Trojan Whores (19 page)

Slowly her
eyes became used to the darkness. She could see they were in a
dungeon, a chamber of torture. Manacles hung from the low ceiling.
Chains were slung from the walls. A wooden table with a cranking
wheel at one end stood between the cage and the low doorway. A pile
of leather straps was heaped by its side.

She turned to
Chryseis, who looked into her eyes.

'Hold me,' she
said. 'I need to feel you close.'

It was so
tight inside the bars of the cage that Sappho could hardly move,
but she pressed her face between Chryseis' breasts. She felt the
warmth of Chryseis' silky skin. She felt her shivering body.

'You are
cold.'

Her mouth
enclosed a stiffened nipple. She sucked it. It was delectable;
sweet and fragrant, fleshy and firm. She felt Chryseis' chest
rising. She nipped with her teeth. Chryseis gave a quick gasp, a
moan of pain, a thrill of surrender.

'Harder,' she
said slowly. 'Bite harder.'

Sappho did.
She pressed her tongue against the throbbing nipple. Chryseis
gasped again. She lifted herself against the bite. Sappho sensed
the pleasure of her suffering. She enjoyed delivering the pain. She
savoured having another surrendering to her will. She relished the
tension in Chryseis' body as she braced herself against the
penetrating pain.

But quickly
her bite eased. The bars of the cage seemed to tighten around her.
It was as if they were squeezing her body in their shrinking grip,
constricting her, wrapping her in their iron grasp. She did not
know what was happening. She pulled back. Chryseis' nipple sprung
from between her teeth. A wave of distress ran through her. She
slid away from Chryseis. The sensation of pressure increased. A
dark surge of guilt flowed over her. Tears welled up in her eyes.
She could not hold it back.

'Chryseis,'
she said falteringly, 'I knew it was you. You were not mistaken. I
was there. I recognised you. I was too afraid to help you. My
dearest friend, Chryseis, I let you down so badly. It is you who
must punish me. It is you who must inflict pain on me. Only when
you have made me suffer will I know I have been forgiven. Chryseis,
forgive me with pain. I have to feel the smack of your palm on my
buttocks. Only when I wince will I feel exonerated. Only then will
I be absolved of my terrible cowardice. Chryseis, grant me
forgiveness with your anger.'

Sappho pulled
away from her. She crawled slowly out of the cage. She dropped low
to the floor. She pressed her face into the dirt and dust.

'See how I
defile myself for you, my dearest. I am like the lowest animal
grovelling in the filth of the world. I am worthless until you make
me beg for your forgiveness.'

She licked the
filthy floor, then reached out and laid her hands on the edge of
the timber rack. She ran her palm along its surface. It was smooth
and depressed at the centre; worn by the many stretched and
tormented bodies of its victims. She stretched further. Halfway
along the bed of the rack was split. The other half joined it with
only a narrow gap between. She pulled herself onto it. Her dirty
body flattened against the smooth timber. A nail near the join
caught her tattered smock. She pulled against it. The smock ripped
down the front. It opened and she felt her breasts cooled by the
smooth surface of the rack. She reached further and the tear rent
the smock to the hem. Her nipples hardened as they scraped across
the worn top. She stretched out and held the front edge. She
pressed her wrists outwards against two iron clasps. They stood
open, ready to be dropped and secured so that any victim could not
get free.

'Please,
Chryseis, drop the clamps around my wrists. I want to be made ready
for your punishment. Please, I need to feel the tension of
captivity. I need to know I cannot escape.'

Chryseis did
not speak. She crawled alongside the rack and knelt by its side.
She dropped the heavy clamps over Sappho's wrists. They were stiff
and hard to move. They had two holes which fitted over two raised
bolts. A pinion, secured to each side of the rack on a thin chain,
passed through the bolts and held the clamps in place.

Sappho pulled
against the securing clamps. She needed to know how firmly she was
held. They were unforgiving. They dug into her wrists. She clenched
her fists. She was held securely. There was no escape.

'And my
ankles. I will only suffer if you secure them too.'

Chryseis found
some leather thongs. She wrapped them around Sappho's ankles. She
passed them through holes in the surface of the rack, pulled them
tight and secured them to rings hanging from bolts beneath the
heavy platform.

Sappho pulled
against her bonds. She was rewarded by the discomfort inflicted by
their security. The iron clamps at her wrists dug deeper with each
movement. Her ankles were held fast. She could not move them at
all. She squirmed with delight. It was exquisite captivity. She
felt her sex moisten. She twisted with a surge of joy. Her buttocks
lifted. Her hips moved from side to side. 'My waist. Please, secure
my waist.'

Chryseis found
a leather belt on the floor. She had to reach beneath the rack to
free it. She dropped it across Sappho's waist and pulled it through
two holes in the timber frame. She stretched beneath the rack and
secured the belt into two rings and pulled them together.

Sappho gasped
as the belt was pulled tight across her waist. Each tightening yank
captured her more. Each pull on the strap brought her closer to the
wonderful subjugating confinement she yearned for. She felt
completely enslaved, pinned to the rack, restrained by unbreakable
bonds, delectably under the control of another.

'I am ready,'
she said quietly. 'I am ready.'

Chryseis knelt
and smoothed her hand across Sappho's buttocks, who closed her eyes
with delight. She shivered. The palm of Chryseis' hand felt like
silk. It slipped across her skin. It felt cool. Sappho felt her
buttocks tightening. She felt them rise with the tension, trying in
vain to increase the pressure against Chryseis' hand. She relaxed
and let them ease apart. Fingers slipped into the tight valley
between them. Her head spun.

Chryseis
increased the pressure. Sappho wanted to lift her buttocks. She
wanted to offer them for a spanking. She strained against the strap
at her waist. The restriction of it, her inability to lift herself
at all only increased her ardour. She strained again. It was a
delectable frustration. She was caught in a spiral of wanting drawn
from a desire for pleasure and her failure to attain it.

Her need was
boiling over. She wanted to cry out to Chryseis to start the
punishment, but she knew it was too late for that. Chryseis would
decide when it should begin. Chryseis would decide how long it
would last, how severe it would be. Sappho waited.

The hand
lifted.

Sappho
tensed.

The hand
smacked.

Breath burst
from her. She wanted more. The hand struck again. She tightened her
buttocks, wanting more - and more came.

Her buttocks
were set alight by the repeated smacks. It was a stinging pain;
sharp, penetrating, condensed. It was a pain that penetrated her
whole body. It was a tide of delectable suffering. She felt the
heat in her sex. She felt its wetness. She wanted more.

A shadow
appeared at the entrance to the dungeon. It was a man. He was
covered in a heavy cloak.

Sappho jerked
with every smack. The man stared at her. She peered at him with
glazed eyes. He reached and placed a hand on the wheel at the head
of the rack.

The spanks
rained down again and again. The man smiled. His hand pulled
against the wheel.

Sappho heard
an iron cog click. She felt a jerk beneath her as the two segments
of the rack pulled apart. The clamps at her wrists dug into her
skin. Her ankles pulled painfully against the straps that held
them. Her chest tightened. Her waist strained. Her heart pounded.
The spanking continued.

Another smack.
Again the flat of Chryseis' hand struck hard. Sappho tightened her
buttocks. She tried to absorb the pain. She wanted to be filled by
it. She looked at the man. He turned the wheel another click. She
sobbed. Another smack. Another click. Sappho felt the unyielding
strain on her body. She felt the stretching tension between her
wrists and ankles. She squealed.

Another smack.
She tightened against it, her buttocks on fire. Another click.
Another wrenching pain. She felt the gap in the rack's bed
widening, opening. All she could hear was the click of the rack and
the smack of the hand.

Her mind
filled with flitting images. It was like watching frantic birds in
an aviary. She pictured Chryseis hanging from that ceiling. She saw
the hood slipping from her face. She saw her appealing eyes asking
for help. She saw tears in her eyes. She watched herself reach
forward. She saw herself taking Chryseis' hand and lifting her
down. But they could not escape. It was a futile gesture. Instead
of escape to safety she felt the crack of the whip as it bit into
her back. She felt the savagery of cruel punishment. It was her
penalty for showing compassion to Chryseis. But she did not mind
the pain of the whip. It was right that she should suffer. It was
right that she should feel the pain and save her friend from any
more. At last she felt vindicated. The spanking continued. It
blended with the pictures in her mind. Deep within her body she
felt the surging tide of her orgasm. Somewhere, deep inside,
Chryseis' hand had absolved her cowardly betrayal.

She and
Chryseis woke to the sound of shouting. The Greeks were above them,
in the temple.

The two crept
furtively from their cage, past the rack and out of the dungeon.
They held each other as they made their way to the centre of the
temple. They stared down into the atrium.

They saw the
marble statue surrounded by the bodies of vanquished Trojans. They
saw a small party of Greeks led by Achilles hiding behind the
statue of Apollo, pinned down by Paris and some of his faithful
guard. Achilles had been surprised by their attack, but was not
prepared to stay cowering at the mercy of the Trojans for long.
Suddenly he ran forward brandishing his sword. His shield,
fashioned by the god's own armourer Hephaestus, reflected the light
of the world as he charged into the open. He stood above everything
around him. His brightness was like that of a god. He penetrated
everything he saw with his steely gaze. It was as though the
universe itself must shield its eyes from his glorious glare.

Sappho and
Chryseis held onto each other, unable to take their eyes off the
action, unable to resist his magnificence. Achilles ran into a
shower of arrows. He easily parried them with his flashing shield.
Sappho and Chryseis saw Paris load his bow with a poisoned arrow.
They watched him take careful aim. They heard his cry of victory as
it penetrated Achilles' heel, the only part of his body left
vulnerable by his goddess mother. They watched Achilles fall
heavily to the ground, his leg disabled, his body already filling
with the poison from the cowardly Paris' arrow. They watched the
craven Trojan prince run into the darkness, too afraid to stay and
see his victim die.

The Greeks
gathered around their dead leader. They picked up his body and took
it on their shoulders. Sappho clutched Chryseis in fear. She gave a
barely stifled cry. One of the soldiers wheeled around at the
sound. He lunged forward and saw them both, clinging to each other,
shaking with fear.

'Bring them!
The lady Eva will reward us well for such booty!'

Eva had taken
over magnificent rooms in Priam's palace. She wore only a long
purple robe which hung from her shoulders and trailed to the floor.
It opened at the front and exposed her nakedness as she strutted
haughtily along the marble-lined corridors.

She sat daily
on a bejewelled throne, vetting the slave women paraded before her.
She kept Calliope on the lead at all times, forcing her to crawl on
all fours and drink from a bowl placed on the floor before her.
When Eva tugged on the lead in different ways, Calliope knew to
kneel, or purr or push against Eva's leg. She spent a short time
each day training Calliope. She held a cane in her free hand and,
if necessary, chided her with a sharp clip on her buttocks. In the
evenings, when the great fires were lit in the palace halls,
Calliope curled up at her mistress's feet. Sometimes she rolled on
her back and opened her legs, craving attention, her moist sex
glistening in the firelight. Sometimes Eva stroked her there and
Calliope mewed until, filled with pleasure, she raised her hips in
a convulsion of ecstasy.

Eva
meticulously inspected the women brought to her. She prised their
mouths open and peered inside. She tapped their teeth with a small
silver mallet a slave girl attending kept ready. She stroked their
tongues and squeezed them to see how fleshy they were. She pulled
them to see how far they extended. She pinched their nipples and
watched carefully to see how they lengthened, how much they
hardened. She always sucked them as well, tasting them, feeling
their heat, testing their hardness and feeling their throbbing
against her tongue. She ran her hands around their breasts. If they
were large enough she cupped them and felt their weight. If they
were small she pressed her palms against them and massaged in
circles. She traced the curve of their hips and the roundness of
their buttocks. She slipped her fingers between their legs and ran
her fingertips against their labia. She noted how easily the lips
of their flesh parted, how moist they were, how readily her fingers
slipped inside. She bent and sniffed, sometimes licking them to
release their aroma. Those she liked best she licked deeply. She
teased their clitorises with her fingertips, to see how much they
engorged, how much they hardened, how much they throbbed. She bent
them over and felt the curve of their buttocks. She looked at the
oval of their squeezed sex lips and ran her fingers around them,
testing the softness of the flesh, the tightness of the opening.
She licked between their buttocks. She tasted their anuses, probing
her tongue inside, forcing the tip into the muscular ring.