by Syra Bond
TROJAN SLAVES
by
SYRA BOND
Published by Chimera Books
ISBN 9781780804521
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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.
Preface
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
Chapter 1
Humiliation on the beach at Troy
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. A
nd 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.
Achilles let the backs of his hands slip against Eva's smooth skin until, stretching his arms fully up and patting her legs slightly, his fingertips touched her sex. Instantly pleasure welled up inside her. Blood pounded through her veins, her temples throbbed with anticipation, and her heart, already beating heavily in her chest, raced so much she could not catch her breath. She flinched as he ran his fingers around her flesh. It was a flinch of expectation, not fear. She could not believe what she was thinking. Would he penetrate her with his fingers? Would he open her up and pull her down onto his tongue? Perhaps he would simply lay the tips of his fingers against her flesh until, without applying any pressure, it would open up to him? Yes, she thought, if he just held his fingers there her lips would part, only slightly, but enough to release her moisture, and that would be enough to allow his fingers in. Just the smallest pressure and the silky wet inner leaves would open up and fold against his fingertips, lubricating them, scenting them, encouraging them to enter her. Yes, that is what he would do, she thought. She hung onto the anticipation and wanted him to wait, to prolong her expectation, to capture her with potential.
But Achilles did not wait. His fingers followed the contours of the delectable sex lips, poking gently at the swollen flesh and finding, by pressing it apart, the wet softness between them. He found her clitoris - raised and hard, throbbing and wanton. He took it between thumb and finger and squeezed. Her taut body tightened even more. He stared into her face and saw her pain as he pinched, digging his nails into the throbbing knot of flesh, crimping it, squeezing it, crushing it. Excruciating pain ran through her and, as spit dribbled from her mouth, a shock of pleasure joined it and she fell into a drooling ecstasy.
He pulled back and slowly she licked the spit from around her mouth. Her tongue poked down towards her chin - pink and fleshy with strands of spit bubbling at its tip. But he did not let her rest. Her pubic hair was soft and sparse and he curled his finger into its light curls. Now she sensed him as a lover might; his power, his heat, his passion. She knew she was a captive. She knew she was victim to his every wish, humiliated by his presence, degraded by his attention. But she could not ignore the swollen, moist flesh of her cunt that had opened so easily with the lightest pressure from his hand. She realised he knew her desires, her needs, her wanton expectation. She shivered again with fear of her own yearnings and, as he felt them too, he drew back and smiled.
'You are indeed a beauty,' he said, massaging her ankles and taking her toes, one by one, into his hungry mouth. 'And,' he exclaimed, pulling back abruptly, 'you taste like the most delectable summer fruit!'
Eva rose on his sucking lips, bending her elbows and, ignoring the pain, raising herself on her bonds. She could not hold back the sensation of pleasure. It ran up the backs of her legs, into her buttocks and across and within the flesh of her sex. As she swallowed hard in an effort to control herself she felt her breasts tingling, her nipples hardening and her throat filling with apprehension. But no amount of gulping could bring her to her senses. She bit her lip, offering herself more pain, distracting herself, giving herself an escape route and suddenly, and with a great effort, she shook her feet from his grasp.
He laughed loudly and stood back. He was just about to grab her again when he heard someone behind him. He swung around, his muscles tensing with easy, athletic poise; he was, every inch, the graceful, assured warrior.
A heavily built man, tall with long black hair to his shoulders, stepped forward. His muscular chest glistened with oil and his burnished leather tunic shone in the light of the rising sun. He looked straight into Achilles' eyes. It was obvious he held Achilles in contempt, but at the same time, it was clear he dared not cros
s him.
'Ajax,' said Achilles, turning away from Eva and reaching out his hand in friendship. 'Ajax, my friend, you have a fine row of pretty girls here. Especially this red-haired maiden. She must be from a great distance. We do not have such fair-skinned females like this in Greece.' He reached up between Eva's thighs again. 'Nor do we have such tight clits, I'll wager.' He pinched her flesh roughly and she felt a wave of joy spreading deep into her stomach.
'You are right, my lord. They are fine indeed, and as you say, tight. They say this one was a princess, from the north of Germany. And you are just in time to see how she suffers. She has not been fully tested yet, but I do not think she will disappoint. She how she scowls. It will be a treat for us all to hear her squeal.'
Achilles smiled.
'Do not be too harsh to start with, Ajax. I feel her promise will not be revealed until she warms to our ways. '
'You are strangely merciful, my lord. Has the beach at Troy made you soft?'
Achilles knew Ajax should not say such a thing. If the other men heard him it would be seen as an obvious challenge to his authority. But he shrugged it off with a laugh; he knew there were different ways of controlling men than with the sword. Just as he knew there were different ways of controlling women than with the lash, or the flail. Ajax was too barbarous for Achilles' refined taste, but he was a fine warrior and Achilles needed him for that.
'Ajax, you reveal my tender side, and for that I am grateful. Come, show me what these women have for us. You can teach me a lesson in cruelty. You are right; I need hardening!'
