He was hard in an instant, but not so huge that my mouth felt at all strained or stretched. I held him still for one moment, drinking in a flavor that - yes! I knew it! Romans do taste better than the local boys; sweeter yet saltier, as though the meat and wine that is their customary food permeates their flesh and becomes a part of it; not like the bitterness of the local, spice-filled diet.
I held him with one hand and removed him from my mouth, licking the length of a cock that seemed to grow ever longer from the wet of my saliva, and my other hand cupped his balls with soft squeezes; then followed my eyes to the legs alongside him, whose own owner had obviously been told what was happening. For one was pressing against my arm, insistent and excited and when I reached between them, a hard cock already awaited me.
I began to stroke it, as I sucked on his neighbor, and only released my grip when I felt the first twitching warning that my mouth was about to be flooded. Then both hands wrapped around that first delicious cock, milking it dry into my waiting mouth and swallowing so hungrily that I barely got a taste. Next time. I would go slower next time... and next time was now, for as I slipped easily from one cock to the waiting other, it was barely a minute and it was pumping thick and creamy, and I tasted the soul of the Eternal City. Tasted it and wanted more.
I moved along, slipping past two legs then crouching between two more, unfolded the cocks on either side and all three were stiff as the last. I folded my fists around the two on either side of me, then licked my tongue up the central erection, closing my lips round the helmet. Above me, I heard somebody groan.
Have you ever had three cocks in front of you? One in each hand, one in your mouth? There is no sensation like it. Some girls reckon that a cock’s a cock, and that apart from size and sometimes smell, there’s nothing to choose between them. Wrong. Each one felt very different… the heat, the texture, its responses to my touch. And each one tasted different as well… this one’s a little sour, this one’s a little bland – and this one’s just right.
My head darted back and forth, from one to the next to the next and then back, and every ridge and vein on each dick felt so different that each one demanded something extra from my tongue, from my mouth, from my lips... and when I had made my way through the whole of the first table, and rose to walk to the second, now it was my body that every eye was locked onto, the Queen’s as well as the guests whom I’d serviced, and those whose turn was yet to come.
Some I admit I did not take a fancy to. Others I could have suckled all night. And others still... other still, Κλεοπάτρα told me when we spoke the next day, had been so exhausted by my ministrations that she barely raised a twitch out of them as each man rose to stand before her throne and, having spoken the few words that courtesy insisted every visitor to the royal court should utter, then received the gift of the Queen in return.
How many cocks did I suck that night? Ninetyeight… ninety-nine if you count the guy who came as soon as my mouth closed over him. One hundred, if you count the guy I returned to because his prick felt better than all of them. And how much Roman cum did I swallow? Probably not as much as I could have, but more than enough to please my guests. And how good did I feel afterwards? Like a Queen.
A Queen who received me when all was done with smiles and laughter; who treated me as though I too were Royalty,; who praised me with words, with jewels and high rank. But the greatest gift of all was the one that she handed me just as I was preparing to leave the room. An earthenware pot whose lid she removed... to reveal lip paint as dark and as lustrous as her own.
“We’ll have to do that again,” Κλεοπάτρα laughed as I thanked her for the gifts. “But next time, I think I’ll be the one who goes under the tables. I’d hate history to remember me for only sucking off ninety.”
Then she stood and as I did so, I caught a glimpse... a smudge... a wet stain on her flesh. Begging her forgiveness, I leaned forward and touched a finger to her skin, in the crease beneath her chin, then held it out towards her.
“Forgive me, your Majesty, but your attendants missed a bit when they bathed you this morning.”
She smiled at my fingertip. It was smeared bright red. CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Archaeology has yet to determine where Empousa’s original shrine lay. So many ruined temples pock the Greek and Turkish landscape, and only a handful have been positively ascribed to their presiding God or Goddess. Others are simply labeled a place of ancient worship, and the tourists pass through probably without a thought for what rites may once have taken place there.
But temples to Hecate have been unearthed, and presumably her daughter Empousa was worshipped close by. The great ruins of Stratonikea, in modern-day Turkey, were once a vast sanctuary of Hecate, and there was surely at least a corner in which the Goddess of Night’s only daughter was venerated?
Only a corner, though. In Athens, Empousa lived in the shadows, and although her cult spread, she remained out of sight.
Merchants may have brought her to Egypt; politicians to Rome; the military to the furthest reaches of the Roman Empire. But always she clung to the darkness beyond the writings of the historians and story tellers, allowing her legends to intermingle with others.
She is one of the lamia, some writers say. She is a ghastly specter, say others. She is a demoness, whom her mother would unleash upon those who displeased her. She has one leg, she’s a sheep-worrying hobgoblin, she has flaming hair and wears brazen slippers. Aristophanes has his hero Diogenes meet her, a terrifying creature on his way into the underworld. Philostratus places her at lonely roadsides, where she awaits and devours unwary travelers. And two thousand years later, the poet Rudyard Kipling places her at the head of a gang who “chased the Soul, and racked it all abroad.”
And all of these disguises she wears because they allow her true nature to pass unseen.
To bite and let the bite last all night.
To drink, and never quench her thirst.
To drain, first figuratively and then literally. Empousa’s cult spread throughout Europe. A temple here, a temple there, and when Christianity came to suppress the old Gods, Empousa slipped out from her mantel of deity, and into the thrall of folklore.
Some temples became castles. Others became convents. Others became
gentleman’s clubs and secret societies. Any place where a handful of likeminded souls could gather in worship, to feast or be feasted upon, knowing that the world beyond believed them a fiction. Vampire stories have been a part of our popular culture for close to three hundred years, but a part of our collective mythology for millennia.
Empousa is the wellspring from which they emerged. I was back in the library, back buried beneath a mountain of old books, tracing the legends to the present day. Most of the earliest were fragmented and vague. Lost in allegory, soaked in speculation. Some led me to dead ends, others offered me new treasures. But all left me spellbound as the historical record grew more pronounced, and a narrative thread began to emerge, one that seemed to be petering out into the cult’s extinction as society grew stricter and human prudery took hold until, by the middle of the sixteenth century, just one temple remained, in the north of England. But it was not going to die without a fight.
King Henry VIII, the serial divorcee of the age, was in the process of breaking away from the Catholic Church, by dissolving the monasteries, abbeys and convents within which the Pope’s power was most obviously personified.
One day, in the midst of the ensuing chaos, a small band of the King’s soldiers chanced upon a cluster of buildings “in the Wild Northe of the Lande.” Inquiring of the locals, they learned that it was a splinter from the nearby convent of St Dunstan and, with their minds filled with visions of rape and pillage, they entered the compound – there, it is said, to be dragged from their horses, stripped of their clothing and “subjected then to such Cruelle
Degeneracy’s and Bloode Rituals that the Female Minde should ne’er be capable of envisioning.”
Not so cru
el. The soldiers apparently remained there for the rest of their lives; not only that, but they began recruiting further disciples to this most disorderly Order, until the cluster of buildings had become a small walled town “of such Iniquitous Renown that, nightly, parentes would scare their offspring to sleepe with the Threat, “Be thee Goode, or the Wives of St Dunstan will drain and devour you.”.
Whether they, or their children, had any idea of what that would entail is another matter entirely. Meticulous record keeping over the centuries, however, laid bare the most intimate secrets of life behind those walls… any one of which I might have witnessed being enacted in the Main Hall just last week.
Of all mankind’s accomplishments and achievements, not one is greater than his capacity for heightening carnal awareness and excitement. Enter a modern sex shop, and the walls are festooned with bizarre and unusual ‘toys’, all of which promise to raise your love life to unimagined new plateaux.
There is not one, however, that has not existed in some form since time immemorial; even the latex envelope in which I was once encased, and in which I had since
imprisoned several lovers of my own, male and female simply offered a new
construction for an ancient pleasure:
“Placede was she within the Membrane, from which all air was withdrawne, beyond that she might gasp through the thinnest wooden Snorkel. Then, held firme and unmoving, a Pointed Feather was directed towards the most sensitive parts of her form, commencing with those that are most customarily tickled in Innocence – the Pits, the Flankes, the Soles of the Feete; but inexorably advancing towards those that are less likely to have received such deliberate excitements. For thirty minutes she was treated thus and, for the first five she was transported to the most Heavenly Raptures that she might have expired laughing. Thereafter, however, she confessed to a Climaxe that was so racked by Paine that she barely registered the Pleasure.”
Centuries before the introduction of electricity, the Sisters, as they rather quaintly referred to themselves, were employing wind and water to harness “a power that is not unlike caged lightning,” with which “bolts of blue spark” could be applied to one
another’s genitals. “Climax is frequently instantaneous.”
And so on. Blades that fit across the front teeth, that could flay the flesh from a cock in seconds. Others that could puncture a penis so quickly and deeply that even the most sensitive nerve-endings would not be aware of what happened, or was happening. Until their owner was dry.
For three centuries, the community
flourished, darkly secretive within its own walls, a mere rumor beyond them. New torments were devised, fresh pleasures discovered. But it grew, too. Once, the Priestesses had been content to merely draw fresh sacrificial victims from wherever they could find them. Now they drew tutors and novices, too, humans through into bloodline a shadow of Empousa’s own might flourish.
A small community continued to swell, and then it started to hive; family units who would slip overseas and create their own worlds in faraway lands, recolonizing the countries they had left centuries before, and seeking out new worlds to populate too. I read of two communities flourishing in 19th century America, one deep south in Louisiana, the other high north in barren Maine.
From Aden to Australia, from Zimbabwe to the Zuiderzee. No longer a cult, it was now a college. No longer a temple, it was now a turning point in mankind’s evolution.
The rules by which the communities were governed were laid down and universally abided by, a socio-sexual utopia in which there were no taboos, no forbidden
pleasures, no stigma whatsoever. Two millennia of cultural conditioning were wiped away, to create instead a society wherein the body reigned supreme, its needs and its desires paramount over all other concerns. I think, therefore I climax. A truly closed society based upon the
anthropological studies that revealed just how quickly a simple way of life could be shattered once it came in contact with another, more complicated one.
American Indians, Kalahari Bushmen, Australia aborigines; how many great cultures have been destroyed by the western world’s need to “civilize” the primitive, when the notion of civilization itself was little more than a cipher for “drab conformity”?
Empousa did not advocate anarchy; did not patronizingly praise some lofty
personification of the Noble Savage. Her worship simply asked why man should spend so much time, money, energy and effort filling his life with pleasurable distractions… everything from consumerism to religion… when the true source of all meaningful pleasure, his own human body, is the one thing in life that came with no price tag whatsoever?
Sexuality, and the ability to explore and enjoy its every possibility, is nature’s greatest gift to her greatest creation. Man thanks her by throwing it back in her face, and then codifying that rejection beneath the
entrenchments of a civilization that regards all but the most routine procreation as a deviant perversion.
Some of these notions seem absurdly oldfashioned today. They were formulated, after all, according to the morality of an era when homosexuality was still illegal
throughout most of the western world; when the age of heterosexual consent remained twenty-one; when the law of the land expressly prohibited oral sex. We have come on a great deal since those days. But, even today, the prurient prudery against which Empousa rails remains firmly in control of our lives, and the only real difference is, today we are more aware of the hypocrisy of both the law and the lawmakers.
Neither did she advocate the absolute abandonment of all of society’s scruples. The old traditions of the ultimate blood sacrifice were abandoned, together with any other practices that led inevitably to death or permanent mutilation. Further stringent safeguards were erected around any game or experiment that might cause either
behavioral or genetic difficulties. Empousa’s worship would never end. But its nature had changed irrevocably.
It was to safeguard these principles that there was established a firm, hereditary hierarchy of command, leaving behind sufficient offspring that the society might remain a family arrangement long after any individual’s death.
A sprawling genealogy spilled across two carefully bound volumes; I scanned the names and tracing back, discovered that Magdalene was an almost direct descendant of the woman who held sway in England in Henry VIII’s time. One of several hundred, I should add. I paused, wondering whether each of them commanded a community such as this? Just how vast was this cult?
It was with Empousa’s name now indelibly imprinted in my mind that I began to notice how heavily her presence pervaded the community.
She was the subject of at least three of the fine oil portraits in the corridor. Her’s was the bronzed bust that I passed on my way to the gymnasium; and, if you’ve ever
pondered any antecedents to the famous Plaster Caster groupies of the 1960s rock scene, what I originally considered to be a wishful-thinking style sculpture of a clitoris in various states of arousal was, in fact, a bronze cast three centuries before the birth of Christ, which once was numbered among the treasures of the original Athenian temple.
I was in the main library room now, admiring (yes, that is the word I want to use) the series of dildos that lined one shelf, each a little larger than the last, each emblazoned with one of the seven Greek letters that make up the Goddess’s name: Eμπουσα.
Footsteps came up behind me. “Know thy enemy, eh?” the Doctor asked.
“You could say that, Sir,” I smiled. “You could, but you’re smarter than that,” he replied. “These are a fascinating piece. You have deduced their purpose, of course?” I looked at him cautiously. “They’re dildos, right?”
“Yes, but very particular dildos.” He reached around me and took one in his hand. “Each one, though you might not guess from the weight, is hollow. With just enough room within for another to fit. The idea is...” He replaced the one, then picked up the tiniest of them all. �
��You start small...” He paused and smiled. “The first time I saw them, I was very young. They made a major impression on me… as you can probably imagine.”
I could. It cannot be easy going through life with a pencil dick! A cock that was barely thick enough to urinate through. Even if you can live without penetration, what about your partner? He’d probably gone through a lot of dildoes in his time.
He took the largest and turned it in his hand. “You see the holes here?” His finger traced a series of deep indentations. “For the Priestess’s teeth.”
I smiled. “She’d need a big mouth. I certainly couldn’t....”
“You’d be surprised, Chrissie. In the service of the Goddess... the true service... anything is possible. I’d have thought you might have realized that by now.”
He pressed a button. A tiny blade protruded. I flinched; he laughed. I needed to change the subject. At least for a moment. “I was thinking of going back to my apartment,” I murmured. “I would be honored if you would walk with me, Sir.”
He grinned. “One of my uncles had a replica.... I used to look at them when I visited with him during school holidays. Uncle’s dirty statues. Then I came here and discovered their true meaning. Of course, these are a reproduction. Seventeenth century Russian, I believe.”
“When did you find out what they meant?” We were walking now. “When I came here, of course. I saw them the first time I was ever taken to the Main Hall. I was eighteen, didn’t have a clue what was happening to me, I was scared, I was crying, and suddenly there was this artwork reaching out to me from my childhood. I remember I stopped dead, just staring at it. I was lucky, I had an indulgent Mistress. She asked me what the matter was, so I
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