Slave to Innocence
(Sins of Sybaris)
by
Emma Lai
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Smashwords Edition
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
SLAVE TO INNOCENCE (SINS OF SYBARIS)
COPYRIGHT 2011 by Emma Lai
Published by Sybarite Seductions, an imprint of Twenty or Less Press. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or Sybarite Seductions.
Contact Information:
info(at)sybariteseductions.com
Visit us at www.sybariteseductions.com
Book Design by Michele Jensen
Title Page Photos
Lady in Move COPYRIGHT Ivan Grlic / Dreamstime.com
Nude COPYRIGHT Rudolf Kotulan / Dreamstime.com
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Dedication
To Chris—you are my muse.
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Slave to Innocence
Parthenope’s fingers combed through the thick, black length of Selene’s hair, untwisting and smoothing strands from the complex knot of braids adorning her head. Gold silk ribbon, used to secure the hairdo, caressed Selene’s cheek with each twist. The soft brush of silk made the hair cascading down the nape of her neck feel coarse in comparison. She moaned when the female slave released the last length of confined hair and proceeded to massage her scalp. After long moments, the woman picked up a comb and began to work the knots from Selene’s long hair.
“You are a godsend, Parthenope,” Selene said. Her gaze switched from studying the slave’s work in the polished mirror to scrutinizing the young woman.
Parthenope averted her gaze.
Selene smiled. Despite numerous years in her service, the slave still acted like she was new to the household. She never spoke unless spoken to, she never lazed about and she always did Selene’s bidding—no matter how outrageous the order issued.
Selene sighed. How she envied the woman’s pale complexion. No matter how many oils and lotions were rubbed into her own skin, it remained the color of polished olive wood, a hated reminder of her mother’s origins and her own impoverished childhood—when she’d been forced to work in the fields, little better than a slave herself.
Parthenope’s hair was a dark brown with hints of red gained from her time spent outdoors. A small part of Selene resented the slave her freedom each time the woman went to the agora to check the latest merchants’ wares, but Selene remembered too well the havoc the harsh summer sun wreaked upon exposed skin. No, she wouldn’t trade her life of luxury, even if it meant she had to be confined like an exotic bird. Like the rarest pet, she was indulged and surrounded by gold.
Besides, any resentment she felt quickly faded when Parthenope returned with a find guaranteed to improve Selene’s mood such as the beautiful length of gold silk now resting on the table. On those rare occasions when the woman failed, she made up for it in other ways. A low heat settled low in Selene’s belly as she recalled the most recent incident.
She had summoned Achaikos, a male slave, who was more well-endowed than the impressive Apollo adorning the andron where her husband held his banquets. Parthenope stripped the male and rubbed olive oil into his muscled body. The female slave was always reluctant to touch the male’s phallus and avoided it until last, by which time he was stiff as marble. His member jumped with each of the woman’s tentative strokes. In fear of Selene’s wrath, he held his groans as Parthenope’s slender fingers coated his rod.
Selene had then stood in front of the male and made him watch while Parthenope removed Selene’s chiton. Then, Parthenope repeated her ministrations. With each stroke of Parthenope’s hands, Selene’s nipples tightened until they were as stiff as the rod between the male’s legs. She gasped when the woman-slave caressed her breast. Her favorite’s hesitant stroking of the soft flesh of her inner thighs milked honey from her slick passage.
What she wouldn’t have given—wouldn’t give—to tumble Parthenope beneath her! She wanted to plow the woman’s furrow with her tongue and taste the flavor of innocence.
She bit back a grunt. It was that very innocence which prevented her from taking advantage of the woman. She still remembered her own days of innocence and would not be the one to end Parthenope’s. Instead, she let Achaikos mount her from behind and take her like a wild beast. It was her punishment for craving Parthenope’s innocence.
Achaikos’ thick shaft stretched Selene’s passage almost to the point of pain. The long length pounded against the mouth of her womb with each thrust. Over and over, he dove into her slick channel. His endurance was such she coated his phallus with a gush of her juices no less than three times before he planted his seed in her barren field. Then she collapsed against the soft cotton sheets of her bed, stirring only when Parthenope returned with cool, perfume-scented water to bathe her brow.
Color blossomed in the slave woman’s cheeks, decorating them like the soft flesh of a ripe peach.
Selene shifted on the padded seat of her chair. Had the child sensed the direction of Selene’s thoughts? Need coursed through Selene’s veins. “Summon Achaikos.”
Distress flittered across Parthenope’s face. “But he is attending your husband before the banquet.”
Selene closed her eyes and inhaled a deep breath. She had forgotten her husband’s entertainment. She sighed. There would be no man available to punish her this night.
She couldn’t even anticipate the small pleasure she derived from using an olisbos on her husband. It was the only time he let her play a dominate role. He would kneel on all fours while she mounted him and employed the leather object in his rear until he loosed his seed on the sheets beneath them.
She sighed. “Bring me my box and then leave me.” Her husband wasn’t the only one who could find pleasure using an olisbos, though hers was of polished wood and but half the size.
Selene gritted her teeth at the soft rustling of Parthenope’s tunic as she did Selene’s bidding. How she wanted to rip the too concealing garment from the woman’s body. Her eyes snapped open with the solid thunk of the box striking the heavy marble of her dressing table. “Have a care, Parthenope!”
The woman dropped her head, but not before Selene thought she spied a look of satisfaction. “Sorry, mistress.”
Selene tilted her head to the side and through narrowed eyes examined Parthenope more closely. Her attraction to the slave had always been based on the woman’s pale complexion, glorious hair and even features—soulful brown eyes, a perfectly straight nose and full lips. She tapped her lower lip with a finger. Something was different. Parthenope’s breasts were fuller, her hips wider.
When Ploutarchos had first brought the young woman home eight summers previous, she had the firm, upturned breasts of a virgin bride. Selene hadn’t given her much thought at the time. She’d never been one to indulge with adolescents. Truth be told, she preferred her women with more robust figures—figures that didn’t normally evolve until a woman became ripe with child.