Trojan Whores (12 page)

She looked
down at the black shiny mass between her legs. She saw it enter bit
by bit. She watched less of it come out. She saw less of it
exposed.

Suddenly she
screamed. She could not help herself. She knew she had it all. It
was fully embedded. She belonged to it. She was the object of its
desire. She was pinioned by it. Her ecstasy was released. It was as
if a dam had burst, as if a tide was running inside her. There was
nothing more to be seen of the huge cock. She was filled with it,
overtaken by it. She was a slave to it.

Paris handed
the spear to one of the attendants. 'Cut her down,' he said. 'Bring
her to my bed.'

Sappho lay back
on silk sheets. Their cool smoothness sent shivers across her skin.
She breathed in deeply. The scent of frankincense filled her
nostrils. She felt giddy with its heavy aroma. She reached out and
felt the warmth of Paris beside her. He turned over lazily. A cup
was placed in her hand. She sat up, startled. A girl in a pleated
tunic knelt on the floor beside her.

'Do you need a
drink, mistress?' she asked, smiling. Sappho took the cup and
sipped from it. It was sweet and sticky, like fragrant honey. She
sipped again and swallowed eagerly. The sweetness ran though her
body. It filled her with warmth, with softness, with a sense of
safety and ease.

She held out
the cup for more. The girl filled it. Sappho drank again. She felt
sleepy. She passed the cup back to the girl. She lay back on the
bed. She could not keep her eyelids open. She licked her lips and
let her head rest heavily on the bed.

A tall female
figure appeared at the door. Her blonde hair framed her perfect
face. She wore a long sheer dress of translucent silk that trailed
lazily on the floor. It was Helen.

She took the
cup from the girl and smelled it. She smiled. She motioned with a
finger. Two guards came in and removed Sappho, then the naked Helen
slipped into the bed alongside Paris.

'What shall we
do with her?' asked one of the men.

'Throw her
into the street,' said Helen, used to disposing of her lover's
entertainment. 'We will hear no more of her.'

Sappho was not
sure what was happening to her. She felt hands grasping her arms,
she felt herself being pushed, or carried, but nothing felt normal.
Everything was a blur, a mixture of murky images, distorted sounds,
flashing lights and shapes and forms she did not recognise.

She tried to
concentrate on what had happened to her. She tried to picture the
women suspended from the ropes, Chryseis, the golden shower of
urine, Paris, the leather cock. But it was hopeless. She could not
keep any images in her mind long enough to see them clearly. Every
time she tried to form something it became misshapen, deformed into
something else, or it slipped away altogether. She felt her heart
pounding with anxiety. She felt the wetness of sweat on her arms
and legs. She felt herself trembling with fear. At least that was
real. But it was not a consolation; it only fed her terror.

She smelled
the scent of frankincense in her nostrils. Her head filled with its
thick aroma. She felt herself choking. She tasted semen in her
mouth. She swallowed and felt the shape of a cock against the back
of her tongue. She sucked it. She hoped to feel its bulbous globe
distending her cheeks. She hoped to feel its throbbing mass against
the back of her throat. But as she closed her lips around it and
drew it in her mouth was empty, there was nothing there. She felt
her vagina being filled. She felt the heat of a huge cock inside
it. She felt her wetness running against it, drawing it in,
allowing it to fill her completely. But when she reached down to
grasp it, to feel its base, to feel its throbbing weight, there was
nothing in her hands and she was empty.

She was in a
panic.

She saw lights
around her. Torches - red, flaming, sparking, smoking, dithering in
drafts, burning higher, spluttering to smoke. She heard the voices
of chanting worshippers - rhythmic, monotone, endless, hypnotic.
She felt the heat of their bodies as they pressed around her. Their
cloaks shimmered in the torchlight. She saw a naked girl borne on
their shoulders. They carried her between their ranks, displaying
her, holding her up for scrutiny. They pawed at her as she was
carried past. Hands ran along her naked legs. Fingers poked. Her
nipples were pinched and pulled. Her mouth was prised open. Her
tongue was pulled and twisted. Hands stroked her shaved head, while
others found the delectable curve of her pubic mound.

Sappho closed
her eyes, but could not shut out the images. The dirge of the
chanting worshippers filled her head. She shrank back as the naked
girl was brought closer. She tried to crouch down, to hide, to make
herself invisible, but it was hopeless. The crowd parted as the
girl was offered alongside Sappho, who watched the pawing hands
clawing at the girl, pinching her, poking her, invading her
privacy. She saw that the girl was bound, her wrists held tightly
together with leather straps and laid on her stomach. Her ankles,
restrained by a single leather thong.

Sappho reached
up and touched the girl, her skin smooth and silky, unblemished and
pale. The girl looked at Sappho. Her eyes were dark and doe-like,
her face calm and resigned. Sappho touched the girl's lips. They
parted. Sappho let her finger inside. She felt the softness of the
girl's tongue, its warmth, its fleshy wetness. She put her finger
in further. She ran its tip along the inside of the girl's cheeks.
She felt their tension, their velvety surface. The girl's eyes
remained fixed on her, staring deeply into her, penetrating her
with a vacuous stare.

Suddenly she
closed her teeth on Sappho's finger. Sappho screeched and pulled
her hand back. The girl would not let go. She bit harder. Sappho
squealed in pain. She howled and yanked her hand desperately. The
girl lay motionless, her eyes fixed on Sappho, her teeth clamped
onto Sappho's finger.

The
worshippers started shouting. Sappho was jostled. Suddenly, opening
her jaws like a spring trap, the girl released her. Sappho fell to
the ground, clutching her finger. Feet stamped around her in panic.
She twisted to escape them. The noise of their frantic pounding
filled her head. She felt as if it was going to burst. She thought
she would get trampled. She panted breathlessly.

She fell onto
her back. A man in a cloak bent between her legs and ran his tongue
along her exposed crack. Another joined him and did the same. The
first one poked his finger into her anus. She gulped as it went in
deeply. He felt inside, twisting it against the lining, finding his
way ever deeper. Still the second one licked at her sex. She felt
his tongue around its wetness, spit dribbled from his mouth and ran
down into her plugged anus. The finger plug twisted more. It went
even deeper. She felt its tip in her rectum, exploring her innards,
invading her completely.

Suddenly they
were gone. She felt hollow, empty. Her sex was wet, cool, exposed.
The worshippers were crowding around the girl. She was lifted down
from the shoulders of the men. They pulled at her frantically. She
stayed still, apparently not noticing their grasping hands, their
probing fingers, their prying eyes. They dragged her towards a
white marble altar.

Sappho rushed
to join them. She jostled with the crowd, pulling at their robes so
she could push her way to the front.

The girl was
carried to the altar and laid on its smooth top. Still she stared
at Sappho, as if beckoning her, as if she had a message. The
clamour died down. The worshippers fell back. They lowered
themselves onto their knees. They clasped their hands together and
started muttering in fearful prayer.

Sappho worked
her way closer to the altar. She reached up to the beautiful girl
and touched her arm. The girl did not respond. Sappho climbed up
and looked down at her. 'Speak to me,' she said.

The girl
raised her head. She parted her sweet lips. Sappho leant down and
placed an ear by the girl's mouth.

'I have a
message,' she said. 'Troy will be destroyed. The columns of the
temple will fall. Fire will consume everything. The women will be
raped. The men killed. Only a few will be saved. There will be
nothing left. But you will find your friend again and you will find
new power in the kingdom.'

Sappho's heart
pounded at the thought of finding Chryseis again.

'My friend.
Tell me about her. Tell me about my friend.'

'You have seen
her already. She needed your help, but you did not give it. She
will come to you here, in the temple. That is where you will find
her. It is in the house of Apollo that you will be reunited. That
is all I know.'

The girl
dropped her head back and sighed. Sappho sensed something was
wrong. The worshippers started wailing in a fearful dirge. One,
brandishing a staff, started waving it at her.

'You have
transgressed the law of the temple. You have broken our sacred
rules and violated our sacrifice. The girl is worthless now. She
has spoken. She has spent all her life in silence preparing for
this moment. Now it is lost. The spell of silence has been broken.
Only the wrath of the demon himself, the satyr of Apollo, can
follow from this. Yes, he has been roused by your blasphemy.
Listen! Already, he comes.'

Sappho climbed
down hurriedly from the altar, but there was no escape. She heard
the sound of hoarse breathing, like a dragon. She smelled the heavy
aroma of frankincense. Her mind went into confusion. The columns of
the temple seemed to bend as he approached. Smoke filled the air
and then, as if stepping out of hell, he appeared.

He pounced up
onto the rostrum where the marble altar stood. He had the head of a
goat. Twisted horns curled out from each side of his forehead. His
eyes were like red globes. His face was wrinkled and dark. His
hands were horny and claw-like, his fingernails long and yellow.
From the waist down he was covered in coarse hair. He had thin bent
legs, a long tail and cloven hoofs. His erect cock stood out from
his groin, bent upwards and bulbous at the tip. His testicles hung
heavily in a pendulous scrotum.

The
worshippers fell back as he moved around the altar. He sniffed at
its edges, then at the girl.

'She has
spoken!' he cried in a broken, hollow voice. 'I can scent that she
has spoken! Who is responsible for this?' One of the men in robes
edged forward nervously. 'Have you an answer?' asked the demon.
'Can you explain this sacrilege?'

The man bowed
and dropped to his knees.

'Speak!'

'Master. It
was all as you expect from us. The girl had been kept since
childhood in silence. We bore her here as you instructed. She was
placed on the altar for your delectation. Then...'

'Then what?'
boomed the satyr.

'Then... my
lord, she was approached. She was approached and questioned. And
she spoke.' The man fell prostrate on the floor. 'Forgive us, my
lord, forgive us our wrongdoing.'

Sappho quaked
with fear. She had never seen anything like the satyr. She had
heard of them, had seen images on vases, but she had never imagined
them in real life. She hid behind a robed worshipper, clinging to
his cloak, hoping she would not be seen.

'Then who is
responsible?' demanded the satyr. 'Who has caused this blasphemy?
Bring whoever is responsible to me. Deliver this blasphemer to me
and I may postpone my wrath on you all.'

The man
crawled forward on his belly. 'It is a woman, master. She is here.
I have her ready to offer.'

The satyr
pranced forward. His hooves clicked on the smooth marble floor. He
screwed up his wrinkled face. 'Then bring her! Let me see her!'

The man
scrambled to his knees and scanned the worshippers. They moved
aside and exposed Sappho, who cringed with fear as the satyr's eyes
fell on her. She fell to her knees and clasped her hands together
beseechingly.

'Please,
master,' she begged, 'I did not mean to—'

'Silence!' he
shouted. He stalked around the altar and stood in front of her. He
sniffed at her hair. He clawed at her breasts with his long yellow
talons. She pulled back. He stamped his feet in annoyance. She
dropped her face and stood still. Her heart pounded. She gasped for
breath. She felt as if her chest would explode.

He bent his
head and sniffed her nipples. He took one of them between his
yellow teeth. He bit it. Sappho pulled back. She could not help
herself. The satyr kept his teeth where they were, and looked up at
her with huge red eyes. She froze with fear. He closed his teeth
harder around her nipple. A rush of pain erupted from it. It ran
through her like a scorching fire. It throbbed in her breast,
filled her chest, flowed up her throat to her mouth. She wanted to
open it, to let out a scream, but his red eyes were still on her.
She was too afraid to act, frozen with fear.

He released
her and sniffed down the front of her body. He stopped at her navel
and circled his nose around it. He bent and ran his nostrils down
to her sex lips. He inhaled deeply. Again he looked up and stared
at her. He licked his tongue out. It was long and pointed, its
fleshy form like a snake, angling itself in all directions. He laid
its tip against her sex. She gasped. The heat from his tongue was
intense. It was like a scorching fire. She felt as if she was being
branded by it. She drew back. Instantly he grasped her buttocks
with his claw-like hands. He dug his nails into her flesh and
brought her sex back close to his mouth. He exhaled loudly. She
smelled his acrid breath.

'You must
punish her!' he shouted to the murmuring crowd. 'I will enjoy this
slit with my tongue. But it is you who must punish her. Only then
will your terrible sacrileges be forgiven.'