In her dream, she saw Astyanax's mother, Andromache, bound in slavery to
her Greek lord, who had not yet tired of the lithe body of his royal prize.
She no longer resisted the arousing hands of Neoptolemus, son of Achilles.
His hands had come to know her body well during the long sea voyage back
to his homeland. She resisted him strongly, at first, fighting him valiantly as
her warrior husband when given to him as his prize. Now she lay beneath
him, still and passionless, a battle of wills raging between them.
Swept up in the strange dream, Helle found herself in the role of pre-
knowledgeable voyeur, given the gift of seeing the lover's hearts in their
battle of passion. She heard the Greek warrior chuckle at the Trojan lady's
lack of fervor, yet the battle between them continued, though Andromache
no longer physically fought him. She struggled with her own desires that
Neoptolemus evoked in her young and fiery body.
“Ho, now you lay quiet, and unresponsive, my cold Trojan queen,” he said to
her with a laugh. Neoptolemus was now master of her passions, against her
best efforts to deny them.
His lips nipped her full, satisfying, yet passive lips, taking them roughly,
possessively. Andromache attempted to turn her head away, to deny the fire
his demanding mouth aroused deep in her belly. His hand smoothed over her
body, downward, casually passing over the mound of short, dark brown hair
that covered her triangle, forcing her legs apart to rest his knee between
them. Grabbing a handful of her long hair, he stilled her protests with his
kiss, his tongue tasting hers, demanding her submission. His lips
abandoned hers, feeling the beginnings of her response, knowing he had
conquered her again.
Changing his assault, he tenderly nibbled down her neck, cupping her full
breasts with his sword calloused hands. Suckling each breast until the
nipples became the size of ripe olives, hard with arousal. She arched her
back, giving her body to the Greek lord, craving his touch, her resistance
abandoning her.
Helle could see Andromache was trying hard to force her body to deny the
desire the robust and handsome warlord evoked with his attention. She saw
too the fierce desire the warlord bore for his captive—more than physical
passion, but respect and the sparks of love lit his dark eyes, despite the
couple's turbulent past.
A groan of ecstasy escaped the woman's throat, and her face reddened in
shame, unable to forswear her emotions. To Helle, the Greek lord seemed to
enjoy her enraptured agony, pleased he could arouse her passions.
Neoptolemus huge hands brought desire to Andromache's creamed and
pampered body. His mouth caused her to gasp in ecstasy bringing a smile of
triumph to her master's face. He held her unmoving by her hair, staring into
her eyes. His hand again pushed between her legs to test the softness of
her nether-lips, and his fingers the wetness of her core. Her eyes closed in
defeat, a tear running down her cheek, her body-turning traitor to her will
under her master's tender, yet merciless control.
His knee resting between her legs, his eyes held hers. “Your body wants
me,” he told her softly, his tone reflecting yet another victory instead of the
sensitive terms of a lover. His triumph over the Trojans fresh in his mind,
and the soldier's wives yet paid the price of their husbands' war. Conflict
was a part of their lovemaking, however he did not rape his captive, but he
saw to her passions as well as his own.
Her body arched to meet the finger he slid inside her wet canal, though she
tried to will it not to, nor to groan in the near climax of sensations the
intrusion brought. She was a young woman, alone, and frightened, even
this small bit of caring, physical love brought some solace.
Helle tossed in her sleep, aroused by the strange dream in which she had
become an observer. She gasped when the warrior's body covered
Andromache's, and his lips again took hers. Helle lived long without a man's
touch, never so loved by a strong embrace, nor a man intent on seeing the
woman’s pleasure met first. She found the dream greatly disturbing.
To the Trojan woman's credit, she neither implored the Greek for mercy from
his attentions, nor release from the passions he evoked, though their love
became a silent battle of wills. He excited her body to the edge of climax,
only to stop, hoping she would beg for more, disappointed when,
whimpering in frustration, she drew away. As she turned from him, he
pulled her back, roughly pushed her legs open, and buried his throbbing
cock deep inside her. His mouth covering her lips as a deep, satisfying groan
issued deep in her throat.
Helle watched the two battling lovers in this strange dream as they stared
deeply into each other's eyes for a long moment before he began to move in
a rhythm that would satisfy them both. It seemed he was unquenchable, his
mighty cock wringing moans of fulfilling gratification from Andromache.
She met each stoke, arching her hips to join with him, until at last they both
found their summit. To Helle's amazement, the Greek warrior pulled her
closer to him and held her tightly to his pulsing, sweating body, planting
kisses tenderly over her face. He drew away slightly, smoothing strands of
her heavy long hair from her face, and smiled tenderly down into her tear-
streaked face, empathy in his eyes.
“Perhaps, my Andromache, I have given you another son,” he said in a
compassionate tone, wiping away her tears. “In a few months you may
again know the joy of motherhood. I swear to you, no one will tear this one
from your arms,” he held her in his strong embrace until his snores echoed
in their chamber.
Andromache rose from the bed. Drawn to the balcony by a bright shinning
light, Helle saw the light warrior who had come to her door that very day.
“Daughter of Troy, why do you cry?” the Golden Warrior's voice held much
compassion.
Helle heard her answer, “I cry for my son who was thrown from the walls of
Troy.”
“Cry no more, Daughter of Troy. For your son alone survived. He is cared
for and loved. Go back and sleep in peace,” his words brought the relief she
had prayed for since Astyanax was torn from her arms. She returned to her
bed as if in a trance, but a smile played upon her lips. Her tears were no
longer of sorrow, but of relief.
her Greek lord, who had not yet tired of the lithe body of his royal prize.
She no longer resisted the arousing hands of Neoptolemus, son of Achilles.
His hands had come to know her body well during the long sea voyage back
to his homeland. She resisted him strongly, at first, fighting him valiantly as
her warrior husband when given to him as his prize. Now she lay beneath
him, still and passionless, a battle of wills raging between them.
Swept up in the strange dream, Helle found herself in the role of pre-
knowledgeable voyeur, given the gift of seeing the lover's hearts in their
battle of passion. She heard the Greek warrior chuckle at the Trojan lady's
lack of fervor, yet the battle between them continued, though Andromache
no longer physically fought him. She struggled with her own desires that
Neoptolemus evoked in her young and fiery body.
“Ho, now you lay quiet, and unresponsive, my cold Trojan queen,” he said to
her with a laugh. Neoptolemus was now master of her passions, against her
best efforts to deny them.
His lips nipped her full, satisfying, yet passive lips, taking them roughly,
possessively. Andromache attempted to turn her head away, to deny the fire
his demanding mouth aroused deep in her belly. His hand smoothed over her
body, downward, casually passing over the mound of short, dark brown hair
that covered her triangle, forcing her legs apart to rest his knee between
them. Grabbing a handful of her long hair, he stilled her protests with his
kiss, his tongue tasting hers, demanding her submission. His lips
abandoned hers, feeling the beginnings of her response, knowing he had
conquered her again.
Changing his assault, he tenderly nibbled down her neck, cupping her full
breasts with his sword calloused hands. Suckling each breast until the
nipples became the size of ripe olives, hard with arousal. She arched her
back, giving her body to the Greek lord, craving his touch, her resistance
abandoning her.
Helle could see Andromache was trying hard to force her body to deny the
desire the robust and handsome warlord evoked with his attention. She saw
too the fierce desire the warlord bore for his captive—more than physical
passion, but respect and the sparks of love lit his dark eyes, despite the
couple's turbulent past.
A groan of ecstasy escaped the woman's throat, and her face reddened in
shame, unable to forswear her emotions. To Helle, the Greek lord seemed to
enjoy her enraptured agony, pleased he could arouse her passions.
Neoptolemus huge hands brought desire to Andromache's creamed and
pampered body. His mouth caused her to gasp in ecstasy bringing a smile of
triumph to her master's face. He held her unmoving by her hair, staring into
her eyes. His hand again pushed between her legs to test the softness of
her nether-lips, and his fingers the wetness of her core. Her eyes closed in
defeat, a tear running down her cheek, her body-turning traitor to her will
under her master's tender, yet merciless control.
His knee resting between her legs, his eyes held hers. “Your body wants
me,” he told her softly, his tone reflecting yet another victory instead of the
sensitive terms of a lover. His triumph over the Trojans fresh in his mind,
and the soldier's wives yet paid the price of their husbands' war. Conflict
was a part of their lovemaking, however he did not rape his captive, but he
saw to her passions as well as his own.
Her body arched to meet the finger he slid inside her wet canal, though she
tried to will it not to, nor to groan in the near climax of sensations the
intrusion brought. She was a young woman, alone, and frightened, even
this small bit of caring, physical love brought some solace.
Helle tossed in her sleep, aroused by the strange dream in which she had
become an observer. She gasped when the warrior's body covered
Andromache's, and his lips again took hers. Helle lived long without a man's
touch, never so loved by a strong embrace, nor a man intent on seeing the
woman’s pleasure met first. She found the dream greatly disturbing.
To the Trojan woman's credit, she neither implored the Greek for mercy from
his attentions, nor release from the passions he evoked, though their love
became a silent battle of wills. He excited her body to the edge of climax,
only to stop, hoping she would beg for more, disappointed when,
whimpering in frustration, she drew away. As she turned from him, he
pulled her back, roughly pushed her legs open, and buried his throbbing
cock deep inside her. His mouth covering her lips as a deep, satisfying groan
issued deep in her throat.
Helle watched the two battling lovers in this strange dream as they stared
deeply into each other's eyes for a long moment before he began to move in
a rhythm that would satisfy them both. It seemed he was unquenchable, his
mighty cock wringing moans of fulfilling gratification from Andromache.
She met each stoke, arching her hips to join with him, until at last they both
found their summit. To Helle's amazement, the Greek warrior pulled her
closer to him and held her tightly to his pulsing, sweating body, planting
kisses tenderly over her face. He drew away slightly, smoothing strands of
her heavy long hair from her face, and smiled tenderly down into her tear-
streaked face, empathy in his eyes.
“Perhaps, my Andromache, I have given you another son,” he said in a
compassionate tone, wiping away her tears. “In a few months you may
again know the joy of motherhood. I swear to you, no one will tear this one
from your arms,” he held her in his strong embrace until his snores echoed
in their chamber.
Andromache rose from the bed. Drawn to the balcony by a bright shinning
light, Helle saw the light warrior who had come to her door that very day.
“Daughter of Troy, why do you cry?” the Golden Warrior's voice held much
compassion.
Helle heard her answer, “I cry for my son who was thrown from the walls of
Troy.”
“Cry no more, Daughter of Troy. For your son alone survived. He is cared
for and loved. Go back and sleep in peace,” his words brought the relief she
had prayed for since Astyanax was torn from her arms. She returned to her
bed as if in a trance, but a smile played upon her lips. Her tears were no
longer of sorrow, but of relief.
Troy - after the war,
nothing but ravaged
ruins, death and the
very old and infirmed
remained. The rest,
including the royal
women had been
taken as prize
slaves........
nothing but ravaged
ruins, death and the
very old and infirmed
remained. The rest,
including the royal
women had been
taken as prize
slaves........
THE LAURAL TREE
SACRED TO THE SUN GOD
APOLLO, PATRON OF TROY
SACRED TO THE SUN GOD
APOLLO, PATRON OF TROY
