The Torture of Paris

Paris was crying now. Hot, salty tears ran down his face as Menelaus continued to suck on his cock, making Paris want desperately to release the searing hot fluid inside of his body, but the cock ring would not allow it. It was on too tightly for anything to move through his penis and he sobbed uncontrollably as Menelaus shoved his tongue into Paris' slit and drank his semen and blood together as one potion.

Agamemnon stood to the side, watching the captive prince thrash his head back and forth, wheezing almost with the air he was trying to inhale through his mouth. The boy's dick was so purpled Agamemnon wondered if it would break into two separate pieces. Then they would really be finished. This worried him so much that he pulled his brother off of Paris' aching penis and yanked the cock ring off.

The hot, creamy white fluid shot out of Paris onto the dresser across from the bed he was tied to. His cock twitched and jerked violently and the bee sting welts only made him ache more as the tender flesh moved this way and that with the orgasm that overtook the poor defenseless prince. He cried and sobbed until his release was complete, then hung his head, panting heavily. He could see how filthy he was, caked with sweat and semen and blood. He was no longer royalty. He was just a pathetic sex slave.

He was exhausted as well and wished he could just lie down and sleep. Maybe when he woke up, all this would be a nightmare and his beautiful Helen would be beside him, stroking his silky brown hair and massaging his shoulders, feeding him grapes later on.

No, it would never happen. This was too real and too painful to be a dream. Helen and everyone else were dead. Paris closed his eyes and waited to see what new torment would befall him next.

Surprisingly, he was not touched. He looked up in surprise to see Agamemnon and Menelaus proceeding out of the room, leaving him hanging on the edge of the bed, tied up still with the phallus still driving him wild and making him hard again. He could only sag on the bed and stare at the cum that had shot from his body across the two foot space between the edge of the bed and the dresser drawers directly in front of him. It was drying already and warping the wood. Paris turned his face away at the sight.

The door swung open again and Paris let out a moan as he prepared for the next round of pain and suffering. But then he felt a woman's perfume, the scent of jasmine and he looked up slowly to meet the face of Marishka. Her green eyes searched over his body quickly, seeing the semen and dirt, not to mention the blood that ran over every visible part of him.

She did not react to the sight of his already swollen cock and his tightening balls. Instead, she raised his face so it was level with hers and Paris felt the soft coolness of her hand, her perfectly manicured nails, and her silky palms. The cool skin felt good on his hot, sweating face. She did not seem disgusted by the sight of him either; nor did she flinch when he rested his cheek against her hand.

"I knew they were cruel, but this is inexcusable," she murmured, almost to herself.

Her hand wandered up to his damp hair and raked through it gently. Her hand came to rest at the nape of his neck and then trailed down his throat to his chest, brushing lightly over a welt, making Paris cry out suddenly. It startled her and she stepped back, almost tripping over her long purple gown. "Forgive me."

Paris looked up at her, astonishment no doubt clearly showing in his brown eyes. She was apologizing to him? He was nothing to her, as he had been so cruelly reminded before. "There is no need to apologize," he croaked, his throat hoarse from crying and screaming.

Marishka examined him one more time, noticing the cock ring that lay on the floor by his feet. She picked it up, undaunted by the smell of sweat clinging to it, and tossed it clean out the window to the ground. Without a word, the window was shut and she stepped out of the room momentarily.

Paris' heart began to thump in his chest. Was she leaving him? Would Menelaus and Agamemnon come back? He began to tremble with fear when suddenly she re-entered, shutting and locking the door behind her.

"I cannot stop them from hurting you. But I can ease your pain," she said as she stood in fron him him. She reached up and untied the binds that held his hands to the posts of the bed. "Do not try to escape. There is no way out. Just let me wash you."

She said it so firmly that Paris found himself rooted to the spot on the bed where he sat. Marishka untied his ankles and allowed him to lie back on the bed. Coming around to the side of him, she produced a basin full of water and a washcloth. But first she untied the strap around his lower half and quickly slid the phallus out of his anus. Paris gave a short cry when she did this, it hurt to be pulled out so quickly. But it was gone and he felt much better.

Marishka set the basin of water on top of the bed and dipped a soft cloth into it. Paris looked up at her through half-lidded eyes, he was so happy to have the phallus out of his rear. She wrung the excess water out of the cloth and gently applied it to his sweating, tear-streaked face. Paris closed his eyes as she ran the soft material around his cheeks and chin, wiping across the top of his lip and over his forehead. He kept his eyes shut as she moved down to his neck, wiping the cloth along the column of his throat. She came to his chest and the welts that rested there. Going ever so slowly as to avoid hurting him, she lightly wrung out the cloth and soaked up fresh water. The only sounds in the room were that of Paris' still-labored breathing and of Marishka lightly wiping him with the cloth.

He felt her move over the throbbing welts and tried his best to muffle a cry of pain. No matter how lightly he was touched, it still hurt him badly. She seemed to notice this and moved even more gracefully, if it was possible. Paris opened his eyes and looked at the beautiful Greek princess above him; she had fiery green eyes that seemed to dance and reflect the pale light of the room. Her hair was as black as the night and her lips were full and plump, shining from some sort of gloss in the moonlight. She had a voluptously curvy shape and Paris watched her full breasts rise and fall as she intook air slowly and let it out as slowly. Everything she did was done with precision and she never faltered with her hands, which were steady and knowledgable.

"Your name is Marishka?" Paris asked, a little uncomfortable with the silence in the room. She looked at him and nodded. "And you are Paris."

"I am," he replied, not surprised that she knew who he was. "Why are they hurting me?"

For a moment, Marishka gave him a look that made it seem as though she thought him stupid. Just as quickly as it came, it disappeared. "You stole Helen of Sparta from our king Menelaus. They see it fit to punish you."

Paris had known this all along but wanted to hear it from another's lips. "How...how long do they plan on punishing me?"

"Until you die." Marishka pursed her beautiful lips together. "Or until someone else wants you and they tire of you."

Paris' blood ran cold in his veins. They would eventually kill him. He looked at Marishka and thought he saw remorse and maybe a hint of sorrow. She seemed to care for him, but at the same time there was an air of indifference and coolness about her. He didn't know what to think about her. He was silent, trembling slightly as he realized that his torment was not over.

Marishka continued to work her way down his body, running the cloth over the cuts in his body from the crude knife and finally stopping just before the beginning of his penis. She rewet her cloth and began to wash his genitals as if she did this sort of thing everyday. The first time Helen had seen him naked, she had gone red and been embarrassed. Marishka boldly washed over his cum and blood-coated shaft, still with that same even breathing. The cloth felt good on his still-aching cock and he couldn't help the moan that came out when Marishka dragged the material over his balls. Just as quickly as she had touched them, the feel of her fingers on his sensitive sacs of flesh was gone and she was moving down his legs to his feet.

She dropped the rag into the bowel when she was finished with his front and said, "Turn over."

Paris didn't know if he could, but he was gradually able to move himself so he was lying on his belly, his rear entrance exposed to Marishka, who took notice that it was red and sore from the phallus. His backside, however, was cleaner than his front side had been. Silently, she grabbed another washcloth from a drawer nearby and dipped it into the water. Wringing it out, she brought it to his neck and back, running her lithe hands down his muscular frame until she was at the swell of his rear. No hesitation came to her as she rubbed over his taut cheeks and down his legs to the bottoms of his feet.

She came back up to his rear entrance and pulled apart his cheeks ever so gently with her hands. Paris moaned slightly, feeling himself become hard again. Marishka trailed the cloth around his opening gently, washing him thoroughly but never shaking or trembling at the sight of his hole open for her.

When she was finished, she let go of his cheeks and instructed him to turn back over onto his back. Paris obeyed and Marishka noticed that he had become semi-erect during her cleaning of his bum. She looked at his slightly aroused cock and dropped the cloth into the bowl. As if it mattered little to her, she pulled out a towel and began drying off Paris, who was pretty dry already. This time, however, she refrained from drying his genitals.

Paris' own hands went to his penis and began to stroke it roughly. Marishka paid him little heed; she had seen this before in the other male slaves Menelaus and Agamemnon had owned and it was nothing new to her that he was trying to bring himself off.

Paris rubbed the flesh firmly and even juggled his balls in his other hand as Marishka continued to dry him off. He couldn't believe how indifferent she could be to a sexually aroused man. It was as if she was an asexual being. But she was too beautiful to be asexual. Wasn't she?

He didn't care at that point as she finished drying him off and took her basin of water and washcloths out of the room, accompanied by her towel. He heard her close and lock the door behind her; somehow, he doubted she was coming back. Why had she cleaned him off? Surely she had felt some sense of pity for him. But she had barely said a word and was not excited at all to see him stroking and fondling himself.

Paris turned onto his side and kept his hands on his penis as he continued to rub himself into oblivion. His hands felt so good on his own cock and the welts seemed to have receded enough that he could touch himself with minimal pain. It was funny how they had gone down in swelling since Marishka had cleaned him off.

Paris closed his finger over his own tip and smeared around the pre-cum leaking from the small slit at his thick, red head. He wanted to make this last, as he knew that Menelaus and Agamemnon would no doubt come back and torment him some more. Maybe if he got himself off so well he wouldn't become erect again and they would tire of him.

But then they would kill him.

Nevertheless, Paris continued to tease his penis, feeling it tighten under his grasp. The hot, soft skin slid through his fingers easily and he could hear himself moaning through his mouth and his balls tightened gloriously. He thought of Marishka, her smooth white skin, her large, firm breasts and her dark green eyes. He wished it were her hands touching him, feeding his insatiable lust.

It seemed as though he couldn't get enough of himself. As strange as he knew it sounded, he wished he could just keep stroking himself forever and never come. Maybe it was because it was his own hands touching him and not the foul, pain-inducing hands of the two foul Greek kings. He knew he would not hurt himself.

Paris' hand made lightening fast vertical movements on his engorged shaft. He knew he was near his precipice and moaned even louder as the thick hot creamy semen spewed forth from his tip, coating his stomach and chest with his release. He had finished what Marishka had unknowingly started.

The sticky fluid lay on his belly before he pulled the sheets next to him up and rubbed the liquid off of his taut abdomen. He was completely exhausted from the night, the torture, Marishka and his own release only seconds ago.

The young prince was asleep in seconds. He slept through the night and slept soundly for being in a place he was unfamiliar with.

He did not hear Menelaus and Agamemnon opening the door the next morning.