The fisherman’s slave (2)

~*~

That morning was just like any other. Êta had long stopped counting the days, letting hours slip by like sand through her fingers each time she tried to grasp them. After devouring their meager rations, the fisherman and his son tossed their enslaved woman the scraps of their morning meal. Little flesh remained around the fishbones, and the crust of bread was as hard as a pebble.

Many others would have undoubtedly wasted away with so little food, but as if by a miracle of the gods, the young woman remained the same. The deprivations, the torments, nothing seemed to be able to diminish the marvelous beauty of this slave without memory, of whom all, including herself, were unaware that she was none other than the Beautiful Helen, the woman who had caused the disappearance of the most powerful of cities in fire and blood.

And so the days passed, dull and grueling. As the fisherman’s slave, Êta was crushed beneath a mountain of chores from dawn until deep into the night. She slept in a corner of the hut, her ankles bound so tightly she’d never managed to loosen her master’s expert knots. She could move about the fisherman’s putrid dwelling, but only in tiny steps—no sudden gestures were permitted, unless she wished to sprawl on the ground and draw her new masters’ wrath.

Moreover, the rope chafed her ankles relentlessly. Had it been any other woman, the wounds would have festered long ago. But Êta was different. A divine blessing was keeping her body from unraveling. She could suffer torment, injury, exhaustion—the Gods watched over her, ensuring she was always restored. And in hindsight, this was less a blessing than a curse, for it condemned her to greater, unending agonies.

*

As the first rays of sunlight began to brighten the hut, Êta—already awake and the first to rise—was cooking the morning bowls for the fisherman, his daughter, and his son. As usual, they devoured their meager meal hastily before allowing her to lick the scraps from their dishes, then set her to cleaning their home. After that, under the watchful eye of the daughter, the young woman had to mend torn nets, gut fish and lay them out to dry, gather firewood, pick berries…

Throughout the day, while the fisherman and his son were at sea, the daughter ruled over Êta with an iron rod. And this was no metaphor. No. The fisherman’s daughter wielded an actual switch—a thin, whippy branch stripped from a young tree—which she used to lash Êta for the slightest offense, or none at all. More often than not, she struck without reason, punishing her simply for shining with a beauty she herself could never possess.

Despite these cruel living conditions, the young woman’s body remained one of divine perfection. Though perpetually naked and forced into an awkward, hobbled gait by her bonds, she retained a sublime, otherworldly beauty. Her skin flawless white, her breasts full yet firm, her hips and lower curves to make any woman pale with envy, her golden hair shining in the sun – Êta maintained an impossible grace, even with fish guts clinging to her fingers and bruises blooming from the fisherman’s daughter’s countless blows.

Speaking of the daughter, one might have thought her treatment of Êta would focus solely on physical torment, unlike her father and brother. But the presence of this slave, this new plaything the ocean had deposited at their doorstep, had awakened dark perversions within her. When they were alone, she would indulge these urges, forcing the young woman onto her back before seating herself upon that delicate face, commanding Êta to lick at length until her fine lips were soiled with the girl’s pungent wetness.

Other times, the fisherman’s daughter would sit on Eta’s face for the sole purpose of spraying her with her yellowish urine, the acrid odor of which the slave would retain on her until evening. It was a way for her not only to assert her dominance over the beautiful young woman, but also to remind her of her now-reigning position, that of a slave whose sole purpose was to obey their orders. When the men returned, the beautiful slave faced new constraints. Tired from their long day of work, they made her carry their catch from the boat to the hut before ordering her to gut the fish and cook them for the evening meal. However, Eta had to set aside her guts and entrails, for these filthy leftovers constituted the bulk of her sustenance.

Nevertheless, sometimes the fisherman took pity on her. And when that happened, he liked to make her crawl to him and offer her a little fish flesh or bread with his fingertips. After some meals, he would even lead the young woman to the sea and order her to wash in the waves crashing onto the sand at sunset. Eta then had to rub herself with sand before entering the water to rinse herself off. The fisherman then required her to strike certain poses, to show off her breasts, offer him her rump, and spread her buttocks to expose her fresh, pink anus. She also had to lie upon the wave-backs—those places where the waves came to die—and touch herself at length, using all her fingers to make herself come.

The young woman felt a strange pleasure in enduring all this degradation. Even though she deeply hated the humiliations, the punishments, the beatings, and the forced penetrations, even though she was aware of having been reduced to the rank of a sex slave, she felt a certain unhealthy pleasure in these new intimate experiences.

And even though she hated each member of this family who constantly used and abused her without any regard for her person, she also desired them and waited for the moment when, tired of these games, the fisherman would order her to join him and defile one or more of the orifices with which nature had endowed her with his thick cock. Eta wanted him to satisfy his male instincts with her, to teach her again and again what it was like to have such a large cock inside her.

*

And so the days passed. Eta still had no memory of the past. She didn’t know who she was or where she came from. Only the gods who were testing her knew that she was in fact Helen, the incredibly beautiful woman who had started the greatest war ever waged and who had brought about the total destruction of the proud city of Troy. The gods also knew that her loss of memory and everything she endured at the hands of the fisherman and his children were merely a punishment, a way to mold her into something else, something only they knew. Deprived of everything, Helen was nothing more than Eta, a woman named after the letter whose pendant she wore around her neck. On the other hand, for the fisherman, she was merely a slave who had fled the massacre of the Trojan population, and it was his absolute right to seize her and use her in any way he pleased. And he did not hesitate, rediscovering before this superb body passions he had forgotten.

He fucked Eta again and again, and buggered her every day, even several times a day. He also lent her to his adult son who never hesitated to fuck this beauty. The fisherman was never tired of her, and the slave – despite the fatigue from long days of forced labor – offered herself to him with the consummate skill of a high-flying whore. For even though the fisherman proved to be the most repulsive and perverted of beings, Eta was overcome with incredible desire and powerful pleasure every time he took her. Her head screamed no, but her body let itself be swept away in an endless spiral of pleasure. She lost all will other than to be penetrated and possessed again and again. And when her Master abandoned her dripping pussy, she would then offer herself on all fours, extending her plump rump and her promising crack toward him. And when, exhausted, he had only one desire: to return to his bed, it was with her mouth that Eta tried to rekindle the flame of desire in him, to the point that, sometimes, the fisherman would come to beat her before calling his son so that he could take over.

The young man was more dashing than his father and fucked the young woman until late at night, until exhaustion. As the days passed, the two fishermen found it increasingly difficult to wake up in the morning, so much so that the daughter began organizing her father and brother’s sexual encounters. Working for a long time on a wooden handle, she carved a long, smooth, and thick olisbos, which she used to penetrate the slave and force her to come, to come again, and to come again before making her lick the instrument dripping with imposed pleasure. Life could have gone on forever. Eta could never have escaped the grip of this lewd trio alone. But she was only at the beginning of the twelve trials, the twelve servitudes the Gods had planned for her. And so, the Divine Will began, for one evening, while she was slicing a slimy octopus under the watchful eye of the fisherman’s daughter and the two men were drinking a glass of wine, a whinny song came from the distance, announcing that the young woman’s destiny was about to take another path.