothes. She saw
them spreading the girls' legs...

Eva shivered
with fear and an involuntary jerk racked her pained body. It was as
though she felt again the sting of the invaders' whips as she and
the others had been driven like animals into captivity and
subservience. Through the images in her mind she felt again the
humiliation of nakedness and the stinging pain of suffering, only
to wake and feel the scourging bite of a whip as it laced across
her back and buttocks.

Several of the
girls looked towards Achilles, opening their eyes widely,
entreating him to help them. They recognised his power and appealed
to him, capitulating silently to his authority, offering him any
favour for their freedom. He smiled at each one, himself imagining
what degrading humiliation he could demand. Eva was not prepared to
surrender yet - she was too proud. She turned her face down towards
the sandy beach beneath her feet and others, seeing her defiance
and gaining some strength from it, did the same.

Achilles, the
handsomest, bravest and most fearsome of all warriors in the army
of Agamemnon, stopped by the boats. He stared at this pitiful line
of women as they hung, waiting either for release or further
torture, more pain or greater humiliation. He widened his eyes at
Eva: red-haired, beautiful, lithe and youthful. He saw she had
authority; that the others, even in their tortured state and
notwithstanding her youth, respected her. And Eva felt his power
and, trembling but still defiant, she dropped her head even
lower.

He walked over
to her, stretched out his hand and touched her legs. She quivered,
enlivened by his touch, roused by the glance of his skin. She felt
her sex moistening. Achilles tightened his eyes with interest,
circled his fingers around her knees, held her firmly, stretched
forward and placed his lips against the backs of her calves. She
tried to twist away, but his touch inflamed her like no man's had
ever done. She did not really know why, but she was too weak, too
ashamed, too humiliated to even try and resist. And her pathetic
efforts increased his interest.

Tears of
ecstasy flowed from her eyes as he ran his fingers up the insides
of her thighs. Suddenly she could not bear any more. She had hung
from her bonds all night, and before that she had been the sport of
all the soldiers in the camp. As they had whipped her she'd been
forced to suck their cocks, one after another. She had taken them
deep, as she had been instructed, but it had never been enough.
They held her head and forced themselves in as far as their length
determined, but no matter what she was given, it was never enough.
For a short while she kept the first simply in her mouth. She held
the throbbing glans between her tongue and the roof of her mouth,
but she could not resist it, she could not keep it away from her
throat. She allowed as much spit as possible to run around the
cock, to keep it wet, and allow it to slide in easily. But even
though she was desperate for it to enter her throat she was not
prepared when it did. Its venous thickness clogged her throat
completely, filling it, plugging it, then as it went deeper she
felt herself gagging. Her throat contracted against the shaft,
tightening on it, making her choke, and she tried to pull back, but
she was not allowed. They held her head in place and the cock
thickened and squeezed inside her throat even more tightly. She
tasted vomit, but the cock stayed in, sliding slowly - lubricated
by her spit - but never coming out, the engorged glans too swollen
to allow it to be released. She retched and fell forward, but it
only increased her torturer's ardour and his cock hardened even
more, lengthened and plunged in deeper. She felt it stiffening for
a last time and, as she choked and retched she felt his semen, hot
and copious, flooding down her throat. Suddenly it was out, the
cock unplugged her and she let out a massive gasp. Her mouth filled
with semen and, struggling on her hands and knees, she was flung
back ready for the next.

And that was
not all she had been subjected to. She had been whipped so much;
more than the others, and harder. She had been held over the back
of one soldier while another flailed her. He pulled her face
forward against his back, reached back and took hold of her wrists
and, while another held her ankles, he bent forward. She was
stretched over tightly, tensing her muscles, tightening her
buttocks, making her all the more susceptible to the stinging,
writhing whip. She jerked every time it fell, convulsing and
screaming for them to stop. When one fell back exhausted another
took over, until he also tired.

When they had
all finished with her she was dropped to the ground, naked, striped
and gasping. She was forced against a horse, tied by the arms and
ankles around its girth, and caned as the horse bucked and
whinnied. As it had reared up she was jolted and thrown heavily
against it. Its skin rubbed her, covering her with its sweat and
bruising her breasts and hips. The cane came down hard, and as she
twisted from side to side and the horse was driven into a panic,
the cane lacerated the sides of her breasts and her waist. After
they cut her free she fell to the ground, barely conscious. They
had thrown buckets of water over her to revive her, she'd barely
regained consciousness when she was pushed forward coughing and
choking, headlong over a pile of armour, bent down and restrained
with heavy thongs, then thrashed with a leather belt.

Suddenly she
felt an overflowing of fear as the images of her suffering flashing
before her eyes like a terrible dream, burst in as though happening
again. She twisted on the rope in a pitiful effort to save herself,
as if somehow pulling herself away from her torturers, from their
punishment, their pleasure. She looked up, her eyes wide open, and
saw Achilles staring at her. She twisted away from his touch,
foolishly thinking she could escape. Achilles' hand was trapped
between her legs as she spun around on the rope. Her muscles,
already stretched, tightened more and, as a reaction to the
sensation of the tightening, she tried again to pull away. But it
was pointless - ridiculous.