Hidden within a crevasse of deep time sat the Temple.
The Poet was unsure how he had arrived here. His memories were of a bacchanal, gulping down wine and gorging on boar and chicken. His head throbbed. His mouth felt numb.
His cell was maybe five feet wide and only a little shorter in height and depth, gated by iron bars. He sat hunched on all fours and as he lifted his head he became aware that he was also wearing a collar of some sort, also wrought in iron. He could still lift his head and beyond the bars he could see the flickering of flames. The warmth felt far away though, he was shivering and realised that he was naked.
Frowning, he tried to recall the events that had lead him here. There had been applause. His recital of the fall of Achilles had entertained the party. The boys had brought him wine and a few offers of arse which he had been tempted by. There had been singing and hugging and kisses and-
The Poet caught his breath. The woman with those eyes. Piercing blue eyes, golden hair, the twisted curl of her lip. His cock had stirred and she had smiled. And then... nothing.
Feeling his iron noose at his throat he swallowed and then tried his voice.
"Hello? Hello! I say, is anyone there?"
His voice echoed around the rock. His eyes had adjusted now and he could see that his cell was built into the side of a larger cave. Was he underground? How long had he been unconscious?
The light ahead shifted, darkened. A figure rounded the corner. The Poet blinked and focused.
It was the woman from the party. She wore a white peplos that barely covered her breasts and ended just below her bottom. The woman was otherwise naked, save for a black leather belt and black leather sandals that shone briefly in the reflected firelight. Her blonde hair was pulled tightly back and held in place with a small black leather tie.
Her blue eyes bored into his skull. She walked with purpose over to his cell and bent over.
"The great poet is awake. Come on, out you come."
She pulled back a rope that held the iron gate in place. She dragged it open, giving enough room for the Poet to skulk out. The Poet froze though.
"Come along," she said. The woman undid her black leather belt and before the Poet knew what was happening she had threaded it through a loop on his iron collar. Tugging on the belt, the Poet lurched forward and scrambled ungainly out of the cell and into the wider cave. Despite the heaviness of the collar, he drew himself up on to his two shaky legs.
The woman smiled at him and then sharply drew her knee up and smacked his exposed testicles.
"SHIT!" he screamed collapsing back on to the floor. She quickly grabbed his chin.
"Watch your language! You kiss your mother with that mouth?" she giggled. "No... you haven't, have you?"
The poet shook in pain at his aching balls before he felt his neck being tugged.
"Crawl," said the blonde woman. Gingerly the Poet complied wincing at the pain of the cold stone floor on his knees.
As he crawled behind the blonde woman, the Poet did his best to take in his surroundings. The walls became more angular and smooth as they rounded the corner. The Poet saw that they were on a raised walkway fashioned out of the cave wall. Over his left shoulder he could glimpse the floor below. Flaming torches were set on each side of the walkway. He imagined that should he try to escape, he would end up badly burned.
Ahead of him was a raised dais that sat in front of a large, oval archway, nearly double the height of the average man. More torches burned on each side of the dais and the smell of incense tickled his nose. Through the archway lay impenetrable darkness. The Poet squinted, but could make out nothing.
He allowed himself to be led up to the dais. The incense added to the unsteadiness on his feet, the close glare of the torches, made him cast his eyes down. Looking at the dais it was made of smooth, polished marble, maybe only an inch thick and raised three feet from the stone floor. At one end was a concave edge and two feet down from that, a hole a few inches in diameter.
"Odd looking altar," the Poet remarked.
"Shut up and lie down."
His collar was tugged up and over the dais, his neck lead towards the concave edge. Frowning once more at the pain, the Poet clambered up on to the dais. The neck collar was given another sharp tug and the Poet found himself lying face down on the cool marble. With a CLANK, the chain was attached to a hook on the floor beside the dais. All he could now see was the floor, and the leather sandals of his captor. He became acutely aware of his exposed genitals that had now dropped neatly into the small stone hole.
The woman squatted down in front of him, her blue eyes met his.
"Comfortable?" she asked.
The Poet could not raise his head very high. "Not really."
The woman chuckled to herself. "Now you are ready for the Priestess."
In the distance a gong sounded. The Poet frowned.
A few seconds of silence and then from the blackness of the archway next to him came the echoing of sandalled footsteps much louder than he was used to. He strained to look up and around, but saw nothing. All he could sense were the CLICK-CLACK of the person approaching.
The footsteps increased in volume and then stopped. The Poet could sense the figure near to him. His blonde captor had gone to stand nearby. The Poet breathed shallow, straining to listen and then yelped loudly.
His cock and balls were being grasped together and squeezed from beneath the dais. Through his cries, the Poet heard a new voice. Another female, but a little deeper than before.
"The measure of a man. You can tell much about a man from the state of his prick and these two lumps. Come here my acolyte and see... still pinkish here and here, I'll guess he never gets it out much, no tan line from the sun to see. The hair is unkempt, which usually signifies a lazy sort of vanity, he probably thinks women like it like this..."
Despite the assault on his genitals, the Poet felt himself beginning to stiffen in her grip.
"And yet, see how it begins to thicken. Not a completely useless prick after all then. Hold it for me please... now work it slowly, that's it, like you were stirring a sauce, round and round."
The Poet was moaning, his blonde captor, referred to as the Acolyte, had a grip on his penis and was slowly rotating it beneath the stone. He tried to focus on the figure that was talking and had now moved in front of him. His first sight was a foot with toenails painted a shiny teal. On her feet were golden sandals the likes of which the Poet had never seen, a long point raised the heel off the floor. The Poet tried to raise his head up to see, but only got as far as the gold satin that fell down her midriff and curved over her hips, parting to expose her toned, tan legs.
