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hadesswhore · 2 years

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H𝔢𝔯𝔪𝔞𝔫𝔦𝔞 - burning /completed/

He embraced my touch, his cloak hugging my uncovered flesh, his intense cold gaze inspecting my body meticulously, as to make sure I was alright.

I wasn’t.

An anger frown curved his eyebrows as he analyzed my state: half naked, with only a loose violet bra, a hip belt, and a curt coined scarf around my waist. A lowly dancer’s clothing.

Wrath crowned his being. Rage was effortlessly readable in his eyes. He didn’t like what he was seeing.

I didn’t either.

I averted my eyes in abash, gazing down at my clutching fingers, ashamed about the situation he found me in, the position his men put me in. A mere war-distraction. A pure toy of pleasure.

I blacked my sight away, not daring to reclaim it, praying to escape this opprobrious state. To disappear. I felt like a burden, a disappointment of his.

And it hurts.

The air inside his cover was thick, grasping, dominating. Forcing his claim on me. It was warm, incredibly fiery. But his embrace was more blazing, much, and much and much feistier than the tied cloth. To the point where my heart’s resting pieces jumbled and reformed, giving life to my already buried soul.

Giving me life.

Only to burn it again and turn it into ashes. Again and again, and again another time. Dooming my being. Till no ashes were left. Just a hard, devastating, enchanting fire longing in my chest.

His mere presence was consuming my mortality, and I enjoyed it. I enjoyed the strange comfort his body gave mine, the comfort of being helpless while being devoured. At his mercy. Sinking in reverie. A mythical one.

Until the reminiscence of his icy eyes made me remember his disappointment. Disappointment. Disappointment.

It hurts.

Its hurts, like a cool freezing ocean wave, extinguishing the fire spreading in my chest.

My insides were cold.

And it hurts.

My eyelids were still closed. I choked as I distastefully cursed myself, my sinful self. I shivered, a hot liquid pouring on my tangled fingers: Drop after drop, and another drop again. Again and again, and again another time.

Was it rain?

No, rain wasn’t this warm.

Warm.

I unveiled my vision at my now moist gripped hands. Its fingers, its fingers painted with a red, dark red, perhaps firebrick, tint. Drawing each scratch, each scar, each wrinkle of my scarred palms. As a painter’s ink would to his painting. The ink being firebrick heated blood, the painter my Lord’s veins.

Diomedes’ veins.

And the painting, well, the painting was my soaked hands.

The drops kept on falling, one after another. Again and again, and again another time. Following the slow rhythm of my moving head, falling as it climbed the air, staring at the ink’s origin. My Lord’s temple.

Diomedes’ temple.

The firebrick kept on raining on my scars, until I finished my climbing. Head up, high as I could, but still underneath him. I faced his intense clear eyes.

Goldenrod

Bright yellowish petals illuminating his orbs. Grand, Majestic, yet homely. He had the earth’s tint, the mud’s scent, the forest beauty, the familiar sense of a shelter, of a home, my home. Everywhere he was, seemed right to me.

Goldenrod

Bright yellowish sense of a beloved feeling. A faraway sentiment that was forgotten, but still alive, somewhere in my mind, in my spirit, my soul, my heart, my ashes, my fire.

His irises were wording me. Enchanting Goldenrod irises reassuring me, telling me that I was fine where I was: in his arms. I was secure, protected, even when I didn’t see him.

It felt right, dangerously well, devastatingly good, madly pleasing. Like a swift feeling of enjoyment that destroyed my Troy’s walls, welcoming him in my unprotected heart’s palace. Ashes. Fire.

I scanned his eyes, then the glimpse of disappointment in his infuriating orbs.

He was disappointed.

And it hurts.

I couldn’t help but gulp in fear, my throat sore, my stomach churning. The coined scarf shook lightly. Was it by fear or desire? I didn’t know. I couldn’t know.

And it hurts.

I wanted him to adore me, to venerate me, to admire my body as those lustful men do. My womanhood yearned for validation, his validation. Looks of adoration and awe, not apathy and distaste.

I shivered as I felt the blood pouring in my chin, my Lord’s blood. Slowly sliding my neck, reaching my bosom, to pose between my breasts, in the middle of my chest. Right where my burned ashes left his heated warmth, his torrid embrace’s fire, his fire, his.

- My lord, you’re bleeding. I whispered as his cadenced breath collided with my freezing nose.

His eyes narrowed, went from my face to where his ink’s last drop hid. My searing spot.

- And you’re shivering. His rough, resounding voice declared, muscles tightening the cloak’s grip around my shape.

Gently, he lifted my legs, arms snacking my waist and thighs, carrying me to

his tent.

- I’ll get you warmed. He murmured.

It was a just sentence, a mere statement, but with his voice, so firm, so resolute, I couldn’t help but timidly swallow my fear. It was a mere sentence, yet it felt like an inescapable punishment.

I’m already burning, my Lord.

****

- My Lord. I stammered, admiring his voluptuous mass setting the fire, stronging it, harding it, broiling the thin wooden sticks till their ashes proliferated in the tent’s caged air, thick gray smoke covered his bare back, clothing his exposed flesh, its shadow sharpening each chunk of him.

Robust sturdy muscles contracting firmly with each move he made, with each dance his strong arms performed. Thick veins, bustling, twitching, showing their gift by their august ploy.

Hard brown skin, scratched, scarred, bruised by the memories of the hardships he’s been through: Battles he has lost. Wars he has won. Lands he has taken. Kingdoms he has conquered.

Scars.

Old as new, big as small. Each defined him better than no one. Each held a story no one knew but himself, proving every prowess he has achieved. Each scab carved his spirit, each scab shaded his spirit, all these scabs birthed his spirit, made him who he is:

Son of Tydeus, Favored by Athena.

A warrior, a hero, a butcher, a king, a lord, my lord, my jailor, my.

Ashes.Fire.

The air was getting thicker and thicker under the growing vapor, the broad cloak sticking to my body like a second skin. His presence was gripping my chest and my desire was burning my core.

Checking the wide lasting pyre and the warmness of the suffocating place, he stood, turning around, veins and scars dancing together. bruises.

He shifted to the left wing of the tent, where the towering steel column royally holded the lavish curtains of the room. Then his eyes met mine. Petals piercing leaves. Goldenrod piercing green. His irises ordered mine as he sat on the woolen couch I made.

- Wash me. He said.

I downed my gaze, freeing my shape from his cloak’s grip, folding it gently before putting it on the thick threads of the rug beneath.

I made that one too, I noticed.

I stood, I moved, my slow steps closing the distance between us, then I stopped, I sat, my shivering hands wetting a cloth, my unsteady moves scrubbing his torso, his arms, his abdomen, his palms, his back, all strong, all sinewy, all power. I cleaned his defined anatomy.

Eyes down, green down, leaves down, submitting to his imperious will.

As I should.

A long sigh escaped him as I scrubbed his scarred muscles, accentuating my hold to purge the dried blood off his skin. Wiping the dirt off. Wipe after wipe, and another wipe again, again and again, and again another time.

All his nerves’ knots opened as I pressed the sore areas of his body, and he immediately relaxed, humming a pleasing war lullaby.

He liked it, I noted.

I liked it too, I noted too.

His warmth was spreading all over the cloth, all over my hands, warming my jittery organs, like a heat wave, a contagious fever taking both of us. An illness, a delicious illness devouring my being as a whole.

He was poisoning me.

And I liked it.

My fingers, my fingers no longer shivered at his touch. Fingers still painted with his ink, my lord’s veins on my hands, his prickling dried blood on me.

He suddenly took my hand in his, wrapping his large fingers around mine. I jumped at the contact, my fever hitting high; he never touched me while I was washing him. I was the one touching him.

Warm, but odd.

I lifted my confused look to his face. Alluring. Majestic. Beautiful.

Green eyed Goldenrod, Goldenrod stared at Firebrick.

Wrath took reign of his features again. Rage readable on his pupils, his jaw clenched intensely, his eyebrows arched sharply, his irises darkening at the view he got.

It wasn’t Goldenrod anymore, it was shallow, deep, a pure shade of black.

A vein popped out of his frown, the hurted one, the artist. A red drop fell on our wrapped palms, followed by a second, a third, a fourth, a fifth, they kept on falling, again and again, and again another time, till our bond was once again soaked. Firebrick drowned his fingers, drowning mine, drowning the cloth.

My eyes examined the blood’s origin, thankfully, it wasn’t a harmful wound, a bit of ointment and time would alter it to a simple scratch, a memory, one that it held me in its story.

I smiled at the thought.

I felt a small tug on my hand, and I lowered my gaze, his fingers tracing the engraved passages of my scars, the marks my stories left. Bruises. Memories.

It was then that I realized: Goldenrod wasn’t eyeing firebrick. Dark Goldenrod was analyzing the painting. Dark Goldenrod was judging the painting. Dark was judging the painting.

Furious. Infuriated. Angry.

Dark was mad.

He tightened his grip, more ink falling on his hold. Droplet after droplet, a hot bloody rain, burning every inch of my flesh, meeting it, covering it, as to hide my grazed hand.

- Who did this?

Dark was mad.

Furious. Infuriated. Angry.

His voice holded a tone I despised the most: displeasure. My bruises, my memories, my marks, displeased him. My state embittered him. I displeased him. He was clearly disappointed in me.

And it hurts.

So I adopted what I always adopted: Silence.

Do not speak even spoken to.

I kept quiet under his screaming gaze, under his furious disappointment, under his.

- Hermania. He declaimed, loudly.

Grip tightening, drops falling, gaze judging, voice ordering. Distaste. Distaste. Distaste.

Disappointment.

It hurts.

Hot acidic tears burned my eyes in a vain attempt to be freed, but I wouldn’t let them out, I couldn’t let them out, I couldn’t show, I couldn’t feel. Not in front of Dark, not in front of Distaste, not in front of Displeasure.

Feelings of frustration, rushed, took, hit my body down, building a void right in the middle of my chest, replacing the long gone emblazing fire. Heart. Ashes.

They didn’t matter anymore.

My executioners didn’t matter anymore, because he was theirs, they are nothing now, unimportant, nonexistent in front of him, they were none, all their darkness faded as my lord’s fire enveloped me completely, blazing my insides, searing my desire.

They didn’t matter, they didn’t haunt me, not anymore, he had made sure of it.

- You slaughtered them.

My voice was serene, but my heart still ached, and my fingers were shaking while I applied some Yarrow ointment on his temple that I sometimes saw Briseis apply on the bleeding soldiers.

- Good then.

Diomedes declared, boastful, proud, satisfied as his grandeur should.

Hand down, he grabbed the wet cloth thrown on my knees, and rinsed it in a clear basin’s water, wetting it again, cleaning it from his blood, his memories. He then lifted his eyes to meet mine: ink no longer adorning his features, boastful, proud, satisfied. His magnificent spoke:

- Undress, let me purify your body from my men’s soiled touch.

His men, mediocre, filthy.

The fire was hot, the room was hot, my heart was hot, his words were hot, it was blazing, pleasing, intoxicating.

My skin flushed as I took off my poor wrappings, matching my color with the flames, much to my lord’s content, and much to mine.

Humming, he signaled me to approach him. I crawled, slowly, steadily, gawkily, until he placed me between his thighs, my legs crossed in his warmth. Where I belonged.

His hand hugged the cloth, the cloth hugged my skin, and it started scrubbing my whole body, cleaning his men’s filth.

Wet coarse fabric brushed my back, my neck, my arms, accentuating my searing when he reached my chest; wet hot liquid pasted my breasts, and I leaned against him, enjoying the feeling.

Pleasure.

Warm. Blazing. Calming.

His touch was hot, my body was hot, my heart was hot.

Sensations. Sensations. Sensations.

Mix of unknown sensations took down my soul and spirit. It was blazing yet calming my soul. Hard were the hands of my lord, gentle were their moves on me.

Pleasure. Sensations.

He landed his head on my shoulder to stop my shiverings. Dark honeyed clocks caressing my cheek, his temple sticking some ointment on mine.

Ink no longer firebrick.

I shut my eyelids, feeling his caring grip on me: Calm embrace, gentle wiping. He passed through my whole painting till its dirt disappeared under the cloth’s wetness.

My heart no longer hurted.

Suddenly, as he returned to my chest, the once gentle wiping turned into a ferocious war. Tight grip, feral scraping, flushed bosom. Red. Fire. My lord’s favorite.

I squeezed my closed eyes, forcing myself to endure the ache my jailor provided me, bearing his hard palms. Callous firm fingers quickly replaced the wet cloth; touching my breasts, moving them, pressing them, feeling them like the softest tissue of silk.

My nipples hardened under his treatment: Brutal and savage. Spreading from my searing point a burning wave drowning me whole, diving till my deepest place and displaying its presence by a warm liquid escaping my core.

I felt his mouth on my neck: sucking, licking, grazing my skin, striving my flesh into bloody flushed spots, marking me with his sharp teeth: Brutal and savage.

I could barely contain my voice, aching to cry my sensations, eager to scream the pleasure he gave me, to shout his brutality, his barbarous ways that woke my innermost fantasies. But I kept quiet, shutting my lips as hard as I did with my eyes, because that’s how a slave should be: Silenced.

Whatever my lord gives, I shall take, voiceless.

Callous fingers replaced the cloth, tracing my body’s curves, all my scars and bruises, all my beauty and charm, leaving hot trails paths behind them, warming my insides, warming my ashes, my fire, searing.

Sensations.

Feelings of well being and ease overwhelmed my spirit. I felt wanted, I felt needed, I felt desired. My pride was at its peak. My existence was real.

No longer the ghost wandering in the castle’s libraries, no longer the unadorned royal servant, no longer my father’s daughter, no longer a priest’s shame; living on fortune slaves throw to their gods, drowning in luxuries that took the life out of my soul.

Instead, I felt like dancing.

I felt those dim poor alleys of the meagerest districts of Troy, taking mornings’ hardships and singing nights’ glories, bearing winter’s diseases and celebrating summer’s festivities.

I felt like dancing. I felt life.

Right in my butcher’s hold.

Still sucking my shoulder, his fingers thrusted my inner walls in one, hard, push. Making me feel him whole, every rigor of his claw marking my inside already wet by his foreplay. Gods, wet merely by his presence.

Sensations.

He pushed deep, I sensed three, but their thickness made me doubt, four, five perhaps… No three. Those weren’t just normal hands, they were a king’s, a conqueror’s.

Thick. Rough. Raw.

They kept still, their upper part reaching my fevered level; so long, so taking, so conquering. Then they curled, and I yerked.

Sensations. Sensations. Sensations.

An intense thunderbolt hit my inner legs, I didn’t know if it was my legs anymore, I didn’t know anything anymore, felt nothing, nothing but an ardent pleasure taking my whole muscles down, all my sanity was gone.

I couldn’t take it, I couldn’t take it, I couldn’t take it, I couldn’t take it.

My body’s never been this burning, my body’s never been this well. It wasn’t right, but it felt alright.

I gasped for air, struggling to keep my voice to myself, so I opened my eyes to lessen my sensations, only to meet his beautiful petals, shining under the blazing pyre’s glow. Mesmerizing goldenrod, watching my every move, my beauty and scars, my charming imperfections.

Pressure took on my core as he deepened his fingers furthermore, making wince at the intrusion. Acidic salty tears started swimming on my cheeks, this time of pleasure, not frustration.

My leaves begged him, my shivers begged him, my tears begged to let me scream my sensations at all lungs, only my voice didn’t.

- Moan. Hot, chills, touch; Shout, scream, burn your lungs and throat with my name. Cry to all Greeks that you’re mine, and I shall kill every protestant.

My king roared. Grand, majestic, royal, demanding.

And who was I to deny my king’s demand? Who was I to refuse this freedom?

His fingers started moving, and my moans sang at their rythme, up and down, back and forth, teasing my tights that followed their cadence, down and up, back and forth, in and out. Again and again, and again another time, till my back arched under a wave of ecstasy, my screams transmitting its intensity, my soul feeling its sensations.

I lied down, then my lord suddenly stood, and I closed my eyes. I tried to control my heavy breathing while assimilating what just happened; I don’t know how I feel, relieved? Satisfied? Happy perhaps? I don’t know, what I do know is the shallow emptiness that overwhelmed me when he exited my muscles, letting my bare behind bump against the woolen couch. Confusion began, unease continued, then frustration appeared, soon followed by my next sorrowful worry: Wasn’t I enough?

I felt silly, stupid even, my pride was hurt: Hermania, the beautiful Hermania who made men crawl in lust couldn’t satisfy her lord’s. I was lost, I was hurt, I was angry at that man for making me desire him, for making beg to get his attention, for making me feel worthless without even trying, every glimpse of confidence I had oon my body vanished under the weight of insecurities I didn’t know of I had, till him, till his damned eyes scrutinized me. I felt beautiful at his touch, but his indifference was lethal.

Beauty is a power, my power, the only thing that makes me relevant in this twisted world, so what am I if I’m not beautiful?

Just a piece of useless carrion.

All men desired me, all crawled at my moves, all pleaded for a night of pleasure, all begged to see me dance at their feet. Men, women, royals, subjects, everyone admired me, but I couldn’t care less about everyone, all I care about is Diomedes. I couldn’t care less about others compliments, others admiration, others lust… all I wanted was my lord’s. Raw. Brutal. Real.

He makes me feel, he makes me alive, and I like feeling, I like life. I like my lord, I like Diomedes, that’s why I can’t help but worry, fearing that he doesn’t feel the same toward me.

A loud sigh was emitted from the other corner of the room, as a response for my shambled feelings.

- Speak your concerns, Hermania.

Only then I noticed that I was crying, tear after tear and another tear again, quietly but surely. My worries took the best of me. Another strong exclamation lounged over my whimpers, his gentle fingers brushed some hair strands from my face, the same fingers that were inside me were now swabbing my wet cheeks, switching form my sweet moist to my salty one. I directed my gaze to meet his:

- My lord.

I whisper, I whimper.

- Why don’t you admire me?

I scream, I tear apart.

All my sadness, all my frustration, all my insecurities leaked out in those words. Suddenly, shame and embarrassment leaked out on my face at his wide surprised eyes. Then, wonder and astonishment leaked out on my features at the sound of his laugh. Dulcet and euphonious. The most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard.

He knelt in front of me, his eyes pried mine, amusement lingering in their soft golden light, shadowed but a hint of desire. He is pleased, he is aroused. and I like it. His body approached mine, his mouth muttered something under his hushed breath, muscles moving, veins dancing, forehead resting on mine, so close, so burning.

Bright Goldenrod shadowed green. Petals covered leaves. His softness covered mine. Lips on lips. Sweet and sour. Claiming my being till its searing point, conquering everything, my body, my mind, my soul, my.

He grabbed my waist, his strong arms carrying me to his bed, my flushed flesh on the featherlike covers, screaming royalty and riches, hiding passion and ardor, his body throwned mine, never breaking our contact. His mouth was eating me raw, tasting, teasing, claiming me as a king would claim. Crude and arrogant. He burned yet spoiled my pride, I felt wanted, needed, desired, admired. The best.

He backed away, breaking our contact, admiring his claim, my body red by his marking, my lips bloodied by his treat. A mild smile graced his mouth at his work, he was pleased, I was too, until I heard his next utterance.

- I don’t admire you Hermania.

My lord said as he bent and licked my earlobe. I stiffed at his words, frowning when his eyes met mine, lust crowning his goldenrod, mixed with something else, care perhaps.

- I worship you, woman. He alleged as he thrusted me raw, not caring to shuffle my cries as they resounded through the whole beach, if not all of Troy.

- Ah, my lord I-.

I moaned, my voice squeaky, before he shutted it with his own, grand, majestic, lustful:

- Quiet, let your body speak for you.

He scolded while his hips pushed against mine, his thrusts getting wilder and wilder, flesh on flesh, sliding in my inside, till its deep spot, obliging my body to feel each inch of him, and to accept each drop of him as he filled my emptiness with his warmness. My back jumped at the contact with his burning liquid, vibrations, chills dispersed from my core to my now oversensitive shaking legs. It was hard, it was blowing, it was burning, much and much denser than the lasting fire, it was Diomedes.

- Gods, Hermania, you’re heaven on earth, my heaven.

Heaven on earth, heaven on a woman, heaven on me, right under the flaming hell of his, consuming my good the best way possible, right on the shine of our sin.

Is it this? Is this how it feels when you’re your admirer’s admirer? Oh my lord, he stopped long ago, but my sensations didn’t

- Are you well? He asked, still inside me, and I nodded my head as he grabbed my head and started kissing my neck, a slight whimper was my response to his sweet applause.

- Words, precious. He softly demanded, his mouth went from licking to sucking my cheeks.

- Yes my lord, I am. I murmured, embarrassment flushing on my face, he suddenly drew back, eyeing the very spot he sucked, desire clinging in his irises.

- Good, cause I don’t plan on stopping. He laid down, his broad chest on mine, supported by his muscular shoulders so as to not crash me with his heavy weight. His arousal met mine, entering raw, taking me whole.

- I’m going to worship you, Hermania, from dusk till dawn. He promised, and he did.

He admired me, He worshiped me, till the light of the day sprang on the music of our breaths.

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