Trojan Slaves Read Online Free Page A

so that he would not
leave her without delving his tongue deep in there as well. She
rode on his face, panting and gasping, yelling and screaming. She
would not let him go, gripping him and pulling his tongue in ever
more deeply, wriggling on it, opening her anus to it, using it,
fulfilling herself on it, being everything for it.
    Another
soldier dragged the man free and cast Eva down. She lay on her
back, her hips still writhing, her cunt still glistening and open,
her anus dribbling and her skin gleaming with sweat. She knew, even
as she fought for breath, she'd not had enough. She could not
imagine ever having enough.
     
    In the end the
women's wrists were unbound. They lay on the beach, pained and
exhausted. Fine yellow sand stuck to the sweat on their skin,
covering their breasts. Some of them groaned, some of them cried
out, but Eva, who had suffered more than any and had reached
greater heights of pleasure than any, remained silent.
    Ajax
instructed his men to drag the women to their feet and give them a
final thrashing.
    'And do not
spare our wanton northern maiden,' he shouted back. 'I can still
see defiance in her eyes.'
    Eva took her
place in the line, got down on her knees and waited her turn.
Through tear-filled eyes she watched Achilles, with Ajax behind
him, walking away. Beyond them, in the reddening sunset, lay the
plain of Troy upon which so many battles had already been fought.
Beyond that the great walls of the city, the defeat of which was
the pledge of Agamemnon in his undertaking to rescue his brother's
wayward and beautiful wife Helen from the arms of her magnificent
lover, Paris, son of Priam, king of Troy.
     
     

Chapter 3
The pleasures of
Troy
     
    The great city
of Troy sat behind its towering walls, impregnable, unviolated by
the outside world, immersed in its own pleasures, degraded only by
its own depravity. Its inhabitants made a study of gratification
and pursued delights of the body and mind with insatiable
eagerness.
    The beautiful
young Sappho ducked down behind the statue of Hera, the ox-eyed
goddess. Pelador, the priest, wearing a ram's fleece on his back,
his face covered by a mask, chanted rhythmically. He held a sharp,
glinting knife to a ram's throat. The air was thick with incense
and myrrh. White-robed acolytes, the palms of their hands pressed
together at their chests, recited prayers and bowed low. Naked
girls danced around them throwing flowers. When their baskets were
empty they stooped down and filled them from the floor, tightening
their buttocks and exposing between them the shape of their naked
cunts. Young men ogled them with eager eyes, occasionally grabbing
one by the breasts or between the thighs, and fondling them harshly
before releasing them to the sound of mutual laughter.
    Sappho loved
watching these ceremonies. They excited her so much. She squatted
low behind the statue. She drew up her loose robe and gathered it
between her knees. She felt the draught of cool air from the inner
temple against her exposed buttocks. It made her shiver and she
felt goose flesh on the silky softness of her labia. She ran her
fingers between her legs. For a second she closed her eyes,
imagining her sex, picturing the sweet pinkness, shaved and oiled.
She pictured the glistening moisture at its centre - sparkling,
sweet, available. She thought of her fingers, poking her flesh. She
imagined them steadily working their way beneath her robe, across
the front of her thigh then slowly, nervously, finding their way
into the sweet valley that lay at the base of her stomach. She
touched her slit and felt her clitoris hardening. She pressed
slightly, and felt the petals of flesh that surrounded it opening,
inviting, yearning. She licked her lips and opened her eyes,
looking around quickly to see if anyone was watching. No, there was
no one. She was safe.
    Last week when
she had been here, at the same place, doing the same thing, a young
man saw her. He had crept up behind her and grabbed her