The Torture of Paris

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It was pitch dark in the hallway. It seemed the torches had lost their fuel to glow. Marishka knew the hall well, however, and made her way down it with an expert's precision. She knew Menelaus and Agamemnon were not in with Paris. She had heard them pass by her door long ago, laughing and talking about the new predicament that the young prince was in.

She had shuddered to think of him lying there on his belly, as the golden chain was shoved unceremoniously up inside his channel. And the itching would surely drive him into madness. Marishka could only hope that her plan worked this evening. It would take some effort from Paris but if he cooperated, he would be safe from the evil kings.

Putting her ear to the door, she listened for any sound coming from inside the room. All was quiet. She stuck a key into the lock on the door and heard the click of the latch jumping free. Entering, she discovered that only a small light from the moon outside illuminated the spacious room. A soft moan from the bed caught her attention and she turned quickly.

Paris lay there on his stomach, his wrists and ankles tied to the bedposts. Her heart broke at the sight of the end of the golden chain trailing down his white rear cheeks. The fluid that had seeped out of the golden balls coated his bottom and dripped onto the bed. He turned his head weakly to look at her, and she could see the tears glistening in his eyes.

Marishka wasted no time going to the bed. She set her mouth in a grim line. "Paris of Troy, you are coming with me."

The relief she had seen in his eyes quickly turned to fear as he looked up at her. "What do you want with me?" His voice trembled and he shook his head to get the curls out of his eyes.

"Nevermind that. Just be quiet and do as you are told," Marishka replied, her voice steely and cold. "If you move, I will kill you." To emphasize her point, she picked up the knife from the bed table and brandished it in front of his face. He gulped audibly and nodded.

Slicing the knots that held his hands and ankles to the bedposts, Marishka motioned for him to stand up. "Pull that chain out of your body," she said in the same harsh voice as before.

Paris looked at her ashamedly, and then pulled the chain free from his body, wincing as it slid out of his channel. Immediately, the itching stopped. He almost smiled but quickly swallowed it and looked at the Greek princess before him.

"Follow me. If you make a sound, I will relieve you of your manhood," she snapped, turning on her heel and motioning for him to follow.

What was going on? Paris wondered as he followed the beautiful woman out of his prison. It felt good to him to breathe in regular air and not smell his own bodily scents in a cloistered room, but he was shocked at Marishka's sudden change of heart. Where was she leading him? No doubt to another torture chamber. Agamemnon and Menelaus must have threatened her and now she had turned on him as well.

He was walking down the hall with her, stark naked. A few palace dwellers stopped to stare at Marishka but she simply replied, "He is my slave now."

What?! Paris wanted to turn and run, but flight was impossible. She would call for the guards and soldiers, they would chase him, no doubt catching him in his weakened state and surely kill him...or torture him worse. But what did Marishka have in store for him? A woman no doubt could be far more devious than a man ever could. She would know how to get him into such a state that he wouldn't be able to control himself.

His cock jumped at the thought of her touching him there, seducing him slowly in her chambers. He willed himself not to think of these things, should Marishka turn around and think he intended on raping her. Then he surely would lose his manhood.

When they reached her room, she opened the door. Shoving him into the dark room, lit only by a few candles, she turned and, glancing outside one final time, slammed the door and bolted it shut. Paris didn't know what to do. He immediately shrank down in a corner of the room and covered his face with his hands. This was it. Soon, she would get out the phalluses and whips.

He had come out of one prison into another. Now he would be a woman's sexual slave, tormented beyond his wildest dreams. Marishka was busying herself with lighting candles and Paris sobbed quietly.

She turned. Paris looked at her as she approached him. "Please, don't hurt me anymore. Please, I beg your mercy."

The Greek princess knelt before him and Paris inwardly winced, waiting for the strap to come down on him. But he was not hit. Rather, a soft hand touched his arm and rubbed it soothingly. "Look at me, Paris."

This was a trick. She would smack him across his face if he looked up. He was no longer royalty here, but a lowly slave. He kept his face hidden and heard her sigh softly. "I'm not going to harm you."

Paris lifted his head slowly, his eyes snapping around for a weapon of some sort. But all he saw was Marishka's face, the hard countenance gone and a lovely warm smile replacing it. He still shrank from her, fearing at any moment that she would harden into the crude woman she had seemed before. Somehow, though, he knew in his heart she was not evil.

He looked at her, confused.

"Please forgive my treatment of you earlier. I had no choice. If others were to know I was helping you, it would mean death for you," she said, her voice caressing his ears and making him feel completely at ease.

"But...Agamemnon and Menelaus will be looking for me," Paris said, his voice shaking.

"They do not enter my chambers and even if they know you are here, they would never dare take you from me. Besides, the palace believes you are my slave. Surely we can act this way until I can find a way to get you out of here and to safety."

She was going to send him away? Where? When? How?

She seemed to read his thoughts, because she then said, "I do not know how, when, or where I will get you out of here, but you have my word that you will be safe. The taking of Helen was done out of love, not as a betrayal of those two evil bastards."

Paris' eyes widened at her use of that word. He had never before heard a lady talk that way. "I can never repay you for the kindness you have shown me."

"I do not ask for repayment. The treasures of the world mean nothing to me."

"Why do you care about me and my safety so much?"

"Many have died before you. I could not bear to see you go through such a death as theirs. I have seen enough death and torment."

Paris winced inwardly at all the awful things this beautiful creature had seen in her time. It wasn't fair. Someone as caring as Marishka did not deserve to witness the horrors of mankind.

"But enough talk of sadness. Let me clean you up and then you may take my bed tonight, as you need to regain your strength."

Paris allowed himself to be led to Marishka's bathing tub. She drew water for a hot bath and dropped in some lavender bath tablets until the aroma in the room was intoxicating and Paris found himself forgetting the horrors of the past few days. When the bath was ready, Marishka held out her hand towards the steaming water and watched as Paris stepped into it. He eased himself down gently, as he was still very sore and weak.

"I will wash your hair and then you may do the rest of your body?" Marishka said, asking a question at the end of the statement.

Paris nodded, feeling himself already becoming drowsy as she poured water over his head and ran her long fingers through his mass of curls. His eyes shut and he leaned back against the tub as Marishka kneaded her hands through the wet hair on his head. She rubbed in some scented shampoo and Paris took a deep breath, inhaling the rich aroma and settling down further into the tub.

Marishka hummed as she worked, a song Paris did not know, but with her voice it was nonetheless beautiful. He could feel all the tension and torment of the injuries that had been inflicted upon him disappearing as the warm water sloshed over his naked form and healed his wounds with its warm kisses to his skin.

Water was poured over his head again and Marishka resumed with her massage of his scalp. All too soon, it seemed, it was over and she was drying her hands and exiting the small wash room, leaving him with soap to wash himself with. He wanted her to wash him, as childish as it sounded. He wanted her hands on his body, rubbing him and cleansing the wounds on his broken form. At the thought of her hands on his penis and balls, he immediately began to grow hard, but this time nothing would stop his release.

As he had done the first night he met Marishka, his hands went to his cock and began to rub up and down in a rhythmic motion he hadn't know since Helen had touched him there. He didn't think of Helen, though. He thought of Marishka, with her dark hair and green eyes, her slim form but with supple breasts. He could only imagine what she would feel like riding him, her muscles contracting around him, his hands in her black hair, tightening their grip with every thrust. She would lick at his nipples, then gently bite into one of them. He would fake a cry of pain and then she would lave her tongue over the swollen bud to soothe the ache she knew did not exist.

His fantasies now involved Marishka. He wanted her, maybe even loved her. But she did not show any signs of feeling likewise towards him. She was a kind soul who wanted to help him, but that seemed to be the extent of her generosity. She did not appear to be married to another or even betrothed. So was she celibate? A virgin? He could not tell by looking at her.

All he knew as he stroked himself was that she was a lovely sight to behold. He became harder just thinking about her. He wanted her so badly it hurt him. Paris had never been denied what he wanted. And it seemed this was the first time in his life that he had not bedded a woman whom he found himself attracted to. But Marishka was no whore. She carried herself with a dignity that told him she was not a prize to be won.

Paris resumed moving his hand up and down his length, feeling himself jerk under his own teasing touch. If only Marishka would touch him like that, then he would come all over her and she would gently clean him off, her hands roaming again over his body.

These thoughts caused him to go over the edge and he bit his lip as he came, hoping Marishka could not hear him releasing himself in her bath tub. He heard rustling in her room, but no footsteps approached him. He quickly cleaned the rest of his body, going slowly so as not to hurt his aching limbs even more. When he was finished, he stepped out and wrapped a towel around his body, shaking the excess water out of his hair.

Marishka almost couldn't control herself when she saw him, his hair wet from the bath he had taken. She had been running her fingers through that head of lovely curls. How she longed to do it again. But she couldn't force herself on him after all he'd been through. It would take him weeks, maybe months, she mused, to forget the torture he had endured. She could only hope she was able to get him out of there in time.

"You may sleep in my bed tonight," Marishka said as he pulled on the large garment she handed to him to wear. He suspected she had stolen it from another male in the palace and clumsily put it on, his body aching and screaming for rest.

"I cannot take your bed, my lady," Paris said, moving towards the couch beside the window.

"I insist," Marishka said firmly and the look in her eyes told Paris it would be in his best interest not to refuse. One look at the solemness in those green eyes was enough to make up his mind for him.

"You have been so kind to me," he said softly as he drew back the soft downy coverlet and gently laid himself down. He was in a real bed in a real room and he was safe. He felt so tired suddenly, in this bed. Watching Marishka, he couldn't help but notice the gentle curve of her shape as she busied herself setting up a bed for herself on the couch by the bed.

He felt badly for sleeping in her bed, but she had insisted upon it, so he closed his eyes and was lulled to sleep by the gentle breathing of Marishka as, moments later, she took surrendered to the night.

***

It was the middle of the night when Marishka's eyes snapped open. She knew there was nothing wrong, something had simply woken her. She turned on the couch to see Paris sleeping quietly on his side, facing her, his dark lashes framed in crescent moons against his tan face. He looked the portrait of an angel as he slept, so innocent and child-like. Unfortunately, he had seen many things and been abused in ways a child should never have to face.

Something compelled Marishka to approach Paris' bedside and lean over him. In the light from the moon, she could see his mouth open slightly as he breathed in and out. The blankets had slid down his chest somewhat and she could see the fading scars from the hot candle wax that had been poured over his body and the knife wounds that were now scabs.

Those hateful bastards, she thought to herself, bristling with anger. How could they take one such as him and make him feel the worst pain, the worst humiliation, and the worst torments they could think of. They could have been more brutal, this she knew from experiences past. Some slaves had not been sexually tortured; they had simply been beaten with a tough leather switch.

Marishka herself had never been so much as yelled at by Agamemnon and Menelaus. They knew better than to anger her and thus invoke the wrath of her father, Theimanus who at the moment was away in another country negotiating a peace treaty. Marishka's mother had died bringing her into the world and her father was the only person she truly loved in this life.

When Thiemanus returned, Marishka vowed to inform him of Paris' situation and ask him to protect the young man. The facade of Paris being her slave could only be kept up for so long before they realized what was going on. Somehow, some way, they would manage to steal Paris back from her and lock him away where she would never find him.

The thing was, Marishka did not know when her father would in fact return. He had kissed her dark head and told her he would be back "soon" which could mean weeks or months. Already it had been the better part of half a year with no word from him or any of his servants.

Paris stirred in his sleep and his dark eyes opened for a brief moment. He wondered if he was dreaming as he watched Marishka smooth his hair back from his face and smile gently at him. Surely he was imagining things. He thought he smiled back at her but could not be sure in his sleepy state. The last thing he felt was her cool lips on his forehead as her gentle touch sent him back into a deep sleep.