Silver Moon Books: Trojan Whores - Chapter 1

After the tragic death of Professor Harrington, I stayed in Austin, Texas with one of his colleagues, a senior lecturer in the Archeology Department, Dr Werner 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 of his hands while he thrashed me with a thin 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 young 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 that 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 onto Chryseis' hand.
Torches set on massive columns surrounded the huge 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 young girls, their shaven heads crowned with yellow and white flowers surrounded it. They scattered flower petals from silver baskets, throwing them out in multicoloured showers. Their bodies had been oiled, and they glistened as they moved. The tight slit fronts of their naked cracks revealed the promising dark cleft which ran down to their succulent cunts. 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 tender skin. In her free hand she held a massive staff. It bore the emblem of her authority - a ram's head with huge in-curling horns. A golden robe draped from her shoulders. It parted at the front, revealing her well-shaped breasts, her firm flat stomach, and the tight slit at the front of her closely shaven cunt.
'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 cracking 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 thickly 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 lips. 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 young 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 would be 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. Her lips dried as she imagined herself being tied up like the young girl. She felt her throat tightening at the idea of being controlled in every way, in everything she did. Her heart quickened its pace - she felt it pounding in her chest. She sensed the tension of her hardening nipples - pulling stiffly at her breasts, aching, pulsating, heating with the fire of her growing expectation.
The young man draped the wet thong over the girl's wrists. Sappho licked her lips - her tongue was dry. The man pulled the thong around in a binding. The slimy, wet leather slipped around the girl's skin, sticking to it, enveloping it. Water dripped onto the ground. Sappho imagined that it was the girl's blood draining 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 wrapping leather were smothering her. The man pulled on them tightly. 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.'
The young man bound 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 each 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, squeezing them, 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 that were now penetrating every part of her.
Sappho was suddenly seized by her own passion. She let go of Chryseis' hand. Her hand felt hot. 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 onto 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 reached her fingers up and touched their trembling tips against the edge of 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 edges of her delectable cunt. She glanced at the eyes of the worshippers - fixed on her, watching her every move. She inhaled deeply and bit hard onto her lips.
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 or, if there was not one, for eternity.
Sappho looked at the form of the beautiful girl, oiled and glistening in the torch light. 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, split by the crevice of her cunt 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 the crack of her cunt. The fleshy sides 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, her chest. They tightened her throat. She struggled to breathe. Her eyes rolled upwards.
Two naked men stepped forward 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 slit of her cunt that was squeezed between them.
Sappho pressed her clitoris at the tip. 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 cunt, peering at it, squeezed and tight, moist at its centre, waiting to be used.
She worked her fingers around her clitoris, squeezing it, poking it, tantalising it, inflaming it. She breathed in deeply, aware of the joy that was spreading between her hips. She felt a dribble of spit at the corner of her mouth. She licked it back. The warm moistness of it sent a wave of pleasure through her tongue and down her throat. She gasped. She let out a short cry. She did not stop.
'Look,' whispered Chryseis. 'They are coming. They have the scent. Look, Sappho!'
Sappho kept her fingers between the soft, swollen flesh of her cunt. She still touched her clitoris, but did not dare to squeeze it for fear of losing control. She breathed heavily.
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 all the fleece-covered men worked their way down the steps.
Sappho again pressed hard against the tip of her pulsating clitoris. She could not hold back. It was impossible. She held it between her thumb and forefinger and pressed her other fingers deep into the open flesh of her wet cunt. They slid inside, penetrating her as deeply as she could get them. She squeezed as hard as she could on her clitoris. 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 along the slit between the soft, youthful oval of flesh on either side of her succulent crack.
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, licking her tongue out, filled with fear. Feeling the cold noses against her slit, wondering what would happen. Gasping as her heart beat loudly in her chest.
Sappho groaned loudly and dropped to her knees. She stretched her arms out like the girl, reaching them 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 massive golden ring flashed on his forefinger. 'Take them!'
He marched down the steps towards the altar. The men threw off the fleeces on their backs 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 that 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 pulled up 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 shiny leather reins. The reins were drawn through small silver hoops on the front of the brightly painted trap.
Polydorus pulled the reins into his hands and tugged at them. The two women's heads were pulled back. They bit hard onto the reins. Their eyes opened wide with expectation. They both 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 any others who care to pay. I will use them as entertainment for anyone who can afford my fees. 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 the cage 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.