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Hidden within a crevasse of deep time sat the Temple.
The Poet was unsure how he had arrived here. His memories were of a bacchanal, gulping down wine and gorging on boar and chicken. His head throbbed. His mouth felt numb.
His cell was maybe five feet wide and only a little shorter in height and depth, gated by iron bars. He sat hunched on all fours and as he lifted his head he became aware that he was also wearing a collar of some sort, also wrought in iron. He could still lift his head and beyond the bars he could see the flickering of flames. The warmth felt far away though, he was shivering and realised that he was naked.
Frowning, he tried to recall the events that had lead him here. There had been applause. His recital of the fall of Achilles had entertained the party. The boys had brought him wine and a few offers of arse which he had been tempted by. There had been singing and hugging and kisses and-
The Poet caught his breath. The woman with those eyes. Piercing blue eyes, golden hair, the twisted curl of her lip. His cock had stirred and she had smiled. And then… nothing.
Feeling his iron noose at his throat he swallowed and then tried his voice.
“Hello? Hello! I say, is anyone there?”
His voice echoed around the rock. His eyes had adjusted now and he could see that his cell was built into the side of a larger cave. Was he underground? How long had he been unconscious?
The light ahead shifted, darkened. A figure rounded the corner. The Poet blinked and focused.
It was the woman from the party. She wore a white peplos that barely covered her breasts and ended just below her bottom. The woman was otherwise naked, save for a black leather belt and black leather sandals that shone briefly in the reflected firelight. Her blonde hair was pulled tightly back and held in place with a small black leather tie.
Her blue eyes bored into his skull. She walked with purpose over to his cell and bent over.
“The great poet is awake. Come on, out you come.”
She pulled back a rope that held the iron gate in place. She dragged it open, giving enough room for the Poet to skulk out. The Poet froze though.
“Come along,” she said. The woman undid her black leather belt and before the Poet knew what was happening she had threaded it through a loop on his iron collar. Tugging on the belt, the Poet lurched forward and scrambled ungainly out of the cell and into the wider cave. Despite the heaviness of the collar, he drew himself up on to his two shaky legs.
The woman smiled at him and then sharply drew her knee up and smacked his exposed testicles.
“SHIT!” he screamed collapsing back on to the floor. She quickly grabbed his chin.
“Watch your language! You kiss your mother with that mouth?” she giggled. “No… you haven’t, have you?”
The poet shook in pain at his aching balls before he felt his neck being tugged.
“Crawl,” said the blonde woman. Gingerly the Poet complied wincing at the pain of the cold stone floor on his knees.
As he crawled behind the blonde woman, the Poet did his best to take in his surroundings. The walls became more angular and smooth as they rounded the corner. The Poet saw that they were on a raised walkway fashioned out of the cave wall. Over his left shoulder he could glimpse the floor below. Flaming torches were set on each side of the walkway. He imagined that should he try to escape, he would end up badly burned.
Ahead of him was a raised dais that sat in front of a large, oval archway, nearly double the height of the average man. More torches burned on each side of the dais and the smell of incense tickled his nose. Through the archway lay impenetrable darkness. The Poet squinted, but could make out nothing.
He allowed himself to be led up to the dais. The incense added to the unsteadiness on his feet, the close glare of the torches, made him cast his eyes down. Looking at the dais it was made of smooth, polished marble, maybe only an inch thick and raised three feet from the stone floor. At one end was a concave edge and two feet down from that, a hole a few inches in diameter.
“Odd looking altar,” the Poet remarked.
“Shut up and lie down.”
His collar was tugged up and over the dais, his neck lead towards the concave edge. Frowning once more at the pain, the Poet clambered up on to the dais. The neck collar was given another sharp tug and the Poet found himself lying face down on the cool marble. With a CLANK, the chain was attached to a hook on the floor beside the dais. All he could now see was the floor, and the leather sandals of his captor. He became acutely aware of his exposed genitals that had now dropped neatly into the small stone hole.
The woman squatted down in front of him, her blue eyes met his.
“Comfortable?” she asked.
The Poet could not raise his head very high. “Not really.”
The woman chuckled to herself. “Now you are ready for the Priestess.”
In the distance a gong sounded. The Poet frowned.
A ataşehir escort few seconds of silence and then from the blackness of the archway next to him came the echoing of sandalled footsteps much louder than he was used to. He strained to look up and around, but saw nothing. All he could sense were the CLICK-CLACK of the person approaching.
The footsteps increased in volume and then stopped. The Poet could sense the figure near to him. His blonde captor had gone to stand nearby. The Poet breathed shallow, straining to listen and then yelped loudly.
His cock and balls were being grasped together and squeezed from beneath the dais. Through his cries, the Poet heard a new voice. Another female, but a little deeper than before.
“The measure of a man. You can tell much about a man from the state of his prick and these two lumps. Come here my acolyte and see… still pinkish here and here, I’ll guess he never gets it out much, no tan line from the sun to see. The hair is unkempt, which usually signifies a lazy sort of vanity, he probably thinks women like it like this…”
Despite the assault on his genitals, the Poet felt himself beginning to stiffen in her grip.
“And yet, see how it begins to thicken. Not a completely useless prick after all then. Hold it for me please… now work it slowly, that’s it, like you were stirring a sauce, round and round.”
The Poet was moaning, his blonde captor, referred to as the Acolyte, had a grip on his penis and was slowly rotating it beneath the stone. He tried to focus on the figure that was talking and had now moved in front of him. His first sight was a foot with toenails painted a shiny teal. On her feet were golden sandals the likes of which the Poet had never seen, a long point raised the heel off the floor. The Poet tried to raise his head up to see, but only got as far as the gold satin that fell down her midriff and curved over her hips, parting to expose her toned, tan legs.
“I am the Priestess and you…” she paused to consider. “You are a heretic. You are a liar and your lies deserve to be corrected.”
“Wha-what?” the Poet stammered trying to focus on her words as his cock was pulled and twisted beneath him.
“You heard me.” The Poet felt long fingernails scratch under the stubble of his chin. “Let’s talk about your latest work? This ‘Odyssey’.”
“What about it? People seem to like it-AHH!” The Poet’s dick was twisted upwards sharply.
The Priestess continued. “I’ll admit, some of what happened is true, though I find that some of the metaphor within it is laid on a bit thick. I mean… a gigantic beast with one eye, what sort of wish fulfilment is that?”
The Poet cried out once more as his cock was twisted and tugged.
“But enough of the silly monsters. I want to talk about the ending. Your false ending, the return of your wandering hero to reclaim all that belongs to him.”
Down on the floor, beneath the Poet’s face, a large bowl was placed, made of copper. The Priestess stood either side of it and here elegant fingers pulled back the gold dress. The Poet sat opened mouth with surprise as the Priestess let a warm and fecund stream of piss splatter into the bowl beneath her, all the while he felt his cock being jerked under him and his balls began to fill with spunk.
After the last few drops spilled into the bowl, the Priestess stood to one side and the Poet felt overwhelmed by the smell of her urine.
“Look into the bowl,” the Priestess commanded. “Look into the bowl and see the truth of what happened to Odysseus.”
The smells of piss and incense, the pleasurable and painful manipulation of his genitals made the Poet’s head swim. The world collapsed around him and within the bowl emerged the cavernous Great Hall of Ithaca.
* * *
“Odysseus is dead!”
The words rang around the Great Hall for all to hear. From within the alcoves that surrounded the hall’s floor a number of men nodded in agreement. Some were officials of Ithaca’s court, some staff within the Great Hall, others farmers and fisherman from the island.
Worst of all though were the Suitors. Men who lusted only for power, who gorged themselves on Ithaca’s livestock, who considered the island to be a prize ripe for exploitation. Speaking now was the worst of all, Antinous.
“We must face facts, my lady, Odysseus is dead and the land here has no ruler. We must-“
A loud cough interrupted the speech from the stooping brute that currently held the floor. Antinous glared towards the throne that sat on a platform at one end of the Great Hall. Sat on the throne was a woman of the most striking beauty. Long dark hair curled down over her face, framing her tanned skin. Her white dress was low-cut exposing her generous cleavage and a gold belt, a snake eating its own tail looped around her waste. The dress parted beneath allowing her to show her tanned, toned legs, ending in brown leather heeled sandals.
Behind her stood a younger man. Eighteen summers of age and possessed with kadıköy escort the same dark eyes and hair as the woman. His body was also tanned and muscular from days spent practicing with sword or hauling fish with nets. He wore a single white sash arranged across his body, exposing part of his sculpted chest and ending just at mid-thigh. The sash was held in place by a gold brooch that had the same snake eating its own tail design. It was the younger man that had coughed. He now stepped forward.
“My lord Antinous, please remember that my mother rules here. We are not without a leader and the land has prospered most successfully under her watch-“
Antinous wouldn’t be silenced. “Nevertheless the law is quite clear. Ithaca needs a king, it deserves a king and a king there must be!”
There were more nods of agreement.
The woman on the throne raised her hand and spoke.
“I am grateful to our Lord Antinous for making the case for the law so… loudly. I am also grateful for my son Telemachus for defending my position. Forgive him, Lord Antinous, it is in a son’s nature to defend his mother.”
Antinous bowed towards the throne in a manner that did little to hide the anger he felt towards the boy.
The woman stood up. “I will not make a decision today. We’ve only a few more moons to go until summer ends. My decision will come soon enough.”
With that she turned and walked down from the platform, her white dress billowing behind her. Her son followed behind her and the Great Hall filled with disgruntled and unsatisfied chatter.
They had come from all over Greece, the suitors. They all wanted the hand of its Queen Penelope, they all knew that her husband, the late king would never return from the suicide mission to Troy.
Odysseus had been a clever and wise ruler of Ithaca, turning it into a thriving island of trade and culture. He had married one of the most beautiful women the island had known in Penelope and she had given birth to a son Telemachus, who inherited both his father’s wit and guile and his mother’s handsome countenance.
However, a couple of years since Telemachus was born the call had gone up for arms, to go to war and for Odysseus, despite his protests, he eventually left for Troy.
Penelope had stepped in to rule Ithaca most admirably, she had maintained her husband’s rules, and continued to let Ithaca thrive. She had watched Telemachus grow into a strong young man. Then, two summers ago, the suitors had started to arrive. Claiming all manner of bizarre links to Ithaca’s royal household they had set-up in court and refused to leave. It was, they explained, Zeus’s will that Ithaca should have a king.
The Queen and mother had briefly considered making Telemachus king, but that would increase the risk of his assassination ten-fold and she refused to place him in harm’s way. Instead she had played the waiting game, hoping either for her husband’s return or for the suitors to leave. They had, after all, fed themselves with Ithaca’s food and wine. As that stockpile began to dwindle she prayed that many of the suitors would leave, bored and hungry for a wealthier region. However, they were becoming restless, working to turn the people of Ithaca against her. Antinous was particularly poisonous in this respect.
There was one other slight complication. Penelope was a Queen and mother, but also a woman and she had needs. The situation with the suitors had significantly reduced the number of sexual partners that she trusted. In fact there was only one man that she did trust.
Throughout the past year, Penelope had seduced Telemachus. She had begun bathing with him, getting him used to the sight of his mother’s luscious naked body. He had been trained to massage her, to use oils and incense to heighten the effect of his firm hands rubbing and squeezing her flesh. That mutual touch had quickly become foreplay and then sex.
Within the Queen’s bedroom, adjacent to Telemachus’s but protected by a ring of corridors, no guard or orderly was allowed to enter on pain of death. In the centre of the room sat Penelope’s bed, resplendent in silks and cushions. the room was dark, cool and lit only with candles that burned on all sides.
Penelope lay face-down on the bed naked, save for her heeled sandals that excited Telemachus cock so much. He knelt beside his mother, his hands coated in leaf oil and rubbing her back. His hands roamed all over her body.
“Lower,” she purred. “That throne needs replacing it’s become murder on my bottom.”
Telemachus smiled and began working his hands into the tanned flesh of his mother’s arse. She moaned gently as he drizzled the oil her bum cheeks and rubbed gleefully. He looked down at his own rigid erection quickly reached down to tug it.
“Concentrate, Telemachus, mother will take care of that soon enough.”
His returned to her arse, kneading the soft flesh.
“Mother, why won’t you let me kill, Antinous? I can think of a number of ways…”
“And risk a war? No. bostancı escort bayan Too much at stake. He will get bored or, try something rash and our guards will need to protect us.”
“He’s an awful shit, mother.”
“Forget about him, darling.” Penelope pushed her bottom up and curved her back. “Come, get your fingers inside me.”
Telemachus did as he was told. His oily fingers slid into his mother’s tight pussy and he bang to work them in and out. At first one, then a second. Penelope sighed once more and buried her head in the silks of the bed.
“Use your other hand on my clit,” she ordered.
The right hand fingers of Telemachus worked in and out her pussy as his left fingers found her clit and he began to rub in a circular motion. Penelope moaned into the bed.
As Telemachus moved his fingers, he felt his mother’s pussy began to contract around them. “That’s it,” she said. “Keep going there, keep going, yes, just like that.”
The young man slowly began to increase the pace of his fingering, pressing down more firmly on her clit. Her encouragement kept him focused and he slid deeper inside her.
Penelope’s words become moans as her body became taut. Her black hair fell over her face as her moans got louder. The she began to pant out her cries as the feeling built within her. “Fuck, yes my son, oh fuck, yes, ahhhhhh-“
The orgasm over came Penelope’s body. It shook with her, rang out around her whole being as her head pushed into the pillows and her arse pushed out. She rode the wave of pleasure before mewing and sighing. Her whole body slowly lowered itself back on to the bed.
When he sensed that his mother needed to rest, Telemachus slid his fingers out from her body. He continued to lightly massage her bottom cheeks as the orgasm faded slowly away from her.
A few moments later, Penelope turned over onto her back and Telemachus’ cock throbbed at the sight of her round, plentiful breasts. His mother smiled at him and beckoned him over to her. She held one of her tits up and Telemachus slid down next to her, curling alongside. His mouth greedily found her right breast and his mouth began sucking on the nipple.
Reaching down, Penelope found his cock and grasped it in her slender fingers. Telemachus moaned. Penelope worked her hand up and down his young, rigid shaft, drops of pre-cum were already forming on his pink helmet. She squeezed the base of his cock and slowly moved her hand upwards.
“My little tit-boy,” she said as Telemachus groaned and sucked harder. “Do you want Mommy’s tits to make you spill, little one?”
Telemachus moaned in agreement. Smiling, Penelope gently prized him away from her tit. The young man, slid down on to the bed, as Penelope crawled up and over to face him. She straddled his legs, his cock upright in front of her. Leaning forward she playfully swung her breasts from side to side as they thumped against his cock. He sighed with delight.
Then Penelope leaned in closer and then squeezed her breasts tight against Telemachus’ cock. He moaned with pleasure as Penelope mashed her breasts up and down against his raging prick. She cooed and giggled as he moaned.
“Little tit-boy, always jerking himself over my breasts, wanting Mommy’s tits in his hungry mouth, naughty little tit-boy.”
Her wicked chiding of her son made him writhe with pleasure and need as his balls tingled and pre-cum began to leak from the tip. She grinned with delight and went quicker, her luscious boobs engulfing her son’s cock, causing him the unbearable need to spurt.
“Does little tit-boy want cummies?” she asked.
“Yes, please, Mommy, please, fuck…”
“Poor widdle darling need to cum?”
Penelope shook her tits driving the trapped cock wild. “Cum little tit-boy, cum!”
The pressure beat Telemachus and the cum spurted from his cock all over his mother’s breasts and face. It arced out of his spluttering cock coating Penelope’s chin, twitching with each splash of his spunk.
The Queen and mother leaned back and Telemachus watched as she began to rub his cum into her magnificent breasts. He smiled at the sight before dizziness overcame him and his head fell forward.
As Telemachus slumped down into the sheets, Penelope smiled sweetly at her son and used a cloth to clean herself up. She prayed that this would last, that her relationship with her darling son would stay with her forever. Deep down though she feared the worst.
Leaving her son to sleep she dressed once more and crossed out of the inner bedroom to one of the windows overlooking the harbour. The sun had fallen on Ithaca and the sky a deep orange. Below her the fishing boats rested until needed once more before dawn.
Then, out to sea, something caught her eye. A ship was listing in the water, leaning over hard to port. Penelope felt her stomach turn and a feeling of dread settled within her.
* * *
“But that’s- that’s…”
“Go on, you’re a big clever Poet, you can say the word.”
“Incest!” spat the Poet.
Above him, unseen, the Priestess giggled.
“I know, first we chain you up, then we wank you, then I piss in front of you and now a mother and son are doing it in front of your very eyes. You must be shocked. Shocked!”
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