Chapter 10

Though tired from relentless shopping, the fresh sliced roast beef au jus and garlic mashed potatoes and haricot vert stuck to my ribs, and the bold burgundy unstrung any tension, and by the time we finished the apricot torte and the staff that had served us in Snake's suite removed the dishes and themselves, I felt ready for an evening of Snake's Tales.

Everyone joined us, making for a full common space in the suite. Most of us occupied the comfortable rug covered floor. My back rested against Eva while my legs surrounded Helena. Helen's minion clones sat with her on a loveseat, Angelique occupying her lap with Consuela sitting beside her. Lindy sat just on the other side from me from a recovered Naomi so we could both view her drawings, Miwa sitting between Lindy's legs.

"Where were we?" asked Snake.

"Hopefully getting to me," Helen muttered.

Everyone but her and her minions chuckled.

"Exiting the Germanic tribes I believe," said Betty.

"Hmm," Snake stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Then we have centuries establishing my temple and the oracle."

"Grrr," growled Helen.

Except for his grin, Snake ignored the growl. "Centuries establishing my little island kingdom, my first real nest for that skin. The Greek archipelago and the mainland began to weave the tapestry of what we now consider myths and legends, the hierarchy of the gods and their mischievous involvement and impregnation of mortals becoming a denser and denser weave, a more and more sophisticated religion. Did these Greeks believe in immortals or were they just captivating imaginations in explaining the reasons for their world and what came before? Could a god be flesh and blood reality?

"The island Tellos became Iros within a couple generations. I brought a poor island wealth and beauty. My suggestions to the ruler there to make the island special and sought after as a place that crafted textiles and wooden objects, transforming wool and wood into objects of splendor that synthesized Greek and Egyptian iconography just as I did in my looks and supposed gods sourced genealogy, made the island a destination for the rich and powerful and brought plentiful gold. But it wasn't just objects that men sought. They also sought my minions, beautiful young women and men to cavort with and to purchase as concubines or butt boys.

"Of course I gave the king's son the choice of beauties to wed, and he chose well, choosing not just beauty but intelligence. And I became uncle and chief advisor to the son who took the mantle of ruler. And my daughter, his queen, and I enjoyed many intimate conversations with him of surprising intelligence. It made it easy to sway him to the idea of creating a temple for a sort of oracle, except not of foresight, but of hindsight, a temple of genealogy. People came with great offerings to learn of their past, of their descent from the gods through generations of men and women to what they became. Like with Ruth centuries before using far flung minions to predict weather, I used minions established in various kingdoms and in the newly establishing city states as sources of knowledge of these rich and curious visitors. And with the success of the temple came a change of name for the island: the island of the eye. And I took a symbol of the eye as my icon, and its image synthesized the iconography of Greece and Egypt just as I did in my looks.

"As generations passed and great events happened that became stuff of legend such as Minos and the power of Minoa and its devastation by volcano becoming the story of the Minotaur and so forth, me and my priestesses disseminated these new tales and made them more and more essential to that Greek tapestry of belief.

"I kept myself mysterious, behind the scenes so to speak. The island knew of my immortality but we kept it hidden there, leaking it out only in the most shadowy and legend generating ways. But I needed my angel, so I needed to be bolder, more conspicuous. I offered two treasures for anyone in the world who could bring me the most beautiful woman and man, a contest supposedly judged by the gods themselves."

"Like the Judgment of Paris," I guessed.

"I influenced that tale, yes, and the beauty of Helen and Paris transformed that into their tale by Homer. My old Germanic tribe brought me Helen's mother, a gorgeous and sensuous and sensual creature newly ripened into womanhood, a true descendent of Hilda, and of Simon most directly as it turned out. The young man was from the most northern of Greek territory; black hair and brilliant blue eyes made him quite stunning. He was actually my son from a concubine sold to the ruler of that realm. Their escorts returned to their homes with an abundance of gold and jewels and left the exceptional beauties to mate. And mate they did. It was the only thing that they enjoyed doing with each other. Mating, except perhaps the first time when they brought each other their first orgasms, inevitably occurred out of the heat of battle. They argued and tussled physically before becoming lost in lust. They had their own little camps, the man with men and the woman with women, and preferred their own sex to sate lust most of the time. But lust overcame hate enough to produce Helen and Paris and couple of other gorgeous minions."

"Neither of my parents cared for me or my siblings," Helen took over, "preferring their little groups of dykes and faggots over any maternal or paternal influence. I think they actually envied me and Paris with our beauty overshadowing their award winning beauty. The priestesses of Iros raised me and my brother, most especially my wet nurse Daphne."

"Daphne," Nick sighed. "One of the plainest of my minions, chubby and..."

"Chubby?" Helen laughed. "How could you tell fat from pregnancy? I swear you rarely let her not be pregnant. She rarely lacked the ability to lactate."

"That woman loved to fuck and even more loved getting pregnant," Nick remembered fondly. "With all that beauty surrounding her, she never felt plain, and in a way, the way she glowed with each pregnancy, she had her own unique beauty that radiated like a full moon lighting up wherever she was."

"I loved the fondness you had for her," said Helen. "I could have felt jealous. I did for your other conquests. I guess I always had a bit of an Electra complex with you. But with her, it was such a soft and sweet loving I felt between you it just felt ... comforting somehow. I think her gentle, sweet nature, when we lost her to a disease that shrunk her soft plumpness until she shriveled into a skeleton like a dried out pea pod, had kept Simon's lure at bay. But when she drew her last painful breath, a pained and loving smile at me, and I became hysterical with grief and I came to you with the news..."

Nila reminds Nick of Callista in her lean and tall and elastic body. A gift from a grateful prince who bestows his most prized slave girl when the priest and his priestesses of Iros seem to have brought his recently lost mother back to him to communicate his love for her which he hadn't been able to before her death, the gift has even greater resonance since she is still a virgin. It has taken two priestesses and Nick at his gentlest and most calming to relax her. The fragrant oil the priestesses massage her with make her slippery in his embrace like an eel.

"Gods," she murmurs, feeling the intrusion of Nick's thick glans widen her narrow opening. "I never thought it would feel..." She shivers from the surprising pleasure complicated by pain of far less intensity than she imagines. Her slithery attempts at escape end abruptly. "I planned to tear his eyes out, the murderer of my parents and the enslaver of my body. Other slaves told me of brutality and selfish impalement. But he gave me to you like a piece of silver and I find ... gods ... that it is a gift to me as well."

"I cannot spare you all pain, lovely Nila," says Nick as he rises over her and plummets downwards, shearing her maidenhead.

"Gods!" she screams, arching her lithe back from the shock of the rupture as well as the opening of a far too narrow passageway. But throbbing pain transforms to tingling pleasure much like the rub of his glans had given her against her clit. In fact such rubbing aids the transformation done by a priestess who had calmed her with gentle strokes all over her body. The other priestess causes even more tingles with pinches and caresses of her breasts and especially her nipples.

Nick awaits the shift, tension disappearing with a lift of her pelvis and the press of her groin against his. When it happens, he withdraws his wounding weapon that has become a tool of pleasure. He keeps it slow and careful, watching for any winces. He witnesses a couple, so when the glans reach the doorway to her newly expanded passage, he plunges just as slowly back in to tap her cervix when fully seated. Again he withdraws with care and thrusts similarly. She begins to move counter to his but just a bit ahead. His smile greets hers as he quickens the thrusts and intensifies them. His lips meet hers and his tongue taps at her teeth which open and surrender to the intruder just as her cunt has surrendered to his cock. Both surrenderings bring her exquisite pleasure which, especially below, only get better and better, bringing forth the dew that smoothes the thrusts further and bringing her to a level of ecstasy far beyond any she has experienced with her own fingers or even the fingers of the servant girl she had secretly loved and horribly lost to the monstrous enslavers, raped and murdered in front of her eyes. A brief twinge of painful memory gets drowned in a shimmering wave of bliss that becomes many waves like a storm at high tide claiming a shore and sweeping it away.

"Gods!" she arches her back again, but for the opposite reason as Nick plunges rapidly into her narrow but slippery depths. With each pulling out, he pulls out the frothy nectar she creates. Again like Callista so many years before, he discovers her capability for multiple climaxes that seem to build in intensity until, with one last intense thrust and his pelvic bone crushing against hers, she becomes silenced by absolute bliss and he feels her shuddering cunt while embracing her shivering body.

And it is in that moment, like a knife shocking a heart beating out the rapid rhythms of bliss when it penetrates it, that Helen pulls him out of Nila's throbbing sheathe and onto his back, straddling his abdomen and punishing his chest with her fists.

"Daphne is dead and you fornicate with a whore!" Helen yells. Feeling her backside dampened by his continued ejaculations, she crawls back and grabs the pulsating cock. "I should tear it out of its roots or bite it off!" Her teeth actually surround his shaft just below the glans, but she eases off and sucks as if sucking milk from a huge nipple. It lessens her anguish and transforms it into something altogether different: lust. His glans pops out of her mouth. She rises up holding the still stiff shaft, though it loses some rigidity, and squats down on it, her pussy naked beneath her robe, until his glans expand her labia and quickly meet her virginal barrier.

"No!" Nick shouts, tossing her off him as if she weighed less than a bag of feathers.

She grasps her legs against her torso, becoming fetal, and sobs.

After glancing at Nila being soothed by his minions, he brings his gaze to his cherished young angel.

"Daphne's dead?" he murmurs.

"A lot that you care," Helen responds barely heard.

"I care enough to be thankful that her pain has finally ceased." He attempts touching Helen's scalp covered by a chaos of unbrushed golden hair, but she stiffens even more, so he withdraws his attempt at comforting.

"Only because she ceases to bother you with her brave suffering."

"I loved her, too, Helen."

"You only love yourself."

"I love you more," he whispers. "I would sacrifice my eternal life for you. You are the goddess I worship."

She moves her head back and meets his eyes. Though puffy and red, they do nothing to mar her beauty. "I worship you, too, Grandfather," she rasps through her sorrow tightened throat. "I wish we could be all things lovers can be."

He kisses her forehead. "That cannot be. It is as if you emerged from my loins. Though it was my son that fathered you, it might as well be me. I cannot love a daughter in that way."

Helen roars, "Fuck you!" and scrambles hurriedly to her feet and stomps out of the temple.

"It will pass, Father," says a priestess.

Nick nods sadly. He joins the priestesses in comforting Nila. "Are you okay?" he asks the olive skinned beauty. She nods with a half smile that reveals breathtaking compassion and pulls his head to hers for a gentle, warm kiss.

But it did not pass as they hoped. In the morning Helen's bed is empty despite it only being sunrise and Helen hating to rise so early. Her friend and lover and servant, a curvaceous raven haired beauty, a minion like all servants of the temple and in fact most of the residence of Iros, greets Nick teary-eyed with the news. "She has been ravished and stolen away by King Agamemnon."

"Ravished as in raped?" Nick roars. "Impossible! She would not allow that!"

Helen laughed enthusiastically and sardonically. She and Nick had traded back and forth in telling the tale. It would be Helen who took over at that point, her words saturated in bitter brine.

"But I did, performing with Oscar worthy vigor. Me the poor beauty unable to escape the lust of the brutish royal with direction by Simon. Yes, I let him in then. I had no reason to resist his relentless presence no longer embraced by compassion by Daphne nor hopeful that I could be all things to you, Nick. I was his for the taking, happily; a willing tool for his conspiracy. Taken by him meant being taken by Agamemnon, a frequent visitor to the whore house island of Iros."

Entering the den of lions that is Agamemnon's tent, in the midst of an orgy in which he and his courtiers literally feast on a large buck and figuratively feast on gorgeous gazelle like women, both items provided by Nick expensively-- if nothing else Nick is a brilliant salesman--Helen knows she will be sans maidenhead before the night ends. The clarity of that result becomes apparent when, despite the exquisite beauty of Nick's minions and their unparalleled sensuality and carnality, these gazelles become but shadows to the most succulent gazelle of all. All men focus solely on her. In their drunken lust they pay no mind to Helen slapping away any attempt at pawing at her body as she passes by, heading for the center of the orgiastic maelstrom occupied by Agamemnon.

He brushes aside the most beautiful and talented of minions releasing her grasping lips on his manhood. "Come here, Helen and tell me of your sorrow," he tells her, draping his cock that makes a tent of the fabric.

He has seen her several times sitting proudly beside Nick. In fact he has attempted her purchase despite seeing the high priest tense up every time and flatly refuse him. It seems obvious he chooses Miranda who, along with being the best and most beautiful of Nick's stable of prostitutes, resembles Helen at least in hair and eyes, as a replacement in which he can project the visage and body of the one he lusts for most.

"I must look wretched," Helen tells him once seated beside him opposite Miranda.

"Never," he roars.

"My nurse and most trusted companion, in fact the closest to a mother I ever had, just died."

"That is terrible news. Miranda, bring her a cup of my wine."

"It is why I sought you out in my grief," Helen sniffles. "It is well known you bring the most delicious of intoxicants."

"What are you doing here?" Miranda whispers into Helen's ear while handing her the cup. "Does the high priest know of your presence here?"

"You must not tell him," Helen growls into the prostitute's ear. "None of you tell him."

"How can you stop ... Ow!" Miranda reacts to the painful grasp of her arm, stronger than even an over eager client ever gave her.

"Look at the entrance," Helen growls quietly. They see Paris standing there commanding a minion to return to her job while flirting with one of Agamemnon's men. Helen swallows the entirety of the cupful of wine and shoves it at Miranda face. "Another," she orders. Miranda nods and while refilling Helen's cup swallows a cup for herself. When she brings the cup to Helen, Helen drinks at least half of it.

"Better?" Agamemnon smiles, his hands sliding through Helen's soft hair.

"Much," Helen smiles back. "But I've come for your company as well. You seem wise in all things." She pulls his hand from her head and places it in his lap.

"In my wisdom," he tells her proudly, his chest expanding from complement, "I have found ways to relieve a mind of sadness, of soldier losing his friend or husband losing his mate. Ways to make you forget everything." His hand returns to her head, caressing her perfect face. Again she pulls it away, but this time she seems to accidently brush the tent pole cock. He moans quietly at the contact.

"Perhaps you can tell me of one of your great victories?" she suggests, finishing off the wine and thrusting the cup at Miranda, who shrugs and goes to fill it, filling hers and swallowing much of that as well.

"I find my mind clouded in deep fog, sweet Helen, leaving only one thing on which to focus, to conquer, to vanquish, and it is the greatest victory of all, one that has eluded me until now." Grabbing the cup roughly from Miranda, he thrusts it against Helen's mouth cutting her lip. She quickly covers the contusion to keep him from seeing it immediately heal, resisting his hand trying to pull hers away until the cut disappears.

"Drink," he grumbles. "You are a virgin?" She nods. "This will numb the pain at its vanquishing."

She lets him pour it down her gullet. His mouth roughly follows the cup pressing cruelly against her mouth as he flings the cup away, striking Miranda's face and concussing her briefly when her last attempt to lure him away from her high priestess with a blow job puts her face in the way of the cup's trajectory.

Struggling against his kiss and the foul breath it brings, Helen screams, "No!"

He of course ignores her, shoving fingers under her robe to find parched vaginal lips. "That won't do," he grumbles, removing the violating hand and grabbing the confused head of Miranda. "Get her wet, Miranda!" he orders. "I know you cunts like sucking each other's cunts!"

Miranda obeys. Even if he hasn't forced her, she would gladly obey. She always wanted her lips there and is jealous of Helen's little group of lesbians who get to taste such a perfect little pussy she has seen in the baths. Besides that, it would lessen her high priestess's pain.

Once her lips and tongue attach themselves to perfection and her hand surreptitiously coats Agamemnon's thick phallus with the saliva she has spit into it, Agamemnon grabs Helen's robe and pulls it violently off her body, not even noticing that Helen aids the baring of perfection with a subtle lift of her perfect buttocks.

But Miranda notices and gives a surprised look at Helen who knows she has been detected and sends an angry warning via her eyes at the gorgeous blonde slut. Miranda nods, accepting her Mistress's silent and baffling command.

Rough hands maul Helen's perfect handfuls of proud tit flesh. Helen transforms the pain brought to that sensitive tissue into pleasure, amplifying the pleasure being given to her by Miranda's talented tongue. But out of her mouth she still screams, "No," before being silenced by hard pressing lips.

The king finds a slick orifice for his rock hard shaft to smoothly enter via his middle finger shoving cruelly into it deep enough to strike the extra thick and sensitive barrier.

"Ow!" Helen yells.

Shoving poor Miranda away with a violent push that lands her on the ground, the back of her head bouncing off it, Agamemnon swiftly climbs between Helen's thighs, hands pulling them apart before one hand grabs his cock more erect that it has ever been to the point of near pain, and places it at the too small entrance. Feeling heat enclose his glans, he presses down and shoves inches deep.

"Ow! Motherfucker!" Helen screams. The pains is excruciating and only gets worse. The thickness of the barrier stops penetration just beyond it so that she has to feel every inch of his thick cock breaking through. Luckily, though thick, he's barely five inches long.

Finally completely buried, her struggles against his rape prevents him from continuing painful strokes inside of her, having to keep her held down. By the time she seems to weaken and he can begin the fucking in earnest, the pain lessens and dissipates leaving hints of pleasure to rise, especially as his mouth chews on her nipples which she has already transformed from pain to pleasure. She glances at Miranda recovering from the confusion her brain received from the bumping of her head and gestures her eyes downwards. Miranda nods and slips fingers between the rutting king and her high priestess and rubs Helen's clit.

Helen trembles and screams in ecstasy, the scream filling the tent like a deafening explosion. Her interior, rippling with her greater, inhuman power, milks Agamemnon's cock with an aggression that borders on pain and could have been painful to a man not so thoroughly numbed by alcohol. It succeeds in finally squeezing out the King's semen, its flood adding to Helen's own flood of lubricant. The King beams down on his conquest, feeling mightily masculine that his rape has brought forth such ecstasy.

Others around them seem infected by Helen's pleasure. Men release their last spurts into shivering receptacles including Paris just inside the entrance spurting into the anus of a guard.

"Take me with you," Helen mewls into Agamemnon's ear. "I am yours."

Before they make their escape within the wine blush of sunrise, Helen speaks with her brother. "Travel, Paris. Build a harem like Grandfather's. Impregnate as many as possible."

"I am only stirred by your female beauty," he tells her, kissing her in unbrotherly passion.

"That is the point," she smiles when lips part. "Make fabulously beautiful minions for our grandfather."

"Which grandfather?" he asks.

"Either. Both. Doesn't matter. They are both gods in flesh disguises. They are exquisite in their power. Enrich their power with beauty. Beauty has its own power in its seductive persuasion. Plant seeds in beautiful wombs. Make great concubines and queens."

"But of course you couldn't escape me," said Nick.

"But I did in the end, didn't I?" Helen retorted.

"Did you?" he grinned malevolently. Helen's discomfort showed itself.

"Truth be told, Grandfather, I may have rebelled that moment, but I ended up using it to your purpose, at least for awhile." She chuckled. "Much to Agamemnon's chagrin. He assumed I would be his sex slave, the ass."

In the large and opulent room in which Agamemnon stows his most prized concubine, visiting her three or four times a week, he watches his favorite scene unfold. Only needing to refill his cup several times from the large jug of wine specially created by Helen with a gentle soporific interupts his hand from rubbing his stone hard cock as he watches Helen and her companion Miranda pleasure each other with their mouths. Miranda's beauty only dims in comparison to Helen's exquisite perfection. Otherwise they could almost be twins.

Helen removes her mouth from Miranda's succulent blonde crowned cunt, arching her back, her face lifted towards the ceiling as she growls in climax. Agamemnon eases off his masturbation to prevent his own orgasm. He watches her shift around with an evil grin, her hand reaching to a bedside table and grabbing a large, thick phallus at least a half size longer and wider than Agamemnon's own cock, and using the unguent that he himself has been using to slicken his rubbing, coats the dildo with strokes much like his. When she dabs her tongue on the very end of the fake penis, winking at him, he again has to ease back his strokes.

With her mouth returning to the pleasuring of Miranda's clit, Helen presses the huge phallus inside the spit and pussy juice slickened slit, expanding it intensely. "Gods, it's like a baby's head reentering me," Miranda gasps which causes chuckles from King and concubine.

Though an evil grin remains on Helen's mouth, she keeps the immense intrusion into the rather petite orifice a careful one. Inching in before pulling out a little less than has entered, she takes several minutes to finally embed the fake cock as deep as it can go, watching the pain/pleasure expression on her lover's face to detect the moment when Miranda's cervix has been met. Of course the wall would prevent further entering, but opening her up had been a resisting thing, so between pressing deeper and having no deeper to go is a subtle thing. Once the cervix has been met, a twist of pain on Miranda's lovely face revealing it, Helen measures the length and begins the assault, slowly but building in speed.

As Helen intends, the position she has taken to shaft her lover while suckling her clit gives perfect and beckoning target to her wrinkled backdoor lifted highest and with her legs spread wide widening Miranda's opening, leaving it agape if only a tiny bit. But she manages to make that little circle open and close for her king, winking at him, beckoning him. She feels Agamemnon's rough fingers shoving inside her there, his hand coated with unguent greasing her as those fingers open her up. Seconds later it is a much thicker appendage popping through the dilated but still narrow sphincter. She grunts from the intense displacement. It is a grunt of pleasure. She finds a good anal fuck a much more intense experience than the normal passageway brings her, at least from Agamemnon's diminutive cock.

Unknown to the King, the wine he has consumed by the cupful has not only a soporific that will make him blissfully unconscious once he exhausts himself with fucking, but a particular pollen which prevents ejaculation. So, though he has eased off several times while masturbating to prevent orgasm, it hasn't actually been necessary. Fully expecting to release his cum into her rectum, especially when he speeds up to a vigorous fuck, it surprises him when the pressure of his full to maximum balls sending pleasure signals to announce imminent release does not find release. The pleasure/pain threshold after several minutes of experiencing orgasmic feelings without the usual physical results moves inexorably towards the pain side as the balls fill to near explosive overcapacity.

His pounding into her bowels finally triggers a profound orgasm out of Helen. The powerful fluttering of her sphincter plays further into the pain and the pleasure of his incredible and disturbing experience.

She pulls off his painfully hard cock, turning her body to once again press her sopping cunt onto Miranda's mouth, itself gasping in orgasm, while pulling Miranda's legs high and wide and guiding that cock into Miranda gaping asshole, covertly readied for just such an assault by Helen's unguent coated fingers.

"Gods!" Miranda screams into Helen's cunt. The unexpected added pressure and expansion to her already over expanded loins reenergizes her orgasm and sustains it longer than she has ever experienced. Lost so thoroughly in ecstasy, even an unprepared anus accepts the violent intrusion of Agamemnon's rock hardness; she is that relaxed down there.

Finally, Helen ends the King's torture, shoving a finger in his anus and vigorously rubbing his prostate. Amusement at his contorted, sweaty, eye bulging, ripe tomato colored face almost stays her hand, but she gives him his release. His roar of relief echoes off the stone walls of her chamber. And he barely finishes ejaculating the last of his prodigious deposit into Miranda's bowels before collapsing onto Helen's blonde companion having passed out, his dwindling manhood exiting her asshole with a wet pop.

Miranda too is nearly unconscious as Helen adjusts her onto her side with the hulking body of the king positioned spooning behind her. Helen kisses her blonde lover on her sweaty forehead, whispering, "See you."

"Bye," Miranda barely replies.

Flinging a rope out the window, Helen quickly dresses in a long body concealing robe with a hood and climbs through and down. A minion waits for her on the ground. She has a handsome young genius to amuse, the first of several. Several over twenty years.

Twenty years of course affects Helen not at all. But mortals change greatly. She loses Miranda a couple years after their arrival due to a cruel and bloody birth. The minion, Agamemnon's son, survives. Other sons and daughters are born from later companions, all minions from Iros and Nick. The acquitting of the first new companion to replace Miranda creates a fracas between Helen and Agamemnon since he refuses to take the chance of visiting the island in which he stole the high priestess. She knows that already, and she fights him to tease him and his overabundant macho pride. Of course she simply lets her grandfather know she's in need of a replacement via telepathy and the companion arrives soon after by ship.